The Engineer's Wife

by Tracey Enerson Wood

  “Well, if you insist, the corners are the hardest for the men to get to. Only one of them can fit in the tight spaces. Maybe you’d have better luck.”

  Covered in soot and breathing foul air, we crept on our bellies or lay flat on our backs, prying and chiseling out concrete and exposing charred beams. After I dug out the corners, I ferried buckets of concrete bits and burnt wood to the next worker on the chain.

  Dunn brought me a canteen of water. “You’re a most unusual lady.”

  “I’ll accept that as a compliment.” The water was welcome, my throat as scorched as the charred beams. “I’ve been impressed with your work and your loyalty.”

  His face lit up. “Did you know I started with the senior Mr. Roebling? I waved a signal flag from Manhattan on the very first day.”

  “You did? I saw it.” Oh, the joy of that moment. I could see the red flag waving across the water as if it were yesterday. But then, the horror. “I do remember you visiting Mr. Roebling after the accident. You were quite concerned…for your job.”

  Dunn’s face reddened. “You heard that?” He shook his head. “I was a foolish youngster.”

  “It was a difficult time.”

  “But still, I’m awful sorry. And to think, you and Colonel Roebling kept me on.”

  “There isn’t one among us who hasn’t said something they regret. Like a spreading fire, words, once they slip through our lips, can’t be taken back. And how onerous can be the repairs.”

  * * *

  Bumps and bruises and blistered hands proved me ill-suited for excavation work, but I was glad to have had the experience. I kept my participation a secret, not needing to read of my scandalous behavior in the newspaper.

  A month later, every roof beam had been replaced and the fire damage repaired. I personally inspected it, the smell of new wood a pleasant change.

  A dozen or so people gathered on top of the tower to celebrate as workers poured the last concrete down the supply shaft. C. C. Martin and Mr. Young pressed in their handprints and wrote their names in the patch, followed by the other workers. They invited me to do the same, but it didn’t seem right to add my own. I still considered myself a guide, a stand-in for Wash. It was his and Papa’s prints that should be there. I bit my lips to hold back tears, but the others cheered as a crane lowered a stone, sealing their handprints and the caisson forever.

  The tower grew quickly after that, and for a while, my duties were limited to the aesthetics of the granite and other design elements. We ordered a supply of light-colored limestone for particular layers. This created pleasing stripes, as in Papa’s Cincinnati bridge, to emphasize buttresses and add interest to long stretches of tower. By then, I was well into the third month of studying Wash’s textbooks and now, with his help, I was no longer puzzled by the principles and terms of construction.

  The second caisson, on the Manhattan side, was towed into position in September. We had learned so much in Brooklyn, its descent was less problematic, much to our relief. Wash was feeling much better and had mounted a campaign with Dr. Smith and me for him to return to the work site. The New York caisson was still in the early stages of its descent, so air pressures were not yet a problem, and we all agreed on his limited return.

  Wash abhorred office work and left it to me. I felt rather displaced to be once again limited to the more feminine role but reminded myself to be happy with Wash’s recovery. One afternoon, he surprised me, arriving in the office with a sack of fresh pretzels. “Look what I found being sold on the street.”

  “It seems every street vendor offers something you need.”

  “How can I resist urchins hawking newspapers and men selling suspenders?”

  I smiled at his bright mood as he presented me with the warm treat. Its malty, yeasty aroma was cut with the taste of salt. It reminded me of Prussia, and I could see why Wash just had to buy them. “How are things progressing in Manhattan?”

  “Splendid. The caisson is dropping like a cannonball down a well. Hardly a boulder to blow up, more’s the pity. But I’m glad you missed the first bit. Seems that particular part of the river was a favorite dumping ground for sewage.”

  “I know. The stench burned noses all the way to Brooklyn.”

  “Happily, the stink is gone. But now we’re having the opposite problem we had with the first caisson. The river silt to be evacuated is so fine that it falls right through the teeth of the digger. Sometimes the digger comes up nearly empty.”

  The bells on the door jingled, and Farrington entered. He removed his bowler with a gauze-wrapped hand. “Mrs. Roebling, Colonel, have you a moment?”

  “What happened to your hand?” I scraped back my chair and got up to investigate.

  He unwound the gauze to reveal a round, four-inch-wide red blister across his palm. “Clumsy me, I was fiddling with an air supply tube and crossed signals with the men above. They opened the seal to the tube, and my hand got sucked in.”

  I tilted my head in confusion.

  “When they open the hatch on top, the higher pressure in the caisson causes the air to rush out through the tube.”

  “Does it hurt?” I asked.

  Farrington rewrapped the gauze. “It’ll be fine.”

  “Hmm.” I glanced at Wash and Farrington in turn. “How strong is this effect?”

  “See what happened to my hand. So powerful, it took two men to pull me away.”

  “Strong enough to carry silt?”

  “Why yes, of course.”

  Wash pointed his pretzel. “What are you thinking, Em?”

  “The silt is too fine for the digger, correct? Suppose you pile the silt you need to evacuate near a supply tube, open the hatch, and let air flow evacuate it from the caisson?”

  Wash and Farrington looked at each other, then at me, mouths agape.

  “Try it and report back to me,” Wash said to him.

  “Don’t you want to see for yourself?”

  They traded another glance. Wash pulled a pretzel from the sack, offered it to Farrington.

  “Well, I’m off to test Mrs. Roebling’s idea.” In a sudden hurry, Farrington took his pretzel, slapped on his hat, and was out the door.

  Wash studied his palms, his fingers interlaced. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “That’s what you do.” I winked. It was an exchange we had many times.

  “Seems I’m not the thinker in the family.” He leaned forward and held out his hand. “The caisson is dropping fast. We’re already approaching twenty pounds of pressure.”

  I took his hand in mine; the dreaded tremble had returned. The blood drained from my face. Oh no, not again. We were so careful.

  He laced his fingers back together, avoided my eyes. There was more. I wrapped my arms around myself.

  “They carried me to the ferry on a stretcher. I best not return to the caisson.”

  My vision of Wash returning to normal faded like a dream upon awakening.

  Twenty-Four

  1872

  I resumed daily visits to the work site, checking on progress on the Brooklyn tower and making trips to the Manhattan site as well. Johnny was now four and often begged to come with me. But the horror of him falling off that barge was still too fresh for me to permit it.

  My idea for evacuating the silt worked well. Too well, in fact. The silt came up with such force, it created a geyser, spraying water, silt, and pebbles for yards and causing some minor injuries.

  “We have to deflect the silt,” I said to Farrington.

  He agreed and set up a cap of iron pipe in an elbow shape to aim the matter toward a barge alongside the work site. But the force of the spray wore through the iron in a matter of days. We changed the material to a block of granite, angled for effect. That lasted longer, and we replaced the stone as needed.

  I crossed the river so often, the ferry capta
in gave me my own seat up front next to him, which assisted greatly with my tendency toward seasickness. The captain and I contemplated the plan to suspend the ferries when the bridge was completed. Was there not enough interest and population to support both a bridge and a ferry?

  The answer to that question was both complex and disturbing. I gained some insight from PT when he dropped by the office one day. He was not a once-a-month on the third sort of visitor, more like an every-two-days to every-two-months type. This both suited my love of a pleasant surprise and disrupted my routine.

  “I’ve been wondering how I might be of assistance in increasing the pace of construction.” PT stretched out in the armchair across from my desk, fingers tented over his lap, chin resting on his chest.

  “Do you have something in mind?” I closed the ledger I had been working on.

  “Well, not specifically. But my interest in the project depends upon completion sometime this decade.” He fetched a jelly bean from my jar, tossed it into the air, and caught it with his mouth. “I’m not alone in this. Your benefactors and supportive populace will fade away if the goal seems too remote.”

  I scowled. “We are making good progress. Would you risk the bridge’s sound construction to save time?”

  He scratched his woolly sideburn, rose from his chair, and planted a finger on the wall map. “Bridgeport, Connecticut.”

  I joined him at the map, the fruity jelly beans an interesting counterpoint to his spicy scent. “Your hometown.”

  “Exactly. And here is Castle Garden.” His finger traced a path to the Battery in lower Manhattan.

  “Where immigrants are processed.” I shrugged. “I don’t understand the connection.”

  “There isn’t one. That’s the point. Immigration follows the easiest, lowest-cost route.” His finger swept out in rays from the Battery. “Extended families and new generations follow those already established.”

  “So?”

  “To be blunt, the people of Connecticut desire to keep out the riffraff. The bridge will open all of Long Island to those with a penny in their pocket and two legs to carry them. The longer the bridge takes to build, the more poor immigrants find their way to Connecticut instead.”

  My gut churned. “That seems rather un-American. We’re a nation of immigrants.”

  “And I am deeply in favor of legal and organized immigration. I could not run my businesses without the talent from abroad. But how much better to have a haven where the new arrivals can live and work among their former countrymen while they learn a new language and skills? Then, when they are ready, which may take a generation or two, let them spread out, bringing new blood and energy to the states.”

  “I sense a more selfish interest.”

  “Indeed. Tenements will significantly deflate the value of my Connecticut properties. Long Island is much better suited to that way of life, and that is an unselfish observation of fact. The faster the bridge is built, the more quickly the immigrants will discover it to be the perfect home for them.”

  He stabbed a finger on Connecticut. “There is more money out there. And you’re in need due to all the setbacks.”

  “And the people of Connecticut want to invest now, because of setbacks?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “Certainly. And the men injured on the job. It will create a bit of public sympathy if the investment comes to light. The papers are complaining about the slow progress as well.” He tapped his fingers together. “Think of all the men you can hire with new investors.”

  “I agree. But an attitude of ‘keeping out the riffraff’ would be enticing fodder for the newspapers. And I can’t bear the thought of bad publicity.”

  Something seemed not quite right. Were we taking advantage of the injured workers or helping them? I felt a subtle shift, as if gliding down a gentle path with nothing but quicksand at the bottom. “Shall we keep our assumed reasons for their beneficence between you and me?”

  “You are learning well, my Peanut.”

  * * *

  The Brooklyn tower grew as a solid unit until it reached the openings for the roadway, where stone-laying got a bit trickier. The tower divided into three sections, each surrounded by a wooden platform, rather like a giant olive fork jutting into the air. Einar called me over one day as I inspected a new stone shipment. His face and hands were laced with scars from the fire, but he had never missed a day of work. He showed me a stone that didn’t quite fit.

  “No, that won’t do,” I said. The grandeur of the towers depended on perfect alignment. The granite was delivered already cut our specifications, but occasionally some were a bit off.

  He ran his hand along the protruding side. “I can’t carve that much.”

  “Then you’ll have to remove it.” I dug a fingernail into the mortar. “It’s not yet set.”

  He waved another worker over to help him. Using great iron claws, they inched the stone out. When it was nearly free, the rough surface kept the stone wedged in place. Einar wrapped his arms around the stone block and yanked while his helper pushed, their faces red as beets, veins popping in their foreheads. They cried out as the stone broke free, and the weight of the stone and the momentum sent Einar stumbling backward. He crashed through the safety rail and fell off the tower.

  “Einar!” I screamed. “Good God, no!” We peered down through the gap in the rail, fearing the worst. But a cheer arose when Einar waved up at us, having landed safely in a vat of water. The investors might look down their noses at the immigrants building our bridge, but my men were as precious and brave as any soldier. I was loyal to my troops as they were to me. The thought of losing yet another of them crushed me, and I breathed a great sigh of relief.

  * * *

  I rented the vacated piano store next to my office and had the blocked door between the spaces reopened. We set up a play area for Miss Mann and Johnny, and frequently, the plinking of a left-behind piano passed through the walls. I had given O’Brien clerical duties, which relieved me of much paperwork while protecting him from the dangers of the work site.

  Johnny became fast friends with the O’Brien children, who joined him after school. They became the brothers and sisters he lacked. It was comforting to have Johnny close by, yet behind a closed door, so that business could be carried on uninterrupted by the squeals of children. Miss Mann taught piano lessons, and the plinking gradually progressed to recognizable tunes.

  Having approved a stack of supply requests, I carried them to O’Brien for action. He arranged some personal items on his desk, moving them about like pieces on a chessboard.

  “Checkmate,” I said, moving a small carved horse to the center of the desk.

  “Don’t touch that.” He scooped the horse back.

  “So sorry. It didn’t seem delicate.”

  He swept the items into a drawer.

  “If you’re unhappy with the change in your duties, we can see about another assignment.”

  “No, no, I’m thankful, Mrs. Roebling. Truly I am, especially to be close to the children. But…all these maps and pictures.” He waved a hand at the cluttered walls. “And those there”—he nodded toward Wash’s service revolvers and other weapons mounted above framed artwork—“they put me in another mind, someplace I don’t want to be.”

  Several prominent artists had presented Wash and GK with lifelike portraits of battle scenes. Neither of them wanted them at home nor would give them up. Once we had additional space, hanging them in the office seemed a good compromise, and mounting the weapons in boxes served to preserve them as historic artifacts, with safety in mind as well.

  “I’m sorry about that, but you’ll soon forget they’re there—like music in the background.”

  “Music? Feckin’ music? You don’t know shite about it. This here?” He plucked the wooden horse from the drawer. “The colonel carved it for me. Said they could always be replaced. Thi
s was after me own got shot out from under me.”

  I glanced at the children, all happily occupied at the moment, then pulled up a chair. “Tell me. Tell me the worst you’re able. Then perhaps I’ll have a tiny inkling of what you experienced.”

  “Nah. I shouldn’t trouble you with this. Forgive my disrespect.” He waved a dismissal, but I sat firmly in place. “All right, then, if you insist. Spotsylvania, 1864.” He gazed away. “We were up on a ridge, overlooking a river. The Po, I think.

  “Them rebels were just across the river, fixing their rifles on us like the deer hunters they were. A bad, bad place. So many bodies. After three days of battles, we stopped burying them. May in Virginia had heat enough to fry an egg without a fire, not that we had either one. Heat makes some real unpleasant changes to a dead body. I took off my sock and wrapped it around my nose and mouth so I could keep down my hardtack.” He peered at me, reading my reaction, but I remained a neutral countenance. “What the guns didn’t blow up, the heat and intestinal gas did.

  “The order came to move forward. But there weren’t no forward but down that hill, in full sight and range of the rebs. Oh, we tried to dodge tree to tree, climbing over bodies while blasting and reloading as fast as we could. But it was no good, no good.” He buried his head in his hands.

  I placed a hand on his shoulder. These were the things Wash couldn’t tell me. The images were so disturbing in my own mind; how haunting they must be for the men who suffered through the war. My hand rested on a shoulder on which unimaginable burdens had lain. Wash and GK as well. I willed my strength to flow from my hand to his heart, resolved to always consider the pain that others have suffered, especially those who say the least.

  Then again, there were many who were quite demonstrative about their difficulties. Unions were growing in power and encouraged their members to let their grievances be known.

  Soon after my talk with O’Brien, work stopped on the Manhattan side as workers went on strike. Bedrock on the Manhattan side was much deeper and quite uneven, varying from forty to over a hundred feet below the river bed. At seventy-eight feet deep, the air pressure needed to maintain the caisson was the highest that humans had been known to survive. And some workers didn’t.