The Engineer's Wife

by Tracey Enerson Wood

  The suspender wire contract was awarded to Roebling Brothers, who were not taking a profit and therefore were the lowest bidder. I was much relieved, even before we had any results of the testing.

  * * *

  April was my favorite month. One Saturday, I took Johnny to a garden nursery, excited to see the first flowers of spring. He was now a sturdy eleven-year-old, and I piled clay pots, bags of seeds, and rooted plants into his outstretched arms until he could hold no more. After delivering them home, he begged to visit his friends. I sent him off, wistful of slowly losing my little boy.

  I was planting pansies next to our front stoop when a familiar voice called my name, causing me to drop my spade. Brushing dirt from my skirt, I offered Wash my cheek. He had returned from Trenton, once again unexpectedly.

  “I have a present for you.” He brought his hand from behind his back, holding a three-foot-long metal bar.

  “How thoughtful, as I already have plenty of flowers.” I accepted the bar as if it were the king’s crown. “What is it?”

  “A sample of the suspender wire.”

  He unwound the loose end of a thin, flexible wire that wrapped a center core, which contained a bundle of thicker wires, each about the size of a pencil lead. Together, it was about two inches in diameter, a structural miniature of the great cables. The suspenders would hang vertically from the cables and connect the roadway to the cables.

  “The factory is going full tilt, and the first delivery is on the way.”

  Soon, the suspenders were going up at a rapid rate, starting at the anchorages and spreading toward the towers on each side. Men dangling on small platforms that hung from the cables attached the suspenders—giant harp strings in the sky.

  As the suspenders were placed, their bottom ends were attached to steel beams. The beams would then creep forward from both sides of the river, like the unrolling of two giant rugs, until they met in the middle. Then two layers of steel trusses with cross bracing would be added for stability, and the top layer would be yellow pine planks. A lighter-weight pedestrian walkway would be built above the roadway.

  Returning home in the late afternoon on a day where much infrastructure had been laid, I found Wash at the bedroom window, examining his rock collection.

  “Have you been watching?” I nodded toward his telescope.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Why don’t you take a peek?”

  He peered through the telescope, pivoted, refocused, and in seconds was done. “All appears in order.”

  “In fact it is.” I huffed at his nonchalance. “The suspenders and decking are in place over both land spans and started over the river span. The first order of planking has arrived and seems of uniform high quality, no knots, sap, or rot.”

  “Yes, as I stipulated and have seen with my own eyes.” He went back to his rock collection.

  “You saw all that in twenty seconds?”

  “I did.”

  I raised an eyebrow. Had he actually spent hours watching and didn’t want me to know?

  “Number one, I trust Martin, Farrington, and you. Number two, my eye is trained to pick up the slightest deviance in an instant.”

  “As is mine.” A new sensation rolled over me, as if an angel had just given me a blessing. What did it matter if Wash appreciated all I was doing? The bridge was its own reward. A graceful curve was taking shape. The roadway gradually arced up. The center of the span would be one hundred and thirty-five feet above the water. The cables, in a steeper catenary curve, came down from the towers so that at their lowest point, in the middle of the river, they would attach directly to the roadway at its highest point. Seeing plans on paper come to life was like watching an angel get her wings.

  * * *

  H.M.S. Pinafore was all the rage, and PT finagled tickets to not just one of the many unauthorized productions but the authentic Gilbert and Sullivan musical. We had reached an arrangement agreeable to us both. We saw each other in the company of others—our spouses on rare occasion, but more often friends or business associates. He gathered several of them in his most elegant carriage, and we ferried over to Manhattan for a Sunday matinee of song, laughter, and good spirits.

  On the ride back, we sang show tunes with lively voices and improvised lyrics. When we reached my home, I departed their company in the midst of “Oh Joy, Oh Rapture Unforeseen.” The harmony faded as I stepped from the carriage.

  A worker sat on my stoop. He stood and removed his hat. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. If I can have a moment of your time.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Dunn.” Several years had passed, but I readily recognized the ginger-headed worker. “What brings you here on a Sunday?”

  “Mr. Kingsley keeps me busy, but perhaps tomorrow would be better?”

  “You’re here now. What is it?” I waved an all clear to PT. “You work for Mr. Kingsley?”

  Dunn worked the brim of his slouchy hat. “Yes, ma’am. Ran out of things I’m suited for on the bridge, but there’s plenty of work building banks and stores and such.” He scuffed his boot toe on the cobblestones. “And the Brooklyn Theater.”

  “You worked on that?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I wasn’t surprised when the balcony collapsed.”

  “That happens in fires.”

  “That’s so, but nothing was done right. We were pushed, ‘Get it done,’ all the time. Corners cut. I know how things should be…and they weren’t.”

  “Did you come to tell me about a fire that occurred three years ago?” I glanced up. Lamps were being lit on our second floor.

  “No, ma’am. See, I needed some extra work.” He flicked his eyes at me. “Gamble a little. Anyway, I was offered good money for some simple work and didn’t mind seeing some of my buddies who still work the bridge.”

  “Many workers do that for Mr. Kingsley. It’s not a problem.”

  “This work wasn’t for Kingsley. It was for a friend of his. We loaded big spools of wire onto wagons at a warehouse in Red Hook and carted them off to another, more remote warehouse. There, we loaded up another bunch and brought those back to the first warehouse.”

  “They may have been replacing unsuitable wire. All the wire was inspected at the bridge site.”

  “Perhaps so. But it was done at midnight. And this dropped off one of the spools we moved out of Red Hook.” He produced an inspection certificate from his pocket.

  “I see. Tell me, Mr. Dunn, who hired you for this?”

  “Don’t know his name. Big fellow, nice suit. Talked all ‘jolly well.’”

  “Thank you. Is there anything else?”

  “No, ma’am. Thought you should know. You and the colonel have been good to me.”

  I pressed a few coins into Dunn’s hand despite his protest.

  After the wire had snapped and killed Supple, I had suspected that wire had been switched. Now I ground my teeth, certain of who was behind this treacherous act.

  Thirty-Two

  1880

  The newspaper headlines screamed of the certainty of Wash’s removal: “Engineer Roebling to Go” and “Roebling: Mayor Proposing to Supersede Him Because He Cannot Perform His Duties.” I tossed the papers in the trash bin when they appeared on my desk. At home, I hid them so Johnny wouldn’t see them.

  Benjamin Stone seemed to take a particular delight in presenting me with the latest diatribe. In early January, he brought a shock of cold air in the door along with his usual bluster. His puffy face was beet red, and he wiped his dripping nose with a handkerchief as he dumped three dailies on my desk. “Ahem.”

  “Don’t want to hear it, Mr. Stone.” I lifted the papers and pivoted toward the trash. Percolating in my mind was how to use the information Dunn had given me. I had not yet collected enough evidence and didn’t want to tip my hand.

  “You’ll hear this, missy. Don’t ign
ore what might be the last warning.”

  I sighed and glanced at the headlines. “Tay Bridge Disaster—Scores Dead.” That got my attention. I scanned the article. A few rumors had been circulating about a bridge collapse in Scotland, but I had no idea the accident was this tragic. My cheeks burned as I read on, Stone’s huffing breath above me.

  “Terrible.” I shook my head. “Winds over seventy miles an hour.”

  “You think we never experience winds like that here?” he bellowed.

  “Of course that can happen anywhere, especially on a seacoast. Winds have been factored in.”

  “Ha. Calculated, recalculated, does anyone know anymore what that tower of ineptitude will hold?”

  “Ours is a completely different design. Comparing the East River Bridge to the Tay Bridge is like comparing a steamship to a rowboat.” Although my voice was measured, inside, I was plagued with doubt, remembering the brittle wire crumbling in my hand.

  * * *

  Johnny was about to enter his teen years, and I despaired at the lack of time I had spent with him. Before long, he would be out on his own, his childhood having vanished amid the continual demands of bridge building. Wash hadn’t spent much time with him either, living in Trenton more than with us. So I planned a special treat for our son. The British ship Cutty Sark was scheduled to arrive in New York, and as Johnny had always loved sailing ships, I arranged for us to tour the triple-masted clipper.

  A few dozen people gathered to cheer as she plied up the narrows, full sails billowing in the wind. Johnny’s eyes widened as she was secured to the pier, her wooden hull, painted a shiny black with golden scrollwork, gleaming in the sun. We strolled her length of over two hundred feet, her graceful shape built for speed. Johnny laughed and pointed at the figurehead, a bare-breasted woman holding what appeared to be a horse’s tail.

  We boarded and were treated to a full tour by the captain. I had expected to see stacks of crates of tea from China. Instead, the hold was filled with jute in various stages of manufacture into rope. Enough for every ship and circus tent in the country. Dank and earthy, the hold smelled like a circus tent as well.

  “I saw her under construction,” I told Johnny as we stepped back down the gangplank, then turned for a last look at the beautiful ship. “I wish you could see her hull under the waterline. It’s as gold as my wedding ring.”

  “Mama, why did you bring me here?”

  “I thought you would enjoy seeing her. You so enjoyed building models with your father.”

  His eyes squeezed shut as if it were a painful memory.

  “Didn’t you?”

  His height was now equal to mine, and he opened his bright-blue eyes and looked at me intently, causing me to blink away.

  “I did. Very much.” He gave a goodbye wave to the crew.

  “I thought it time to discuss your future studies. I… We… Your father and I don’t wish to push you into the family business.”

  “I thought it was something else.” He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at his shoes. “Are you and Pa… I mean…” He looked up, his voice just above a whisper. “I don’t wish you and Pa to remain together for my sake. I’d rather you be happy.”

  My heart sank. Why couldn’t we have one joyous day together? “We’ve had difficulties, Johnny, as all families do. Ours happen to be front page news. But we’re as happy as we can be for the moment.” I gently shook his shoulder. “Don’t worry about us. Think about your future.” I waved toward the ship. “You’ve always loved building things, but it doesn’t need to be bridges.”

  He brightened. “I do prefer things that move and have power. Trains, ships. Someday, we’ll have machines that fly.”

  “That’s my boy.” He allowed me to slip my arm through his as we walked down the pier.

  “What about you?” he asked. “What will you do with yourself once the bridge is finished and I am released from your empire?”

  “I will laze about, being fed peeled grapes while reading Shakespeare and Tolstoy and Nietzsche and Dickens and Flaubert…”

  “And the week after that? What about your women’s causes?”

  I sighed. “When the time is right. It’s hard, Johnny. It’s not just social and cultural change that’s needed. There are laws preventing progress on many fronts.”

  “Then change the laws.”

  “Would that I could. Hmm. Perhaps a letter-writing campaign is in my future.”

  “No, I mean to say change them yourself.” His voice cracked as it rose with emotion.

  I shook my head. “One would have to be in office, with a good understanding of the law, to do that.”

  “Then attend law school.” He laughed and broke away, his youthful energy held at my pace for too long.

  “Well, that’s one idea. Or being fed grapes.”

  Of course, women weren’t accepted into law school. But I knew men powerful enough to change that.

  * * *

  I was frequently invited to the monthly board meetings held in the bridge committee boardroom to provide an update both on bridge progress and Wash’s status. An impressive space: large sketches adorned the wood-paneled walls, and scale models and a cross section of cable were displayed. The usual attendees were Benjamin Stone, Kingsley, Martin, and board president Henry Murphy. Stone and I were on unfriendly footing, and I was not fond of Kingsley, whom, like Stone, I found pretentious and condescending.

  Former Congressman Hewitt was sometimes present, as he had been appointed by the mayor to ensure the board remained free of corruption and undue profit taking. He had already cleared Kingsley of pocketing thousands of dollars in unexplained expenses. I noted that they frequently sat next to each other and seemed quite chummy.

  I rather admired Mr. Murphy. He was an accomplished lawyer and former U.S. representative with neatly cropped gray hair, tinted here and there with its original ginger. His tailored suits complemented his spare frame. He was tough but fair, and I was ever grateful that he chaired the committee.

  “I move to replace the chief engineer,” said Kingsley with the same nonchalance as if remarking on the weather.

  “On what grounds?” Murphy asked in his clipped, official manner.

  “As is quite well known and has been the case for some time, Mr. Roebling is physically and mentally incapacitated by a nervous affliction. That the condition was brought on by his work on the bridge is unfortunate, but we must consider the consequences of allowing him to continue.”

  “I second the motion,” Stone piped in.

  Kingsley nodded.

  Stone tapped his pen on the table. “Mr. Roebling is an invalid who observes the building of the bridge through a telescope. We cannot know how much his mental capacity is impaired, as he refuses to appear before us.”

  “We must place the safety of the people first!” Kingsley hammered the table with his meaty fist.

  “We are prepared to give Mr. Roebling appropriate compensation.” Stone raised his cool gaze to meet mine.

  “In return for his resignation?” I shot back.

  “Not entirely. He could remain on as consulting engineer. Then there’s the matter of your role, Mrs. Roebling. You’ve presented specious qualifications. Furthermore, should we decide to delve deeper into your activities, I believe we’d find them highly illegal for a woman.”

  The committee murmured; some coughed to cover chuckles.

  Stone rapped his pen. “Mrs. Roebling’s work has never been approved by this committee and must face further scrutiny.”

  “While you award more contracts to your business partners?” I said.

  The men stirred uneasily in their seats.

  Hewitt cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I believe Mr. Stone is leading us down a rabbit hole. The legality of women’s work is not an argument appropriate for our agenda.”

  I
glanced toward the aging iron baron and politician, but he studied his fingertips. I had thought him to be aligned with Stone. Wash had no use for Hewitt, going back to the curious meeting with his father in Ringwood. “Hewitt cannot be trusted,” Wash had written to Murphy. “He is ambitious beyond all measure and wields his power by extracting a hefty fee from those his power can assist.” He was referring to the Brooklyn firm that won the wire award—Stone’s business partner, Haigh.

  “No good will come of challenging him. That is not our affair,” Wash had told me.

  But I could no longer allow the practice of awarding contracts and receiving bribes to go unchallenged. In my lap beneath the table, I twisted the piece of wire I had collected from the anchor building the day Supple was killed.

  “If there is blame to be had, perhaps you should look no further than this room.” I threw my evidence onto the long, polished table, let it skitter across, about as welcome as a dead fish. “The entire project was put at risk so that a few could extract unseemly profits.” After making sure they were all watching, I picked up the wire and pinched it between my fingers, bending until it snapped—much too easily.

  “How dare you make such accusations!” Stone bellowed.

  “Would you care to explain, Mr. Stone, how a company in which you have considerable financial interest won the steel contract? Perhaps you can enlighten the committee on how inferior wire was switched for the wire we ordered?”

  “You tell me, Mrs. Roebling. The wire that failed at the anchorage building was Roebling wire.”

  A rumble spread through the room.

  “That is so. But that defect was found to have been caused by a faulty pulley, which sheared the wire. The important thing is that it led to the discovery of this wire, which has been mixed with the Roebling wire.” I held up the piece of cable wire I had collected.