The Engineer's Wife

by Tracey Enerson Wood

  Wash was right. This was a serious accusation to level at anyone, and the meeting disintegrated into discordant shouting until Murphy banged his gavel to restore order.

  Stone’s threats, demands, and unceasing doubt over the past years boiled inside me. I used the ensuing silence to continue my attack. “Explain to us why your profits are more important than the safety of the millions of people who will pass over this bridge.”

  “I demand this woman be removed from the meeting immediately!” Stone thundered.

  “I would remind the board that this meeting concerns the role of Mr. Roebling,” Murphy said.

  “Mr. Roebling’s position is that if you have lost faith in him, he will step down entirely,” I said.

  “As he wishes.” Stone chortled, followed by the laughter of his cohorts.

  Murphy banged his gavel. “Mr. Stone, you are out of order. The board will render its decision shortly on the chief engineer. As his wife is but an advisor and messenger, I see no reason to examine her qualifications, and Mr. Hewitt’s comments are valid.” He wrote a note and passed it to the recorder. “A full investigation on the wire contracts will begin immediately. All in favor?”

  All but Stone, who crossed his arms over his ample chest and glared at me, raised their hands.

  Thirty-Three

  1881

  My frustration mounted at the board’s sluggish investigation of the wire scandal, but at least the construction proceeded on schedule. No guilty parties had been identified, but a message from the board arrived, authorizing all future wire to be purchased from Roebling’s Sons. With a combination of relief and concern, I read the rather hasty addendum: We, the East River Bridge Committee, wish to express our ongoing faith in the chief engineer. My own doubts would never be shared.

  Wash wrote from Trenton, lifting my spirits and giving me hope: Once again, I must thank you, my love, for having come to the rescue. Without your brave protest, I despair to think of the result, not only for the margin of safety for the bridge but our family business as a whole. We are all deeply in your debt.

  * * *

  Construction reached a milestone in December: the completion of the understructure of the roadway across the river. Workers had laid enough wooden planks across its length to create a walkway, and a celebratory walk from Brooklyn to Manhattan over the East River was planned.

  I was to lead the small delegation. Climbing the roadway approach to the Brooklyn tower was familiar, yet this time excitement lifted my steps as if I were dancing.

  Although not nearly as high as the tower top, the openness of the roadway support structure made my head spin as I watched chunks of ice pass over one hundred feet below. As workers placed the last planks in the walkway, I pressed my lips together, steeling myself for the walk across.

  The mayor of Brooklyn, other dignitaries, and I would meet the mayor of New York and his entourage in the middle. Then, we were to share glasses of champagne. But it seemed sipping bubbly on an open walkway a hundred feet over the East River on a blustery day had little appeal. Instead, as a small crowd watched, I led a group of top-hatted men all the way across the bridge, and we toasted each other on the Manhattan side.

  I thought it best not to invite PT to this ceremony, desiring to create at least the perception of a respectable distance. Never one to be slighted or ignored, he arranged for a big basket of flowers and scrumptious treats to be awaiting our arrival in Manhattan. The unmistakable red-and-white-striped cartons of peanuts and yellow ribbons emblazoned with Greatest Show on Earth foiled my plan.

  * * *

  It took two more years to sort out the web of deceit, theft, and corruption surrounding the wire fiasco. As Wash suspected, the contract had been awarded to J. Lloyd Haigh, a known crook, for political and financial gain. Haigh’s wire was then switched for an even poorer grade. How much faulty wire had been woven into the cables was unknown. Blended as it was with thousands of miles of good wire, the inferior wire was impossible to remove.

  I pored over the inspection records and did as much testing as possible on the few areas where the cable wire was still accessible. Wash and I exchanged many letters concerning practical ways to ensure the load-bearing strength. We came up with a solution: additional diagonal suspender wires, or stays, were to be attached directly from the towers to the roadway, as well as additional vertical suspenders from the four main cables. We calculated that the bridge was still four times stronger than necessary.

  Roebling’s Sons hummed along, and Wash returned to Brooklyn, but he scarcely left the house. His nervous condition had shown little improvement, requiring quiet at all times. Visitors were out of the question, and I fielded questions from reporters and politicians myself.

  I had mixed emotions upon his return. I was happy to have him with me, of course, and hoped we could resume some sort of agreeable marriage. At the same time, I resented the loss of freedom as pangs of guilt engulfed me whenever I left him alone.

  However, my presence no longer seemed to comfort to him. While helping him unpack his trunk, my hand crossed his arm as we reached for the same set of trousers. He jerked his arm back, as if sparked by electricity. I blinked at his reaction. I had assumed this ailment had resolved long before, as it didn’t appear on the long list of complaints in his letters.

  He brushed the matter aside, mumbling, “My skin is a bit sensitive these days.”

  Thirty-Four

  1882

  On a steamy August afternoon, I traveled up to Cold Spring to celebrate the publication of Carrie Beebe’s second book with her friends. Mother, ever the gracious hostess, served tea and sandwiches as we perused copies spread across the dining room table. Being a rather ungracious guest desperate to cool off, I slipped slices of cucumber off of a tray and onto my sweaty forehead, then shrugged my shoulders at the women’s giggles.

  The women were curious about the wire scandal, having witnessed the deadly consequences firsthand, and I had brought along samples of both the inferior wire and the wire we had specified.

  “Using inferior wire. When John Roebling invented proper wire himself.” Mother shook her head as she passed the samples to Carrie.

  “The committee made the decision on the supplier. We had to abide by it, Mother.”

  “Frightful. Switching good wire for bad in the dark of the night and risking the whole project.” Carrie shook her head as she bent the wires one by one.

  “Thankfully, John’s design has a huge margin of safety, and Roebling wire was used for all the suspenders. Nevertheless, I must apologize again for subjecting you ladies to that terrible sight.”

  “No, we should apologize to you,” Eleanor said.

  She was always so sweet, I half expected the other ladies to roll their eyes at this ridiculous reversal of culpability—after all, I was in charge. But instead, they exchanged glances and nodded in agreement.

  “I don’t understand.” I said. The room was stifling. I fanned myself with Carrie’s book.

  “It should not have taken that gruesome event for us to act,” Eleanor said as if this clarified matters, but I was still in the dark.

  “Quite so.” Until now, Henrietta had busied herself in Carrie’s book, no doubt seeking references to herself.

  “Mother, what are they talking about?”

  Henrietta answered for her, removing her reading glasses from her beaky nose. “Don’t be naive, dear. How do you suppose those contracts were switched to Roebling’s Sons?”

  “Politicians have their price,” Mother added as she refilled teacups. The ladies fanned themselves and the teacups.

  “I thought they were the lowest bidder. No? Who convinced the committee to change the award?”

  They smiled smugly back at me.

  “You did? But you don’t even have a vote!”

  Carrie, her soft voice barely audible, said, “There is someth
ing even more powerful than votes to a politician.”

  “Money,” Mother, Henrietta, and Eleanor answered in unison, laughing.

  “Still, some people should be in jail.” Henrietta bobbed her head decisively, her unruly nest of gray hair adding emphasis.

  “It’s a filthy scandal that should see the light of day,” Mother agreed. Her housemaid brought out a chunk of ice from the icebox. Mother took the ice pick from the maid and stabbed at the ice herself.

  “Ah, but there are also scandals that shouldn’t see the light of day,” Henrietta added with a conspiratorial grin. She plunked a shard of ice into her tea.

  Eleanor jabbed an elbow into Henrietta’s ribs.

  “Is there something else I should know about?” I asked, mulling over their casual indifference to the use of political coercion.

  Chip, chip, chip. Mother hacked at the ice, her lips pursed with words she held back.

  “Henrietta, I’m tired of your gossiping.” Eleanor sipped her tea with her pinky pointed skyward.

  “Why, I didn’t—”

  “What Henrietta is alluding to but in typical fashion isn’t coming right out and saying plainly is the matter of Emily’s relationship with Mr. Barnum.”

  “Now who’s the gossip, Eleanor?” Henrietta rubbed her bodice where Eleanor had poked her.

  I sighed. I thought we had gotten past this nonsense. “What are people saying?”

  “It’s nothing. A bunch of jealous old women entertaining themselves at the expense of a true heroine.” Eleanor smiled, trying to smooth over her indiscretion, but it was as if a skunk had snuck into the garden.

  Chip, chip, chip. The ice chunk finally gave way, and we each grabbed a shard to rub on our hot skin.

  Later, after the ladies had departed, Mother dismissed the help, and we washed the dishes ourselves. She trusted no outsider with the delicate family heirlooms.

  “You can tell me. I won’t judge.” She handed me a saucer to dry. “Mind the gold verge.”

  I dabbed at the delicate china with a white cotton cloth. “It’s rather complex.”

  “Marriage always is. Do you love him?”

  I set my lips. It was unlike Mother to pry like this, preferring to meddle in more subtle ways. “I love Washington, of course.”

  She stacked dry dishes into the cupboard with a clatter. “Do you love another?”

  “You mean PT?” I rubbed my temples.

  She affirmed with a glance. I considered reminding her my marriage was none of her business, wrestled with the desire to declare my adult status once again. But for all her pushing and prodding, I knew she always had my best interests in mind. The crinkles around her eyes deepened in concern. I wanted to answer the question I was still asking myself.

  “Afraid so.” I lowered my eyes. “If I could bind the best of them together, I’d have one perfect man.”

  She folded and refolded the drying towels, hand pressing their wrinkles. “Of all my children, you’re the only one who finds herself in these predicaments. And do you know why?” She rested her hand on my shoulder and waited until our eyes met. “Because enough is never enough for you.”

  “You promised not to judge.”

  “I’m not the judge you should be worried about. Notoriety is not your friend right now. And I can’t keep this out of the papers forever.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do you think?”

  Of course, being well respected and moderately wealthy, my mother wielded some power and influence. It had never occurred to me that she had been using it. There were a number of gossip rag newspapers that obtained a significant share of their revenue from keep-quiet payments. I wasn’t sure if Mother’s involvement in this was right or wrong and was still digesting the revelation when a knock at the door broke the tension. I practically skipped over to answer.

  A messenger in a blue uniform, bearing a telegram, greeted me and caused me to gasp. Messengers were rarely a good omen. My mind raced back to Rhode Island, where Wash and Johnny were. Good God, let them be all right. But the telegram was addressed to Mother. She came, drying her hands on a dish towel, and I offered her the pale yellow envelope. She nodded for me to open it.

  Sorry to inform you…death…Gouverneur were the only words I saw. “Mother, I’m afraid it’s GK—we’ve lost him.”

  Mother grabbed the note, read it, then fell to her knees clutching the piece of paper bearing news of her son. I helped her to the settee. As we sat there in shock, I wept over the brother who’d been my keeper, in jagged breaths agonizing about how I’d wasted precious time being upset with him. My sweet, kind GK, always concerned with everyone else. A vision: him tapping his heart, something about a goldfish. My God, why didn’t I pay more attention?

  Cause of death, liver failure.

  “What, what did he—?” Mother choked on the words.

  “He died of a broken heart,” I said.

  I felt as if my own heart had been torn from my body. I raged at the army, especially General Sheridan. Despite the lives my brother saved through caution and foresight, he was unjustly accused of apathy, relieved of duty, and demoted. Although he went on, building bridges in the west, his boundless enthusiasm never returned.

  * * *

  We traveled to Newport, Rhode Island, GK’s last duty station, to lay him to rest. This made little sense to me; he would have had an honorable resting place on either side of the Hudson River, so central to our lives.

  Perhaps it was due to bitterness that he did not wish to be buried at West Point, his alma mater, but certainly he bore no ill will toward Cold Spring, the idyllic village of our birth. No, he wanted to be buried in plain clothes, with no military honors, near the beach. I had to laugh at his sense of fun and final jab at expectations.

  As I sprinkled a handful of the sandy soil onto his casket, I mourned not only for the loss of my beloved brother and protector but for the cruel waste of so much of his career. One wrongful act had spoiled his reputation, leading GK to spend his remaining years battling the very army he had adored.

  I committed myself to restoring his legacy as I rode home from the cemetery that solemn August evening. I would commission the finest artists to create life-size sculptures to remind future generations of his importance and create scholarships for future engineers and other bright students, as he had always supported my education. Despite his attempts to the contrary, I was determined that his bravery, patriotism, and sacrifice would never be forgotten.

  GK died not knowing if his reputation would be restored. President Hayes convened a special panel that completely exonerated GK. It came three months and an eternity too late.

  Thirty-Five

  1883

  The first months of the year I was to turn forty were spent supervising the completion of the roadway, painting, and other finishing touches on the bridge. With the reinforcements we had added, Wash harbored no doubts regarding soundness but worried that pedestrians would be unnerved by vibration as horses galloped across it. He urged me to drive a buggy across at the earliest opportunity and report back to him.

  The press caught wind of this, and my test turned into a publicity stunt. So we borrowed two fine horses and a coach with a folding roof for the journey, although not one emblazoned with Barnum’s Circus and Museum, much to PT’s disappointment. I chose a sumptuous blue silk dress for the occasion and had C. C. Martin stand by to detect any movement of the bridge.

  I was to meet Franklin Edson, the mayor of New York, and his entourage on the other side. Good manners dictated a gift for His Honor, so I had the driver stop at one of the Chinese markets on the way. I rushed into the shop where the owner greeted me with a pleasant smile. We had a bit of a language barrier but had always managed to communicate.

  “Rooster,” I said.

  He pointed to the plucked birds hanging in nooses i
n the window.

  I shook my head, stuck my thumbs in my armpits, and flapped my elbows. “Er-ah er-ah roooo.”

  “Ah.” He nodded and waved me to a back room, where chickens cackled and the air was thick with the odor of their droppings. He picked up a hatchet.

  “No.” I pushed down his hatchet and selected a fine white rooster from the dozens of caged, raucous birds. “A symbol of good luck and the victory of light over darkness.”

  The shop owner tilted his head in confusion.

  “From the Bible? Never mind.” I offered a handful of coins to pay for the rooster and cage.

  He picked up a newspaper and pointed to a story on my bridge ride. “No charge.” He waved my hand away. “Good luck.”

  Outside, the driver paced in front of the carriage.

  “Will you put the roof down, please?” I asked. “The rooster would like to see the view.”

  The driver’s eyes widened, but he did as I asked.

  The cock crowed all the way to the river, entertaining the crowds that had gathered in the streets. We rode up the long approach with the police clearing the way. After clearing the construction barrier, the horses stepped gingerly onto the roadway. Patches of open water could be seen through the boards of the incomplete flooring. I fought the urge to grab the reins myself, not knowing how well the driver would react if the horses panicked. If I was sweating, the horses were surely uneasy as well.

  But the driver proved competent and the horses steady. I relaxed back into the seat. In the middle of the bridge, at the bottom of the catenary curve of the giant cables, I had the driver stop. It was eerily quiet, save the sputtering of the horses. Even the rooster had hushed.

  A light wind blew upriver, and I sat still to detect any sway. Then I stepped out ahead of the carriage and had the coachman drive past me. The bridge remained steady; nary a vibration touched my feet. I spun, seeing the whole of the East River Bridge. The grandeur of the towers, the grace of the cables, the harp strings of the suspenders took my breath away. I paused facing our home where I suspected Wash was watching through his telescope. I lifted my arm to him. I hope you are happy, my love.