The Engineer's Wife

by Tracey Enerson Wood

  The carriage stopped in front of the brownstone office building. Twilight was giving way, and new electric streetlamps buzzed to life, casting the street in a yellow haze.

  PT glanced at his timepiece. “We’re a bit early, so let’s do your exercises. Close your eyes.”

  By now, my pre-speech routine was instinctual. I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly, letting my body relax and my mind drift.

  “Think of a happy memory.” PT’s hand warmed mine, but in my mind, it was Wash’s as we danced at our wedding. The music was lovely, and PT’s voice, smooth as silk, weaved through my reverie. “Where are you?”

  “I’m dancing.”

  “Good, we’re dancing.”

  I opened one eye. His were closed, lost in his own dream. I had worked hard at suppressing my feelings toward him and was proud of my ability to retain his friendship. Yet there was still something magical about him, as if he could wave away my troubles with sleight of hand. Sitting next to him, my feet didn’t quite meet ground. I closed my eyes and floated in the ballroom.

  * * *

  The bridge committee gathered in the boardroom, the various maps and diagrams on the walls now yellowed and curled with age. PT sat next to C. C. Martin as the meeting was gaveled to order.

  “Our first order of business is of utmost importance as we evaluate the safety of the bridge,” Chairman Murphy declared. “I call on Assistant Engineer Martin for his statement.”

  Martin stood, his suit resting on his spare frame as though the garment were still on the hanger. He cleared his throat, then proceeded in his even way. “Gentlemen. After a thorough review by the chief engineer, his staff, and consulting engineers, our opinion remains unchanged. There is no correlation between the unfortunate panic on the bridge and the safety of the bridge itself.”

  Benjamin Stone shook his head and folded his arms across his chest. “Then how do you account for the loss of twelve lives and the serious injury of hundreds more? Your affirmation of the bridge’s soundness means nothing, especially to the families of the deceased.” He rose from his seat like a bear rising on its hind legs. “The people of New York and Brooklyn deserve answers!” Stone hammered his fist on the table, causing pens to jump, then threw his arms heavenward, straining the seams of his jacket.

  PT rolled his eyes and cast a conspiratorial glance at me. Amateur.

  I must have sighed or rolled my eyes as well, because Stone turned on me sharply and bellowed, “Mrs. Roebling, do you have something to add?”

  “I do.”

  Stone had ceased to intimidate me long ago. Thanks to PT, I knew a show when I saw one and could give one of my own. I stood and made eye contact with each person in the room.

  “Gentlemen, thank you for this opportunity to speak before you. When my father-in-law dreamt of this bridge over thirty years ago, he knew there would be risks. Certainly, lives would be lost in the construction of it, lives would be lost in the usage of it, and we would face unforeseen challenges and disasters simply because a public entity exists where there once was none.” I held Chairman Murphy’s gaze until heads bobbed in agreement.

  “But he knew—and the wise men in power knew—that the bridge had to be built if this great city and nation were to grow and prosper. We could not wait until we had acquired the perfect knowledge and technology and materials, for they may never come.

  “We blazed new trails by ceaselessly studying, assessing, and, in some cases, inventing what did not exist, for that, indeed, is how progress is made.”

  There were shouts of protest.

  I held up a hand. “Given the magnitude, obstacles, and inherent dangers of the project, we are fortunate that more lives were not lost.

  “The panic on the bridge had nothing to do with the competency of its builders or integrity of design. The loss of lives stemmed from fear and paranoia, fueled by irresponsible journalism and the agenda of enemies within whose motivations I cannot begin to fathom.”

  Several board members turned toward Stone, who fiddled with his pocket watch.

  All eyes widened as Wash entered the room, leaning heavily on his cane, perspiration beading his forehead. I cupped my hand to my mouth. How hard it must have been for him to make the trip. Buoyed by his presence, I went on with renewed vigor.

  “Much was said about my role, for I am but the engineer’s wife with no formal training or degree. However, I would remind those assembled that the great engineer Eads also had no formal training. Nevertheless, the bridge over the Mississippi is testament to his competence as designer and builder.”

  Wash caught my eye with a nod. “The education and competence of women is a debate we must save for another day,” Wash said as he limped the length of the long table until he was directly behind me. His hands warmed my shoulders. “There is no question concerning the strength of the bridge. Indeed, there was not a hint of trouble, even with thousands stampeding its span. But there is a question concerning the management of its use.”

  Side conversations bubbled up as the men conferred with one another. I put up my arm to hush them. I took a deep breath, concentrated on using my diaphragm muscle to strengthen my voice. “We must learn and move on, putting this incident far behind us. The people have demanded this, paid for this. Some paid with their lives.” I paused, wanting my final words to echo in their ears. “It is your duty, your honor. You must open this bridge!”

  One by one, the committee stood and applauded, all except Stone. Then, with a great scrape of his chair, he grudgingly joined the others.

  Chairman Murphy banged his gavel. “The committee will consider all factors and will vote at the next meeting. The bridge will remain closed, gated, and padlocked until that time.”

  Wash and I accepted handshakes and reassurances from the board after the meeting adjourned. I walked out with Wash’s arm across my back, lifted with happiness and pride for all we had done. I wanted to thank PT for all his support and patience with me, but he had managed to leave unnoticed ahead of us.

  It had rained while we were in the meeting, and the wet cobbles reflected white in the streetlamps or disappeared in dark shadows. The portly figure of Stone shuffled down the checkerboarded street, using an umbrella as a walking stick.

  I excused myself from Wash and caught up with Stone. “You despicable man,” I seethed. “Your actions should be reported to the police.”

  “You know nothing would come of that,” he replied quietly. “But I do owe you an apology.” His shoulders slumped; he seemed six inches shorter. “Do you remember the terrible accident in England I told you of, when the bridge gave way?”

  I thought this a strange apology. “And that gives you license to persecute us and sabotage this bridge?”

  “I lost my wife and daughter. You resemble—” He paused, his face pained.

  The portrait in his office came to mind. “I resemble your late wife?”

  He nodded. “In several ways.”

  “Then why on earth have you been hampering me at every turn?”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “Then please enlighten me.”

  “You probably think I was motivated by profits.”

  “Partially. I understand you have emotional involvement.”

  “I can’t deny profit was a consideration. But it wasn’t the only one.”

  Wash was waiting for me. “Please, walk with me,” I said, trying to steer him back toward Wash. But that was like turning around a steamship. “Go on.” He might as well get it all out now.

  “Ever since I laid eyes on you, I knew you were someone special.”

  “Oh? When was that?”

  “As an adult, when you were giving a talk about the grand bridge to be built at the home of your mother.”

  “A rather amateur performance, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, you were so young and untainted
. I imagined you were much like my daughter would have been. In fact, I allowed that fantasy to grow beyond all reason.”

  My heart remained hardened even as he took a handkerchief to his eyes.

  “I felt the need to protect you, as I so miserably failed to protect my wife and our sweet little girl.”

  “I’m sorry for your terrible loss, Mr. Stone.”

  “And I am sorry for yours.”

  “My loss?”

  “I knew your father. He told me of the terrible tragedy of your sister after my own daughter drowned. I came to this country having left England and everyone I knew behind.”

  I cringed at the memory of my lost father and sister.

  Perhaps aware of inflicting more pain, his voice softened. “We were soul mates of suffering. After he was gone, I watched out for you.”

  “I wish I had known I was a bit of a surrogate daughter to you. Perhaps things would have been different between us. But still, I fail to understand how you dreamed you were protecting me or anybody with your actions.”

  “I believed our wire was as good as the approved wire. I don’t want to bore you with the technicalities, but I did some testing on my own and—”

  “But there was no report, no scientific data to support that. Hardly seems to be something to keep secret.”

  “Well, you see…” He smoothed the closed umbrella, cleared his throat. “I knew the wire substitution would eventually be discovered.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me. If not for profit, then why did you make the switch, especially knowing it would be discovered?”

  He stared at his shoes and tapped his umbrella on the cobblestones.

  Then it came to me. I was stunned by the awfulness of it. “The panic. You wanted to create a panic.”

  I could read the pain in his eyes but felt no sympathy for this monster. “Good God, why? You knew the limitations of the exit passageways. You had to have known the tragic consequences of a mass of hysterical people. You set them up to die for your own distorted cause.” I took a step closer, glared into his watery eyes. “You’re tilting at windmills, but instead of slaying imaginary giants, you’ve killed real people.”

  “I never wanted anyone to get hurt,” he whispered.

  Down the street, Martin was having words with Wash. He seemed angry, waving his arms for emphasis. I needed to sort out the matter, but I was determined to get a full explanation for Mr. Stone’s reprehensible behavior. I contemplated the charges we could level against Stone while watching Martin and Wash out of the corner of my eye. Martin jabbed a finger toward PT, who stood across the street, looking the other way. Bewildered with that sideshow, I turned back to Stone.

  “It was always about the trains,” he said. “Trains weren’t in the original plan we approved. As you might expect, I am exceedingly averse to the notion of trains going over bridges. I thought that if it should turn out that there was a perception—a perception, mind you—that we didn’t have a comfortable margin of safety designed into the bridge, then the addition of a train track would be scuttled.”

  “But the bridge was determined safe for trains, despite the faulty wire.” His motive was becoming clearer.

  “A mistake, I assure you. There was quite a lot of politicking involved in that decision. You should investigate who owns the trains. I think you’ll be surprised.”

  “Don’t evade the issue here.”

  “Henry Murphy for one,” he offered, doing my assigned research for me. “One of your favorites, no?”

  But I wasn’t to be sidetracked.

  He answered my glare. “Yes, I may have had some influence on the development of a panic. You must find some way to get those trains off that bridge!”

  “You are a shortsighted and dangerous man.”

  “I don’t deny it. But I’m not the only one who should pay for the greedy and callous decisions that put so many in danger.” He handed me a sealed envelope. “Take this. Please read it tomorrow.”

  “I have to go.”

  “I never wanted anyone to get hurt!” he repeated to my back, but I had heard enough.

  I reached Wash as Martin left his side.

  “I’ve uncovered some ugly truths,” I said to Wash. “About the panic—”

  PT joined us. “I should like to offer you both a ride as soon as I locate my carriage.” He scanned the streets.

  “Thank you, Mr. Barnum, but I shall provide a ride for my wife.” Despite his polite words, judging from the intensity in Wash’s eyes, his earlier anger had not abated. Yet he clasped my hand and squeezed it.

  Wash was within his rights to throw a punch earlier, as PT had some difficulties with boundaries. But considering the good reception we had received at the meeting and that PT was trying to correct his faux pas, Wash could be more gracious. I scolded myself. This evening would have been very difficult for him, and yet he came to support me.

  “You’re not going to believe what Stone admitted.”

  I was burning to tell Wash what I had learned, but he tapped his cane impatiently. Beads of sweat collected on his brow, and his face flushed, even on this cool evening. What had Martin told him?

  Wash pulled my hand. “Come, Emily, our ride is waiting.”

  “Thank you for all your help, PT.”

  Wash led me to a horse hitched to a post—Theo, one of our carriage horses. I greeted him, and he nuzzled me. A large and strong stallion, saddling him would have been a challenge. “How did—”

  “I thought this would be more romantic.” He unhitched the horse. “’Bout time I saddled up. You still enjoy riding, don’t you?”

  “Wash!” He had stunned me three times this evening. “You haven’t ridden a horse since—”

  “The war. And I swore I’d never get on one again.” He mounted, then offered me a hand to lift me astride in front of him. The stretch of my legs and the smooth leather of the saddle filled me with the delight of my younger days.

  “I have a confession to make.” He replaced the wrap on my shoulder. “I released Barnum’s horses.”

  “You what? Why?”

  “Churlish of me, but there you have it.” He handed me the reins and circled his arms around my waist. “He’s all yours.”

  It had been some time, and Theo was prone to jigging, but my skills returned naturally as I guided the horse down the street. “What convinced you to come tonight?”

  “I was thinking about the war. That damn cannon. Pushing it up that blasted hill.” He raised his voice over the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves.

  “What hill?”

  It grew quieter, having passed the congestion of the main street.

  “Little Round Top.” He leaned closer to my ear. “Your brother made us push a cannon up a wooded hill, over boulders and felled trees. You’ve heard about the courageous fight for that hill. Perhaps a turning point of the war.”

  We came to a corner. I guided the horse left toward home. Wash took hold of my hands over the reins and pulled them right. The confused horse stopped and sputtered.

  “No. We’re going to the bridge,” Wash whispered in a tone that raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

  We turned right, but unsure of what he had in mind, I held the horse to a slow walk.

  “Do you know why we fought so hard for Little Round Top?” Wash’s breath warmed my ear, his arms tightening around my waist. “Not because it was the general’s strategy but because it was so damn hard to push that cannon up there. We weren’t giving up. It was our turf.”

  The night of his delirious ranting about cannons, all mixed up with caissons, came back to me. “I’m glad you’re finally ready to talk about it. But why now? Does this have something to do with the board meeting?”

  “Of course. I want to hear all about it from your perspective. Martin has already given me an earful.”
/>   “Oh? What did he say?”

  “He thought the board was putty in your hands.”

  “I wish I were so sure. There are still many things they could throw at us before they’ll open the bridge. It could take years.” But that didn’t seem to be what sparked Wash’s anger earlier in the evening.

  We left the lighted street and climbed the approach to the deserted bridge. A full moon shone in the clearing sky as if to make up for the absence of lights on the bridge. Theo hesitated as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, then we crept up the familiar incline.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Wash said.

  “That’s what you do.” I laughed, but he didn’t join me.

  “I will move back to New Jersey permanently.”

  I swallowed. Trenton represented home to him. But my roots were planted in New York. “What do you mean, ‘I’?”

  We had arrived at the Brooklyn tower, where the roadway was blocked by a barrier. The wind whipped around us, carrying scents of coal fires and horse droppings. Why has he brought us up here?

  He dismounted, then helped me down. After handing me his cane so he could tether the horse, he led me to the barricade. A sign read: By order of the Brooklyn Police, DO NOT ENTER.

  “I don’t want to be selfish about this.” Wash opened a padlock on the gate and pushed through the barrier.

  “About what?” Perspiration dampened my dress even as the cool sea wind blew.

  He beckoned me to follow him onto the bridge. “Come.”

  We stepped over the creamy yellow wood planks in silence. The lights of Manhattan sparkled across the way, their reflections stretching in the water.

  The moon slipped behind a cloud, cloaking us in surreal emptiness. When we reached the middle of the bridge, it was as if we were all alone in a dark space between two worlds.

  Wash hooked his cane on the handrail, gripped the rail in both hands, and focused downriver. I bit my lips in the awkward silence and rested my back on the rail next to him.

  “You do as you wish. As when you got on that ship. Knowing full well that our child was on the way.” He glanced at me. “On the way but not in the way, as long as I didn’t interfere.”