The Engineer's Wife

by Tracey Enerson Wood

  The power he had over me had returned. I could be sucked into his world like a wave pulled back to the sea. My spirits lifted with the possibility of a carefree life, filled with travel, laughter, fun, companionship…and more. I took a deep breath, clenched my fists. “No. This has to stop.”

  He eyed me intently; he was gifted at reading a face. My innermost feelings seemed naked under his scrutiny.

  “My foolish heart.” He sighed.

  “I am not without my own temptations.”

  “But I am rejected nonetheless.”

  “Afraid so. If I were—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He closed his books, and I felt a part of me close as well.

  “I have leaned on you for so long, PT, and now I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry.”

  “A foolish pursuit. How many years?”

  I swallowed. This was the worst part. “I’m afraid we have to end our friendship.”

  After a long, uncomfortable pause, he said, “Is that what you want?”

  Having no fair way to answer that, I bit my lip and averted my gaze.

  “I understand. But the parade should proceed as planned.” The showman was gone; the businessman appeared. “A parade for you and for the bridge.” He scribbled something in a notebook, then snapped it shut.

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Good publicity. A show on the greatest bridge on earth. Despite my wrong-headed intentions, it’s still a grand idea.” He opened his top desk drawer and slipped something out. “Besides, you’ve already paid the fee.” He fanned the tattered bills I gave him years ago.

  My heart was breaking as I turned away.

  “Goodbye, my Peanut.”

  I pulled open that heavy door for the last time.

  * * *

  I wanted to curl up and lick my wounds before I told Wash. Of course, that would serve no purpose, and I wanted to clear the air before the official bridge opening. My marriage, as always, was intertwined with the bridge, something I had long since learned to accept. But that project was ending, and our future paths needed to be charted, whether together or divided. He deserved to know my decision before his big day, but first, I had an ultimatum of my own.

  I found him on the rooftop that balmy evening, sitting on a bench, enjoying the view of city lights in a light breeze. He slid over to make room for me.

  “Wash, do you remember when I mentioned going to law school?”

  “Yes, some time ago. Thought you had lost interest.”

  “No, just otherwise occupied.” I caught his eye.

  “Have you found a school—one that will accept—”

  “Not yet. But I think we have enough influence here that an exception can be made for me.”

  “I see. So you’re staying in New York.” His gaze fell to his lap where his hands rested, palms to the sky.

  “No, dear. I couldn’t trust all those Roeblings to give you any peace without my interference. I think we want a rather grand house in Trenton for family get-togethers and perhaps grandchildren visiting someday.”

  He looked up, a smile creeping across his face.

  “However,” I said.

  He shook his head. “There’s always ‘however.’”

  “I want you to promise I can come back to New York to study law. Maybe once Johnny is off to university.” I waited for him to look at me directly, wanting him to fully understand my position. “Promise me that I don’t have to give up all my dreams.”

  He reached out, touched the cameo on my earlobe. “It seems a fine plan. I not only agree, I may insist upon it.” He traced a finger along my jaw. “But Phineas? I won’t change my mind about him.”

  I took a breath to steady my voice. “That has been settled.”

  He responded simply, “Then we are agreed.”

  I laid my head in his lap, contemplating all I had lost and all that I would soon give up. Perhaps I would learn to love living in Trenton, but that seemed a distant possibility. And would visits to New York be the same without the company of my dear friend?

  I allowed a tear to flow across my face and fall on his trousers. It was as Eleanor had described; we had gone through the breakers and found each other on the other side. No city lights, no racing horses in the countryside could replace the oneness Wash and I shared, the deep love that comes from having sacrificed everything for each other. And perhaps more importantly, he knew me as no other, understood my passion to overcome barriers for women, supported it even. He was my ally for life.

  The night was dark and clear; the Milky Way shone like a moonlit cloud. Millions of stars, all those worlds, and we were mere specks huddled together on one tiny planet, lifting and falling in life’s rhythm.

  Wash bent to kiss me, absently fingering my curls. “Look. A falling star.” He began to sing softly, sweetly:

  “The Star that watched you in your sleep

  Has just put out his light.

  ‘Good-day, to you on earth,’ he said,

  ‘Is here in heaven Good-night.’”

  Forty-One

  The morning of May 24, 1883, I was up at dawn. Out our bedroom window, the bridge stood out in silhouette against a lightening sky with only a few clouds. This should be a perfect day, I thought, as Wash began to rustle.

  Too nervous to eat, I spent the early hours reading and catching up on correspondence. My excitement grew as I sorted through the heaps of letters of congratulation. Wash sat at the window, watching the fabulous shadows move across the bridge in the sun and listening as I read some of the notes out loud.

  When it was time to get ready, I sorted through my dresses. “I don’t know. Which one do you think, Wash?”

  “Just pick one,” he said rather irritably.

  “Aren’t you excited?” He made no move to get dressed. “Please don’t say you’re going to watch from your window.”

  “My job is done. I don’t have any need for spectacle. You know I can barely handle a single visitor, never mind a crowd.” He struggled up from his chair and sorted through the dresses I had tossed on the bed.

  “This one.” He handed me a lovely cream-colored dress I hadn’t worn in some time. Does it have sentimental value? I wondered, until he added, “It’ll be warm out there.”

  “But it’s going to be glorious!” I said as I slipped into the dress. “You will be honored as a hero.”

  He opened an old textbook and slipped out the tattered drawing of the bridge made by his father on the ferry. Long ago, Wash had written upon it in his tiny, neat script: We don’t fight the river. We rise above it.

  “It is done, Papa.” He glanced at the framed portrait of Papa he kept on his desk. “What do you think he would do?”

  I held up my hair so he could button the back of my dress. “This would be your father’s proudest day. He wouldn’t miss the ceremony.”

  Having finished my buttons, he turned me to him. “Go. Enjoy, my love.” He nodded toward Papa’s portrait. “We’ll watch from here.”

  * * *

  Johnny sat with me, leading a grand carriage parade of family and friends from our home to the bridge, followed by dozens more carriages. The celebrating crowds were so thick, the horses struggled to move forward. People leaned out windows and waved at our cavalcade from rooftops, dropping confetti. I couldn’t imagine a more joyful day.

  American flags and red, white, and blue bunting adorned the bridge, the colors vibrant against the stone. We stepped out of our carriages under the arch of the Brooklyn tower and continued on foot, walking across the river to the cheers of thousands.

  Church bells rang. Steam whistles blew from every factory, train engine, and boat for miles. Artillery on each shoreline boomed. So many boats clogged the river, it seemed you could walk across the river on them. Some sprayed huge plumes of water.

  As we made
our way to the bridge on the Brooklyn side, another parade approached from Manhattan. Leading this was President Arthur, Governor Cleveland, and Mayor Edson in an open carriage. The Seventh Regiment Army Band followed them, playing patriotic songs.

  We met them as they reached the New York tower. A soldier commanded, “Present arms,” and an honor guard snapped their rifles smartly. The president waved and tipped his hat to the crowd, then stepped down from the carriage and shook my hand. Together, we walked across the bridge with the band and the rest of the parade following.

  Having concluded my part of the ceremony, I joined Mother and Johnny in the grandstand to listen to speeches and watch the rest of the parade. As the various mayors and dignitaries waxed eloquent about the bridge representing a magnificent testament to man’s ingenuity and determination, I wondered where they had hidden their enthusiasm during the dark days of doubt.

  Papa’s former business associate, Congressman Abram Hewitt, surprised me when he waved toward me while reciting a list of accomplishments of the ancient Greeks.

  “It is thus an everlasting monument to the self-sacrificing devotion of a woman and of her capacity for that higher education from which she has been too long debarred.”

  The subject of this unexpected soliloquy, I peered over my shoulder—the audience fastened its attention on me. One by one, they stood, and men took off their hats and held them high. Hewitt concluded by saying, “The name of Mrs. Emily Warren Roebling will thus be inseparably associated with all that is admirable in human nature and with all that is wonderful in the constructive world of art.”

  It was a moment I shall never forget. To be publicly recognized and applauded was a great honor, of course. I stood and waved as I sniffed back tears. Tears of happiness, not only that my efforts had been acknowledged but that a man in Hewitt’s position recognized the importance of higher education for women. He would surely be an ace in my pocket when the time came to apply to law school.

  “On with the parade!” Mayor Edson proclaimed, and there was a huge cheer for PT, who led acrobats, clowns, jugglers, chimpanzees, and camels. A flush of purple graced his lapel—he wore a boutonniere of violets.

  The processional paused. Then a baby elephant scampered across the bridge. And another and another. The crowd cheered wildly. The elephants grew larger and larger, until finally, Jumbo, festooned in a scarlet and gold headdress, made his entrance. I cheered as he lumbered across, each step assured, his head held high.

  As the parade ended, a jubilant crowd filled both decks of the bridge, making toasts and singing songs. As excited as they were, their feelings could only be a mere fraction of the joy and relief that enveloped me. It was as if I had become an entirely new person, and each stone, each wire represented an achievement I had watched and guided and protected.

  At dusk, the bridge was cleared, and a stunning fireworks display exploded from the towers, the center of the bridge, and from boats on the river. The colorful extravaganza could be seen for miles across the newly united cities.

  And so, I had my part in the building of the great bridge. Wash thought the parade too extravagant, but the people loved it, and PT was in his glory. When the elephants strutted by, it seemed as if they knew—knew that the people had their bridge, and Papa and Wash had kept their promises and fulfilled their dreams. They would always be honored for their brilliance and perseverance. But the circus parade? Oh, the parade was for me.

  Epilogue

  1884

  At night, I stand alone on the grand expanse. The moonlight alternates an eerie glow with ribbed shadows on the giant steel cables, hurtling down toward me from the Brooklyn tower, running beside me for a bit, then arching back up to the other tower and on to Manhattan.

  My hand grips a cold, wet railing as I peer skyward at clouds playing hide-and-seek with the moon. Ghosts of riggers sit on platforms high above, sharing a joke and a ham sandwich as they attach jail bars of suspension cables two hundred feet over the water. The wind howls and whips my dress against me, but there is no tremble in the steel beams underneath. Papa would be pleased.

  The Great Bridge, they call it. A monument, a fortress, a miracle. Perhaps only I know its complete story, the struggle to build it, the sacrifices better left unknown. In a hundred years, there may be nothing here but a giant pile of stone, hardly a testament to the immense task—connecting a city ripped in two by a churning river. Then again, maybe the bridge will still be standing proud, towers in the mist, travelers crossing by the thousands.

  There is one thing left to do before leaving. The little girls have given me a ring of flowers, a chain of daisies they picked from the little spot of undisturbed earth beneath the bridge. I finger the twists of the slim green stems, the velvety white petals. Children watched as their homes were destroyed, watched as workers retched and collapsed. Maybe some of them lost their own fathers. Yet they give me flowers in thanks. They humble me.

  An image: Elizabeth and me, picking dandelions and daisies, tiny bouquets for our mother in our little fists. “I forgive you,” she says. She holds out her bouquet to me, her other hand brushing aside her golden curls.

  “For the fight? For pushing you?”

  She smiles, shakes her head, her eyes matching the sky. I’m five years old, running along the riverbank, panting, knees bobbing up and down, gravel crunching under my wet shoes. Tall grasses whip me. I push, push through along the river. Up ahead, a dark form. It climbs out of the water. A baby bear. No. It crawls on hands and knees, dripping, its head sagging, lower. It collapses, flattens onto the shore. I run, closer now. Not a bear. A brown shirt. Dark hair. I reach him, throw myself onto him.

  It is my brother who survived.

  And I am glad it’s him.

  My sister’s gentle voice: “I forgive you.” She presses the blossoms into my hand. “Forgive yourself.”

  The daisy chain is soft and fresh and sweet when I press my nose into it.

  Forgiveness seeps into my healing heart.

  I toss the flower ring into the abyss.

  Afterword

  In my opinion, the point of historical fiction is to learn about an interesting time in a more entertaining manner than reading the unembellished truth. The very things that make a story come to life, such as the emotions and personal dialogue, are frequently undocumented and therefore have no place in nonfiction. The challenge for the author is to strike a balance between fact and fiction, sometimes bending the truth in order to better tell a story.

  In this story, I hoped to shed light on a time very different from the present, though its results are still very much in evidence. The Brooklyn Bridge is an icon, a symbol not only of New York City but a monument of American style and ingenuity known worldwide. Indeed, I rarely spend a day without seeing an image of it in the media.

  I hope the reader will view the Brooklyn Bridge with increased insight after reading The Engineer’s Wife and that the very real sacrifices of its builders will never be forgotten. Although the exact toll is unknown, of the more than six hundred workers, at least twenty lost their lives, and scores if not hundreds more suffered severe injuries.

  In addition, I wished to shed light on the astounding limitations faced by women of that era, the very long route of suffrage that finally enabled American women to vote nationally in 1920. Women’s fashions of the 1800s, which severely hampered their activities, always interested me, along with the consequences for those who challenged the norm.

  For the reader who wishes a bit of a guideline to which story elements are factual, I offer the following:

  The timeline of the main characters’ lives and bridge construction are mostly factual, with some exceptions. Emily’s mother, Phebe, died in late 1870. The incident of John and Washington on the trapped ferry, the impetus for John’s idea to build the bridge, reportedly happened in 1853, not 1848 as in the story.

  The timeline of the repair wo
rk, flooding, and concrete filling of the Brooklyn caisson, as well as other small details, have been altered to better suit the pace of narration. The deadly panic on the bridge actually occurred a week after the official opening, not before.

  The Cutty Sark was built in 1869, a bit too late for Washington and Emily to have seen it under construction. However, it is quite logical that they would have visited ships under construction in order to learn about building caissons. I chose the Cutty Sark because she visited New York City in the time frame in the story, she is a fabulous example of the shipbuilding techniques of the era, and because she is now stunningly showcased in a museum in Greenwich, England. One can also visit the nearby Royal Observatory.

  Washington and Emily initially lived on Hicks Street in Brooklyn before purchasing the home on Columbia Heights. John Roebling died in the Hicks Street home.

  The following characters are, although used fictitiously, based on actual persons and served in more or less the same capacity as in the story: Emily, Washington, John, John Roebling II, Phebe Warren, G. K. Warren, Abram Hewitt, Henry Ward Beecher, Edmond Farrington, C. C. Martin, William Kingsley, Charles Young, Amelia Bloomer, Alva Vanderbilt, and Henry Murphy.

  The good-night poem recited by Wash at his son’s bedside is “The Baby’s Star” by John Banister Tabb (1845–1909), a Confederate prisoner of war. It is of some personal significance to me as I found the poem in an old schoolbook, one of my late mother’s few possessions.

  There are several collections of Roebling letters, open to the public for research purposes, in various universities (Rutgers, Rensselaer Polytechnic, Princeton) and museums and collections (the Roebling Museum in New Jersey, the Brooklyn Historical Society). Letters in the novel are a combination of their actual writings, interpretations of such, and entirely imagined missives.

  The bridge collapse and train wreck on the River Dee are historical, although the characters and details are imagined.