Manhattan

by Michael Grant

  As she was washing the dirt and mud off him, he came to and grimaced in pain. “My shoulder… oh, my God …” he mumbled. “My elbows … I can’t stand the pain ...” Then he lapsed into merciful unconsciousness again.

  One by one Eleanor, Peter, and Claire slipped into the room.

  “Is he going to get well?” Eleanor asked.

  “We hope so,” Emily said.

  Peter looked at him with eyes wide with wonder. “He was working down in the caisson, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “And now he has the caisson disease. You were right, Da. That must be a terrible place.”

  “It is, Peter. It is.”

  After the children went to bed, Emily continued to sit with Dermot. Michael came into the bedroom. “Emily, I’ll stay with him. You get some sleep.”

  “No, I’m all right,” she said, wiping blood that was trickling from Dermot’s nose.

  Michael sat down on the edge of the bed. “Then I’ll stay with you.”

  “No. Go to bed. You need your sleep. You have to go to work tomorrow.”

  “I’m not going to work. Flynn can handle it.”

  They sat there in silence, Michael on the bed, Emily in a chair, dozing on and off for several hours. Around three in the morning, Dermot curled up in a fetal position and began to moan.

  Emily jumped up. “Dermot, are you all right? Can I get you something?”

  Suddenly, without warning, he vomited. As Michael tore the soiled sheets away, Emily went to get clean ones. When she came back, she wiped away the vomit from his face. “Dermot, can you hear me?”

  He remained in a tightly curled fetal position, giving no sign that he heard her.

  “Should we send for the doctor, Michael?”

  “What could he do? The doctor who examined Dermot at his boardinghouse said he didn’t even know what causes this. He advised bed rest and plenty of fluids.” Michael looked closely at his son. “He seems to be sleeping. There’s nothing we can do but keep vigil.”

  It was dawn and the sun was just beginning to penetrate the tightly drawn curtains. Suddenly, Dermot began to shake uncontrollably and his body jerked with muscle spasms. The motion of his body grew more and more violent. His nose started to bleed again. Then he started to foam at the mouth.

  Emily cried out, “Oh, my God … I think he’s having a seizure. What should we do?”

  Michael tried to hold Dermot down, but the violent jerking of his body made it impossible. Suddenly, the motion stopped as quickly as it had begun and he appeared to be sleeping again.

  Exhausted, Michael and Emily sat down to resume their vigil and occasionally dozed off. It was almost six when Dermot suddenly cried out. He was silent for a moment, then there was a slight gurgle in his throat and he became completely still.

  Michael and Emily froze. Then, hesitantly, Michael got up and put his ear to Dermot’s chest. He pulled himself up to his full height and began to sob. “He’s dead, Emily,” he said, his voice choking with emotion. “Our son is dead.”

  Emily tried to sit down, but the room was spinning. Then everything went black.

  “Caisson disease” or, as it was also called, “the ‘bends,” was not a well-understood phenomenon in 1872. It would be thirty-five years before the etiology of decompression sickness would be fully understood.

  Dermot didn’t die because he worked down in the caisson. He died because he, and all the other workers who got sick, ascended too quickly. Scientists now know that when a body descends to depths of more than sixty feet and breathes compressed air, nitrogen bubbles begin to form in the blood steam. A slow, controlled ascent allows the nitrogen bubbles to dissolve. A quick return to the surface doesn’t give the nitrogen time to dissolve and the bubbles usually migrate to the large joints of the body, which can cause excruciating pain in the joints, and sometimes, as in Dermot’s case, death.

  Roebling hired a doctor to investigate the cause of caisson disease. He never did find the cause, but he stumbled on a possible solution. He recommended that the men take five minutes to ascend the caisson. Unfortunately, his recommendation was far short of the twenty minutes that was actually necessary.

  Before the Brooklyn Bridge would be completed one hundred and ten men would be afflicted by caisson disease. Three, in addition to Dermot, would die.

  On a frigid January morning, Dermot Ranahan was laid to rest in the cemetery of St. Mark’s Church-In-The-Bowery, the same churchyard where Cully was interred. As a dull winter sun struggled to break through gray-metal clouds scudding across the wintery sky, the Ranahan family, Flynn, Henrietta, Gaylord, Letta, and Otto gathered around the open grave.

  Michael saw a young man standing off to the side whom he recognized as Dermot’s roommate. “Son,” he called out. “Please stand here with us.”

  “I don’t want to intrude, sir.”

  “No, please.” He shook the young man’s hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name when last we met.”

  “It’s Liam, sir.”

  “Emily, Liam was Dermot’s roommate.”

  Emily shook the young man’s hand. “Did you know my son well?”

  “Only a couple of months, ma’am.”

  “Thank you for coming.”

  A corpulent priest, tightly wrapped in his black frock coat to ward off the cold, began to intone the prayers for the dead. From time to time he glanced at a piece of paper tucked in his missal whenever he had the need to refer to Dermot by name. Concluding the ritual, he said, “Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.”

  He shut his missal with great finality, grateful that he would soon be out of this biting cold. “And that concludes our service.”

  Claire spoke up in a soft voice. Holding up a book of poems, she said, “Would it be all right if I read a poem?”

  The priest glared at her. “It’s highly irregular young lady for—”

  “Claire,” Emily said, interrupting the priest, “we would love to hear your poem.”

  In a soft, but clear voice, she said, “This is a poem by Christina Rossetti, one of my favorite poets.” She cleared her throat and read:

  Remember me when no more day by day

  You tell me of our future that you planned:

  Only remember me; you understand

  It will be late to counsel then or pray.

  Yet if you should forget me for a while

  And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

  For if the darkness and corruption leave

  A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

  Better by far you should forget and smile

  Than that you should remember and be sad.

  With tears streaming down her cheeks, Emily embraced her daughter. “Claire, that was a beautiful poem. Thank you.”

  That night as Emily and Michael were getting ready for bed, Emily said, “That Liam is a nice young man. It comforts me to know that in the end Dermot had at least one real friend.”

  Michael buried his face in his wife’s hair. “Will we ever understand what happened to him?”

  “I don’t know, Michael. I don’t know.”

  As they got into bed, Michael blew out the candle. “Well, at least he’s in peace now. That’s comforting.”

  Emily turned toward the wall to prepare for a long sleepless night. “Yes, it is.”

  For the next three days, Michael, unable or unwilling to go back to work, stayed home, sunk in a deep depression. Emily empathized with his grief for she, too, was grieving, but on the fourth day she decided it was no good for him to continue wallowing in sorrow and self-pity.

  When he came down to breakfast, as she poured him a cup of coffee, she said casually, “When do you plan to go back to work?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You have a hundred and fifty men working there.”

  “Flynn can handle it.”

 
; “I don’t think he can. Every day there are major decisions that have to be made. It’s not fair to put that burden on him.”

  Michael looked up at her with bloodshot eyes. “Emily, I don’t think I can ever go back there.”

  “Why?”

  “That bridge killed our son. I never want to see it again.”

  Emily sat down and took her husband’s hands in hers. “It was a terrible accident, Michael, but you can’t blame the bridge.”

  “Well, I do. I’m thinking of pulling out of my contract with the Brooklyn Bridge Company.”

  “Michael, you can’t do that. You’ll put a hundred and fifty men out of work.”

  Angry at her unreasonable nagging, he bolted from the table and stomped up the stairs to their bedroom and threw himself on the bed. Why couldn’t she understand? he asked himself. His eldest son, the one he thought would come into the business, was dead. If it hadn’t been for that goddamn bridge he would still be alive. There was no way he could go back to that cursed bridge. But after a while he calmed down and slowly began to realize she was right. In his grief, he’d forgotten his responsibility to his men and to his company. These people depended on him. How could he have been so selfish as to even consider pulling out of his contract?

  He came back downstairs. Emily was at the kitchen table drinking coffee and staring out the window.

  He came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “You’re right,” he said, softly. “I have to go back. I’m sorry I put you through all this.”

  She stood up and embraced him. “I know how you feel. He was my son, too. But life must go on. We must go on.”

  The next morning Michael went back to work and Flynn was very glad to see his boss. “There’s been trouble afoot,” he whispered.

  “What is it?”

  “Since Dermot died, the men working in the caisson have been grumbling about the terrible conditions down there. They went on strike demanding to be paid three dollars for a four-hour stint.”

  “Did Kingsley give it to them?”

  “He did not. He threated to sack the lot and the strike collapsed.”

  Chapter Forty

  On a balmy morning in May, Assistant Engineer George McNulty called a meeting of the contractors. As they gathered in front of the construction shed, Michael came along side Angus Roy. “What’s this about?”

  “I dunno, laddie. Maybe there’s another strike in the offing.”

  McNulty stepped out of the shed and raised his hands for quiet.

  “Gentlemen, I have an announcement to make. Mr. Roebling has decided to halt further digging in the caisson.”

  A murmur of disbelief rippled through the assembled men. “Have we hit bedrock?” a contractor asked.

  “No, but Mr. Roebling has decided that the sand it is resting on will be sufficient.”

  Michael spoke up. “Mr. McNulty, are you saying Mr. Roebling is willing to risk piling tons and tons of granite on this foundation?”

  “He is.”

  “What if the caisson continues to sink? The bridge will come down.”

  “And your name, sir?”

  “Michael Ranahan.”

  “Are you an engineer, Mr. Ranahan?”

  Michael reddened. “No, I am not.”

  “Then I suggest you let the engineers concern themselves with the integrity of the bridge. Thank you, gentlemen.”

  Later, Michael met Gaylord, who had just come from interviewing George McNulty, in a saloon on Water Street.

  They took their beers to a table in the back away from the noisy bar.

  “Why did they stop digging?” Michael asked.

  “The Brooklyn caisson hit bedrock at forty-four feet, but the New York caisson is at seventy-eight feet and still has not hit bedrock. Mr. Roebling was becoming more and more concerned with the increased cases of caisson disease, so he made a decision that the New York caisson, which is sitting on sand, was safe right where it was.”

  “My God, what if he’s wrong?”

  Gaylord drained his mug. “Only time will tell.”

  As the work continued in a steady pace, the bridge began to take shape. The Brooklyn anchorage was started in February 1873, the New York anchorage in May 1875. The Brooklyn tower was completed June 1875. And so, it went.

  On a Friday morning in August of 1876, Michael made sure he got to work early so he could witness the spectacle. The press had been notified in advance that one E. F. Farrington, master mechanic, was going to ride a cable spanning the Brooklyn and New York towers. He would be the first man to use the bridge to cross the East River from Brooklyn to Manhattan.

  Although the purpose of the trip was to demonstrate to New Yorkers that the cables that spanned the East River were safe, thousands of curious spectators crowding docks and ferry boats had come to watch. Scores of ships of every description anchored in the East River to observe this unprecedented event.

  At one in the afternoon, a boatswain’s chair was attached to the traveler at the Brooklyn anchorage and the fifty-year-old Farrington climbed into it. The boatswain chair, pulled by an engine, set off on its journey as cannons fired and whistles blew from ships below. A surprised Farrington, who hadn’t expected a crowd to witness his journey, waved his hat to the throng below. The journey from the Brooklyn side to the New York side took twenty-two minutes.

  When Farrington came down, he was mobbed by bridge workers who congratulated him and slapped him on the back. Bottles of whiskey were surreptitiously passed around. And then it was back to work for everyone.

  Michael and Emily were having lunch at home on a crisp afternoon in March of 1877. As they were finishing, Peter came home.

  “What are you doing here?” Michael asked. “Don’t you have classes?”

  “Something’s come up that’s more important.”

  “What’s more important than school?” Emily asked.

  “I am going to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge today,” he announced proudly.

  “You mean on that footbridge that was put in place for the use of the bridge workers?” Michael asked.

  “The same.”

  Emily was shocked. “You can’t do that, Peter, it’s too dangerous.”

  “Ma, the bridge workers use it every day.”

  Emily looked at her husband for support, but he merely shrugged. “He’s right. Workers cross that footbridge every day.”

  “But Peter is not a worker,” she pointed out emphatically. “That footbridge sounds dangerous and our son should not be risking his life for… for… Why do you want to cross the bridge?”

  “I’m going to write an article for my college newspaper.”

  “You need special permission to walk that bridge,” Michael said. “How did you get it?”

  Peter grinned. “Uncle Gaylord.”

  Emily shook her head. “I might have known. Is he going with you?”

  “No, he’s afraid of heights.”

  “And depths,” Michael added.

  “Do you want to come, Da?”

  “Absolutely not,” Emily said. “Your father is too old to be doing anything that reckless.”

  “Emily, I’m only fifty-six. I think I can still walk across a bridge.”

  “Well, not this one and that’s final.”

  At two that afternoon, Michael and Peter reported to the construction shed on the Brooklyn side of the bridge.

  A rail-thin man of indeterminate age with several missing teeth greeted them. “What can I do for you, Mr. Ranahan?”

  “My son is here to walk the bridge, Barry.”

  “Does he have a letter of permission?”

  Peter showed him the letter.

  “So, you want to cross the bridge?” he asked, stating the obvious.

  “I do.”

  “And are you going along, Mr. Ranahan””

  “I am. I’ve been watching men crossing that bridge and I think it’s high time I got a look at the view from up there.”

  “All right. Come with
me.”

  He led Michael and Peter up a long ladder to a platform almost at the peak of the tower.

  Michael looked around. “My God,” he exclaimed. “I thought the view from the Croton Reservoir was spectacular, but this is even better. Look, Peter you can see New Jersey, and there’s Harlem all the way north.”

  But Peter wasn’t interested in the sights. He was staring wide-eyed at the flimsy footbridge made of rope and wooden planks. To his consternation, he saw that the walkway was swaying in the stiff breeze. He looked down at the swirling waters of the East River and gulped. “How high are we?’

  “More than two hundred and fifty feet above the water,” Barry said.

  “Is this bridge safe?”

  Barry scratched his chin. “Well, it hasn’t fallen down yet.”

  Michael saw the look of terror in his son’s eyes. “Peter, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

  “There’s no shame in that,” Barry added. “Lots of folks come up here, take one look at that bridge and turn around and come right back down.”

  “No. I came here to cross the bridge and by God, I will.”

  “A word of caution,” Barry said. “Don’t walk in lock-step like soldiers. If you do, you’ll make that bridge really start to swing and it won’t be pleasant.”

  “Barry, what do we do when we get to the other side?” Michael asked.

  “There’s a ladder you can climb down or you can turn around and come back. It’s up to youse.”

  Michael went first, followed by his son. By the time they got to the center of the bridge, the view was even more spectacular. Michael pointed. “Look, there’s Governor’s Island, and there’s Fort Hamilton, and there’s the Navy Yard.”

  Peter had a white-knuckle grip on the rope railings. “Yeah, it’s great. Can we keep moving?”

  When they got to the other side, Peter grinned for the first time since he’d set foot on the bridge, grateful that he hadn’t plunged two hundred and fifty feet to his death. “Wow, that was great.”