Manhattan

by Michael Grant

  Michael patted his son on the back, knowing it took all his courage to cross the bridge. “Well done, son. Shall we go down the ladder?”

  “No. I want to walk it again.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am.”

  Michael nodded. “After you.”

  Peter wrote his first-person account of crossing the Brooklyn Bridge to great acclaim from his fellow journalist students at the college. Gaylord also had the article reprinted in the Tribune.

  Chapter Forty-One

  1883

  It had taken twelve years to finish the Brooklyn Bridge, which was twice as long as expected and at a cost of 15 million dollars, which was twice the original cost projections. But it was finally done and today was its grand opening.

  Michael and Emily were at the kitchen table having coffee and reading their newspapers when Peter came rushing in and poured himself a cup. At twenty-eight he looked even more like his father, although Michael could never see the resemblance. After graduating from college he’d gone back to the New York Tribune as a reporter.

  “Are you two going to the opening of the bridge?”

  “No,” Michael said a little too quickly.

  If Peter noticed the almost angry tone in his father’s voice he didn’t let on. “Why not? It’ll be the event of the century. Do you know the bridge’s roadway is eighty feet wide? Why, that’s as spacious as Broadway itself.”

  “I know, Peter. I worked on the bridge for twelve years, but I’ve seen enough of it.”

  Peter gulped down his coffee. “Well, I’m off. I’m covering the opening for the Tribune. Uncle Gaylord says I’m to write the lead story.”

  “That’s wonderful, Peter,” Emily said. “I’ll be sure to read your story tomorrow.”

  “You two really should go. They’re going to set off fourteen tons of fireworks. That’s going to be spectacular.”

  “I’m sure it will be.” By force of habit, Emily inspected her son to make sure his shoes were shined and his tie was on straight. “You’d better be on your way. I hear very large crowds are expected.”

  “That’s what they say.”

  As he was going out, Peter almost collided with Eleanor, who was coming into the kitchen.

  “What’s his big hurry?”

  Michael chuckled. “He’s on his way to the Brooklyn Bridge. He’s going to write the lead story.”

  “He’s doing very well at the newspaper, isn’t he?”

  “He is,” Emily agreed. “Gaylord says he’s a natural.”

  “How does Uncle Gaylord feel about being promoted to editor?”

  Michael grunted. “He doesn’t like it. He hates being cooped up in an office.”

  “Well, he is getting a little old to be chasing stories all over town.”

  “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “Are you going to the bridge opening?” Emily asked.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I feel like I built that bridge.”

  “That’s close to the truth,” Michael agreed. “You made me take you there so many times I should have put you on the payroll.”

  “You still can, Father,” she said with an impish grin.

  Michael shook his head. “How many times have I told you, Eleanor, construction is no business for a woman?”

  “Father, I don’t want to be a laborer hauling bricks up a ladder. The whole construction trade is getting more and more scientific. The days are gone when you could just load a wagon with bricks and go build a house.”

  Michael had to agree with her. Architects were using so many different types of materials to build that it was getting difficult to keep track of everything needed to construct a modern building.

  “When is that architectural firm you’re working for going to allow you to design a building?” Emily asked.

  “Not soon enough, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “My biggest problem seems to be that I’m a woman.”

  Michael frowned. “That doesn’t seem right.”

  “It isn’t. I guess I’m going to have to work a little bit harder than the boys.”

  “Is David going to the bridge opening with you?” Emily asked.

  Eleanor blushed. “Yes, he is, if you must know.”

  “When is that fellow going to ask you to marry him?”

  “Father, really.”

  “What? He’s been courting you for almost two years now.”

  “I’m not in a rush to get married.”

  Michael was taken aback. “You’re not getting any younger you know. Don’t you want to have children?”

  “I’m only twenty-nine for goodness sake. All in good time. Right now, I want to concentrate on my career.”

  Michael studied her. “Career? Women don’t have careers.”

  Emily patted her husband’s hand. “Michael, you are so old fashioned.”

  “No, I’m not, it’s just that—”

  Eleanor gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You are old fashioned, Father, but I love you anyway. Bye, I’ve gotta run.”

  Emily sighed. “Well, it looks like all our children are off to see the opening of the Brooklyn Bridge.”

  “Where’s Claire?”

  “She left hours ago.”

  “Why so early?”

  “She said she wants to write a poem about the bridge as the sun is coming up.”

  “She’s really serious about this poetry business, isn’t she?”

  “She is, and she’s written some beautiful poems. Some have been published in literary magazines.”

  “I know.” Michael shook his head in amazement. “Imagine, a daughter of mine writing poetry.”

  “At least she’s not pestering you to work in the construction business.”

  “I guess I should be grateful for that.”

  Emily poured them another cup of coffee. “Why don’t we go to the opening?” she said casually.

  Michael put the newspaper down. “Emily, you know how I feel about that goddamned bridge.”

  “I do, but you’re being irrational.”

  “Oh, so now I am not only old fashioned, I’m irrational as well.”

  Emily took both of his hands. “Michael, the bridge didn’t kill Dermot.”

  Tears welled up in his eyes. “If only he hadn’t gone down into the caisson—”

  “That was his choice. There’s not a day goes by that I don’t think about him and how things might have been, if only he’d made better choices. But they were his choices. And remember, Dermot wasn’t the only one to die constructing the bridge. John Roebling died even before construction began and his son was paralyzed by the caisson disease. I read somewhere that twenty-seven men lost their lives during the construction of the bridge.

  “Michael, you should be proud of the work you did there. It’s truly a wonder of the modern world. No one has ever built a bridge like the Brooklyn Bridge.”

  Michael sadly shook his head. “Roebling stopped the caisson digging in May. Dermot died in January. Five months. If only Roebling had made that decision before Dermot …” His voice trailed off.

  “Michael, did you ever consider that Dermot’s death might be the reason Mr. Roebling made that decision? If that’s true, Dermot didn’t die in vain. Through his death he may have avoided countless future deaths.”

  Michael went to the sink and rinsed out his cup. Looking out the kitchen window, he watched two squirrels chasing each other. Then, after a long silence, he said, “All right, we’ll go.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Should we invite Henrietta to come along?”

  “I think not. Her arthritis has slowed her down and I don’t think she would do well in the crowds the newspapers are predicting.”

  “All right, then it’s just you and me.”

  It was a crystal-clear day with not a cloud in sight. The Tribune had reported that South Street would be the best
vantage point for viewing the festivities. Seemingly, everyone in New York City had taken that advice. Emily and Michael shuffled along with the excited crowds of men, women, and children slowly streaming toward South Street.

  Hundreds of vendors energetically hawked their wares. Pictures and commemorative medals could be had for ten cents. Sheet music extolling the bridge cost twenty-five cents. American flags of all sizes and shapes were on sale for prices ranging from ten cents to five dollars. Every grog shop along South Street was bursting with thirsty customers. A large banner across the front window of one saloon proclaimed: Babylon had her hanging garden, Egypt her pyramids, Athens her Acropolis, Rome her Athenaeum; so Brooklyn has her Bridge.

  The waters of the East River were a dazzling cerulean blue. Ferries and lighters and other small craft made way around a virtual armada of ships. Everything from frigates to schooners to steamships were anchored in an area that extended from the bay to several miles upriver beyond the bridge. Every ship with a mast flew colorful flags and streamers, adding to the festive atmosphere.

  Just before noon, as guns boomed at Fort Hamilton and the Navy Yard, the Atlantic Squadron, with the flagship USS Tennessee in the vanguard, came steaming up from the bay and into the river below the bridge.

  Emily Roebling was given the honor of taking the first ride over the bridge with a rooster—a symbol of victory—in her lap. Next came President Chester A. Arthur and New York Governor Grover Cleveland. As they walked toward the center of the bridge, a flag signal was sent to the fleet below. Instantly, there was the boom from a gun on the Tennessee. Then the whole fleet commenced firing. Steam whistles on every tug, steamboat, ferry, and every factory along the river, began to scream. Bells rang and Emily and Michael, along with the crushing throng, began cheering wildly.

  They didn’t stay for the fireworks display, but it took some time to get free of the crowds and they didn’t get home until after six. While Emily kicked her shoes off in the parlor, Michael disappeared into the kitchen. A minute later he came into the parlor carrying a bucket of champagne and two champagne glasses.

  “My, my, what’s the occasion?” Emily asked.

  “Why, the opening of the bridge.”

  “The way you feel about the bridge, I didn’t think—”

  He popped the champagne cork. “I never wanted to see the bridge again, but it is something to celebrate. You said this morning that I should be proud of the work that I did there. Well, I am proud, Emily. Something magnificent has been done here and I’m glad I was a part of it.”

  He raised his glass. “To the genius of John and Washington Roebling.”

  “And don’t forget Emily Roebling,” Emily reminded her husband. “She took over his duties after he was no longer able to get to the construction site himself.”

  Michael nodded. “Duly noted. To Emily Roebling.”

  Michael sat down next to his wife. “Are you happy?”

  Emily looked at him. “Do you mean happy about today?”

  “No. With your life. Our life.”

  She kissed him. “I couldn’t be happier. You?”

  “I am, but I’ve always thought that somehow I’d let you down.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Look where you came from and look where I took you.”

  “Michael, I thought that silly notion was out of your head by now. I told you before, Ireland and that life—my life—was a long time ago. I’m happy with the life you and I have forged here in the New World.”

  He smiled. “I remember the first time I saw you in your father’s carriage when you came back to Ballyross. I thought you were the most beautiful girl in the world. I still do.”

  “Thank you, kind sir.”

  “When you passed by that day you looked right through me. It broke my heart.”

  “Nonsense. I was looking directly at you.”

  “You were?”

  “I thought you were a most handsome young man.”

  “But you never let on.”

  “I’m afraid I was quite full of myself back in those days.”

  “It seems like such a long time ago.”

  “Thirty years.”

  Michael poured more champagne. “Remember our first night in New York?”

  “The Five Points? Who could forget?”

  Michael sat back and put his feet up on the hassock. “All in all, we’ve had a good life, haven’t we?”

  “We have. Despite being treated like a mere ‘woman,’ Eleanor really enjoys her work. She’ll get her chance. Peter has found his calling as a newspaperman. Who knows, perhaps one day he’ll own his own newspaper.”

  “And how is Claire doing at your school?”

  “I’m thinking of letting her take over for me.”

  “What brought that on?”

  “Well, I am getting on in years.”

  “You’re only fifty-seven.”

  “The school is busier than ever. I have over a hundred girls now with four teachers, including Claire, who’s been doing a wonderful job. I’d like her to take over for me. What about you? Any thought of retiring?”

  “On bad days, I think about it. Ranahan Construction has over a hundred and fifty men. We’re working on several projects at the same time. I’ve been thinking about what Eleanor said this morning. The construction business has gotten more complicated since I first went to work for Cully. I’m sixty-two now. Maybe it’s time to slow down.”

  “Anybody in mind to take your place?”

  “Actually, I’m thinking of Eleanor.”

  “Really? What about women in construction?”

  “She made a good point this morning. I don’t need another laborer to haul bricks, but I could use someone with a sharp eye for detail, someone with good administrative abilities. I still remember that time I took her to the Eldridge Mansion worksite and she pointed out how a carpenter was wasting time. She was only fifteen at the time. Eleanor could do the job, but, as you said, she really likes what she’s doing.”

  “Michael, she would drop that job in a heartbeat to go to work with you.”

  He nodded. “She’s practically an architect. Maybe someday, Ranahan Construction will design and build its own buildings instead of other peoples’.”

  “That’s a nice thought.”

  Michael was silent for a moment, then he said, “Do you really think I’m old fashioned?”

  She ruffled his hair that now has streaks of gray. “Maybe a little bit.”

  “Maybe I am.” He stared off into the middle distance for a long time. Then, he said, “Ranahan and Daughter Construction Company. It has a nice ring to it, wouldn’t you say?”

  Emily kissed him. “It does have a nice ring to it.”

  #

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Michael Grant lives in Knoxville TN with his wife, Elizabeth, and their golden retriever, Beau. He can be reached at mggrant08@gmail.com, and at his webpage at: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/mggrant