by Joanne Dahme
Yet I wasn’t ready to give up the fight. I had been encouraging Mr. Trout and the City Council to prevent the city’s waste, which caused the contamination, from entering the river. If they could stop the pollution, if the city would enforce its sewer laws, there would be no need to pay for new facilities to remove it.Why didn’t this make sense to anyone, except for the fact that the work involved, and the pot of money required to pursue a more practical path, would be substantially less for the city’s many contractors.
The report validated my worst fears. I smelled the decay in the air, like the scent of imminent death. It reminded me of the bitter almond aroma that clung to old men and women ready for the grave. I shielded my eyes as I attempted to survey my facility with the unbiased opinion of a stranger. How will these buildings and gardens fare if you held no love or knowledge of them? I started with the Engine House, which was in need of stucco and a fresh coat of paint. Some lumber had been propped beneath the roof of the portico to shore up sections that were sagging and warped. Ever since the steam engines had been removed from the Engine House, it had served as a public saloon. An incongruous, “Ice Cream and Refreshments” sign was posted above its entrance. This building, among them all, surely should have been adequately funded.
I was doing my best to maintain the alluring beauty of this Federalist structure. What if the city’s citizens and visitors stopped coming here for drinks and refreshments by the river? I could not allow that to happen. My men were constantly making piecemeal repairs to the building after closing hours in a desperate effort to keep it presentable.
The Entrance Houses on the Mill House deck could benefit from a painting too, and one of the offices accusingly betrayed a broken window. Even the classical Pavilion, the site’s focal point, could stand to have a wooden column or two replaced. And the Watering Committee Building was badly in need of a new roof. I shook my head in disgust at the sum of the needs. It was against every one of my instincts to allow these buildings to creep toward neglect. I dared not review the condition of the machinery below.
For a moment, I was distracted by the sight of my two mechanics turning the wheel of the first sluice gate in the forebay, as a tangle of branches and logs floating on the surface of the river threatened to become lodged in the intake. George and Martin were skilled employees I was both fond and proud of. What will become of them if the Water Works closed? But they were young and would surely find work in the new filtration plants that would render this one a relic. They pay their “annual assessments” or bribes to the Republican Party, I thought bitterly.
I watched them struggle to heave a water-laden log up and over the balustrade. They both sported the popular walrus-style mustache and kept their hair, parted in the middle, meticulously oiled. They were wearing bib overalls over their trousers and shirts. I suddenly felt fiercely protective of them.
“Sean!” A familiar voice called my name, and I turned to see the three men approaching the arched bridge that stretched across the inlet of the forebay. I scowled, despite my best effort, at the sight of Mayor Warwick, Chief Trout, and that contractor, Patrick Dugan, sauntering along the bridge’s deck, turning their heads this way and that, examining the structure for blemishes. I cursed softly as Mr.Trout waved to me to meet them. I had been planning to replace a number of the balustrades on the bridge that were obviously decaying but hadn’t yet found the opportunity. I suppressed a wave of indignation as I watched Dugan scornfully kick at one.
How did I miss noting the arrival of the mayor’s carriage? It was a dangerous thing to be so lost in thought when on the job. Again I swore to myself. I hated to be caught off guard like this, unprepared. But unprepared for what? Whatever the meaning of their visit, it wasn’t a good sign that Dugan was with them.
The whistle of a river steamer shoving off from the dock just three hundred yards north of the dam and forebay bridge caused the three men to pause midspan. The mayor, never one to miss a public opportunity, turned to wave to the crowd of women and children who crushed against the railing of the upper deck of the steamer.The women, almost in unison, waved animatedly back, a collection of hands raised while their other hands held on to a multitude of hats. The children simply screeched and cheered. It was a good-sized crowd for the ferry for October. It was an Indian summer day, hot and steamy, and it was nearly lunchtime. The mothers probably planned to stop for refreshments at the boat house on their return.
I reached the steps and was ready to join the men on the bridge, when I stopped suddenly. Dugan had been grinning with easy contempt at the mayor’s enthusiasm. Mr.Trout was obviously doing his best not to notice, training his eyes on my mechanics as they gathered up the river debris that had been removed from the forebay’s waters and was now laying in a stinking pile on the deck. As soon as the mayor turned away from the steamer to face us again, Dugan’s grin disappeared. What gnawed at me the most, though, was that Dugan didn’t care if Mr.Trout or I noticed it.
Dugan was certainly a striking specimen of a man, I had to admit.Tall and lean and well built. His sleek dark, longish hair was flecked with silver, providing him with a dignity that was not in his character. Like me, he did not favor facial hair. His eyes were black to the best I could discern, for when one looked into them, only a reflection of the world bounced back. His face reminded me of the sinisterly handsome face of the Devil portrayed in Bible study tracts and religious propaganda. And of course, there was that infernal walking stick, an ever-present appendage to Dugan.
“Mr. Mayor, gentlemen.” I extended my hand toward them, attempting to dispel my foreboding. “This is certainly a surprise. I hope the occasion for this visit is a pleasant one.” I grimaced at the sight of my own greased hand pumping the mayor’s.
“Well Sean, why wouldn’t it be?” the mayor answered in a jovial voice, not seeming to notice. The mayor was a physically friendly man, his face expansive and warm and wearing a perpetual smile. He was in his early fifties, yet the only lines on his face were the creases around his eyes. His wispy brown hair, parted to the right, was stirring lightly in the October breeze. His full mustache sometimes twitched when he spoke. He was built like a laborer, thick muscled and broad-chested. He looked like many of the men who stopped in the local saloons on their way home from work. But it was his dress that set him apart. While acting in his “mayoral” capacity, he liked to wear his top hat, complemented by his spotless starched collar with full black tie. He favored the black wool cutaway coat, its one button revealing his vest and sparkling gold watch fob.
I didn’t trust him, although it certainly wasn’t for any personal reasons. He might dress like a dandy, but underneath the clothes, the mayor was as sharp as a tack. No detail was too small to file away in his mind for later use. Like all of the men in power, Warwick was a Republican, with obvious connections to the state boss, Senator Matthew Quay. It was common knowledge that Warwick won the mayoral primary largely as a result of a photo of his opponent caught coming out of a disreputable hotel.
Mr. Trout cleared his throat. He was younger than the mayor, somewhere in his forties, I knew, yet his expression was always pained and severe. His bird-like eyes were all the more piercing as they were set amid the shallows of a pale face surrounded by a full black beard, black hair, and high forehead.
“We were discussing the water report, Sean.” Mr. Trout always got right to the point. He hated pleasantries. “And the mayor thought it would be a good idea to come down to the Water Works and take a look at the site himself.”
“Of course. It’s the best way to get a full understanding of the conditions here, although,” I added quickly, “I think the report is somewhat premature in stating that there are no other options beyond filtration plants.”
“Oh please, Mr. Parker, surely you don’t believe that there is any other way of providing our good citizens with healthy water, hmm? You of all people should know better.” Patrick Dugan interrupted the conversation by inserting his body between us. He flashed me a mocking
smile loaded with white teeth.
I felt a flicker of panic. Dugan was in much better spirits than he was last week during a meeting with the mayor and representatives of the City Councils’ filtering committee, when I had made a case for stopping the pollution of the rivers.
“Well, Mr. Dugan. As you and I are both aware, we stand far apart on our opinions of what must be done to ensure that our citizens’ money is wisely spent,” I replied with as much restraint I could muster. Dugan answered only with the smile of a cat that has cornered his mouse. Sunlight flashed from the serpent head of his walking stick as he shifted position.
“Gentlemen,” Mayor Warwick interrupted, placing beefy, freckled hands on our backs. “I need to remind you both that, as yet, no decisions have been made as to the future of the Water Works.” He spoke soothingly. “I am still in the midst of reviewing the report, and even when I have finished with it, I must present my recommendations to the City Councils.”
“Isn’t that the report in your hand, Mr. Parker?” Dugan asked innocently, pointing to the grease-smeared, rolled-up document I held. I felt myself flush.
“Yes, it is, Mr. Dugan,” I answered evenly, careful not to let my personal feelings about the man color my tone. “Certainly it contains much good information, but I need to review it more thoroughly. I am still of the opinion that if we focus our resources on regulating the pollution sources from the city ...”
“We all know your opinion, Parker,” Dugan interrupted, this time more harshly, barely masking his contempt for what I thought, I was certain, of my futile attempt to save the site.
Mr.Trout was obviously uncomfortable with the line of our discourse in the presence of the mayor, who, at this point, was observing us thoughtfully. “Instead of belaboring our apparent differences of opinion as we stand rooted to this spot, lovely as it may be,” Mr.Trout added, throwing me a bone, “I think it makes much more sense for us to tour the facility, particularly to view its operating machinery, to provide the mayor with a background of the site. I trust that all is in good order, Sean?”
The mayor is always the perennial politician, I thought darkly. Now he took me by the arm, as Mr. Trout and Dugan fell in step behind us. “I am a bit more familiar with these lovely gardens, Sean, as I spent much time by the river as a boy.You and your men have done a good job maintaining its beauty,” the mayor added sympathetically, “although some of the buildings look as if they could stand some attention.”
“I agree, Mr. Mayor. We are doing our best with the funding we are provided,” I stated without apology. I suddenly didn’t care what light the statement threw on Mr. Trout’s management abilities.
I led them to the door of the South Gate House, which stood between the Pavilion and the Engine House. As they entered, I noticed Dugan’s glance at the Schuylkill Freed sculpture that sat on the ornamental roof of the entrance. I was surprised to see Dugan smile in recognition. I tried to push Dugan out of my thoughts. I needed to be my best today. I hoped that the men had completed the cleaning of the pump room beneath the Mill House deck. When I had left it this morning, tools and a valve bonnet littered the floor, as my men worked to repair a leaking pump valve. The others followed me down the stairway.
“Watch your step, gentlemen,” I warned as we reached the cement floor of the turbine room. I moved aside to allow the men to step through the arched opening, hoping that the mayor would feel the same awe that I automatically felt each time I entered this vast room. Although the area was directly below the deck, which supported the Entrance Houses and the grand Pavilion, its function was completely alien to the image the site gave to the world above.This room was nearly two hundred and forty feet long and a hundred feet wide. Its Spartan cement walls boasted a history of fading brown lines, which revealed a legacy of flooding. In a tempest, I liked to share with friendly guests; the river never hesitated to reclaim its own land. But I restrained myself on this point.Today, the sunlight funneled through the half-moon windows that faced the river and washed the room in a gentle, soft light.
I was sure that the machinery would strike the sensibilities of the mayor. Mr.Trout knew how the pumping systems worked, although he had never been impressed by them, or anything for that matter that didn’t further his position. Dugan was only interested in the demise of the Water Works. I realized that this moment hinged on the mayor’s appreciation of what took place here.
Six powerful turbines were embedded in the floor, each turbine supporting massive gears, which operated the pistons of the pumps.These turbines performed the miraculous work of providing the energy necessary for the pumps to move millions of gallons of water through piping suspended in the air over the forebay. The piping then snaked up the sixty foot hill, to empty the city’s precious commodity into one of five reservoirs. Despite my years at the Water Works, I never tired of watching the huge gears, which were twice the size of a man, turn and crank with a steady rhythm as they thrust the piston arms of the pump forward and back, forward and back, reliable and soothing as the ticking of a clock.
“Quite charming,” Dugan noted sarcastically, breaking the silence that always descended upon men watching machinery in motion. He was leaning jauntily on his stick, his hands folded on top of the serpent’s head. “But a bit outdated, are they not?”
I was not one to be bullied when it came to my turbines and pumps. “If you are asking me if there are more modern technologies available for supplying water today, then yes, you are right.” I looked Dugan right in the eye and turned my right shoulder toward him to block his entrance into the room. “As you are probably aware, steam power is employed to power the pumps in the newer pumping stations. However, these turbines are just as capable, and less costly to operate,” I added.
The mayor, led by Mr.Trout, walked around the machinery, placing his hands on gear wheels, tapping the sides of the large air compressors, searching for a clue to what activity took place inside the iron shells of the equipment.
He raised his voice to be heard over the constant hum of the turbines. “In simple terms, Sean, could you tell me how this turbine works?”
“Certainly, Mr. Mayor.” This was my passion, the inner workings of the marvelous machines. I never tired of explaining exactly what was going on beneath these floors. The persistent clanking of the gears, the whooshing of water pumped through the large pipes, sounding like monstrous heartbeats, were a comfort to my ears. I heard Mr. Trout sigh but paid him no mind. I tried to expel the thought that this was all but a show. Dugan simply stood alongside Trout now smiling indulgently.
I directed the mayor to one of the turbines, pointing to its iron casing, which housed the turbine’s runner. “As you may remember, sir, before the turbines were installed in the’50s, waterwheels were used to power the pumps.Well, these turbines act as waterwheels, which have been laid on their sides. Within this casing, a runner, or waterwheel if you will, is receiving the water flowing in through the forebay and using the force of the water to turn its vanes, creating the energy to move the gears.” I was aware that I spoke with animation, but I couldn’t stop myself.
The mayor smiled at me with what I took to be the same smile he would bestow on an energetic boy. “Quite remarkable,” he agreed amiably. “You say that the power supplied is enough to allow these pumps to move a massive volume of water, essentially forcing the water up the hill?”
“Yes, that’s it exactly. And the turbines are not difficult to maintain.They have served this facility well, and I’m sure will continue to do so.”
“Perhaps we should throw them a parade,” Dugan interjected sarcastically, one eyebrow raised, “like we do for the old war veterans.”
I just stared at the man, almost incredulous at his audacity. I never had met anyone as offensive and insinuating as Patrick Dugan.Yet this man kept the company of the mayor and other officials in Philadelphia. Of course, he had money, lots of it. Because of that, he was a part of this city’s intricate web of power.
Mayor Warwick did ap
pear ashamed of Dugan’s behavior for a moment. And from the look that Mr. Trout was giving Dugan, it was apparent that the chief couldn’t abide his company either.
“Mr. Dugan,” Mayor Warwick said in an admonishing tone. “Your jesting is entirely inappropriate. Mr. Parker has been kind enough to take some time from his schedule to provide us with this tour of the site—to enable all of us to gain more knowledge about the important issue of our city’s drinking water.” The mayor actually wagged a finger at Dugan. “I must insist that you give Mr. Parker, and this great site, the respect that they deserve.”
Dugan was unabashed. “Of course, your Honor.” He turned to me and placed his hand to his forehead in a salute, and said charmingly, “Do forgive me, Mr. Parker. I sometimes get carried away. Please continue.”
The mayor turned back to me. “One more thing I’d like you to clarify for me, Sean. Am I correct when I say that it’s not the turbines and their ability to pump enough water that is the source of contention in the report, but it’s the lack of filtering capabilities at the Water Works?”
I wasn’t surprised that the mayor had gotten to the heart of the matter. He had known that filtration was the issue long before he had walked on to the site.
“Yes, that is correct, sir. And that is why I have been arguing the case for pollution prevention as a means to avoid costly filtration.” I hoped I didn’t emphasize costly with too much passion. “It’s simply a matter of changing the behavior of our citizens. Filtration cannot guarantee good water. Only preventing the pollution from entering the river can.”
Again, the mayor smiled, this time in deep sympathy.
It was then that Mr.Trout spoke up. “Mr. Mayor, you said that you also wished to view the reservoirs. Are you ready?” The chief obviously could not wait until the tour was over.
“Yes. I hope you don’t mind Sean that we inconvenience you a little more?” the mayor asked solicitously. Then, turning to the turbines he added, “And I agree. These truly are marvelous inventions.”