Niagara Falls, New York
1869
Despite the years of planning and great need for the bridge, there were naysayers. The East River was one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world; the bridge would need to be higher and longer than any other. Even so, there were sailing ships that would not fit under the planned bridge. The New York Council of Reform predicted the bridge would seriously damage commerce in the harbor, tax the financial abilities of the two cities, and be taken down by action of the courts, or demolished by the wind.
In order to raise funds and improve public relations, Papa arranged a series of meetings, then a two-month tour of his existing bridges for the rich and powerful. He included a core group of consultants: engineers, local political leaders, and the powerful contractor William Kingsley. Excluded was William M. “Boss” Tweed and many of his Tammany Hall cronies. Papa didn’t want the negative publicity the corrupt politician would surely bring. Even so, Tweed bribed his way into holdings of private stock in the New York and Brooklyn Bridge Company after state officials received his financial incentives to approve the project. The state charter gave control of the project to the stockholders and therefore they became most of the bridge committee.
The final stop on the tour was Papa’s crowning achievement: a double-decked suspension bridge spanning the swift and dangerous Niagara River. Papa was eager for me to meet the committee there. “You’ll charm the last dollar out of those turnips,” he said.
Wash had been on the site tour for the past two months, and I longed to see him, so after leaving Johnny with Millie, I headed north. On the train to Buffalo, I paced the aisle in anticipation. The prospect of visiting the falls both thrilled and terrified me. They were magnificent in pictures, but I wasn’t sure how I would react to the swiftness of the river or the roar of the falls. Panicking in front of so many people would be humiliating and certainly not helpful to Papa and Wash’s cause. I slowed my pace and hugged my elbows to me, forcing my mind to calm, imagining the security of Wash’s arms around me.
I changed trains in Buffalo, and Farrington met me at the station in Niagara Falls, then brought me by carriage to the bridge. As we stepped from the carriage, it seemed we were late. A dozen men held stovepipe hats to their heads as their overcoats whipped in the bitter wind. They gathered on the lower deck, high above the churning river, the falls thundering a short distance downriver. The sound assaulting my ears, the terrific height, and the sight of rushing water made me freeze in fright. Wash’s broad smile erased my fears only enough to keep me from bolting.
“Gentlemen, please avail yourselves of the view, and take a moment to meet my lovely wife, Emily.”
Some craned their necks at the train tracks above them while others peered into the great rapids below. A horse and buggy rushed by, and one of the men cleaved to the railing, his knuckles as white as the snow on the distant trees. Farrington and I traded a look. The deck rumbled, doing little to ease my jittery nerves. I approached the man, hoping to ease his discomfort while distracting myself from my own. Farrington introduced me.
“Benjamin Stone,” the man said in a clipped English accent, tipping his hat. He was dressed in a natty three-piece suit, the chain of his pocket watch stretched across his broad belly. “Railroad engineer and consultant.”
“Shall we move closer?” My hand guided him away from the edge. “It seems they are about to speak.”
Papa and Wash gathered the investors with much hand shaking and shoulder slapping.
“This is a fiasco.” Mr. Stone mopped his brow.
I blinked my surprise. “Pardon?”
Another large man waved his arms for attention, positioning himself front and center. Stone nodded in his direction. “That’s William Kingsley, a building contractor. We can count on him to raise our concerns.”
“Oh?”
Stone gave me an impatient glare. “It’s his men who would be put at risk during the construction.” His face softened. “Pardon me. I shouldn’t expect a lady to be knowledgeable of such things.”
Kingsley raised his voice, battling to be heard over the raging falls. “How can you compare this structure, a mere eight hundred feet long and secured between two solid rock cliffs, to a bridge spanning a much greater divide with no such support?”
Stone eyed the trusses supporting the railroad level above, a cold sweat collecting on his face even as I shivered.
“Did you work on this?” I asked, nodding toward the tracks above.
“Heavens, no. A foolhardy thing, and I predict a calamitous end to the practice of running trains over bridges.”
“I understand that plan was scuttled for the East River Bridge.”
“It took some persuading, but we prevailed on that one.” Stone lowered his voice, ensuring his words were out of earshot of others. “There are some powerful influences scheming to reintroduce the trains. We must remain vigilant.”
He spoke as if he’d quite forgotten who I was. He gazed into the churning waters below, his face frozen in horror.
My gut clenched in empathy. I wanted to guide him away.
“Eight hundred feet or eight thousand, what is the difference?” Papa waved dismissively. “I consider what a bridge must hold, then design it six times stronger than necessary.”
The crowd turned toward the sound of a train whistling in the distance. Wash showed Papa his pocket watch and nodded toward the ties and tracks above.
C. C. Martin, Papa’s second assistant engineer, approached. Tall and lanky, his elbows and knees seemed sharp enough to poke holes through his drooping suit. A dark, scraggly beard did little to improve his image. “Watch this, Mr. Stone.” Martin pointed at the train tracks above. “A railroad expert like you will appreciate it.”
But Stone held his top hat aloft as he elbowed his way to the front of the assembled crowd. “A bridge over the Ohio River recently collapsed in high winds. I suspect that engineer thought his bridge six times stronger than necessary as well.”
The group shifted uneasily, shouting, “Hear, hear.”
“It is we who will carry the guilt for any who perish on your bridge,” Stone shouted above the grumbling of the men, the roaring of the falls, and the approaching engine. “Four workers perished in Wheeling. How are you going to prevent such tragedies on a much larger project?”
“Faulty design caused the failure of the Wheeling bridge—”
A train thundered above us, shaking timbers and sending a hail of dirt and gravel upon us.
Cheers went up, but Stone’s eyes grew wide with terror as he held his arms and hands protectively over his head. He staggered from the crowd, crying, “No, no.” The squeal of brakes covered his cries of anguish.
Stone stood apart from the group, quivering and gulping, pointing to Papa and Wash, who wore broad smiles. He set his jaw and puffed out his chest, and fire replaced the fear in his eyes. “You seem to think this some sort of joke.” The group quieted as Stone’s voice rang out. “What do you know of the perils of locomotives? Have you factored in the tremendous forces of weight, the dynamics of motion, the power of nature?”
“Gentlemen.” Papa’s calm demeanor was a contrast to the shuddering bridge, the clatter of the exiting train, and the strident words of Stone. “The East River Bridge is a necessity. It has been studied, planned, and argued about for decades.” He flicked dirt from his lapel. “We must not be paralyzed by fear. Risks must be taken for progress to occur.”
Wash stepped forward, his golden hair and beard in contrast to his black hat and coat, his eyes capturing the attention of all. It seemed even the falls hushed as his voice rang with passion. “We have toured my father’s bridges, from strong and utilitarian like this one, to soaring works of art as we saw in Pittsburgh. Never have his designs failed, even with steam locomotives crossing a chasm as great as this. We have studied in Europe and refined what we learned there. We have no doubt of our facility. None. Gentlemen, the time is upon us. If we do not undertake building the East River Bridge, someone else will—perhaps with disastrous results.” He scanned his audience. “And in that circumstance, we might indeed find ourselves culpable.”
The committee cheered, perhaps because the train had faded into the distance. Farrington sidled up to Martin and me. “Don’t worry. We’ll prevail. The men know Stone’s a bit—as they say in England—bonkers.”
I suspected something personal caused Stone’s trepidation. Fear had its reasons, and I could empathize with Stone. Rivers made me bonkers as well.