Manhattan
Papa’s tour was a great success in gaining approval and seed money, but the work of fund-raising largely remained. Shortly after returning from Niagara, I pleaded the case with other possible benefactors. The first visit was to Phineas Barnum’s American Museum (featuring Giants! Dwarfs! Industrious Fleas, Educated Dogs, and Man-Eating Tigers!).
Wash had built a three-foot-wide scale model of the bridge to pique the showman’s interest, and I intended to surprise PT with the gift for his museum. I went alone, as Wash did not seem to enjoy his company.
“There’s no competing with a showman,” he had said.
I lugged the model on a cart by ferry, where it attracted much attention. After many curious looks and questions, I uncovered it for the passengers to see. They exclaimed in wonder and chortled at a comment regarding the irony of a bridge on a ferry. I took the opportunity to give them a quick explanation. After that, I had plenty of assistance getting the cumbersome cart and model into a carriage in Manhattan.
The smell of coal fires was especially strong, like a manufacturing plant, as the carriage rounded the corner to the American Museum. But I remembered no factory nearby.
The coachman opened my door. “Are you sure this is the place, ma’am?”
The wind shifted, and acrid smoke choked us. Through the ashen cloud, beyond the front gate, the museum appeared as a burnt-out shell. Gray wisps curled from heaps of rubble. I ran to the gate and pushed through, my eyes stinging from smoke. Please, God, let everyone be safe.
Several workers poked through the debris, their clothes and faces blackened with soot.
“Can you tell me where I might find Mr. Barnum?” I steadied my voice while the foul air scorched my lungs.
“Just around there.” A worker pointed with a coal-colored board.
On what must have been the grand staircase, PT, in a black cape lined in red satin, perched like a giant red-winged blackbird over a charred forest, cradling a ball of fabric in his hands.
He answered the obvious question before I could ask. “A lantern, knocked over by a breeze.” He shook his head. “A breeze.”
I waited for a show of anger or his philosophical wit, but he was quietly grim, his eyes vacant, his movements slow and purposeless.
“I’m so sorry. Are you—is everyone—all right?”
“A few of my workers suffered some burns, I’m afraid. Thankfully, most of the animals escaped. Unlike this.” He held up a scorched and tattered tailcoat, exposing his forearm, streaked with angry red burns and blisters.
I lightly tapped his uninjured arm. “It’s only a coat. I’m more concerned about you.”
He leaned close to me, narrowed his eyes, and growled, “I am the great P. T. Barnum. Creator of magnificent museums and things beyond imagination.”
I took a step back, alarmed at his tone.
“Have no doubt about me. I will rise like a phoenix.” He turned away with a theatrical flourish. It might have been comical if not for the circumstances.
* * *
A month or so later, PT wrote, The task of rebuilding and finding accommodations in New York City for my collections have dominated my time, but I am eager to hear more about your bridge project.
We met at his temporary headquarters near the Battery. I brought some plan drawings, reserving the scale model for a more permanent home. Spring was bursting with tulips and daffodils, so he put on his top hat, and we set out for some fresh air. We walked along the banks at the southern tip of Manhattan, extended like the toe of a ballerina where the Hudson meets the East River. I was grateful for my long stride to match his fast footing.
Although PT didn’t mention the injuries and losses from the fire, neither did he show me his latest magic tricks. “What do you need?” he asked in a brusque, businesslike tone.
“We need all the support we can muster, on both sides of the river. Mr. Roebling estimates the bridge will cost six to seven million dollars to build.”
“Husband or father-in-law?”
My bootheel caught in the coarse gravel, and I stumbled. “The latter.”
He held an arm out to steady me. “Quite a challenge.”
“My father-in-law?”
“The money.”
I unfolded a map. “We’re about eight blocks away from the site.”
He offered his arm. “Shall we walk it?”
As we strolled, I blurted my memorized review of the plan.
PT drew a lit cigar from his jacket pocket. Apparently, he couldn’t resist a small dose of magic. Taking a draw, his mouth curled into a one-sided smile.
My cheeks warmed despite the cool day. He had an uncanny ability to unsettle me.
He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a fistful of bread crumbs. Squealing seagulls and cooing pigeons appeared as if on cue, and he threw a great fan of food for them. He sprinkled some crumbs on the top of his hat, and a pigeon landed on it, pecking away.
Dodging an emboldened gull, I pressed on despite his effort at creating a tiny circus. “Imagine how exciting it would be. Uniting two great cities—the amenities of New York plus the lovely residential areas and charm of Brooklyn.”
“A fine proposition,” he said. “I believe my audience will double with the quicker transit. Fortune favors the brave and never helps a man who does not help himself.”
“I’ve heard that. Who said it?”
“I did.”
I twisted my wedding ring about my finger, contemplating financial negotiations with someone who spewed grand phrases but nothing substantial enough to report to Papa and Wash. He seemed to relish the edge of propriety. Perhaps that was the means to reach him. “You could move your headquarters to Brooklyn. I hear you have quite the following there. One woman in particular.”
“Ah, you tempt me, fair lady, but I’m afraid my business keeps me here.” He removed the cigar stub from his mouth and chuckled. “But I do have a mason I can lend you.”