Wash’s joy upon hitting bedrock was premature. For the next few weeks, he still had to descend into the caisson as brick pilings were constructed to support the roof under the tremendous weight of the stones above. Not until that was done could concrete be poured down the chute and the caisson sealed.
Meanwhile, I was beginning to enjoy my bloomer project. Wash had presented me with a sewing machine, and operating the treadle with my feet gave me a sense of accomplishment, even if what I was producing was not in the least wearable. A few unladylike words slipped through the straight pins in my mouth as I tried to free the machine from a beehive of thread and fabric.
The first time I heard the alarm bells on the street outside, they barely broke my awareness. The leather belt on the machine had broken and was flapping like a serpent until the gears ground to a halt. My creation nearly finished, I donned the skirt. My feet negotiated through the leggings, the twisted seams making an awkward fit.
Twirling for Johnny’s entertainment had turned into a game of ring-around-the-rosy until we were interrupted by outside commotion. Clanging bells and the galloping of horses drew me to the window. Horses pulled a fire wagon through swirling snow, heading toward the river. A crowd hastened behind the wagon, sending a shiver of dread down my spine.
“Miss Mann!” I yelled.
She hurried over and picked up Johnny as I grabbed my cloak and flew out the door.
A neighbor advised me there was a problem at the bridge site and offered a ride in his carriage. I was in no mood for small talk, and we rode in silence. Noting his occasional glances at the leggings peeking out from under my cloak, I tugged it closed.
When I arrived, firemen were running hoses from the river to pumps as soot-covered and coughing workers stumbled from the work site. I approached O’Brien, who occupied Einar’s usual station at the caisson entrance, and asked him what had happened.
“A wee fire, that’s all, ma’am. A few minor injuries.” He brushed ash and snowflakes from his coat.
“And everyone is accounted for?”
“Colonel Roebling is fine.”
Farrington joined us. Coatless, in clean and crisply pressed clothes, it was apparent he hadn’t been inside the caisson.
“Good evening, Mr. Farrington. I’m told everything is well under control.” The augers of varying lengths and other tools slung over his wiry shoulders suggested otherwise.
He tipped his hat. “A pleasure, Mrs. Roebling. Just need to drill a few holes.” He smiled his toothy grin. “You got some fruit for me?”
The hatch opened, and Young stepped out.
“Are you all right, Mr. Young?” I asked. “How are conditions down there?”
Before he could answer, his eyes bulged and he bent over, gasping for air. Farrington and O’Brien helped him to the ground. Blood trickled from his ears, and I cradled his head, staring at his pale, pitted cheeks. O’Brien dashed off for a stretcher.
After Young was attended to and Farrington had descended, I peppered O’Brien with so many questions, he finally sent a messenger down to investigate. I had neither hat nor gloves, and I huddled into my cloak, pacing for what seemed like hours. The long wait gave me too much time to imagine fire resurging, the men with no means of escape.
It wasn’t the messenger who appeared at the hatch opening but Farrington, bringing a waft of smoke. Brushing cinders from his shirt, he frowned at the black streaks they left. He cracked a half smile for me. “Mr. Roebling sends regrets for his tardiness.”
“He’s not coming up?”
“He says you should go home. He’ll be along shortly.”
A chill raced down my spine, but as my ears and fingers were already numb with cold, I trudged home through the snow to wait.
* * *
Hours later, a horse and carriage approached, and voices drifted in from the street. A blast of frigid air hit me as I opened the door. The light of the streetlamp fell on three men carrying Wash down the front walk on a stretcher. He was very pale but lifted his hand. The men—O’Brien, Luciano, and Dunn—struggled through several inches of fresh snow up the steps to the foyer. I had them take him to the parlor.
“I’m fine, dear. No pain this time,” Wash rasped.
“Was it the smoke?”
“No. A bit of a problem with paralysis.”
Dunn pulled off a woolen blanket covering Wash’s legs. His legs, mottled white and gray with blotches of pink, were exposed by rolled-up trousers. The men massaged them with sea salts and whiskey.
“I tried to get him to leave earlier, ma’am,” said O’Brien.
“That will be all, fellas.” Wash dismissed them with a weak wave.
The workers stopped rubbing and met my eyes with question.
Dunn spoke. “He’s got the Grecian bends real bad, ma’am. The doc told us to keep rubbing till he moves his legs.”
“I know the procedure,” Wash said. “You’re dismissed.”
I nodded in agreement and escorted the men to the door, giving each a bit of money, although they tried to refuse it, before sending them on their way. Despite their concern and good intentions, Wash couldn’t tolerate anyone but me around him when he was feeling poorly.
O’Brien stopped and turned back before I closed the door. “Ma’am, I shouldn’a mean to add to your troubles, but...”
“What is it, Mr. O’Brien?”
He spoke softly. “There’s been workers in the caisson who…uh…weren’t nigh as bad off as the colonel.”
“Go on.”
“I mean, they didn’t lose use of their legs or nothing. They had some problems taking a breath.”
I glanced back at Wash, then nudged the door a bit more closed. “Well, please tell them I’m glad they’re getting along. It’s difficult work, I understand.”
“No, ma’am, that’s just it.” He flattened his hand against the outside of the door. “They blame it on all sorts of things, spinal meningitis, bad kidneys, accidents. But these were all healthy men, working in the caisson. There’s”—he rolled his eyes up—“five men now dead.”
“Thank you, Mr. O’Brien. Good night.” After closing the door, I leaned heavily upon it. The news hit me like a ton of boulders. Something should be done, needed to be done for these men. And Wash—he was apparently sicker than the others. What if he were to succumb?
I pushed these thoughts from my mind. Wash was doing everything possible to prevent further injuries and now, it seemed, deaths from the mysterious caisson disease.
I knelt next to him on the divan and vigorously massaged his legs.
“Ah, it doesn’t do a bit of good,” he grumbled. “Quit wasting whiskey on my legs and put some in a glass.”
I did as he asked, pouring myself a finger of whiskey as well, then sat beside him, fatigue setting in and replacing some of the worry. “What caused the fire?”
“O’Brien has problems working in the caisson, as you know. So I swapped him with Einar, who had never been down there before. We hang dinner pails on pegs on ceiling beams to keep them out of the way, and Einar used a candle, trying to find his. He must have fallen asleep during the hazard briefing.
“Anyway, I was watching Young wolf down a third chicken leg, wondering how he could eat so much, when his face took on a strange yellow light. Behind me, a flame was licking up a seam to the ceiling.”
“Dear God.” I took Wash’s empty glass.
“The workers formed a bucket brigade and manned the hoses. I turned the spigots full on, but the smoke and flames quickly engulfed the ceiling and a support beam.” His eyes flicked, seeming to calculate how much to share. “Einar was filling a bucket when a ceiling beam cracked over his head, shooting out flames as if doused in kerosene. The beam collapsed and pinned him to the ground. Dunn and I wrapped rags around our hands and beat back the flames, then we lifted the beam off of him.”
“Is Einar all right?”
“A few burns on his face and hands and his hair is pretty singed, but he’ll be fine.” Wash rubbed his temples. “Then there was a loud bang and air roared up the burn hole. The caisson walls bulged, creaking and moaning.”
Bile rose in my throat. I recapped the salts with shaky hands and poured myself more whiskey.
“I sent a messenger up top to turn on all six compressors. We were losing pressure fast, and the ceiling started trembling. I ordered everyone out except four men on hoses. Bricks on the new support columns had shifted out of place, and I worried the whole thing would collapse. I climbed a ladder to inspect the hole and sprayed water into the roof infrastructure. Then we patched up the hole and things stabilized.”
“Now we can add fireman to your duties.”
“Good gracious, no.”
“So is the caisson safe?” My own question seemed silly to me, my lips striving to be logical. There was nothing safe about that blasted caisson.
He paused, stretched his fingers, then balled them into fists. “We’ll do inspections. Farrington already drilled some holes.”
“I don’t understand. You said you had to patch a hole to keep things stabilized.”
“The roof is not a solid, flat structure. It’s courses of timber, built at right angles, with space in between.” He coughed and paused to catch his breath. “I’m worried that unseen above the ceiling, flames could be licking up the courses until they hit the metal barrier of the roof. Then they would spread laterally.” He pressed his hands together as if in prayer, raising them up, then pulling them apart.
“I had Farrington drill small sight holes to monitor any flame-ups. We have all the compressors going to compensate until we can patch it all up. But enough of that.” He eyed the bedraggled bloomer costume I still wore. “What in tarnation have you got on?”
“You like it?” Relief at a new topic washed over me. “It’s my new bloomer costume. Made it myself. Still haven’t found a willing seamstress.”
“It has a few design flaws.” He fingered the raw edge of the hem. “Why don’t I make one for you? It probably won’t be any worse.” His laughter dissolved into a cough.
I frowned. “Please don’t make light of my work. This is an important cause.”
“I’m not joking. I’ll make your bloomer costume. Learned how to sew in the army. Mostly saddles and patches, but it’s all the same.”
“Don’t be absurd. When would you have the time?”
He picked up a journal and pencil from the tea table and sketched with a tremulous hand. “How is garment design any different from engineering? Analyze the problem, create a design to solve it. Choose your materials, build to specifications.” He mumbled as he drew.
“You work eighteen hours a day. This isn’t your problem to solve for me.”
Waving away my concerns, Wash sketched, his hand regaining some steadiness. He outlined with broad, sure strokes. Pausing in thought, his eyes fell on Carrie’s Violets manuscript, abandoned on my reading chair.
“Must incorporate something of beauty for my pretty lady.” Flowers bloomed in his design. “I’ll have the time. The site doctor has confined me to home.”
He said it so casually, I almost missed it. Matching his composed tone, I asked, “What exactly did Dr. Smith say?” I surreptitiously gave his waxy leg a little poke. Could he feel anything? I pressed hard—too hard—until he moved his leg.
“I’ve got caisson disease, no surprise. He’s forbidden me to go down in the caisson for a while. I need to rest my brain and joints in normal conditions to prevent permanent damage—or some such nonsense.”
“Permanent damage? How can you be so calm? You’re ruining your health!”
“Easy, dear girl. This will pass. It always does. But I must stay home for now. Well, for quite some time.” His eyes avoided mine.
“How long, Wash?” I rubbed my pulsing temples.
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” He bounced his eyebrows. “Four weeks—or forever. He doesn’t really know.”
“But there’s another caisson to build. How will the project proceed without you? Will the board appoint another chief engineer?”
“No one else is qualified. I can work from here. In any event, sewing would be good therapy for my hands and legs. I’m sure the good doctor would approve.”
I softened. He needed to hear of my love and support more than my concern. And I certainly didn’t want him to think he wasn’t welcome at home. “It will be nice to have you home for a change.” I held his face in my hands and kissed his forehead.
He brought two fingers to his lips. “You missed.”
I kissed him again, closing my eyes against tears, my mind spinning with the turn of events.
“Hey now, none of that.” Wash wiped a tear that had managed to escape. He held up his sketch of the bloomer costume, far better than anything I could create. “This will prove quite useful. You’ll see. I’ll need you to take messages to the men for me.”
* * *
So I became a messenger. I soon dispensed with the time-consuming carriage and rode horseback to and from the work site several times a day, bearing a journal with drawings, instructions, and not a few irate responses. I was grateful for what Wash had taught me, for understanding the basics made me a better interpreter. As the information grew more complicated and I proved a dependable translator, the men grew more comfortable with me and their language less guarded in my presence.
There were difficulties, with much at stake. One evening, I presented a list of complaints from the company building the Manhattan caisson off-site, but Wash dismissed my concerns, tossing aside my traveling journal. “The design is sound.”
“But it doesn’t take into account so many things.” I stabbed my finger on the detail from his diagram of the redesigned supply chute. This one was to be round rather than square. “For example, this no longer matches up with this.” I drew a crude diagram of the chute raising from the caisson and not quite matching the opening at the top.
“I see.” Wash designed modifications for the wayward chute and numerous other details, considering improvements in materials and technology since his father’s day. He had to stay many steps ahead of the construction so that preparations could be made for the proper mix of tradesmen, tools, and supplies.
These tasks were difficult on such a massive project even with continuous on-site supervision. They were immensely more difficult to conduct through a messenger. My mind reeled with new information, my dreams filled with numbers and diagrams and men pointing fingers and shouting at me.
Each day that passed with men working in the Brooklyn caisson ticked like a clockwork bomb. I badgered Young about speeding up the shifts, getting the men out as soon as possible. I made a firm rule of no more candles in the caisson, and we added more limelights.
No one wanted the caisson work done more than Young, as he suffered nausea and headaches every evening when he left the site. He and C. C. Martin, who filled Wash’s role on-site, came to our home at shift’s end. We sat in the parlor, and they shared the day’s events with me while Wash remained upstairs.
One particular evening, I offered them a drink, and Martin gripped the glass with a steady hand.
“Mr. Martin, the work in the caisson doesn’t seem to affect you,” I said.
“Aw, he stays topside all day.” Young held up a hand, refusing a drink, then tucked his hands into his armpits.
I wasn’t fooled; they were trembling.
“We must take care, Mrs. Roebling, to enter the caisson only when absolutely necessary and then only for the amount of time called for. Mr. Young takes unnecessary risks and faces the consequences.” Martin put down his glass and stood to leave, smoothing his trousers, somehow unblemished during the long work day.
“That’s a load of donkey dung and you know it.” Young lowered his eyes. “Beg your pardon, ma’am. He gets me riled up.”
“Quite all right. So, Mr. Martin, is it your opinion that Mr. Roebling takes unnecessary risks?”
Martin’s hat, halfway to his head, changed direction as he pressed it to his chest instead. “Why no, I would never say that.”
“Good night, gentlemen.” I escorted them to the door. The suffering and risk to all the workers weighed heavily on my mind. I vowed to visit them and speak to Wash and the doctor about any support we could provide. But still, O’Brien’s words echoed in my ears. Five dead. Five dead. Five dead.