1876
The tower on the Manhattan side grew quickly after the foundation was built and was complete in July. I had checked in frequently during the process, concerned the bedrock built by glaciers was not stable enough. But careful observation and measurements were done each step of the way. There was not an iota of settling, and there were even fewer marks of concrete crazing—the normal superficial cracking—than on the Brooklyn side, which eased all worries.
“Smooth as a baby’s bottom,” Martin assured me.
Little noticed but crucial to the support of the bridge were the anchorage buildings. Around eight stories high and built a half mile or so inland, their purpose was to house the anchors that would secure the main cables coming down from the towers.
On August 14, the first wire was to be strung, uniting the two towers and the anchor buildings. It was a moment I had been anticipating for months. Perhaps superstitious of me, but it seemed that a physical connection of the two sides of the bridge would give my inner being the strength to go on and a clear direction to follow, as well as an important milestone of which to be proud.
That day, a worker in Brooklyn and another in Manhattan each dropped a hemp rope from the top of the towers. A twisted steel wire, a little less than an inch in diameter, was attached to each hemp rope. Then a hoisting engine at each tower pulled the hemp ropes, then the steel wires, as they passed up and over the towers through sets of pulleys toward the land sides.
Dozens of men carried wire rope from the shore inland through their respective cities over a series of trestles between the towers and the anchor buildings. Using these trestles, men carried the rope above the rooftops, and then each wire was firmly attached to the top of an anchor building.
The next step was to connect the wires slung over each tower. A sturdy flat-bottomed boat called a scow was outfitted with a reel containing about two thousand feet of wire, threaded around a thick wooden axle. I climbed aboard the scow with Farrington and Martin.
The great port buzzed with industry; black smoke puffed from smokestacks in New Jersey, their bitter odor counterpoint to the brine of oysters harvested across the Narrows. We had to be able to see the wire, so we needed to do this during daylight hours when barges and passenger ships clogged the route. Not wishing to raise the ire of our ever-critical opponents, we decided not to request a closure of the important maritime route but instead to wait for a break in traffic.
While men scaled great heights above us, we made small talk under a blazing sun as workers fastened the scow to a tugboat. Perspiration glued my dress to my body, and I tugged it free. I set up a spotting scope as Farrington and Martin supervised the attachment of the reel wire from the scow to the wire dangling from the Brooklyn tower. The small boat rocked in the wake of the larger vessels. I was fairly bristling with excitement, but I had to sit in an unsteady boat, trying to convince my stomach to behave itself. I dangled my fingers in the cool water, smelled the salt from the sea, and listened to the cry of seagulls. Our moment of serenity in the midst of a bustling city gave no hint of the huge step about to occur: the uniting of the two towers and the anchor buildings by wire.
I manned the scope at the bow. After an hour, there was a break in marine traffic. My heart quickened; the moment was upon us. I held up a green flag to signal the tug. Martin and Farrington stood at either end of the spool, ensuring the wire unwound evenly, and would yell for me to raise a yellow or red flag to slow or stop the tug. The wire sank as it left the stern; another tugboat was stationed behind us to keep other boats from becoming entangled in the submerged hazard.
The waves were less than a foot high, keeping my seasickness at bay. Through the scope, I saw a large, three-masted bark sailing rapidly into our path. I rang a signal bell, then waved a red flag at my spotter on the lead tug. Fighting the current and wind, our little convoy floated to a near standstill. Relief calmed my tightly strung nerves as the ship passed, not twenty feet away.
When we reached the Manhattan tower, the two wire ropes were connected as one long cable, most of it still submerged. Again, we needed a lookout so as not to slice the masts and sails off tall ships as we hoisted the cable from the river.
“Go on up there.” Farrington nodded toward the top of the tower. “Great view.”
“Oh no,” I insisted, my gut roiling at the thought. “I wouldn’t want to deprive you of such a grand moment.”
He gave me a smile and mock salute as he hustled up the stairway.
Onlookers cheered as large American flags were unfurled from the tower tops. How welcome was the sound of cheering after years of suffering through the jeers! The wire rope was once again attached to a hoisting engine. Farrington gave the all clear signal from the top of the tower, a cannon fired a warning, and the engine groaned to life. The cable was wound back onto a reel, its angle of entry into the river growing higher and higher until it rose from the water, dripping and shining in the sun like a magnificent serpent.
Then the whole process was repeated as a second wire was brought across from Brooklyn, then fastened to the first, creating a continuous loop over both towers and from anchorage to anchorage. This would become one of four carrier wires from which the wires for the four cables would be brought across, one by one.
It was the breathtaking moment I had hoped for. I glanced around at many wiping their eyes, becoming misty-eyed myself.
But I was no closer to understanding my marriage or knowing my future as my heart both swelled with pride and sank with regret. Wash should have been there.
* * *
On a muggy day in late August, PT and I joined a group of fifty or so people atop the Brooklyn anchor building. In order to verify the safety of working suspended from the single wire, Farrington was to cross the loop now strung across the full length of the bridge. The Brooklyn Eagle had publicized the event, ensuring enthusiastic viewers on both banks and even from the water on what Wash called those buckets of bolts, the ferries.
Farrington climbed aboard a boatswain’s chair suspended from an inch-thick cable. Benjamin Stone, PT, and I each shook his hand and wished him Godspeed.
Martin pulled the lever to start the hoisting machine that would lift Farrington to the top of the Brooklyn tower. Slowly at first, then faster with a click, click, rumble, the cable moved through pulleys. Farrington smiled and waved as if he were on a carnival ride. Everyone cheered as the press photographed the event. Near the top of the tower, Farrington stood in his seat, waving an arm. The crowd gasped as he took a bow, then plopped back down into the seat until he arrived at the top of the Brooklyn tower.
Farrington’s journey had turned into a happy spectacle and good publicity. In a mere twenty-two minutes, he reached the Manhattan tower. A triumphant roar went up from both sides.
PT clapped and waved with enthusiasm. “Great show!”
I exhaled a great sigh of relief as if I had been on the tightrope with him. “A bit of a show-off.”
“Ah, he deserves it.” Martin also clapped his approval.
“No more unnecessary risks,” I told Martin, taking PT’s proffered arm.
There was a hint of sarcasm in Martin’s voice when he responded, “That’s right. The Roebling men and women abhor risk taking.”
I didn’t care. PT and I enjoyed a supportive and professional relationship. We had gone to the brink of something else, but we were adults in control of our impulses. I was proud of my strength and had nothing to be ashamed of. Furthermore, the state of my marriage should be of no concern to Martin or anyone else for that matter. I looked straight into Martin’s beady eyes. “See that none of the workers, from the acting chief engineer on down, say or do anything that might risk their job.”
“Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean—”
The corner of my mouth tugged up at the panic contorting his face as PT wheeled me away.
Martin never did like taking risks.
* * *
A few days later, Wash came home, unannounced, after three years of almost complete absence. Curiously, he rang the bell rather than letting himself in. He stood in the doorway beaming, a large valise in each hand. “The prodigal son returns.”
I blinked at this apparition. Was he home for good? He had made a few treks back and forth, mostly to pick up and deliver Johnny, never staying long enough to sort out our issues.
“Darling!” I peered behind him. “Where is Johnny?”
“He was having such a lovely summer with his cousins, we allowed him to stay on a while longer.”
I bit my lips with disappointment. Sharing my feelings would only make Wash feel badly for coming at all. And I suspected ulterior motives, such as an excuse for Wash to limit his visit. Perhaps it was fortunate he hadn’t brought our son. Better to make the most of this time alone together, an opportunity to give voice to our troubles.
After I helped him with his baggage, at long last, we embraced. His broad shoulders and thick arms had grown stronger, squeezing me as they had long ago. Gone was the smell of liniment, replaced with the more pleasant scent of his cinnamon chewing gum. The rub of his cotton shirt comforted me, like curling into a favorite quilt.
There was no flicker in his gaze as he held me arm’s length. “You are a magnificent sight. I was lost without you.”
But clearly, he had thrived.
“Chaucer!” Wash greeted the retriever that bounded into room. The dog shoved his golden head between Wash’s knees and whimpered his protests at having been abandoned by his master. “That’s all right, boy. Next time, you’ll come with me.”
My lips parted in hurt and surprise, but I let his comment hang in the air.
He led us into the library and poured a drink. “Good heavens, Emily.” He held up the nearly empty decanter. His eyes fell on the ashtray, still full of thick chunks of ash and quite a few chewed cigar butts.
Good God, were they still there from PT’s visit? A chill of guilt and embarrassment rippled through me. No matter now; it had been stopped in time. But I needed to fire the maid.
“Oh, that’s a funny story. Henri and PT were here to pick up Muriel, and—”
“And you invited them into my library.” He shook the last drops of whiskey from his glass onto his tongue. “I’m sure it’s a wonderful tale. But perhaps another time.” He wiped his whiskey glass dry, using a bit too much elbow grease. “I’m weary from the trip. Request permission to retire?” He gave me a peck on the cheek as he left the room, Chaucer, ever loyal, at his side.
I waited for him to glance back at me, an invitation lightening his countenance. Even a wee snuggle would have been welcome after all these months. But there was no look back as he hobbled up the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister.
I set my teeth, wanting to ask him, command him, to stop. Stop. Let me tell you how it felt to see Farrington crossing the river on a wire. Let me tell you how alone I feel, even as I stand in a great crowd. Let me tell you I love you and that those ashes mean nothing.
Here was the moment I had begged for, dreamed about: my beloved returning home. But anger swept through me like a brushfire, even as part of me wanted to dance with joy. I was afraid my anger would color my words, and he would mount his defenses.
Needing some fresh air, I headed out for a walk. Wandering without destination, I soon found myself at the waterfront. Three little girls were playing in the small strip of a park, laughing and kicking a rubber ball. I brushed aside some dried oak leaves and sat on a bench. To the north, the bridge towers now dominated the view. Pride in my efforts warmed my soul, but at the same time, a darker force squeezed within, anger at Wash’s abandonment of both me and the bridge rising again.
It seemed I would soon need to make a choice. It was unheard of for a woman to leave her husband, but hadn’t Wash left me? The knowing looks from Martin, the jabs from Mother’s friends and neighbors—my predicament was well-known. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could bear the long absences, broken by visits from a half stranger.
The rubber ball rolled up to my feet, a girl with blond ringlets giving chase. She reminded me of Elizabeth. I picked up the ball and handed it to her.
“Why are you so sad, missus?” asked the little girl, head cocked in concern.
“I miss someone,” I replied. A gaggle of cooing pigeons strutted up to me, but I had no bread crumbs to give.
* * *
Eleanor came for a visit, and happy for an excuse for some recreation, she and I rode the streetcar to Coney Island, where lovely homes had once lined the waterfront. I was saddened to see the area was being overtaken by bathhouses, dreary hotels, and aimless characters. Nevertheless, we slipped through an alleyway to the beach and strolled along it. A strong breeze lifted our skirts, and salt air filled our lungs.
“It seems your mind is somewhere else,” Eleanor said.
I nodded, wanting very much to share my concerns, but Mother had always advised against sharing domestic troubles outside the family. They would only return as unwelcome rumor. But I trusted Eleanor, so when we stopped to admire the waves crashing and the cry of the seagulls, I spoke of the changes in my marriage, hoping for some insight to my dilemma.
“My dear,” Eleanor said, “you can’t expect a marriage to remain as it is in the beginning. If your souls continued to burn for each other in that way, you would be cinders.”
“Then what is the point? Why do we marry for life, only to see love fade away?”
“Ah, but true love doesn’t fade away. It changes, deepens. It seems to disappear at times, only to come back in a different way. Think of early love like a wave in the ocean, building and building until it tumbles from its own height. Then the calm, the drawing back, only to swell and crash again. When you get past the breakers, you don’t feel the crash, but the water is still lifting and falling in life’s rhythm.”
“Like the perpetual motion machine you made?”
“Exactly. Balance and motion, as in us and in nature. But I didn’t make the machine. Mr. White made it for me.” Her eyes lit up as she mentioned her late husband, now ten years gone.
I adjusted my hat to better shield my eyes from the blinding sun. “It seems I pushed through the breakers only to find my husband wasn’t with me on the other side.”
“Then you must swim until you find him.” Eleanor kicked seaweed from the path of sandpipers, skittering from approaching foam. “Don’t be tempted back into the breakers, seeking another for the journey. You may find the ocean spits you back out.”
* * *
Looking at my marriage through a new lens, I strived to be more accepting of its changes. I renewed my efforts to please Wash and found he responded, perhaps not as demonstratively as I would like but the best he could. He would, for example, pull out my chair at the table as he always had, but after I was seated, he’d rest his warm hand on my shoulder for a brief moment. The tiniest of signals, but to me, it was his way of showing he was struggling back, if not to what we once were, perhaps to a different sort of intimacy.
My anger slowly faded as he made no mention of returning to Trenton. He seemed once again interested in the progress of the bridge and thanked me for my work. We avoided the topic of PT altogether. A new beginning, it seemed, as delicate as the puff of a dandelion just gone to seed.
It was difficult to appreciate the crushing weight of all Wash had been through in his adult life, the loss of his father and recently a sister, the war, and his physical destruction from the work in the caisson. Could a human being, even one as close as emotionally possible, ever totally empathize with another? A mother could, as a mother feels even more intensely the suffering of a child. But perhaps a protective barrier exists between any two adults, preventing them from being sensible to all the other’s pain. To feel it all would render one useless as a support.
Confirming my enduring love for Wash did not mitigate my feelings for PT. When I grew frustrated with Wash’s unending litany of complaints, I could see PT at any number of public events to get my fill of levity. Wash was always invited and always declined. Johnny, at eight, was at a perfect age to enjoy the amusements. PT gave us tours of the animal stables, and we enjoyed concerts, art shows, and circus performances from the best seats as his guests. It certainly fulfilled the twice as much fun part of my pact with GK.
Perhaps Eleanor was right; the flames that rose in me in PT’s presence would fade, just as they had with Wash. Perhaps his life seemed exciting and glamorous simply because it was not my own and would grow tiresome in time. And then there would be no family history to fall back on, no shared joke from long ago, no shared pride in a son well raised.
Yet it wasn’t as if PT and I shared no history. And if I were to be honest with myself, my spirited nature was more similar to PT’s than my own husband’s. Had my marriage to Wash tamped down my exuberance, my love of adventure, my own self? Eleanor seemed to believe there was no role for friendship with men outside marriage. Maybe that was true for her, true for times gone by. But it seemed for modern women, there was room for both, if carefully managed.
* * *
It seemed I was not the only one debating my proclivities. GK had requested—and was given—a posting in Newport, Rhode Island, in order to be closer to family. His recent letters disturbed me, obsessed as he was with clearing his name before his death. After pages of railing about the slow-moving army, he penned his thoughts on my work: Washington should not allow dangers unthinkable for women.
Soon after GK’s move, he visited us, presenting me with a bouquet of flowers and Wash with a package, wrapped in old newspapers. “A task from Old Useless.”
Wash unwrapped the bundle and found a black felt uniform hat. The gold cord with acorns confirmed it had belonged to a general.
The men moved toward the parlor.
“I’ll go put these in water.” I went to the dining room to get a vase.
“What am I to do with this?” Wash asked GK.
“He wants you to sell the damn thing to Emily’s circus friend for as much as you can get.”
“Son of a bitch.” The paneled partition between the rooms was ajar, their conversation floating through the crack.
“That’s where it belongs, anyway,” GK said. “A circus.”
I pulled back the waxy paper around the flowers and breathed in the lovely fragrance of yellow roses.
“Speaking of Emily…”
My ears perked at GK’s mention of my name as I climbed on a stool to reach the crystal vase.
Wash cut in. “You’ve got concerns? Do you suppose I don’t? It’s a bit late to be caterwauling about that now.”
I shouldn’t be listening. But my misbehaving half refused to move.
“Would you allow her to fight our wars?” GK asked. “You seem well enough now. Where does it stop? What kind of man puts the ones he is privileged to protect in harm’s way?”
“You well know her proclivities,” Wash said. “As stubborn and brave as any man.”
“A dangerous combination.” GK spoke in a low, resigned voice. “But that’s how she was constituted from the very beginning.”
“You’ll broker no argument from me, sir.”
“Bravery is a misunderstood thing. She has her fears, of course, but they seldom concern her own reputation,” GK said. “While she was under my watch, I did that for her.”
“She’s a grown woman now.”
“And you’re not concerned with the impropriety of shirtless men in her proximity?” GK grew louder. “Or her keeping company with the likes of Barnum?”
“You had her locked up in a nunnery, but I’m a tad more lenient.”
I bit my lip to suppress a laugh as GK snorted. He had, in effect, put me in a nunnery when he paid for my education at Georgetown Visitation.
“I can only trust in our vows and let the rest fall to fate.” Wash’s voice rose.
“Is that so? Where the hell have you been for three years?”
“I love my wife and love and respect you dearly, sir. But this matter is none of your concern.”
It seemed I was wrong regarding Wash’s reasoning for distancing himself from the relationship between PT and myself. His trust in me, his desire for my own free will, was greater than any need for assurance of faithfulness. Piecing together the different aspects of his love was like putting together a fretsaw puzzle with only a portrait of a cloudy sky to guide me.
I debated whether to thank Wash for defending my actions to my brother, but to do so would reveal my eavesdropping. There was nothing to gain from that. So I kept the moment tucked in memory, out of love for my protective brother and my ever-loyal husband.
* * *
With Wash seemingly at peace with my friendship with PT, I planned the long-postponed visit to his stables. Neither Wash nor Johnny showed interest, so I travelled alone by train to Bridgeport.
Connecticut was similar to upstate New York but, at the same time, more quaint. We passed farms with red barns and rolling hills, cows pleasantly chewing their cuds, in between deeply forested areas. I was met at the station by PT’s carriage driver and soon arrived at his country home. I worried the strap of my day bag, not having envisioned being alone with PT so far from the public eye. Finally, we arrived at a cluster of buildings where he stood in front of a small cottage.
“It’s a shame Washington was unable to join us,” PT said as if sensing and trying to lessen my discomfort. “I hope you find the accommodations suitable. It’s just a cabin, but I think it will provide for your needs. Your tea should be already set. The stables are just around the bend, and I shall meet you there when you are dressed for the ride.”
I nodded, still taking in my circumstance. It was a sweet little cottage with just enough gingerbread ornamentation.
“Just us, then? Will we be joined by others?” I was relieved when a young lady approached. She had long blond hair, left loose around her shoulders, and seemed to be in her early twenties—a bit too young to be one of PT’s daughters.
“My wife, perhaps. But she’s not well-suited to a mount much larger than a pony.”
“Your wife?” I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice but couldn’t manage to keep my jaw in place. As far as I knew, his wife had been dead for months. “When did—”
“Ah, and here she is.” The girl—or woman, that is—stood on her tiptoes to give him a peck on the cheek. “Mrs. Washington Roebling, allow me to introduce Mrs. Barnum, my wife, Nancy.”
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Emily.” I nodded my head, swirling as it was. PT was somewhere north of sixty. This woman would be forty years younger. No wonder he had kept her a secret.
“Four o’clock, then?” They turned toward the main house.
Dumbstruck, I waved absently. I was apparently no more to him than a momentary amusement. Despite my marriage, I wanted PT to myself. I was shocked and ashamed and disappointed, all at the same time.
After a short rest, I donned my riding clothes: calfskin breeches worn under a long jacket. If anyone recognized them as men’s wear, they had been kind enough not to mention that to me. I met PT at the stables. He was elegant in his riding habit and minus the newly discovered wife.
“It was so nice to meet Mrs. Barnum.” I half smiled.
“I suppose you’re wondering…”
“Not at all. That is your private business.”
“It isn’t a marriage per se.”
“Oh? I wasn’t aware of per se marriages. Either you are, or you aren’t.”
“You may have noticed her youth.”
A stable hand walked out a glorious chestnut mare, brushed to a shine.
“Quite.”
The assistant helped me into the saddle, adjusted the stirrups, then disappeared back into the stable.
“We have an agreement of sorts. She gets all I own at my death. Half of it if we choose to part before that.”
His horse was brought out, a caramel-colored gelding. PT mounted in one swift motion, and we rode out into the August sunshine.
“Your marriage seems a financial arrangement.” The clip-clop rhythm soothed my nerves. I relaxed into this new development, curious as to its beginnings. “What do you receive out of the bargain?”
“Do I need to explain that?” He laughed and kicked his mount into a trot.
I followed, my own horse needing little encouragement to keep pace. We raced along the open pasture, alternating leads, testing each other. It was exhilarating, the freedom of speed, the openness of the country, the smell of grass and the thud of hooves. After some time, my thighs aching, my breath coming in gasps, I was relieved when we halted near a well.
We dismounted, and he filled a trough with water for the horses and a dipper for us. I greedily drank the clear, cold water, wiping the trickle off my chin.
He removed his riding helmet and finger-raked his damp hair, then leaned against the stone of the well head, arms folded across his chest. “I hope my marriage doesn’t change things. Between us, I mean.”
“Why would it? We’re friends, business associates, and now riding partners.” I could hear the hurt in my own voice.
“Yes, but I hope for more.” He caught my eye. “I am a patient man, Emily. I can wait.”
“Apparently not.” I leaned into my horse’s firm neck, feeling its heat and strength, trying to settle my feelings.
“I’m not a saint. What would you have me do while you stay in a loveless marriage?”
“I never said it was loveless.”
“He left you.”
I pressed my palm against my gut, shielding it from the arrow he had slung at it. My marriage was in a phase devoid of physical love. If I could just have a warm squeeze at the end of the day, my back washed in the bath, my cheek caressed by the back of a strong hand, I would feel more satisfied, less hunger for the touch of another.
I had tried to get Wash to do these simple things, and he would, for perhaps a day. Then he would go back to his routine: a peck on the cheek for good morning and another for good night. Was this the rest of my life with him?
“He just needs time,” I said, mostly to convince myself.