1877
Climbing to the top of the Brooklyn anchor building was now routine for me, but ascending the narrow footbridge leading to the top of the tower was quite another challenge. At some point, I would have to face that challenge. The open walkway, fashioned of a series of horizontal wooden planks connected by ropes and thin wire handholds, seemed insufficient for so great a height. I’d often watched the men make the climb, dread gripping me like a too-tight corset.
The four huge main cables would be galvanized steel, spun in place over the river, one thin wire at a time. Devices known as carriers, one for each cable, would run back and forth on a cable, carrying a loop with two lengths of wire on each trip. Then workers, dangling high above the river on the wooden platforms, tied these wires into bundles about three inches in diameter, creating a single strand. Nineteen strands were to be aligned in a honeycomb pattern and tied together, forming each of the great cables. The last step in creating the cables was to wrap each bundle of strands in a wire binding.
The precarious walkway, swaying in the slightest breeze, became quite the attraction, and one day, boaters reported seeing two women on it, high above the river.
The press identified them as the daughters of C. C. Martin, who faced a great deal of criticism for his lack of judgment. I was guilty of schadenfreude; it was refreshing to not be the one under scrutiny, at least from the public.
Wash and I had resumed a normal, at least for us, marriage. Sometimes, it seemed as if I had a roommate and business partner rather than a husband. He was still reclusive, refusing to see even Martin or Farrington.
He reworked the cable plan, improving on Papa’s design, and was anxious for my report on whether the bundles of strands were coming together in the precise pattern he had devised.
Martin and Farrington were supervising the cabling endeavor, but when they tried to describe the progress being made, I couldn’t picture it in my mind, nor could I connect their descriptions to Wash’s diagrams. In addition, there were concerns regarding how to secure the saddles the cables would rest on. I would have to climb to the top of the tower to evaluate the situation.
Knowing this for quite some time, nightmares plagued me. I tried to imagine the view from the top but found myself growing more anxious rather than excited.
Wash dismissed my fears. “The view will be spectacular, Em. Think how far you’ll be able to see.”
“How far is that?”
“Depends on the weather, of course. You’ll want to choose a clear day.”
“Assuming a perfectly clear day, how far will I be able to see?”
His eyes rolled heavenward as he calculated. “About twenty miles, give or take a quarter of a mile, and the accuracy of our presumptions on the diameter of the earth.”
“My goodness, that’s incredible. Don’t you want to come up with me? Meet with Farrington and Martin yourself?”
“No, thank you, I can see it right here.” He tapped his temple.
His math was correct. I spent the better part of an afternoon studying geometry texts and encyclopedias. With pad and pencil, I had come up with the same number. It involved the height of the tower, curvature of the earth, the Pythagorean theorem, and some basic algebra. He was able to solve the problem in his head in a few seconds yet had no desire to see the spectacular answer in person. To have such a brain must be both a blessing and a curse.
* * *
I set a date for my climb up to the tower top, but as the day grew closer, the butterflies in my stomach turned to a nest of writhing snakes. Knowing Wash wouldn’t come with me, I didn’t bother to consult him and instead asked PT to accompany me. His ability to calm my fears was almost magical. Besides, he was certainly familiar with high-wire acts.
On the appointed June day, we had the good fortune of a cool and cloudless dawn. While riding in PT’s coach, he waxed on about the spectacular view we were about to enjoy. Meanwhile, I contemplated a hundred different ways to flee. I closed my eyes and pictured GK at my side. “You are blazing a path for all women.” There was no choice but to go forward, regardless of the opinion of my thumping heart and twirling stomach.
We met Martin and Farrington, who led us to the walkway entrance. Farrington, curiously dressed in an impeccable gray suit, went first. He scampered up the wooden steps, then loped across the narrow walkway, arms pumping at his sides. Martin followed, bracing himself with a hand on each thin rope handrail. I was next in line, with PT right behind me. I passed over the river shore, stepping carefully so as not to bounce the slender boards under my feet. It wasn’t so terrible after all. About midway up to the tower, the walkway wavered and I halted. Below, the world spun into an abyss. I gripped the ropes under my white knuckles and froze in place, my face breaking out in a cold sweat, my throat closing. My heart beat so rapidly, I thought I would surely collapse.
“No. No farther. Good God, let me down.” I fell to my knees and changed direction, clinging to the wobbling planks.
But PT was a considerable obstacle. He cooed reassuringly, “Come on. Only a little way to go.”
A little way to go farther up, then all the way back down again. My body continued its revolt. I swallowed bile and tensed my muscles to halt their quiver.
“Don’t look. Here.” PT wrapped a handkerchief as a blindfold around my head.
I took a deep, shaky breath. The feel of a light breeze on my face calmed me, and the dread faded. Elizabeth had been afraid of heights, not me. Her panic on top of the cliff had led to the accident. I had been carrying her fear all these years. It was time to let go.
PT guided my hands to the ropes, and I continued, step by careful step. Soon, brilliant sunshine filtered through the blindfold as we came out of the shadow of the tower. A hand took mine—Farrington, I assumed. He led me onto the tower top. A small crowd cheered as PT ceremoniously removed my blindfold as if it were all for show. They were mostly supervisors and other workers, but I recognized a few of the more intrepid bridge committee members as well. I managed a smile and a wave, taking in the magnificent scene, 276 feet above the river. I stepped as close as I dared to the edge of the tower.
Our world spread beneath us as if in heaven. As if there were no need to breathe or stand on my own as the wind filled my lungs and the sky held me aloft. To the north, the river bent toward the sea. The island of Manhattan stretched out, a grid of dark streets lined with long rows of trees, Central Park a big, green rectangle cut into the center. To the south and east, Brooklyn and Long Island, with their mix of squatty brick houses under slate and shingled roofs, white church steeples, and the gray ocean beyond. Across the narrows, Staten Island, studded with trees, seemingly one with New Jersey to the west.
“Grand, isn’t it?” PT had joined me, and I passed the field glasses to him. He scanned northeast.
“Your precious Connecticut is too far to see,” I teased.
“Indeed. Another world.”
Farrington showed me how the cables were coming together, the issues with some iron pulleys and fasteners that were wearing unevenly. He took some measurements, and I sketched some metal plates we would need.
Aside from acting as my chief hand-holder, PT wanted to evaluate the workers on the project. “You’ve stolen all the best ship riggers,” he said to Martin.
“Ah, this would be the circus high-wire training program, provided to you at no extra charge. I’m sure that’s why you’re here,” Martin said with a cynical smile.
New wires were lashed with twine at intervals to the carrier wire. Upon the wire arriving in position, the twine ties were no longer necessary and required removal before the wires could be gathered into a strand. I watched as a slender rigger on a boatswain’s chair, attached by a pulley to the carrier wire, slowly descended toward us over the river from the Manhattan tower, cutting through the twine ties. One of the support wires must have snapped, as he suddenly swung erratically, barely hanging on. I held my breath. A burly rigger was his counterpart on our side, and he shoved off on another chair. He got nearly halfway across the river, close to the other rigger, when his pulley got jammed between wires. He could not reach to free himself. With the carrier cable forced to a stop, both riggers were trapped.
An audible gasp passed through the onlookers. The wind picked up, and the men swung helplessly in their chairs high over the middle of the river. Martin, Farrington, and PT consulted, their arms waving about wildly. I spotted the acrobat, Supple, whom I had borrowed from PT’s circus some time ago. I waved him over and led him to the edge of the tower for a view of the trapped riggers.
Without a word, Supple swung himself onto the carrier wire, wrapped his legs around it, and pulled himself hand over hand to the trapped men. While clinging to the dangerously swaying wire with his legs, he grabbed the pulley, cut the tangled twine, and set the pulley free. Then Martin pulled the wire-hoisting lever, and all three were pulled to safety to the cheers and clapping of the crowd. PT pointed at me and led the crowd in another round of applause, which I modestly waved off. Inside, of course, I was bursting with pride.
Much as I would have preferred to end my visit to the top of the world at that moment, there were more festivities planned. As had been demonstrated, the time-consuming work of cutting the twine ties was dangerous. Nonetheless, Farrington was determined to increase the efficiency. The reason for his fancy suit became clear. He ceremoniously handed his pocket watch to Martin and climbed in a boatswain’s chair hanging from the wire that stretched from the tower over a bit of river, then a half mile of the city to the Brooklyn anchorage, where another crowd had gathered.
“Give me seven minutes!” Farrington shouted to the crowd, who cheered him on. He readied his knife, the latch securing his chair was released, and he slid toward the anchorage at great speed, lashing the ties with one swoosh of his large knife, his other hand gripping the rope suspending his chair.
As the chief mechanic slid farther away, I watched him through field glasses. Halfway to the anchorage, he struggled with an especially tight tie. He lost his grip on the knife, and it tumbled to the ground. Farrington waved at us for help. Without his knife to free them, the ties impeded the progress of the pulley from which his chair hung.
Martin shook his head. He waved Supple over, surely to have him reenact his heroic rescue.
I stopped him. “No, it’s too far and too dangerous over land.”
“Have you gone mad? Farrington’s my chief mechanic, for Christ’s sake!”
“Just wait.”
Farrington swung in his chair, pointing to his predicament, waving and smiling at his audience, who oohed in sympathy and worry.
Supple arrived, listened to our argument, then offered, “I can do it, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Mr. Supple, but I believe he’ll solve this on his own.”
Farrington dangled for what seemed like an hour until he climbed onto the top of his chair. There he untied the twine, then slid to the next, making his way in increments to the anchorage, where he was greeted as a hero.
Something changed that day between Martin and me. His allegiance and trust had always belonged to Wash, as was appropriate, but that day, Martin shook PT’s hand. Then, placing his hat over his heart, he gave me a small bow. I had finally gained the respect of this ornery but competent engineer.
* * *
I never had an official title. Sometimes I thought it should be handler of all the unforeseen details. For example, Martin came to me with a three-inch thick manual, a tremendous inventory of iron and steel parts. I recognized Wash’s careful script and intricate diagrams.
“Suppliers are manufacturing the items with check marks, right on schedule.” Martin turned several pages illustrating special plates, bolts, and tools necessary to put the parts in place. “Then there are the ones nobody’s ever had a use for.” He ran his finger down a list of parts with no name, only a diagram. “They don’t exist.”
One diagram showed a long metal bar, with a hole—like the eye of a needle—at each end. “I’d call this an eyebar,” I said.
He penciled the word in. “So named.”
* * *
Weeks later in my office, I met with a handful of suppliers who were eager for the opportunity to do business. A ruddy-faced man of about fifty showed me a sample steel fastener. “Of course, you will receive the size you specified. Now, how many of these will you need?” he asked, leaning on his fat fists halfway across my desk.
Turning my head to avoid the stench of his breath, I did some calculating. “Fifty-six. Add a few for good measure. Let’s say sixty.”
“Sixty!” His breath was accompanied by a spray of spittle. “Do you have any idea of the tooling for a special request such as this? We need to make thousands to make the order worthwhile.”
“Just give me a price estimate.” I dismissed him and his spit as I waved up the next man in line.
The bluster of Mr. Stinkbreath gave me an idea. I didn’t need thousands of the same simple design; I needed few of a unique design. I remembered the N that Eleanor had made for me so many years ago.
I was overdue for a visit to Cold Spring anyway, so I made sure Miss Mann could stay with Johnny and made plans for a short trip by train.
Travelling north along the river, the city thinned to forest. Arriving at the tiny Cold Spring station felt like coming home and yet like entering a strange world. In contrast to the crowdedness of Grand Central, there were no more than half a dozen people milling about, including Mother and Eleanor, who had been forewarned by letter.
I was startled to see Mother limping along with a cane.
“Just a little twitch in my back.” She waved away my concern.
Songs of the woodland birds I missed in Brooklyn greeted me, and I took a deep breath of the pure country air. Trees still wore the bright green leaves of early summer and cardinals and chickadees flitted in their branches. Mother, Eleanor, and I walked up the familiar street, sharing the latest town gossip. They stopped to greet each passerby, parasols bumping in neighborly greetings. With all the interruptions, we didn’t get through all the juicy news in the few blocks to the house.
“So what is this proposal you’ve been so mysterious about?” Mother asked as I took my baggage from her wagon and bumped it up the front steps. Her housemaid arrived too late, and Mother dismissed her with a wave and roll of her eyes.
Weary from the journey, I sank into one of the double rockers on the porch. “Eleanor and I need to discuss some details regarding metalwork. You’re welcome to join us, but I’m afraid it would bore you.”
“Hmph. I know when I’m an outcast.” Hands on hips in mock humiliation, Mother took her leave.
Eleanor sat beside me as I emptied a collection of metal screws, bolts, and plates from my bag and handed them to her.
“Junk…good…will rust in a heartbeat…” She passed judgment on each item, running her trained fingers across threads and joints, weighing their heft in an open palm.
I reviewed the exact use of the items I required, along with specifications for size and strength.
“These will be at the top of the towers?” She took a fingernail file out of her pocket and scraped the surface of a hefty bolt.
“That’s right. Part of the saddle securing the cables to the tower, which sits on rollers to reduce friction as the cables are stressed. Totally exposed to the elements and under great tension.”
“Hmm. What about this?” She held up a thin, irregularly shaped piece of metal.
“That needs be flexible and thin, almost painted on, and waterproof.”
“Iron is no good. Galvanized steel won’t give you the flexibility.”
I thought of the beautiful waterproof sheathing on the Cutty Sark. “What about Muntz metal? An alloy of copper, zinc, and a bit of iron, melted at—”
“I know. Muntz metal would work. Problem is, it’s patented and expensive.”
“We don’t need much. If that’s what works, we’ll pay the patent fees.”
Eleanor pursed her lips, bending and tapping the piece of metal. “I think I can come up with something. Give me a week.” She stowed the samples and diagrams in her satchel.
“How am I to pay you when you won’t claim your work?” I brushed metal shavings from my lap.
“No, no, it can’t be known.” She grabbed my elbow. “We don’t need any more controversy regarding female designers.”