The country heaved with uprisings that summer as railroad unions went on strike and riots in Baltimore and Pittsburgh killed dozens. The year 1876 had ended with dual tragedies: the collapse of a railroad bridge in Ohio had killed ninety people a few days after fire and structural failure at the Brooklyn Theater killed 295. The theater had been built by Kingsley’s construction company, a fact that gnawed at me, for he was still one of our largest contractors.
With workers motivated to keep their difficult but steady jobs, bridge construction moved at a faster pace. Four cable-spinning carriers traveled nonstop back and forth between the towers like mechanical spiders weaving a looping web, and work began on the road approaches. These were each about a quarter of a mile long in order to provide the proper incline from ground level to the top of the anchorage buildings. After clearing and preparing the site, brick and stone support structures were begun.
Compared to the grueling conditions of the caissons and towers as well as those posed by nature itself, this work progressed more quickly and with relative ease. Proper masons were in short supply, however, as tremendous construction was in progress all over the city. Being fairly simple work, the mixing and laying of bricks fell to scarcely trained but enthusiastic men.
The design for the roadway approach called for brick arches, scaled so that the arches grew larger as they neared the anchorages. I had kept O’Brien away from his true vocation of stonework for too long, and he begged me to return, especially with our current shortage of masons. His son, Patrick, was close to twenty by then and eager to learn the trade as well. Their job would be to integrate the brick and stone arches.
I beamed as Patrick followed his father’s instructions, mixing mortar with a shovel. The child I had known swimming with Johnny was now grown and working alongside his father.
Workers removed wooden supports inside a recently completed arch. I spoke with O’Brien as he filled a bucket with mortar. We parted as he headed under the arch with his bucket and trowel.
“Mrs. Roebling!” Young waved me over and helped me climb to the top of the arch. What concerned him also appeared ominous to me and would have even to an untrained eye. A crack in the mortar about half an inch wide ran across the midpoint of the arch.
“That wasn’t there fifteen minutes ago,” Young said. He unsheathed his knife, thrust it too easily into the mortar. When he yanked it out, the knife was coated as if it had sliced into an underbaked cake. “It should be dry by now, but it’s still too wet. A little too much water in the mix or maybe the humidity.”
I crouched down and pinched a sample, rubbing the gritty substance between my fingers. “We better put the supports back in.”
Even as we spoke, the gap widened another inch. “Get off!” we screamed simultaneously, waving the masons off the arch. Thankfully, all got off safely as the crack widened and the roadway formed a peak in the middle.
“O’Brien is under there!” I shouted to Young. He ran to where he could leap off the road, and I followed, screaming the name of my friend.
The entire arch thundered down into a cloud of dust and rubble. Where is he? Dread gripped me like an iron claw. Dear God, let him be safe.
Patrick ran up to me. “Where’s my da?”
I laid my hand on the young man’s shoulder but could not meet his eyes. “We’ll find him.”
Soon, dozens of workers and bystanders gathered at the site. Young organized them into sections, and everyone started digging with shovels, pickaxes, and bare hands. More and more people arrived, curious onlookers and helpers alike. Police placed barricades to control the crowds.
Through the afternoon, we dug. I found a wheelbarrow and carted away jumbles of debris—brick, dirt, mortar, and stone—and all the while, I hoped and prayed we would find O’Brien alive.
Exhausted, I sat on a rubble heap, watching workers leave the site as sunset streaked the sky. Young sat next to me, cradled his head in his hands. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Roebling.”
“It’s not your fault, Mr. Young.”
“No. About this.”
Young uncurled his filthy and blood-crusted fist to reveal something shining through a coat of dirt. He passed the tiny object to me, his eyes dark pools of sorrow. His arm supported me as the blood drained from my face. Without further inspection, I knew it was a silver locket. I sniffed back tears. Young’s shoulders heaved as he wept in silence. He and O’Brien had worked together for nearly eight years.
I had to find Patrick. I patted Young’s shoulder and left him to his grief. Soon, I found O’Brien’s son. He too rested on a pile of rubble, his young face hollowed by shadows cast by a dimming sun. I sat next to him and pressed the locket into his palm, closing each of his fingers, one for each sibling, around it. He held my gaze with his for a few moments, then held me as we sobbed and sobbed as dusk turned into night.
* * *
I couldn’t face my husband. My heart leaden with grief, a profound sense of failure tearing me apart, I couldn’t explain to him how we had lost someone we both held so dear. Martin or Young might risk Wash’s wrath and notify him, but I was physically and mentally spent. I caught the ferry to Manhattan and watched the lights of the Brooklyn riverfront fading into the distance through my tears. My mind jumbled, replaying the horror.
I found PT in his downtown office, keeping his usual late hours. This office was even more ornate than the last, and his beloved monogrammed door had found its way back to Manhattan, giving me a small sense of stability in my distraught state.
He was quick to hold and comfort me, despite my dirty hands and ragged clothing.
“I don’t know how I’m going to face Wash. He’s so fragile these days.”
“He’s been through war and lost many workers on the bridge. I think he’s strong enough, Emily.”
“You don’t understand. He’ll blame me. O’Brien was special to him. To both of us.”
“Yes, I know of your affection for Mr. O’Brien.”
“Then you know how difficult this is.”
“I am sorry for your loss. But I can’t be a receptacle for all your sorrows. You yourself have insisted on a relationship that would raise no scorn.”
“This moment, I am in need of a supportive friend. Wash is… He’s been through so much. And now, between the two of us, we’ve created six orphans.”
PT pulled out a handkerchief and wiped my cheek, no doubt streaked with filth and tears. “I know, and again, I am truly sorry. But here is my dilemma. I have respected your need for emotional distance during this project. Yet you come here now for comfort I would be happy to give but that is at the same time forbidden.” He rounded his hands upon my shoulders. “Out of respect for me and your husband, you need to sort this out with him.”
I was dumbstruck. I wanted him to calm me, take away some of the pain, as he had so many times before. But he was right. It was unfair for me to take advantage of his giving nature when I could not give of myself. I needed to respect the boundaries I had insisted upon.
“Go home,” he added, his voice gentle. “You are stronger than you think. You and Washington will get through this.” He tucked his handkerchief into my palm. “And then, dear Peanut, when this is over and you are ready to imagine another life, a life full of the sort of merriment you deserve, then I will be here for you.”
I twisted the now grimy cloth, imagining Wash being assaulted with this news all alone, as surely Martin or Young would tell him. PT’s words floated in air, tainted by my own selfishness.
I hurried to catch the last ferry home, then dragged myself up Columbia Heights on foot. The streetlamps threw deep shadows, profiling Wash in the middle of the street, hugging our son. Until this moment, I hadn’t considered how my sweet nine-year-old would feel about the tragedy. O’Brien had been like a second father to him.
“I’m sorry, Son,” Wash said. Their heads turned at the click of my heels on the cobblestones.
“I hate her, and I hate that bridge!” Johnny ran into the house.
Wash glared at me. I braced myself for the tongue-lashing I was about to receive. Willed it, almost. His words couldn’t possibly make me feel worse, and perhaps their battering against me would help free my soul from its deep and lonely pain.
He squeezed my upper arms, firmly, not with affection. “I was happy to hear you were uninjured.” Then his words stabbed at me like knives: “poor judgment,” “careless,” and, curiously, “still showing off at the dance while the soldiers lay dying.”
I said little to defend myself, as he had a right to his fury. We remained in the middle of the street. Neighbors opened windows in curiosity, then slammed them shut.
He guided me back to the house, dangling his pocket watch in my face. In a low growl, he chastened, “Where have you been? Johnny has been a wreck, worried about you.”
“I…”
He stopped at our front stoop, arms across his chest. “Why did I learn of this from my foreman?”
“I’m sorry. That was something I could not bring myself to do.” I forced myself to meet his eyes. “It took all my strength to get through this evening. I found someone to talk to so that I could start to make sense of all this.”
“Oh, indeed,” Wash said, his voice bitter. “And who might this tender ear belong to?”
“P. T. Barnum.”
His eyes blazed, and his jaw clenched in a flash of his father’s ill temper. “So this is what I came back to.” He rubbed his eyes with his fists. “I’m exhausted. I’m sure you are as well.”
“Let’s go in.” I stepped toward the house, but Wash caught my elbow.
“I’ll leave after the funeral. It’s probably better for all concerned that I spend more time in Trenton.” He limped into the house.
I remained for a long time gazing at the stars, bewildered and utterly alone.
* * *
Wash said little regarding the tragedy. I hoped he wanted to spare me the horror of reliving the accident. He also buried his anger at my visit to PT, another deep wound left to fester.
By the day of the funeral, I had pushed away so many feelings that I was numb inside. Wash handled the solemn ceremony with grace, reciting the words of Longfellow:
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
I mourned, not only for O’Brien but for Wash and myself as well. He seemed to gather strength from the poem, although not enough to keep him home, fighting for his bridge…and for his wife.