1882
On a steamy August afternoon, I traveled up to Cold Spring to celebrate the publication of Carrie Beebe’s second book with her friends. Mother, ever the gracious hostess, served tea and sandwiches as we perused copies spread across the dining room table. Being a rather ungracious guest desperate to cool off, I slipped slices of cucumber off of a tray and onto my sweaty forehead, then shrugged my shoulders at the women’s giggles.
The women were curious about the wire scandal, having witnessed the deadly consequences firsthand, and I had brought along samples of both the inferior wire and the wire we had specified.
“Using inferior wire. When John Roebling invented proper wire himself.” Mother shook her head as she passed the samples to Carrie.
“The committee made the decision on the supplier. We had to abide by it, Mother.”
“Frightful. Switching good wire for bad in the dark of the night and risking the whole project.” Carrie shook her head as she bent the wires one by one.
“Thankfully, John’s design has a huge margin of safety, and Roebling wire was used for all the suspenders. Nevertheless, I must apologize again for subjecting you ladies to that terrible sight.”
“No, we should apologize to you,” Eleanor said.
She was always so sweet, I half expected the other ladies to roll their eyes at this ridiculous reversal of culpability—after all, I was in charge. But instead, they exchanged glances and nodded in agreement.
“I don’t understand.” I said. The room was stifling. I fanned myself with Carrie’s book.
“It should not have taken that gruesome event for us to act,” Eleanor said as if this clarified matters, but I was still in the dark.
“Quite so.” Until now, Henrietta had busied herself in Carrie’s book, no doubt seeking references to herself.
“Mother, what are they talking about?”
Henrietta answered for her, removing her reading glasses from her beaky nose. “Don’t be naive, dear. How do you suppose those contracts were switched to Roebling’s Sons?”
“Politicians have their price,” Mother added as she refilled teacups. The ladies fanned themselves and the teacups.
“I thought they were the lowest bidder. No? Who convinced the committee to change the award?”
They smiled smugly back at me.
“You did? But you don’t even have a vote!”
Carrie, her soft voice barely audible, said, “There is something even more powerful than votes to a politician.”
“Money,” Mother, Henrietta, and Eleanor answered in unison, laughing.
“Still, some people should be in jail.” Henrietta bobbed her head decisively, her unruly nest of gray hair adding emphasis.
“It’s a filthy scandal that should see the light of day,” Mother agreed. Her housemaid brought out a chunk of ice from the icebox. Mother took the ice pick from the maid and stabbed at the ice herself.
“Ah, but there are also scandals that shouldn’t see the light of day,” Henrietta added with a conspiratorial grin. She plunked a shard of ice into her tea.
Eleanor jabbed an elbow into Henrietta’s ribs.
“Is there something else I should know about?” I asked, mulling over their casual indifference to the use of political coercion.
Chip, chip, chip. Mother hacked at the ice, her lips pursed with words she held back.
“Henrietta, I’m tired of your gossiping.” Eleanor sipped her tea with her pinky pointed skyward.
“Why, I didn’t—”
“What Henrietta is alluding to but in typical fashion isn’t coming right out and saying plainly is the matter of Emily’s relationship with Mr. Barnum.”
“Now who’s the gossip, Eleanor?” Henrietta rubbed her bodice where Eleanor had poked her.
I sighed. I thought we had gotten past this nonsense. “What are people saying?”
“It’s nothing. A bunch of jealous old women entertaining themselves at the expense of a true heroine.” Eleanor smiled, trying to smooth over her indiscretion, but it was as if a skunk had snuck into the garden.
Chip, chip, chip. The ice chunk finally gave way, and we each grabbed a shard to rub on our hot skin.
Later, after the ladies had departed, Mother dismissed the help, and we washed the dishes ourselves. She trusted no outsider with the delicate family heirlooms.
“You can tell me. I won’t judge.” She handed me a saucer to dry. “Mind the gold verge.”
I dabbed at the delicate china with a white cotton cloth. “It’s rather complex.”
“Marriage always is. Do you love him?”
I set my lips. It was unlike Mother to pry like this, preferring to meddle in more subtle ways. “I love Washington, of course.”
She stacked dry dishes into the cupboard with a clatter. “Do you love another?”
“You mean PT?” I rubbed my temples.
She affirmed with a glance. I considered reminding her my marriage was none of her business, wrestled with the desire to declare my adult status once again. But for all her pushing and prodding, I knew she always had my best interests in mind. The crinkles around her eyes deepened in concern. I wanted to answer the question I was still asking myself.
“Afraid so.” I lowered my eyes. “If I could bind the best of them together, I’d have one perfect man.”
She folded and refolded the drying towels, hand pressing their wrinkles. “Of all my children, you’re the only one who finds herself in these predicaments. And do you know why?” She rested her hand on my shoulder and waited until our eyes met. “Because enough is never enough for you.”
“You promised not to judge.”
“I’m not the judge you should be worried about. Notoriety is not your friend right now. And I can’t keep this out of the papers forever.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you think?”
Of course, being well respected and moderately wealthy, my mother wielded some power and influence. It had never occurred to me that she had been using it. There were a number of gossip rag newspapers that obtained a significant share of their revenue from keep-quiet payments. I wasn’t sure if Mother’s involvement in this was right or wrong and was still digesting the revelation when a knock at the door broke the tension. I practically skipped over to answer.
A messenger in a blue uniform, bearing a telegram, greeted me and caused me to gasp. Messengers were rarely a good omen. My mind raced back to Rhode Island, where Wash and Johnny were. Good God, let them be all right. But the telegram was addressed to Mother. She came, drying her hands on a dish towel, and I offered her the pale yellow envelope. She nodded for me to open it.
Sorry to inform you…death…Gouverneur were the only words I saw. “Mother, I’m afraid it’s GK—we’ve lost him.”
Mother grabbed the note, read it, then fell to her knees clutching the piece of paper bearing news of her son. I helped her to the settee. As we sat there in shock, I wept over the brother who’d been my keeper, in jagged breaths agonizing about how I’d wasted precious time being upset with him. My sweet, kind GK, always concerned with everyone else. A vision: him tapping his heart, something about a goldfish. My God, why didn’t I pay more attention?
Cause of death, liver failure.
“What, what did he—?” Mother choked on the words.
“He died of a broken heart,” I said.
I felt as if my own heart had been torn from my body. I raged at the army, especially General Sheridan. Despite the lives my brother saved through caution and foresight, he was unjustly accused of apathy, relieved of duty, and demoted. Although he went on, building bridges in the west, his boundless enthusiasm never returned.
* * *
We traveled to Newport, Rhode Island, GK’s last duty station, to lay him to rest. This made little sense to me; he would have had an honorable resting place on either side of the Hudson River, so central to our lives.
Perhaps it was due to bitterness that he did not wish to be buried at West Point, his alma mater, but certainly he bore no ill will toward Cold Spring, the idyllic village of our birth. No, he wanted to be buried in plain clothes, with no military honors, near the beach. I had to laugh at his sense of fun and final jab at expectations.
As I sprinkled a handful of the sandy soil onto his casket, I mourned not only for the loss of my beloved brother and protector but for the cruel waste of so much of his career. One wrongful act had spoiled his reputation, leading GK to spend his remaining years battling the very army he had adored.
I committed myself to restoring his legacy as I rode home from the cemetery that solemn August evening. I would commission the finest artists to create life-size sculptures to remind future generations of his importance and create scholarships for future engineers and other bright students, as he had always supported my education. Despite his attempts to the contrary, I was determined that his bravery, patriotism, and sacrifice would never be forgotten.
GK died not knowing if his reputation would be restored. President Hayes convened a special panel that completely exonerated GK. It came three months and an eternity too late.