1883
The first months of the year I was to turn forty were spent supervising the completion of the roadway, painting, and other finishing touches on the bridge. With the reinforcements we had added, Wash harbored no doubts regarding soundness but worried that pedestrians would be unnerved by vibration as horses galloped across it. He urged me to drive a buggy across at the earliest opportunity and report back to him.
The press caught wind of this, and my test turned into a publicity stunt. So we borrowed two fine horses and a coach with a folding roof for the journey, although not one emblazoned with Barnum’s Circus and Museum, much to PT’s disappointment. I chose a sumptuous blue silk dress for the occasion and had C. C. Martin stand by to detect any movement of the bridge.
I was to meet Franklin Edson, the mayor of New York, and his entourage on the other side. Good manners dictated a gift for His Honor, so I had the driver stop at one of the Chinese markets on the way. I rushed into the shop where the owner greeted me with a pleasant smile. We had a bit of a language barrier but had always managed to communicate.
“Rooster,” I said.
He pointed to the plucked birds hanging in nooses in the window.
I shook my head, stuck my thumbs in my armpits, and flapped my elbows. “Er-ah er-ah roooo.”
“Ah.” He nodded and waved me to a back room, where chickens cackled and the air was thick with the odor of their droppings. He picked up a hatchet.
“No.” I pushed down his hatchet and selected a fine white rooster from the dozens of caged, raucous birds. “A symbol of good luck and the victory of light over darkness.”
The shop owner tilted his head in confusion.
“From the Bible? Never mind.” I offered a handful of coins to pay for the rooster and cage.
He picked up a newspaper and pointed to a story on my bridge ride. “No charge.” He waved my hand away. “Good luck.”
Outside, the driver paced in front of the carriage.
“Will you put the roof down, please?” I asked. “The rooster would like to see the view.”
The driver’s eyes widened, but he did as I asked.
The cock crowed all the way to the river, entertaining the crowds that had gathered in the streets. We rode up the long approach with the police clearing the way. After clearing the construction barrier, the horses stepped gingerly onto the roadway. Patches of open water could be seen through the boards of the incomplete flooring. I fought the urge to grab the reins myself, not knowing how well the driver would react if the horses panicked. If I was sweating, the horses were surely uneasy as well.
But the driver proved competent and the horses steady. I relaxed back into the seat. In the middle of the bridge, at the bottom of the catenary curve of the giant cables, I had the driver stop. It was eerily quiet, save the sputtering of the horses. Even the rooster had hushed.
A light wind blew upriver, and I sat still to detect any sway. Then I stepped out ahead of the carriage and had the coachman drive past me. The bridge remained steady; nary a vibration touched my feet. I spun, seeing the whole of the East River Bridge. The grandeur of the towers, the grace of the cables, the harp strings of the suspenders took my breath away. I paused facing our home where I suspected Wash was watching through his telescope. I lifted my arm to him. I hope you are happy, my love.
Soon, too soon, the driver turned to me. “Ma’am?”
The New York entourage had gathered at the other side.
“Thank you. I’m ready.”
* * *
Shaking the hand of the mayor of the greatest city on earth paled in comparison to the transcendent wonder of standing alone in the center of the bridge. Mayor Edson wrinkled his brow at the gift of the crowing rooster, but it certainly added a joyful noise to the festivities.
Later, I reassured Wash that the bridge felt as steady as the street outside our door.
“I’m so glad you were the first, my dear.” He smiled as he patted Chaucer’s broad head.
A warm feeling filled me within. I had been the first person to both walk and ride across the bridge, and Wash had orchestrated both events. He had allowed those moments of triumph to be mine. Despite all my mistakes and setbacks, our misunderstandings and arguments, he did appreciate what I had done.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Well deserved.”
I kissed him tenderly, combing my fingers through his graying hair. “I love you.”
He nodded and didn’t flinch at my touch. For a moment, the brilliance returned to his eyes, and the pain receded from his face. What sad irony, for a man who had taken such comfort in physical contact to have become unable to bear it. I hoped that time was healing this as well.
* * *
In April, crowds gathered daily at both ends of the bridge. By early May, people were sneaking onto the entire span. Additional police were retained to man barricades while the roadways were prepared for traffic, electric lights installed, and tracks laid for trains.
On a sultry evening, I was in a hurry to get home and grew annoyed by the loitering throngs. I stepped down a stone alley to a hidden passageway. Little girls gathered flowers that had sprung up under the protective shield of the bridge—daisies with bright yellow faces straining toward the sun.
One of the girls rubbed the top of her head and tilted her face up to the bridge. The other children stopped playing, watching in amazement as coins and other small objects fell around them. A parasol tumbled from the side of the bridge. We would have to expand safety measures, request even more police. Probably not a safe place to play anymore. I shooed the children away, then hurried home.
Wash was examining his rock collection in the parlor. I picked up the Brooklyn Eagle and scanned the front page.
“Nice to note your fondness and loyalty to my fashion design.” He nodded at my shabby bloomer costume. I had refused the sewing of any more for some time. “Now that the bridge is nearly finished, perhaps I should turn my talents to dressmaking. I believe I’m ready to conquer the bustle.”
“I’ll be sad to give up my bloomer costume, but I’ll return to proper dress soon, dearest, not to worry.” Although a slight improvement over the voluminous dresses of the ’70s, the bustle was quite a ridiculous contraption.
“That will be a welcome sight to my poor eyes.”
The iceberg had been melting since the night I first rode across the bridge. “Thank you for the bloomer costumes. I’m not sure I ever told you that.”
“Hell, making them is the most fun thing I’ve done in thirteen years.”
“That’s sad. Perhaps if I didn’t fight it so hard, I could have enjoyed sewing.”
“No, you were completely hopeless at it. This”—he tapped the newspaper in my hand—“this is what you were meant to do.”
His words washed over me like a fresh breeze on a hot day. I cocked my head, craving to hear more.
“What do the papers say?” he asked.
Though his mind was already occupied with the news, I smiled inwardly. His simple comment was an enormous compliment.
Reading remained difficult for him, and he relied on me or Johnny for his news. I helped him to the divan. Several dailies and monthlies were neatly stacked on a table beside it.
“This is all about the bridge.” I showed him a wonderful photograph on the front page of Harper’s accompanied by a lengthy article with striking photographs of both Papa and Wash. “The Brooklyn Eagle says ‘Great anticipation for the grand opening next week’ and mentions problems keeping people off the bridge until then.”
“I’m sure the novelty will pass.”
“Don’t be. We need more police. People are coming from as far away as Chicago to see your bridge.”
“Brooklyn’s bridge, dear. And your photograph should be in this article.”
“You nearly lost your life.”
“Ah, but here I am, still above ground.”
I gave him a kiss and sat next to him. “Thank God. But I’ll never forgive myself for letting you back in that caisson.”
He patted my hand. “We’ve been through a great deal, my darling. I look forward to less adventurous years to come.”
“A goal anyone would envy.” Was it possible we’d get through this happy, whole, and together? I dared to hope. And I dared to approach him with an adventure he probably wasn’t anticipating. “Wash, I’ve been thinking I want to study law.”
“Have you now. For what purpose?”
“For the women’s movement. We need women trained in the law so that we may have a say in changing them.”
“Your first hurdle would be to gain acceptance.” He rubbed his beard, a smile peeking from behind his whiskers. “But I have no doubt you could convince a school to accept you.”
“Do you really think so? Is it not too late for me?”
“If not you, then who? You have proven yourself quite a capable woman.”
My spirits rose with fresh dreams. I planted a big kiss on his bristly cheek just as a knock at the door interrupted our discussion.
“I hope it’s not reporters again,” I sighed.
“Comes with the territory, I’m afraid.”
I answered the door. PT and Martin rushed inside without exchanging pleasantries.
“Gentlemen?” I trailed after them.
“Huge problem at the bridge. A panic. People getting crushed. A nightmare,” blurted Martin.
PT remained calm. “We have a coach ready for you should you wish a ride,” he said as serenely as if he were offering a trip to the park.
Wash, unable to rise unaided from the low sofa, gestured for Martin to help him get to the window.
PT took my elbow and led me to the foyer. His sanguine demeanor had disappeared, possibly an act for Wash’s benefit. “I’m so sorry, Emily.”
“What caused the panic?”
“That’s not clear at the moment. Some sort of protest going on. Perhaps someone started pushing or some demolition explosions went off in a nearby construction site. Many people were on the bridge.”
I called to Martin and Wash. “Are you coming? Wash, let’s go!”
“Perhaps it’s better for me to hold the fort here.”
PT caught my arm as I grabbed my hat. “I should warn you,” he said.
“I’ve seen horrible accidents and, yes, death before, PT.”
“Of course. But prepare yourself—some are placing the blame on you.”