The horses struggled to draw PT’s coach through streets surging with people, some pushing toward the bridge, others fleeing. I feared the horses or carriage wheels would crush anyone who stumbled to the ground in their path. Hordes were shoving and hurtling over the bridge barricades. Some who fell were trampled by others. Men and women staggered by, streaks of blood on their faces, arms held against chests, eyes wild with fright.
Silhouettes of bodies appeared against the darkening sky as they chose to jump or fell into the river. Oh no, oh no. A sea of thrashing bodies filled one of the entrances, a narrow stone stairwell. They climbed over each other to escape while more tumbled upon them from above. Two legs kicked inside an overturned hoop skirt like an upside-down parasol.
Siren bells pierced through the screaming of the mob, and police with shields and bobby sticks beat back the throngs. Along the edges of the crowd, protesters held signs declaring Bridge Unsafe! Built on Sand! Built by Imposter!
The carriage stopped, the crowd too dense for us to proceed any farther. PT climbed out and whacked a path with his walking stick to get closer to the bridge. I followed with Martin, my heart hammering in my chest, fearing for our safety. Soon, PT was overpowered and in danger of being trampled. We linked arms and threaded our way back to the carriage.
When the chaos subsided, Martin stepped out to speak to some police officers, and I pushed against the tide of escapers toward the bridge. It had no apparent impairment. What had caused the pandemonium? I tried to detain several of the fleeing pedestrians for an explanation, but they shook me off in their haste. At last, one disheveled woman, stopping to catch her breath, answered me.
“I was up top, near the barricade. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of people on the bridge.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Everything was fine, then we heard screams. We got pushed first from the New York side, then from the Brooklyn. People were falling.”
“Were you injured?”
She shook her head. “I tried to stop and help, but they all kept on trampling them.”
“But why?” I walked beside her.
“Bridge isn’t safe. Best to get out of here ’less you want to get trampled as well.” She hustled away.
I whirled around, hoping to find another person willing to talk, when a large woman ran smack into me. She gripped the hand of a little girl who held a small sign.
“Mama, it’s her.” She pointed squarely at me.
The mother glared at me, then spat. She tugged the little girl after her and they fled, but not before I saw a likeness of my face on the sign.
Working my way back to the carriage, I received little more information. With its gaudy gold lettering illuminated by the glare of the new streetlamps, the coach was hard to miss. PT offered a hand to help me into the coach. Across from me, Martin examined a poster, another copy of the one the little girl had held. He took a quick glance, then crumpled it, his face contorted in anger.
I took the wadded paper from his hand, flattened the wrinkles, and held it toward the gas lamp. It featured a large likeness of me and the words: IMPOSTER, BRIDGE UNSAFE, BUILT ON SAND, WOMAN TO BLAME, and WIRE SCANDAL!
I handed PT the poster. The carriage rocked as the crowd tried to push against it, their hands thundering on the sides. We all cried out as the carriage tilted. PT rang a signal bell and banged on the roof with his palm. The horses pulled, and we crept forward.
The scene repeated against my closed eyelids, my cheeks flaming with humiliation and horror. PT laid a comforting arm across my shoulder. I opened my eyes; Martin stared hot daggers at me, then at PT. The screams and sirens assaulted our ears like gunfire. Crimson splatters marked each of our clothes from contact with the fleeing crowd. A wave of nausea hit me at the warm, musky smell of blood.
* * *
Well into the next morning, I remained curled up in bed. Grief, the elephant on my chest, wouldn’t allow the stretching of arm or leg or even a deep sigh of resignation. Stubborn determination had led me into this state of horror, but no will of my own could lead me out.
Wash sat at his desk under the window, writing bank checks and peering through his telescope at the bridge. One of the checks no doubt would be addressed to Patrick O’Brien. The thought of his father’s death made me want to curl tighter, the quilt my protective shell.
“No workers on the bridge. Not even guards. Strange.” Wash licked a stamp.
“Our world is collapsing, and you’re worried about guards?”
“Our world isn’t collapsing. This is just a temporary setback.” He organized envelopes into a neat stack.
“Twelve people crushed to death is hardly a minor setback.”
“Many factors were involved, none which were under our control. The bridge is sound.”
His unflappable attitude made me shudder. “Not true. My involvement was totally under our control.”
He spun around in his wheeled chair and faced me. “You need to get out of bed.”
“No.” I was done taking his orders.
“I’ll make you.”
I appraised him in his chair, gave a cruel laugh. “You can’t.” I wished him to go away and stay away this time. Guilt from my own thoughts punched my gut.
“I will.”
“Ha!”
“Come on. Get up. We’ve a life to live.”
“What life? You’re a wreck. I’m a disgrace. I’m almost glad GK didn’t live to see this.”
He hobbled to the bed. Yanked away my quilt. “That’s an awful thing to say.”
Although my recalcitrant body flopped like a dead fish, he pulled me up. I was surprised by his strength as he held me firmly but not without affection.
“You would use your last ounce of strength to remove your wife from your bed?”
“There’s more work to be done.”
“So that’s the extent of wallowing allowed in the Roebling household.” I reached for the quilt. “For me of course. Present company excluded.”
“Em, it’s by your strength alone we have gotten this far. We’re so close to the finish. Now you need to get up, move on, and be the heroine that I know you are.”
So like the bridge, with iron determination and heart of stone, he confounded my efforts to escape his will.
* * *
Wash was correct: our work remained unfinished. PT was helpful during those difficult days, bringing bits of news to us—good or bad—so we might concentrate on our next steps. Late one afternoon, soon after the panic, he brought a newspaper with the bold headline: “Bridge Closed! Questions of Competence Create Panic.” Below it was the same photograph of me featured on those awful posters.
“Godforsaken papers, promoting mass hysteria,” Wash grumbled. “Let’s throw the blame squarely where it should lie.”
“They’re right. I had no business—”
“Blame, blame. Who’s to blame?” PT said. “Stop beating yourself about the head. Not enough police for the size of the crowd. That’s it. Nothing else.”
“There’s more involved.” I waved PT over and pointed to a picture of Stone in the newspaper. “I fell into his trap like everyone else.”
“Whose trap?” Wash asked.
“Benjamin Stone. He had something to do with it.”
PT gave me a consoling pat on the shoulder. Wash glared at him.
“I have an idea,” I said. “We could hold a demonstration to generate public attention while at the same time prove the bridge’s strength.”
“Ooh.” PT perked up. “Now you are smack in my bailiwick.”
He put a hand on my sleeve as he showed me his pocket watch—we had an appointment soon. I was to deliver yet another speech to the bridge board that evening.
“Would you mind stepping away from my wife?” Wash said.
“Pardon?” PT asked. “Emily, it’s almost time to go. We can talk about your idea on the way.”
“Are you deaf? Get away from my wife!”
My jaw dropped at Wash’s sudden anger.
“Now, now, we’re all a bit on edge,” PT crooned as he helped me with my wrap.
Wash was out of his chair, his face apoplectic with fury and…what? Jealousy? He shoved PT in the chest. I blinked with disbelief. Men! I headed for the door, relieved that it was time to leave.
“Come along, PT.”
But PT stood his ground, smirking. “Hmm. Someone has found his manhood.”
Wash landed a fist on his nose.
“Mr. Roebling!” I shouted.
PT staggered back, his face bloodied. I offered my handkerchief, but he straight-armed me away, his other hand cupping his nose. While nudging him toward the door, I glanced back at my husband. He patted the whimpering dog, which seemed more upset about the event than did Wash. He consoled his best friend as I did mine.
It was probably not the best decision to leave with PT at that particular moment, but I wasn’t sure it was a decision at all. We were late, PT needed a talking-to, and I needed his support before a critical appearance before the board. I was carrying on with business, whatever the detritus left behind.