Chapter Forty
On a balmy morning in May, Assistant Engineer George McNulty called a meeting of the contractors. As they gathered in front of the construction shed, Michael came along side Angus Roy. “What’s this about?”
“I dunno, laddie. Maybe there’s another strike in the offing.”
McNulty stepped out of the shed and raised his hands for quiet.
“Gentlemen, I have an announcement to make. Mr. Roebling has decided to halt further digging in the caisson.”
A murmur of disbelief rippled through the assembled men. “Have we hit bedrock?” a contractor asked.
“No, but Mr. Roebling has decided that the sand it is resting on will be sufficient.”
Michael spoke up. “Mr. McNulty, are you saying Mr. Roebling is willing to risk piling tons and tons of granite on this foundation?”
“He is.”
“What if the caisson continues to sink? The bridge will come down.”
“And your name, sir?”
“Michael Ranahan.”
“Are you an engineer, Mr. Ranahan?”
Michael reddened. “No, I am not.”
“Then I suggest you let the engineers concern themselves with the integrity of the bridge. Thank you, gentlemen.”
Later, Michael met Gaylord, who had just come from interviewing George McNulty, in a saloon on Water Street.
They took their beers to a table in the back away from the noisy bar.
“Why did they stop digging?” Michael asked.
“The Brooklyn caisson hit bedrock at forty-four feet, but the New York caisson is at seventy-eight feet and still has not hit bedrock. Mr. Roebling was becoming more and more concerned with the increased cases of caisson disease, so he made a decision that the New York caisson, which is sitting on sand, was safe right where it was.”
“My God, what if he’s wrong?”
Gaylord drained his mug. “Only time will tell.”
As the work continued in a steady pace, the bridge began to take shape. The Brooklyn anchorage was started in February 1873, the New York anchorage in May 1875. The Brooklyn tower was completed June 1875. And so, it went.
On a Friday morning in August of 1876, Michael made sure he got to work early so he could witness the spectacle. The press had been notified in advance that one E. F. Farrington, master mechanic, was going to ride a cable spanning the Brooklyn and New York towers. He would be the first man to use the bridge to cross the East River from Brooklyn to Manhattan.
Although the purpose of the trip was to demonstrate to New Yorkers that the cables that spanned the East River were safe, thousands of curious spectators crowding docks and ferry boats had come to watch. Scores of ships of every description anchored in the East River to observe this unprecedented event.
At one in the afternoon, a boatswain’s chair was attached to the traveler at the Brooklyn anchorage and the fifty-year-old Farrington climbed into it. The boatswain chair, pulled by an engine, set off on its journey as cannons fired and whistles blew from ships below. A surprised Farrington, who hadn’t expected a crowd to witness his journey, waved his hat to the throng below. The journey from the Brooklyn side to the New York side took twenty-two minutes.
When Farrington came down, he was mobbed by bridge workers who congratulated him and slapped him on the back. Bottles of whiskey were surreptitiously passed around. And then it was back to work for everyone.
Michael and Emily were having lunch at home on a crisp afternoon in March of 1877. As they were finishing, Peter came home.
“What are you doing here?” Michael asked. “Don’t you have classes?”
“Something’s come up that’s more important.”
“What’s more important than school?” Emily asked.
“I am going to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge today,” he announced proudly.
“You mean on that footbridge that was put in place for the use of the bridge workers?” Michael asked.
“The same.”
Emily was shocked. “You can’t do that, Peter, it’s too dangerous.”
“Ma, the bridge workers use it every day.”
Emily looked at her husband for support, but he merely shrugged. “He’s right. Workers cross that footbridge every day.”
“But Peter is not a worker,” she pointed out emphatically. “That footbridge sounds dangerous and our son should not be risking his life for… for… Why do you want to cross the bridge?”
“I’m going to write an article for my college newspaper.”
“You need special permission to walk that bridge,” Michael said. “How did you get it?”
Peter grinned. “Uncle Gaylord.”
Emily shook her head. “I might have known. Is he going with you?”
“No, he’s afraid of heights.”
“And depths,” Michael added.
“Do you want to come, Da?”
“Absolutely not,” Emily said. “Your father is too old to be doing anything that reckless.”
“Emily, I’m only fifty-six. I think I can still walk across a bridge.”
“Well, not this one and that’s final.”
At two that afternoon, Michael and Peter reported to the construction shed on the Brooklyn side of the bridge.
A rail-thin man of indeterminate age with several missing teeth greeted them. “What can I do for you, Mr. Ranahan?”
“My son is here to walk the bridge, Barry.”
“Does he have a letter of permission?”
Peter showed him the letter.
“So, you want to cross the bridge?” he asked, stating the obvious.
“I do.”
“And are you going along, Mr. Ranahan””
“I am. I’ve been watching men crossing that bridge and I think it’s high time I got a look at the view from up there.”
“All right. Come with me.”
He led Michael and Peter up a long ladder to a platform almost at the peak of the tower.
Michael looked around. “My God,” he exclaimed. “I thought the view from the Croton Reservoir was spectacular, but this is even better. Look, Peter you can see New Jersey, and there’s Harlem all the way north.”
But Peter wasn’t interested in the sights. He was staring wide-eyed at the flimsy footbridge made of rope and wooden planks. To his consternation, he saw that the walkway was swaying in the stiff breeze. He looked down at the swirling waters of the East River and gulped. “How high are we?’
“More than two hundred and fifty feet above the water,” Barry said.
“Is this bridge safe?”
Barry scratched his chin. “Well, it hasn’t fallen down yet.”
Michael saw the look of terror in his son’s eyes. “Peter, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”
“There’s no shame in that,” Barry added. “Lots of folks come up here, take one look at that bridge and turn around and come right back down.”
“No. I came here to cross the bridge and by God, I will.”
“A word of caution,” Barry said. “Don’t walk in lock-step like soldiers. If you do, you’ll make that bridge really start to swing and it won’t be pleasant.”
“Barry, what do we do when we get to the other side?” Michael asked.
“There’s a ladder you can climb down or you can turn around and come back. It’s up to youse.”
Michael went first, followed by his son. By the time they got to the center of the bridge, the view was even more spectacular. Michael pointed. “Look, there’s Governor’s Island, and there’s Fort Hamilton, and there’s the Navy Yard.”
Peter had a white-knuckle grip on the rope railings. “Yeah, it’s great. Can we keep moving?”
When they got to the other side, Peter grinned for the first time since he’d set foot on the bridge, grateful that he hadn’t plunged two hundred and fifty feet to his death. “Wow, that was great.”
Michael patted his son on the back, knowing it took all his courage to cross the bridge. “Well done, son. Shall we go down the ladder?”
“No. I want to walk it again.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am.”
Michael nodded. “After you.”
Peter wrote his first-person account of crossing the Brooklyn Bridge to great acclaim from his fellow journalist students at the college. Gaylord also had the article reprinted in the Tribune.