Manhattan

by Michael Grant

  Michael shrugged. “So?”

  “It’s a waste of time, Father. Why doesn’t he just cut the wood at the wood pile instead of waking back and forth?”

  Michael immediately saw what she was getting at. “You’re right,” he said, impressed by his daughter’s sharp observation. “He is wasting a lot of time. Flynn,” he called out to his foreman.

  Flynn trotted over. “You called?”

  “Go tell young Farley there to cut the wood at the pile and stop flitting about the work site like some silly gobdaw.”

  “Will do.”

  As Flynn left to instruct the worker, Michael said, “Eleanor, thank you for that good observation. Time is money in this business.”

  Eleanor’s eyes shone as she looked around the busy work site. “Father, I love all this. The excitement, the chaos, the dust of the bricks, the smell of newly-cut wood. Can’t I work for you when I’m older?”

  Michael kissed his daughter. “We discussed this before. Your mother and I have decided to send you to college. You’re far too smart to be working with the likes of me.”

  Before Eleanor could protest, Gaylord called out from the street. “Ahoy, there. Permission to come aboard the work site?”

  Michael grinned. “Permission granted.”

  Gaylord bowed to Eleanor. “Have you finally convinced your father to let you work with him?”

  Eleanor frowned. “We were just discussing that, but he said no.”

  “Gaylord, what brings you up to the wilds of uptown New York?” Michael asked.

  “I just wanted to see how you’re progressing.”

  Michael’s eyes swept over the hundreds of busy men working on the site. “We’re ahead of schedule. As you can see, we’re laying the foundation. Soon the walls will be going up.”

  “Good to hear. Listen, Michael. John Roebling is going to be at the Cooper Institute tonight to discuss his bridge. Do you want to come?”

  “Why not? It might be interesting.”

  The muggy sticky day had turned into a muggy sticky evening. Michael, Gaylord, and dozens of curious architects, builders, and members of the press filed into the Cooper Institute building. As they took their seats, Michael realized that this was the same auditorium where he’d heard Abraham Lincoln give his speech nine years earlier. The thought of the dead president still saddened him.

  A group of men came out on the stage and took seats. Of all the men on the stage, Michael recognized only William Tweed, whom the newspapers were now calling, “Boss Tweed.” He looked a lot different from the young man he remembered running for assistant alderman back in 1850. His sparse hair was now dark reddish-brown, but his eyes were still bright blue. He had gained considerable weight in the intervening years. Michael judged him to be at least three hundred pounds.

  He nudged Gaylord. “Who are the others?”

  “John Roebling and his son Washington, Mayor Abraham Oakey Hall, and Martin Kalbfleisch mayor of Brooklyn. I don’t know the others, but I presume they’re directors of the Brooklyn Bridge Company.”

  A stern-visaged John Roebling stepped up to the lectern and pinned the audience with his sunken blue eyes in his deeply lined face. “I have been asked by the directors of the Brooklyn Bridge Company to say a few words about the bridge I propose to build.”

  With an unmistakable German accent, he proceeded to explain in great detail how the bridge would be built. When he finished, he said, “Are there any questions?” His tone said he did not welcome questions. Nevertheless, several hands shot up.

  A reluctant Roebling pointed to Gaylord. “Mr. Roebling, Gaylord Temple from the New York Tribune. You mentioned caissons. Could you explain what they are?”

  Coming to his father’s rescue, Washington Roebling quickly stepped up to the lectern. He knew his father was uncomfortable addressing large audiences. The young Roebling was about thirty years old with a determined square chin. Unlike his stone-faced father, there was a pleasant expression in his light gray eyes.

  “I can answer that. When we talk of a caisson, think of a large wooden box with no top. Now invert it and you have a caisson. In this case, the box will be quite large—an area of some seventeen thousand square feet—with walls almost ten feet high. We’ll position the caisson exactly where we plan to place the tower on the Brooklyn side. As we load granite blocks onto the roof, the caisson will slowly begin to sink toward the bottom. To keep the water out, we will pump compressed air inside. When the caisson strikes sediment, we will send men down to begin digging away the sediment and rock, allowing the caisson to sink lower and lower until it hits bedrock. When we’re sure the caisson is on firm footing, we’ll fill it with cement. Then we will do the same on the New York side. Are there any further questions?”

  Another hand shot up. “Mr. Roebling, how do the men get inside the caisson?”

  “By the use of airlocks. As the container—an elevator, really—in the airlock descends carrying the men, it, too, will be filled with compressed air.”

  “Who will supervise the work of building the bridge?”

  “I will. There must be someone at hand to say yes or no, and it often makes a great difference which word they use,” he added with a smile.

  The whole thing sounded so preposterous that the audience had nothing more to ask, except Gaylord. “One last question, Mr. Roebling. When do you plan to launch the first of these caissons?”

  “We’re targeting next May.”

  After the meeting, Michael and Gaylord retired to McSorley’s to discuss what they’d just heard. Stepping up to the long bar, Gaylord ordered two ales. “Well, what did you think?”

  “A suspension bridge over the East River sounds almost too fantastic to be true. It will be an enormous undertaking.”

  “And a dangerous one at that. Some of these bridges have been known to collapse. I can think of two. In ‘31 a bridge collapsed in England. Then in ‘50, a French suspension bridge collapsed while a battalion of soldiers was marching across it. Over two hundred were killed. Can you imagine how many people would die if the Roebling bridge collapsed loaded with pedestrians and traffic?”

  “It would be terrible,” Michael agreed. “But I’m thinking about those caissons. That sounds like very dangerous work indeed. I wouldn’t want to work down there with all that water surrounding me.”

  Gaylord chuckled. “Fortunately, that’s not the kind of work neither you nor I will ever have to do. Still, I pity the poor blighters who will do the work.”

  Three weeks later, an ashen-faced Gaylord appeared at the door. Emily took his arm. “Gaylord, whatever is the matter?”

  “Mr. Roebling is dead.”

  Michael came to the door. “Gaylord, come in. Which Mr. Roebling?”

  “The father.”

  Seated at the kitchen table, Gaylord explained. “It was a freak accident. Mr. Roebling was standing on a piling at the Brooklyn pier taking compass readings. As a ferry approached the dock he tried to back off the piling, but his boot got caught and the ferry crushed his foot. That was three weeks ago. He died today of tetanus.”

  “Oh, my God, that’s terrible. What’s to become of the bridge now?” Emily asked.

  “His son, Washington, will take over as chief engineer.”

  “Will he be able to do it?” Michael asked.

  “Apparently. They say he’s been working closely with his father and understands what must be done.”

  “I’m not surprised. When we heard him speak, I was certainly impressed with the young man. So, the construction of the bridge will continue.”

  “That’s what I’m told.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  1870

  At Sunday dinner, the topic of conversation was the Roebling bridge.

  “The Brooklyn caisson will be towed into position tomorrow,” Gaylord announced.

  “Will you be there to report it?” Emily asked.

  “Indeed, I will. Mr. Greeley is very keen on seeing this bridge built. He’s written seve
ral editorials declaring that the cities of New York and Brooklyn must be united, pointing out that Brooklyn is the third-largest city in America.”

  “Can I go with you tomorrow?” Peter asked in a voice high-pitched with excitement.

  Gaylord looked from Emily to Michael. “Only if your parents agree.”

  “Of course he may go,” Emily said, laughing. “I don’t think we could keep him away.”

  “But mind,” Michael warned his son, “if Uncle Gaylord should manage to get a ride on the caisson, you will not go with him. Is that understood?”

  “But why not?”

  “Because I don’t trust the whole enterprise. Mr. Roebling described the caisson as a giant inverted box. The currents in the East River can be fierce. What if it should tip over? The whole thing would sink like a rock.”

  “No need to worry on that account,” Gaylord said. “I have no intention of being carried down the East River on, as you say, a floating box. However, I am ashamed to say that in spite of my misgivings, Mr. Roebling, Mr. Kingsley, the project coordinator of the bridge, and several others plan to ride on the caisson”

  “I want to work inside the caisson,” Dermot said, with unaccustomed excitement in his voice.

  “You will do no such thing,” Emily said, startled by the very idea of her son imprisoned in a box beneath the East River.”

  “Why not? You’re always telling me I need to find employment. I hear they’re going to pay more than two dollars a day for the work. That’s more than Da pays his men.”

  “They’re paying more because it’s dangerous and dirty work,” Michael pointed out.

  “I don’t care. It’s a lot of money,” Dermot muttered.

  “When will they begin to lower the caisson, Uncle Gaylord?” Eleanor asked.

  “Probably within the next two weeks.”

  Emily noticed Gaylord had suddenly gone pale. “What’s the matter, Gaylord? Are you ill?”

  The newspaperman swallowed hard. “When the caisson reaches the sediment, the Brooklyn Bridge Company is going to offer a tour of the caisson for the press.”

  “That sounds exciting,” Eleanor said.

  “Not, my dear, if you are claustrophobic.”

  “Oh, goodness,” Emily said. “Is there any way to get out of it?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Then he looked sideways at Peter. “Unless, young Peter here would like to take my place.”

  “Yes, please. Please.”

  “Calm down,” Michael said. “Your Uncle Gaylord is only jesting with you.”

  “But I would do it,” Peter said confidently. “What a story it would be!”

  Gaylord tilted his wine glass toward the young man. “I’m sure you would make an admirable job of it, Peter. But, alas, if I hope to retain my position of employment, I will have to descend to the depths of the roiling East River.”

  “Do you think I might go with you?” Michael asked impulsively.

  Emily put her fork down. “Michael, it sounds dangerous down there. Gaylord has to go, but there’s no reason for you to risk your life.”

  “This wouldn’t be some kind of lark, Emily. The Eldridge mansion is almost done. It’s time I started looking for new work.”

  “And you’d like to work on the bridge?” Eleanor asked, her eyes aglow at the possibilities.

  “Why not? I hear there’s plenty of work. Do you think you can get me down there, Gaylord?”

  “I don’t see why not. I got you into City Hall posing as a new reporter to view President Lincoln’s body, didn’t I? I don’t see why we can’t use that ruse again.”

  On a drizzly April morning, an apprehensive Gaylord reluctantly made his way to the Brooklyn pier. When he got there, Michael and a small crowd of reporters representing the dozens of newspapers in the city were already milling about. Gaylord recognized several of the reporters from the New York Times, the World, the Police Gazette, and the National Intelligencer.

  Michael grinned at his friend’s pale and serious demeanor. Usually one with a witty joke, he looked positively funereal.

  “Gaylord, you look like you’re on the way to the gallows.”

  “I think I’d prefer that to drowning in the East River like a wharf rat.” He turned to a reporter from Harpers Weekly. “What do you think, Harry, are we all going to die down there?”

  Harry, a rotund man with bushy muttonchops, laughed. “Not at all, Gaylord. Besides, this is what we get paid to do.”

  Gaylord gave him a sickly grin. The man sounded confident, but, although it was only seven in the morning, his breath smelled of whiskey.

  “Apparently,” Gaylord whispered to Michael, “my friend Harry has had a couple of drinks to give him Dutch courage.”

  A serious looking young man, no more than twenty-one, with a high starched collar and a handlebar mustache stepped out of the construction shed.

  “Gentlemen, please gather around.” When they were in a group, he said, “My name is George McNulty. I’m one of the assistant engineers on the project. I will be leading you down to the caisson in groups of five.”

  There was a murmur of disappointment. The reporters assumed that Washington Roebling himself would lead the tour. While McNulty explained the procedures to be followed, two assistants handed each man a pair of rubber boots.

  “Are these necessary?” Gaylord asked.

  The man laughed. “If you want to come out of the caisson with your shoes, I’d advise you to put on the boots.”

  McNulty pointed at Michael, Gaylord, and three other reporters. “You five will be first. Please follow me.”

  He led them out onto the caisson past swarms of men moving and positioning granite blocks to an opening in the caisson. Gaylord looked down into the dimly lit round hole and swallowed hard.

  “This is the airlock. We will climb down the ladder one at a time.” McNulty pointed at Gaylord. “Sir, you will go first.”

  With shaky hands, Gaylord went down the ladder into the cast iron airlock lit only by a calcium lamp.

  Gaylord was startled to see a man already there. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the operator.”

  “Is this apparatus safe?”

  “Of course. Haven’t I been operatin’ it for a week now?”

  The airlock, made of half-inch boilerplate, was six feet in diameter and seven feet high. The confined space made Gaylord’s heart pound in his chest.

  When the others were all in the airlock, McNulty pulled down an iron hatch on the ceiling and locked it. The operator turned a valve and compressed air flooded the elevator.

  Gaylord stuck his fingers in his ears and winced. “Ow! My ears hurt. Is that normal?”

  McNulty nodded. “It is. We don’t begin a descent until the gauge shows that the air pressure inside the airlock is the same as the air pressure inside the caisson.”

  When the air pressure was equalized, the operator began the slow descent as the airlock bumped against the sides of the cylinder. When the airlock stopped, the operator opened a hatch in the floor. Immediately, warm, muggy air smelling of rotten eggs, the sea, and unidentified decaying organisms rushed into the capsule.

  One by one they climbed down a ladder into the caisson, blinking to adjust to the dim light of calcium lamps. The ceiling was less than ten feet high, making the space all the more claustrophobic. The huge space was partitioned off with wooden walls and wide doorways to permit workers to move from one area to another.

  The wall and ceilings were covered with a glistening coat of mud and there were standing puddles of water. All the workers wore rubber boots and Gaylord realized why they were necessary. With every step he took the mud threatened to suck the boots off his feet. When he saw the workers walking on planks over the mud, he did the same.

  McNulty led them to the outside wall where the workers were digging out a huge boulder that was preventing the caisson from sinking. “We try to dig out the boulders, but if they’re too big, we use explosives to break the rock into more manageable p
ieces.”

  The men chuckled at the high and thin sound of his voice that down there made him sound like a girl.

  “How much progress do you make in a week of digging?” Michael asked.

  “About six inches a week.”

  “Only six inches?”

  “We’re boring down through basalt and trap rock. It’s quite time consuming.”

  Gaylord glanced uneasily at the ceiling, which was dripping water, and tried not to think about the tons of granite and water over his head. “Are there any ill-effects from working down here?” he asked the young engineer.

  McNulty shrugged. “Some complain of headaches, itchy skin, bloody noses, and slowed heartbeats.” Then grinning, he added, “But there are some who claim they have an increase in appetite.”

  “Is it always this hot down here?” Michael asked.

  “Yes. Even on the coldest winter day the temperature down here is in the upper eighties.”

  Michael looked around at the scores of men shoveling sediment into wheelbarrows. “Mr. McNulty, I don’t understand something. What makes the caisson sink deeper into the sediment?”

  “You see it right there,” McNulty said, pointing to a man filling a wheelbarrow with sediment. “Shovel full by shovel full as we remove more and more sediment, the caisson will slowly sink to the bedrock. Now, if there are no further questions, we can go back up.”

  Glad to be at the surface again, Gaylord was the first to scramble up the ladder. As soon as they stepped off the pier, Gaylord grabbed Michael’s sleeve. “Let’s find a saloon. I need a drink.”

  Michael glanced at his pocket watch. “It’s only after eight.”

  “I don’t care. I need a drink.”

  They found a saloon a couple of blocks away from the pier. Apparently, Gaylord wasn’t the only one who needed to steady his nerves. Several of the reporters who’d gone down into the caisson were there as well.

  Gaylord ordered whiskey, which he promptly knocked down in one gulp. Slapping the bar with his palm, he said, “I’ll have another, bartender.”