Mike had hidden for a while in the back of a dry goods store, pretending to shop while the owner watched him warily for things that might disappear into his pockets. Mike, in turn, watched the street through the front window. Once he had calmed down enough and gotten his confidence back a little, he’d gone in search of his friends. There was strength in numbers, even if the numbers were ten and twelve years old. It hadn’t taken long. Smokes, Mouse, and another boy named Willie who sometimes hung with them were pitching pennies at a stoop just a block from Mike’s place. They were laughing and talking excitedly about how they would go see the opening of the bridge tomorrow afternoon and the fireworks that night. There wasn’t a kid in New York or Brooklyn who wouldn’t want to see that.
Mike ran up as they were talking about their plans. His breathless account of what had happened not a half hour before put an end to that conversation.
“You say you laid ’im out with a chair leg?” Smokes asked incredulously.
“It’s true, I swear. I caught him coming through the hole in the big fence, the one that’s at the back of the green building on Norfolk,” Mike said, his tone somewhere between a plea and a brag. “He had a big fuckin’ knife, but he looked like a clerk. You’ll see. C’mon an’ look if ya don’t believe me.” Mike was actually more interested in backup than in proving he’d brained the clerk. If the bow-tie man was still there and still alive for that matter, it might be smart to have a few of the gang around. Besides, Mike reasoned, there might be more men. He couldn’t be certain, but the man who’d waylaid him by the outhouses weeks before was taller than Mr. Bow-tie. What if he was waiting somewhere for him to return?
“That’s next to my building,” Willie said.
“Right,” Mike agreed, as if this proved his tale somehow. “C’mon! Any you guys got knives?” he asked over his shoulder as they started off. He had left his pocket knife back in his bedroom in his hurry to get out the window. Mouse and Smokes had theirs and even Willie had a small one, so Mike started to feel like he had a small army behind him, equipped for any danger. They marched toward his tenement on Suffolk full of enthusiasm and grim boyish determination. It was probably well for Jacobs that they didn’t find him.
The boys reconnoitered carefully, watching the outside of the building first and scanning the block for strange faces. They’d gone upstairs slowly, pocket knives held at the ready and eyes as big as saucers. The broken door convinced them, as did the rope hanging out Mike’s window. They strained to get a look out at the maze in the back, trying to see if the clerk was still there. They couldn’t see from there, though, and the only way was to go and check. They didn’t find him. They did find the broken chair leg and some blood.
By the time Mike’s grandma got home, he’d cleaned up and stowed the rope under his bed. He told her the door had been like that when he came back from playing with the boys. Break-ins were pretty common things, and nothing seemed to be missing anyway, so she said she’d get some wood to fix the frame with later, and that was that. Despite his worries about bow-tie men coming back again, he didn’t want to worry his grandmother. Besides, he’d done pretty well with the last one to show up at his door. Why worry her? He could take care of himself, he figured. Mr. Bow-tie was likely to have one hell of a headache for a while anyway.
Chapter twenty
Hardly had the last spark died out, when the moon
rose slowly over the further tower, and sent a broad
beam like a benediction across the river.
—THE TRIBUNE
May 24, 1883
The statue seemed to be a rallying point. By 10:00 A.M. the disembodied hand and torch of the Statue of Liberty, recently moved from the Centennial Exhibition at Philadelphia, had started to draw a crowd. It stood at the northwest corner of Madison Square Park and reached nearly as high as the trees around it. But the people weren’t gathered there to see the hand of Liberty. They waited for a glimpse of the president of the United States. Chester A. Arthur was staying at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, just a block and a half south. He was to be the guest of honor at the opening ceremonies. There were hundreds milling about already but he wasn’t scheduled to appear for another two hours.
The opening ceremonies were scheduled for 2:00 P.M. They were to be held in the big iron-and-glass Brooklyn train terminal. Only the important, the politically connected, or the wealthy had gotten the specially engraved invitations from Tiffany’s for that event. Others had received a lesser class of invitation, which allowed them to stroll the bridge before the official opening. By nine o’clock the fence, which had blocked the roadway in New York, was taken down, and anyone with that class of invitation was allowed to walk the span for the first time. It would still be hours before the president, governor, and assorted dignitaries would make their pilgrimage across the bridge. The crowds were already packing the shore on either side of the river. Most businesses were closed by noon. Most of the city was a ghost town by one. It seemed as if at least half the population of the island was packed into the few blocks immediately surrounding the bridge. Up and down the river, and especially all the blocks around the bridge, the crowds pushed and jostled for position. Rooftops were standing room only. Many of the tallest buildings in lower New York hosted bridge parties for invited guests. Street vendors did a nonstop business in ice cream, popcorn, candy, ices, and dozens of different kinds of souvenirs, from buttons to folding fans, all with the image of the Eighth Wonder embossed, like some talisman for the second coming. Flags by the hundreds hung from windows and rooftops. Bunting in red, white, and blue draped and fluttered. It was a carnival, on a scale never before seen in New York. Street musicians and organ grinders added to the din as the thousands upon thousands swirled and eddied, lapping at the shoreline.
On the river and in the harbor, thousands of ships and pleasure craft plied the gray-green waters. It seemed as if everything that would float was dancing gaily on the waves. An agile man almost might walk across the harbor from deck to deck. Dozens of excursion steamers plowed foaming furrows in the harbor as onboard bands played jaunty airs. Some of the biggest carried nearly a thousand passengers. The North Atlantic fleet was there, six giant warships, with blue-jacketed sailors at attention lining the decks and spars. All the while the ferries shuttled through the floating melee, passengers packed so tight they could hardly move, but nobody getting off.
It was twelve-forty, Emily noticed, when the band began to play. The Twenty-third Regiment band in white helmets and blue coats, along with a detachment of artillerists from Fort Hamilton and marines from the Brooklyn Navy Yard, led the way from City Hall. They slowly headed off down Remsen Street, the procession stretching out like a giant accordion as it went. Mayor Low, Emily, and her son John who’d just returned from boarding school in her sparkling, lacquered Victoria, her entourage and about two hundred city officials, bridge trustees, and special guests followed. At precisely the same time, President Arthur stepped into the bright sunshine from the Fifth Avenue Hotel. A roar went up from the crowd. Minutes later the Seventh Regiment band struck up a marching tune and set off down Fifth Avenue. A mounted police escort and twenty-five carriages followed. They turned east on fourteenth, then south at Broadway to City Hall. Cheering crowds lined the route, then followed behind. It took almost an hour to reach City Hall, where the crush was nearly beyond control. Cops sweated and cursed, pushing at the solid mass of humanity to make way for the president. Within ten minutes, the whole entourage set off on foot, with the band playing hard and still leading the way.
The roadways of the bridge were jammed with thousands of special ticket holders. The trustees had issued about thirteen thousand in all. Seven thousand pale-blue tickets were good for admittance to the roadways, the rest were for the ceremonies at the Brooklyn terminal. It seemed that all seven thousand, and then some, lined the roadways as the president strode across on the promenade. The cheering was constant and rolled like a wave across the bridge with him. Mayor Low waited under the soarin
g arches of the Brooklyn tower and watched as the band crested the arch of the span, appearing to rise up slowly from the deck of the promenade, the brass of their instruments sparkling in the sun. At last, as the mayor of Brooklyn greeted the chief executive of the land, a signal flag was dropped. Within seconds the entire fleet commenced firing its guns, rattling windows for miles. Then every ferry, excursion steamer, tug, and anything with a bell or steam whistle started to bellow, scream, toot, and clang. A cheer went up from countless thousands of throats. The band rendered “Hail to the Chief” as loud as their instruments could be made to play and kept playing it over and over, while the citizens bellowed themselves hoarse.
Emily sat in the Brooklyn terminal with six thousand guests around her as the cheer went up. The huge flags hung from the tall glass roof seemed to sway with the rush of air from so many throats. The windows rattled, the very ground shook with the cannonade. Emily beamed as congratulations were heaped upon her. She accepted each graciously, but they blended and ran together until she heard them no longer. Her thoughts were only of Wash, and a chill ran through her as she whispered, “Look what we’ve done!”
She may as well have been alone for all the thought she gave the crowds around her. She could just as well have been back at home with her husband. Washington sat as he had so often, in his study, his field glasses scanning the bridge and river. He hadn’t really been in favor of a big celebration for the opening. Though he’d spent a third of his life on this one bridge, and knew better than anyone its costs and significance, he was more inclined to just put up a sign saying THE BRIDGE IS OPEN. Regardless, he couldn’t suppress the chills that ran down his spine at the spectacle laid out before him. It was amazing. Wash found himself wiping at tears as they rolled down his cheeks. He tried to hold them back, his throat tightening at the effort, but after a time gave it up. It seemed they would come regardless. It wouldn’t have surprised him to know that the words he whispered in the empty room on Columbia Heights were nearly identical to Emily’s.
The department had dropped everything else for the day. The search for Sangree, Emmons, and LeBeau was put off, and every other aspect of the investigation postponed. Every man was needed for the opening ceremonies. The crowds were expected to be the largest ever seen in New York, and Byrnes wanted every available man working the crowds for rowdies and pickpockets. Tom hadn’t liked it, arguing with Byrnes that he should be working at finding the conspirators rather than catching pickpockets and drunks.
Byrnes understood, sympathized even, but finally said, “Look, Tom, the bridge has been inspected. Nothing has been found. Not so much as a bolt out of place. There are cops and soldiers everywhere. Everything that could be done has been done. Their descriptions have been circulated to every precinct. If these fools want to die attempting whatever, this would certainly be a good day for it.”
Tom started to try one last time.
“But—”
Byrnes cut him off.
“Not another word, Detective,” he said with a stern grin and a finger pointed out his office door. “Besides, the trains won’t be running for months yet. If there’s a time to worry, it’ll be then. I’ll see you later,” he called to Tom’s retreating back.
Tom arrested his third pickpocket by two o’clock. Byrnes’s instructions to arrest known pickpockets on sight were carried out zealously. It didn’t matter if a pocket actually had been picked. Fainting women, crushed by the press of people and too-tight corsets, kept the police busy too. Jaffey had spent the last two hours pulling gawkers from lampposts and a variety of other precarious roosts. He’d been vomited on once by a man he found trying to scale the El and hit with a parasol by a woman who demanded that he clear a path for her carriage right down to the river. It was a long hard day to be a cop. All things considered, though, it was a remarkably good-tempered mob, and an air of celebration was everywhere, as if it were the Fourth of July, New Year’s Eve, and Christmas rolled into one.
In all the crush and with all the things he had to do, Tom’s mind was constantly on his meeting tonight. He went over it again and again. He thought of every possible scenario, every improbable event that might occur, and weighed his response to each. Everything rested on it. He risked his future and maybe his life if things got ugly. It was a possibility he’d considered and accepted. It was also a possibility he’d done his best to avoid.
“All will go as planned,” he told himself for the seventeenth time. “Just like clockwork.” He wished he could believe that. He had battled his doubts through the day as he battled the crowds, wading through them one by one. Some he reasoned out of his way, others he merely pushed aside. This night would be a turning point for him, just as it was for the city. He’d be free after tonight, he and Mary. He’d cross over a river of doubt that flowed with the certain knowledge of right and wrong. That he planned to cross on a bridge of betrayal was a grim irony. The contradictions swirled and eddied. On the other side was freedom from Coffin and retribution for Mary, but his bridge stood on a foundation of quicksand. It was well he’d only need to use it once
Emily didn’t wait until the long orations were over. Besides, the train shed was not the best place for speeches. The acoustics were terrible and only those closest to the podium could make out what was being said anyway. It was mostly in the same vein, and though the speeches ran for hours, the message was simple and clear. This was the finest example of man’s capacity to change the face of nature the world had yet seen. It was a monument to the skill, fortitude, and genius of its creators, and a tribute to the cities it served. But there was something else. Most of the speakers couldn’t really get hold of it either. It was a combination of the deceptively simple beauty of the thing and the almost spiritual delight of being on it. Emily thought that Brooklyn’s mayor, Seth Low, said it best. “The impression upon the visitor is one of astonishment that grows with every visit. No one who has been upon it can ever forget it.”
Emily needed to be home with Wash to greet her guests as they arrived. She was expecting a thousand people would come to pay their respects. As her Victoria turned the corner onto her street, she marveled again at how wonderful it looked. Most buildings were covered with streamers and bunting. The trees were hung with Chinese lanterns. Flags flew from almost every window. The front of their house was covered with flags, shields, flowers, and the coats of arms of Brooklyn and New York. One huge flag hung suspended above the street just high enough for carriages to pass beneath. Mayor Low’s house, down the street, was graced with clusters of flags over windows and the flag of Brooklyn hung above the big front doors. The mayor’s reception for President Arthur was to follow the Roeblings’.
Emily found Wash with his eyes closed and his hands folded across his middle, on his bed. He looked so peaceful she almost didn’t want to disturb him. That he could sleep with all the bustle in the house was amazing. Caterers had been running in and out all day. The band, which Emily had positioned on the balcony in the drawing room on the river side of the house, was starting to arrive, and there was much clumping of feet up and down the stairs. She reached out a gentle hand to his shoulder.
“Wash? Darling?”
His eyes opened and a slow smile crept like a sunrise across his face. “I was thinking of you today. As I watched all the crowds and commotion, I … remembered,” he said wistfully.
“Remembered?” Emily asked. “Remembered what, dear?”
“Do you recall the day when you first walked across the bridge?”
A smile crept across her face. “Of course,” she said in a voice like melted butter.
“I thought of you as you were that day: the wind in your hair, the way you looked back at me, as if you could see into my heart of hearts. Everything else faded and I saw you … so beautiful, like a prayer come to life.” He smiled up at her.
Emily sat on the side of his bed and took his hand in hers. “I know my prayers have been answered. We’ve done it Wash, and we’ve still got so much ahead of us.
You’re only forty-six, and you’ve been getting stronger every day. I can only imagine what the future will bring. But first, my knight in shining armor,” she said with mock seriousness. “You must gird yourself for battle and prepare to accept the laurels which are your due.”
“Do I have to?” he pleaded, playing a part, but half meaning it.
She pulled him by the hand, tugging him to his feet. She threw her arms around his shoulders then, kissing him lightly on the nose. “I intend to show you off to the highest in the land, O husband of mine. And they will know you for the brilliant, handsome hero of the age that you are. So go get dressed. You’re not getting out of this one,” she said, poking him in the ribs.
Washington Roebling put on his Prince Albert coat and a few minutes later went downstairs, arm in arm with Emily.
“God, what you’ve done with the place, Em!” he exclaimed. “It’s wonderful, really.” Roses in red and white, wisteria, lilacs, lilies, and a variety of cut flowers were distributed throughout the house in big baskets, with smaller arrangements in every room. The house literally swam in the sweet smell of success. They sat together on a sofa in the front parlor and waited for their guests. They were not long in coming. By the time President Arthur arrived at five-thirty, the crowd in the street was so heavy that the best the police could do was keep open a narrow path to the door. The president noticed Washington immediately. He strode over, his hand outstretched and a smile of genuine delight lighting his features.
Suspension Page 48
