reception for your friends did not go as planned stop coming back to NY tomorrow stop they’ll want to visit you immediately stop strongly suggest you move up timetable stop waste no time stop do not fail stop
Thaddeus knew the words by heart. “Goddamn Braddock! God damn that fucking detective!” he said under his breath. He looked over at Jacobs, his head wrapped in a white bandage, looking pale. Even a child had beaten them, he thought. What was happening to them? Why had they been unable to eliminate the detective and that brat? He was beginning to hate Braddock almost as much as Roebling. The thought of Roebling turned his mind elsewhere. The possibility of failure started to congeal in his head. It was not to be accepted, not even the possibility. The threat was clear enough in the telegram. Not that he needed a threat to goad him on. If they did fail, what then? What if he survived the attempt? There would be no going south. His life would not be worth living. He’d be hunted, and if he were unlucky enough to be captured, he’d be hanged. No … surviving a failed attempt was not an option. But there would still be Roebling. If all else failed, there would always be Roebling.
“Damn, that was pretty, Jus. Did you see the way those colors changed as they fell? How they do that?” Pat wondered out loud.
“Yeah. This is really somethin’, Pat. Never seen the like.”
“Haven’t ever seen this many people in one spot before either. Looks like the whole damn city turned out. Just imagine how many are in those boats.” Pat pointed out at the clogged river. “Must be twenty—thirty thousand at least.”
“Sure, maybe more,” Justice agreed. “There’s probably three or four thousand on those navy ships alone.” The men almost had to shout at each other over the explosions and the din of the cheering crowds.
“I never imagined anything like this, partner. I know it’s a big thing, but somehow I just never thought they’d put on this kind of show.”
“And ain’t she beautiful, Pat?”
“Yup. Whatever happens, I got to say I’ll always be proud I worked on her.”
“Me too,” Justice said honestly. “I’ll do what I got to, you know, but …” His voice trailed off into silence as the rain of fire silhouetted the massive bridge in sparkling relief. The people around them “oohed” and “aahed” and cheered.
“Jus, you know, it don’t have to go like the captain says,” Pat said into his ear, keeping an eye on the captain. “I mean—oh, hell, I don’t know what I mean. It’s like when we were talking up in the cables, you remember?” Justice just nodded. “You said if I looked for answers they’d come, remember?” Justice looked at Pat knowing what he was getting to. “I’ve been looking, and—” Sullivan stopped, afraid to actually put his thoughts into words.
“Don’t tell me, Pat. I don’t want to know. That’s something you got to do for yourself. I can’t help you … can’t ask me to neither.” Jus was afraid of hearing what he knew could change their lives. There was near desperation in the way he spoke.
Pat could see Justice had been wrestling with his own demons. It was in his eyes, lit by the brilliant flashes of fireworks. It was almost as if his thoughts shone out in shifting patterns of fire and shadow. They warred across the craggy landscape of his face, at least that’s how it looked to Pat.
It was a long time before Justice spoke again. The fireworks had been going now for nearly half an hour without a break. At last, Justice turned his battered face to Pat and said, “Whatever you decide is okay by me, Pat. I won’t stop you nor stand in your way.”
Pat didn’t say anything. He extended his callused, scarred rigger’s hand to his old friend. Justice took it and clasped it tight. The captain didn’t seem to notice.
Alone in Wash’s darkened room, Emily and Wash clasped hands in Brooklyn too. They didn’t say much. Emily felt strangely detached. They were spectators now. They had done their work, had won their laurels, but now were no different from any of the thousands of others who watched the bridge tonight. The house was silent. The band had packed their instruments and left. The caterers would be back in the morning to clean up. It was just her and Wash. She suddenly felt very tired, even old. It was as if just now she began to let herself feel the weight of the last fourteen years.
“You’re in the history books now, Colonel Roebling,” she said as the bridge was bathed in the fitful light of exploding rockets.
“I’m not there alone, Em.”
“Who knows what they’ll remember a hundred years from now?” Emily sighed. “Things are easily forgotten.”
Wash shook his head adamantly. “Em, the bridge will be here a hundred years from now. As long as it stands, your name and mine will always be linked to it. Some might forget. But something like that”—he waved his hand to the window—“something like that … people will always want to know more about. There will always be those who want to know, and we’ll be discovered, over and over, from one generation to the next.”
Emily smiled softly at the idea. “That’s a lovely thought.” She cradled against him. “Do you really think people in the future will be curious? Someone is bound to build a bigger bridge, you know. Besides, there’ll be so many wonderful new things.” She held up a hand, ticking them off. “Electricity, telephones, horseless carriages, and a thousand other things. It could be that man will fly before the century’s out. Do you still think that, with all that, a bridge will spark anyone’s curiosity?”
“I do,” Wash answered slowly. “That bridge is more than just engineering or … science. It’s not some … appliance to be used up and thrown away. It has substance and grace and timeless beauty. There’s harmony and proportion to it that goes beyond mere function. Such things will always have value.” Wash gazed out the window. “The bridge serves not only the body but the soul as well. You know what it’s like to be up on the promenade. Can you imagine that the world will ever tire of that? I don’t think so.”
They watched the fireworks as they boomed and echoed over the bridge.
“I think that a hundred years from this day the world will know it for the treasure it is,” he murmured.
“Who knows?” Emily beamed at her husband. “They may throw us another party.”
Mary watched from the Tribune windows as the almost constant barrage lit the night sky. The windows rattled and the concussions of the bigger bombs could be felt right through the floor. The guests were jammed four deep by each window, and they clapped and cheered in unison. She had to admit it was the most spectacular display she’d ever seen. The papers said that fourteen tons of pyrotechnics were to be set off within an hour. She couldn’t judge, but it seemed like more. It seemed like the rockets and bombs and mortars had been going off for hours. It seemed they’d never end, and each one jangled her nerves and pounded at her temples. Mary looked at her watch once again: ten to nine. If it took this long, it couldn’t have gone as planned, could it? The longer Tom was away, the worse she felt. As the city celebrated, her spirits sank. She could see herself in a while, the only person left in the building, waiting for a man who would not return, while cleaning people took out the trash.
“You come back to me, Thomas Braddock,” she said to herself as the people cheered.
It was just minutes to nine, and Mary had checked her watch twice more. The minutes crawled into the past like a tortoise on a hot day, stretching each plodding second. Her palms were sweaty and she actually started to flinch and twitch with each explosion. She tried hard not surrender to her nervousness. Even though she saw the most terrible things in her mind’s eye, she clapped absently at the show. By nearly nine o’clock the fireworks were building to a shattering crescendo, with scores of big illuminated balloons raining sparkling icicles of fire down on the city and aerial bombs and rockets going off in thundering staccato. It numbed the senses. Suddenly she felt a heavy hand slip gently around hers. Her intake of breath was almost a gasp. She didn’t need to see who it was to know, but she turned anyway and threw her arms around Tom’s neck.
“Oh
, Tom … oh, God, you’re back,” she whispered. “I’ve been so worried. Are you all right?” Her hands went over him, taking inventory.
“Of course I’m all right. I told you I’d come back, didn’t I?” he said nonchalantly.
Mary hit him in the arm and he yelped in surprise.
“Don’t you pull that with me, Tom Braddock,” she said as angrily as she could. “I died ten times in the last hour waiting for you.”
Tom’s voice softened. “I’m sorry, Mary. I’m sorry I put you through this.” The fireworks boomed, sparkled, and lit up the city in flashes of color. “Some fireworks display, huh?”
“Don’t you change the subject, you bastard,” Mary said fiercely. “You hold me right now, Tommy. You hold me, before you have to catch me.”
The fireworks ended almost as suddenly as they’d started. In the deafening silence that followed, Tom held her close and whispered their future in her ear.
That silence lasted only a few short heartbeats. Before the smoke had settled on the black waters under the bridge, first one, then dozens, then hundreds of boats blew their steam whistles, rang their bells, and fired their cannons and guns. The noise was taken up on both shores. Church bells, factory whistles, horns, drums, and anything that would make noise added to the din. Hundreds of thousands of throats roared their approval. The bridge was open, the way clear to the other shore.
Chapter Twenty-one
To trust it loyally as he
Who, heedful of his high design,
Ne’er raised a seeking eye to thine,
But wrought thy will unconsciously.
—AMBROSE BIERCE
Jacobs lay on his bed, an ice pack on the back of his head. Icy rivulets ran down his neck and into the sheets. Despite the ice, his temper was boiling. Beaten by a boy! Beaten into unconsciousness! If he hadn’t been hurt so bad, he’d never have let himself be seen like that by the others. As it was he barely made it back to Brooklyn. He’d thrown up over the side of the ferry, so dizzy and nauseous he was staggering like a drunk. He had a knot on his skull the size of an egg and a cut that hadn’t stopped oozing in three days. The biggest blow was to his ego. He was a killer, a thoroughly dangerous person. He’d spent years cultivating that reputation. The other men feared him, he knew … at least they did. Yesterday they’d laughed at him! Laughed! He still couldn’t believe it. It had been in fun, but still it hurt, maybe more than the lump on his head. Beaten unconscious by a ten-year-old, he thought for the hundredth time.
That little bastard was going to pay! Bart didn’t care what Thaddeus said, didn’t give a shit that killing the boy was no longer a priority. He would butcher that kid if it was the last goddamn thing he did on this earth! After the fiasco in Richmond, the boy was no longer important, the captain said. Braddock probably knew everything the boy knew anyway. With him still alive and on their trail, the boy was less than an annoyance—but not to him. He had something to prove. No kid was going to beat Bart Jacobs, ever. He’d gut the little fuck and hang him by his intestines … kill him as gruesomely as possible any way he could … set an example. He’d show the others he was still nobody to mess with. There’d be no laughter then!
He rolled out of bed, wincing and screwing his eyes shut as the room wobbled. Tomorrow he’d see. Tomorrow he’d hunt. For now he’d join the rest of the men, carry on with the plan, act as if nothing was going to happen. He’d keep his plans to himself. The less the captain knew, the better. Hell, maybe he’d just surprise them all and bring the kid’s head back in a basket. He smiled at the thought.
The bridge had been open two days now. The captain had done all he could to throw the cops off the scent. With the police looking for them all over the city and their old apartments watched, there was great danger in every move they made. Even Sangree & Co had been staked out constantly over the last few days. It was fortunate that Sullivan and Lincoln didn’t seem to be suspects. They were able to monitor the police with complete safety. Their reports were unsettling, though. Everyone’s nerves were wearing thin. Tempers were short. Sleep was light.
Their manifesto was nearly done. Pat and Matt had agreed to read the captain’s draft and suggest any final changes.
“Men, this is our word, our code. We’ll be speaking for the whole South and all our martyred brothers with this one document,” he said, pacing back and forth in Jacobs’s small apartment. “It will be a fitting coda to the destruction of the bridge.”
“Amen to that, Captain!” Earl exclaimed, not sure exactly what a coda was but liking the sound of it. He slammed a bony fist into his palm. “Make them Yankee pigs squeal!”
Over the days since the opening, they had been able to perfect their plans and get in some valuable practice. The night before, they had actually driven their wagon and carriage onto the bridge. One from New York, one from Brooklyn, they started at exactly the same time, met in the middle, and unloaded their boxes at center span, though they didn’t use the actual dynamite crates. It was 2:15 A.M. when they tried it. Apart from a sole carriage crossing the bridge toward the Brooklyn shore, which threw their timing off some, it went according to plan. From the time they stopped at center span, they took only forty-six seconds to unload the boxes and pile them on the railroad tracks. Within two minutes they were packed again and on their way to the opposite shore. It was faster than any of them had hoped.
Not everything went more smoothly than planned. Jacobs had gone to the bridge offices the second day after the opening. He returned to report that the bridge police would patrol around the clock.
“Christ almighty,” Earl had almost shouted. “That’s gonna throw a wrench in the gears for damn sure!” He got no disagreement. They attacked the problem with their usual skill and determination.
Over the last couple days they’d studied the patrol patterns. It had meant some long hours, but it bought them what they needed. There was a problem though, and it became evident by the second night of observation. Starting on the twenty-fifth, two men watched the bridge, beginning at 2:00 A.M. They noted when a patrol left either side, and when one arrived. They’d watch until 3:30, then compare times in the morning. The patrols were supposed to be on the hour at that time of the night, and at first they were. By the second night, though, both the time the patrols set off and the time they took to cross the bridge had started to vary. The differences weren’t great, no more than ten minutes one way or the other—of no great consequence at that time of the morning, at least not to the cops. But ten minutes could mean everything to them. It vastly increased the risks. And it only got worse. A couple of cops had a habit of loitering in their walks across, stopping for a smoke in the spectacular solitude of the promenade at night.
“We’ve got to keep timing ’em till the night before, Cap’n,” Earl said.
“Precisely. It makes Jacobs’s and my jobs that much more critical too. We’ve got to be ready to move with a warning if need be. Who’s to say what kind of interval we might have? The way it looks right now, it could be anywhere from fifty minutes to an hour and ten.”
“Those two detectives been nosing around the bridge office since Thursday,” Bart said offhandedly.
“You keeping in touch with someone at the office?” Thaddeus asked. Jacobs nodded. The cops were busy everywhere, and their world had devolved to staying in hiding during the day, with practice at night, at least for Matt, Earl, and the captain. How long would it be before the rest of them were identified and hunted? Not long, Bart figured. He fingered his bandage and thought again of his plans for the Bucklin boy.
“You did well to stick in there as long as you did,” Thaddeus said with a pat on Jacobs’s shoulder.
“Thank you, sir. Just playing the good little clerk, which by the way allowed me to make some extra copies of the keys to the power house and the doors to the steam generators and dynamos.” Jacobs chuckled, holding up the keys and jingling them for the group.
“Anyone care for coffee?” he offered genially.
; There were two takers. Jacobs bustled about the stove. He measured the beans and ground them with deliberate twists of the little handle on his coffee grinder, getting into a rhythm, as if doing it to a metronome. He seemed to enjoy this, concentrating on each turn of the crank. Finally he poured the grinds into the pot. Even when he stopped for a moment to breathe the essence of the beans, it was apparent that this too was part of the coffee ritual. The others watched him, fascinated. It was like watching a machine, all efficiency and precision even in this small, pleasant task. Jacobs could be just as precise about his killing. Most of the others considered his recent misadventure with the Bucklin boy a fluke, something that happens once in a blue moon. None doubted his abilities, though they couldn’t resist an occasional ribbing.
“Damn, you are the neatest fella I ever seen, Bart,” Earl marveled sarcastically. “You’ll make some lucky man a good wife one day.” They all laughed, even Jacobs, who had his back to Earl. Suddenly, with alarming speed, Bart whirled about, his hand licking out like a snake. A bit of bright steel spun through the air and hit the wall above Earl’s head with a thunk. A knife quivered there like a rattler’s tail.
“And I’m handy with cutlery too,” Jacobs said merrily. There was no merriment in his eyes, though. He’d had about enough from Earl over the last couple of days.
Earl half rose from his chair, but the others burst into raucous laughter and drove him back.
“Oh, that’s rich, Bart!” Matt laughed. “Come near to givin’ ol’ Earl a trim. You are a conjurer with a blade.”
Pat chuckled too, figuring it was the best way to defuse the situation. Earl sat silent, dark as a thunderstorm, while the rest of them had their chuckle. Finally after the room had quieted, he said in his best slow drawl, “Ah b’lieve ah git yer pernt.”
Suspension Page 50
