Emily watched the bridge as it slipped astern. She didn’t think of the bridge, though. She had seen Tom Braddock for perhaps the last time the day before. He had given them final assurances that the story of Captain Sangree and how he died would never be connected to her or Wash. Tom had buried it. There was nothing in the official police records, no mention of their ever having been there. As far as anyone knew, they were in Newport and Sangree was nothing more than a burglar, caught in the act. That was where they were finally headed, Newport. A long-deserved rest beckoned, a regrouping of body and spirit before life’s second act.
Tom had taken care of everything that terrible afternoon. Shock had set in and she stared and shook, her ears ringing from the deafening report of the little gun. Emily couldn’t actually remember firing. She recalled Sangree’s face, though, the eyes fierce and wild as they looked through her to her husband. The hate shone there, the years of it, scalding and scarring from the inside. Emily could feel the heat of it, knew it would consume them both if she let it. She recalled too the surprise. He hadn’t seen the small Remington in her fist. He hadn’t expected a woman to stand in his way. He thought she could be swept aside. Emily had sensed that. It had angered her, a fatal error. She almost enjoyed his surprise now, though she hadn’t then. She could see the mouth in an oval, the arms flung wide. But there was that fierce determination, the will that somehow kept the man on his feet. Then Tom, firing from the front door, and Sangree jerking like a puppet and falling. Next thing she remembered he was taking the pistol from her hand, telling them they should leave. Tom herded them out the back, down to their carriage house at the bottom of the hill. Wash drove. They took the ferry to New York, because he was afraid they’d be recognized at the bridge. From there they had taken the ferry to Staten Island and the obscure refuge of Wash’s sister’s home. Telegrams had come and gone to Newport and back, where Hughes covered for them completely.
Wash and she hadn’t understood the need for such skullduggery at first.
“But I’ve done nothing wrong, Tom. I simply defended myself and my husband. Why should we sneak about like thieves in the night? We’re not criminals!”
“Emily, first, we don’t know how many more there might be. We can’t take the chance that they may come after you and the colonel,” Tom had said as he hustled them out of the house. “Second, if they think their captain’s blood is on your hands, it’ll make things just that much worse. Better they think I did it, and that’s how it’s going to look.”
“But—”
“I’d give anything to undo all this, but I think at least I can contain it, keep your name out of it. It’s best if we keep up the ruse of you two being in Newport. But you’ve got to go and go quickly.”
They had agreed, of course, and the last she saw of Tom Braddock was a small wave and a grim smile, before he headed back up to the house. They’d driven away then and they hadn’t gone back.
June 3, Braddock had been shuffling paper all morning, completing reports on the Bucklin case. Neither his head nor his heart was in it. He found himself staring blankly into space more often than not, reliving the events of the last few days. Nothing had gone quite as he’d planned. In fact, there’d hardly been a plan at all. It was all reaction—at least that’s how it felt. He’d been frustrated at nearly every turn, staggering like a punch-drunk boxer from one blow to the next. Yet it was he who had won. There was no denying that. He had beaten them in the end. And though there were riddles yet unsolved and in truth probably would remain so, he was somehow satisfied. The bridge still stood. The Roeblings were safe in Newport. At least four of the conspirators were dead. Though he had regrets, he wasn’t sure he’d have done anything differently. He’d done his best, as Eli and Pat and Charlie and Sam had done theirs. Braddock wished it could have turned out better, wished Eli was here to share a beer. He wished too that he could tell Mike who’d killed his father, but in truth he couldn’t.
“Hungry, Tom?” Byrnes asked, startling him. He’d been so buried in his thoughts he hadn’t noticed the chief standing before his desk.
“Sure, I suppose,” Tom said, pulling out his watch from a vest pocket.
“Good … join me?” the chief said, patting his stomach with both hands.
“You buying?” Tom asked with a grin. “I’ve never been known to turn down a free lunch.”
Byrnes grinned back. With a successful case to his credit, Tom had taken a more confident tone with him the last couple of days.
“Sure, I’m buying. Let’s go.” Once they had gotten clear of the Marble Palace, Byrnes said, “Got a place I know on Mott … Used to go there once in a while with Coffin,” he said with a strangled tone to his voice. “They make fried dumplings like you never tasted. Fabulous!”
“Sounds good. Mott, you say? Is it that little place, down a couple of steps from the street?”
“Yeah, right around the middle of the block. Ought to know it. Patrolled there nearly three years. Course that was quite a few years back.”
“Don’t know much about the Chinese myself,” Byrnes continued. “Orderly people. Keep to themselves. They make a hell of a good dumpling, though.” Byrnes laughed and Braddock laughed with him.
“Haven’t been down there since Coffin …” Byrnes didn’t finish. They knew how it ended. That observation cut the laughter short. “Closing the case,” Byrnes said stiffly. “The press has been sniffing too close to that pile of offal.” He shook his head. “Only reason they haven’t been on it stronger is ’cause of the bridge thing. Goddamn Coffin. He left a tower of shit to clean up. The press sure as hell don’t need to know. Nobody’d be safe.” Byrnes looked to Tom for agreement and got it. “Don’t want Nast drawing any more of his fucking cartoons,” he said, making a sour face.
“I suppose not. Could be inconvenient.” Tom understated the disaster potential by a mile.
Byrnes grunted agreement. “Better to shut it down. Bury it. Coogan, for example … he’s off to Harlem.”
Tom digested that tidbit.
Byrnes looked to Tom with an appraising, raised eyebrow. “Other changes’re in the wind too. Lots of things are going to change around here, Tommy.”
Tom said nothing, waiting for Byrnes to take the reins on that one.
They turned onto Mott, with Tom wondering if Wei Kwan would be in the little restaurant. He was certain that Master Kwan would be discreet, but mistakes were always possible. Byrnes didn’t know that Master Kwan was the key to his Chinese connection. It was better that way.
“This is it,” Byrnes declared, stumping his cigar out against a lamppost. Wei Kwan greeted them at the door with polite bows but no overt recognition of Tom. He led them to a small table by the front window, where they sat, ordered beers, and watched the legs of passersby on the street outside. The kitchen bustled and steamed in back of the small dining room, which didn’t have more than twelve tables. It wasn’t even a restaurant officially. It had no name, no sign on the door, no menu. Pots and dishes clattered, and Chinese rolled in unintelligible waves through the kitchen door as Wei Kwan and two other waiters brought the lunch crowd their meals. Tom and Byrnes were the only two white men in the place.
“Great place for a quiet conversation,” Byrnes said. It was anything but quiet, and Tom raised a questioning eyebrow. “I should say a … private conversation, at least for the likes of us.”
“Not likely anything said here will get back to the Marble Palace, that’s true,” Tom agreed.
“Exactly. I wanted to talk to you about something. Run it up the flagpole, so to speak.”
“Oh?” Tom said, leading Byrnes on. By this time his curiosity was fully aroused.
“Yeah. You know … I liked the way you handled the Bucklin case. Stuck with it, kept your nose to the ground, dogged it till it paid out.”
“Had some lucky breaks,” Tom said. He was starting to say more when Byrnes broke in.
“Bullshit! No such thing as luck,” Byrnes said, shaking a finger at Tom.
“We mostly make our own luck one way or another. Your luck came ’cause you stuck close, followed through. That’s all there was to it.”
“Maybe … It was close. Can’t exactly claim it was us who stopped them. Can’t even claim to have shot Sangree first. Emily did that. Blew a hole in him he wasn’t likely to recover from.”
Byrnes nodded almost impatiently. “Yeah … with the gun you gave her.”
Tom shrugged. “Mostly we were too late all around, a half step behind all the way.”
“Again, bullshit! You’re a goddamn hero, Tom. You’ve got to start acting like one. The only reason you were close at all was good hard work. For all we know, it was the chase of Lebeau that gave the others the chance to cut the wires. Ever think of that?”
“It occurred to me,” Tom conceded, “but Emmons … who knows where the hell he is?”
Byrnes shrugged. “Some things we probably won’t ever find out. Got to be content with what we can … move on from there.”
“Well, we may not be able to ever prove some things—who killed Bucklin, for that matter—but we don’t have to prove it to know what happened.”
Wei Kwan came to take their order, standing patiently with pen and pad. He didn’t even look at Tom directly, though he stood right next to him.
“I’m having the dumplings … steamed and fried,” Byrnes said, making little dumpling shapes with his hands. “You understand?” Wei Kwan nodded but said nothing. His English was quite adequate.
“Sounds good!” Tom said. “I believe I will too.” A tap of the foot under the table, a bow above, gave Tom his blessing. The dumplings would be extra-special.
“So … to finish what I was saying, you did well to handle the Roebling matter the way you did too.”
“That I can agree with,” Tom said with a satisfied grin. “No purpose served by letting them get plastered all over the front pages. Only make them bigger targets and tarnish a name that ought to be honored in this town.”
“Couldn’t agree more, Tommy. A little outside the standard police procedures, but that’s what I liked about it. Shows initiative … ability to think on your feet, a willingness to bend the rules when you know it’s right.”
“Thank you, sir. I wanted to do good by them, just keep them from any more harm,” Tom said honestly.
“Well, you know, with Coffin gone—oh here’s the dumplings. Smell good, don’t they?” Byrnes rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
Wei Kwan brought a steaming plate, piled with an assortment of steamed and fried dumplings, setting it before Byrnes.
“It’s all I ever have here and they know to bring plenty.”
“Mmmm.” Byrnes savored the morsel. “So … like I was saying, Tom. With Coffin gone, I’d like to submit your name for the captaincy of the third. What do you think?”
Tom almost choked on his first bite, getting it down only with an effort.
Byrnes selected another dumpling, a fried one this time, dripping with fat as he hoisted it to his mouth. “Surprised, huh?”
“I … don’t know what to say.” Tom was at a loss for words.
“Say you’ll take it,” Byrnes said expansively. “There’s no guarantee, mind you. I expect there’ll be men pushed forward by every captain in the department.” Byrnes held out a dumpling to Tom skewered on a fork Master Kwan had known to provide. He motioned to the dumplings. “They’re fabulous today. Don’t know what they put in them but they’re better than usual. You deserve a rest too, you know,” the chief said after a bit of thought. “Take Mary … and get away. Go up to the country. I hear the Adirondacks are wonderful.”
He planned it out for Tom right then and there. “Take a couple of weeks … hell, take a month. You earned it. Let me worry about the promotion. You’ve built quite a reputation with this bridge business, even though it’s all been kept quiet about the conspiracy. I quite agree with that, by the way. Bad enough to have that panic, but to frighten the public with crazy plots would ruin the bridge. Everyone would be scared to death to use it. Would have raised old ghosts with the South too. Best to let the whole thing fade away.”
Tom, who was in midswallow, just nodded.
“But don’t worry,” Byrnes said, leaning closer to whisper across the table. “The people who count know what you did … right up through City Hall and all the way to Albany and Washington.” He grinned. “If I have anything to say about it, you’ll get your reward.” Byrnes attacked another dumpling, lifting it to his open mouth.
Tom watched in morbid fascination. He cleared his throat with a little cough and said, “You know, a vacation doesn’t sound bad at all.”
Jumbo was the biggest living thing he had ever seen, and Mike wanted to see him again. Tom didn’t mind. In fact, he enjoyed seeing Jumbo more the second time.
‘“Even the Clydesdales that pull the really big wagons are tiny compared to that Jumbo,” Mike had said with awe. He was eleven feet tall at the shoulder, with a trunk so thick and powerful it looked as if he could hoist a Clydesdale with ease.
“Does everything grow big like that in Africa?” Mike asked when they saw a white hippo, whose trainer walked him on a leash like some monstrous pig. I mean they got big elephants and big things with the long necks.”
“Giraffes,” Tom said.
“Yeah, and those camels with the humps are real big too. The only thing small is that baby elephant, ‘Bridgeport,’ but I guess he’ll grow.”
“I don’t know, Mike. There must be some smaller things in Africa. They’re just not as interesting as the big ones.” What Tom seemed to like most was when a giant Chinaman named Chang paraded around the ring, all decked out like a Mongolian warrior with armor and a huge sword. Chang carried a midget named Major Atom on one shoulder.
“Holy mother o’God!” Tom burst out when the giant walked through the curtain at the end of the hippodrome. “That’s an eight-foot man if I ever saw one. And that midget don’t look any bigger than his head! I’ll be damned. Wish Master Kwan was here to see that.”
“Who’s Master Kwan?” Mike asked.
Tom told him he was a friend, a very trusted friend.
When the last act had finished, a death-defying trapeze act with ladies in their underwear, they spent some more time in the menagerie, watching the “educated” kangaroos, the giant baboons, and a series of human oddities the likes of which had never been assembled before on earth.
Later they turned east out of the Garden toward Third Avenue to catch the El. Mike didn’t mind when Tom put his arm around his shoulder.
“Mike?” Tom said, his voice sounding strange. He made a show of clearing his throat. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about …”
Postscript
Emily Roebling went on to become one of the leading socialites of Trenton. She studied law at New York University and received her degree, one of the first women to do so. She built a mansion in Trenton—near the Roebling works—which became a city landmark for generations. In 1893 she and Washington went to New York, where they walked out on the bridge together. No one recognized them. She attended the coronation of Tsar Nicholas and Empress Alexandra of Russia during a trip to Europe in 1896, one of the few Americans present. She died of cancer on February 23, 1903, and was buried in Cold Spring, New York. Washington, who was in Trenton at the time recovering from surgery, was too weak to make the trip.
Washington Roebling never built another bridge. As a stockholder in the Roebling Wire Works and an astute investor in the stock market, he became very wealthy. For many years he devoted himself to the study of geology, especially minerals. His collection, which included all but four of the known minerals on earth, is now owned by the Smithsonian Institution. In 1908 he remarried a Charleston, South Carolina, widow, and by all accounts it was a happy union. Washington, though in pain and discomfort virtually every day of his life, outlived all his assistant engineers. He outlived his brothers and his nephew, who went down on the Titanic. At the age of eighty-four, up
on the sudden death of his nephew Karl Roebling, who had been running the wire making business, Washington took over day-to-day operations. He took the trolley to work each day with his dog named Billy Sunday and detested automobiles, refusing to ride in one. Not only did the business run, it prospered. In an interview, when asked how he was able to carry on, he was quoted in typical Roebling fashion: “You can’t slink out of life or out of the work life lays on you.” The end came on July 21, 1926, at the age of eighty-nine. He was buried beside Emily in Cold Spring.
Patrick Sullivan escaped to Texas, where for many years he rode with the Texas Rangers under the assumed name of Lester Cable. He was discovered and recruited by William Cody in 1891 and toured with his Wild West Show throughout the United States and Europe, where he routinely fought Sioux warriors, robbed stagecoaches, and hunted buffalo. Whenever the show came to New York, he always took time to visit the Brooklyn Bridge and was something of an authority on it. He died on his ranch in Texas in April of 1919.
Matthew Emmons was pulled from Buttermilk Channel by a passing fishing boat on the night of May 30. First thought to be dead, he soon recovered and spent the next few days at sea, fishing off the coast of Long Island. When he got back to New York, he eventually made his way to Coney Island, where he tended bar for nearly twenty years at a place not far from the boardwalk. He always boasted that he was actually the first man to successfully jump from the Brooklyn Bridge. Though he could never substantiate his claim, he insisted on it to his dying day and became a kind of Coney Island legend for it. He died in the fall of 1904 of liver failure.
Tom Braddock was awarded the captaincy of the 3rd Precinct in June of 1883. He and Mary were married in the spring of 1884 at the Church of the Transfiguration, on East Twenty-ninth Street. That same year they adopted Michael Bucklin and purchased a three-story townhouse on Willow Street in Brooklyn Heights. Tom took the train across the bridge twice a day for the next twenty-six years. He had a remarkable record of achievement, being decorated on eight occasions for heroism. Braddock never learned how to lead from behind a desk. He kept up a regular correspondence with the Roeblings over the years, but never saw either of them again. He attended Emily’s funeral in Cold Spring, New York, a mystery to the other mourners.
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