by Scott Mebus
“We can’t afford to wait,” Whitman told her, and the maid nodded meekly, turning to lead them into the house.
As they walked up the stairs, Bridget glanced at her brother, worried. He seemed to be all better, but she couldn’t be sure. Soka walked by his side, watching him as if he would fall apart at any moment. His injury seemed to have woken her up, Bridget noticed. Maybe now she’d admit that she and Rory were destined to get married. Bridget would be maid of honor (of course!) and she’d catch the bouquet and everything. She could hardly wait.
When they reached the top of the stairs, Whitman turned to the rest of the party.
“All I ask is that you try not to stare,” he said, and then nodded to the maid to take them to Roebling’s room. Bridget was bursting to know what was going on. The maid opened the door.
“Mr. Roebling, visitors!” she called. A man’s voice drifted out, too weak to be understood. The maid turned back to them. “The master will see you.”
Whitman led them into the room. At the sight of the god, Bridget gasped, her heart going out to him.
Washington Roebling sat in a wheelchair, his limbs twisted beneath him like gnarled old tree branches. His face was locked in a rictus of pain, and his eyes darted to and fro as if he couldn’t quite see his visitors. When he spoke, his voice slipped out of him soft and slow, as if every syllable were an exhausting battle.
“Do not worry, child, whoever you are,” he said, and Bridget had to force herself to remain patient with the slow trickle of his words. “I may look a fright, but I am no monster.”
“Why do you look like that?” Bridget asked. “It’s horrible!”
“Bridget!” Rory whispered, mortified.
“No, it is fine,” Roebling said softly, and they had to strain to hear him. “The city remembers me this way, so this is how I remain. It is not all bad. My wife, Emily, keeps me abreast of the world outside. Even now she is meeting with some of your friends, Mr. Whitman, to convey my support for you in your fight against Kieft. And when she is not home, I can see the world from my window with my telescope. If only the world close up were as easy to see.” Roebling stopped, breathing heavily from the effort of making his little speech.
“If I may ask, why are you remembered like this?” Soka asked carefully. Roebling glanced up at Whitman, imploring him with his squinting eyes.
“The building of the Brooklyn Bridge took a heavy toll on Washington’s family,” Whitman said, speaking for Roebling. “His father, John, designed it, but he had his foot crushed during an early accident on the site and died a month later. Washington took up the task, which he fulfilled brilliantly until he had his own horrible accident.”
“What kind of accident?” Bridget asked, riveted.
“I was too impatient,” Roebling breathed, then looked to Whitman.
“I don’t have a thorough knowledge of the incident,” Whitman apologized. “But this is what I do know. In order to build the bridge, Mr. Roebling and his workmen had to sink the base of the great towers deep into the riverbed. To do that, they had to find a way to dig underwater. So they built something called a caisson. A caisson is a large underwater room, which is sunk into the river all the way to the bottom so the workmen can dig underwater without getting wet. When the digging was done, the caissons were filled, forming the base of the towers that hold up the bridge.”
“So did the room collapse on you or something?” Bridget asked the crippled god, who shook his head.
“Worse,” he whispered. He glanced at Whitman, who continued the story.
“The hardest part about digging underwater is keeping the water out of your caisson. To do that, Washington would fill the entire caisson with air compressed at a much higher pressure than the water outside. Sort of like when you turn a glass upside down in the sink and push it underwater. The water doesn’t flow into the glass because the air inside keeps it out. There was one problem, however. The caisson needed extremely high air pressure to keep the Hudson River from flooding in. And people aren’t meant to live under such pressure. Working in the caisson was extremely dangerous because of it.”
“Time moved differently down in the caisson,” Roebling said, his voice weak and slow. “Men would hallucinate and lose themselves. They’d be overcome by a ravenous hunger and you’d have to stop them from gorging themselves. Only the strongest could work under such conditions, and many suffered and even died. Because worse than working in the caisson was coming out of the caisson, back into the world above.”
“I’d think they’d be lucky to come back out again,” Soka said, confused.
“Have you ever heard of the bends?” Whitman asked them.
“It’s the diving disease,” Rory said. “When deep-sea divers swim to the surface too fast, they get sick.”
“Yes,” Whitman said, nodding with approval. “The change in air pressure does bad things to their blood, twisting their joints and crippling them. That’s what happened to Mr. Roebling and hundreds of his workers. They didn’t completely understand about the bends back then, so even though they had an air lock to help decompress the workers when they returned to the surface, they didn’t know how to use it. You’re supposed to wait in an air lock for twenty minutes.”
“I was impatient and emerged after only two minutes,” Roebling whispered. “And it crippled me for the rest of my life. My wife, Emily, had to be my face on the project, helping me complete the bridge while I could only sit here in my room, watching through the window with my telescope. The great bridge took much from my family. But it was worth it. For it is bigger than myself. I would suffer a thousand times more if given the choice again.”
He lapsed into silence, drained. Bridget could feel the great pride that came with sacrificing oneself for something so monumental. She glanced down at her paper fingers. She was not so different.
“Mr. Roebling,” Fritz said, breaking the silence. “We came to see you because we were told to find someone called the Fair Engineer. Is that you? Did Adriaen van der Donck ever give you something to hold for him, something to keep safe?”
In a flash, Roebling’s entire demeanor changed. He grew agitated, rocking in his wheelchair with such force that Bridget was scared he’d fall over. He began to shout, as loudly as he could manage.
“Do not mention that man’s name here, in my home!”
“I’m sorry?” Whitman said, stepping back in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“His name is not to be spoken here!”
“Sir, we have reason to believe he left something behind for us, and we need to find it–” Fritz began, but Roebling was having none of it.
“If you are here on his behalf, then you can leave right now! Go! Get out of my house!”
“But, we only want to help!” Bridget assured him. Roebling, however, could no longer speak, though he continued to twitch in his wheelchair. The maid stepped up to them, ushering them gently out of the room, closing the door on the sight of the angry god.
“I think you should leave now,” she said. “That is enough for today.”
“But–” Whitman began.
“That is enough!” The deferential act had disappeared, and now the maid was all business. She pushed them down the stairs and out onto the front stoop. “You may try again tomorrow, once the master has calmed down. Good day.” With that, she closed the door firmly in their faces.
They were still standing around on Roebling’s front stoop debating what to do when a tall, graceful woman in a nineteenth - century-style hoopskirt came striding purposefully around the corner. She immediately spotted them, her eyes widening.
“Mr. Whitman! What are you doing here? The Breuckelen council has been looking all over for you! I stopped by to pledge our support to your cause, but you weren’t there to receive it, though the colonels showed up to speak for you. The borough is split into three camps and they need your steady hand to pull the undecideds onto our side.”
“I will head over there directly, Em
ily,” Whitman said apologetically. “I was optimistic I could help my friends here and still attend to my duties, but it appears my time has run out.”
“What task brought you to my door?” Emily asked. “And who are your friends?” As they were introduced to the wife of Washington Roebling, Bridget was impressed by the older woman’s grace and poise. Emily shook all their hands in turn, wonder crossing her face when she shook Rory’s.
“So you are the one we all have to thank for ridding us of that horrid Trap,” she said warmly. Rory simply blushed and glanced away. Bridget noticed Soka glaring at the older woman, which made her giggle a little.
Fritz spoke up from the vicinity of Emily’s left foot. “We came to ask your husband a question about Adriaen van der Donck, but then he flew off the handle and kicked us out.”
Emily sighed. “I’m not surprised. Adriaen and I became friends long ago when I came to Mannahatta to speak on my husband’s behalf about the importance, from an engineering perspective, of taking down the Trap. We were only friends, of course. Adriaen had loved his wife completely and never got over her passing, while I love my husband. But Washington cannot leave his room, and his imagination runs wild. We often had the same problems when we were mortal. He watched the progress of the bridge being built from our window, but I was the one who had to go out among the workmen and investors and city councilmen and make it happen.”
“Some say you were as much the builder of that bridge as your husband,” Whitman told her, but she waved this off.
“I did what I had to. Washington was usually fine, but sometimes he grew jealous of my time away. Men like Adriaen made it worse. If he kicked you out, it will be a day or so before he’s calmed down enough to receive visitors. Is there something I could do to help?”
“So it’s safe to say Adriaen never had any dealings with your husband?” Whitman asked.
“None, sorry,” Emily replied. She glanced up at the window at the top of her brownstone. “I should go inside. He’s probably watching us now with his telescope and I don’t want him to get agitated again. Good day to you.” She nodded pleasantly and climbed the steps to her front door.
Bridget glanced around at her friends, waiting for someone to say the obvious, but they all seemed ready to let Emily go. They were so stupid, she thought. It was right in front of their noses.
“Mrs. Roebling!” she called out, stopping Emily halfway through her front door.
“Yes?” Emily replied, glancing back down at them.
“We came by because we thought your hubby might be the Fair Engineer, who we were supposed to find. But I don’t think it’s him. I think you’re the Fair Engineer.”
“Oh, do you?” Emily said, looking confused. Bridget could see the truth dawning on her friends’ faces, and she had to resist the urge to stick her tongue out.
“You were friends with Adriaen, right?” Bridget asked. “Did he give you something to hold, something special? A package?”
Emily’s eyes widened and she quickly ran down the stairs to them. “You are the ones, then? He never said.”
“It’s us all right,” Bridget replied.
“So you have the package?” Rory asked.
“I hid it, long ago,” Emily replied. “It won’t be easy to retrieve.”
Just then, the front door flew open to reveal the maid. “Madam! Madam, the master is calling for you. He requires your presence right away!”
Emily turned to the children, her face apologetic. “I have to go. He has already associated you with Adriaen. I can’t escort you to my hiding place now; it will hurt him deeply.”
“Tell us where to go,” Rory said urgently. “We’ll go get the package ourselves.”
“All right, but you must be careful. Walt, are you going with them?”
“I can’t right now,” Whitman said, throwing up his hands. “I have to return to steady the council. Can you wait until I return, Rory?”
“We don’t have time,” Rory said. “I’m sorry, we need to go now.”
“You have to be careful, then, and follow my instructions exactly,” Emily told them sternly.
“We will,” Bridget reassured her. “Where did you put it?”
Emily turned toward the great bridge that spanned the river and pointed at the base of the tower on the Brooklyn side.
“I hid it in the bottom of the caisson.”
11
INTO THE CAISSON
Nicholas and Buckongahelas stood on a small hill in the Ramble, watching over the military exercises in the cornfield below. Rows of Munsees were taking turns running through the stalks, firing arrows at the surrounding trees, while nearby, pairs of warriors sparred with their copper spears. On the opposite end of the field, a group of gods and spirits practiced hand-to-hand combat, deflecting fake knives with cudgels and steel armor attached to their forearms. Nearby, squads of battle roaches, led by Liv M’Garoth atop her rat, were practicing their maneuvers. In another corner of the field, Lincoln led a group of children of the gods in mock sword fights. More children had shown up than Nicholas expected, which gave him hope, including, to his surprise, Jane van Cortlandt and Robert de Vries. Jane had confided that the knives scared her. She didn’t want to be a murderer; it was time to do what was right. Hearing this, Alexa had hugged her so tight that Nicholas was frightened the poor girl would suffocate.
“I wish there were more,” Buckongahelas muttered at Nicholas’s side as he looked over the troops.
“There will be,” Nicholas replied. “More gods and spirits are joining every day. Especially the gods, now that there are disgruntled spirits roaming about with knives. I think that plan is backfiring a bit on Kieft.”
“I’m not so sure,” the Munsee war leader mused. “He was never a foolish man.”
“I just wish our leaders could decide on what to do with this army,” Nicholas said. “My father and your father, Hamilton and the rest—they can’t seem to come to any kind of agreement.”
“Well, Kieft’s army hasn’t done anything yet,” Buckongahelas said. “Which means our army can’t do anything. Something tells me the decision will be made for us, and soon.”
Nicholas continued watching the action in the field, trepidation gnawing at his heart. He could only hope he found the leader he was searching for before Kieft made his move.
Soka stood at the edge of the little plaza that surrounded one of the double-arched towers that held up the Brooklyn Bridge, leaning carelessly against the guardrail as she stared across the river at Manhattan lighting up at the onset of evening. Tears rose unbidden as she took in the bold, bright city before her. She’d been up and down New York since the Trap fell, but it had never before hit her just how wonderfully strange was this new world outside her park. As she stood far above the water rushing to the sea, the wind whipping through her hair, she felt like an eagle perched on a mountain ledge, privileged to see the world from such rarefied air. The setting sun sent stabs of golden light glinting off of the towering metal buildings across the river, each skyscraper fighting the rest to be the closest to heaven. She’d never dreamed such a world existed, and all the while it lay just outside her little village in the Ramble. Staring at the twinkling city before her, Soka forgot for a moment about her worries and just gloried in her freedom.
She heard a shout from behind her and reluctantly turned, the euphoria already fading. Rory had found the door in the giant, brick-lined pillar that held up the east end of the suspension bridge. In his mortal world, this door did not exist, but here in the spirit realm it was the entrance to the past, where the old caissons were still in use deep underwater, keeping out the river while trapping inside the souls of those who had died during those dangerous days of the bridge’s construction. According to the Fair Engineer, those damned souls still worked in the high-pressured air of the caisson, eternally digging into the riverbed, chained to the bridge for all time.
“Do not let them know you are mortals,” Emily had warned them. “They hate m
ortals for being able to breathe the free air. They’d try to trap you down there with them. So get in and get out—if you follow my instructions exactly, they shouldn’t bother you.”
They’d agreed. The last thing anyone wanted was to die in that caisson.
Now it was time to pass through the door, and Bridget and Fritz moved in front of Rory, who was about to enter.
“Remember to be careful in there, Rory,” Fritz told him. “You’re still healing.”
“I’m fine!” Rory protested. Soka sighed, still feeling a twinge as she recalled him lying in her lap on the floor Simon’s car, unconscious and bleeding. She thought she’d lost him and it had hurt even worse than she’d feared.
“I’ll look after him,” she promised, stepping to Rory’s side. “If he staggers, I will see.”
“I can look after myself,” Rory said.
“So I’ve noticed,” Soka replied, then turned to step through the door into the Brooklyn Bridge.
They stood at the top of an old set of stairs. Fritz trotted toward them atop Clarence, and together the two began hopping down one step at a time. Bridget followed and then Rory, with Soka last. Soon they left the light of the open doorway behind as they descended into the dark.
They reached the first landing, which was dimly lit by a flickering lantern on the wall. Bridget tried to take it off its hook so they could have light on the stairs, but the lantern wouldn’t budge. They’d have to rely on these little way posts to guide them—there was no other light. The stairs continued down from the landing, and they followed them deeper into the tower.
Soka could just make out Rory’s jacket in the near darkness. She’d been so scared that he would be hurt the way Finn had been, that she’d pushed him away. And then he got hurt anyway, and it had nothing to do with her. In the end, people were hurt no matter what she did. Maybe the time had come to stop being afraid.
