No Life But This: A Novel of Emily Warren Roebling

Prologue

The Brooklyn Bridge took its first life when John A. Roebling, its chief engineer, died. My father-in-law was a formidable, brilliant man, and we shared a mutual fondness and respect for each other. The construction had not yet commenced, but were it not for his vision and design, the great bridge would not exist.

My husband, Colonel Washington Roebling, inherited the task of bringing his father’s dream to fruition on that fateful day. My life changed its expected course as I, too, was called to dedicate myself to the completion of the bridge. I applied myself to the study of engineering and assumed the role of chief engineer when Washington could not—something many men found inconceivable.

Oh, the glorious day when I held a white rooster while crossing that magnificent structure! The Brooklyn Bridge is one of the greatest architectural feats of the 19th century and the world’s longest suspension bridge. It is the Eighth Wonder of the World!

I have been called a woman of strong character, a woman with an almost masculine intellect. My husband calls me a woman of infinite tact and wise council.

Yet, the Brooklyn Bridge was just one of my endeavors….

Book 1

At the Bridge

Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds of passengers!

Stand up, tall masts of Mannahata! stand up! beautiful hills of Brooklyn!

Walt Whitman

from Crossing Brooklyn Ferry

Chapter 1

Hicks Street, Brooklyn, New York 1869

Moments after the peach of dawn slipped over the horizon, the firmament abruptly blackened. My son and I gazed at the transformation as we sat nestled by the bay window. The clouds were like spilled ink in the sky; propelling themselves lower and lower as if to suffocate the earth. Thunderous moans reverberated in the distance. Leaves turned inside out in silver waves as birds swooped into trees; the scarlet streak of a cardinal flew past our window.

I pointed to the flags snapping furiously at half-staff for my dear father-in-law. I tried to explain to John, his namesake, how important his grandfather had been. But my son was not yet three years old, and could not conceive of what had happened to our family or how our lives would change now that his father was the chief engineer of the Brooklyn Bridge project.

Bird! John exclaimed, pointing his plump finger, interrupting my tears.

Yes, a cormorant! I said.

Go ousside?

Oh, no, there is a storm coming, Dear. He looked up at me with clear sapphire eyes, A very big storm.

Mama is sad, John said, with the empathy of one much older. He placed his hand on my dampened face.

Yes, we are sad today because Grandpapa has gone to heaven. I pulled his round, pillowy body close.

Heaven! In the sky! He pointed upward as the cormorant flew into the tempest. My son’s innocent elation at his grandfather’s transition reminded me of my childhood faith.

Yes, where there is no pain.

My father-in-law, John A. Roebling, suffered greatly in his last days. On Monday, June 28, 1869, he and my husband, Washington, were working at the foot of Fulton Street, where the first tower was to be built. I was writing letters in my study and young John was playing with blocks on the floor at my side. Suddenly, there was a commotion downstairs. I could not imagine who had entered the house at that hour of the morning. My husband had taken to spending long hours at the work site and rarely came home before seven o’ clock at night.

I took my son in my arms and rushed down the stairs to see my father-in-law on a stretcher, struggling for breath, his skin gray and deathlike. At his feet there were bloody bandages which caused me to gasp and pull my son’s head onto my shoulder. Just then the maid came and took little John away from the sight of his grandfather’s agony.

Lord, what has happened? I went to my husband’s side as he directed the men carrying the stretcher into a downstairs guest bedroom.

It was as if his toes were cut off by a large pair of shears, Washington said, wincing. We had gone down after breakfast to inspect the site of the Brooklyn tower in the spare ferry slip. In order to see better, my father climbed on a heap of cord wood. Seeing a boat coming, and fearing that the heavy blow would knock him off, I shouted to him to get down. He was standing on the ferry slip, and as he stepped back, his right foot became trapped between two beams. He could not move and the boat could not stop. It ground against the wall, crushing his boot and toes.

How awful for him, I said, looping my arm through my husband’s trembling one. He looked as if the blood had been siphoned from his body, his stone gray eyes darkened.

Do you know what he did then?

I think I can guess.

My father attempted to go right on working as if nothing had happened. After a time, he was undeniably overcome with pain. I took him to the doctor, where it was decided that his toes must be amputated. He would accept no anesthesia, but was determined to use the power of his mind to overcome the physical wounds of his body. His screams were vociferous, and caused me to retch.

Oh dear, how horrible. I then took him in my arms. He will need all the care we can give him. I will secure nurses immediately.

After the surgery, he insisted on binding his own wounds! My husband continued. His pride and stubbornness know no bounds!

That does not surprise me in the least. He is the most stoic of men.

In the coming days, nurses attended my father-in-law around the clock, and I checked on him hourly as well. All he would speak of was the bridge, as if nothing else had happened.

On July 8, the Brooklyn Eagle reported that he was busily engaged on his plans and drawings for the bridge. "The distinguished engineer has his notions about survival treatment, and seems to be very brave in regard to physical pain." The article claimed that in ten days he would be out surveying again. This seemed absurd to me.

A week after that report my father-in-law took a turn for the worse. His pain eventually became unbearable to witness. His body wracked with such rigidity that it would arch until his heels almost met the back of his head in a horrific contortion. His face was drawn into hideous expressions, and he could not swallow or speak. The muscles around his jaw and neck were as stone.

I have seen carnage on many a bloody battlefield, said my husband, but these horrors overcome me.

Any words I could conjure seemed useless, even cruel in the face of such agony. When a loved one has a heavy heart, you cannot attenuate their grief with mere words. My only recourse was to attend to all the matters at hand and hover near my husband in the hopes that my presence would be of comfort. Wash could not be convinced to leave his father’s bedside.

My father-in-law was dying of tetanus, and we were helpless to relieve his suffering. The seizures and excruciating spasms resulted in respiratory distress and then, on July 22, he had a massive convulsion, and he was gone. We watched, stunned, as his face returned to its handsome form and became peaceful. Our pastor, Henry Ward Beecher, arrived shortly after the death to find Wash sitting at the bedside, holding his father’s hand. His prayer was of comfort to us all.

Heavenly Father, You know our anguish at the loss of our beloved. Take your servant John to the Church Triumphant, where there is no suffering. Bring him gently into Your perpetual and eternal light, and bring peace like a river flowing into this family. Amen.

Washington was devastated over his father’s abrupt departure, as was everyone who had known him. I mourned with my husband as if John Roebling had been my own father.

The Eagle wrote this tribute:

He who loses his life from injuries received in the pursuit of science or of duty, in acquiring engineering details, is as truly and useful a martyr as he who sacrificed his life for a theological opinion, and no less honor should be paid to his memory. Henceforth, we look on the great project of the Brooklyn Bridge as being baptized and hallowed by the life blood of its distinguished and lamented author.

So great was my admiration for this man that Washington and I had named our son after him. I wrote to him when the baby was born: The name of John A. Roebling must ever be identified with you and your works, but with a mother’s pride and fond hope for her firstborn, I trust my boy may not prove unworthy of the name.

I could detect in my husband some hesitancy about his unexpected position as chief engineer. He was certainly well trained in civil engineering at the Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. He assisted his father on the Allegheny Bridge project, and when that was completed, worked in his father’s wire mill business. I saw no reason that he should not be capable of doing everything his father had planned.

Now that the funeral is over, I will need to travel to Trenton to settle my father’s estate and handle other affairs until my brothers can take over the family wire business. My husband stood near the window, the sun glistening on the river behind him.

I understand, dear. John and I will be busy while you are away. I will write to you every day.

As I will write to you, sweet Emily, he said as he took me in his robust arms. As we stood motionless, his grasp on me suddenly tightened, and I realized he was weeping.

I will miss him, too, Wash. He was a wonderful man, and I know he would be so proud of all you will do to make his wishes come true.

Although my father’s bold ambitions often supplanted his family responsibilities, I still loved him deeply. We moved so many times to satisfy his need to achieve more than other men in his position, but his achievements were, indeed, greater than most. The bridge he built in Cincinnati is my lodestar. It is my job now to carry the responsibility, and one cannot desert one’s job. You can’t slink out of life, or out of the work life lays on you.

I took out my linen handkerchief and wiped my husband’s tears away.

He was not only a genius, but a kind and generous man, I said, My goodness, the number of people who came to the funeral! Hundreds of workers who respected and loved him. His sympathies for the working man were large, and he lost no opportunity to promote harmony and good feelings between the employer and the employee.

Yes, I intend to follow his example in that. Wash’s hands covered his face.

What is it, dear?

He could also be a stern man, a hard character, a tyrant, even. My mother did not have a happy life. His work was his love, Wash turned to me. I did not witness the love between a husband and wife in my childhood. He took my face in his hands, I will never treat you that way, Emily. My mother died at 45, after an unhappy, unfulfilled life. She was a martyr to engineering. This bridge will never replace our happiness, I promise you.

I do not doubt that, I said. I regret never knowing your mother. But you are the best of your father.

My husband looked at me beseechingly, as if waiting for comfort.

I continued, His benevolence, his charity, all he left in his will to schools, orphans…

Yes, if only he could have been as charitable to his family. Wash broke in. I loved him in spite of all and will learn from his ways. He was a brilliant, but flawed man, just as I am, as we all are.

You have no flaws that I can detect, I smiled at Wash and saw a hint of a brightening on his handsome face. We embraced and left the rest unsaid.

All I could do for my grieving husband was to hold him gently and let him weep and reminisce. Washington was unafraid of crying, one of the rare and beautiful things I loved about him. He was a dignified, quiet man with a low, sonorous voice that always drew me into his words. My husband had great integrity and honesty in all that he did. I could walk into his study at any given moment and see him there, deep in thought, his shirt sleeves rolled up, the hair sticking up on the crest of his head as it was wont to do. He checked his pocket watch repeatedly and faithfully, always on schedule, always precise in his every move. It was only when I heard his deep humming of some unknown tune that I knew he was frustrated or discontented.

But I wondered whether the work and responsibility before him; the tremendous effort of the bridge, the daunting task of replacing the enormous character of his father, were embedded in his grief and tears.

Chapter 2

The glory of each generation is to make its own precedents.

Belva Ann Lockwood

After the Civil War, Brooklyn was a burgeoning, vibrant community. As the third-largest city in America, we had our own schools, fire, and police departments and nearly 400,000 residents. New York and Brooklyn changed rapidly with the growing numbers of businesses such as blacksmiths, boot and shoe makers, dressmakers, merchants, lawyers and piano makers, all in demand as a result of the growing population.

There was terrible crowding in the tenements of New York. The lack of clean water and sanitation led to rampant diseases; smallpox, cholera, typhus, measles. Part of the solution was to build hundreds of cottages for the working class in Brooklyn. The Fulton Ferry was the only way to get back and forth, so transportation between the cities was desperately needed. In the winter months, the river clogged with ice and made the commute impossible for days or weeks at a time. A young boy was killed when two ferries crashed in a pile of ice, and this seemed to sway public opinion toward building the bridge.

When I was young, I had no notion of the importance waterways would have in my life from Cold Spring to Brooklyn. The waters of the Hudson made their way over 50 miles from my childhood home to New York Harbor, just as I did.

Never far from the enchantment of a river, I grew up playing on the banks of the Hudson River, where you could hear turtles plop into the water, the gulp of jumping fish, and bullfrogs opening their throats to belch. The banks were lined with magnificent weeping willows and fragile white birches. In autumn, the rolling banks of the river became enflamed with color, and in winter, we sledded on the cold cotton mattress of snow. The whistles of the side-wheelers blowing in the night brought me comfort.

Being an adventurous child I loved exploring nature on the sparse, languid days of summer; ladling cold spring water from the stream near our home or lying on a blanket of delicious pine needles and looking for God in the clouds. My brothers and I captured lightning bugs and dragonflies, although Mother thought it unladylike of me to do so. Warty toads would hop into the palms of our hands, somehow trusting us to place them back into the dusty leaves. We chased furtive butterflies and searched for the elusive fox. We picked blueberries and blackberries and traipsed the forest like gypsies. My childhood was a lovely intermezzo before the tragedies and turmoil of life arrived.

One spring day, I decided to go off on my own. I was bored playing the same tiresome games my sisters enjoyed. They were content to sit on the floor with marbles, dominos, and jackstraws. I yearned for the adventures my mother read to me in books. I couldn’t have been more than six years old, but I wanted to know what it felt like to be untethered from my family. In the woods I came across a doe and two fawns settled into the leaves and I announced to them, I am a free girl! The doe stood up and snorted at me. Frightened, I ran through the woods as far as my little legs could carry me. I soon realized I was lost, but did not despair. I rather enjoyed the feeling of being unencumbered by rules and boundaries. Eventually, my brother, G.K.’s voice could be heard echoing through the forest, and I was rescued, although I was loath to go home. I had not finished my explorations. I excitedly told my brother of my adventures, and from then on G.K. called me Emmy, my free girl.

Upon arriving home, my father’s disappointed look was enough punishment for me. He would always tell me to be a lady, Emily, dear. My mother, I could plainly see, had been amused with my antics but did not defend them to my father. It was out of her respect for him, not fear. Of that, I was quite certain.

Cold Spring sits at the deepest point of the river, directly across from West Point. It was named for the crystalline waters of a local spring, a feature much enjoyed in my youth. We’d picnic near the springs and play in the waterfalls as children.

As an adult, G.K. established the West Point Foundry near our home to produce artillery pieces for the government. Of the twelve Warren siblings, I was closest to my brother, Gouverneur Kemble, named by my father after his friend of the same name, a local congressman and diplomat. Although he was much older, we held a special bond. He was a playful, generous brother who paid me much attention. We were sewn from the same independent fabric, unlike my other siblings. Because my father had died when I was young, Wash had to ask G.K. for my hand in marriage; a terrifying experience for him because G.K. had been his commanding officer during the Civil War. But, as always, my brother placed my happiness above all.

Grief for a parent never leaves you. They are the only people you have known every day of your life, the only ones who truly loved you unconditionally. It is unnatural for them to be gone, especially so unexpectedly. You can understand that someday it will happen, but that does not make the wound any kinder. My mother died when I was a girl of fifteen, and my father, a year later. Their spirits and memory are never far from my heart.

I often dreamed of sitting at my mother’s knee, talking the afternoon away as we did when I was young, or hearing her lilting voice at the piano, playing her favorite hymns or a Chopin melody. Sometimes the fragrance of lemon verbena or a certain face powder brought her presence close. It was a great loss to not have a mother to advise me as I grew into a woman. There were so many things I didn’t have the time to ask her. Being the second youngest in the family, I was away at school when my sisters married and left home, so I had no bond with older women.

My father had a boisterous laugh and a hearty sense of humor. If one of his children was unhappy, he would make funny faces or sing a silly tune, and soon everyone would be smiling once again. After my mother died, we witnessed the joy drain from his spirit and the laughter was silenced.

It was through my dear brother, the great General Gouverneur K. Warren, that Wash and I met. My husband was not just a chief engineer, but also a courageous veteran of the Civil War. He served in the Union army and was made a colonel in 1864 for his gallant service in such battles as Gettysburg and Little Round Top. I had the good privilege of being raised in a family that valued education for girls, and I attended Georgetown Visitation Academy in Washington, DC.

On February 22, 1864, I attended the Second Corps Officer’s Ball with G.K. Approximately 150 fine ladies graced the assemblage from all quarters of the Union. I was not searching for a husband, but had donned my best silk dress with as many petticoats and flounces possible. I wore a new bonnet with velvet ribbons.

Three hundred gentlemen attended, one of them being my Wash. He had crystal gray eyes, heavy brows, and a shock of mahogany hair tinged with copper. His nose and ears were perfectly shaped, and his warm and friendly smile drew me to him. We were charmed by each other upon our first encounter. His letter following the ball expressed his enchantment with me:

It gives me the greatest pleasure to say that I have succumbed to your charms. My love for you, I find, is, after all, paramount to every other feeling, and the lapse of time only deepens it. There is no woman living for whom I would be willing to give you up.

I have never considered myself a beautiful woman; I am a bit over average in height and weight, my nose is a pug shape, my eyes are hazel, my teeth and complexion, adequate. My chestnut hair, although lustrous and abundant, was difficult to contain in the upward style of the times. But Washington Roebling, in addition to complimenting my appearance, was the first man to consider my thoughts on many matters. Our conversations became a lifeblood to me, uplifting in the unity they brought to us, and flattering in the intensity of his attentions to all my opinions.

After expressing concerns over my appearance in a photograph he had requested, Wash wrote back:

Some people’s beauty lies not in the features, but in the varied expressions and the countenance it will assume under various emotions. Your appeal cannot be captured in stillness.

But to my consternation he signed the letter; Good night, my broad-hipped beauty - Your adoring Washy. I knew his heart was pure, even if his words were not.

When in each other’s presence or in the letters we exchanged, he took a sincere interest in my mental aptitude and convictions, of which I had many. Our immediate, intense physical attraction to each other enhanced our anticipation of a carnal union as well. We wrote to each other every day after our first meeting, and the next year, we were joyfully married in my home town, Cold Spring, New York, with my brother by my side.

Chapter 3

I hate to hear you talk about all women as if they were fine ladies instead of rational creatures. None of us want to be in calm waters all our lives.

Jane Austen

The day after Mr. Roebling’s grand funeral, men gathered in our parlor to discuss how to proceed with the bridge. Washington was now the chief engineer, and clearly in charge of the meeting. I tried to keep John entertained while I strained to listen to their animated conversation through closed doors.

The caissons are of vital concern, Colonel. Are you sure the massive size of your caissons is even possible? Some of our engineers here have never heard of caissons in the first place, General Horatio Wright, one of the consultants, said indignantly.

My extensive study of them in Europe allows me to be confident that this is the only way to build a bridge of this magnitude, Wash replied confidently. They are, in essence, a huge diving bell built of wood and iron, with sturdy sides and roof, but no floor. They will be sent to the bottom of the river, filled with compressed air for the workers to breathe. As they progress downward, stones will be piled on top to press them further into the river bed so men can excavate to the bedrock. Once they have dug to the greatest stable depth, the box will be filled with concrete, and that, gentlemen, is the foundation for the bridge tower.

I pushed my ear against the closed parlor door, proud in the certainty with which my husband worked to convince the skeptical men of his father’s plan. The discussion went on for some time, and although I am not the type of woman to rush to wait on men, I took some fresh lemonade into the parlor so I could hear more.

This seems dangerous for those willing to experiment with this unheard-of plan! John Newton practically yelled in my presence.

It is not experimental, Washington replied calmly. It has been used successfully in Europe for more than a generation, as early as 1831 by Lord Thomas Cochrane. The pneumatic caisson was used for a bridge foundation in Rochester, England, in 1851. I will admit, these caissons will be much larger than the ones in Europe, and will have to be sunk much deeper for us to achieve the strength we’ll need for this bridge, though.

Gentlemen, let me assure you that my husband knows what he is talking about. I was with him in Europe during the two years….

I believe, Mrs. Roebling, that that was when you were giving birth to your son, was it not? Mr. McLaughlin interrupted me.

Yes, but I am well aware of the efforts of my husband to learn all he could about the caissons, childbirth notwithstanding. What exactly does that have to do with it? I was incensed, but, as usual, Washington tempered the discussion by confirming my words and my worth.

My wife did, indeed, follow all I learned with great interest, and I never sensed that she was unable to understand the engineering involved. She has a keen mathematical mind. We were there for two years—childbirth took but a day. He smiled at me.

That shut Mr. McLaughlin’s mouth for a while.

I apologize, Mrs. Roebling. No insult was intended.

I’ll leave you all to your work. I do have a child to care for, after all, I added, somewhat unnecessarily. I left the room, closed the door, and kept listening. Mr. McLaughlin and General Wright continued to challenge Wash, and after a time, I had to stop listening for fear of bursting back into the room and embarrassing myself and my husband.

I settled John down for his nap, and returned to the doorway.

My brother is a doctor, I heard Mr. Martin say, In discussing this project, he brought up the danger of this type of work. It’s called the bends, when someone is not able to withstand the air pressure or coming up from the depths in the compressed air. Men have experienced a mysterious sickness, with pain and sometimes paralysis.

Yes, I’m aware of that, Charles, Wash responded, It is sometimes called compression disease, but I have been told it is a very rare reaction. I’m sure we can proceed slowly and carefully to ensure that no man will suffer in the building of this bridge. You have my word.

Well, Colonel, I hope the workers we hire will have as much faith in you as you do in yourself.

I could not help myself. I opened the door quietly and stepped back into the room with the men. I could see that they were dismayed to see me once again.

Mrs. Roebling, Mr. McLaughlin nodded demurely to me as if to repair the earlier insult.

Mr. McLaughlin, I nodded back. "It may not be to your liking, but I have participated in this project from its inception. My edification concerning the caissons continued for the entire two years that we lived in Germany while my husband was studying. I