Brookland (63 page)

Once the timber was dangling over the water, a yard or so from its final destination, the crane operator would bind off his rope tightly on a cleat, while the two guides did likewise with theirs, holding the timber as steady as possible. Then four more men would sling themselves into leather hammocks, gingerly descend the bridge's face, and ease the great piece of wood into position. These men carried mallets and sharp iron studs in their harnesses, and once the member was locked in place, they would use these to fix it there. Prue thought it would have been difficult to say which job relating to the construction was the most dangerous, but these men who climbed down the face of the bridge in slings appeared
both most brazen and most vulnerable; and each time they ascended again to safety, those nearby would swear their delight at their companions' good fortune.

As had been the system in building both the models, Prue and Ben directed their men to affix those timbers closest to the abutments to their framework, then to continue building riverward; and as in the models, the backward slope of the beams allowed them to transfer their weight shoreward into the anchorages, and not out toward their unfinished tips. Once a timber had been secured to one of the downriver spandrels, the operator would swing his crane a hundred eighty degrees northward and complete the same operation for the corresponding position on the upriver face of the lever. When the two sides in concert had traveled toward the center of the river a distance of eight feet, the men would hoist up the pitched planks for the roadbed and build it out; after which they would swivel the crane ninety degrees, to face the center of the river, and drive it out nearly to the lever's edge. Here began the most time-consuming part of the operation: drawing up the thick iron beams that supported the whole endeavor. They were heavy enough that to lift them two men had to work the crank in concert, while four guided the ropes. Once they were in place, men would again lower themselves down in harnesses, this time from the tip of the lever. Here each removed a jug of acid from his sling and poured it into the mortises where the rod would go, taking care not to spill any on their own gloved hands or boots. Then, quickly and in concert, they guided in the iron rod and held it there with all their might until the few drops of pitch released from the wood had set. Each time this operation was completed without anyone being knocked senseless by the rod, released to the water by a shoddy rope, or burned with acid, the nearby men would also cheer.

In this way, day by day, the bridge inched closer to the middle of the river.

Prue believed her years of experience running the distillery helped keep the men safe in their labor. She made certain the cranes were oiled and their ropes checked daily; and if workers were to hang in harnesses a hundred-odd feet above high tide, she'd be damned if their ropes and knots were not scanned before each descent and if other men weren't standing on the roadway above them, holding fast their ropes in case of
accident. Each night, when the regular workmen trooped wearily back up to their camp, the crew foremen and the captains—those six who'd built the second model with Ben, and Ed and Pete Domer—remained at the work sites and personally saw that each knife was sharpened, each hammer head firmly attached to its shaft, each jug of acid well stoppered for the night. Before they left the premises, they drew the gates shut across the accessways to remind the foolhardy of their peril. On the New York side, there was hardly a moment of construction Ben did not himself oversee with Alphonsus Weatherspoon to assist him; on the Brooklyn side, either Prue or Marcel was generally available, and if not, Matthias Osier stood in. At times questions went unanswered, supplies ran thin, and arguments erupted and descended to blows; but these occurrences were infrequent, given the size and danger of the bridgeworks. Prue believed all these safeguards were the result of the distillery training she had received under her father's tutelage; and each day that a hundred fifty men returned more or less unharmed to camp to smoke, drink, and bathe their hands and faces in buckets, she wished Matty Winship still lived, so she might thank him for his guidance.

She recognized as well that it was not only her experience that kept the men safe, nor even Ben's and Marcel's fastidiousness: It was some amalgam of good luck and God's will. For this she was thankful. She tried not to dwell on the possibility that luck, or divine favor, could change as quickly as the weather.

For each six days' labor completed without significant mishap, Prue went down on the Saturday afternoon to Loosely's auctions and bought pigs to roast, which Scipio Jones slaughtered. The workers delighted in this Sunday feast; and many of them spent the remainder of the afternoon burying potatoes in the dirt at the edges of the fire, and sitting around talking and waiting for them to blacken.

April slid into May and May into June, all with no incidents more serious than broken bones. Prue began to wonder if it was possible to build a bridge without loss of life. Though neither she nor Ben thought it likely they'd complete construction by the end of the year as they had planned, each lever was coming along well. The only trouble was that by June, Ben had spent all the state's money, along with every penny of the contributions they had raised. He insisted—and Prue knew without his saying anything—that he had mismanaged nothing; but the stone had
proven prohibitively expensive, and the extra men and extra time the bridge would need were taking their toll.

He and Prue sat by one balmy spring evening as Marcel and Isaiah pored over the bridge's books. All three men were nursing cigars, and the view from the countinghouse windows was dimmed by the smoke.

“Nothing,” Isaiah said at last, and bowed his head down to scratch it with his free hand. “I can see no error or mismanagement, but you are nearly a thousand in debt.”

Marcel said, “I don't know, Mr. Horsfield. It might have been possible to acquire the iron beams less expensively farther afield, but you would then have had a greater cost in shipping them.”

“I think that's so,” Ben said. “I wouldn't choose to have done it otherwise.”

Marcel nodded and tapped the ash from the end of his cigar.

Isaiah said, “You don't seem especially concerned about it, Benno. Some action will have to be taken. You owe money to the foundry, and there's nothing with which to pay the workers come Saturday.”

“I am concerned,” Ben replied, “but uncertain, as yet, how to proceed.”

Prue said, “We have always said we'd make up whatever was necessary from our private funds, and I suppose we'll begin to do so today. But if the bridgeworks runs into a third season, as I think we all know it will, we won't be able to finance it on our own.”

“I shall write the new governor immediately,” Ben said, “and take up another subscription among our neighbors.”

Governor Jay's term had expired, and George Clinton, who had served as governor many times before, had come out of retirement to be reelected. Prue hoped he would be as well disposed as his predecessor toward the bridge. “There can't be much more to be had in either of those precincts?” she asked.

Ben said, “Perhaps some.”

Isaiah sat up. “You could cut the workers' pay,” he suggested. “Here and on the bridge.”

“We can't do that,” Prue said. “It's skilled and dangerous work in both places. It would be unfair, and they wouldn't stay.”

Isaiah's countenance showed he agreed with her; the deep furrow between
his brows evinced his worry. “I fear you won't be able to support the venture long from your own funds; perhaps not even so long as you suppose. Business never picked up again after Epiphany. I've no idea why, but receipts remain down.”

“We've done nothing to merit it,” Prue said, thinking that if she'd changed the method of rectifying, they might well have. What Tem called tergiversation was, in fact, yet another stroke of good fortune. “The quality of our goods is the same, and we continue to ship as promptly as ever.”

Isaiah shook his head. “We'll find out what's gone wrong; but in the meanwhile, I think we should discuss how you might decrease expenditures in some other area.”

“Such as?” Ben asked. “It's not as if I take wages myself, or I could give them up.”

Isaiah said, “Materials.”

Ben sucked on his cigar while he thought it through, but he shook his head the whole time. “No,” he said. “Marcel is correct about the iron members. As for the timber, if we purchase inferior goods, very soon we'll have nothing but a pile of sticks in the water.”

Prue was poised to shout out against this eventuality, but Ben put forth his free hand to comfort her before she could.

“Understood,” Isaiah said. “I only wonder if you might bargain your supplier down. If he could ship you your timber at three cents less the foot—”

Ben said, “He has given me a very good price already,” and at the same time Prue said, “I don't like this.”

“I only think it might render your finances a hair less perilous.”

Ben said, “I now know why she offered you your position all those years ago.”

Isaiah smiled. His cigar had sat idle awhile, and he took up Ben's to relight it. “For this week,” he went on, “I wonder if you might consider taking half my salary, toward paying the workers.”

“No,” Prue said, and Ben said, “That's impossible.”

“It needn't be an outright gift. You may consider it a loan. Heaven knows I could live on half my salary for a month, perhaps even a year.”

Ben said, “It could well take longer than that.”

“Ben,” Prue said, “you can't even entertain the notion. It isn't right.” To Isaiah she said, “I will not take bread from your children's mouths when I have not yet put in a penny of my own.”

“It isn't as baleful as all that, but very well,” Isaiah said. “The offer will stand, however. I don't see how you can get quit of this morass without some sacrifices.”

“I could give up part of my salary, too,” Marcel chimed in.

“No,” Prue said. “Both of you. I should sooner mortgage this distillery.”

The room fell silent a moment, in which Prue heard Ben's chair creak and her watch and Isaiah's ticking.

“I don't know if Tem would allow that,” Ben said.

“Tem wouldn't like it, but she also doesn't own it,” Prue said. “So far as the law is concerned, Tem is an
employee
. As, I suppose, am I.” As they were all looking at her uncomfortably, she stood, brought down the bottle and cups from the shelf, and poured out a round of the wares.

“I think you are perhaps oversolicitous of my children,” Isaiah said, raising his cup and resolutely ignoring her last statement, “and not solicitous enough of your own sisters.”

“I disagree,” Prue said. “It's not as if I should ruin anyone by taking out a mortgage. As if Ben should. And there's no guarantee we'll need to. We can meet the payroll from our own pockets for the nonce; and who knows what Governor Clinton may do for us.”

Isaiah once again let out a sigh, and leaned toward Prue with both forearms on the table and his delicate cup cradled in both hands. “Prue. Either the bridge is a sound venture or it is not. If you will risk seeing everything your father worked for auctioned off at Loosely's, I conclude it must be sound. If so, and if my small contribution may be of use to you, I will make it gladly.”

Prue thought she would sooner die than take his money, but she thanked him anyway.

Ben said, “We have not spent all the proceeds from the sale of my house. We shall use that, Izzy, before coming to you.”

Prue was suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion. “It's been a long day,” she said, “and I don't think we can resolve this issue by speaking of it further. Shall I see you in the morning?”

“Of course,” Isaiah said, and Marcel said, “Good evening, Miss Winship.”

“I'll be home in a moment,” Ben added.

Prue went down the open stairs to the deserted mill yard. The air was warm, and the setting sun lit the sky a vivid, darkening blue, almost yellow at the horizon, behind the pyramid and the black spires of Manhattan. The longest days of the year were upon them, with all the extra work they allowed. The breeze from Clover Hill carried down the sweet, rich scent of ripening corn, which revived her. Through the countinghouse window, Prue could see Ben, Isaiah, and Marcel still talking, their cigars puffing smoke. She had excused herself with the intention of going to bed, but she no longer wished to. Instead, she climbed Joralemon's Lane and set out along the Ferry Road toward the churchyard.

Prue visited her family graves only infrequently. She knew Pearl went to visit their parents, but could not imagine what she did there—stare mournfully at their names? Imagine what had become of their dear forms in so many years underground? Prue saw no use in it, nor in spending time at the grave of her daughter. She knew it would only sadden her. She no more believed Matty and Roxana Winship and Susannah Horsfield were contained in those plots of soil than that they were residing in Manhattan. But as she left the countinghouse that evening, she thought the thing she most wished for was to be able to ask her parents for advice; and if she could not do that, she could at least sit by them.

The graveyard's wooden gate lolled open, though there was no one inside. Dandelions had run rampant across the hillside, and Prue wondered if it would be any more morbid than buying the fruit of Mr. Remsen's asparagus field to bring some of the greens home to Abiah. For the moment, however, she simply sat down, and looked at her parents' two engraved names, and at Susannah's, removed a slight distance, as if those names bore any true resemblance to the beings they called to mind.
Sukey
, she thought, and tried to imagine what the child would have looked like if she'd lived, what sort of nature she might have had. Then Prue's mind trailed off into emptiness, she didn't know for how long.