Authors: Richard E. Crabbe
Suspension (38 page)
“Can't do it, August,” he said almost reluctantly. Coffin didn't say a word, and Tom couldn't bring himself to say more. Those four words were hard enough, considering what it was costing him. “You knew what I'd say, didn't you? You really thought I'd say something different?”
“I'd hoped you might see the sense of it, Tom.” Coffin exhaled slowly, almost in resignation. “I'm offering quite a lot, you know. It could go very easy if you let it.” Coffin's tone was almost melancholy. Tom was reminded not of how easy it might be but of how hard it would be. There was a threat behind Coffin's sad refrain.
Tom briefly considered a threat of his own, one not so veiled with regret. He thought to throw Coffin up against a wall and tell him exactly what he'd do to him if he had any more trouble. He wanted to kick him in the balls, leave
him gasping on his knees in the street. But he did none of that. It would only make things worse. Coffin had the power of rank and connections and his corps behind him. Tom couldn't hope to prevail against that kind of power. It was going to take more than threats. There had to be some way to get Coffin off his back, but he had to have time to figure it.
him gasping on his knees in the street. But he did none of that. It would only make things worse. Coffin had the power of rank and connections and his corps behind him. Tom couldn't hope to prevail against that kind of power. It was going to take more than threats. There had to be some way to get Coffin off his back, but he had to have time to figure it.
“I'll bring you the rest of your money tomorrow, August.” Tom had cleaned out his account at the Dry Dock and borrowed some from Mary to make up the difference. It didn't feel good to be broke. Tom turned, walking away quickly, pounding the pavement for blocks before he blew off enough steam to think of anything else. With an effort he turned his mind to Watkins, deciding to check out that address on Cherry Street again. This time he went without backup. It was a risk but being in plain clothes had its advantages.
J
ustice Lincoln and Patrick Sullivan straddled the main cable on the south side of the bridge as they ate lunch.
ustice Lincoln and Patrick Sullivan straddled the main cable on the south side of the bridge as they ate lunch.
“You notice the ferry stopped?” Lincoln pointed down at the
Montauk.
Montauk.
“Yeah. Bet that's got folks hopping. Everybody's in such a damn hurry in this town. Never have gotten used to it.” Pat looked down at the ferry, which seemed to be about to leave the dock.
“Bet they can't wait till this bridge is done.”
“Damn, but there's gonna be a lot of disappointed folks in this city.” They laughed, feeling like gods sharing a joke at the expense of the unsuspecting ants below. Silently they ate their sandwiches, drank their beer, and dangled their feet on either side of the cable.
“You recall when Harry Supple died?” Pat brought up something they hadn't spoken of in some time. All the riggers knew Harry Supple, the most famous rigger of them all. His reputation had only grown with the years, and to some in the cables his memory had taken on an almost mythic status.
“Sure. What made you think of that?”
“Don't know.” Pat shrugged. “Just thinking about all the men gone ⦠you know, building this thing.”
“Plenty. Must be twenty at least.” Lincoln's brow furrowed in thought. “Don't know how many are cripples from the caisson disease too. There's Roebling for one.”
Pat snorted. “Yeah, well, I don't give a rat's ass for Roebling, but there's some good men under the ground âcause of this bridge. Supple was the best of 'em.”
“Had balls of brass. Nobody was as sure of himself in the cables as Harry.
Remember when he went out hand over hand to cut that fella loose?” Justice swallowed a gulp of beer.
Remember when he went out hand over hand to cut that fella loose?” Justice swallowed a gulp of beer.
“Sure ⦠what the hell was his name?”
“Carroll, I think. Big fella.”
“Yeah, that's him. Got himself hung up cutting the lashings on the second wire. Rig on his boatswain's chair jammed.”
“Couldn't go back, nor forward ⦠dangling a hundred feet out from the tower,” Justice added. “Yup ⦠Harry just swung out like a damn monkey, cut Carroll free ⦠cool as you please.” They smiled at the memory.
T
he
World
, in its headline the next day, called it a “Stupendous Tight-Rope Performance.” Supple seemed to have as many lives as a cat. He had survived the collapse of a boom derrick during the construction of the Brooklyn tower. Men around him had been crushed or thrown from the tower.
he
World
, in its headline the next day, called it a “Stupendous Tight-Rope Performance.” Supple seemed to have as many lives as a cat. He had survived the collapse of a boom derrick during the construction of the Brooklyn tower. Men around him had been crushed or thrown from the tower.
“Gotta admit, Harry had sand,” Jus muttered. “Course, didn't get to know him till a little later, but I remember watching him that first day. Remember the cheerin'? Hell, I cheered too and I ain't ashamed to admit it.”
Pat smiled. It had been a great day. “Shame the way he went, though. Least it was quick.”
H
arry Supple died spectacularly, as befits a legend. It was June 14, 1878, and Farrington, Supple, a man named Blake, and two others were easing off one of the strands. Each strand was composed of 278 wires and was strung above the level of the main cable and then lowered, or “eased,” into place. Farrington ordered the engine to lower the strand, when suddenly the cable attached to the engine snapped. The strand and its cast-iron shoe crashed into Supple, tearing open his chest and throwing him off the anchorage to the street below, breaking his back, arms, and legs. Incredibly, Supple clung to life for nearly another day, though he never regained consciousness. Blake was killed instantly and the other two men were badly injured. Farrington had only a scratch on his hand.
arry Supple died spectacularly, as befits a legend. It was June 14, 1878, and Farrington, Supple, a man named Blake, and two others were easing off one of the strands. Each strand was composed of 278 wires and was strung above the level of the main cable and then lowered, or “eased,” into place. Farrington ordered the engine to lower the strand, when suddenly the cable attached to the engine snapped. The strand and its cast-iron shoe crashed into Supple, tearing open his chest and throwing him off the anchorage to the street below, breaking his back, arms, and legs. Incredibly, Supple clung to life for nearly another day, though he never regained consciousness. Blake was killed instantly and the other two men were badly injured. Farrington had only a scratch on his hand.
“Y
ou know, Jus, I wonder about Harry sometimes. I mean, if anybody was sure to live through the wire rigging it was him. That man was born in a tree, I swear,” Pat marveled.”Wasn't none of us could keep up with him.”
ou know, Jus, I wonder about Harry sometimes. I mean, if anybody was sure to live through the wire rigging it was him. That man was born in a tree, I swear,” Pat marveled.”Wasn't none of us could keep up with him.”
“Damn near killed myself trying,” said Justice. “Gave it up. Couldn't out-supple old Harry.”
“Yeah, but he's the one that's gone. Don't make sense.” Pat looked out over the harbor toward Staten Island. “I mean here we are, planning to do ⦠well, you know, and we're still breathing, whilst a good man like Harry is in the ground. Makes you wonder about things.”
Justice could see now where Pat was heading with this. He kept silent, listening.
“Like God's will, sort of. You know what I'm saying?” Pat asked.
“Well, I don't claim to know about those things, Pat. Any notions I had on them subjects got bleached out by the war, I guess. Tried to see some sense in it back then ⦠but I gave up trying.” Jus was silent for a moment, then said, “Want a pickle? I got an extra.”
Pat took it. For the next minute all that passed between them was the crunching of the big dills.
“I know what you mean,” Pat said at last. “I used to lie awake nights, wondering why I was still alive. Like the captain and his brother. Why was Frank the one to go like that? Thaddeus always said Frank was the better of them. But there he was, his guts spilled out and the captain couldn't catch a ball if he'd a-paid for it.”
They both sat thinking, watching the river traffic.
“I don't know, Jus, maybe the Lord's been saving us for this. Maybe all our lives have meant to lead us here. Ever think about that? What if this is the only real thing we been put on this earth to do?”
Justice had been thinking the same thing, especially lately. It wasn't something he talked about, not even with Pat. He wasn't sure just how far he should go, so he answered warily. “Thought ⦠occurred to me.” “Reckon if that's so, then there ain't much I can do about it. God's gonna do with me what he will, I guess.” It felt better to think that way.
“But we got a will of our own, Justice. God gave us that too.” Pat looked straight down toward the river, something he didn't do much of. “I could jump off this cable right now, and God can't stop me.”
“Yeah,” Jus admitted slowly “but it was God's will, put you here,” he pointed out. “You gonna go against God?”
That sort of talk got under Sullivan's collar. “How the hell you know what God wants? How can anybody? That's just a blind so's you don't have to think the hard things for yourself.” The exasperation was clear in Pat's voice. His tone didn't seem to bother Jus. He had always been more of a believer than Pat, more willing to let his faith do the thinking for him.
“Don't take a crystal ball, Pat. Gotta see inside yourself ⦠like. It's like God's in your head sometimes and all you gotta do is look for him,” Jus said softly. He'd been looking more himself lately.
“What if I do and he tells me things I don't want to hear, Jus? Suppose he says what I'm doing is wrong?” Pat said, voicing both their fears.
“Can't decide such things for you, nor you for me,” Jus answered. “I think that if a man goes searching for the Lord's truth, he'll find it. I mean ⦠if it's inside his own self ⦠or out there somewheres”âhe waved vaguely out at the river and harbor below themâ“if you look for God, you'll find him.”
They both sat there for a while, Patrick munching a pickle and Justice nursing the last of his warm beer. Pat wasn't so sure about finding God's will. To know the will of God would be to know certainty, like knowing the winning numbers in the Kentucky lottery before you bought a policy. He just didn't believe things were that certain.
“We doing God's will, you figure?” Pat asked, hoping for ⦠what? he asked himself. He felt as if he were groping in the dark.
“Fact is, I don't know. I think so ⦠but.” Jus veered off to a familiar refrain, the anchor they all clung to. “We got a score to settle with Roebling. I know that much. The captain's got a debt too. Makes me see red sometimes, when I think what the Yankees done to us.”
“I know. I used to feel that way a lot,” Patrick said, seeing into himself. Those feelings had been slowly fading for years. “Takes longer to get there now, like I got to try to bring it out.”
Justice knew exactly what Pat was getting at. It scared him though to let go. “We got our oaths, Patrick. We all swore to do this thing.”
Pat could hear the warning in his voice. “I know. I swore too ⦠but it's hard. Things aren't as clear ⦠now.” Pat was trying to make it clear for himself and Lincoln too. “This jobâthe bridge, I meanâguess I didn't expect to like it so much. Didn't expect to lose my hate neither.”
“I don't hate like I done in bygone years,” Jus admitted. “But that don't mean I don't know what it feels like, nor why I'm here.” Lincoln sounded as if he were trying to convince himself.
“Reckon. Be honest with me now, Jus. Aren't you going to feel just a little bad to see her go down?” Pat slapped the cable he sat on, then slapped it again, softer this time, almost a caress. “It'll be like losing a piece of myself.”
Justice was quite for a long time, so long that Pat almost wondered if he'd heard him.
Finally Justice turned, his battered face wearing a sadness Pat had rarely seen.
“I don't like to think about that,” Jus said, his eyes saying more than his words. Here was the one thing that stood in the way, the thing that was in danger of cutting across faith and mission and vengeance: the bridge itself. Its hold on him had grown to the point where he could not speak of it with the
others, hardly even with Pat. But he had just then, in more than words. The horse was out of the barn now. Jus waited to hear what Pat would do with it.
others, hardly even with Pat. But he had just then, in more than words. The horse was out of the barn now. Jus waited to hear what Pat would do with it.
“Me neither, Jus” was all Pat said. It was enough.
“Funny. After blowing all them bridges in the war, it's kind of odd getting attached to one,” Justice mused with a softness in his voice that he didn't mean to be there. It crept in anyway. Finally he decided to voice something he had only thought before. “Listen, I never said this to nobody, Pat, and you got to promise me that you won't tell ⦠the others.” Jus twisted back toward Pat.
“Sure. It's just us talking,” Patrick said with a shrug.
“Well ⦠sometimes, like times when we're up in the cables and the sun is just right, I swear I see the Lord's work here. And ⦠damned if I don't feel proud. Shit, Patrick, I ain't never felt like I was doing the Lord's workânever except maybe at the start of the war.” The strain was clear in his voice. “That's why I try to see what we're doing here in the right light ⦠see my duty.” He squinted back at Sullivan, the conflict clear in his face.
Sullivan knew the feeling, but had been scared to even think it in light of what they'd all sworn to do. Still, he confessed.
“I know, Jus. It's as close to a thing of beauty as these hands ever made.” Pat held his hands up as if looking at them for the first time. Justice grunted his agreement. Patrick mumbled, half to himself, half to the winds in the cables, “This will be a trial for us all.”
M
ike wasn't going to cry. He sat in a small cell in the basement of 178 Delancey Street. The Thirteenth Precinct station house was old. It still stood much as it had in the 1840s when it was first built. The cell Mike was in was windowless. The stone walls were cold. Water beaded and dripped on their irregular surfaces. The iron bars of his cell were damp too. Rust blossomed on the old iron like fungus. When he put his hands on them, they came away brown. The homeless the city sheltered in police stations every night had gone their way at first light. There had been maybe a dozen of them, all ages and sizes. But they had left. Their doors weren't locked. For the first time, Mike envied them.
ike wasn't going to cry. He sat in a small cell in the basement of 178 Delancey Street. The Thirteenth Precinct station house was old. It still stood much as it had in the 1840s when it was first built. The cell Mike was in was windowless. The stone walls were cold. Water beaded and dripped on their irregular surfaces. The iron bars of his cell were damp too. Rust blossomed on the old iron like fungus. When he put his hands on them, they came away brown. The homeless the city sheltered in police stations every night had gone their way at first light. There had been maybe a dozen of them, all ages and sizes. But they had left. Their doors weren't locked. For the first time, Mike envied them.
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