He pulled up his collar as if warding off the long-ago cold. “The river was clogged with ice. We were halfway across when the boat slowed. Rain came down harder, freezing on everything, crusting the paddle wheel. The bow hit a massive ice floe, and the boat jolted to a standstill.”
Wash gazed across the river, his arm outstretched, beckoning the memory of a life-changing event. How uncanny that it conjured my own. But this was his story, and he certainly seemed to enjoy telling it. I forced my attention back on him.
Wash clapped his hands over his ears and winced. “The ice screeched against the hull. All around, seasick people leaned over the railings, groaning with each tilt of the boat. My father said, ‘We must help.’
“The boat tilted in a wave, and a man slid across the deck, banging against the side rails. I grabbed Papa’s arm, afraid of losing my footing. I was small enough to slip under the rail and into the water.”
I cringed, my hands gripping the blanket as I pictured him being pulled to icy depths.
“At the bow, the crew shivered and stared at the ice, poking at it with a stake. My father grabbed the stake, leaned over the railing, and pushed against the ice with all his might, right at the point of the bow. The chunk of ice budged, and he guided it starboard.
“The sun was setting. We were running out of daylight. The men lined the rail at the bow with assorted tools. ‘One, two, three,’ they counted and pushed. After several shoves, a big chunk of river ice gave way, and the boat lurched forward.
“The paddle wheel creaked forward, its icy crust shattered like glass, and everyone cheered. We put blankets on the poor, frightened horses.” He plopped down next to me and rested his hand on my knee. “I wanted to sneak under a blanket too.”
My proper training warred with my sentiment as I at once welcomed his touch and the happy turn in his story, yet my mother’s voice tsk-tsked in my head. I shifted away, worried the coachman or someone else would soon appear.
My hands and face were as frigid as if I had been on the ferry myself, and I was much relieved when the carriage approached. We climbed aboard and tucked under the robe. The carriage lurched forward, and I leaned my head on his shoulder, warm and solid. “Tell me what happened next.”
“Papa said, ‘No one should have to endure this. Let me show you something.’ But I couldn’t keep my teeth from chattering or get my legs to move, so he gave me his coat. I slipped into the sleeves, still warm from his arms, and he led me to the side rails. ‘How much longer?’ I asked him.
“‘Ten years, vielleicht,’ he said.”
I cocked my head at the unfamiliar word.
“He’s from Germany—it means ‘perhaps.’ Then Papa pointed toward the Brooklyn shoreline. ‘You see that curve of land over there? I could build a bridge. Trains, carriages, mothers pushing baby buggies, all crossing safely and swiftly, any time of year.’”
Wash gazed out the side of the carriage, the Potomac disappearing in the distance. “Papa grabbed his journal and pencil from the coat pocket. Drew a roadway between two towers above a choppy waterline. He told me, ‘When you’re a grown man, ferries like this bucket of bolts will be rusting away in dry dock.’
“He gave me back the journal, and I drew a busted-up boat. I told him I’d help him, and when it was finished, we’d climb to the top of the tower and watch the buckets of bolts rusting away. Papa said, ‘Sehr gut, Son. We don’t fight the river, we rise above it.’
“So that’s the dream. It’s why I became an engineer and build bridges.”
“You’ll build it when the war is done?”
“My father will, with my help. But it’s proving quite a challenge, and first we must finish the bridge in Cincinnati.” He stared at his fingers on the blanket while I wondered if I should ask him to explain. Then he twisted toward me, concern in his eyes. “Have I bored you, going on so?”
“Not at all.” I cuddled closer, answering his real question with one of my own. “Will I hear more tomorrow?”
He squeezed my hand in promise.
* * *
Wash and I spent as much time together as possible during his week of leave. We played chess and did word puzzles each evening, resting from our long walks and picnics during the day, always accompanied by a driver, GK, or his wife, whom we called Millie. My physical opposite, Millie was petite, even delicate. She wore the latest fashions with so much flair, I wanted to hate her for it. But her sweet nature prevented me from such a crass response.
Each morning, Wash arrived a bit earlier, and each evening, we prolonged our visit. The thought of him returning to war twisted my gut tighter as the days flew by. My dreams were plagued by visions of him running from an exploding bridge. On his last morning, dawn had barely broken and I was still slumped over my first cup of tea when I heard Millie answer a knock. Wash’s deep voice lured me to the door in my morning gown.
“Captain Roebling,” Millie tutted. “You want to squeeze more into a day than will fit.”
“Exactly my philosophy.” I beamed at him.
Pink bands lighting the sky framed Wash and his picnic basket in a rosy glow. “Sunrises are more beautiful than sunsets, wouldn’t you agree?”
Three
Cold Spring, New York
As abruptly as Wash came into my life, the war claimed him back. A letter arrived days after he departed, sharpening my longing for him.
My Darling Em,
GK and I have arrived safely, with one minor mishap. That foolish little stallion of mine fell down today, causing me to somersault over his head. But I was up long before he was and had to kick him to make him get up.
The next letter came a week later, just as I was entertaining notions of putting Wash out of my mind and starting a campaign to plead for women’s right to vote. But I was torn, wondering if I might be more likely to see him in the District or by staying in Cold Spring as GK had meetings across the river at West Point.
He wrote:
I am able to attain only a few hours rest each night, stretched out across some chairs or curled up on the ground. When I return from this miserable place, I shall sleep, interrupted only for my attentions to you, for two years.
But Uncle Robert Lee isn’t licked by a long shot, and if we are not mighty careful, he will beat us yet… I went up in an air balloon. I had a fine view of the battlefield, but unfortunately, the enemy had a fine view of me.
I read his letters each night before retiring, then tucked them under my pillow. My superstition was that he rested easier for it.
Sometimes he let on about more than fatigue and frustration: The troops led by Useless Grant are tired and played out. I met with no mishap; one bullet intended for me went through my orderly’s heart, killing him instantly.