Coffin didn't answer. The shock on his face said it all.
“You may as well have turned yourself in that night, Augie. You've been doomed ever since.”
Coffin stopped struggling and looked at Tom as if he was just seeing him now. He said calmly, “This is not how I planned it, sport.” His intentions for Tom clear in just those few words.
“Sorry, August,” Tom said, meaning it. Tom nodded to the Chinese a particularly evil-looking trio, he noticed. They started to herd Coffin back down the stairs. The door at the bottom of the black stairs opened again. This time Byrnes stood outlined in the soft golden glow of the lamps within. Coffin saw him immediately. He stiffened for a moment, then blurted, “Chief! Christ, am I glad to see you! Theseâtheseâ” he stammered as he saw the look on Byrnes's face.
“I heard everything, August. I was in the next fucking room!” Byrnes's voice sounded like the birth of an avalanche. “We need to have a
talk
, you and I.” As he said this, Byrnes slowly pulled on a tight black glove over his huge fist, pulling at the fingers so it fit just so.
Coffin looked from Byrnes to Tom, desperation written large in his eyes. A small, defeated croak escaped his throat, and his mouth worked soundlessly.
He took another step down, seemingly held up now by the three Chinese. He was only two steps down when footsteps were heard pounding hard from around the curve of the street. With the echo, it was hard to tell if it was one or two coming at a run. They all froze. Tom still had Coffin's pistol in his hand. He checked to see the safety was off. In an instant, the echoing footsteps materialized from the gloom into a large black shape. There was something in its hand, thick, stubby and menacing. The black form slowed to a deliberate walk as the distance narrowed. There was something familiar about that walk. Tom brought the pistol up, pulling back the hammer as he did, his hand trembling slightly. He wasn't about to take any chances.
“Chowder, he's got my gun!” Coffin cried out. At that very instant, at the dot of eight o'clock, fifty rockets and another twenty huge aerial bombs went off on cue over the Brooklyn Bridge. Even from over a half-mile away, they could all feel the concussions and see the sky light up. Tom flinched and thought for an instant that Chowder had fired. He almost fired himself. Only the knowledge that it was Chowder Kelly out there in the dark kept him from doing so. Down in the stairwell, Byrnes had his pistol out too. It seemed almost an insignificant thing in that huge black-gloved hand. Chowder, a sawed-off shotgun gripped in his big paw, was lit in a flickering, eerie glow, a ghoulish, menacing thunderhead of a man with a gun that looked like a small cannon. He called to Tom over the noise of the explosions.
“Damn! Looks like we'll miss some o' the fireworks, eh, Tommy?”
“Chowder, look out!” Coffin cried, struggling now with his captors.
“There's three of them here.”
Chowder flinched a little at that, not sure what to expect. But in an instant he relaxed and said, “You can tuck that pistol away, Tommy. You won't need it.”
“Chowder!” A despairing note in Coffin's voice now.
Tom didn't say a word, just stuffed the pistol back in his pocket.
“Chowder, help!” Coffin called again as Chowder stopped in front of him.
“Shut the fuck up, Augie.” Tom grinned, amazed and relieved at the same time. He hadn't wanted to shoot Chowder Kelly.
“Looks like you've got yourself some fireworks right here, though, Tommy,” Chowder said as the rockets continued to rumble and crash in the distance. “Yes, indeedy, you do!”
Coffin, with a violent effort, somehow wrenched free of his captors, one of whom tumbled down the stairs and into the door. He tried to make it to the street and had his foot on the top step when Chowder lashed out, kicking Coffin in the stomach. He would have fallen back down the stairs if the two Chinese hadn't caught him. Chowder grinned and said, “Damn, that felt good.”
Coffin was doubled over, retching on the stairs. The three Chinese had him pinned again.
“Chowder ⦠you â¦
Fuck
!” He retched and spit. “
Rot in hell ⦠you ⦠fucking ⦠bastard
.”
Chowder, lit by the flickering colored fireworks, in a fun houseâdevil sort of glow, grinned and said softly, “After you, August.”
Neither Braddock nor Byrnes said anything. Byrnes simply nodded to the Chinese, who pulled the captain off his feet and down the stairs. They dragged him down into the basement on Doyers, his heels bouncing as he went. To his credit he went silently, his accusing eyes the last Braddock would see of him ⦠in this world.
C
aptain Sangree sat on the edge of a wharf a quarter mile upriver from the bridge. Jacobs, Lebeau, Lincoln, Emmons and Sullivan were all with him, though he hardly noticed them. It was as if the fireworks had transported him. Perhaps it was the explosions when the first salvo went up. They sounded like artillery. They
felt
like artillery, the way the sound and shock waves compressed the air about their heads. It brought him back to Gettysburg and the barrage on the third day. Lee's guns had opened the attack, focusing the whole of the cannonade on a single point in the Yankee line. The cannon roared and thundered. A tornado of howling shells, bright-orange explosions, whistling fragments, and fountains of earth seemed to settle on the Yankee line like an avenging hand. Too soon the smoke of the guns obscured everything, but they fired on blindly into the Union center. Thaddeus remembered thinking about what a shell had done to Franklin. He remembered wishing the same for the Yankees. A sudden salvo of bursting rockets snapped him out of his reverie. They rained red, white, and blue stars, floating and flickering over the river. The ships below were illuminated in a ghostly sort of way, all light on one side and blackness on the other. The black waters reflected the explosions and sparkling waterfalls so at times the ghost ships seemed to ride on waves of fire. Rolling billows of smoke started to settle over the river. Soon, he imagined, the artillery wouldn't be able to see their targets.
Sangree fingered the folded telegram in his pocket. It had come days ago from his backers in Richmond. The news had been worse than he'd expected:
reception for your friends did not go as planned stop coming back to NY tomorrow stop they'll want to visit you immediately stop strongly suggest you move up timetable stop waste no time stop do not fail stop
Thaddeus knew the words by heart. “Goddamn Braddock! God
damn
that
fucking
detective!” he said under his breath. He looked over at Jacobs, his head wrapped in a white bandage, looking pale. Even a child had beaten them, he thought. What was happening to them? Why had they been unable to eliminate the detective and that brat? He was beginning to hate Braddock almost as much as Roebling. The thought of Roebling turned his mind elsewhere. The possibility of failure started to congeal in his head. It was not to be accepted, not even the possibility. The threat was clear enough in the telegram. Not that he needed a threat to goad him on. If they did fail, what then? What if he survived the attempt? There would be no going south. His life would not be worth living. He'd be hunted, and if he were unlucky enough to be captured, he'd be hanged. No ⦠surviving a failed attempt was not an option. But there would still be Roebling. If all else failed, there would always be Roebling.
“D
amn, that was pretty, Jus. Did you see the way those colors changed as they fell? How they do that?” Pat wondered out loud.
“Yeah. This is really somethin', Pat. Never seen the like.”
“Haven't ever seen this many people in one spot before either. Looks like the whole damn city turned out. Just imagine how many are in those boats.” Pat pointed out at the clogged river. “Must be twentyâthirty thousand at least.”
“Sure, maybe more,” Justice agreed. “There's probably three or four thousand on those navy ships alone.” The men almost had to shout at each other over the explosions and the din of the cheering crowds.
“I never imagined anything like this, partner. I know it's a big thing, but somehow I just never thought they'd put on this kind of show.”
“And ain't she beautiful, Pat?”
“Yup. Whatever happens, I got to say I'll always be proud I worked on her.”
“Me too,” Justice said honestly. “I'll do what I got to, you know, but ⦔ His voice trailed off into silence as the rain of fire silhouetted the massive bridge in sparkling relief. The people around them “oohed” and “aahed” and cheered.
“Jus, you know, it don't have to go like the captain says,” Pat said into his ear, keeping an eye on the captain. “I meanâoh, hell, I don't know what I mean. It's like when we were talking up in the cables, you remember?” Justice just nodded. “You said if I looked for answers they'd come, remember?” Justice looked at Pat knowing what he was getting to. “I've been looking, andâ” Sullivan stopped, afraid to actually put his thoughts into words.
“Don't tell me, Pat. I don't want to know. That's something you got to do
for yourself. I can't help you ⦠can't ask me to neither.” Jus was afraid of hearing what he knew could change their lives. There was near desperation in the way he spoke.
Pat could see Justice had been wrestling with his own demons. It was in his eyes, lit by the brilliant flashes of fireworks. It was almost as if his thoughts shone out in shifting patterns of fire and shadow. They warred across the craggy landscape of his face, at least that's how it looked to Pat.
It was a long time before Justice spoke again. The fireworks had been going now for nearly half an hour without a break. At last, Justice turned his battered face to Pat and said, “Whatever you decide is okay by me, Pat. I won't stop you nor stand in your way.”
Pat didn't say anything. He extended his callused, scarred rigger's hand to his old friend. Justice took it and clasped it tight. The captain didn't seem to notice.
A
lone in Wash's darkened room, Emily and Wash clasped hands in Brooklyn too. They didn't say much. Emily felt strangely detached. They were spectators now. They had done their work, had won their laurels, but now were no different from any of the thousands of others who watched the bridge tonight. The house was silent. The band had packed their instruments and left. The caterers would be back in the morning to clean up. It was just her and Wash. She suddenly felt very tired, even old. It was as if just now she began to let herself feel the weight of the last fourteen years.
“You're in the history books now, Colonel Roebling,” she said as the bridge was bathed in the fitful light of exploding rockets.
“I'm not there alone, Em.”
“Who knows what they'll remember a hundred years from now?” Emily sighed. “Things are easily forgotten.”
Wash shook his head adamantly. “Em, the
bridge
will be here a hundred years from now. As long as it stands, your name and mine will always be linked to it. Some might forget. But something like that”âhe waved his hand to the windowâ“something like that ⦠people will always want to know more about. There will always be those who want to know, and we'll be discovered, over and over, from one generation to the next.”
Emily smiled softly at the idea. “That's a lovely thought.” She cradled against him. “Do you really think people in the future will be curious? Someone is bound to build a bigger bridge, you know. Besides, there'll be so many wonderful new things.” She held up a hand, ticking them off. “Electricity, telephones, horseless carriages, and a thousand other things. It could be that man
will fly before the century's out. Do you still think that, with all that, a bridge will spark anyone's curiosity?”
“I do,” Wash answered slowly. “That bridge is more than just engineering or ⦠science. It's not some ⦠appliance to be used up and thrown away. It has substance and grace and timeless beauty. There's harmony and proportion to it that goes beyond mere function. Such things will always have value.” Wash gazed out the window. “The bridge serves not only the body but the soul as well. You know what it's like to be up on the promenade. Can you imagine that the world will ever tire of that? I don't think so.”
They watched the fireworks as they boomed and echoed over the bridge.
“I think that a hundred years from this day the world will know it for the treasure it is,” he murmured.
“Who knows?” Emily beamed at her husband. “They may throw us another party.”
M
ary watched from the
Tribune
windows as the almost constant barrage lit the night sky. The windows rattled and the concussions of the bigger bombs could be felt right through the floor. The guests were jammed four deep by each window, and they clapped and cheered in unison. She had to admit it was the most spectacular display she'd ever seen. The papers said that fourteen tons of pyrotechnics were to be set off within an hour. She couldn't judge, but it seemed like more. It seemed like the rockets and bombs and mortars had been going off for hours. It seemed they'd never end, and each one jangled her nerves and pounded at her temples. Mary looked at her watch once again: ten to nine. If it took this long, it couldn't have gone as planned, could it? The longer Tom was away, the worse she felt. As the city celebrated, her spirits sank. She could see herself in a while, the only person left in the building, waiting for a man who would not return, while cleaning people took out the trash.