The Deepest Waters, A Novel

by Walsh, Dan

  “He’s done it,” a woman yelled. “He’s got her.” Everyone cheered and clapped. But Micah had only been able to grab her hand. Both were now being dragged behind the ship about fifty yards.

  “You men,” the captain said. “Haul them in.”

  Three crewmen pulled hard on the rope. When Laura looked back, Micah was on his back, one arm around the woman’s shoulder, the other holding onto the rope.

  “That’s remarkable,” a gray-haired woman standing next to her said. “He must be as old as I am. I didn’t even know they could swim.”

  Thirty minutes later, the woman was resting on deck, a blanket around her shoulders. She appeared to be just over thirty. Some older women, thankfully the kinder ones, had gathered around her. Laura stood close enough to overhear. Melissa stood beside her.

  Laura learned that she and her husband were poor. They’d spent all they had just to buy tickets back East on steerage. She had no gold pouch. With her husband gone, she was destitute. She knew the ship was merely a day or two from arriving in New York and couldn’t bear to face what awaited her.

  “Well, we’ll help you, dearie,” a sweet-faced woman said, patting her on the arm. “Won’t we, ladies? Those of us that can, I mean.”

  “I will,” said Laura. She stepped forward and reached for the pouch around her waist. “If each of us gave her a little gold, she could easily have a pouch like this one.” She held hers up. Then she reached into it, took out a small handful of gold nuggets, and walked to the woman. “What’s your name?”

  “Sarah,” the woman said. “Sarah Pullman.”

  “Here, Sarah.” She dropped the gold in the palm of Sarah’s hand.

  Melissa followed her example and did the same. A few of the other women did and several more got up, saying they’d be right back, that their gold was down below. Within fifteen minutes Sarah Pullman had enough gold to fill a pouch as big as Laura’s.

  She was actually smiling.

  Laura saw all the women around her were as well.

  And so was she.

  Someone else was smiling, watching the whole scene from above, standing behind the main topsail. Ayden Maul was delighted to see how easily these ladies parted with their gold. Handful after handful. No one counted a thing. It confirmed his previous notion that they had no idea how much gold they had. Which meant they wouldn’t know how much they were missing.

  Tonight, he decided, he’d go below and make his second withdrawal.

  17

  Joel Foster watched the city pass by outside his carriage window, as much as one could see down Broadway late on a weekday morning. The first half of the ride from Gramercy Park toward Lower Manhattan was at least pleasant. The shops, businesses, and hotels were all upscale, most just a few years old. Not too congested, not too noisy.

  Things became increasingly crowded the closer one got to the Battery.

  New York City was boiling over with industry and growth. Cotton, wheat, and corn exports had risen by almost 150 percent in the last few years. Iron factories had popped up all along the East River. The harbor did more business now than the seaports at Philadelphia, Boston, and Baltimore combined.

  And all these ships and shipments, whether moving inland or across the sea, needed to be insured. Joel could hardly believe how their family’s business had grown, tripling since John had left for San Francisco. The fool.

  Most of their profits came from cotton. New York traders bought massive quantities from Southern plantations, sold and shipped it to England, then filled the empty hulls with European goods to sell when they arrived back home. And the Foster Insurance Company made a nice percentage of all this business, coming and going.

  Joel rang the little brass bell to get his driver’s attention. He felt the carriage slow. A little door slid over.

  “Yes, Mr. Foster.”

  For a black man, his diction was amazing. Barely a hint of Southern accent, let alone the “yessuh” or “missuh” he normally heard from the hired help. “Turn left on Fulton. Head down to South Street. I’m not sure whether we head north or south from there. We’re looking for the offices of the United States Mail Steamship Company. I’m guessing it’s a big operation, should be easy to spot. Let me know when we arrive.”

  “Very good, Mr. Foster.” The little door closed.

  Very good, Mr. Foster.

  Couldn’t have said it better myself, Joel thought. Must be a story behind this. He didn’t know much about the driver, supposedly a freedman, but he had his doubts. So many runaway slaves making their way north these days. One of his mother’s projects. Everyone in their social circle was hiring Negroes, doing their part to offset all the inhumanity and injustice, or some other such thing.

  Joel didn’t care. If it helped her sleep at night or eased her sense of guilt for having so much of this world’s goods, fine. Joel would take all he could get his hands on. His father had given him John’s percentage after he’d left. With the exploding growth, he was nearly as wealthy as his father had been ten years ago.

  But Joel wanted more.

  His father had developed a chronic cough in the last few months. Joel wondered if it might not develop into something more serious. He wondered if his father had followed through on his threat to remove John’s name from his will.

  He wished there were some way to find out for sure.

  The carriage stopped, the little door slid over.

  “We’re here, Mr. Foster. I’ll get the door.”

  Joel stepped out into the sunlight.

  “They won’t allow me to park here, sir. But the office entrance is right over there. I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Joel said. “Can’t imagine I’ll be more than fifteen minutes.” He started walking then turned. “But we will need to leave as soon as I come out. Have a lunch date, and I absolutely cannot be late.”

  “I’ll be here, Mr. Foster.”

  Before he went into the steamship office, Joel caught sight of a large ship looming like a cliff behind the brick building. He had seen these steamships out in the harbor but never up close. Must be well over two-hundred feet long, painted a shiny black with a bright red stripe running from stem to stern. It had three wooden masts and a single black smokestack rising from the center. He pulled his gold pocket watch from his vest. No time for gawking.

  He walked through the door. A pretty dark-haired girl sat behind a deep mahogany desk. “How can I help you?”

  “Where might I confirm the arrival of one of your ships?”

  “Do you expect it today?”

  “Tomorrow, I’m told.”

  “Right around the corner you’ll see two long counters. Anyone behind them should be able to help you.”

  “Thank you.” Joel followed her instructions and was soon walking on a shiny marble floor beneath crystal chandeliers. Not what he expected from a shipping office. Behind the counter a balding, round-faced man with thick, furry sideburns was writing something on a chalkboard. “Excuse me, my good man.”

  The man turned, eyed Joel’s clothing, and instantly offered his undivided attention. “How can I help you, Mister . . .”

  “Foster, Joel Foster. You have a steamship, the SS . . .” He held up John’s letter. “The SS Vandervere.”

  “Ah yes, the Vandervere. One of the finest in our line.”

  “I see. Just wanting to verify, if at all possible, when you expect her into port.”

  “Very good, Mr. Foster.” He turned and looked back at the chalkboard, eyes scanning the columns. “There she is. Tomorrow. Three o’clock.”

  “Same thing it says in this letter. No change then?”

  “No, if there was, we’d know. And we’d post the change on this board.”

  “How would you know?” Joel asked.

  “Well, the steamships are very reliable compared to the old sailing ships. They do have masts and sails, but they’re rarely used. We’re no longer at the mercy of the wind. That big paddle wheel keeps tur
ning like clockwork, wind or waves, rain or shine. The Vandervere has already made this voyage from Panama forty-one times, so we have a pretty good idea when she’ll arrive. She may be off a few hours, but I doubt it will be more than that.”

  “Really?” said Joel. “Glad to hear it. Thank you for your time.”

  “You’re most welcome. Good day.”

  Joel tipped his hat and headed back toward the street. This little detour might prove advantageous. He decided to check back at the office and see what percentage of their business, if any, involved writing policies for these steamships. Whatever it was, he’d make sure they increased it . . . substantially.

  Low risks, high profits.

  His father had never even spoken of it. Perhaps he didn’t know of its potential. Joel looked up, hearing the familiar sound of the family carriage coming down South Street from the north. Hardly a moment’s delay. It pulled off in a loading area across the street. The driver climbed down as Joel crossed the street and opened the door facing the sidewalk.

  “Where to next, Mr. Foster?”

  Joel climbed in. He looked at his pocket watch. Just twenty minutes until his father’s luncheon and those delicious lobsters. Should be plenty of time. “Back to the office. Have you been there yet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “The Empire Building, at Broadway and Rector. Ever been down Wall Street before?”

  “No, Mr. Foster.”

  “Right, well head down South Street and turn right at Wall. It’s very busy, so keep sharp. You’ll see Trinity Church at the end, can’t miss it. That’s Broadway. A quick left on Broadway and there it is, the Empire Building.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m sure I’ll find it.”

  “I’m sure you will. Say, I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “It’s Eli, sir.”

  “Eli . . . right. Off you go then.”

  The driver climbed back up and took hold of the reins. Joel picked up his newspaper. He suspected this driver could read this newspaper he held in his hands. He had the unmistakable bearing of an educated man.

  18

  To John, this felt like everything he’d ever imagined the wrath of God to be.

  The wind had died completely. The waves had stilled. It was a cloudless sky. The late afternoon sun, high overhead, burned incessantly. The thirst had become unbearable. His stomach growled and ached. There was no relief and no relief to come. And all day, no one had seen a single sail on the horizon.

  “Here, John, it’s your turn.” Robert handed John the raincoat. The three men had decided they could derive at least some benefit from the coat, using it for shade. They rotated through shifts, approximately every thirty minutes.

  John draped it over his head and shoulders. It actually seemed to yield some comfort. His eyes, now shielded from the sun’s glare, could distinguish the horizon. He noticed, as he had many times aboard the Vandervere, how the horizon curved ever so gently from one end to the other. You could only catch this effect when you had a full view of it like this, when you could see a clear line between the ocean and sky.

  “Isn’t it absurd, John? That there was ever a time when men believed the world was flat?”

  John heard Laura’s voice in his head, almost audibly. He closed his eyes, wanting to see her face, to remember the moment when she’d blurted this out. It came back to him quickly. The sounds of the sea filled his ears then, as well. They were riding along in his carriage near the cliffs by Seal Rocks beach, west of San Francisco. They’d stopped to take in the Pacific view and give Shasta a rest. The carriage roof shielded their eyes from the midday sun, much the way the raincoat did for him just now.

  “You can see the earth curving plain as day,” Laura said, pointing to the horizon.

  John looked to where she pointed then back to the look on her face, smiling.

  “How could men who sailed out in the open sea for hundreds of years not notice that?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Have you ever seen those old drawings about what they thought would happen if they sailed out too far?”

  John nodded. “Like the edge of a cliff, with the ocean dropping off like a waterfall.”

  “Yes, and they drew all these absurd-looking sea monsters swimming about.” She sounded almost disgusted. “You men,” she said, looking at him now. “You’re always saying we’re the irrational ones.”

  “I’ve never said that.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Do you hear that?” he said.

  She stopped talking and listened. “Is that the seals?”

  “That’s the seals.”

  “Can we get out and see?”

  “We have to get out to see.” He stepped out of the carriage and walked to her side, helping her step down. “I love it out here,” he said.

  They started walking toward the edge, still holding hands. Laura instantly became aware of how high they were. “Oh John, let’s not get too close.” She squeezed his hand tight.

  “We won’t. But we’ve got to get close enough to see them. I’ve been out here dozens of times. I know a perfect place where we can sit and take it all in. You won’t be afraid once you see. It’s over here.” He led her to his favorite spot.

  “My, they are the noisiest things.”

  “They’re even more humorous to look at. Especially the males. Big fat blubbery things.”

  Laura laughed.

  They sat on a small section of flat rocks, with an almost unhindered view of the sea. Just beyond the beach a number of small boulders poked out from the water. Most of the noise came from there, between the waves crashing and the seals shouting out to each other. It was a bright sunny day, but near the edge the wind whipped about, instantly creating a chill.

  Laura was starting to shiver. “Here,” he said. He put his arm around her and pulled her close.

  “Look at them all,” she said. “There must be hundreds of them. And look at that big arch there. There’s a hole right through the cliff.” She let go of his hand to point these things out. Laura always pointed.

  “I knew you’d like that.”

  “John, it’s a lovely place. I can see why you come here.”

  “And why I wanted to share it with you,” he said. He was staring at her. She kept looking at the water and the seals, but John could see her noticing him out of the corner of her eye.

  Slowly, she turned and matched his gaze. He leaned forward and kissed her gently.

  It was their first kiss.

  He hadn’t planned to kiss her today. He couldn’t help himself. It was just . . . the perfect time.

  Thankfully, she kissed him back.

  They kissed once more then each pulled away, just a few inches, and looked in each other’s eyes. “I love you, Laura.”

  Another first.

  A tear formed in one eye. “I love you too, John.”

  He kissed her once more, then pulled out a handkerchief to catch the tear now sliding down her cheek.

  Just then both of their heads snapped back in surprise, startled by the most grotesque sound. Then more sounds, even louder than the first. They turned to see two enormous males on the nearest rock island, banging their chests together and slapping their fins against the rocks.

  They laughed hard at the sight.

  “I think they’re both in love,” John said, “with that pretty one right there.” He pointed to a smaller female fleeing the scene. She dove into the water. One of the males backed off and flopped into the water after her.

  John and Laura sat together, taking it in for fifteen more minutes or so. John looked up at the sun, then down at the beach, trying to gauge the tide. “There’s another place I’d like to show you on the way back to town.”

  “Where is it?”

  He stood up and helped her to her feet. As they walked back to the carriage, he said, “It’s down on the north side, a ways past the Golden Gate. If we leave now, we should get there close to low tide. The sand by
the beach there is hard and smooth, easy to walk on. Sometimes there’s hundreds of starfish lying all around.” He helped her into her seat.

  “I’d love to see that.”

  “After we walk along the beach a ways, we’ll see an old shipwreck stuck in the sand, some old schooner. Don’t know how long it’s been there. But if the tide is low enough, we can walk right through the middle of it.” He snapped the reins. “Let’s go, boy.”

  John had felt the wind full in his face as Shasta circled back, heading east. In the next moment, his daydream clashed with reality, as a sudden wind whipped the raincoat right off his head.

  Robert caught it just before it fell in the water. Both he and Ramón were sitting up, taking what comfort they could in the wealth of the breeze. John looked around, saddened that this moment with Laura had vanished so abruptly.

  “By my guess, you’ve still got about ten minutes with the raincoat, John.” It was Ramón.

  “That’s all right,” he said. “You take a turn.”

  Robert handed it to the ambassador.

  John closed his eyes again, trying to see Laura, but it was no use. He thought about what he’d said to her, the joy of walking along the beach together through a shipwreck. It didn’t seem real then. A shipwreck. Not something to consider. Not something that actually happens to people.

  He thought of the victims of that shipwreck near Black Point with something close to jealousy. Their ship had wrecked on the rocks near the shore. Most of them had probably survived. A simple matter of swimming a few dozen yards to the beach.

  What he would give to see a shoreline again.

  The next hour passed in silence. The earlier breeze had disappeared. The full heat of the sun once again took its toll. A growing weariness overwhelmed him, and he lay down to sleep. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if he didn’t awake again.

  For the first time since boarding the Cutlass, Laura felt hot, even in the shade. During the afternoon, the sun had sapped what little energy she had left for the day. All the women were hot, but no one complained. The sails hung almost limp from the spars, only moving slightly for the occasional breeze. The Cutlass was barely moving. She knew this would likely delay their arrival in New York, but she was in no hurry.