The Deepest Waters, A Novel (12 page)

Captain Janus Houtman was pleased.

He had been trying to get the
Angeline
back on course for the last two days. The voyage had begun back in Holland almost four weeks ago. After a stop in Southampton, he and his twelve-man crew had crossed the Atlantic uneventfully but then ran into the outer bands of a terrible hurricane. They tried to sail around it, but the storm was massive. Even on the outskirts, the wind and waves had their way with his little ship. But she’d held up well.

And now, borne on the strength of a prevailing east wind, the
Angeline
was finally making good time, plying a southwesterly course toward Charleston. A sufficient speed, it seemed, to keep the English ambassador, Giles, from offering any more ridiculous sailing suggestions.

Mr. Giles was his only passenger. The money was significant, the Englishman’s fare equal to half the cargo in his hold. But Captain Houtman still regretted taking him on. Houtman stood next to the wheel, manned by his first mate, Conklin.

“He’s doing it again, sir,” said Conklin.

“Where?”

Conklin’s eyes pointed forward. Houtman glanced toward the bow, saddened to see Mr. Giles . . . at it again.

Over the last two days, he’d asked Giles several times to stop engaging his crew in mindless chatter about politics and culture. The man appeared to have no useful skills except conversation, something entirely useless aboard his ship.

Houtman had talked to the men, to make sure; not a one cared for anything Giles had to say. They felt trapped in his net, so to speak. He’d ask questions as a pretense for dialogue, but it was a ruse. He’d quickly shift into a monologue, roaming through any number of pointless topics. Then talk until he’d wrung out every last drop that could be said on the subject. Before they could politely excuse themselves, he’d plunge into the next one.

Presently, he had young Pieter cornered by the bow.

“Steady as she goes, Mr. Conklin.”

“Aye, sir.”

Houtman made his way forward to rescue the lad.

As he climbed the stairs to the forecastle deck, to keep his composure in check, he reminded himself that Giles was not a part of his crew. Once again, Giles had blatantly disregarded what Houtman had told him to do. But he was not insubordinate; he didn’t appear to be
able
to stop talking. Besides, Houtman reminded himself, it would all be over soon. If the winds remained steady, he’d be free of Giles this evening, tomorrow morning at the latest.

“The Dred Scott decision is fascinating. Really, Pieter, you’ve never heard of it?”

“No, Mr. Giles,” said Pieter. “This is my first trip to the States. Mostly I’m trying to learn English words.” Pieter looked over Giles’s shoulder and saw Houtman. His face reflected instant relief.

“Well, Dred Scott is a Negro slave. Back in—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Giles.”

“Oh, Captain. A beautiful day, don’t you think?”

“A fine day. Pieter, I believe your break is over.”

“Yes, sir, Captain.”

“Been a pleasure chatting with you, Pieter. We’ll catch up later then.”

Pieter walked quickly toward the stairs.

“Uh . . . no, you won’t, Mr. Giles. Are you forgetting what we talked about not two hours ago, when you were
chatting
with my cook, Willem?”

“But Captain—”

“But nothing, Mr. Giles. I assume you still hope we’ll reach Charleston by nightfall.”

“You assume incorrectly, sir. We must absolutely reach Charleston by nightfall. My meeting with the Southern senators is tomorrow afternoon.”

“Then you must absolutely stop having these conversations with my crew. The crew of a ship works together in a certain rhythm. Your conversations disrupt that rhythm. How many times—”

“Whoa!” Pieter shouted from the main deck. “What is that? Do you see it?”

Captain Houtman and Giles both turned toward Pieter.

Several crew members, manning the ratlines on the various masts, also began to shout.

“I see it.”

“There it is.”

“How is that possible?”

“It’s a bird,” Pieter said. “See it? A big one.”

Houtman tried to focus where they pointed but was no longer in possession of youthful eyes.

“It’s over this side now,” said Pieter.

Houtman turned, right into a pair of flapping wings. Then feathers. A screeching sound. Something big smacked into his head. He raised his arms to fend off the attack.

Mr. Giles fell to the deck, screaming like a woman.

Houtman grabbed the bird, first by its talons, then by its beak. The bird bit his hand over and over again. Finally, Pieter rushed in. He grabbed the bird by its wings and flung it to the deck, then stomped on its neck, killing it instantly.

For a moment, there was silence.

Giles screamed out, “What was that? What is going on here?”

“Quiet, Giles,” said Houtman. “Show some restraint.” He looked down at his hand. It was trembling. Blood began to flow from cuts caused by the bird’s beak.

Giles sat up.

“Captain, your neck is bleeding also,” said Pieter.

Houtman could feel the sting now. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed the area, looked at the blood, then held it to his neck. Several crew members rushed to the forecastle deck to see what happened.

“Gentlemen, I’m fine. It was just a stupid bird.”

“But Captain . . .” Pieter said.

“I’m fine, men. Everyone back to your posts. Just a few cuts.”

The men turned and headed back, except Pieter and Willem the cook. “Would you like me to dress it up, Captain?” Willem asked. “Looks big enough to feed us all.”

Giles rose to his feet. “The most bizarre thing I’ve ever seen.”

“For me, as well,” said Houtman. “I don’t know, Willem. Perhaps it has some disease. Why else would it attack me like that?”

“Maybe it was just tired and looking for someplace to rest,” said Pieter. “We must be seventy miles out from land.”

“Still,” said Houtman, “not worth the whole crew getting sick over. Pieter, toss it over the side. Let it feed the fishes.”

Pieter picked it up by the tip of its wing. “What kind of bird is it?”

“Some kind of large gull,” said Giles. “Not sure of the exact name, but it’s a gull, I’m sure. Gulls are a fascinating species—”

“I don’t want to hear about gulls, Mr. Giles,” Houtman said.

“Right.”

“I’m going to my quarters to dress these wounds.”

“May I help?” asked Pieter.

“Yes, it will go quicker with assistance.” Houtman climbed down to the main deck. As he headed for the doorway that led to his cabin, he shouted to Conklin at the wheel. “Steady as she goes, Mr. Conklin. Stay the course.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Just then, the strangest feeling came over him. He stopped walking. He had been at sea since he’d been a boy. He had read of birds flying out this far from land, but he’d never seen one before. And he’d certainly never been attacked by a bird aboard a ship. In fact, he had never known of anyone who had experienced what he just did.

It’s just not normal, he thought. There must be a reason, some purpose. The bird attacked him as if fighting for its life. He stepped back and shouted out to the crew. “Did anyone see from which direction the bird flew?”

“I did,” answered Pieter, standing right behind him. “It flew from the northeast.”

“Are you certain?” Houtman asked. “You’re saying the bird flew toward us from farther out at sea.”

“Yes, Captain. I’m certain of it. It was the oddest thing I ever saw.”

“Yes . . . yes, it was,” he said. This made even less sense. It could not be a coincidence. Just then, he had the distinct impression this was a sign from God.

He took a few more steps back until he could see Conklin at the wheel. “Mr. Conklin?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“We are changing course. I want to take the
Angeline
on a direct northeasterly course.”

“Beg your pardon, Captain. We’re heading back out to sea?”

“You heard me right, Mr. Conklin. Northeast, as quickly as you please. Inform the crew. I’m going below to dress these wounds.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

Houtman looked behind him at Pieter smiling widely. Houtman could tell the lad loved an adventure. And so did he. He hadn’t done anything this outlandish since he was Pieter’s age. But it had to be done. He dreaded Mr. Giles’s reaction but feared ignoring a sign from God far more.

As he walked through the doorway, he heard a distinctly British voice shouting behind him. “Captain? Captain Houtman. The ship is turning. What is the meaning of this?”

The carriage slowed to a stop outside the Foster mansion in Gramercy Park. Joel looked out the side window. He heard the driver climb down. A moment later the driver opened the carriage door.

“Will you be staying awhile, sir?” he asked, as he stepped out of the way.

Joel got out. “I think not.” He looked at his pocket watch. “From here, we’ll be heading to that steamship dock we went to yesterday. I’m just checking to see if Mother wants to join me. Shouldn’t be but a few minutes.”

“Very good, sir.”

Beryl must have heard the carriage; he opened the front door just as Joel reached the top step. Joel handed him his hat. “Don’t put that away yet, Beryl. I may be coming right back out.”

“I’ll wait right here, Mr. Foster.”

“Mother,” he called. No answer. He walked into the dining room. No one there. “Mother, are you here?” He walked through to the library, then out to the glass patio. “Oh, Allison, there you are.”

His sister sat by herself at the white iron table, a cup of tea in one hand, a book in the other. The veranda spilled over with flowers and ferns. Something must be in bloom, he thought. It smelled wonderful.

“Mother is upstairs,” she said as she looked up from her book. “Be nice to her, Joel,” she whispered. “She’s beside herself about John.”

“That’s why I’m here. Last night she said she might like to go with me to pick him up. The ship is due in thirty minutes.”

“She’s been in her room all morning. But honestly, Joel, please don’t tease her today. You’ll set her off, then I’m the one left to face it after you’re gone.”

Joel didn’t appreciate being instructed by his little sister and didn’t dignify her suggestion with a reply. He turned and walked back through the library, then the dining room, almost bumping into Sally coming out of the kitchen.

“Sorry, Missuh Foster. I didn’t see you.”

“It’s all right, Sally. Have you seen my mother?”

“She probably still in her room. I brung her breakfast, but she didn’t eat a thing. Then I brung her lunch, same thing. Don’t think I see her come out all day.”

He walked through the living room, then ascended the grand staircase. “Mother,” he yelled toward her closed door at the far end of a balcony that overlooked the living room.

The door didn’t open. He knocked then walked in. She was dressed and ready to go, sitting by her vanity. “There you are, Mother.” She stared at herself in the mirror, but then he realized, she wasn’t seeing anything. She still hadn’t heard him. He walked up and rested his hands on her shoulders. She jumped as if he’d snuck up on her.

“Joel,” she cried. “It’s you.”

“Of course it’s me, Mother. Are you coming?”

“What?”

“I’m heading to the dock, to pick up your long-lost son. Last night you hinted that you might like to come.”

“I thought I did. Last night. I don’t know.”

“What’s the matter?”

She didn’t say anything for a few moments. “It was so hard after John left,” she said, now looking at her hairbrush. “But then life became normal again, and it’s been normal for so long now. I don’t want all this disruption. I don’t like not knowing who John is anymore, what he may have become. What people will say about his return.” She looked up at Joel through the mirror. “You know, no one talks about him anymore. They haven’t for over a year.”

“Mother, you are a strong woman. John is nothing. He shouldn’t cause you so much grief. He never cared for our society, our standing in the community, the life you and Father have built. He has never cared for anyone but himself. When he comes, I won’t allow him to cause you any trouble. I promise.”

“But he’s my son.”

“Yes, but he is also a man, and he must take responsibility for himself. I’ll tell you what. I’ll go pick him up and take a measurement of things. You stay here. If I sense he will cause you any discomfort, I’ll just bring him to a hotel and pay for it myself.”

“No, you can’t do that. He might wander about, start meeting our friends here and there. Who knows what he might say?”

“Then I’ll bring him back here and tie him up in the attic.”

She laughed. Joel always knew how to divert her attention with levity.

She sat back on her chair and patted his hand. “You go without me, but bring him back here. I do want to see him.” She looked up at Joel, smiling.

As the carriage approached the dock area, the streets were packed. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people milled about. Yesterday afternoon, Joel had begun to investigate the steamship industry, to evaluate it for their insurance firm. One thing he’d read explained the crowds. Many of these new ships carried upwards of four to five hundred passengers. The SS
Vandervere
, John’s ship, was as big as they come.

The carriage stopped. The little door slid over. “I’m not sure I can get much closer than this, Mr. Foster. I see an area designated for carriages, but it’s completely filled, and the distance between is overrun with people.”

Joel was still not used to such vocabulary from the mouth of a Negro.
Designated. Overrun with people
. “Then I shall have to exit here,” Joel said.

“But how will I find you, sir? After you’ve picked up your brother?”

“Open the door. I want to look around.”

The driver opened the carriage door. Joel stood on the step. The steamship office was just a half block away. He looked behind them. “See the corner behind us? The crowd thins out before it reaches there. That’s where we’ll rendezvous.”

“Would you have a time in mind, Mr. Foster? I can keep circling until I see you.”

Joel looked back at the dock. One thing was painfully obvious. The
Vandervere
was nowhere in sight. He looked at his timepiece; it was due in five minutes. He seriously doubted it would suddenly appear. “The problem, as I see it, is we have no ship at dock. No ship, no brother to pick up. I’ll make my way through the crowd and wait until we either see the ship arrive or learn when they expect it to. Check back at that corner every twenty minutes.”

“That’s a great distance for you to have to carry any trunks or other baggage your brother may have with him.”

“Good point. When he arrives, I’ll have him stay by the baggage and I’ll come meet you. Then we’ll bring the carriage to him. I expect shortly after the ship arrives, these crowds will thin out considerably.”

“Very good, sir.”

Joel left the carriage and weaved through the throng. When he neared the steamship office, he noticed along South Street a line of heavily guarded black wagons covered in armor. He recognized them instantly. They were used to transport large sums of money between businesses and banks. Then he remembered, the
Vandervere
was said to be carrying over twenty tons of solid gold: bricks, bars, and coins freshly minted in San Francisco, taken from the rivers and mines in northern California. Hard to believe the gold rush still pumped out such wealth eight years since it began.

Closer to the water, Joel noticed a shaded pavilion designated for those waiting for first-class passengers. He seriously doubted John was traveling in anything but steerage. But that didn’t matter. Joel was first class, and he dressed as such. No one would dare question his right to wait among them in the shade.

An hour later, still no ship.

A nervous spokesman for the steamship company finally came out and took a position on a wooden deck above the crowd. He began yelling through a bullhorn. Very quickly the clamoring crowd fell silent and listened.

“The US Mail Steamship Company regrets the delay of our ship, the SS
Vandervere
. It is very unusual for it to be this late, and we are sorry for your inconvenience. We have learned there was a major hurricane in the seas off the Carolina coast a few days ago. We received a wire from a sister ship that just docked in Charleston. The captain of that ship reported significant delays as a result of the storm. We’re certain this is the cause of the
Vandervere
’s delay.”

A groundswell of murmuring began.

“But have no fear,” the man shouted, regaining the crowd’s attention. “Our ship in Charleston is much older and smaller than the
Vandervere
, and she made it through the storm just fine. We are convinced we shall see the
Vandervere
sailing into New York harbor any minute. But we are sorry we cannot give you more specific information at this time. We have watchers posted at the entrance to the harbor who will wire us the moment she appears. We’ll come back and tell you the moment we have any news.” With that he walked back into the building.

The murmuring returned, even louder.

Joel had been right: ships could not be relied upon to arrive on a set schedule. Paddle-wheel steamship or otherwise. He decided to step into one of the nicer bars that had sprung up along South Street to accommodate the ships’ passengers, and have a whiskey or two.

What a bother this whole thing had become.

The official from the US Mail Steamship Company walked across the deck, down a flight of stairs, and back into the main office, taking no questions, making eye contact with no one. As soon as he closed the door, someone else locked it behind him and pulled down the shade.

“How did it go?” the steamship vice president asked, pacing in front of his desk.

“I said what you told me to say. Tried to sound convincing.”

The vice president walked over to a window, lifted the shade an inch or two, and peeked outside. “They seem relatively quiet.”

“I expect they will, sir,” said the other man. “But for how long?”

The vice president walked back to his desk and looked down at the wire they’d received from their sister ship in Charleston. She had made it through the hurricane, but referring to her as “just fine” was a serious exaggeration. Two of her three masts had snapped. Six crewmen had been swept overboard. The pilothouse had literally blown off the deck. And she carried almost four feet of seawater in her hull.

And no one had seen or heard a word about the SS
Vandervere
.