The Deepest Waters, A Novel (8 page)

It was midmorning. Laura had awakened on deck a few hours ago to find Crabby lying next to her. She was still lying next to her. Laura had never spent this much time with a dog before. But she understood something of the joy this simple creature imparted to Micah each day. It seemed on every other level, and in every other part of her body, Laura felt either nothing or pain. Just looking into Crabby’s happy face sparked something inside her, very close to feeling loved. Crabby also diverted her mind from deep thought and reflection, which itself was a gift.

Still on the bow, Laura looked down to the main deck. Only a few women and children remained in line, waiting for a cup of water and today a choice: half rations of gruel or hardtack. One of the children called them “rock biscuits.” Micah had laughed when he’d heard it, said that’s what he’d call them from now on.

Micah sat behind the wooden table, helping Smitty distribute the food. Laura looked down at Crabby; the dog’s face looked as content as if she were sitting on the finest porch or the greenest lawn. Laura finally stood up, deciding she had no choice but to acknowledge the day had begun. Crabby also stood but stayed right beside her.

The seas were still calm, the water almost glassy. She could see the reflection of the clouds and sky all the way out to the horizon. The wind seemed half what it had been the night before. The sails were not taut and stretched as they’d been before.

Suddenly, Crabby started barking. Women behind Laura gasped and yelled. She turned to see a woman behind her climbing over the rail. Crabby ran to the woman and grabbed her dress in her teeth.

“Let me go,” the woman shouted and pulled at her dress.

“What are you doing?” an older woman yelled. “Get back or you’ll fall.”

“Leave me alone,” the woman said. Her dress ripped, and she went over the rail.

Everyone screamed at the sight. A large splash.

Laura looked over the rail as a dark blue shape passed by.

“She’s gone over,” someone shouted.

“Do something, save her!”

Children screamed.

A man’s voice yelled from high overhead. “Man overboard.” Laura looked up and saw Ayden Maul balancing on a rope, pointing down toward the woman splashing about, not ten feet from the side of the ship. She was already amidships. In a few moments, the ship would pass her by.

But no one did anything.

Laura hurried down the steps and ran along the rail, her eyes fixed on the woman, now near the back of the ship.

“Captain!” Micah yelled.

Laura turned to see Micah holding the end of a long coil of rope and standing a few feet from the captain.

“Go ahead, Micah,” Captain Meade said. “But I fear you’re too late.”

Micah pulled off his shirt, revealing a startling sight. From his neck to his waistline, his skin was horribly discolored, his back a tangled mess of rippled scars. He tossed the shirt to the deck, wrapped the rope around his forearm, then dove overboard. Crabby ran to the spot, stood against the rail, and barked. Micah swam toward the woman now trailing behind the ship. Laura looked back at the coil of rope, unwinding as if on a spool.

All the women on deck ran toward the back of the ship to watch.

The woman in the water was already floating facedown. Micah was halfway there. The ship moved forward, forcing Micah to swim harder to close the distance. Laura looked back at the rope on deck. It was almost gone. He reached her just as the rope snapped tight.

“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.

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 turning 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.