The Deepest Waters, A Novel

by Walsh, Dan

  At first she didn’t see it. A dozen hands pointed in the same direction. She followed their lead and finally saw it. Just a thin brown ribbon stretched over a small fraction of the horizon. But it was there. It had been just over a week since they’d boarded the Vandervere, but it felt like a month or more.

  Land.

  She wanted to be excited, and a part of her was. These emotions warred against more dominant, melancholic themes. This sighting meant they were closing in on New York, maybe the entrance to the harbor itself. This thought became the first domino in a string of dreadful thoughts and images, each seeking to take a turn to torment her.

  She looked at the faces of the other women, those she knew had also lost husbands. They were still smiling and pointing. How did the sight of land change anything? Was she alone in this struggle? Or were they all just putting up a good front as she was?

  She looked but didn’t see Micah or Crabby anywhere on deck. She hoped to spend at least a few minutes with him before they docked. Somehow, being around him could pull her away from these dark feelings. She thought she knew why. Every day of his life was, and would always be, so much more difficult than hers, even now without John.

  Lord, let me learn what you’ve taught him, how to find joy even if . . .

  She didn’t finish her prayer, didn’t want to say the words. She looked at the doorway leading down to the galley and crew quarters. The women weren’t allowed there without special permission. Micah must be doing chores for Smitty. All the food they received yesterday had also created more work for him.

  But it was so delicious.

  She walked back to finish her ham and fresh bread, savoring every bite. The captain had announced they could eat as much as they liked this morning. He expected this breakfast to be their last meal onboard. When she finished eating, she walked back to the rail. Already the land filled more of the horizon than before, another section appearing to the north.

  “That’s New York, I’m sure of it,” an older woman said. She looked up at the sails. “With the winds like this, we’ll be there in no time.”

  Laura didn’t get it. She had heard this same woman talking two days ago about losing her husband of forty years on the Vandervere. Now she sounded excited.

  Just then she heard a dog bark. She turned in time to watch Crabby slide across the main deck and snatch the toy crab in her mouth. She ran it back to Micah, who’d thrown it from the bow. He noticed her watching, nodded, and smiled. Crabby scrambled up the stairs and dropped the crab in Micah’s hand. He threw it again. Laura walked over and climbed the same stairs as soon as Crabby ran past.

  “Good morning, Micah.”

  “Mornin’, Miz Foster.”

  “Didn’t think I’d see you for a while, with all that extra food to deal with.”

  “Me neither,” he said. “A number of ladies came in, insisting they clean everything up. Cap’n said okay.”

  “I should go help them.”

  “No, you stay put, ma’am. These ladies say they the ones that couldn’t help before. Every time they try, too many others volunteered. You helped plenty already. Ever been to New York City?”

  “No.”

  He walked to the port side and looked toward the land. Laura walked up and stood beside him. She felt something land on her feet. It was Crabby’s crab. She was about to pick it up when Micah said, “Enough for now, Crabby. Come sit.” She picked up her crab, walked behind them, and sat beside Micah. “I never been, neither. Furthest north I ever been be Baltimore.”

  “When I left for San Francisco with my brother, we sailed from Philadelphia.”

  No one said anything for a few moments. “You got kin to meet you?”

  “Oh, Micah, I don’t even know what they look like.” Tears filled her eyes. “And they don’t know me. I was supposed to meet them standing next to John.”

  “Well,” he said, “I have a feeling things will be all right. You’ll find each other somehow. But you cry if it helps. ’Spect all you been through, you have it comin’.”

  She wiped her eyes and looked at him. “But that’s just it, Micah. I don’t want to cry anymore. All I do is cry, and I think it’s all I’m ever going to do. I don’t think I will ever be happy again.” She wiped her remaining tears. “How do you do it?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “How do you . . . keep happy or get happy again so quickly after something goes wrong? Your life is so much harder than mine, even with all I’ve been through. But whenever I see you, you are joyful. I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  He smiled. “So you want to know my secret?”

  Laura smiled back. “Yes, very much.”

  “Nobody ever ask me this before.”

  “Well, I’m asking.”

  “I guess it be this . . . live in the day, ’cause that’s all we been given, trust God fo’ the rest.”

  “Live in the day,” she repeated.

  “And trust God fo’ the rest. Yes’m.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” He looked out over the water. “See . . . we got no control over things that happen in life. Not just slaves, white folk got no control neither. Even rich and powerful ones got no control. Nobody got control. Only God. Rich folks got they money and power, make them think they do. But all they do is worry and fret over what might happen next . . . tomorrow, next week, next year. Got no joy in what God do for them today. Don’t even see it. Don’t thank him for it. Just run right by it, trying to stop all these things they afraid might happen, things that can’t be stopped. And it gets them no place. No place but angry and sad.”

  Laura realized she never lived in the day, never kept her thoughts anchored in the day at hand.

  He looked at her, smiled, and said, “See, it’s all them heavy thoughts steal our joy, the one’s we ain’t meant to carry.”

  It sounded so simple to hear him say it, but these weren’t just words for him. Micah was describing how he lived. “I wish I could make myself do what you’re saying. But I’ve been this way . . . maybe all my life.”

  “Well, you don’t have to grab hold of it all at once,” he said. “Just one day at a time.”

  He bent down, reached his hand out. Crabby dropped her crab in it. He tossed it down to the main deck, and off she went, tail wagging. “Or you could do like Crabby. A day’s way too long for her. She live moment by moment, and she got way more joy than me.”

  35

  “Look at all the ships,” a little girl yelled. “And all the buildings. We’re really here, Mother. See?”

  “Almost,” her mother said.

  To Laura, the little girl’s glee seemed close to Christmas cheer.

  Over the last two hours, those little ribbons of land had grown to fill Laura’s view on all sides. But someone had said they were still south of New York harbor. Laura’s eyes traced what the little girl saw, trying to understand the fascination. She envied how children could simply will away unpleasant thoughts, give themselves fully to whatever the day presented.

  Then it dawned on her: this is what Micah did, what he was trying to explain. Live in the day, don’t worry about things beyond your control. The outlook of a child. She looked out over the water again. There were a lot of ships in the water and a lot of buildings along the low-lying hills.

  It was diverting to think about, but it didn’t make her happy. But the diversion itself kept her mind off unhappy things. And that was something. So she thought some more.

  The scene put her in mind of San Francisco Bay. It had nearly as many ships as she saw here. Once, when they were standing inland on one of the hills west of town, John had said that San Francisco harbor looked almost like a forest of dead trees, referring to the hundreds of masts rising in the air. The difference here was that the ships were moving, in every direction, and they came in every shape and size. There were even miniature steamships, some half, some a third the size of the Vandervere. None of the ships, of course, paid them any mind. The Cutl
ass was just one more ship making its small contribution to the crowded scene.

  They sailed next through an area where the waterway narrowed, almost to the width of a wide river. It was much calmer, but the winds kept the ship moving steadily forward. Laura stood a few women away from the old woman from New York, who had now become the unofficial touring guide.

  “This land on the left,” she said, “that’s Staten Island. It doesn’t look like an island, but it is. Over here,” she said, walking across the deck, “this is Brooklyn. My word, look at how much it’s grown. I’d hardly recognize it. There must be a hundred more buildings than when I was here last.”

  To Laura, Brooklyn by itself seemed as densely populated as all of San Francisco. Docks and wharfs occupied every lineal foot of the waterfront. It seemed to go on forever.

  “We’re so close now,” the woman said. “Right around that curve, things will open right up and we’ll be in the harbor.”

  Everyone stopped talking and just stared ahead, waiting for the next spectacle to come. Laura walked toward the bow, looking for any open spots along the rail. She saw one, just right of the centerline. As she climbed the steps to the forecastle deck, the ship slid to the right, almost causing her to fall. But she shifted her weight just right and held fast. Ironic, she thought, here on the last day at sea she was finally getting her sea legs.

  The breeze was stronger here and quite pleasant. As the ship turned, just like the old woman had said, they came into a wide section of open water. Up ahead she saw a large island, with a rounded fort on the left side and a bigger fort in the center. They seemed to be headed straight for it. She wondered what it was. Manhattan was supposed to be an island, but this seemed much too small. She missed hearing the old woman’s narration, so she headed back to the main deck.

  As she came down the stairs, she noticed a flatboat on the port side. She stopped a moment to watch. It seemed to be aiming right for them. It had a small pilothouse and a single stack belching a trail of black smoke. Three uniformed men were onboard. Not dressed like police, more like naval officers.

  Captain Meade must have seen it. He shouted out some orders, and his men instantly began adjusting the sails. The ship soon responded and began to slow down. The captain said something to Mr. Maylor at the wheel, then walked to the side, nearest the approaching vessel.

  “Ahoy there,” called the man in the center. “May I speak with the captain of this ship?”

  “I am he. Meade’s the name. This is my ship, the Cutlass.”

  The spot now became center stage.

  “We’re with the US Barge Office. My name is Officer Gentry. Where are you coming from, Captain?”

  “Originally from Wilmington, sir. But coming here wasn’t our plan.”

  “So you don’t have a berth arranged anywhere in the harbor?”

  “No sir, but we—”

  “May we come aboard, Captain? Our job is to do a brief inspection, verify the contents of your ship for customs.”

  “Mr. Gentry . . . the contents of my ship are all on deck.” The Cutlass had now slowed to a crawl. The flatboat was almost beside her.

  “I don’t understand, Captain.”

  “Sir, these women and children are from the SS Vandervere.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a steamship, a very large one. It—”

  “I know of the Vandervere, Captain. It’s been in all the newspapers, last night and this morning. It’s been missing since yesterday afternoon. Are you saying—”

  “These women and children are from the Vandervere, yes. She . . .” He looked up and down the rails. “We rescued these women and children four nights ago, as she floundered off the Carolina coast.”

  The three customs agents looked stunned. The one on the right sat back on a crate. The one named Gentry looked at all the passengers, including Laura. “I am so sorry, ladies. I had no idea.”

  “Can you help us, Mr. Gentry?” the captain asked. “We don’t know where to go from here.”

  “Are there any other ships . . . coming?” Gentry asked.

  Captain Meade shook his head no. It was clear; he didn’t want to continue speaking plainly, for the children’s sake.

  “No . . . no other ships?”

  “Where would you have us go, sir?” the captain asked. “I was thinking we might berth where the Vandervere planned to go, at the steamship company’s dock.”

  “I don’t have the authority to approve that,” said Gentry. “But I agree with your idea. The island straight ahead is called Governor’s Island. I’ve read the steamship company has stationed a telegraph operator there, on the western tip at Castle Williams. He was supposed to alert them the minute the Vandervere arrived. I believe you should go there. If you’d like, you could come aboard and we could take you there now. You could direct your men to steer your ship nearby. I’m sure once the steamship officials understand the situation, they will give you permission to dock at their berth.”

  “Very well, sir. I accept your kind offer.” The captain walked to the center of the deck. Everyone was already looking at him. “Ladies, I know these last few steps will be difficult ones to make. But God has spared you all and brought us safely to port. I trust he will keep you once you leave my care. I will see you once more, after I communicate with the steamship company. But I suspect after that, things will get very hectic and busy. So let me say, on behalf of my crew . . . though I wish we had not met under these circumstances, it has been an honor and a privilege to serve as your captain. We will . . .”—he looked to be choking back tears—“never forget you.”

  The customs agents escorted Captain Meade to the dock by Castle Williams. He had never been on a steamboat before and was surprised by its speed. Also by the noise and smell. The senior agent got off the boat and helped him find the telegraph operator. They shook hands, and Gentry said as he departed, “Our prayers are with you, sir.”

  Captain Meade turned and began to explain what happened to the young telegraph man. As he did, the young man’s face turned white. Before Captain Meade finished, he politely interrupted him. “Sir, it would take twenty minutes to transmit all of that to the main office. What would you have me say to them in as few words as possible?”

  Meade thought a few moments. “Say this: ‘SS Vandervere sunk off Carolina coast 4 nights ago. My ship, the Cutlass, rescued 109 survivors. All the women and children are safe, 6 men. No other survivors. Request permission to berth at your dock immediately.’ Then sign it, ‘Captain Meade.’ Will that work?”

  After finishing the message on his notepad, the telegraph operator nodded, then turned and began tapping the device.

  At the US Mail Steamship Company’s main office on Manhattan, the atmosphere was all darkness and dread. Two of the women on staff had fainted when they heard the news. All speculation had ceased. That which they’d feared most had come upon them. A massive loss of life and over twenty tons of gold.

  Gone.

  “We can wait no longer, gentlemen,” said Holden, the vice president. “I’ve just given permission for the harbor master to steer the Cutlass to our dock. It could be here within the hour. There will most certainly be an investigation into such a calamity. I don’t want them to have any basis for accusing us of concealing the truth.”

  He called out the names of three men and handed them each a sheet of paper. “These documents say the same thing,” said Holden, “our statement regarding the sinking of the SS Vandervere, what we can affirm as of this moment.” He directed one of the men to read his to the press gathered out front, one to read his to the families still waiting in the first-class receiving area, and one to read his to a group of couriers. “It is only one paragraph,” he said. “Make sure the couriers copy down what is said word for word, and then have them leave immediately. I don’t want the families to hear this news from the street corner before they’ve heard it from us.”

  36

  The doorbell rang.

  Joel waited a moment
to let Beryl answer it, but he’d instructed him to give any messages to him, not his mother or sister. Earlier that morning, his father had sent the driver to pick him up, then asked him to stay with his mother and sister, and to “take care of this matter until it was resolved.” He, on the other hand, “simply must get to the office.” Joel supposed there was something to do at the office; there was always something to do. But he knew the real reason: his father hated family drama, wanted no part of it.

  The door closed. Beryl walked over, message in hand.

  “It was the courier we’ve been expecting, sir.”

  Allison ran out from the dining room and stopped in the doorway. “Is that him? Is John home?”

  “No, Allison. Just the courier from the steamship line.”

  “Joel? Who was that?” His mother’s voice called from the balcony above.

  He looked up. The door was open, but she was still in her room. “Just the courier, Mother,” he shouted back. He unfolded the paper and began to read.

  US Mail Steamship Company

  From the desk of the vice president:

  We have just received confirmation of the worst possible news. The SS Vandervere sank somewhere off the Carolina coast four days ago. A ship named the Cutlass was able to rescue 109 passengers, which represents all the women and children aboard, but only 6 men. The captain tells us there are no other survivors. We have no names as of yet. His ship should be arriving at our dock with the survivors within the hour.

  We will provide more information as soon as possible.

  “What, Joel?” said Allison. “What does it say?”

  Joel walked backward until his legs bumped into a chair, then he sat.

  “Joel, what’s the matter?”

  He looked up. Beryl was staring at him. He looked away. Joel searched and found Allison’s face. He didn’t know what to say. “The ship . . . John’s ship. It’s gone.”