The Deepest Waters, A Novel (16 page)

“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
Cutlass
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.”

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.”

“What?”

“The
Vandervere
has sunk . . . four days ago.”

“No . . . no! It can’t be.”

They stared at each other a moment. Allison ran back to the dining room, sobbing.

Joel wanted to run after her, but he knew first he must find the courage to go upstairs. He read it again. He didn’t know why. It still said the same thing; it would always say the same thing.

His brother was dead.

But only 6 men
.

Joel knew John could not be among them. They would have to be the men who’d rowed the lifeboats; that was the only conclusion that made sense. John died four days ago, along with several hundred other men when his ship went down.

Joel didn’t even like John. He wasn’t sure if he ever had. They were different in every respect. He’d actually been glad when John had left for San Francisco. Everything in Joel’s life had instantly improved with his parting.

But then, it was his brother. His brother was dead. Why couldn’t these words attach themselves to at least one emotion? He was aware only of the dread inside about breaking the news to his mother. But what arrangement of words could take this note and build hope in any direction? He started slowly up the stairs, rehearsing the first line he’d say as he walked into her room. Before he got far, she came rushing out.

“I can’t wait any longer. What did the courier say, Joel? When will John’s ship arrive?” As soon as she looked into his eyes . . . “What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Let’s go back in your room.”

She reached for the note. He pulled it back.

“Please, Mother, do as I ask. I will tell you, but not here.” He gently spun her around, and she walked into her bedroom. He passed her and pulled her vanity chair next to the upholstered bench at the foot of her bed. “Have a seat.” Tears streamed down her face as she sat.

He sat on the bench. She grabbed the note from his hand. He didn’t stop her.

She read.

“No, no, no, no . . .” Quietly at first, then louder. “No, no, not John, not like this . . .” The words poured out until she was almost shouting, then she dissolved into sobs. The note fell to the floor. She reached for it, but her hand just dabbed at the carpet; she was crying too heavily to see.

Joel put his hand on her shoulder. She reached up for him with both arms, so he just held her as she cried. He felt a lump in his throat, and his face became hot. He’d never seen her like this. He didn’t know what to do or say.

Suddenly, she sat up and wailed loudly, shaking her head back and forth. She bent forward again, holding her head in her hands. “No, no, no, no . . .”

“Mother, it will be all right.” It was a pathetic thing to say. “We’ll get through this.” Another empty cliché. What should he say? He heard footsteps behind him. He turned. It was Allison standing in the doorway. Her eyes all puffy, tears streaming from them. She ran and put her arms around their mother and released a fresh barrage of tears.

Tears formed in his eyes. Feelings surfaced, not thoughts. Confusion. Desperation. He got up and closed the door. The staff mustn’t hear this. He turned. Allison was sitting at Mother’s feet now, grasping her hands.

His mother raised her head slightly, looking at Allison. “I am a terrible mother.”

“No, you’re not,” said Allison.

“I am. I’m a terrible mother.”

“Stop it, you’re not.”

“All I cared about, all I ever cared about was how John embarrassed me. What my friends would say behind my back, what they’d think. Even now, I wasn’t looking forward to him coming back.”

She lowered her head and began to sob again. “Now he’s never coming back.”