Free The Deepest Waters, A Novel by Dan Walsh Page B

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