The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (2 page)

Walter paused, collected himself, and went on:

“
The only eyewitness to this most recent tragic spectacle, one Jeremiah Perkins, was said to have been overcome with hysteria, spouting the ravings of a madman, and we quote:

“‘They were in there, in the mansion, the whole sorry bunch, with the Seahag leading the way! She's a siren, I tell you, a witch of the sea, with that long silver hair and sea-glass green eyes! Stole my kids, Walter and Georgie, the baby Annie, and even my good-for-nothin' dog! She caused it, I tell you, the swirling up of the wind and churning of waves like no human's seen before! I followed the lot of them into the mansion, got caught in the assault of the sea. The ocean swell crashed in, filled the hallways, and rocked her off her foundation!'

“
Perkins, it is said, paused, sweating profusely, wiping his brow with a dirty rag. He continued:

“‘I tell you, the entire house, she flipped upside down and into the deep!' Here Perkins began to shake uncontrollably. His lips trembled in an attempt to speak. ‘And, amidst a great creaking and moaning, the house changed, floor to rafter, and I swear to the Almighty creator, each timber and shingle transformed into parts of a sailing ship! Windows became portholes, curtains whipped into sails. I tell you, the house sailed away, she did, in a swirl of supernatural glittering mist. A specter ship, with the siren, the uppity little red-headed miss and her Irish nanny, my youngins and pug dog aboard.'

“The editor adds, after some investigative inquiry, that Perkins, known for his affinity for spirits, is likely not a reliable witness. However, it is interesting to note that not a scrap of the Simmonses' mansion or any victims of the said event have washed ashore, aside from the judge. Rumors of a family curse persist. Locals, captured by the intrigue of this tale, have their eyes peeled to the horizon. Specter ship, or the ramblings of a madman? You decide!”

Alongside the news story were two engravings—the first, an artist's rendering of the pile of rubble in the gaping space overlooking the shore at Simmons Point, where my beautiful home once stood. Beside it, a remarkably accurate sketch of my own face stared back at me—based, I could see, on my school portrait, taken before the accident. I looked like a different person then, and I was. For a moment my heart ached for all I'd lost, for the life with Mother and Father I used to have. But after many months' time, I realized that allowing grief to overpower me wasn't going to help. It would take every ounce of energy and determination to find Aunt Pru—my only living relative. And it was only Pru who could help me unlock the mystery of the curse that had already taken the lives of my mother and father—and nearly mine as well.

We looked around, one to the other. My fingers flew to my cap, checking for any tell-tale tendrils that might give us away. I wondered, too, how my friends felt having their father described as a madman. I could almost feel Walter's anger, Georgie's shame, Annie's fear. “They can say what they will about your pa,” Marni said, as if reading my thoughts, “but never was there a more accurate account—except, of course, for the part about the Seahag!” She smiled with her pale green eyes and patted Annie's and my hands. “But now that the facts are out there, there's little time to waste. Men of the sea are a superstitious lot. We'll need to procure what we need and set sail before they put two and two together.”

Walter folded the paper as the tavern maid approached with our tray of steaming fare. Our plates were passed, and in keeping with the apparent custom in this establishment, we manhandled our forks in fisted hands and ate ravenously. In this place a napkin in the lap, an extended pinkie from the handle of a coffee mug would surely arouse attention. As we shoveled our food into our mouths a group of old-timers sat, just a table away, their scrubby-whiskered faces inclined toward the newspaper one of them held open wide. His large, knobby hands shook the newsprint pages with a flourish. Scraps of his dramatic reading cut through the din in the restaurant:
assault of the sea . . . spec
ter ship . . . Seahag . . . rumors of a curse . . . siren . . .
and my family name, repeated many times . . .
Sim
mons . . . Simmons. . . .

A curious crowd began to form about the reader, not ten feet from where we sat. I could feel their excitement billow and whip around them like the sails of a ship, filling and expanding, gathering energy around the tale.

Annie and Georgie shrank in their seats. Addie sank back in her chair. Marni, elbow propped on the table, tipped her forehead against her palm. A wave of worry crashed over me. If the authorities discovered we were here in Boston, no doubt we'd be detained. Questioned. And how could we possibly explain the miraculous events that had transpired? Worse, would we be accused of some wrong-doing? Of murdering the judge? Walter pressed a few coins into the tavern maid's hand to cover our meal along with a modest gratuity, and with due haste we set about making our final plans.

I looked between Marni and Addie and the Perkins clan. We would need to purchase what we needed with speed and stealth. We could not set sail soon enough.

W
hile still at table, Marni had created a quick inventory of supplies to ready our ship for an extended voyage. How she knew what we'd need was a mystery, as was just about everything about her. My eyes traveled down her scrawled list:

manila rope

oil

wire seizing

arsenic

shovels

caulking frow

tarpaulin

deck lighter

belaying pins

brooms

sail needles

brass screws

lanyards

carpenter's tools

duck sailcloth

By the time I took it all in, my heart was pounding. Caulking frow? Arsenic? Belaying pins? Despite the fact that I was a sea captain's daughter, I had little working knowledge of day-to-day life aboard ship, of the necessary maintenance to keep a vessel seaworthy. The scope of our endeavor suddenly struck me. I was ill prepared for such a task, and ignorant of all but the most rudimentary skills. I glanced at Walter, who met my eyes and quickly looked away. Addie bit her bottom lip. “I might be speakin' out o' place,” she said, her Irish brogue thicker than usual, “and perhaps I'm the only one worryin'. But do ye think we're up t' this? Australia's a world away.”

Eyes fixed on the list, Marni spoke. “We'll be hiring an experienced crew. And I grew up aboard ships, amidst seafaring. Lucy has it in her blood. And Walter possesses the benefit of youth, strength, and courage, plus the leadership he's shown in the care of his siblings.” She looked up, caught my eye. “And I do believe the
Lucy P. Simmons
will not let us down. We know she's equipped with—how shall I say it—extraordinary qualities.”

“What about me?” Georgie piped in. “I'll be a big help!” Then, a shadow of worry creased his brow. “But what about food? We'll need to eat to stay strong!”

“Georgie, I'll make you first mate,” Marni replied, “right after we purchase our food stores and set sail.” She began penciling a second list:

one hundredweight of beef

five barrels of pork

five barrels of flour

five barrels of hardtack

three barrels of herring

two barrels of cider

This was no regular grocery list. It would clearly be a long, difficult passage.

“All right,” Marni said, folding the paper, slipping the pencil behind her ear. “Let's get to it! Not a moment to lose!” We left the table in quiet groups of two, so as not to attract notice. Marni and Annie, followed by Addie and Georgie, then Walter and me, all walking along the perimeter of the room, in different directions, toward the door.

It felt good to breathe the sharp, salty air outside, but I was suddenly conscious of curious eyes all around us—or perhaps it was my imagination. We continued to walk in inconspicuous pairs until Marni found what she was looking for. The sign in front of the large wooden structure read:
BRADFORD AND EAST DRY DOCK COMPANY AND CHANDLERY GOODS.
She nodded to Walter, and the two of them went inside, one at a time. Addie and Annie strolled, hand in hand, along the waterfront, leaving Georgie and me to while away a bit of time.

A good ways down the pier, a square-rigger was docked, its crewmen scurrying like monkeys, working the lines. “Look!” Georgie shouted, running ahead. “Come on, let's watch!”

I walked slowly behind him, my eyes traveling up along the maze of masts and yards, booms, and gaffs. The sail was set “square to”—perpendicular to the length of the ship. I watched a man scramble up to a semicircular platform set at a lower masthead, where he proceeded to tinker with the rigging. Father had shown me pictures of such ships, which I'd looked at with great interest. But great interest does not translate into working knowledge. The hardy breakfast I'd so eagerly devoured lay heavily in my gut, and the excitement and anticipation I'd felt when we miraculously set sail seeped out of me like sour milk.

A hand clasped my shoulder. “What's the matter, lad?” a voice demanded. “Yearnin' fer a life at sea, are ye?”

I spun around in the direction of the voice belonging to a scrappy-looking sailor, his face sliced diagonally with a long purplish scar from eyebrow to opposite cheek. A dirty red bandana was pulled tightly around his forehead, tied in back. A fringe of greasy, straggly hair hung beneath it. His fingers pressed painfully into the hollow between my neck and shoulder. I recoiled, but he grabbed my wrist and held tight.

“Georgie!” I yelled, squirming, trying to free myself from his grip.

“No need to call for your little friend—lookie there—my mate's already bringing 'im on board for a better view.” He laughed—a dry raspy cackle—and yanked me forward. To my horror, sure enough, there was Georgie, another brute dragging him, kicking and hollering, his cries lost in the commotion of the waterfront.

I tried to scream, but no sound emerged. I threw myself down on the pier, a heap of dead weight, kicking and thrashing with all my might until my voice found its way to my lips. “Somebody! Help! Help!”

“I didn't think ye had it in ye,” the man said, clamping a filthy hand over my mouth and jerking me to my feet. “Yep, a cabin boy needs a bit o' spit 'n' vinegar to survive at sea!” His palm tasted of metal and salt. I bit down, hard, and felt the flesh give way. I spat blood. He cursed and threw me back to the ground, wrenched my arm violently behind my back. “That'll be the last time ye try that trick!” he snarled. My face pressed against the ground. I inhaled dirt and sand. Still I kicked and struggled. Suddenly there was a flurry of yipping and growling, a commotion of small paws raising up a cloud of dust.

“Pugsley!” I shouted. My loyal companion grabbed hold of the man's ragged pants and tugged furiously.

“
What
on
earth?
Unhand that boy, I tell you!”

A pair of polished black boots stopped inches from my face. My eyes crossed as I forced them into focus.

“Georgie! The other one's got Georgie!” I yelled, flailing with my one available arm, grit and gravel biting into my lips and cheek. My fingers crawled to the pointed toe of the gentleman's boot, and grabbed hold of his ankle for dear life. Pugsley continued ripping, tearing, and growling in a fearsome tug-of-war with my captor's grimy trousers.

“I say,” boomed the distinguished voice, “release both lads or I'll hand you over to the authorities! I'm wise to your game, pressing unfortunates into your service. Unhand him! Now!”

“Have it your way,” my tormentor replied. “I have no use for the likes of 'im—'twas one of those delinquents hangin' about. Beggin' for a chance at sea, he was, then after I oblige him the opportunity, he changes his mind. Go on—go!” He shoved me away, and finally shook Pugsley from his leg. I stumbled to my feet, turning wildly in the direction of the square-rigged ship. “Georgie! Where's—”

“Released, as well—see—here he comes now.” The gentleman sailor, in the finely cut navy jacket and black leather boots, nodded over his shoulder.

Georgie, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, swaggered toward us. Pugsley leaped in joyful circles at his feet.

“Did you see me fight him off?” Georgie shouted. “Did you see, Lucy?”

I cringed. Georgie gasped and sputtered, our savior looking curiously between us. “I meant Lou . . . Louie!” Georgie corrected pathetically, drawing even more attention. My hand flew to my cap, captured a long curl, and shoved it quickly back under the brim.

The gentleman raised an eyebrow.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, in the deepest-pitched voice I could muster. “We must be going. We are eternally in your debt.” I grabbed Georgie by the shirt sleeve and pulled him along as hastily as I could.

“Are you—
boys—
alone here?”

I winced at his inflection on the word
boys.
“Oh, not to worry,” I called over my shoulder, my voice cracking. “We're meeting our party shortly. Thank you again!”

My rubbery knees carried us back toward the dry goods store. Pugsley trotted beside us, tongue lolling. I dared not look back.

“I'm sorry, Lucy, I didn't mean—”

“Stop
calling
me that! People will hear you!”

“I know, it's just—”

“Sh! We'll be in trouble enough—we almost got kidnapped, do you realize that?”

“Nah, I fought him off. . . .”

I rolled my eyes. “It was that gentleman who stepped in—if not for him . . .”

Tears sprang to my eyes as the implications of what might have happened hit me. I could hardly believe I'd nearly forfeited my quest to find Aunt Pru before it had really begun. My thoughts suddenly turned to Mother and Father—their high hopes, their confidence in my ability to make them proud. And the very idea of letting Marni down, or Addie, was nearly as distressing as disappointing Mother and Father. I cringed. “Not a word of this to Marni,” I whispered. “Or Addie. Not a scrap of it to anyone, do you hear? They don't need to worry about this.”