The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (22 page)

“Having second thoughts,” Marni asked quietly. “Only natural. Nothing wrong with that, unless it paralyzes you.”

That was exactly how I felt. Paralyzed.

She looped her elbow through mine, leading me back toward the stern, as though we were taking our morning constitutional. “You know, Lucy, there's no one aboard this ship who wouldn't call you brave.”

I slapped away the tear that slid down my cheek.

“Remember, brave doesn't mean fearless. Courage means moving forward in the face of fear. Embracing hope. That's what we're going to do! Collect our things, secure the ship, come ashore, make a plan. Just as we did back in Boston.”

I took a ragged breath. “But are you sure—”

“Yes,” she interrupted. “We'll find Pru—of course we will! Thanks to you we have the deed to the property—we know where she lives! You think we came this far for nothing?” Her fingers went to her necklace, expertly repaired by Coleman. She ran the locket back and forth along the chain.

“That locket . . .”

“Precious to me,” she said. “Gives me what I need to go on . . .”

“Like my flute. My spyglass.”

“Exactly.”

I felt a great rush of love for this woman who had mysteriously found her way into my life. This woman who in some ways I knew so well, and in other ways knew not at all. I hesitated, then thought about what she'd said—going on even when you're afraid. I inhaled deeply. “It was open when I found it. The hair . . . ?”

Her eyes changed color, like the sea. Took on that distant, clouded look. “My son. I had
—have—
a son. His first haircut . . .”

“What happened to him? Where . . .” I thought of that first day with the cap'n, the two of them talking about going to sea to discover or replace things lost. The ship's bell began to clang.

“If we spend all day talking we'll never get to shore.” She dropped my arm, squeezed my hand, and was off. Frustrated, I stared off toward land, the details still blurred by embarrassed tears. Walter came up alongside me. “You okay?”

“And why
wouldn't
I be okay!” I snapped, mortified to have him witness my trepidation.

“Sor-
ry
!” he said, emphasizing the last syllable, turning on his heel.

“Walter!” I called after him. He just kept walking.

I sighed. This was no way to begin.

“Lucy, Walter, Addie—Georgie, Annie!” Marni called the family roll. “Let's meet—my stateroom!”

Happy to have something decided for me, I headed to the companionway and down the stairs. Our little group assembled, Walter avoiding my eyes. I sat beside him, poked him with my elbow. Mouthed the word
Sorry.
Raised a hopeful eyebrow. He shrugged, focusing his attention on an invisible hangnail. The rest took seats, their excitement unnerving me.

“Well,” Marni began. “Congratulations all around! We've accomplished the first part of our mission!” Addie stood and applauded, Annie and Georgie joined in. Walter and I added an obligatory clap or two. “So, now we need a plan, don't we? Prudence is near Alice Springs—I've done a bit of reading—the closest town is called Stuart. When we go ashore, we'll inquire as to the best way to get there. This much I know—it's a very long distance across the desert, through Aboriginal lands—a great frontier. Obviously, we can't all make the trek.”

Annie's face fell. “I wanna go . . .”

“Yes,” Marni said, “but who'll watch our ship? Care for Ida and the chickens?”

“Oh, Ida,” Annie said, her small brow creased. She
tsk-tsk
ed, considering, shaking her head like one of her persnickety hens.

“Well, I'm goin'!” Georgie cried, arms crossed. His words, however, belied his expression. He looked hesitantly between his sister and Walter.

Marni paused. “I'd suggest that Lucy, Walter, and I make the journey. Addie, the cap'n, Annie, and, most of all, Georgie stay behind to guard the
Lucy P
.” The ship's bell clanged, as if affirming the idea.

An army of thoughts tramped across Georgie's face. “I can keep the ship safe!” he announced. “After all, I fought off a pirate, right, Lucy?” I gave him a thumbs-up. “And I'll take care of Annie—Walter, you'll see!”

Annie stuck out her bottom lip. “I'm not a baby!” she retorted. At the same time she sidled up to Georgie.

“No, you're not a baby,” Walter said. “You're brave and smart. Together with Georgie you'll make a great team until we return!”

“You promise to come back?” Annie asked, her eyes wide. “Promise?” Georgie, too, was suddenly attentive.

“From the bottom of my heart!” Walter said, holding his right hand up in an oath. Then he gathered the two of them and hugged them close.

“Addie?” Marni asked.

“Sounds a good plan to me, it does. And I'm certain the cap'n'd think it grand to spend some time ashore with the children.” And with you, Addie, I thought. I pondered how the cap'n had lost his family—how Walter and the children had lost theirs, and how I'd lost mine. Pru, hers. And Marni . . . how new families were somehow brought together. For the first time since Mother's and Father's deaths, I felt a part of something real and lasting. A warm feeling spread through my chest.

“In addition,” Marni went on, “our traveling party should include another male. Best to hire one of the crew. We know their characters and abilities. Lucy, whom do you suggest?”

The Reds were out since they only traveled together. Rasjohnny and Javan—another pair not to be separated. Grady traveling through Aboriginal tribal lands could prove disastrous, even after his change of heart. Tonio or Irish—I just couldn't imagine them anywhere but at sea.

“Coleman,” I said finally. “Let's ask Coleman.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Marni said, clearly pleased. “Walter? Are you with us?”

He looked at his brother and sister. “Georgie—that would make you the man of the family for a while. I know you can do it.” Georgie puffed up with pride. Annie took his hand and snuggled next to Addie, Ida butting between them.

“Then I'm in!” Walter said. I fought the urge to throw my arms around him.

“Excellent!” Marni said. “I'll talk to the cap'n. Then we'll head to shore, find out what we need, secure passage one way or the other, and get on with it. In the meantime, Lucy, Walter—collect up only what you absolutely need. Best to travel light.”

Back in my cabin I laid open a large leather bag. Retrieved the necessary things. The stocks I'd leave with Addie. I picked up the cards, glanced at the ivory box sitting on the shelf holding the rest of the deck. Should Annie keep them? As if reading my mind, the volatile kings and queens flipped from my hand and, like acrobats, somersaulted into the leather satchel. The lid of the case began to clatter and shimmy toward the edge of the shelf. I swiped it before it fell and tucked it in my traveling bag. Annie would be upset, but she'd get over it. Father's spyglass and flute, of course. Dungarees, two cotton shirts. Socks. Undergarments. Most important of all—Aunt Pru's letter and the deed to Grandfather's land.

It seemed like no time before the whistle of the taxi boat sounded, and Marni, Walter, Coleman, and I climbed down the rope ladder to be spirited ashore.

“Welcome to 'Stralia!” the skipper called. “The name is Reggie.” He held out a sunburned hand and vigorously shook each of ours. “First time down under?”

“We're headed to Stuart,” Marni began.

Reggie whistled. “Stuart?! What the devil's in Stuart that would possess ya t' take such a journey? Gotta cross the desert . . . the dang flies. Snakes. Not to mention the heat . . . ain't a soul out there but the natives. Red sand, dingoes, and, of course, the 'roos.”

“'Roos?” Walter asked.

“Kangaroos, mate!” Reggie must have finally noticed our shock. “Well, it'll be an adventure,” he quipped, skillfully maneuvering the boat toward the wharf. “Have ya arranged passage?”

Coleman shook his head.

“You'll need to train north to Port Augusta, head into one of the Ghan towns.”

“Ghan towns?” Walter repeated.

“Where the Afghans live and keep their camels.”

“
Camels?
” Walter sounded like a parrot.

“How else d'ya think you'll get yourselves 'cross the desert?” Reggie asked. We looked at one another, incredulous. “Only safe way to Stuart. Train won't take ye, and the trip would kill a horse. But the cameleers'll get ye there. Well, here we be, mates! Maclaren Wharf! Good luck to y'all! From sailin' ship to the ships of the desert!” He tipped his wide-brimmed hat and grinned.

I barely noticed the bustling activity along the wharf or St. Vincent Street. Camels—ships of the desert? Snakes? Flies? Dingoes? My head was abuzz. It didn't take more than a couple of additional inquiries to confirm that Reggie was right. The only way to Stuart was by caravan.

We purchased the same broad-brimmed hats as Reggie wore, the only difference being the corks bobbing around the brim to shoo the flies. Netting, and swags—rolled canvas cases housing a thin mattress, with a fold-back flap to keep out the mice and the snakes—a necessity for sleeping under the stars. Canteens. Balm to protect our fair skin from the desert sun. A map.

We didn't waste any time. Probably Marni understood that hesitation might grow into doubt, and doubt into fear. Our supplies skillfully wrapped and stacked on the pier, Marni hailed Reggie's water taxi and accompanied him back to collect the rest of our supplies on ship, and to bring Addie, the cap'n, Georgie, Annie, and Pugsley to shore to bid us farewell.

W
e smelled them before we saw them—at least a hundred ornery camels, some shuffling about, others hunkered down on spindly legs bent at odd angles. It was just as Reggie said. The Ghan town—a hodgepodge of rough tin shacks, a peculiar wooden structure they called the mosque at one end. A caravan of thirty beasts laden with huge sacks of grain, water barrels, parcels of every size and shape tied to their lumpy bodies, was lumbering out, the camels strung together like desert beads on a thick rope. I saw a rocking chair strapped to one of them, a collection of copper pots and pans on another. Dusky-skinned turbaned men in dungarees moved between them, expertly coaxing the beasts with a poke, a pull, or a jab. In response, the creatures would curl back their lips, revealing rows of long knobby teeth and lolling pink tongues.

“Lady! Lady!” a jaunty cameleer yelled, waving both hands at Marni. The bearded fellow had dark lively eyes, his head wrapped round and round in a lightweight cotton turban, fringe hanging from one side. He wore a blousy white shirt topped with a colorful woven vest. Dust-covered dungarees and sand-scuffed leather boots completed his attire. “Best camels! Come see!” He led an impressive beast toward us. The dromedary wore a tasseled headpiece with a shiny brass medallion embellishing the spot between its ears. A Persian carpet was thrown over its hump, an ornate leather saddle perched atop it. A beaded harness laden with tarnished brass bells circled its head. “How many you? Four? You come with Farzad for best ride!” He flashed a brilliant white smile. “Where you go to?”

Marni extended a hand, which Farzad took and vigorously pumped. “Stuart,” she said. “A homestead near Alice Springs. Can you take us there?”

“Oh, yes, Lady, Farzad take you.”

In no time at all, arrangements were made, the camels brought about, and our bags strapped on. After a brief lesson on how to ride, Farzad uttered some unintelligible command, and, accompanied by a chorus of peculiar grunting sounds—
nuuuuuuuuuuuur!—
Huma, my camel, lifted her back haunches. Then, the unfolding of the front legs, and up . . . up . . .

In an instant we were towering over the ground. The strange loping rhythm of the camels was not unlike the rolling of a ship in gentle seas. A breeze buffeted my face. We headed out, two by two, Walter and me side by side, Marni and Coleman behind. “Aunt Pru, here I come!” I whispered.

Walter reached across and squeezed my hand. “Last leg of the journey!” he exclaimed, his eyes full of delight.

Sadly, our excitement was short-lived. It was hotter than hot. The flies relentless. Day after endless day we rode across paprika-colored sand, through tufts of spinifex grass, each of its thin blades razor sharp.

Hours ran into days, and days into weeks. Sweat poured in steady streams. The only one of us who didn't seem to mind was Coleman, who passed the time entertaining us with every song he knew—and he knew hundreds. It was amazing that someone who couldn't speak could sing so fluently. Every chantey he'd ever heard he'd memorized, taking delight in being able to sing what he couldn't say:

      “
Can't you hear the gulls a-callin'? Only one more day a-furlin'

      
Only one more day a-cursin'—Oh, heave and sight the anchor, Johnny,

      
For we're close aboard the port, Johnny.
”

One night, as Farzad prepared for our supper, Coleman sang, “
I'm so hungry I could eat a horse!
” At first I thought this melodic snippet was part of just one more peculiar song, but when my eyes met his I saw he was waiting for a response.

Marni smiled and sang back in a voice surprisingly lush and low, “
Me, too! How about you, Lucy?
”

I took a deep breath and improvised a two-note tune: “
You bet!
”

“Crazy Yanks,” Farzad exclaimed. Then he corrected himself, singing in a nasal tone, “
You crazy Yanks!
” We all applauded, the sound echoing across the vast open space.

For three weeks more we trekked through red sand and massive rusty rock formations, past ghost gum trees with peeling white bark, around gnarly, gray, dead trees littering the ground like desert driftwood. And still, it seemed to me we were no closer to our destination. We hadn't passed another caravan in more than a week. Farzad stopped several camel lengths in front of us, and appeared to be deliberating on which way to go.