The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (5 page)

“These two here—Red and Red,” the cap'n said, waving toward a set of identical twins, tall and gangly, high foreheads surrounded by a frizz of carrot-red hair. They were older than they appeared at first glance—perhaps in their thirties, their white skin peppered with freckles. The cap'n shrugged. “That's what they go by. Red and Red. Work together like a hand in a glove.”

“Aye, aye,” they answered, grinning matched, gap-toothed smiles.

“And this is Irish,” Cap'n Obediah continued. “Black Irish, they say, isn't that right?”

A ruddy-complexioned man with dark eyes and curly jet-black hair nodded. “'Tis true,” he said. “Me colorin' comes from the Conquistadors plantin' their seeds on the green isle! Got the luck o' the Irish, the fire of the Spaniards.”

“Tonio . . .” Cap'n Adams pointed, and a stocky man with a bald shiny head stepped forward, expressionless. A thick black mustache covered his top lip, the ends waxed into curling points. Angry eyebrows met in the middle above the wide bridge of his nose. “Comes from Venice—a descendant of Marco Polo, right, Tonio?”

Tonio shrugged. “
Sono un marinaio regulare,
” he said, “a regular sailor.”

“Just a joke,” the cap'n answered. Clearly Tonio didn't have much of a sense of humor, so the cap'n went on. “And last but not least, Coleman . . .” Cap'n extended a hand toward an older fellow with creased and weathered skin, and arms too long for his body. The thin crop of hair that blew about his head was surely once blond, now a nameless bland hue, streaked with gray. Even Coleman's blue eyes seemed faded, as did the large tattoo on his right forearm of a buxom mermaid. Walter stared, open-mouthed, until Marni poked him. “Better men you'll never find,” the cap'n reassured. I sized them up, one to the next. I hoped the cap'n was right—that this was the group that could guide us safely to Aunt Pru.

Marni assessed them all through squinting eyes. Finally she spoke. “We will run a tight ship. My family is aboard. There'll be no drinking, cursing, or gambling. We will work together as a team. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma'am,” they mumbled.

“Have any of you sailed around the Cape of Good Hope?”

“I 'ave,” Grady said. “Many times. It's dangerous. But,” he added a little too quickly, “it can be done. I'm up fer it.”

“Aye aye,” Quaide said, his voice thick and grainy as oatmeal.

“Captain has discussed your pay and you find the terms acceptable?”

“Yes, missus.”

Walter asked, “How soon can you leave?”

“Soon as I fetch me ditty bag,” Grady said.

“Yeah,” Quaide added. Red's and Red's heads bobbed enthusiastically. The others grunted their assent. I watched Quaide slip toward the back of the group. For a large man he had a way of moving that seemed designed not to draw attention to itself.

“What questions do you have for us?” Walter asked with an air of confidence. Quaide tilted his head toward the Reds and mouthed, “Kinda young to be so sure of hisself, ain't he?” Glancing Walter's way, I suddenly saw my friend through a stranger's eyes. It had not occurred to me how standing in for his father had prepared him for this. Capable. Responsible. He met my gaze with a quizzical look. I quickly turned my attention back to the seamen.

Grady shifted uncomfortably. “There's rumors about,” he began. “A specter ship, with a group aboard—a siren, and a bunch o' kids.” As if on cue, Georgie and Annie burst through the doorway and slid across the deck in a game of chase, Pugsley yipping at their heels, Addie behind them. “Seems a bit of a coincidence.” His one good eye darted between us. Rasjohnny and Javan appeared, joining the others.

It seemed my heart might hammer right through my chest. Marni's expression never changed. “I've known seafarers to be a superstitious lot, and newspapermen play on that to sell papers. We've seen the hastily written news story. Objective journalism, it isn't!” She placed a hand on my shoulder. “What's true is this—the young lady in the newspaper account is none other than our Lucy here. Alive and well.” I felt the curious eyes of the sailors ogling me and forced myself to meet their gazes straight on. One by one they looked away. “And,” Marni continued, gesturing toward Walter and his siblings, “the Perkins children. If you believe everything you read, I must be the siren.” With that, she tapped both feet. “Does that look like a mermaid's tail to any of you? See any fins? Scales?”

Captain Adams chuckled. The group of them gahuffed. Rasjohnny grinned and Javan sized each of us up. Old Grady still looked doubtful. Quaide chewed the inside of his cheek, his fleshy face a blank slab.

“Fact is,” Marni continued, “as is often the case, at least part of the news story is true. Yes, there was a freak hurricane, and yes, the Simmons mansion was washed out to sea. These children escaped the disaster, and with no place to call home, we decided to leave the painful memories behind.” She looked them each in the eye, one to the other. “And after reading the account of Jeremiah Perkins, you can see why they need a more stable environment. Miss Addie is along to offer additional support.” Addie nodded, hazel eyes sparkling.

Grady's gray eyebrows wiggled up and down like a pair of hairy caterpillars. He bit his lower lip.

“If you have any doubts or worries, you're not the man for the job,” Walter said. His confidence bolstered my spirit. How handsome he looked. How capable!

“And,” Marni added, “you can see why we need to set sail sooner rather than later. Last thing we want is a throng of curiosity seekers traipsing by. These children have been through enough already.”

“Me—I'm in,” Quaide said. “I don't take no account o' nonsense.”

Grady repeatedly rubbed his index finger to thumb, as if polishing away his worry. “You been at sea long as I 'ave, you learn not to take its mysteries lightly. But awright . . . I'm trustin' there won't be no peculiarities, so t' speak.”

Rasjohnny piped in, “Javan and me—we's in from da get-go.”

The rest of them—the two Reds, Tonio, Irish, and Coleman—nodded in agreement.

“That's it then,” Marni said. “Tomorrow, or at the latest the next day, we depart. Gather what you need and report at daybreak. There's much to be done!”

Grady looked off into the sunset, which cast an orange glow across his face. A ghost of a full moon hung in the evening sky like a distant silver coin. “Today . . . Tuesday,” he said, thinking aloud, calculating the days on gnarled fingers. “Tomorrow . . . Wednesday—the luckiest day of all to set sail. Full moon t'night. High tide at dawn. Bodes well, it does. That's when we should leave, Miss Marni. Tomorrow. All the signs are right. To wait until Thursday . . .” He vigorously shook his head. “Bad luck.” The ship's bell began to toll. “Y'see?” Grady said. “A portend. Warning us t'set sail at mornin' time. Tomorrow.”

Marni scanned the odd collection of mariners. “Let's see if the morning finds us ready. Do what you need to do this evening. All of you.”

Our prospective crew agreed and loped toward the gangplank.

“One more thing,” Marni said, stopping them in their tracks, pointing from one to the other. “Not a word to anyone about this ship or that newspaper drivel. Your lips are sealed, understood?”

“Yes, ma'am,” they replied, but, it seemed to me, without much conviction.

I
awoke the next day before dawn—not even a thin trace of daylight showing through the porthole. Annie was still breathing in the steady rhythm of sleep, and Pugsley, curled in my bunk, was snoring. Clearly, neither of them was troubled by vexing anxieties of any kind. My thoughts turned to Mother and Father—to Aunt Pru—and feelings of grief and loneliness swirled around me. So strong was the current of these emotions that I felt I might drown in them. I sighed. My feelings were so like the sea—how quickly they could turn from calm to stormy. From confident to sad.

This was not the proper state of mind in which to embark on our voyage! I dangled my legs over the edge of the hammock and swung it back until my feet touched the floor. One thing I could thank my late Uncle Victor for was this—he'd taught me that the best medicine for self-pity was hard work. Not his, but mine.

I got up, pulled on my denims, and tied my sturdy work boots with double knots. As if affirming my intent, I suddenly heard the muffled sounds of voices above. Hurried steps on deck. The shuffle and drag of supplies being moved. Good. There would be plenty to do if we were going to set sail today. And much to learn. What with the threat of the curse, along with the usual challenges of the sea, I was bound and determined to become the best sailor I could be. It's what Father would have expected.

I walked through the narrow corridor, my hand skimming the smooth polished banister, and paused outside the chart room. After a moment's hesitation I slipped inside. The collection of Father's seafaring paraphernalia bolstered my spirits further. Hastily I picked up his fine brass spyglass and hung it around my neck. It would be fun to watch the Boston waterfront fade as we sailed out of the harbor. Without further delay I scaled the narrow stairs to the main deck.

Marni nodded a good morning. The captain stood amidst the carefully coiled lines and folded canvas. Grady, Quaide, and Walter moved and adjusted what would become the means of our wind power. The Reds scaled the yardarms, and Tonio and Irish hauled crates and barrels, then neatly coiled the thick lines waiting to be called upon when needed. Rasjohnny, too, moved deftly from task to task, humming under his breath. Marni knelt beside Addie, guiding her able hands along carefully folded and wrapped sheets of sail. I took my place, pointedly ignoring the look of disdain on Quaide's face, and concentrated on working twice as hard and fast without complaint. I would make Father proud and force Quaide to swallow his unspoken scorn. As I worked, tugging, folding, tucking, my eye traveled past the trestletrees, spars, and yardarms that stood perpendicular to the masts, the complex system of rigging and ratlines running between them. Once we set sail, we would all be taking a watch, sometimes up in the crow's nest platform at the highest point aloft. My heart thrilled, while my knees went weak. Excitement and trepidation, all rolled into one.

The sun was climbing the horizon, a layer of molten gold over the water. Walter caught my eye, smiled, and gave me a thumbs-up. I grinned back, delighted I had apparently passed this first test. “Not bad for a girl,” Grady added, staring at me from beneath his ample brows. He pronounced
girl
in two syllables: “goy-el.”

The cap'n said, “Nice job!” The Reds nodded. Marni looked at me with an expression that said, “Told you so.” And my spirits soared.

The aroma of coffee and frying bacon and eggs drew us to the galley, all but Quaide, who had, he said, “some last-minute dealings onshore.” He would have to be quick about it—already, on our starboard side, a stocky little tugboat readied herself to tow us on an ebb tide out of the harbor, until we could hoist sail and let the wind take us. And there was Javan, pressing bacon in the cast-iron skillet until crisp and brown and ably flipping eggs from pan to plate. This he did with the flair of a vaudevillian, much to Annie's delight. I wolfed down my breakfast as Javan watched, puffed with pride. Each of us rinsed our plates and stacked them back in their proper place. Rasjohnny kept the coffee hot, declaring, “Java all day 'n' night, come as you need it!”

Ahead of the rest, I ran back through the companionway up to the poop deck and leaned over the rail. Early as it was, the pier was abuzz with activity. I squinted through Father's spyglass, and the scene became magnified, the faces of passersby suddenly intimate, their lips forming words I could not hear. I studied the wharf, wondering where this stern man was going, or what that stout woman was laughing about. I swept a glance right, then left, a sudden surprise close-up of someone's nose or ear requiring me to extend or retract the telescope. Unknowingly, people found themselves under inspection. Back and forth, I examined each shorefront pedestrian.

A handsome woman in a stylish frock strolled along—something in her carriage reminded me of Mother. I adjusted the focus and drank in the sight of her, training the lens on her every move, following her graceful steps in an easterly direction.

Suddenly, something peculiar happened. It was as though the tubular device took on a will of its own. Instead of continuing to keep the woman in my sight, some unseen power drew the scope in the opposite direction, as if guided by an invisible iron grasp. Frustrated as I was at the stubborn force that guided the spyglass, my heart thrilled—the magic! Was it back? I attempted to adjust the focal point at the woman, but no. I decided to cooperate, and the imperceptible energy shifted my aim toward the west.

“What is it?” I exclaimed. As if in response, my eye was drawn back to the ocular cup like metal to magnet. The scope fairly buzzed in my hands. Of its own accord it telescoped in and out, finally bringing a small crowd of people into focus. Closer and closer, until all that filled my lens was an eye, an arresting translucent shade of green—the color of sea glass. Then the spyglass telescoped out, the eye assuming its place in the face of a man in khaki-colored trousers and shirt, his lips moving in conversation.

To the left of the green-eyed man, a fleshy white face and thick neck jumped into view. It was Quaide. A look of concentration creased the width of his forehead. He gestured toward our ship with a beefy hand. Another companion to his right set my heart racing. Even though it was only the back of his head, he was unmistakable. Just as before, his greasy hair straggled from beneath the red bandana. He nodded and shot a glance over his shoulder. The raised scar slithered crossways over his cheek like a purple snake. Quaide thumped the scoundrel on the back. The green-eyed man nodded and withdrew a wad of money from his pocket. He counted out two, three, five, ten bills into each of their outstretched hands. Quaide stuffed the money into his pocket and began walking toward our ship. Scarface and the green-eyed man went the opposite way. So engrossed was I in this observation that I never heard approaching steps behind me. A blunt blow to my backside threw me into the rail.