The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (21 page)

Desperately, we waded through the freezing cascade of sea lapping the deck, trying somehow to save what we could and clear away the rest. Chaos. Utter chaos.

Then, like a beast crawling out of its den, I saw Quaide emerging from a pile of fractured timbers, manacles still encircling one wrist. He thrust the wreckage this way and that, crashing over and through it. Eyes wild, he half ran, half splashed his way toward the cavernous hole in the hull of the black ship.

I screamed for Walter, or Coleman, anyone who could stop him, but my voice was completely lost in the wind. I watched Quaide dive into the opening and disappear, as though swallowed up by a great black monster. In response, the
Lucy P. Sim
mons
seemed to let out a roar. It shimmied and lurched. My heart fell. He'd escaped—if you could call throwing yourself into the bowels of a sinking ship an escape.

I turned back toward Walter, who, along with Rasjohnny and Javan, was throwing anything of value up onto the poop deck. But they were no match for the water and the pitching of the ship, which swept most of it off again. Addie beside the cap'n, her hands next to his on the wheel. Only Marni stood quietly, still as stone, eyes fixed on the black ship.

Somehow the waves carried the two damaged vessels forward, and our disabled prow cut through the mist surrounding the iceberg. I was aware of Annie yanking me by the arm, trying to drag me toward the lifeboats. But every fiber in my being refused to move. My feet stayed planted, a current of icy water surging around them. Marni, too, remained beside me, her eyes sweeping from the wreck of the black ship to the iceberg and back. Walter grabbed me around the waist and lifted me toward the lifeboats. I kicked and thrashed until he put me down, my eyes never leaving the mist-shrouded berg. It took several more moments before I realized that we were no longer moving under our own power—and yet we were not sinking. I squinted as our forward progress parted the low-lying cloud.

As the vapor cleared, they saw it too. Pugsley threw back his head and howled.

What we'd assumed was the peak of the iceberg was actually the tip of a ghostly snow-white sail; the large triangular shape we'd supposed was the mountain of ice was really the silhouette of the phantom vessel.

Grady stood alone. His deathly pale face and ogling eyes a mask of terror. He shrieked, “The
Dutchman!
The
Flying Dutchman!
” Dropped to his knees, still screaming, the veins and muscles in his neck straining like ropes on a winch. “Thou, O Lord, that stillest the raging of the sea, hear, hear us, and save us, that we perish not! We beseech thee, Lord, have mercy upon us!”

Everyone froze and turned toward the phantom ship, finally visible to everyone aboard. It seemed to glow, a powerful bright white light emanating from its sails. The sky directly around it suddenly lit by a halo of otherworldly radiance. It transformed our faces in stark contrasts of light and shadow. The glittering energy flowed into the sea beneath us, a million phosphorescent turquoise, emerald, and copper particles. We had to shield our eyes as each brilliantly colored wave crested and broke over the rail and across the deck. Something began to happen. We were moving forward—not tossed haphazardly—more like being powerfully sucked into a current. Marni stood transfixed, her noble features turned to stone like an ancient statue.

In fact, we were being towed, drawn by the peculiar magnetic pull of the specter ship, first slowly, battered by the waves and chunks of ice, then continually gaining speed. And the water we took on board—the swells that should have filled our hull and taken us down—the liquid swirled into all the nooks and crannies of our ship, transforming every timber that it touched, reknitting and fusing each splintered fiber and grain until the
Lucy P. Simmons
was whole again! And the black ship, its hull split open like a coconut on a rock, began to slide back into the sea like a harpooned whale until its stern hit the ocean surface. We ran forward and stared at its shattered frame, now covered in a swarm of glittering particles, melding back together, plank to plank, beam to beam. The square-rigger creaked and groaned as it too reared back, whole again.

Suddenly, the sails of the specter ship began to whip and snap, faster and faster. The motion generated a whirlwind of warm air that whooshed around the
Lucy P.
like a cocoon, increasing in intensity until we found ourselves in the eye of a cyclone. The balmy air whirled over and around us, thawing our hands and feet. Ice melted off every surface, trickling this way and that.

No one moved to grab the wheel or hoist a sail—we knew we were no longer in control. The maelstrom of tepid air increased, blurring everything, until all that was visible was a sheath of rapidly spinning mist. The air current swept beneath us—the ship rocked side to side until the force of the tempest lifted the entire hull up and out of the water.

We fell to our knees, covering our eyes with the backs of our forearms, squinting into the magnificent display of fireworks—all except Grady, who stood, electrified, a wet spot expanding across the front of his pants. Rasjohnny, crouched beside Javan, began pummeling the deck with his palms, and chanting in a joyous mumbo mantra.

The whirring sound of the cyclone escalated into a single pitch as we shot forward, a pitch I recognized—it was D.

There was a gentle sinking sensation, as the dazzling tunnel of air slowed to a whisper and dissipated.

The hull of the ship kissed the water once again, and as it did, the D note blossomed into a melody—D–D–F–A–G–F–G–E–C–D!

S
oft edged and blurred like a dream, the world changed. The sea was blue and so was the sky, the temperature comfortably warm, wind steady. There was a healthy snap and a flap, the sound of sails catching a gust. Land to the east, gulls overhead.

We were roused, strewn about the deck as though we'd melted onto whatever spot we'd been standing when the ships collided. Rasjohnny and Javan stirred from a heap beside the lifeboats, Coleman crawled to his feet upon the poop deck. The Reds, slumped together at odd angles against the door to the companionway, slowly untangled their arms and legs. Tonio sat back-to-back with Irish, both of them rubbing their eyes with their fists. The cap'n took Addie by the hands and drew her to her feet, as though inviting her to dance. Pugsley shook himself off, sniffing and nosing Walter, Georgie, Annie, and me into consciousness. Our tattered, soaked clothing and equally ravaged faces were now dry and warm, no worse for wear. The castaways from the black ship were nowhere to be seen, having been either sucked back onto their own vessel or lost at sea. The enormity of what had transpired finally sunk in—how close we'd come to disaster, how my hopes of reuniting with Aunt Pru were nearly dashed.

Marni alone did not revive with the same tranquillity as the rest. With a violent start she sat up, a stricken look flashing across her face. Her hands flew to her throat, fingers fluttering, her breath coming in short gasps. The silver locket that hung at her throat—it was gone.

“Marni,” I whispered. She was already on hands and knees, frantically pawing the deck, sweeping every surface. Panic rose in me. “We'll find it,” I said, thinking how the waves had carried off much bigger things than a silver locket and chain. “We'll find it—I promise.”

Walter, Georgie, and Annie joined in the search.

Against all odds I spotted it, the chain broken, tangled and snared on the end of a thick, bristling piece of rope. The hinged locket hung open like a small book. “Here!” I yelled, staring at the mysterious contents. Both sides were covered with a thin layer of glass; behind each was a complicated design woven from hair—blond hair, so fair as to be almost white. Intricately swirled and interlaced with great skill and care. Whose hair was it, and why did it mean so much to her? So strange to feel that I knew her so well, and yet so little.

I gently detached the chain with its dangling charm, and pressed both into Marni's open palm. Her eyes closed for a moment as she brought the precious token to her lips and bestowed on it a reverential kiss. “Thank you,” she murmured, her composure and dignity returning. “Thank you,” she repeated, to me, to God, or to both, I wasn't sure.

Slowly we all drifted together, side by side along the rail, incredulous, staring alternately at the horizon and at one another. Another crisis somehow averted. Walter draped one arm around me, the other around Georgie. Annie and Pugsley wiggled in between us. Marni and Addie too.

“T'ank the Lord!” Addie said, blessing herself. “We all survived!”

“Quaide,” I said. “He escaped. I saw him climb aboard the black ship.” Georgie's eyes widened and Walter pulled him close. “Of course,” I whispered, so Georgie wouldn't hear, “he may be dead. Drowned.”

“No,” Marni said, staring out to sea. “He's out there with his mates. I feel it, sure as I feel these timbers strong beneath my feet. Things are exactly as they should be.”

“That storm—or whatever it was—in all my years at sea, I've never seen the likes of it,” the cap'n said quietly, shaking his head.

Grady stood, peering out over the ocean with his one good eye. “Me, I was fer certain that schooner was the
Dutchman . . .
that we was doomed. But it ain't true—can't be. What we was, was saved!” He shifted his gaze from Rasjohnny to me, and back, his face a question.

Marni, energized again by her talisman, leveled him a droll look. “Your instincts and respect for the supernatural were always correct—except now you see how the source of mystery can also bring about good if the recipients have their hearts in the right place! We have much to be thankful for!”

“The lady's right,” one of the Reds exclaimed. “We two are nothin' but grateful.” Tonio made the sign of the cross. Irish removed his cap. Coleman raised his eyes skyward.

Cap'n looked at all of us, his eyes settling a moment longer on Addie than the rest. “Sea is full of mystery, that's for certain. So is life.”

Irish interrupted. “Mystery? Here's the mystery! Where in tarnation are we? And what happened to the square-rigger?”

“Get the sextant,” Cap'n commanded. Georgie ran off, scampered back, and produced the instrument. “No idea about the time of day,” Cap'n said, “but it appears to be midmorning—my best guess.” He pointed the device at the horizon, into the sun, pressed the clamp, and studied the sun's position. Coleman handed him a chart of some kind. After some quick calculations Cap'n whispered, “Thirty-five degrees, fifty minutes south of the equator . . .” He paused, made an adjustment, and continued his reckoning. “A hundred and thirty-seven degrees, twenty minutes east of the meridian?”

Coleman's eyes widened and his lips strained. “Aw . . .” he stammered. Swallowed. Opened and closed his mouth, like a big fish. “Aw . . .” The sound choked and died on his lips. We all stared, silently rooting for him to articulate whatever was stuck on his lips. Coleman closed his eyes, took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and sang in a deep surprising baritone, the syllables rolling smoothly over three lovely notes, “
Aus—tral—ia!
”

Marni's eyebrows lifted into a pair of silver arches. “Yes, Coleman! Kangaroo Island, of course! Not even a day's sail to Adelaide! Lucy, sweet, we're here! This is Australia!”

W
e followed the buoys set out in the channel, leading us into Port Adelaide. The entrance to the harbor was nearly concealed by groves of peculiar trees, their gnarly gray roots exposed above wavy sea grass and mudflats. There were as many curved and grasping roots along the water as there were branches reaching to the sky. “Deez trees called mangroves!” Javan called. “Got 'em on da islands too.”

A tall flagpole stood like a lone sentry on a distant beach. Cap'n tipped his hat and announced, “Just north of Holdfast Bay!” That same flag must have waved at my aunt Pru upon her arrival! My heart thumped as the rooftops and spires of a city began to paint the horizon.

Annie, standing on a crate for a better look, clapped her hands. “Finally!” she exclaimed, dancing from one foot to the other. “We're here!” Georgie dashed to the rail, whooping like a banshee, Pugsley racing at his heels.

Addie grabbed hold of my hands and spun me in a circle. “Is there anything atall me girl can't accomplish when she puts 'er mind to it?”

Cleating a sail, one of the Reds hollered, “Hey there, Miss Lucy, how's it feel to fine'ly arrive in the land down under?” I could only nod, the unexpected rush of emotion rendering me speechless.

To the north and west the city had sprung up along the Port River and Inner Harbour, the sprawl of the metropolis to the south. We dropped anchor a ways offshore. Already a transport taxi was putt-putting in our direction.

Suddenly, I felt weak. Leaving the
Lucy P. Sim
mons?
The horrible realization turned my knees to jelly, my mouth, cottony dry. I leaned back against the rail, its sturdy timbers supporting me. How at home I'd become aboard our magnificent vessel! Heading off into the outback had seemed a fuzzy, far-off eventuality. I realized I didn't want to leave the comfortable familiarity of the ship. For my entire life its walls and floors, then decks and masts had cradled me. Here, a trace of Mother, there, my father's handprint. The ship, too, seemed pained at the thought of my departure, its creaking and groaning suddenly more audible above the surf. Marni's piercing green eyes took all this in. My gaze met hers for an instant, and I looked away. The transport boat tooted its cheery horn—
woot! Woot!
“Taxi, mates?” its skipper hollered.

“Not just yet,” Marni called back. “Another couple of hours and we'll be ready!”

“Hooroo then!” He saluted. “Back around later!” My face must have betrayed my relief.