The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (3 page)

“Oh, but I want to tell Walter about the brawl, how we—”

“Not a word!” I snapped, tightening my grip on his arm. “Promise! Swear on your mother's grave!”

His eyes rounded like saucers and I felt a jab of regret at my unfortunate choice of words. But I steeled myself and squeezed all the harder.

“But . . .” he stammered.

“Swear it!” I hissed.

Georgie pouted and shrugged. I twisted his arm. “Swear!”

“All right! All right! I swear.” He threw me a black look.

“Good!” I shot a glance over my shoulder to make certain we weren't being followed. “There's Marni and Walter.”

They'd emerged from the Bradford and East Drydock Company, trailed by several clerks laden with supplies. Walter whistled sharply for a provision cart, and an old man with a sway-backed donkey wheeled about. We watched as they piled on the many crates and barrels that would be our sustenance at sea. Marni peered across the dock and caught my eye, and motioned for us to follow. There, off to the side, were Addie and Annie. We all proceeded at discrete distances, again, so as not to arouse suspicion, especially since the newsboy still paced back and forth, hawking his papers along the waterfront.

Finally, the hull of the
Lucy P. Simmons
appeared. I couldn't wait to get aboard, away from prying eyes and unscrupulous interests of all kinds. Once the provisions were loaded under Marni's watchful eye, and after Addie and Annie climbed aboard, I grabbed Georgie and made a run for it across the gangplank, Pugsley at our heels.

As our feet crossed from solid ground to the safety of my ship, I heaved a sigh of relief and chanced one last glance over my shoulder.

There, to my dismay, a few hundred yards off, stood the gentleman sailor in his navy jacket and shiny black boots. He stared intently at our ship over the top of the newspaper he held open in his outstretched arms.

A
s Marni, Walter, and Georgie stowed the supplies, a heaviness descended upon me. Addie had gone off with Annie to read a story, and Pugsley snored through his pushed-in snout in a sunny corner of the deck in a coil of rope beside the mainmast.

I walked around the ship, running my hand along her smooth timbers, recalling what she'd been before her strange metamorphosis. Looking at the cabin wall, it was easy to recognize the handsome wainscoting that had once trimmed our dining room back in Maine. As I descended the steps to the lower deck, my hand encircled the polished curve of handrail that had previously graced the sweeping staircase in our center hall. I was, at once, filled with longing for what used to be, and at the same time grateful for vestiges of the past that had miraculously become part of the present.

I wandered about curiously, as none of us had thoroughly explored, shocked and overwhelmed as we were at the events that had set us afloat in the first place.

Oh, what a beautiful, unusual vessel it was! I could almost feel Father's presence, his pride in the fine workmanship and delight in the elegant details of design. I pressed my forehead to a brass-trimmed porthole, catching a glimpse of the figurehead that still caused my heart to rattle in my chest. Aunt Margaret and Uncle Victor—or what was left of them—wooden outstretched arms reaching for far horizons, their terrified expressions eternally captured, looking out to sea. I turned from them—after all, they'd gotten what they'd wanted, hadn't they? To be permanent fixtures in the Simmons estate . . . though not exactly in the way they'd imagined.

My feet carried me toward an ornately carved oak door. I twisted the crystal knob and slipped inside. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. When the room came into focus I gasped.

It was the chart room—so like Father's library at home that I was nearly overcome with nostalgia. On the far wall hung the painting of Ulysses and his capsized ship, the silver-haired siren beckoning him from the churning ocean. Here, the shelves of books, there his desk and chair, and, in the corner, the set of long flat drawers holding charts of the many routes Father had traveled during his years at sea. I hastened toward the map chest, hoping it contained valuable information we'd need to set our course to Australia. But a blue-backed chart spread out atop the desk caught my eye. Its curled edges were held down by four heavy, glass orbs, one in each corner.

I leaned over the chart, marked with dotted lines and dates to indicate the course and timeline of a voyage, the land and oceans spread out flat. There it was—Australia! My heart raced. Somewhere on that continent was my aunt Pru! My finger traced the line from the Atlantic coast out toward the Azores, sweeping down along the western coast of Africa, around the Cape of Good Hope and the Indian Ocean, and on to Australia! As if Father had laid it out for us himself!

Encouraged, I turned, and something else caught my eye—a large rectangular chest crafted of steel and brass nestled in a narrow alcove. I had a vague recollection of seeing this somewhere in the house—yes—it had been stowed in the back of the closet in the study. Father's safe! I knelt before it, reaching with trembling fingers for the circular knob, its circumference engraved with small white numbers. Around the mechanism was a collection of scratches and dents—surely evidence of Uncle Victor's miserable attempts to get at whatever was inside. For what precious secrets it might hold! The round ridged dial was cool to the touch. I spun it to the right, then left, and right again, listening for a secret click, but, of course, there was none. The exact series of numbers that could unbolt the sturdy strong box would be impossible to guess.

The combination must be somewhere. I turned back to the desk, sat in Father's chair, and pulled open one drawer after another, rifling through them. A fountain pen, a pair of cuff links, a small tin of tacks, a whittled-down pencil, a collection of stationery embossed with Mother's initials:
JS
. These simple objects that had passed so casually through my parents' hands filled my eyes with tears. I brought each item to my face, so that I could intimately touch what they'd touched. Traced my finger along the initials on Mother's note cards. I sniffed, ran them along my cheek, all in a futile attempt to capture some essence of what was lost.

Enough! To shake off the melancholy that threatened to overtake me, I abruptly stood, hands on hips, and directed my attention back to the imposing metal safe, anxious to discover whatever it might hold. Family secrets. Information about my aunt. Some clue about the curse. Or resources. The satchel of money we'd brought from Maine wouldn't last forever—a good portion was already spent for food and supplies, the rest set aside to pay our crew. Then there'd be the cost of traveling across Australia. A sense of urgency flooded through me. There had to be a way to get into the safe! Maybe, I thought—or desperately hoped—a bit of magic that had flowed through the house could be conjured again. Perhaps, as in the past, a surge of glittering mist might whisk around the knob, rotating it back and forth in exactly the correct increments. I waited, frozen, hand poised over the dial.

Nothing. No tingle of energy, no sparkle of light.

For a moment the ship felt different to me. Empty. Lifeless. Could it be the magic that had previously transformed my world was gone? That the incredible conversion of house to ship used up every ounce of the benevolent supernatural force that had saved us? A sudden chill swept through me. I supposed I'd always assumed that the mystical phenomena would be our insurance on this voyage. A manifestation of Mother and Father's love. Without it, would we survive at sea?

A conversation above roused me from these dark musings. Marni, Walter, and another voice, vaguely familiar, that caused my heart to trip. Father? I thought, in spite of myself. But no, how foolish. The tone, like Father's, was authoritative, confident, cordial. I slipped the treasured note cards into my pocket, alongside my flute, and retraced my steps up to the main deck.

I squinted into the bright sunshine and headed in the direction of the exchange. Suddenly Georgie's head popped up from behind a mountain of crates, his eyes round and wide. In agitation, he repeatedly pointed his thumb over his shoulder, the index finger of his other hand pressed over his lips. When I got closer, he lunged forward and yanked me into hiding beside him.

“It's
him
!” he whispered. “The man with the boots!”

I hunkered down and peered around the parcels. Though his back was to us, the voice was now unmistakable, as were his well-tailored jacket and sharp black boots.

“A fine vessel you have here,” he said. “And newly refurbished, by the looks of it. Where did you say she was built?”

Georgie and I exchanged a look. But Walter didn't miss a beat. “By an old-timer, upcoast, originally from Liverpool, he was. An expert craftsman with an eye for detail.” As if in response, the ship creaked against the pilings, producing a sound like wry laughter—
Eeeee . . . eeeee . . . eee—
Liverpool, indeed!

“Never seen a ship quite like it,” the man continued. “As graceful as a schooner, but reminiscent of a half-brig. A petite clipper ship, double-masted.” He eyed the ship, fore to aft. “Peculiar features throughout. Why in the high seas would a shipbuilder place such an ornately carved door to the companionway? Looks like a drawing-room door to me! And the stained-glass window! Highly unusual.”

“In fact, completely unique . . . and fast,” Marni said. “I can guarantee you've never sailed anything like her before, nor will you ever again. She practically flies over the waves. And due to her streamlined design and . . .” Marni hesitated, obviously searching for the right words. “. . . exceptional performance capabilities, we won't need a very large crew. . . .”

For a few moments their talk was carried off by the breeze. I could see Marni questioning him but could not discern her words. Then the direction of the wind changed and whipped scraps of his response back to us. “Skippered . . . many a ship . . . large commercial vessels . . . voyages around the world . . . available . . .”

“Oh no!” I whispered.

“You don't think he'd be a good skipper?” Georgie asked.

“It's not that. . . .” My mind raced. He knew not one secret, but two—that we'd nearly been kidnapped, and after reading that newspaper account he'd surely surmised that we were somehow connected to the reported account of our extraordinary launching.

Georgie's eyebrows formed two high arcs. “But he was nice to us, wasn't he?”

“Yes,” I murmured. And he was—but there was still something that made me uncomfortable. If he believed what he'd read, why would he want to join us?

No sooner did the thought occur to me than the question sprang from Marni's lips. “What draws you to this?—admittedly a less profitable endeavor than you're accustomed to.”

I inched closer, positioning myself to the side of the crate where I could see and hear better.

He looked out to sea and back, his face suddenly pensive. “I think you'll understand me when I say this—because I read the same thing in your eyes. Some of us go to sea, not for monetary gain, but because we're drawn there. Searching for what we've lost that can never really be found. Perhaps in hope of finding something to fill that space.” My heart skipped a beat. Yes, I understood that.

Marni, momentarily taken aback, quickly composed herself. I wondered what chord his words had struck in her. “If I may ask, what is it you've lost, Cap'n, and what are you searching for that cannot be found?”

He hesitated, a pained look transforming his handsome features. “Let us just say that after returning from my last voyage, I came home to discover a great loss. A shock from which I thought I might never recover. It's not something I speak of easily.”

Marni gently raised her hand. “Enough said. I certainly didn't mean to pry.”

“I stayed ashore for a year,” the capt'n continued. “But the sea is my balm.”

Marni fingered the locket at her throat. “I'm sorry for your loss, whatever it was. And I understand better than you know.”

Capt'n Adams cleared his throat and went on. “This would be a welcome change of pace . . . and I admire the vessel, as I've said. It would do my heart good to be surrounded by a more genteel group of shipmates, to assist in getting you where you need to go—to be motivated by something more altruistic than getting grain and fuel to market.”

The tone had changed—all business again. Marni nodded. “And a crew?”

“At least six able-bodied seamen, besides myself . . . plus the first mate, second mate, cabin boy, and cook . . .”

Georgie shot up like a jack-in-the-box. “Marni said
I
could be the first mate!”

Marni, Walter, and the gentleman sailor turned to stare as the parcel on top of the pile teetered and fell with a thud, revealing our hiding place.

“Well, what do we have here?” the skipper asked, one eyebrow raised.

Marni held me in a serious gaze—a cautionary look that I hoped would register with Georgie before he blurted something unfortunate.

“Just playing hide-and-seek,” I said, “right, Georgie?”

“I say,” the skipper said. “This lad might make a good first mate! And, of course, a ship cannot sail without a cabin boy!” He smiled, his blue eyes crinkling, and extended a hand. “Captain Obediah Adams,” he said. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

As Georgie and I stepped forward, Father's ship's bell began to ring furiously, as it often had back at our house. Captain Adams turned in the direction of the clanging and stared at the persistent toller.

“It does that all by itself,” Georgie explained. The captain glanced back just as I poked Georgie with my elbow. Addie and Annie must have heard the racket as well and strolled toward us. “My family,” Marni said, vaguely gesturing toward all of us.