The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (4 page)

I looked from the captain to Marni and back. Captain Obediah Adams turned a bit and winked as we shook hands. Gratefully, he was not going to mention how he'd saved us earlier. At least not yet. Maybe I should come clean and tell Marni myself. But everything inside me resisted.

“Well then, Captain,” Marni said, “so you know, my family and I have the sea in our blood and will be actively involved in the sailing of this vessel. Keep that in mind when gathering a capable crew. No one given to drink or brawling. Bring them to me and I'll decide if they're suitable. We have a long voyage ahead of us and there's no time to waste. It's hurricane season as well. I'll assemble the necessary paperwork and additional supplies we'll need.”

“Splendid,” he said, his eyes smiling. “Happy to make your acquaintances. I'll return by afternoon, say four o'clock.” Captain Adams made a courtly bow and turned on his heel. His boots clicked across the deck timbers. I watched them disappear across the gangplank.

“And who was that bonny man?” Addie asked playfully. “Quite handsome, he was, in that dandy jacket and boots! How'd ye find the likes of 'im?”

“Came by admiring the ship,” Marni replied, “and we struck up a conversation. He was quite knowledgeable. Doesn't seem the superstitious sort to be rattled by rumors of specter ships, magic, and the like. We'll see what he delivers when he returns.” Marni looked out to sea, fingered the silver locket at her throat, and continued. “But now we need to stow our supplies, and take stock of what we'll still be needing.” She glanced about, her lively, sea-green eyes missing nothing. “Lucy, stay here with the boys and keep an eye on Annie. A nap would do you all a world of good. Addie and I need to stock the slop chest . . . oilskins, woolen drawers, denims and overalls, handkerchiefs, socks in a variety of sizes. Blankets. Caps and gloves . . .”

I was suddenly too tired to argue. A deep fatigue was already setting in. After all we'd withstood back in Maine, sailing straight through the night without so much as a wink of sleep, and then throwing ourselves directly into the new day—Marni was right. I nodded, stifling a yawn with the back of my hand.

“Let's pick our sleeping quarters,” I suggested. “Come on!”

I led Annie and the boys belowdeck, and we selected our cabins—Walter and Georgie in one, Annie and me in the other. The rooms were snug and inviting, the beds built in against the interior wall painted the same shade of robin's-egg blue as my room at home. Opposite the bunks were beautifully constructed supply cabinets and drawers with brass fittings, as well as a tall cubby for hanging clothing. Light shone in from a single porthole set between the cabinetry. In the middle of the cabin a large hammock hung, strung wall to wall.

Annie scrambled to the top berth and curled up like a contented kitten. Pugsley hopped into the lower compartment with me. I stretched out, punched and fluffed my pillow, flipped onto my side, and drew up my knees. Ah . . . it would be good to rest! But something pressed against my hip. I rolled onto my back and my hand went to my pocket, removing my treasures—my flute, father's cuff links, the box of tacks, pencil, and stationery. These I carefully placed on the wooden shelf along the wall beside my bunk and resituated myself in my cozy nest. I pulled the patchwork quilt Mother had stitched for me up to my chin, but, try as I might, I could not sleep. In spite of Annie's gentle snoring, and Pugsley's wheezy breathing beside me, I felt totally alone. I lay there in the dim-lit cabin, staring at the ceiling, counting worries the way others count sheep. I yawned again and again, until my eyes were bleary. Still, my mind raced.

Finally I sat up, took the pencil and a piece of Mother's stationery. “Mother,” I whispered. “I'm scared. . . .” I grasped the stub of pencil in my sweaty hand and printed across the top of the page:
WORRIES:

Perhaps if I wrote them all out they would stop plaguing me.

I continued, additional what-ifs marching across my brain. It was as though by releasing one worry, I'd dispatched a whole army of them!

True, we had the satchel of loot from the judge—his crooked payment for the house, intended for Uncle Victor. But how long would that last? My thoughts returned to Father's safe. Perhaps it held not only money, stocks and bonds and the like, but—who knew?—might it hold a clue to Aunt Pru's whereabouts? I picked up the pencil again and continued to scrawl my concerns.

The next what-if was too frightening to write down, as if putting it to paper would add to its power. Try as I might, the worry wouldn't leave me. . . . What if, I thought, what if we don't find Aunt Pru? What if the rumors of a family curse are true and we're lost at sea, just like Father and his father before him? Just like Mother? What if the magic that brought us this far was all just a part of the curse—luring us far out on the ocean, where we'll be swallowed up and forgotten?

As the horrible thought took root and grew in my mind, I crumbled my worry list and heaved it at the wall as the ship's bell began to clang yet again.

I
t was late afternoon when I rose from my nap, greeted with a savory-sweet smell—a chowder or seafood stew. My mouth watered and stomach rumbled. Pugsley stirred and stretched out his front paws, hindquarters raised. His little black nose twitched at the aroma wafting into the cabin. In an instant he leaped from my berth, claws clicking along the polished, wooden-planked floor.

I sat up, disoriented for a moment. Yes, this was
my
cabin,
my
berth, belowdecks on
my
ship. Yes, Annie was asleep in the bunk above me—except, when I stood I saw that her covers were thrown back and the bed was empty. I headed into the companionway, past the stateroom, and on toward the seductive smell beckoning from the galley.

There, in the middle of the low-ceilinged room, stood a small cast-iron woodstove, an array of sparkling pots and pans hanging above it. Dusky sun streamed through a small skylight, casting a wide beam on a table of hardwood riveted to the floor, with a lip all the way around the edge. Long benches were anchored along each side of the table. One of Mother's copper pots bubbled merrily on the stovetop, and as I stepped into the narrow galley, I spied the backside of someone crouched before a built-in cupboard. I stopped short as the figure rolled back on his heels and stood.

He was at least six feet tall, thin and wiry as a broomstick. The fellow's tightly braided hair nearly skimmed the ceiling. His denim work pants and blousy muslin shirt were covered with a white apron. I didn't mean to stare, but I'd never seen skin so black and smooth. The man's long lean face shone like a polished onyx stone. Pugsley sat beside him, his buggy eyes roaming from the pot, to the man, to me, and back again.

“Well, den, pleased t' make your 'quaintance, missy,” he said, wiping his hands on his apron. “Rasjohnny, I em. Cap'n Adams fetched me 'ere t' cook up some tasty fare.”

My hand flew to my head—I'd forgotten my cap! My curls must have burst free as I slept. Too late now, and after all, I couldn't keep up the charade forever, could I? Rasjohnny had already turned, wielding a large spoon, and stirred the pot with several vigorous strokes. Pugsley's ears perked up at each clank and swish. The man leaned in and sniffed. “Ah yes, sweet 'n' saucy! Jerk cod and mussels—scallops too! Lobster. Shrimp. Taste?”

“Ummmm! Me too!”

I turned in the direction of the singsongy voice to find myself face-to-face with a boy a few years older than Georgie—a miniature version of the cook, except that his skin was the color of coffee with cream, his eyes riveting hazel orbs that sparkled like gold. He picked up a spoon, stepped to the pot, scooped, slurped, and offered me the rest. “Wanna try?”

“Javan!” Rasjohnny barked. “You think dis li'l lady want t'eat from dat utensil dere? Use some o'dat brain power, how 'bout it?” Rasjohnny poked the air with his own spoon. “Dis my son, Javan. Who most often knows what polite looks like. Go dip dat spoon in da dishpan, Javan, go on!”

Javan shrugged and did as he was told. “What's your name, miss?” he called over his shoulder.

“Lucy.” My stomach let out a cavernous growl. Rasjohnny grinned. “The sea'll do dat, yessiree!” He lifted a thick white bowl from a column stacked in a wooden slatted holder mounted on the wall. In one flourish, he ladled a stream of chunky stew, equipped me with an oversize spoon, and dropped a hunk of bread on top.

“Swab it up right, and tell Rasjohhny dat ain't da best spicy seafood y' ever et!”

As I carried my bowl to the galley table, Walter and Georgie appeared. Javan nodded a greeting. Apparently they'd already met.

“Grab y'selfs a bowl,” Rasjohnny called. “Yessir! Boys, de alw'ys got an app'tite!”

In minutes Walter and Georgie, then Annie and Addie were seated with me, knee to knee, around the table. Marni held her bowl in hand and ate standing in the doorway.
Slurp
and
clink, ooh
and
ah.
Pugsley scratched at my shin and whined. The stew was tangy, spicy, with hints of cinnamon and allspice, maybe brown sugar. Rasjohnny looked on, smiling, ladle at the ready to dish out seconds. Javan sat atop a water barrel beside the stove, expertly devouring his stew with only the help of a hunk of bread. Georgie made a big show of not looking at the cook's son, except when he raised his eyes and watched from beneath a forehead full of hair. Javan, on the other hand, studied all of us, his amber eyes sweeping the room as he ate.

Annie wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “And Mr. Johnny brought a goat and some chickens too! It'll be my job to look after them!”

“Fresh milk 'n' eggs,” Rasjohnny declared. “Yessir, way tasty out on da water! Javan'll teach ya how to milk da li'l nanny. Nuttin' to it!”

Our eyes all rose to the sound of footfall on the stairs. I knew even before I spotted the black boots who the commanding steps belonged to.

“I take it everyone is duly impressed with the culinary skill of my associates here?”

Addie slipped out of the bench and stood before him. “A fine meal, it 'tis,” she said, dabbing her mouth demurely with her napkin. She tipped her head, blue eyes twinkling. “And, sir, sometimes a kitchen needs a woman's touch, 'tis true! What with milk an' eggs, I'd be happy t' whip up somethin' that'd bring a smile to yer lips! “

Marni's eyes widened and Addie wilted under her gaze, cheeks reddening. She quickly slid back to her place at table. Captain Adams cleared his throat. “Well then . . . yes,” he stammered, a slight blush creeping across his face. “I say, Miss Marni, when you finish your meal I've some crewmen for you to meet. Up on the poop deck then, when you've had your fill?”

Grunts and nods all around as our spoons scraped the last of the tasty Caribbean concoction. With our bread we sponged up what was left, leaving the bowls nearly sparkling. We stacked our dishes and headed through the companionway, and Marni, Walter, and I climbed upstairs to the main deck. The sun shone low in the sky and we were greeted by the sounds of men calling out, gulls crying, the clatter of metal-clad wheels rumbling over cobble and wood.

Leaning along the rail were two men, one small and wiry with a sharp, possum-like face. His right eye was cloudy and rolled to the side, giving him a restless air. The other was a big, broad young man with massive arms and a thick neck. His features seemed lost in the doughy flesh of his face. One was as small and quick as the other large and slow. Captain Adams strode toward us.

“Grady! Quaide!” he barked, and the unlikely pair straightened up, somewhat resentfully, it seemed to me. The large one took a long drag on a cigarette before flicking it overboard. The diminutive older man adjusted his overalls and straightened his flat-topped cap. “Miss Marni,” the captain began, “these two men have, collectively, circled the world many times aboard ships large and small. Two more capable sailors you will never find. Grady here . . .” He paused, gesturing toward the slight seaman. “Grady will be my first mate—works the rigging like nobody I've seen—fearless, he is—can spring like a squirrel amongst the masts, climb the ropes like a spider in its web.”

Grady, thin lipped and frowning, nodded his head in acknowledgment. I noticed his one good eye scrutinizing me, then Marni, then Pugsley, who'd scampered upstairs behind us.

“And Quaide here—he's a workhorse of a second mate. Can lift and hoist like a machine, and, when necessary, defend a vessel against any threat.” Quaide jutted out his chin and rolled his shoulders, hands twitching by his sides. The man's small, beady eyes shifted from side to side, avoiding direct contact with any of us. I disliked him immediately and glanced at Marni to gauge her reaction. As Marni studied him, I saw that mysterious faraway look in her eyes that I knew so well—seeing something the rest of us couldn't. I shifted my gaze from Marni to Walter, hoping he'd see what I saw in the man. But Walter only nodded in grudging admiration of Quaide's ample biceps.

“And then, the rest of the crew . . .” Cap'n Adams whistled sharply through his teeth and raised a hand. A motley bunch sauntered aboard, all them embodying the swagger associated with the rolling of a ship. Mostly they looked down, but each cast a curious glance at our assembled group.