The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (10 page)

Miss Oonagh blew another smoke ring into the air. It wafted into a fairy shape and levitated, wings pulsing, before floating across the room. In front of the cupboard the hazy sprite stretched and spun into a single thread of smoke, descended, and like a snake, slithered beneath the cupboard.

15

B
one tired, I settled into bed. Pru was asleep almost as soon as she laid her head on the pillow. I snuggled into the down feather bed, Addie's linens crisp and sweet smelling, as always. But despite my exhaustion, sleep evaded me. I could hear Walter in the next room, tossing and turning, trying, I'm sure, to find a comfortable way to lay his swollen finger. And then there was his bruised ego. . . .

But that wasn't all. A feeling of urgency pressed in on me. What had Slash learned that might give the pirates an advantage? What did Quaide know that we didn't? Was there a crucial connection we were missing?

Restless, I drew back the covers, quietly slipped out of bed, and tiptoed down the stairs. There I could sit and ponder without disturbing Addie. In the parlor the burning peat still glowed merrily in the hearth, its warmth welcome in the dampness of evening.

“Thought you'd be fast asleep by now.”

Startled, I turned to see the capt'n seated in the wing chair, a glass of amber spirits in his hand. “Just having a midnight libation, enjoying the feeling of a full household again.” He smiled, lifting the glass. “Cheers!” he said. “What is it keeping you awake?”

I shrugged. “Just trying to make sense of things. On Clare Island I came across a ship's manifest from long, long ago. My great-grandmother was aboard. It listed all kinds of information about the crew, the cargo, the passengers. . . .” As I spoke, an idea sprang into my head. “Capt'n—when you hired our crew back in Boston, you must have had to fill out a manifest?”

“Of course.”

“Where would that document be? In Boston?” My brief excitement waned. Boston was a long ways away.

“Yes, filed with the harbormaster.” He took a sip of his drink. “Why do you ask?”

I considered for a moment. “I'm not sure exactly. . . . I guess I don't know what I'm looking for until I find it.”

The capt'n nodded. “It's that way with a lot of things. But once you see it, you realize it was what you were looking for all along.” He smiled and I wondered if he was thinking of Addie. Then his expression changed. “You know, as captain, I kept a log of every voyage. If time permitted I often made note of the information filed on the manifest.”

“Oh, Capt'n, could you . . .”

“Find it? Of course.” He stood and walked over to a large book cabinet and opened the glass doors. “Let's see. . . .” He withdrew a thick volume. The linen cover was warped and faded—evidence of the way the sea had so many times overtaken us. He hesitated for a moment. “My log is like a journal, a diary. Its pages hold many of my most private thoughts. What you're searching for is a record of our setting sail, correct?”

“Yes, Capt'n! I wouldn't intrude on your personal entries. Perhaps . . .”

“Let me have a look. . . .” He pulled a pair of wire-rimmed glasses from his pocket, arranged them on his nose, and flipped open the book. “Ahh, yes . . .”

“What did you find?”

“Right here—list of crew, description of vessel, port of embarkation . . . dates. Cargo list.” He perused several pages, considering.

It took every last bit of restraint not to move closer and peer over his shoulder. I waited. The clock ticked.

“Well then,” he said, “let's do this.” He strode to his desk and removed a pair of angry-looking scissors. He splayed the journal open and carefully snipped, slicing out several pages of tidy notations. “Here you are, Miss Lucy. I pray you'll find whatever it is you seek.”

“Thank you, Capt'n!”

“I'll leave you to it then. Just snuff the lamp when you're through.” Capt'n Adams downed the remains of his drink and left me alone. I took his place in the wing chair, its sturdy arms enveloping me, and leaned into the light. I scanned the page, running my finger through the columns of familiar information—the names of our little party, an accounting of foodstuffs and nautical equipment, intended ports of call. I turned the page over and paused. In Capt'n's neat script was a list of our hired crew, which I read with great interest. Though these men had become as familiar as family, I realized I'd never learned their last names. There had been no need.

James O'Grady—I blinked. Grady? His first name was James? Padric Carolan must have been the given name of the man we called “Irish.” Coleman Thayer—dear Coleman, who we'd left behind in Australia. I read on, as though being introduced to these men for the first time, which I was, in a certain kind of way. There, at the end of the list, was the name I was seeking: Quaide Coogan. “Coogan . . . ,” I whispered. Something about the name struck a chord in me. Or maybe it was just a visceral reaction to my deep disgust for the man. I frowned, feeling suddenly let down. It was all interesting but didn't reveal the elusive clue I'd hoped for. Stifling a yawn I extinguished the lamp and tiptoed back upstairs, the capt'n's generous but likely futile contribution in hand. Without a sound I slid the box from under my bed and stashed Capt'n's log pages in with the rest.

Following a night of fitful sleep the morning seemed to dawn sooner than expected. I dragged myself down to breakfast, where the mood was somber. Walter's finger was still swollen and had ripened into the color and size of a small eggplant. The slightest touch sent waves of throbbing pain radiating through his hand and up his arm. Addie's home remedies did little to alleviate the swelling or discomfort. The capt'n had already sent for the village doctor, an elderly fellow with a curt way of speaking and no bedside manner. “Soak it,” Dr. O'Leary said. “Epsom salts t' draw the poison. Keep it elevated,” he instructed. “If that doesn't do, we might try a leech t' suck the bad blood.”

Annie's eyes opened wide. “Put a bloodsucker on his finger? Ewww!”

Walter grimaced. “What if none of that works?”

The doctor rubbed his chin, considering. “If infection in a finger or limb begins t' affect the rest o' the body, the prudent thing would be, lose the finger, save a life.”

Walter's face paled.

“That's quite serious,” Marni said.

“Indeed,” the physician replied. He removed his spectacles, huffed on them, drew a soft cloth from his pocket, and concentrated on giving the lenses a good polishing. He arranged them back on his stubby nose and leaned in to see Walter more clearly. “So, boy, I'd suggest ye do as yer told unless ye care t' be known as ten minus one.”

“Enough!” Pru exclaimed, glaring at the old man. “A little sensitivity would go a long way!”

The capt'n took Dr. O'Leary by the arm. “I think we're done here,” he said, whisking O'Leary to the door.

“Oh, sweet God in heaven,” Old Peader began, voice trembling. “If I could, I'd stand in yer place, Walter. Me, an old fella, what do I need ten fingers fer? But yer young . . .”

“B'fore ye start leakin' from the eyes agin,” Miss Oonagh warned, “ye might consider shuttin' yer trap! That fairy might hear and shoot a dart yer way too! Right in the arse! Heeheehee!”

“It isn't funny!” Walter shouted. For a moment he looked as though he might cry.

“I'll heat the water and Epsom salts,” I said. “Before it's lukewarm we'll have the next batch ready. And how about I rig a line from the ceiling that will pull your arm up to keep it elevated?”

He nodded, sat back, and closed his eyes. Georgie inched over and patted his brother on the shoulder.

“Knock it off!” Walter cried, shrugging Georgie's small hand away.

“It's all right,” Marni said, reaching for Georgie. “Your brother appreciates your concern, I know. Everyone's nerves are rattled. You and Annie go on out and check the sheep. Collect some eggs from the hens. Let us tend to Walter.”

Addie, Pru, Marni, and I spent the afternoon caring for him as best we could. I strung a winch and a line to help keep his hand above his heart, but he balked. The soaking bath was either too hot or not hot enough, the Epsom salts stung. The tea I made that was “too strong,” the scone “too dry.” After several hours, Addie retreated to the kitchen to prepare a meal, while Pru gathered her notebooks and map of Ballyvaughan and headed upstairs to her room. Marni took Miss Oonagh by the arm, led her outside for a walk, leaving us alone.

“I thought I might make a poultice and wrap it in a bit of cheesecloth, like a bandage,” I ventured.

“Did you hear what the doctor said?” he cried. “Did he say to use a poultice? No! Do you want me to get better or not?”

“Of course I do, but—”

“Then stop making stupid suggestions!” He slammed his good hand on the table, upsetting the bowl of salty water and spilling it all over himself. “See what you did!” he yelled, jumping from his seat, his pants soaking wet. It was all I could do not to take the empty bowl and hurl it at him.

At that moment the door opened and Seamus stepped in.

“Heard a commotion, I did. Makes me think Miss Lucy might need t' take a break from playin' the nursemaid.” He shot Walter a look. “Seems as if ye've gone and wet yerself. . . .”

“Out of here!” Walter shouted. “Get out!”

My heart was pounding. I wasn't sure what I felt the most—anger, pity, fear, or indignation. Not to mention that his unfortunate encounter with the fairy was already interfering with our quest. “Suit yourself,” I hissed, narrowing my eyes. I wanted him to see how put out I was. But he was already trudging toward the stairs to his room. I glanced at Seamus as we headed out the door. “Did you really need to mention his wet pants?” I asked. “Adding insult to injury?”

Seamus shrugged. “He was actin' like a baby, pickin' on me best girl after all ye did fer 'im . . . so 'e had it comin'!”

I almost protested. But Seamus gave me an affectionate squeeze. “The thought of havin' a lovely gal tendin' to me every need is enough to make me swoon.” Holding his chest he collapsed on the path, throwing himself at my feet. “Oh,” he moaned, “m' heart is breakin' and the sight o' ye made me knees weak! Can ye help me, sweet?”

“Oh, Seamus, stop!” I fought a smile. “Get up,” I said, extending a hand.

He took my hand, drew it to his lips. Stared up over my knuckles at me. His eyes twinkled. I felt his lips brush the tops of my fingers. “Worth it, 'twas,” he said. His breath on my hand felt warm and moist. A tingling feeling spread from my fingertips and it was a second before I got a hold of myself.

“Stop your nonsense,” I scolded, yanking my hand away and turning to hide the color that had crept up my neck to my cheeks.

He scrambled to his feet, beaming. “Come on then,” he said. “'Ave somethin' to show ye!”

Before I knew it, my hand was in his again, and we were running across the field together, laughing. It felt good to be out of the dreariness of the cottage, to feel the wind in my hair, the sun on my face. Seamus had brought all that with him—fresh air and light. We slowed when we reached the dirt road that led into town. He didn't release my hand, and I didn't pull it away. “Wait till ye see,” he said.

Up ahead, at the edge of the town center, stood a peculiar old tree, with a number of thick, graceful branches that dipped gracefully. It was as though they were bowing to us, inviting us closer. A bench sat in the shade beneath it. “Ever seen such a tree?” Seamus asked.

“No, never.”

“Ye can climb up in 'er boughs 'n' escape the world. Perch like a bird, out o' sight!” He hopped the bench and easily scaled the branches, his brown boots disappearing into a cluster of greenery. “Will ye be gracin' me with yer presence?” he coaxed.

After climbing ratlines and traversing yardarms aboard ship I knew this would be easy. In seconds I was sitting beside Seamus in the crook of a thick, curved branch, enveloped in a veil of delicate leaves. Peeking through the foliage provided a view of the street below, and off in the distance, the harbor. Here, in the confines of this hidden sanctuary, Seamus's presence seemed to fill the space. I was suddenly tongue-tied, shy. And grateful for the distraction of whomever it was approaching along the road beneath us. “Shhh!” Seamus whispered. He grinned. “Look who's comin'. . . .”

Marni walked arm in arm with Miss Oonagh. “I'm takin' a load off,” Oonagh said. “Me feet are painin' me!” I was about to call down when Marni spoke up.

“The other day—you started to tell me about my son. You said Quaide and his cohorts would lead me to him. . . .”

If there'd been a moment when we could have revealed our presence, it was past. The intensity of Marni's words, the longing in them made it impossible. Seamus and I exchanged a look.

“Miss Oonagh . . . fifty years I've been searching for my son, drawn, by instinct, from one place to another. And I've never felt closer than these last months.”

As always, her fingers caressed the locket at her throat. “Miss Oonagh?” Marni repeated.

Oonagh looked at Marni and blinked. “Ye have a son, do ye?”

“Yes, you told me. . . .”

“Where's 'e live, this boy o' yers?”

Marni's shoulders slumped. “That's what I'm trying to find out.”

“Ye don't know where yer own lad lives?”

Marni sat back and stared straight out across the harbor. “He was only seven when his father kidnapped him—stole him away for a life at sea. You told me—”

“Must be mistakin' me fer someone else,” Miss Oonagh said. “Don't know no Quaide. And who are ye, anyway?” She stood, looking this way and that. “Where's me Daniel? Gotta find me man!” She took a step, stopped. Pointed. “Oh, there he is!”

Grady walked toward his mother, and nodded to Marni. “Went into town t' pick up some things. What's wrong with the two of ye's? Both look like ye seen a ghost.”

Marni rose. “Better take your mam home. . . . ”