The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (15 page)

Abruptly a peculiar sound behind me cut through my reverie. Harsh laughter, and then a voice: “B-neet, b-neet, b . . . b . . . b . . . b-neet.” More laughter. “B-b-b-b-b-neet, b-neet, b . . . b . . . b . . . b-neet.”

Then another voice. “Come on, spit it out! You can do it!” The voice was Quaide's.

I turned and tiptoed forward. Ducked behind the lifeboat and peered toward the bow.

Coleman stood, his face pale, hair ruffling like downy feathers in the breeze. Quaide, his hulking back to me, poked the man's thin wiry frame with a thick finger. “Cat got yer tongue? Tell me where you're goin'!” Coleman's lips labored in slow motion, as if paralyzed. His jaw stretched painfully. He thrust his head forward, the sinews in his neck straining.

“B . . . b . . . b . . .” His nostrils flared. Hands fisted and unfisted. “B . . . b . . . b . . . b-neet . . .”

Quaide closed the space between them. Thrust his doughy face directly in front of Coleman's. “Come on, say it, you moron! Out with it! You gotta tell your superior what you're gonna be doin'. And that's me! So
say it!
”

Coleman tried to scoot around him. Quaide blocked his way.

I felt weak in the knees. I'd never actually heard Coleman speak, assuming he was just an odd, solitary sort. It never occurred to me he was a stutterer.

“Say it . . .
BE-NEATH
. . . say it!
BILGE PUMP!
” I could see the spit fly from Quaide's lips. Coleman clamped his mouth shut like a steel trap, vehemently shook his head. His chest rose and fell with each breath.

I lowered my head, heart pounding. I was about to shout at Quaide, but stopped. I couldn't bear for Coleman to know I'd witnessed this.

I turned. Ran to get the cap'n. He wasn't anywhere on deck, so I hurried below, toward his stateroom. “Cap'n!” I shouted. “Cap'n Adams!” I pounded on his door.

“Cap'n, I need you on deck! Cap'n!”

The cap'n's door flew open. Marni, hearing the ruckus, also stepped out of her quarters. Before I could say another word, Irish bolted down the companionway and into the corridor. “It's Quaide,” he said, huffing and puffing. He raked a hand through his jet-black hair and caught his breath. “Stabbed. Quaide's been stabbed!”

W
e ran, the sound of our footsteps echoing in the companionway like a drumroll.

The men stood in a circle on deck, their backs to us. All I could see of Quaide were the bottoms of his massive boots, toes up.

Grady barked, “Let Cap'n through!” Tonio and the Reds stepped aside. Rasjohnny was barreling toward us, a large black bag in hand. Addie appeared, and with a single glance grabbed Annie and yanked her back into the companionway.

Cap'n shouted, “Clear a space!” He was already kneeling at Quaide's side, waving Rasjohnny in. I wedged my way between them, hypnotized by the red, soggy stain spreading across Quaide's right shoulder. He was struggling to sit up, but Cap'n pushed him down and peeled back his shirt. Rasjohnny examined the wound, dabbed with a cloth. Quaide winced.

“He gonna be fine, just fine,” Rasjohnny said. “Ain't deep.”

Georgie ran forward. “Quaide!” he yelled. Georgie looked from Quaide to Walter, and everyone's eyes followed. My heart raced as I read the suspicion on his young face, the hurt and indignation on Walter's. Marni stepped forward, placed a firm hand on Georgie's shoulder, quieting him.

Cap'n scanned the group and flew to his feet. “Where's Coleman?” He snapped his fingers. “Grady! Irish! Tonio! Find him. I need all hands on deck! All hands!” he shouted. “Everyone accounted for! Now!”

Grady, Tonio, and Irish dashed off. A sick feeling rose in my throat.

“Quaide,” the cap'n said, “what happened? Speak up!”

Sweat beaded across Quaide's forehead. His bottom lip curled down, revealing the fleshy inside, white and plump as a fat grub. He chewed his upper lip, ran his thick fingers through his hair, eyelids at half-mast.

“Was pretty worn out after the storm. Come up to the poop deck for a look-see—makin' sure everythin' was in order. Sat down against the rail for a minute and I musta nodded out. Woke up bleedin' like a pig.”

The cap'n's eyebrows arched. “You're saying nothing happened out there on the poop deck? That someone stabbed you while you slept? Unprovoked?”

Quaide grunted. “I'm sayin' I woke up with this. Didn't see nothin'—was in shock.” He paused. “Heard footsteps runnin' off . . .”

“He's lying!” I shouted.

Quaide glared at me, his teeth showing. “You're the little liar,” he growled through clamped teeth. “You wasn't there!”

All eyes were on me.

“What happened, Lucy?” Marni's calm voice eased my anxiety. “What exactly did you see?”

Nostrils flaring, I turned to Quaide. Glanced at Cap'n, who nodded.

“He—Quaide,” I pointed, “was tormenting Coleman. Up on the deck, forward, near the bow. Humiliating him!”

“Ain't so—” Quaide began.

“Quiet!” the cap'n snapped. “Go on, Miss Lucy.”

I took a deep breath, gritted my teeth. “He was . . . he was . . . trying to force Coleman to speak, and Coleman just couldn't. He was stuttering. Stammering. Quaide laughed, kept pushing him.” I could still hear the rapid-fire
b-b-b-b-nee . .
. could still see Coleman's twisted face. I forced the quaver from my voice. Looked Cap'n Adams in the eye. “That's when I came to get you. To make him stop!”

“So you didn't see anyone stabbed?”

My hands were shaking. Without meaning to, I'd cast suspicion on Coleman. There was no one else around.

“She didn't see nothin',” Quaide muttered.

“I saw you behaving like an animal!” I hissed. I stopped myself before I spoke my mind . . .
You deserved to get stabbed.
I was appalled at my own thought.

“We found 'im, Cap'n,” Grady announced, walking beside Tonio and Irish, Coleman loping between them, eyes cast downward. “Pumpin' the bilge.”

“Irish. Tonio. Escort Coleman to my quarters,” Cap'n Adams ordered. “Miss Marni, Lucy, you too. Rasjohnny—bring Quaide to the galley. Stitch him up. Grady. Walter. Reds. Sail this ship. Grady, see that everyone stays at his station. No one belowdecks. Now—everyone—get to it!”

Georgie wailed, “I'm goin' with Quaide!”

The cap'n retorted, “No, young man, you are not. You'll go with your brother. Your hands are needed. Move!”

We marched to Cap'n Adams's stateroom. “Sit down, all of you,” he said. He directed Marni and me to pull forward two chairs, sat behind his desk, and waved Coleman into a seat opposite him. Coleman wrung his hands.

“Coleman,” the cap'n said. His voice was soft but hard as iron. “Did you or did you not stab Quaide? Look at me!”

Coleman met the cap'n's determined gaze. Shook his head vehemently side to side. His eyes appeared sunken in his face, cheeks hollow. His mouth convulsed painfully, in slow motion. Cap'n tore a page from his log, thrust it, along with a whittled pencil, across the desk. “I need to know what happened.”

Coleman grasped the pencil between thumb and middle finger, and began to write. His lips pursed with the formation of each word. Marni and I leaned forward. From his long, awkward hand came the most surprisingly graceful script:

Quaide ordered me to go beneath—pump the bilge.

He glanced up and back to the page.
That's what I did. Went beneath to the bilge pump. Then they came for me.

“And how exactly did Quaide deliver these orders?”

Coleman looked away. Blotchy color crept up his long gawky neck, across his cheeks.

“A man has been stabbed, Coleman, and you're the number-one suspect. It is in your own best interest to tell me the exact nature of your exchange with Quaide.”

Coleman tensed for a moment, then the words flowed from his hand.
Told me to answer him. I tried. Sidestepped him—went below.

“Miss Lucy apparently saw something.”

Coleman stared at the paper, his tongue edging out the corner of his mouth.
If she said I stabbed him, she's lying!!!

“No,” Cap'n replied. “She witnessed the scene before the stabbing and came to me.”

Coleman's face flushed a deep scarlet. Licked his lips and leaned toward the paper.
DON'T NEED A GIRL FIGHTING MY BATTLES!
The point of the pencil snapped, exploding the dot of the exclamation point into a smoky smudge.

Marni reached her hand out, rested it on his forearm. It was as though she willed him to meet her eyes. It was a different, deeper kind of seeing—the connection between her sea-green eyes and his gray-blue, transmitting something the cap'n and I could only sense. I knew the look, had felt its intensity when we'd first met back in Maine. The strain melted from Coleman's face, lines and creases relaxed.

“This man is telling the truth,” Marni said, shifting her steady gaze to the cap'n. “He did not do the stabbing.”

“How do you kn—” Cap'n began.

“I know. There are certain things I know, beyond any doubt.”

The cap'n's eyes met mine. I nodded.

Cap'n Adams placed his elbows on the desk, rested his chin upon his folded hands. He studied Marni. Coleman. His eyes crept up the wall behind them, to the ceiling. Both index fingers popped up, crossing his lips. Finally, he exhaled loudly. “All right. But, given the seriousness of the offense, I'll need to question everyone aboard.
Somebody
stabbed him.”

“Do what you must, of course,” Marni said.

Cap'n nodded to Coleman. “You're free to go.” Coleman did sort of an awkward half bow toward Marni, then he was gone.

Cap'n Adams leaned back in his chair, tipping the front legs from the ground. “So, who stabbed him? You must have an idea. Whoever did this will be put ashore when we arrive in the Azores. Replaced with someone we can trust.”

I frowned, realizing Grady hadn't yet apprised the cap'n of our miraculous progress. There would be no stop in the Azores. Perhaps St. Helena.

“St. Helena, for sure,” I said. The cap'n looked at me, his face a question. “It seems we strayed far off course,” I said. “Grady can tell you—”

Marni interrupted. “Let's concentrate on the business at hand. Question all of them. I predict they will all be accounted for, at their stations and otherwise occupied, during the small window of time between when Lucy left them and arrived at your stateroom.”

“What are you suggesting?”

Marni raised her eyebrows. “Nothing. We'll see what the investigation turns up.”

She rose to leave, her hand on my shoulder. At the door she paused. “And Cap'n,” she said, “I plan to have a talk with Quaide myself.”

Outside in the corridor, I grabbed Marni's arm. “So, who do you think stabbed him?” I asked.

“I believe he stabbed himself.”

My mouth dropped. “Why?”

“A game. A way to manipulate everyone aboard.”

“What will you do?”

Marni stared down the narrow hallway as if gazing into the future. “He's leading us somewhere,” she said, her voice hollow. She fingered the silver locket at her throat. “I've felt it from the moment I laid eyes on him. We're being drawn to where we need to be. Like it or not, I feel he's the one pointing the way—and I doubt he even recognizes his role in the whole of this. Perhaps it will make more sense once we discover what it is he's after. And how it is connected to our quest.”

A chill swept along my back, down my arms. “I'm on watch. I need to go back.”

“No worries, my dear,” Marni said quietly. She took my hand and squeezed it, then headed to her stateroom.

I hurried toward the companionway, passing my cabin. There was something propped against the door. Something covered with a small piece of canvas. I knelt down and lifted the corner. I gasped.

It was octagonal, shimmering in shades of the palest pink, of lavender, and pearly cream. The tiny shells formed waves of blossoms in concentric circles. The sailor's valentine, completed! There was an
L
in the center, crafted with rows of tiny, swirled, bronze-colored snail shells.

I picked up the lovely plaque and beneath it was a scrap of paper, a note scrawled across it:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY L!

—
w

“L
and ho! Land ho!” At the sound of Tonio's voice we all ran for the deck and lined up along the starboard side. I edged my way between Walter and Irish, casting sidelong glances Walter's way. For a moment our eyes met. His pinkie brushed mine, gripping the brass rail. I was filled with excitement! Walter beside me, and our little party that much closer to reaching Aunt Pru!

Tonio stood at the bow, spyglass in hand, pointing toward the island's volcanic peaks and ledges, just visible on the horizon. Cap'n shook his head. “St. Helena,” he said. “Impossible, but indeed, it is. Tonio—please.”

Tonio passed him the scope, the cap'n took a perfunctory look and handed it back. “Indeed. James Bay. Will take us into port in Jamestown. A good week ahead of schedule, at least!”

“Ain't no doin' of ours,” Grady said under his breath. “Ain't nothin' to brag about neither.” He squinted in the hot sun, shading his eyes with his hand. Glared at Rasjohnny, then me.

Tonio wiped the sweat from his forehead. “St. Helena was good enough-a for Napoleon, it's good enough-a for me.”

“He was a prisoner here.” Walter looked at me, eyebrows raised. “Napoleon was. Exiled. We read about this island, remember?”

After all the days of silence, it felt awkward to be talking to him. But only for a second. “Yes,” I said, remembering pouring over Father's log. “And the giant stairway—Jacob's Ladder. Almost seven hundred steps. Let's see if we can climb it!”