The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (16 page)

Georgie piped in, “Me too!”

Marni smiled. “It bodes well, despite Grady's worries,” she said in a soft voice. “Ahead of schedule. Invisible hands ushering us on. We'll reprovision, stock the shelves for the sail around Good Hope. We can afford a few days' stay.”

“Be good t' have a little solid ground b'neath me feet, it will!” Addie exclaimed. “Smell some island blooms!”

“And flowers you'll have, by golly,” Cap'n quipped. And then, a little too quickly, “Flowers for
all
the ladies.” He nodded toward Annie, who jumped up and down, hands clasped. But the twinkle in Addie's eye told me she knew Cap'n Obediah had been speaking mostly to her.

Quaide grumbled, “We can't stand here all day. We gotta bring 'er in. Take yer stations already!”

Since his stabbing, Quaide had been particularly ornery. Stalking around on deck, scanning the horizon. Fingers twitching. Especially since, just as Marni had predicted, everyone on board had been accounted for during the time of the stabbing—and thus, no one had been implicated. And besides this, like Grady, Quaide was perplexed and vexed about our ahead-of-schedule arrival.

“All hands!” Cap'n called heartily. “All hands!”

Closer and closer we came, carried by the southeasterly trade winds. The island's bare, rugged cliffs seemed to grow out of the azure seas. I grabbed Father's spyglass for a better look. A speck of white expanded into rows of whitewashed buildings huddled together in a narrow strip between the volcanic peaks. A bastion of stone created the walls of a fort, the long noses of cannons aiming out from the barricade.

Together we guided her in, bell tolling, announcing our arrival. Pugsley raised his snout skyward, picking up the tantalizing scents of land. We dropped anchor close to the rocky coast, and were met by a small clumsy steam vessel, its native crew waving wildly. “Taxi to shore!” they shouted. “We bring you in!”

“Batten down the hatches,” Cap'n instructed. “Secure your valuables. We'll leave four men aboard ship at all times, weapons at the ready—a precaution. Irish. Tonio. Rasjohnny. Javan. You're first.”

In a heartbeat Quaide was hauling himself over the side, scrambling down the ladder to the transport boat. Walter climbed with a squirming, wiggly Mr. Pugsley clamped tightly against his chest. “Be careful, Walter!” Annie cried. “Don't drop him!”

Georgie and Coleman were next, then the Reds, with Annie securely between them. Marni and I eased our way down amidst the oily smoke of the noisy vessel's dirty engine until we were standing on deck looking up at the bow of our ship. The figurehead of Uncle Victor and Aunt Margaret reached out over us toward the island, their wooden eyes staring blindly ahead.

The cap'n called Walter back and the two of them ceremoniously helped Addie down. They no sooner reached us when Tonio drew the ladder back on board. The engine spit and coughed and we chugged to shore. I watched the
Lucy P. Simmons,
amazed, as always, by its stately beauty. At first I thought the movement behind it was a mirage—an optical illusion rising from the heat, the tides, from our extended time at sea. But no.

The transparent bowsprit, then the gracefully angled bow of the schooner wavered and rippled in the sun, edged out and around the
Lucy P. Sim
mons
until its entire ghostly silhouette shimmered like a shadow of light over our ship's starboard side.

I gasped and grabbed hold of Walter's and Marni's arms, one at each side of me. “Look!” I whispered.

Their gaze followed mine and I saw the vision of the phantom vessel reflected in their eyes. Together, we watched the specter ship sail ahead, hovering just above the surface of the water. Quaide stomped along the rail of the steamer, casting an occasional glance out to sea, with no reaction whatsoever.

Walter whispered, “He doesn't see it.”

Marni agreed softly, “I don't know if he ever did. A certain kind of blindness, Quaide has.” Our eyes flitted from Quaide to the ghostly ship and back. Nothing. In a moment, almost the entire mystery ship was visible, at least to us, moving sleekly and smoothly toward shore.

“Lookie there!”

I felt Grady's hot, sour breath in my ear, found him peering over my shoulder with his one good eye. “Oh, Mother of God,” he rasped, blessing himself. “It's towin' another ship! Captured, no doubt. Doomed! Those sorry lads are doomed!”

Behind the phantom schooner a disabled square-rigged vessel limped along, riding low in the water, sails and masts at awkward angles. It was the black ship, the one I'd seen in Boston. The very same one the green-eyed man and our would-be kidnapper had boarded after greasing Quaide's hands full of money. I'd caught a glimpse of it on the horizon the morning of my birthday.

“Well, I'll be damned,” Quaide mumbled. “They made it after all. And fast!” I spun around to see, first, a relaxing of his features, then a crease forming across his forehead. “How they're movin' is beyond me . . . crippled as she is. . . .”

“How's she
movin'
?” Grady laughed, a barking sound with no humor in it. “You don't see? The
Flyin' Dutchman
itself haulin' her in its wake!”

Quaide dismissed Grady with a wave of his beefy hand and exclaimed over the racket, “Shut up and cram your nonsense, Grady!
Flyin' Dutchman
? Donkey dung! Seagull squat!”

Georgie piped in, “Porpoise poop!” Quaide and Georgie exchanged smirks.

“Georgie!” Walter admonished. “Enough!”

Grady pulled up his small wiry frame. The skin beneath his right eye twitched and a vein in his neck pulsed. He drew his fisted left hand back, forearm shaking. “I oughta . . . I oughta . . . make ya eat your own stinkin' little yella teeth, you big dumb ox. . . .” The steamship crew rushed forward, forming a ring around them, eyes glowing with excitement, hollering bloodthirsty encouragement.

“Don't hit 'im!” Georgie yelled, pushing his way between them. Walter grabbed his brother by the arm, as Grady threw a wild punch. Quaide simply leaned back, out of range, and spit out of the side of his mouth. Cap'n strode over, his angry words lost amidst the din of the engine. Much pointing of fingers, Pugsley now in the row, yipping and yapping.

All of this I observed with one eye, the other peeled to the specter ship towing the black brig, dropping her into a slip, continuing on a collision course with the pier. Marni and I held our breath, braced ourselves, and gasped as she lifted her prow at the last second, sailed right up over the land, and disappeared into a puff of vapor. At the same time we approached the dock, our steamship belching black smoke, her engine clanking, grinding, and snorting.

“That's the ship!” I shouted into Marni's ear. “The one from Boston! The one the mangy pirate and the man with the green eyes boarded—the guys who gave Quaide the money! Marni! Marni!” Why, I wondered, was the schooner assisting the pirate vessel?

Marni wasn't listening. Perhaps she was wondering the same thing. She fingered the silver locket at her throat, lips slightly parted, her sea-glass–green eyes fixed on the black ship, its deck now swarming with sailors. Finally, our Jamestown crew cut the engine and threw down the gangplank. Marni blinked and turned toward me, a vacant look on her face.

“Marni? Marni . . .”

Walter ran over, Georgie and Annie in tow. “Did you see that? There was almost a fight, but the cap'n broke it up.” Annie stuck out her bottom lip. “I don't like that Quaide. He's just like Poppy!”

“Is not!” Georgie insisted.

“You don't have to worry,” Walter said, giving each of their shoulders a squeeze. “I'm here, watching out for you. For both of you.” Georgie squirmed from his brother's grasp. Walter sighed. Looked out to sea. “Where's the ship? The schooner?”

“Gone,” Marni said softly. “For now, anyway. But we have company.” She nodded toward the black square-rigger. “There are no coincidences.”

An odd expression took hold of her features. A look of hope. Or controlled anxiety. She turned to me finally. “Something tells me that when we come ashore we'll need to be very, very careful.”

W
e set off in small groups—Marni, Addie, and the cap'n to see to critical provisions, Walter, Georgie, Annie, and me off for a few hours of exploring. Pugsley trotted behind us, nose to the ground. “Stay together!” Marni had warned, “and meet back on board in three hours, tops.” Georgie and I exchanged a glance. No need to remind us what kinds of things could happen in a seaport. It would be important to stay alert and aware of everyone's comings and goings. I watched Coleman and the Reds duck into a pub. Grady planted himself on the pier, arms crossed, leaning against a stone embankment, eyeing the black square-rigged ship suspiciously. As we walked I caught a glimpse of Quaide, who instantly disappeared into the maze of streets and back alleys.

I'd worried a bit about us standing out in this foreign place, attracting unwanted attention. But these quaint streets were filled with people from seemingly every land and tongue. It was easy to blend in. Welsh, Scots, and Brits, judging by their accents, and some who spoke something I judged to be Dutch. There were onyx-skinned Afrikaners, and men from unknown places in the Orient. I gave Annie's and Georgie's hands a tug. “Stop staring!” I whispered. “And no pointing! It's rude!”

“But . . . but,” Annie protested, her eyes wide.

“Sh!” I admonished good-naturedly. It was hard, even for me, to refrain from gaping at the fascinating parade of humanity. Walter grinned at me over his siblings' heads and I felt instantly mature. Thirteen, for sure.

We trekked alongside a nearly dry moat surrounding the impressive stone gates of the city entrance. “Look at the castle!” Georgie cried, eyeing a tall archway on the left. “Do ya think we'll see a knight?”

“You never know,” Walter said playfully. “Better pay attention. You don't want to get run over by a charging armored steed!” Annie grabbed my hand and inched a step closer. A warm feeling filled me. We were a little family. We would take care of one another. I looked at Walter. He nodded and blinked a silent assurance—and I knew he felt it too. And it was a relief to have Georgie looking up to Walter and out from under Quaide's thumb.

“There's Jake-o's Ladder!” Georgie yelled.

“Jacob's Ladder,” I corrected. I was about to explain the bible story, but upon glimpsing the incredible tower of steps to our right, my voice deserted me. They were stacked almost straight up—literally more of a ladder than a staircase, extending as far as the eye could see.

“Oh my goodness!” Annie gasped.

“Ready?” Walter asked.

A shadow clouded his sister's face. “I don't know. . . . I . . .” Her bottom lip curled.

“Don't worry,” Walter said. “If you get tired you can ride piggyback for a bit.”

Georgie dashed ahead, counting each step as he went. “One, two, three, four . . .”

We followed, taking our time, waiting for Annie, who stepped up with her right, lifted her left to meet it, then repeated the process. At this rate it would take us forever to get to the top.

It wasn't long before we felt the heat of the sun on our heads and shoulders, and our calves began to ache. Pugsley would scamper ahead, then plop down and wait for us, panting, tongue lolling. “Two hundred and seven . . . two hundred and eight . . .” At three hundred we sat and rested for a few minutes. Walter had been smart to bring a canteen of water, which we shared.

Onward and upward. Four hundred and eleven, four hundred and twelve . . . I climbed ahead, stopped, and turned. I was reminded of the first time I'd scaled the ratlines, my downward glance nearly causing me to swoon.

“Five hundred!” Georgie shouted triumphantly.

“Piggyback!” Annie whined.

“Okay,” Walter said. “You two go ahead—we'll catch up to you.”

Georgie and I started the final leg of our ascent. With maybe fifty steps left, he dashed ahead of me, wanting to be the first to reach the summit. I relished the bit of time alone, Georgie and Pugsley above me, and Walter and Annie below. I paused, braced myself against the stone foundation, and took my spyglass from my pocket.

To the left, the bright blue sea glittered, the pier a dark strip beside it. I scanned to the east and there was our ship. Javan was snoozing on the platform atop the mainmast, mouth agape, hands behind his head, elbows pointing outward. Rasjohnny and Tonio sat on the poop deck patching sails, and Irish washed down and swabbed the main deck.

Suddenly, just as it had in Boston, the scope reared to the right. Our ship, the pier, a row of white buildings flashed by, kaleidoscope-style. It scanned quickly back and forth, dizzying me on my steep stone perch, until it honed in on a narrow street near the entrance of town.

I was vaguely aware of Walter breathing heavily, approaching with Annie clinging to his back like a monkey. “We're getting close,” he gasped. I could sense him sliding Annie down, until her dangling feet met the stairs, and she scrambled to catch up to Georgie. But I couldn't peel my eye from the scope.

“What is it?” Walter asked.

“I don't know . . .” I began, and then, there was Quaide striding along the pier. A movement farther down, from the gangplank of the black ship, caught my eye. I knew who would appear, even before I actually saw them—the nasty pirate with the red bandana and the green-eyed man who was carrying a canvas sack. Quaide waved for them to follow. Walter started to speak, but I quieted him with a raised index finger. Fascinated, I watched Quaide and the other two duck under an archway and carry on an intense conversation in the shadows. The scope pulled a bit more to the right, toward the type of gnarly, sprawling tree they call a black cabbage, native to the island. Its trunk grew right beside the stone foundation, shading the area near the wall where Quaide and his cohorts stood. The sunlight dappled through its branches, dancing on the ground around them. Quaide removed a watch from his pocket, squinted at it, then pointed at the
Lucy P. Simmons.
The other two nodded.