The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (19 page)

Halfway down the stairs I stopped short. I heard two voices—and one of them was Quaide's. I snuck to the door and inched it open just a crack. Placed my ear against the opening.

“Come 'ere, mate,” Quaide drawled. “I 'ave an important mission for ya—if you're man enough fer the job.” Peeking through the space I watched Quaide give Georgie's shoulder a quick squeeze and squat down in front of him so they were nearly eye to eye.

Georgie nodded eagerly. “Whatever it is, I can do it.”

Quaide bit his bottom lip. “I'd like t' think so, but yer still a little young. Ya see, sometimes a sailor has to do stuff that ain't easy. Stuff others aboard might not understand at first. So he's gotta be tough. Determined. Gotta be able to keep a secret.”

“I can do it!” Georgie repeated.

Quaide made a show of looking pensive, forehead creased, lips pursed. He rubbed his chin as though deep in thought.

“I'm not too sure you're up to it. Javan's older. He could do it, fer sure.”

I felt my blood boil. He was baiting Georgie, suckering him in to something. And Georgie was taking the bait, hook, line, and sinker. I thought of bursting through the doorway and putting an end to this charade, but I held back.

“No, Quaide,” Georgie begged. “Don't ask Javan! Please! You'll see, I can do it. Whatever it is . . .”

“Hmmmm . . . I dunno . . .”

It took everything I had not to jump out and shake some sense into Georgie. But not before I found out what Quaide was up to.

“See, a real sailor sometimes has to steel hisself against family 'n' friends. Y'know—in order to do what needs doin' without interference. Blatherin' to this one and that, like ya might at home—that don't cut it at sea. Which is why
real
sailors leave all that onshore . . .”

“You can trust me, Quaide.
Please.
I won't tell Walter or Annie, or . . .”

“Lucy. Ya can't tell her neither. 'Specially her. Or the old lady. I could trust Javan t' keep his piehole shut.”

“I won't tell, I swear!”

“I might try ya out—but
one
word,
one
wrong move . . .”

“Don't worry!” Georgie made a twisting motion in front of his lips, as though turning an invisible key. “Locked!” he promised.

“Awright,” Quaide said. “Here ya go.” He lowered his voice. I strained to catch each word. “I seen Coleman up to some funny business. Ya know how quiet and sneaky he is? Never wantin' to attract any attention? Well, now I know why! I seen 'im fiddlin' with the safe in the chart room. Spied him poppin' the lock like a pro, and makin' off with a pile of papers. Closed the safe back up with nobody but me the wiser.”

“Oh no!” Georgie exclaimed.

“We gotta trap 'im, so's to prove his guilt.”

“But how?”

“I seen him sneak into yer sister and Lucy's cabin with the stash and come out without it. He's a sly one. Musta hid it right under their noses. So, what you need to do is get in there and dig around till ya find it. Then, ya give it me and I'll turn it in to the cap'n.”

“Why don't we just tell Marni and the cap'n right now?”

Quaide stood up. I held my breath, praying he wouldn't see me through the crack in the door.

“Look, never mind. Ferget it! Here I was gonna set ya up to be the hero in all this, and instead you wanna go runnin' off cryin.”

“No! No! I
do
wanna be a hero!”

“Then get to it—but be careful! Yer lookin' fer a pile of papers. Or, a small brown folder. Don't let neither of 'em catch ya, ya hear me? It'll be our secret till we get ta 'Stralia. Then, we'll turn the crook in!”

“I got it!”

“Here,” Quaide said. “Take this.” He thrust forward a canvas sack. “Shove it all in there. And when ya got it, here's our secret signal. Can ya whistle?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Three short blasts and one long, like this . . .” He puckered up and blew through his teeth: “
Phweet-phweet-phweet-wheeeeeee!
You try it.”

“
Phweet-phweet-phweet-wheeeeeee!
”

“Good enough. Repeat it till ya hear me answer. Then we'll meet below, next-a the bilge pump. Got it?”

“Got it!”

“Now go!”

Never in my life had I felt such rage! It took every ounce of resolve not to immediately confront him. Somehow I managed to wait until I was certain they were gone, then I rushed to my cabin. Closed the door behind me with a trembling hand. A steely resolve rose up inside me. I would somehow outsmart him, trap him. And to think that if I hadn't overheard him he might have gotten away with it! I knelt, lifted the floorboard, removed the pile of stocks and documents. Where should I put them?

Just then I heard Addie and Annie in the corridor. Addie! Of course!

The door opened and Annie bounded in. Hugging my parcel to my chest with one hand, I grabbed my flannel nightshirt hanging on the peg, headed Addie off in the doorway.

“Addie . . . can you do something for me? It's important.”

“Course I can, ye know that now, don't ye? What 'tis it, lass?”

“Take these papers—they're important, and Quaide is trying to get his paws on them.”

She eyed me closely. “Are you all right then? You've a strange look in yer eye, is all.”

“I'm just determined,” I replied. “And anxious.”

Addie shook her head. “He's no good, that Quaide. No good atall. Whyn't I just tell Cap'n? Obediah'll lock the cuss down below fer the remainder of the voyage and be done with 'im!”

“No! There's something I need to do first.Trust me.”

Addie bit her lip and frowned. “Nothin' to put ye in harm's way? I won't be party t' that, y'know!”

“No,” I lied. “Of course not.”

“Then what 'tis it ye need me t'do?”

“Take these papers, and somehow stitch them to the inside of this nightshirt. Use a dish towel or something to make a big pocket. So that if you saw the nightshirt folded in a drawer nobody'd be the wiser. See what I mean?”

“Ah,” she said, nodding her head, warming to the task. “To make a hidin' spot no one'd suspect. Easy 'nough.” She handed me her shawl. Lowered her voice and glanced about. “Quick now, wrap 'em in 'ere.”

We folded the shawl around my precious papers and Addie clasped it against her body, the fringed edges falling naturally over her arm. Over her other arm hung my nightshirt. She leaned toward me.

“Soon as the sewin's finished, I'll fold the nightshirt and tuck it safe in the drawer alongside me bloomers.” She winked, and a wave of feeling welled up in me.

“Love you, Addie!” I blurted, throwing my arms around her. She hugged me tight, my precious papers pressed between us. After a moment she stepped back.

“Oh, child,” she said, her eyes twinkling with tears, “I love ye too, I do! Always 'n' forever!”

“And Addie—as soon as you're done, come to Marni's stateroom. And bring the cap'n.”

T
here was no time to waste, as I didn't want Quaide to have another opportunity to manipulate Georgie, or for Georgie to be wracked with worry over the task he'd been duped into performing. Soon after sailing out of St. Helena, on the way south toward the Cape of Good Hope, I carried out my plan. Addie kept Georgie and Annie amused in the stateroom, out of earshot. Grady, Coleman, Rasjohnny, and Javan sailed the ship. Smooth seas and sunny skies.

My heart raced as I stood at the hatchway, lantern and folio in hand. To muster up some courage, I thought about Aunt Pru, and my determination doubled. I took a deep breath, puckered up, and whistled.
Phweet-phweet-phweet-wheeeeeee! Phweet-phweet-phweet-wheeeeeee!

I waited. Whistled again.
Phweet-phweet-phweet-wheeeeeee!

And then, the response.
Phweet-phweet-phweet-wheeeeeee!

I threw back the hatch and felt for the ladder with my foot. Struck a match and lit the lantern. Clinging to the lamp handle, folio pressed against my chest, I crept down into the shadows. I pulled the hatch closed, shone the lantern this way and that, trying to get my bearings.

I nodded. Everything was exactly as planned. Still, my heart thumped wildly. I inched toward the bilge pump, and hid behind some crates. The water sloshed below, its foul smell filling my nostrils. Something skittered over my foot, and I stifled a scream. Two small glowing eyes stared at me through the dank darkness. A rat! I kicked at it with my boot, trying to frighten it away. It curled back its mouth and hissed, revealing a row of small pointed white teeth. I slapped the portfolio against my hand to frighten off the aggressive rodent. It recoiled and disappeared between the planking, leaving me unnerved and jittery. “Get a hold of yourself!” I whispered. And not a moment too soon! There was a
whack
as the hatchway door was flung back, and the thudding of Quaide's boots on the ladder. I peered into the inky gloom, trying to gauge his progress, praying nothing would go wrong.

“Well, where are ya, Georgie m' boy? No need to be hidin'! Nobody here but yer ol' buddy Quaide!”

I struck a match, relit the lantern, and stepped into the small circle of light. “Georgie isn't here!” I hissed. I waved the folio in front of him. “Is this what you're after?”

Quaide blinked, once, twice. Then he narrowed his eyes. “That little cuss spilled the beans, didn't he?”

“No, he didn't. The fact is, I overheard your entire conversation with him. And I wasn't going to let you set him up. Trying to trick a little boy into doing your dirty work! Stealing from me! I know what you want—I just haven't figured out why.”

“You can't prove nothin',” Quaide said. “It's yer word against mine.”

He sprang forward, grabbed the folio from my hands. Opened it. “It's empty!” he shouted. Nostrils flaring, he flung it into the bilge. It hit the water with a splash. He lunged toward me. I jumped back, nearly losing my balance, teetering for a moment at the edge of the precipice. “Lucky ya didn't fall in,” he snarled, clasping and unclasping his hands, inching closer and closer. Through clenched teeth he muttered, “I oughta . . .”

“Oughta what?” said a deep voice.

Quaide spun around. The cap'n stepped out of the darkness, pistol drawn, the Reds, Irish, and Tonio behind him. Marni and Walter, arms folded, across from them.

Quaide turned in one direction, then the other.

“Give it up,” the cap'n growled. “There's no way to escape.”

“She set me up,” Quaide roared. “I didn't do nothin'!”

“You can tell it to the law when we reach Australia,” the cap'n said. “Stealing is a crime—and involving a little boy in it . . .”

“I heard they got the largest penal system in the world there,” Irish quipped.

With the cap'n's pistol aimed at Quaide's chest, Tonio and Irish wrenched one thick arm then the other behind Quaide's back, while the Reds slapped on the manacles. Then they led him to the brig—a small barred-off area where he'd spend the rest of this voyage.

Marni, Walter, and I watched as the crew dragged the hulking figure off. My knees were weak, and my hands shook. I should have felt relieved, but when Marni and I exchanged glances I saw my mixed feelings reflected in her eyes.

“We're safe for now, I suppose,” I said. “But there'll be Georgie to contend with, and the bigger question—is it just greed driving Quaide? Or something more?”

Marni shook her head. “If it was only monetary gain he was after, I'm not sure he would have signed on with us in the first place. Why wouldn't he have just sailed with his mates aboard the black ship, pursuing more lucrative targets? No—Quaide is somehow a part of this quest.”

At that moment the ship dipped and bobbed as if affirming her words. We exchanged glances and Marni went on. “I can't imagine a pair of handcuffs and a stint in the brig is going to change Quaide's agenda. We'll see what Australia brings. . . . He might decide to talk when faced with the prospect of arrest—but I doubt it.”

Walter nodded. Sighed deeply. “Speaking of talking—I have to go and find my brother.”

“E
ntering the roaring forties!” Cap'n exclaimed, both hands on the ship's wheel, hair blowing straight back off his face. We were under full sail, speeding forward at over ten knots. “I plan on taking full advantage, to continue to move us along ahead of schedule.” I pulled my cloak around me tighter. Every day seemed a little colder than the last.

Marni nodded, turning toward Walter, Georgie, and me, all of us wide-eyed. “The ‘roaring forties'—a phenomenon that occurs after crossing the equator, heading toward the South Pole. Hot air rising, cooler air dropping—produces strong winds like nowhere else on the planet.”

“The furious fifties—even better!” Irish piped in, flashing his wide white smile. “Drop south to fifty degrees, or, if you're feelin' lucky, to the shriekin' sixties! Woooo hoooo! We'll fly like the wind!” He raised a fist in the air, his eyes wild.

“So full of big-headed idears and Irish bravado,” Grady muttered. “Ever actually sail the fifties and sixties? Bergs! Ya gotta be on constant watch for the bergs. Hit a big chunk of floatin' ice and you're done fer! Need a lookout in the crow's nest ever minute—alert, vigilant! And cold? You never felt cold like ya do below forty degrees latitude—drop to the fifties and sixties and it's colder than a belly blue hell!” The Reds snickered and Grady cast them a withering glance. “And lemme remind you pair of fools that it ain't fer nothin' that the cape was first named Cape o' Storms. That southwestern tip of Africa—a ship's graveyard!” He counted off the wrecks on his gnarly fingers. “There was the
Joanna,
the
Arniston,
the HMS
Guardian,
the HMS
Sceptre.
. . .”