The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (12 page)

“All hands! All hands!” The cap'n's voice cut through the din. “Batten down the hatches!”

“Say yer prayers!” Grady screamed. He made the sign of the cross, pulled down his cap, and took off running.

I
ran behind Grady, holding my ribs. My head throbbed. We were tossed against the wall of the companionway, then thrown to the opposite side. With arms extended I pressed on, the pitching of the ship forcing me to climb uphill, then down. Slowly, I zigzagged forward. Marni was already scaling the stairs, clutching the railing. Coleman, silent and determined, stepping into oilskins as he moved, pushed past. The sea rolled and rumbled, relentlessly pounding the ship. Its timbers creaked and groaned. The wind wailed. Annie appeared in the doorway of our cabin.

“Get in there and stay!” I shouted.

“But—”

“In there! Keep Pugsley and Ida! That's your job!” I shoved her in. Slammed the door. “Secure it! Don't come out, no matter what!”

On deck, visibility was next to nothing, but I could still make out the huge whitecaps cresting, churning up a deadly froth. The wind and waves battered us, both attacking from the same direction. “Steady on!” the cap'n hollered. “Lash yourself to the wheel! Run 'er with the wind!” Somehow, through the driving spray, I was able to fight my way to Marni at the helm. I gripped the wheel with her, hand to hand, fist to fist. Our ship's prow sliced through a massive, gun-gray swell. The top of the wave crashed over the rail, coursing across the deck, sucking anything with it that wasn't tied down.

“Strike the royals!” Cap'n shouted. “Strike the royals!”

Three sailors struggled to take down the sails at the top of the masts. More stability without them. Quaide and Grady there, for sure, and Walter—had to be. Or maybe Irish and the Reds. Two more joining the fray—Rasjohnny and Javan. What good Rasjohnny would be, I didn't know, but they worked in tandem. Another, slower but determined, joined them. Addie? Tonio, head tucked and hunkered down, charged across the deck like a bull, laying thick hands to the task. All dark, soaking figures, clad in oilskin, featureless in the rain.

The next surge rose from the side in an undulating peak. It broke diagonally over the stern, thrusting us sideways. A sound emanated from the
Lucy P. Simmons
as though the ship itself took a deep breath and groaned in an effort to stay the course. I lost my footing, fell, and slid, belly down, along the deck. I grabbed for a line, anything to hang on to. On all fours Marni scrambled after me, one hand anchored to a rope, the other extended. Unattended, the wheel spun wildly, knobs ablur. Marni grabbed my hand as the
Lucy P. Simmons
listed dangerously, broadside to the waves. I heard a collective cry as we threatened to capsize. We struggled back to the helm and took hold, every muscle tensing against the wheel, righting her enough to prevent her from broaching.

As our crew doubled its efforts I felt a surge of power manifest itself in the bowels of our ship and stubbornly take charge. On the defensive, its bow sliced through the waves with an air of authority that infused us with courage. The sea retaliated with even more force, rousing the waves to greater heights.

“Strike the topgallants! Strike her down! Abandon course and point!”

The topgallant sails came down, and, like a battering ram, we navigated straight into the wind. Another wall of water, at least twenty feet tall, bore down on us. The sound alone was deafening, ungodly. It filled my ears, blocking out everything else. We rode atop the roiling surface, sucked in by its momentum. So far back did we pitch, it felt we were sailing uphill. But somehow the
Lucy P. Sim
mons
nosed down and rode the crest of the wave. I battled to stay anchored to the helm, praying the rest could hang on. It was impossible to see, to hear anything but the thunderous sea and howling wind.

The killer surge rose and broke, bombarding us from every direction. It gushed in a tumult across the deck, sucking around our ankles as the ship plunged down the other side of the mountain of raging water. The
Lucy P. Simmons
seemed to inhale and contract, protecting its timbers from the punishing force of the waves.

“Gallants! Strike 'er topsails!” Cap'n screamed. Through the driving rain, pelting my face like liquid nails, I watched the gallants come down. Without most of its sails the ship felt naked, exposed, like a person battling the elements without clothing or protection of any kind. All that was left to power us was the mainsail, full to bursting, then flapping wildly. It was impossible to distinguish sea from sky, the deluge from the waves. The tempest thrashed us horizontally, until the hail began—thousands of icy marbles pounding the deck, bouncing, and rolling, a barrage of frozen bullets. My skin burned under the onslaught.

A sound cut through the din. Or maybe it was inside my head. High and haunting, its lilting strain a mockery.
A la dee dah dah . . . a la dee dah dee . . .
I shook my head to clear the tune away, but still it persisted, until the flute in my pocket took up the chorus.
A la dee dah dah . . . a la dee dah dee . . .

I looked up, wondering if I was going mad. It happened at sea, Father had told me as much.
A la dee dah dah . . . a la dee dah dee . . .

Suddenly, I barely noticed the pitch and roll of the ship. Instead, my eyes followed the melody, a sparkling mist of notes that cascaded from my pocket, clearing a narrow tunnel through the wind and water, creating a line of visibility through which I could see. It was like looking through a periscope of calm.

Through it I spied the specter ship hovering just above the ocean, skirting the violent waves. The vicious wind, too, seemed to bypass her, so that she sailed over the fray. Stranger still, she was flying her colors—rows of small, square pennants, in brilliant hues, normally reserved for fair skies and friendly winds. I counted seventeen in all, and then, one by one, deciphered the letters represented by each geometric design.

H—A—P—P—Y—B—I—R—T—H—D—A—Y
L—U—C—Y

I gasped, and in that instant the wind died. The sea became flat as glass. Once more the melody played and quickly faded—
A la dee dah dah. A la dee dah dee
—leaving only the mild lapping of water against the hull. The
Lucy P. Simmons
seemed to sigh and exhale, and then, as if to reassure us, began rocking gently. We all stood in stunned silence for several moments, struggling to believe that the fury had passed as quickly as it had come.

Exhausted, our shoulders slumped, arms drooped at our sides. Muscles quivering. Then the gentle drip-dropping of water trickling from eyebrows and hair, hooded oilskins, the ratlines, yardarms, and mainsail. The sky of grim leaden clouds split down the middle, sending the thunderheads rolling in opposite directions. A wedge of blue emerged between them, through which a ray of golden sun shone. A misty rainbow glittered faintly in a large arc, its ends hidden behind the retreating clouds.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand. Marni's silver hair glistened, hanging down her back in a sleek sheet. Rasjohnny and Javan scrambled from their posts, slipping and sliding across the deck. Quaide was next, methodically descending, rung to rung, jumping the rest of the way, touching down with a thud. Then Grady, quick as a squirrel, Walter behind him. Tonio, his brawny arms hanging at his sides, and Irish, flashing a sparkling smile, pulled off their oilskin hats. The Reds ambled over, thumping each other on their backs, as if they'd played a tough game and emerged victorious. And they had. Even Coleman, in his usual quiet way, looked pleased. Finally, Addie and the cap'n. “Great work, crew,” he bellowed. “A hell of a storm!” He ran his hand along the rail, still slick with water. “And a hell of a ship!” The ship's bell clanged in response.

I heard a distant, high-pitched cry. “Can I come out now? Can I?”

Annie!

“Yes!” we yelled, all at once. In a moment she appeared, dog and goat behind her. Pugsley ran circles around us, nose to the ground. My eyes followed him, his restless sniffing raising a creeping anxiety in me.

“Where's Georgie?” I asked.

Rasjohnny, looking pale and spent, just shook his head. “I seed 'im when it first blowed in, out der wid Quaide.” He stared at his feet, avoiding our eyes.

“Georgie!” Walter called, striding across the deck. Marni turned toward the rail, her emerald eyes scanning the water like a bird of prey. “Georgie!” Walter shouted again. The men immediately fanned out in all directions, around the perimeter of the ship. My heart pounded in my temples. If he went over . . .

“Quaide,” the cap'n barked. “Where's the boy?”

Quaide's eyebrows rose and fell. He chewed his bottom lip. “Yeah, he was out there helpin' me . . . and then . . .” He shrugged. Cap'n's face went white and Quaide burst out laughing. “Come out, ye pea-sized little brute,” he yelled. “A regular water rat, that one, runnin' the lines!”

Georgie scurried from behind a barrel that had rolled into the corner, grinning, looking one to the other to acknowledge his joke. Then at Quaide.

Tonio, normally slow moving, turned on his heel, and in a flash was in front of Quaide. His muscular arms were bent at the elbows, fists balled tightly. His mustached lip curled back and he spoke through clenched teeth. “You think that's funny? It's not! I oughta—”

Irish stepped up. “Calm down, Tonio.” But the way his black eyes flashed at Quaide you could see he agreed. Quaide smirked. I wanted to slap him.

“None o' yas got any sense o' humor.”

The Reds stood, mouths gaping, looking one to the other, shaking their heads. One of them muttered, “Ain't no kinda joke.” Coleman rolled his shoulders and took a step back. His nostrils flared as though he'd gotten a whiff of a three-day-old fish.

Marni looked from Addie to Georgie. “Miss Addie,” she said, her voice unusually soft but strong, “take Master Georgie to his cabin.” Georgie started to protest, but Marni shot him a look that clipped his tongue. “Cap'n!” she said.

Cap'n glared at Quaide. “Now. You, me, Miss Marni. My stateroom.” He turned on his heel and strode off. Stopped. Pointed. “What are all of you looking at? There's work to be done! Snap to it!”

The men stood there for a second more, then headed to their stations. All except Walter, who followed Marni and the cap'n. Grady paused beside me. “I guess happy birthday greetings are in order.” He was not smiling. His eyes were narrowed and he stepped so close we were nearly eye to eye. I could see the pores on his nose, small black dots like pinpricks. He dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. “I seen that specter ship out there, flyin' her colors. Sendin' birthday wishes your way. A pitiable irony, it is. A curse, I tell ye . . . Between that and the other one's black magic, it's a miracle we got us through it. That wasn't no natural storm. Not just some whip-tail end of a hurrycane.” He turned on his heel and stalked off, as if the whole ordeal had been my doing. Had it, somehow, been my fault? Was the queen of spades flexing her muscles again as a warning—to remind me not to speak of what I'd experienced overboard?

I sunk against the side of the poop deck and peered out over the ocean, now a tranquil bath of blue-green. I shielded my eyes from the sparkling pellets of hail that still clung to her timbers, as though encrusted with thousands of crystal beads. Scanning the horizon, there was no sign of the specter ship, and, for that matter, no sign of the black square-rigged vessel I'd seen earlier. The specter ship—well, that was another story, but the black vessel—I wondered if it'd survived the storm, or if it had been swallowed up and brought to the bottom of the sea. I pulled my spyglass from my pocket and peered out, north, south, east, west. Nothing.

My stomach growled and churned, but I wasn't ready to venture back into the galley. By now Rasjohnny must have rushed to hide the evidence of his ritual, whatever it was, but still I hesitated. We couldn't pretend I hadn't seen. Something ought to be said, but what? Sighing, I headed to my own cabin.

I slipped down the stairs, still wet and slick, along the companionway. Voices could be heard farther down the corridor, coming from the cap'n's stateroom. I wasn't eavesdropping—I didn't need to. Anyone here would have heard. Raised voices, the cap'n's and Walter's. An indiscernible grunt I knew belonged to Quaide. Marni's voice, low and measured. I slipped silently along the wall.

“Stay away from him!” Walter shouted. “He's just a kid. You're not a good influence!”

“Just payin' him some attention,” Quaide said. “From a
real
sailor. Don't have a father. Can't get it from 'is brother.”

I felt the punch of his words.

“Everyone aboard this ship is a real sailor,” the cap'n snapped. “Don't forget it.”

“Yeah,” Quaide drawled, “but Wally here puts all 'is attention on the girl. Got nothin' left fer the kid.” He raised his voice to a high, fluttering pitch. “He's love struck. Smitten!”

“That isn't true!” Walter said with vehemence. There was a scuffling sound.

“Sit down, Walter,” Marni said gently. My face burned. Was it true, that Walter was smitten, or was Quaide, that animal, just trying to goad Walter into ignoring me?

“Somebody's gotta pay the kid some mind,” Quaide persisted flatly.

“That's all,” Marni barked. “We've heard quite enough from you!”

“Well, Quaide,” the cap'n said. “I didn't realize that child welfare was something you championed. The boy has family and friends aboard this ship. And they don't include you, is that clear? You exercised extremely poor judgment today. The lad is impressionable and I won't have you leading him astray. Period. Steer clear of him!”

“Thank you, Cap'n,” Marni said.

I turned on my heel and moved quickly to my cabin. Once inside it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. I'd begun the day with such high hopes that thirteen would be different. And it was—but not in the ways I'd hoped. Voodoo, a violent squall, Quaide's taunting of Walter being smitten with me. I sighed and headed toward my bunk, bone tired.