The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (20 page)

“Always belly-achin'!” Irish replied good-naturedly, dismissing Grady's concerns with a wave of his hand. “And I suppose we should be worryin' about the
Flyin' Dutchman
out here, too!” The others laughed, a little nervously, it seemed to me.

“Matter o' fact,” Grady snarled, “this is just where it all started—Cap'n Vanderdecken makin' his deal with the devil—sold 'is soul for speedy passage round the cape. Hit a storm and the fool pressed on—damned himself and 'is crew to sail the seven seas for all eternity aboard their ghostly ship. Laugh if ya want, but I seen things through the years . . . but never as much as I seen on
this
voyage. . . .”

“Gentleman!” The cap'n silenced them with a stern look. “I believe we're all aware of the inherent challenges. Great care will be taken, and we will not sacrifice safety for speed.”

As if on cue, a blast of frosty air bore down on us, whipping my hair across my eyes, stinging my forehead. The ship nosed sharply up, then down, riding a wave crashing against the bow. A frigid sheet of water exploded over the rail and slapped the timbers, its icy spray christening us for the next leg of our journey. “Here we go!” Irish yelled.

“Put on your woollies,” Cap'n advised, “oilskins over. Hats and hoods. Boots. Rasjohnny'll keep the java brewing. And batten down your hatches. Rough seas ahead, for sure.”

I glanced at Marni, staring at the horizon. Under gray skies and against steely seas, her eyes appeared a moody shade of cyan blue. Lips slightly parted, fingers twisting the locket at her throat, a faraway look shadowed her face. It was an expression I'd come to know, part of the mystery of her. It made me anxious. What was it that sometimes stole her attention, taking her far from us?

“Come on,” Walter said, tapping my shoulder. “Better go change. Georgie, you too. Bundle up!”

I nodded, acutely aware of the spot he'd poked near my collarbone. It had taken some doing, but I'd managed to switch my watch with Coleman, in order to be on duty the same time as Walter. As we left I stole a look back at Marni, her rapt attention still focused out to sea, a light snow swirling about her. I paused, and took out my spyglass, aiming it in the direction of her gaze.

“Marni,” I whispered, peering through the eyepiece. “Sometimes I wonder . . .” I stopped. My words trailed off. She didn't seem to hear. There, in the distance, I saw it, its silhouette unmistakable. The black ship, the one carrying the pirate and the green-eyed man. Always a presence just behind us. Perhaps Marni was worrying about that as well.

“What is it?” Walter asked.

I shook my head. “Just that ship—the black square-rigger. It's following us.”

“Let them try,” Walter said, grinning. “There isn't a ship around that can keep up with the
Lucy P. Simmons!
And the farther south we go, the better time we'll make!”

We dashed below, the ship pitching dramatically, and ran to our respective cabins. I closed the door snugly behind me and my eyes adjusted to the dim light. Annie lay, sprawled stomach-down on the floor, the cards spread around her. Ida stood behind her mistress, one of the hens perched on her back.

“Lucy,” she called, “the backs of these cards? Every one of them is different! Look!”

I squatted beside her and watched her sort the cards into groups. I'd been aware that the backs of the cards were decorated with busy, complicated panoramas, but my fascination with the face cards had overridden any interest in what was depicted on the backs. I picked one up to look more closely. It was covered in tiny elaborate pen-and-ink line drawings, the figures and scenes surrounded by intricate scrolls and curlicues, so that every smidgen of space was filled.

“See, these are all of stuff at sea,” Annie instructed, pointing to one group. I studied them, picking up this one and that, and yes, these cards were illustrated with tiny ships and crews, whales, pirates—all the stuff of seafaring.

“And here—these ones are all places on land.” She jabbed a small finger toward another bunch of cards. I detected a seaport, buildings, a town scene. And, upon careful examination, it was apparent that each card was unique, the small stick-like people situated differently, scene to scene. One of a kind—every card was one of a kind.

A repetitive mushy sound made us both look up. Ida's jaw was moving, her long pink-gray tongue swiping her muzzle. To our horror we watched the edge of a card disappear into her mouth.

“Ida! No!” Annie screamed, jumping up. The frightened hen flapped her wings and flew to Annie's bunk in a small cloud of feathers. Ida, unimpressed, swallowed languidly, the lump that was one of our cards traveling down her throat.

“Annie!” I shouted. “You have to take better care of the cards! And get her out of here! She's a menace!” My knees felt weak. I'd somehow been entrusted with the cards and now one was gone.

“Baaaaaaa,” Ida bleated, as if to say, “Too bad!” Thank goodness I'd removed the king and queen of diamonds and the queen of spades from the deck and hidden them safely away. I couldn't imagine what would have happened if Ida had swallowed one of them. I doubt they would have gone down as easily. “Out!” I yelled, pushing open the door. The stubborn creature started out just as the ship reeled forward and back at a steep angle, sending her sprawling. That's what you get, I thought.

“Annie, pull out your woollies and get in your bunk,” I said. “Hunker down! Rough seas ahead! But gather up those cards first!”

She did as she was told. I tucked my flute and the face cards in beside the box and soundly replaced the board.

By the time I left the cabin, moving slowly in multiple layers of woollies and oilcloth, the ship was rocking and rolling. A perpetual crash, splash, and roar served as accompaniment, the music of the waves battering the hull.

Passing through to the companionway was nearly impossible with the strength of the oncoming gale blowing in. I shouldered the wooden panel, threw my weight against it, managed to crack it but a smidgen. The wind shrieked through the space, mocking me. I wondered how Quaide was faring down below, chained in the brig—and if Georgie was wondering as well. He'd taken the news of Quaide's betrayal hard, but was finally coming around a bit. I also worried about traversing the most difficult part of our voyage minus one sailor. Suddenly another pair of palms pressed against the wood, another shoulder beside mine. Heave ho! Walter and I pushed until the door slammed back against the wall and we barreled through.

All hands on deck, oil-skinned figures manning lines and sails as the ship rose and plummeted on twenty-foot swells. I looked up and saw what appeared to be a huge raven perched atop the crow's nest, peaked oilskin hood pointing to sea like a beak, wide canvas sleeves flapping like wings. It was Tonio, on the lookout for icebergs.

I grabbed hold of the ratline and started to climb. No one had more at stake than I—if there were bergs to be spotted, I'd spot them. The higher I got, the fiercer the wind, lashing around my limbs, trying to suck me from the lines. Snow squalls blustered in howling spirals. The enormous height of the waves pitched the ship forward and back at extreme angles. Scaling the mast was like climbing the back of a giant rocking chair, one minute slanting out over the seething steely sea, the next swinging past nothing but sky.

Up, up I went until I felt the edge of the platform and grabbed hold with one hand, the other grasping about, blindly trying to get Tonio's attention.

In an instant I felt his iron grip on my arm, then on the other, and he drew me up.

“You?” he shouted. “
Lei è matta! You
crazy!” He shook his head, incredulous. The hood of his cloak and his drooping mustache were both dripping icicles, giving him the look of a shrouded walrus.

I hunkered down beside him, tethering myself to the mast with the end of a flapping line. “Bergs!” I shouted, pointing from my eyes to the horizon. He nodded, training his gaze back to the sea. I took out my spyglass, peered into the eyepiece.

“
Guarda!
” he exclaimed. “Look!” He pointed to an area of sea off the starboard side where a whole school of ice chunks bobbed and churned. Each was the size of a large boulder. Steam rose off the water around them. “Growlers,” Tonio said through gritted teeth. He took up a small dented brass bugle, put it to his lips, and blew three short blasts. In an instant the ship veered left. “You-a never wanna sail downwind of a berg,” he yelled. “Where there's growlers—there's-a berg. Berg is-a the mamma, growlers is-a the
bambini—the
babies. Both can put a hole in-a the ship!” All this he said without his eyes ever leaving the horizon. A chill rattled through me, clear to the bone. Bergs. Growlers. Shipwrecks.

I took my spyglass again and trained it off the starboard side, where the field of growlers curtsied in the waves. Slowly, back and forth, I swept the lens. There, off to the west, a huge mountain of ice appeared between the crest of the waves.

“Berg!” I yelled, poking Tonio and pointing. “Berg!”

He turned his hawk eyes westward. “Not-a whole berg,” he shouted. “A bergy-bit!” Again, three blasts of the horn. He gestured, palms a foot or so apart. “Bergy-bit, this-a big.” He stretched his arms as wide as they'd reach. “Ice-a-berg, this-a big!
Capisce?
”

The two of us fell silent—it was nearly impossible to hear, the wind roaring like a freight train. We must have been flying at almost twelve knots. Faster than I'd ever sailed. The only thing warm was our own breath, evident before us in small vaporous puffs that blew back and froze on our faces.

“Off portside!” I bellowed. “Portside!” I pointed furiously to the left, jabbing Tonio with my elbow. Like a pointed, snow-covered mountain peak, the top of an iceberg appeared behind a wall of steam and whirling snow. Tonio's eyes grew huge. Put his bugle to his lips, puffed out his cheeks, and blew one long blast followed by two short, urgent ones. He struggled to his feet, grasping the mast with one hand, sounding the alarm again as he scanned starboard.

We spotted it at the same instant—out of nowhere—the black ship, hurtling over the waves, changing course before our eyes. Clearly, they'd spotted the berg as well and, desperate to avoid it, were bearing down, their bowsprit aiming at us like a knight's pike, ready to plunge a hole in our prow.

Another burst of Tonio's horn, but even I could see that no matter which way we turned we were doomed. Off the starboard side the steam swirled into thinner wisps of mist, revealing glimpses of the silhouette of the huge triangular iceberg. By the sudden wild scrambling below, we knew our mates had seen it too. There was nothing to be gained by us staying aloft. If we were going down I wanted to be with Marni and Addie, with Walter, Georgie, and Annie.

I scrambled down the ratlines, swinging and bobbing, frantically grasping with numb, aching fingers. A glance in either direction affirmed my worst fears. Iceberg portside, and pirate ship starboard, the
Lucy P. Simmons
between them.

I jumped the last six feet to the deck. Sprawled across the glass-like surface slick with ice. It all appeared as in a dream—Marni with Georgie in tow, words I couldn't hear pouring from her lips, Walter and the Reds desperately working the thick lines, Addie holding Annie, her face melting in relief when she saw me, the cap'n, Coleman, and Irish—six hands to the wheel—but which way to turn? Rasjohnny and Javan, running the winch, lifeboats poised to drop, tipping them beside the rail. Yanking life preservers out the poop cabin, aft. Pugsley, near the companionway, crouched on shivering haunches. Georgie gesturing wildly at the black ship. All futile.

Driven by the screaming wind, the unforgiving sea churned up taller, angrier waves, rollers and combers both. The
Lucy P. Simmons
charged up over the backs of them, some thirty feet or more, crashed down as they peaked and broke. The vicious gusts drove furious upsurges from all directions, hitting us starboard, then port, throwing us perilously side to side. We were soaked clear through our oilskins, exhausted from convulsive shivering, our faces red and raw from the salt and the cold. All of our sails, ripped and slashed into streamers, whipped about like a hundred flags of surrender. There was nothing we could do in the face of it but hold on. As if pulled by some invisible force, Addie and Marni, Walter, Georgie, Annie, and I drew together, encased in one another's arms. Pugsley too, slipping and skidding across the deck, nosed into the middle of our group and huddled at our feet. With frozen hands we clung to the mast and to one another, so as not to get swept, one by one, into the frigid sea. No—together—this is how we'd go down.

Suddenly, the black ship appeared directly before us, hurtling over the top of a thirty-foot swell. Up, up it soared, its bowsprit aiming straight toward the sky. The wave crested and the black ship plummeted, the underside of its hull looming over our bow. There was a huge rush of air, a deafening crash, a bone-shuddering jolt. The crack of timbers splitting, the pitiful creak and moan of our ship coming undone, the prow of the black ship splintered and agape, her ruin mingled with our own. A torrent of raging water gushed across the deck carrying shattered pieces of our ship, and with it, our hope.

T
he
Lucy P. Simmons
lurched forward, the fractured black ship attached to us like a wounded appendage. Men crawled from the wreck of the square-rigger onto what was left of our deck, stunned. Others jumped into the icy sea, like water rats, to certain death.

Cap'n shouted frantic orders, his arms still straining at the wheel. Half his words were lost in the pandemonium. “We're takin' on water too fast! You two—Reds—pump the bilge! Irish—men overboard! Try and scoop 'em up in the net!” The men stumbled about like zombies, sloshing through the frigid water, attempting to follow orders, but too numb and overwhelmed to see them through. “Tonio! Coleman! Bail! Get them all to bail! Smack Grady out of his trance! Where the devil are the Reds? All hands! All hands!”