The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (7 page)

“Not to worry, little guy. You'll get your turn before long!”

I shot a glance Quaide's way, my chin held a little higher, my smile a bit wider.

“Ain't as easy on the high seas,” Quaide said flatly. “Or in a storm.” He wiggled the toothpick between his lips in a circular motion, took it, and flicked it overboard. Spit a particle from the tip of his tongue and mopped his mouth with a fan of thick fingers. “We'll see how she fares then.”

I thought of Father's voice, unruffled and confident, guiding me, step by step. Yes, I thought, watching Quaide lumber off, we'll see.

“R
emember,” Grady said, looking my way, “first watch starts at midnight. Midnight to four in the mornin'. That one's tough for a wet-behind-the-ears sailor. In this new rotation, me, Quaide, Coleman, and Tonio'll continue to take first watch. Then there's mornin' watch, four t' eight,” he said, pointing to Walter. “Whaddya say?”

As Walter nodded, a thought struck me. The morning watch would include the sunrise. “I'll take that one,” I said. “I don't mind waking early.”

“It ain't just lookin' at the scenery,” Grady said, as if reading my mind, “but all the chores that need attention.”

“Have I let you down yet?”

Grady grunted an acknowledgment and reiterated each watch—forenoon, afternoon, both two-hour dog watches, and the night watch. Sleep would be rationed in four-hour stretches. Chores, or upkeep of the ship—its timbers, hardware, sails—these tasks would be constant.

“You,” Grady exclaimed, taking Georgie by the shoulder. “How 'bout this week we'll try ye out as the timekeeper, markin' every half hour by the bell, one ring for each? Yer sister and Miss Addie can help.” This perked Georgie up considerably. He ran to the bell to give it a ring. The rest of us dispersed, to chores, to rest, or to keep watch.

I made my way back to my cabin, needing some time alone. Besides taking my part in the inevitable washing down of the decks, chipping rust from the ironworks, coating them with red lead and white paint, pumping the bilge, and airing and repairing sails stored in the lazaret, there were my own personal tasks of another nature altogether. The first of these was to figure out how to open Father's safe and discover whatever clues it might hold that would help us locate Pru. I had a strong, inexplicable intuition that told me this was not only important, but imperative. I
had
to discover the combination!

Inside the cabin I climbed into my bunk and reached for a tablet of paper and pencil from the built-in shelf beside me. I flipped back the cover and chewed the pencil thoughtfully. The combination would be three numbers. The locking mechanism was circled in increments, from 1 to 39. I drew two vertical lines down the page, creating three columns. In the left column I wrote the number 1; in the middle column, 2; the right-hand column, 3. Then I drew a horizontal line below that first possible (though unlikely) combination. I would simply continue switching the number in the first column, increasing it each time by one. Then, I'd do the same thing with column two, and finally, column three.

Feeling quite smug at my clever systematic approach, I quickly filled thirty-nine rows and a page and a half, crossing out any combinations with duplicate numbers side by side: 1-2-3 . . .
2-2-3
. . . 3-2-3 . . . 4-2-3, and so on, until finally—39-2-3. Then I began the next group of numbers, altering just column two:
1-1-3
. . . 1-2-3 . . .
1-3-3
. . . 1-4-3 . . . all the way up to 1-39-3.

Five pages in, when I'd completed the third sequence of numbers, ending with: 1-2-39, a terrible thought occurred to me. Creating three columns of numbers, each beginning with
1
, would not be enough! Hitting upon
every
possible combination—such as 39-17-20—would require that I create three combinations beginning with
each
number from 1 to 39! Suddenly it was apparent that the variety of combinations was seemingly infinite. In frustration (and embarrassed at my initial foolish optimism), I grabbed hold of my futile scrawlings, tore them from the book, and crumpled them into a ball.

But wait.

I'd spent the time and there were, after all, five pages of combinations I could try and then eliminate. I might not discover what the combination was, but at least I would know what it
wasn't.
I stood, uncrumpled the pages, and smoothed them until the numbers were once more legible. Wrinkled pages in hand, I headed down the companionway toward the chart room, determined not to be discouraged.

As I approached the door and reached for the knob, something peculiar happened. As though recoiling from my touch, the door slowly and silently swung inward without so much as a creak or a whisper.

I hesitated for a moment, and, taking my cue from the door itself, proceeded noiselessly, like a shadow. Halfway in, barely breathing, I stopped short, shocked at what I saw.

Without a sound I retreated into the corridor and backed against the wall so as not to be seen. I turned my face to the right, affording me a view into the room while remaining somewhat out of sight.

Quaide squatted in front of the safe, his pants slipping just beneath the absurdly offensive crack of his backside. He inclined his ear toward the lock and spun the dial between chunky fingers, this way and that, this way and that. Then he abruptly stood, adjusted his trousers, and shrugged his wide, thickset shoulders. His fingers twitched, as though itching to do something.

Not wanting him to realize he'd been observed, I backed several yards down the narrow hallway, and as I did so the door eased itself shut. I took a deep breath, feigned a cough, then walked forward, shuffling my feet. The door opened just as I approached, and Quaide appeared, his face as slack and blank as usual, a rolled chart tucked beneath his arm.

“Cap'n needed a map,” he mumbled. His face registered no expression at all, not a shred of guilt or discomfort revealed in his hooded eyes.

“Really?” I asked through thin lips, pressing the pages of numbers against my chest. Had I not observed him tinkering with the safe, I might have believed that retrieving the map had been his only mission.

If Quaide noticed the ice beneath my words he didn't let on. “Yeah,” he said. “A map.” He ducked through the doorway and walked past.

I watched his hulking form retreat, his heavy boots thumping up the stairs and disappearing into the sunlight. I was left in the dim corridor, staring at the hatchway door swinging in his wake. What was he up to? A chill rippled through me as I called to mind his onshore meeting with the scar-faced scoundrel and the mysterious green-eyed man, their gesturing toward our ship, the memory of money changing hands, and Quaide's ongoing, thinly veiled contempt for me. None of it boded well.

A sound behind me made me jump.

“Good lord,” Marni said, placing a hand on my arm. My shoulders dropped and I exhaled loudly. She took me in with a penetrating glance. “You're as tightly wound as a spring. After your triumphant display of steely composure up there in the rigging I'd have thought nothing could fluster you.”

I turned to my friend and greatest supporter and took a deep breath. “Marni,” I said quietly, “there's something I need to tell you. Up until now I wasn't sure it was important, but . . .”

“Go on then,” she said. “But not here.” She glanced about. “Let's go to my stateroom.”

I followed her down the narrow hallway into her room. It was spacious compared to mine, and closely resembled our parlor back home. Fine oak paneling, detailed with carved, scrolled designs, a brass-and-crystal chandelier overhead. Oriental carpets in rich hues and furniture in the fabrics Mother so loved—brocades and velvets. Strange how Marni seemed as much a part of this space as Mother, the room embodying the strong, calming presence both of them evoked. Marni was right, as always. Having our conversation here in this sanctuary would be better.

Marni closed the door securely behind us. “Sit.” She looked at me closely. “It's Quaide, isn't it?”

Judging from my raised eyebrows, she continued. “Surely one can't help but notice the resentment he hauls around like an anchor. I know everyone's been leery about him from the start, but we'll get to that. There's more, am I right?”

I nodded. Bit my lower lip.

“All right,” she said kindly. “Out with it.”

I took a deep breath. Stared into my lap. “Something happened back in port,” I began. “In Boston.” She watched me steadily with those translucent eyes of hers.

“Yes?”

“We should've told you, Georgie and me, but . . .”

“You're telling me now. Go on.”

“When you and Addie and Walter went to the dry goods store, Georgie and I took a walk along the pier. Looking at ships and all the sights . . .”

“Nothing wrong in that.”

“Yes, but . . . well . . .”

She inclined her head just slightly and leaned forward in the chair, eyeing me steadily. She nodded for me to continue.

I swallowed once. Twice. “Well, a man—this horrible man—grabbed me, well, there were two men—they snatched each of us, me and Georgie, tried to drag us off! To kidnap us! Force us into duty aboard their ship!”

The color drained from her face. She sat perfectly still except for the tightening of her fingers around the carved lion's heads on the wooden arms of her chair. Her very large silence pressed in on me. To fill the void, my words tumbled out. “Dirty scoundrels, they were—the one that got me had a scar—a big one . . . like this . . .” I drew my finger diagonally across my face, chin to opposite cheekbone. “A red scarf around his head. I kicked! Bit! He threw me to the ground! It was the . . .” I stopped abruptly before the word
cap'n
rolled off my tongue. I realized I didn't want to bring the captain into it. But it was too late now.

Expressionless, Marni coaxed, “It was the . . . ?”

“Captain,” I said.

She sprang from the chair, her jade eyes turned to ice.

“No! No!” I corrected, waving my hands, trying to erase what I'd implied. “No, it was the cap'n who
rescued
us! Stepped in and pressed those vile characters to unhand Georgie and me!”

At this she eased into her seat, her back ramrod straight. Her steely gaze cut right through me. “Attempted kidnapping is a serious offense. He had a responsibility to report it to the authorities, regardless of whether or not they took it seriously.” She placed her elbows on her knees, rested her chin in her hands. Disappeared inside herself for a few moments. She continued softly, almost as though she'd forgotten I was there, reasoning it out. “Although he might have speculated that an investigation would ensue—which could take weeks, delaying our departure. Or, perhaps he did report it, without involving you and Georgie.” She sat up straight and dropped her hands. “I'll be asking him about this, you can be sure. But there's more, isn't there?”

I nodded, my head bobbing like a wobbling top. “Yes. The cap'n realized we couldn't—wouldn't . . .” I stuttered, shaking my head. “He realized we hadn't told you about it. And was kind not to . . .”

“Not to share information that he clearly knew I'd want to know?”

My heart sank. “It wasn't that, it was . . .”

“What else do I need to know?” she snapped.

“The other day—the day we set sail?”

“Yes . . .”

“Quaide said he had some last-minute business onshore.”

“Um-hmmm . . .”

“Well, I was up on the poop deck with my spyglass, watching people up close along the pier. One looked like Mother—well, not really, but anyway, the spyglass suddenly moved on its own until it came to focus on Quaide! I saw him talking to the one who tried to kidnap me, the one with the scar—to him and another man, a man with these green eyes . . .” I realized his eyes were not unlike hers at the moment—steely and uncompromising. I went on, words tumbling like waves. “He—Quaide—pointed to our ship. Then, the green-eyed man gave them each a pile of money. I watched him count it into their hands! Then Quaide left them and rejoined us. And the ship—the one the pirate tried to drag us to? I've spotted it on the horizon, sailing a similar course.”

Marni's lips were pulled taut. A fleeting, faraway look sailed across her face and she absently fingered the silver locket at her throat. “What else now? Put it all out there.”

“Just now, before you saw me in the companionway? I saw Quaide in the chart room fiddling with Father's safe! Kneeling there, trying to open it. The door to the chart room moved by itself, preventing me from being seen! He didn't notice me—this I'm sure of.” I was nearly breathless, my heart racing at the breadth of my confession. I waited.

“Well, let's look at this one piece at a time. In the first place, you didn't tell me of the kidnapping because you thought it was somehow your fault?”

“It
was
my fault, should have been more careful. I didn't want to let you down. I—”

“It wasn't your fault. Lucy?”

I looked up.

“It wasn't your fault. This sort of thing has occurred as long as there have been ships to sail, work to be done, money to be made. You were not responsible. But keeping it a secret was a mistake. Then, I suppose, as often happens, one omission leads to another.”

I nodded. “Yes . . .”

“Unfortunately, the second omission—this business onshore between Quaide and these men—is concerning in an altogether different way. But it confirms my instincts about the man.”

“But if you felt that way about Quaide, why did we hire him?”

Marni sat forward. She stared over my head at some distant spot, real or imagined, and her eyes narrowed. “I had a strong feeling about him,” she said. “I disliked him, as I know you do. But he felt integral to some bigger plan. My instinct told me he would be important to this quest in some way. And I've learned, through the years, to listen to my instincts.”