The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (8 page)

12

“F
ile the manifest 'n' we're set to sail,” Grady called, pointing toward the
Lucy P
. He jutted his long narrow chin in my direction. “Since the ship's christened fer ye, ye should be the one t' sign. Harbormaster's office is right over there.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Take 'er over,” Grady said, giving Seamus a poke.

Seamus grinned. “Let's go then, darlin'.”

I glanced at Aunt Pru. “Come with us?” I asked. Pru and I followed Seamus, our ship's documentation in hand. The harbormaster's bungalow, listing dramatically in the face of a century of buffeting westerly winds, was inconspicuously tucked at the very end of the pier. We pushed open the creaky door and entered a small, sun-drenched space, framed in windows with views of the water on three sides. The walls below and between were lined with shelves full of thick leather-bound volumes. A bear of a man, with the ruddy complexion of an Irish seaman, sat behind a tall desk covered with papers, several open ledgers splayed across the top.

“How can I help ye's?” he boomed, his white bushy brows dancing above blue eyes. A headful of white curls poked haphazardly from beneath his navy-blue woolen cap. Above one ear, a pencil was speared into his nest of wiry hair. He chewed on a fruitwood pipe, waving us forward with a large freckled hand. As he did, he knocked a precarious pile of paperwork onto the floor. The pages billowed and flew in all directions. We scrambled to collect the mess.

“Oh, sweet Lord, this is just grand,” he bellowed, shaking his head, heaving himself from his chair, lumbering around the desk to collect his documents. “So, what is it ye's need?”

“To file our manifest,” Pru began, “for the
Lucy P. Simmons
.”

“Ah yes,” he said. “Unusual vessel, fer sure.” He shoved the papers into a pile, drew a thick volume from the shelf, plopped it on top, and opened it. “Right there's where ye sign. Then I give it me stamp—how's that then?”

I stared at the pages of surprisingly neat columns.
Name of Vessel. Date. Port of Embarcation. Port of Debarkation. Crew—Names in Full. Passengers. Cargo.
Pru began to fill in the blanks in her distinctive hand. An idea began to take root. “How long have these records been kept?” I asked.

The harbormaster laughed. “Long as ships've been lost off the western shore—which means darn near fer'ever.”

“Can I look at some of the old ones?” I ventured.

“As ye like.”

I could feel the prickle of Pru's attention, which heightened my own sense of excitement. Each volume, arranged in chronological order, had the dates embossed in gold on the spine. When would my great-grandmother have hauled the treasure to the mainland? I did some quick calculations, pulled out a century-old log, and ran my finger along the columns of passengers. “Who're ye seekin'?” Seamus whispered, his chin thrust over my shoulder, cheek nearly touching mine.

“An O'Malley,” I said. “My great-grandmother, Molly.”

“So, ye've O'Malley blood, have ye? Bein' seafarin' women I should've figured as much.”

While Pru did the necessary filing, I pored over page after page. One O'Malley, then another appeared, but not Molly. Just as I was about to give up I spotted it—O'Malley, Molly S. She'd chartered a ship called the
Buccaneer
, an English vessel departing for Ballyvaughan before crossing to America. In fact, it was the sole entry I saw listing Ballyvaughan as a port of debarkation. Molly was the only passenger, in fact, with a crew of six men, their names listed in the same spidery script. Under cargo, a vague entry—ten sealed crates containing personal items and furnishings.

“That's it . . . ,” I whispered. “I wish I could . . .”

Seamus mouthed, “Have it?” He smiled devil­ishly, dimples marking his mirth. He sniffed several times, glanced over his shoulder, inhaled . . . “Ahh . . . ahhh . . . ahhhh . . . CHOO!” At the explosion of his fabricated sneeze, he ripped the page from the book in one swift tear, no one but the two of us the wiser. His timing was impeccable. My mouth dropped at his audacity. He quickly folded the page and tucked it into my hand.

“Finished!” Pru announced, after having drawn out the process, engaging the old salt in playful conversation. She turned and I nodded ever so slightly. “We'll be on our way then,” she announced.

“Have yerselves a safe crossin',” he called. I quickly shoved the ledger back in its place.

“Will do,” I responded, clamoring for the door, Pru and Seamus at my heels.

“What did you find?” Pru gasped.

“Show 'er,” Seamus boasted. I sheepishly drew the pilfered page from my pocket.

Pru's eyebrows shot up. “Oh my,” she said, her look of shock quickly replaced by an admiring gaze. She took the sheet, sharp eyes devouring the text. “There's something here,” she said. “I'm sure of it.” She handed it back to me. “Put it in a safe place—once we're sailing we'll have a closer look.”

By the time we returned Walter and Grady had the
Lucy P
. prepared to go. “She's shipshape and Bristol fashion, all standing and ready to launch!” Grady called.

Looking out to sea, I wondered what had become of the black ship but convinced myself that Oonagh's insistence we depart on this particular day boded well. I quickly hid the manifest of the
Buccaneer
in my cabin, beneath the floorboard where the collection of documents and clues were stashed, then headed back up on deck.

A feeling of excitement surrounded the
Lucy P. Simmons
, her sails set, rigging neat. Pugsley scampered happily about, sniffing out familiar salty smells. Miss Oonagh resembled a scrappy seabird, the wind flipping her white hair like the ruffled feathers of a hunkered-down gull. Her expression was one of great anticipation—it was easy to see where Grady had inherited his love of the ocean. Seamus, too, looked especially eager, having changed into brand-new oilskins, a handsome leather ditty bag in hand.

Old Peader was another story. Feeling claustrophobic in his cabin below, he'd made his way back up, reluctantly taking his place beside Oonagh. “Got the willies down there,” he whispered. “Dark. Dank. Full o' strange creaks and groans. Thought I saw somethin' lurkin' in the shadows, I did.” His gnarled arthritic fingers clenched and unclenched the rail. Rosie positioned herself next to him like a bulwark.

“Just yer imagination runnin' away with ye,” Seamus replied gently, patting the old man on the arm.

“A rat from the bilge is what ye saw,” Oonagh cackled. “A great big rat! I sees 'im meself in me head!” She tapped her temple with a bony finger.

“Stop talkin' nonsense! 'Twas no rat I saw,” Old Peader insisted. Seamus rolled his eyes. Between Old Peader's fears and Oonagh's visions, it promised to be an interesting crossing.

And then there was Marni standing beside Grady, awaiting his next direction. Not a word had been uttered about the sealskin cloak. I found myself staring at her travel chest as Walter stowed it, wondering if she'd placed the cape inside. Had she had it all along? Or could it be that she'd retrieved it here on Clare Island and now her urge to return to the sea was all-consuming? These thoughts gave way to another. The book I'd found with Old Peader's things—
Irish Myths and Legends
, with the information about merrows underlined. Was there a connection between the fire that had destroyed Old Peader's house and the appearance of Marni's cape? I tried to imagine a young Peader, spying Marni, cloaked in sealskin, sunning herself on the rocky shore . . . Peader, mesmerized and love struck, creeping toward her, stealing away her cape, forcing her to stay on land. It seemed so unlikely—almost comical, and yet . . .

The winch groaned and strained, hauling up anchor. The plan was to set sail from the west of Clare Island into the North Atlantic and head due south, cutting a wide swath around the band of rocky islands off the coast of Clifden and the Aran Islands, just outside Galway Bay. At most, a half day's sail.

The
Lucy P. Simmons
danced over the waves west of the mainland, graceful and swift, her bowsprit pointing the way. I was quickly seduced by the brilliance of sea and sky, the bite of salty air, and the calling of raucous seabirds. But the need to carefully study the manifest tugged at me. If only I could slip away, determine how the information about the
Buccaneer
might be helpful. . . . Leaning against the mainmast, arms hugging my knees, I closed my eyes and tipped my face to the wind, imaging the spidery script, the names of seafarers, long dead.

“Penny fer yer thoughts.”

My eyes fluttered open to find Seamus sitting beside me. In the sunlight his eyes shone brilliant blue, flecked with hazel, framed with long lashes. His tangle of unruly curls backlit by the sun created a halo-like shimmer—this in sharp contrast to the mischief that still tickled his face. “No thoughts at all,” I lied.

“Yer Walter's quite the sailor,” Seamus said, squinting up into the rigging, where Walter straddled one of the yardarms.

Something about his turn of phrase—“yer Walter”—made me feel quite mature. Was he “my Walter,” I wondered? And if so, what did that mean?

“Ah, I see the thoughts runnin' 'cross yer lovely face now, I do,” Seamus proclaimed. “Ye cain't deny it!” He traced his index finger from my left cheek to my right, gently scaling across the bridge of my nose. I froze for a moment, then looked away to hide the blush in the wake of his touch.

“So, is he yer beau then, is what I'm tryin' t' figure?”

I opened my mouth and shut it again. Shrugged.

A smile tweaked the edges of his mouth as he pulled a small block of wood and carving knife from his pocket. He turned the whittled hunk this way and that and gazed my way before beginning to carve. His concentration allowed me time to study him, unobserved. I wondered about his home, his family—he'd never mentioned them at all. As outgoing as he was, there was something secretive about him. Something he camouflaged with charm and a quick wit.

“Nothing better to do than whittle the day away?”

Seamus and I looked up. Walter stood over us, frowning at Seamus. “Thought you wanted to be a sailor?”

I sprang to my feet. “We were just talking. . . .”

Walter's face held an expression I couldn't name, but didn't like.

“Stop yer yappin', all of ye's,” Grady yelled. “We got us a ship t' sail!”

I took one last look at the diminishing coast of Clare Island before getting back to the tasks at hand—the tasks that all the Simmonses were born to do, and many had died doing. But, for the moment, it appeared they didn't need my help. Pru, Walter, and Marni were working as a practiced team, and Grady was busy coaching Seamus. Before anyone noticed, I slipped into the companionway and down the stairs toward my cabin. I hurried along the narrow, dark corridor, my hands nearly twitching with anticipation at the hidden clues the
Buccaneer
manifest might reveal.

When I approached the portal, I hesitated. The door was slightly ajar. I placed my hand on the knob. Instead of easing it open I tipped my head and peeked through the gap. “What do you think you're doing?” I cried, throwing back the door.

The scrappy pirate jumped to his feet, all of our notes and clues spread on the floor about him. He lunged toward me, a sinister sneer emphasizing the diagonal scar slashed across his cheek.

I turned and ran through the narrow corridor. “Walter!” I screamed, sounding the alarm. “Grady!”

The stowaway grabbed me by the wrist, yanking me back toward my cabin. I writhed against his steely grasp—it was just like it'd been on the docks of Boston, when he'd tried to kidnap Georgie and me. “Ain't nobody gonna hear ye down here,” he snarled, clamping a filthy hand over my mouth. Kicking and stomping, I slammed my foot into his ankle. I scratched and bit like a savage, finally managing to knee him in the groin. In the split second he recoiled, I twisted free. He was on my heels in an instant, spewing curses. I leaped toward the companionway stairs. Slash dived toward me, missing me by a hair, landing on his belly with a
whoomph!
I took the steps two at a time, burst through the hatchway.

“Slash,” I tried to scream. “Slash!”

Alarmed, Walter rushed toward me. “Lucy, what is it?”

Before I could answer, Slash crashed through the door behind me. Walter threw a punch, bloodying the pirate's nose, then took another wild swing and missed, throwing himself off balance and onto his backside. Seamus attempted to throttle the interloper, toppling both of them to the ground. Eyes wild, Pru grabbed an oar from the lifeboat, wielding it like a club. Pugsley and Rosie entered the fray, snarling, teeth flashing. Grady pulled me to the wheel. “Steer 'er steady,” he growled as he drew a long, fierce knife from a strap on his ankle.

Boom!

The gunshot brought the brawl to a halt. Slash rose, holding the pistol over his head, smoke curling around its blunt nose. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air. “Get back,” Slash warned, “or I'll blow ye's all t' smithereens!”

I looked to Walter clenching his bloodied fist. Seamus sprawled on the deck. The pirate wiped his nose with his hand, spit blood from the side of his mouth. Pru gripped the oar, guarding Old Peader, who stood with eyes closed and fingers jammed in his ears.

“That's better,” Slash hissed.

Suddenly Grady sprang from behind a pile of crates and wrenched back the brute's arm, whipping the blade within a hair's width of his throat. “Drop the gun!” Grady's knife glinted in the sunlight as it pressed against his jugular. Slash drew his long, skinny neck as far back as possible, teeth clenched, his beady eyes rolling around in his skull like a pair of bloodshot marbles. He squirmed like a worm on a hook and fired the gun in the air.