The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons by Barbara Mariconda Read Free Book Online Page B

perch at the highest point on deck and looked back at us. “Baaaaa.”
    I turned away from this distraction and put my scope to eye, hoping to catch Quaide in my lens again. But the peculiar energy that had directed the scope was gone. The sound of Annie’s excited chatter faded as I concentrated on the shore—this man, that fellow—no . . . no . . . I did manage to pinpoint the scoundrel in the red bandana, walking swiftly away on bowed legs, the green-eyed man beside him. I followed their progress in and out of the throngs, making their way toward the gangway of another ship. My eyes began to ache, the left from being pressed shut, the right from peering into the eyepiece. Sounds behind me finally drew my attention and I put down the lens.
    There was Quaide, moving seamlessly back into the rhythm of the work at hand. He never looked up, and made no sound. Unless one was particularly observant, he might never have been missed.
    The tugboat beside us sounded its horn in three honking blasts. Cap’n Adams called out above it, “All hands! All hands on deck!” I watched as the crew manned various stations. My job, along with Addie, was to keep Georgie and Annie safe and out of harm’s way. I did my part, with Georgie hankering to join the others and Annie fussing over her rambunctious little goat. This was not work suitable for a sea cap’n’s daughter, I thought resentfully. I followed, with keen interest, the way the seamen worked like parts of a well-oiled machine—lines being tied and untied, winches creaking and straining, the raising of the anchor, sails at the ready.
    â€œAll-a-taut,” the cap’n hollered. “All-a-taut, and ready to go!”
    The ship’s bell clanged, announcing our departure. As we navigated through the busy harbor with Cap’n Adams at the helm I made a vow—this would be the last time I stood by as a passive observer. A sailor I would become, like my father and his father before him. I was a Simmons, after all!
    The shorefront faded until it became a distant blur on the horizon. Grady, Quaide, Irish, and Coleman had climbed the ratlines to the trestletree platforms, and there, hauled, swayed, and hoisted her sails. With a whip and a snap, each sheet, in turn, caught the wind. “Steady on!” the cap’n shouted. “Steady on!” A slap and a jolt as still another sail swelled. Her masts and timbers creaked in cooperation. The sea tumbled and foamed as her bow cut through the waves, sending a brilliant torrent of ocean spray around the figurehead and bowsprit.
    I pulled my flute from my pocket. It hummed in my hands, as if trembling at the thrill of the moment. I put it to my lips and the tune Father had taught me cascaded into the sea air. A la dee dah dah . . . a la dee dah dee! In response, Father’s bell began to clang, and a crying gull swooped low overhead. The hints of magic bolstered my confidence, and, for a moment, all thoughts of family curses and litanies of worries were carried off with the wind. I imagined my aunt, being swept up in her arms, and then, the two of us piecing together the pieces of our family puzzle.
    I closed my eyes as the salty mist kissed my face. Aunt Pru, I said to myself, we’re on our way!

6
    T he first week at sea provided an education like none I’d experienced before: learning by doing, then doing some more. Never had I worked so hard, and slept so soundly, braced and bolstered by the sharp salt air in my lungs, the wind in my hair. I had little time to ruminate on worries—there was too much to be done!
    The difficult responsibilities we learned first, in order to ensure that when we hit the more challenging legs of our journey our crew would be fully prepared. And that meant learning to climb to the highest point of the rigging, the royal yard. Over one hundred feet up it was, and what with the bobbing and swaying of the ship, a challenge