Dedication
For Pamela Bramhall,
who has journeyed with Lucy
from the very beginning.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
COASTAL MAINE, 1906
There it was again—the sound of the ship’s bell. Though there was no ship, and no wind, it clanged, echoing across the rocks and out over Simmons Point.
Addie stepped through the front door onto the veranda, where I sat snuggled in one of the oak rockers facing out to sea. Buried in my book, I hummed a scrap of the old sea chantey Father had taught me. “A la dee dah dah, a la dee dah dee …”
“There ’tis—that accursed bell,” Addie exclaimed, pointing to the large brass toller Father had mounted against the wall beside the door. “Ringin’ of its own accord! Gives me the willies, I tell ye!”
She set a wicker picnic basket down beside the step. “If ye ask me, Miss Lucy, it’s too early in the season fer a boat ride, but who’m I to question the cap’n?”
A boat ride? And a picnic! I threw the crocheted blanket from my lap, dropped my copy of Treasure Island onto the chair, gathered my skirts, and bounded down the steps.
“Won’t be much of a picnic if ye leave behind the tea sandwiches,” Addie called.
I turned, grabbed the basket, and took off across the lawn.
“Your shawl, missy! You’ll need a shawl out there on the water! And one fer your mother as well!”
It was early April—the time of year when the coast of Maine is still mostly gray and brown, when a damp chill wraps itself around you and you think spring may never really come. But I pretended not to hear, the basket bumping heavily against my leg as I ran.
When I approached the garden, I slowed, out of breath and panting. Mother was tending her roses, clearing out the leaves that had cushioned them from the winter wind. When she saw me, she smiled, removed her apron, and hung it on the garden-shed hook. “I see Miss Addie told you Father’s surprise!”
“We’re going for a sail! Has Father already got the sloop in the water? Are we going all the way to Wiscasset? Can we—”
“Slow down, Lucille,” Mother said gently, adjusting her wide-brimmed hat. “Father has a plan, I’m sure. All we need to do is walk—walk—down to the slip.” She tweaked my chin and tousled my hair. “Here, darling, let me carry the basket; it’s bigger than you are.”
In no time we wove our way along the pine-edged path, across the craggy rocks, and down the hill to the place where Father tied the small sailboat.
“There they are,” he boomed, “my two best girls!”
He bowed, gesturing toward his shipshape little sloop, which bobbed against the small dock. Mother smiled with just one side of her mouth and winked, like she did whenever he teased. In a grand sweep, he took the basket, placed it on board, then wrapped his arms around her. I wiggled in between them, hating the hint of that left-out feeling that tugged at me whenever they were close like that. But, as always, they pulled me into their little circle. Mother kissed the top of my head, and Father squeezed me in a crushing hug.
And then, again, the ship’s bell back at the house tolled.
We climbed aboard and settled in. Father untied the sloop and we pushed away. With a practiced hand he deftly worked the lines, raising its sails, and in minutes the light wind was spiriting us along. Mother pulled me close and wrapped us both in a thick wool blanket, then turned back the red-and-white checked cloth Addie had used to wrap our luncheon. “Chicken salad!” I exclaimed. “My favorite!” I popped one, then another small triangle into my mouth. “Hmmm,” I said as I reached for a third.
“Slow down, sweet one,” Mother said.
“No! Eat hearty!” Father exclaimed, smiling as he swallowed his fourth petite pointy sandwich. “Out on the water a sailor needs sustenance!”
“Oh, Edward,” Mother said, tsking her tongue, “the things you teach her!”
“Oh, indeed! Lucy, shall we show Mother what else you’ve learned?” From his pocket he pulled a small flute of whalebone and hardwood, with nautical scenes carved around the finger holes. Years ago Father had crafted it aboard his ship, passing many a lonely evening. As the son of a seafaring family, he knew many chanteys from days of old. And now, so did I. He blew a cascade of notes, and I began:
We’ll back up our topsails and heave our vessel to,
Blow high! Blow low! And so sailed we.
For we have got some letters to be carried home by you,
A-sailing down all on the coasts of High Barbaree.
For broadside! For broadside! the saucy pirates cried—
Here I stood and raised a fist as I sang out,
Blow high! Blow low! And so sailed we.
The broadside that we showed them was to sink them in the tide!
A-sailing down all on the coasts of High Barbaree.
Mother gasped. “Sit down, Lucille! You’ll lose your footing!” But Father grinned, then blew the lilting melody with even more vigor. I waved my imaginary sword.
With cutlass and gun, oh, we fought for hours three.
Blow high! Blow low! And so sailed we.
The ship it was their coffin, and their grave it was the sea!
A-sailing down all on the coasts of High Barbaree.
Then he ended with the other tune, the one so old the words had been forgotten except for a snippet of the refrain. “A la dee dah dah, a la dee dah dee,” I hummed along on the wordless verses, then, as always, sang out on the la dee dah dees. Father blew the last plaintive note, tucked the flute back into his pocket, and applauded. A frown had crept across Mother’s face as she gazed across the water. “I don’t like those songs,” she said softly. “They remind me too much of your days at sea, Edward.”
It was at that very moment that the fog began to roll in, eerily, ghostlike, swirling around our little sloop in long, misty wisps. In minutes the blue sky paled, and the sky, fog, and water became one seamless, white sheet.
Father stood very still, staring off through his spyglass with one squinted eye.
Mother shifted in her seat, her body tense and her brow knitted. “Edward,” she called, “let’s turn back. I can barely make out the shore from the open sea.”
Father made a show of handing me his spyglass and flashed her a smile.
“It’s but a fog coming in with the warmer air. Typical April in Maine, my dear. The shore’s right there behind us. See the pines above the vapor?”
I hung the spyglass securely around my neck, then lifted it and peered through the lens. “Look, Mother,” I said. “Not only can you see the tips of the pines—you can see the roof of our house!”
She squinted, a doubtful expression on her face.
“I’ll bring her around, Johanna,” Father said, and with a few polished moves he adjusted the sail so that it caught the slight breeze.
“All right, mates,” he said lightly, “your job is to keep our castle in your sights while I take us in!”
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br /> He winked at me, and I glanced back toward our landmark. But the slate-covered turrets, and even the tops of the pines, had disappeared into the mist. Father followed my gaze, and a hint of a shadow crossed his face. Mother bit her bottom lip.
“We’ll be fine, Mother,” I said. After all, I reasoned, Father, a retired sea captain, had sailed huge ships across the open Atlantic. What was a little fog along the shore next to the storms he’d faced at sea?
Father turned and cocked his head.
“What is it, Edward?” Mother asked.
“Sh!” Father said. “I believe I hear a distress call....”
“But Edward!” Mother’s voice had a frantic edge. The sky was growing darker, an odd pea-green tinge to it, giving the water a threatening, steel-gray cast. The wind picked up, ruffling the ribbon on Mother’s hat and turning back the brim.
“Hold this line, Johanna,” Father said, handing her a coil of rope. “Just keep the boat steady.”
Mother held the rope with white knuckles.
“I’ll help,” I whispered, wrapping my hands around hers, as much to feel her close to me as to help steady the sloop, which had begun to pitch back and forth with the rising waves.
Father took us farther out, straining his eyes and leaning into the wind.
“What in the world?” he said, almost to himself.
That’s when I heard—faintly—a man’s voice calling out. In seconds it was swallowed up by the whoosh of a cresting wave. I heard it again, along with a yipping, howling sound.
“Edward,” my mother called, “turn around, please. It’s getting rough!”
“I hear someone calling for help,” Father said. “We can’t very well ignore him.”
“Help! Somebody help me!”
The first drops of rain pelted down in large, cold splats.
“For the love of God,” Father said softly. “Look over there.”
At first all that was visible was the outline of a small, dilapidated rowboat.
“Ahoy there,” Father called. “We’re coming around.”
“Help me, for God’s sake!” yelled the voice. “I’m sinking!”
“Stay calm, man,” Father called. “We’re coming.”
The water grew rough and I gripped the sides of the boat. Father maneuvered expertly, and in no time we were alongside the rowboat, which was rapidly taking on water.
A huge bear of a man was waving his arms, his ragged black beard and shoulder-length hair blowing about wildly. There was a large gash on his forehead. Blood streamed down his cheek and onto his dirty shirt. A small, tawny dog with a pushed-in face and curly tail jumped about, barking frantically.
“Shut up, you flea-bitten mongrel,” the man yelled, kicking the unfortunate beast with his filthy black boots.
“Oh, good Lord, what a brute,” gasped Mother.
“It’s all right, Johanna,” Father whispered. “We’ll only need to have him aboard for a short while.” He threw a heavy line over to the man’s boat.
“Grab hold, and pull us in closer.”
The man reached, stumbled, and fell forward. His boat dipped and bobbed precariously. Mother screamed, and the little dog began jumping and yapping all over again.
Father threw our life preserver toward the man. “Calm down and use the life buoy!” he shouted. The man stood unsteadily and, instead of grabbing the ring, flung himself toward us, overturning his boat. Both man and dog tumbled into the sea.
“Jesus H. Christ!”
I knew Father was concerned, for he never used the Lord’s name in vain. The brute splashed toward our boat and gripped the side. Mother and I screamed as our sloop lurched dangerously. Father, now lying on his belly, grabbed the man and pulled. A huge wave splashed over them, dragging the man under. He emerged, terrified, and broke from Father’s grasp.
“Don’t panic,” Father yelled. “Just take my hand!”
The man disappeared underwater again. This time he didn’t resurface. Only the dog was visible, paddling strenuously around the capsized boat. “No, Father!” I screamed, as he peeled off his topcoat.
“Edward, no!” Mother stood, reaching out for him, the boat rocking wildly.
“I can’t let the man drown!” Father yelled. “Johanna, just hold tight to that line!”
With that, Father dived into the sea.
“Oh God, oh my dear God!” Mother whispered, over and over again.
My eyes darted about, trying to fix Father in my sights. I saw him break the surface, gasping for air, his dark hair slick to his head. He had the man’s massive arm draped about his shoulders and he swam in a frog-like crawl back toward our boat.
“Freezing,” Mother whispered. “Dear God, Edward, you must be freezing!”
Finally, Father was at the edge of the stern. The dog paddled vigorously alongside them, his head bobbing just above the water. Mother reached over, still grasping the line. “Edward, darling, grab my hand,” she shouted.
Their hands touched, and for a moment I thought everything would be all right. But as Mother bent over, the brute grabbed the line. I saw it all in slow motion—the way the thick rope looked small in his massive hands as he yanked it toward him, the look of horror on Father’s face as Mother toppled over the side, the crazy angle of her body hitting the water, her skirts billowing out around her, her broad-brimmed hat disappearing in the dark-gray sea.
“Mother!” I screamed.
“I’ll get her, Lucy,” Father shouted.
I watched him struggle to free himself from the brute’s desperate grasp. A great flash of lightning ripped the sky in two. I screamed when I heard the whack of Father’s head against the side of our boat.
I don’t know why I jumped into the water. I only knew that that was where Mother and Father were.
It was so much colder than I ever dreamed, my skirts wrapping around me like icy fingers. I thrashed about, fighting the waves, which seemed intent on pulling me under. The salt stung my eyes and burned my nose, and despite how much I willed it to be so, I could neither see my parents nor stay afloat.
The last thing I remembered was the bottom of the boat swinging around toward me, and the dull thud as it hit me square in the forehead. For a moment the sky swirled madly above me, and finally even the sky was swallowed up by the icy, gray nothingness of the angry sea.
2
The feeling of being thrown about in the waves like a rag doll, gulping and choking on salt water was so vivid, and the terror of the underwater darkness so real, that it was some time before I realized that I was no longer, in fact, still there in the sea. It was that strange yipping, insistent and urgent, that seemed to draw me out of the darkness.
Slowly, slowly, I came to, gradually realizing that the tangle of cloth around my arms and legs was no longer my cold, wet skirts, but something dry and warm. Opening my eyes seemed an impossible task, so heavy were my eyelids. It took a great effort to open them, fighting to keep my eyes from rolling back in my head.
It was dark, but not the cold, inky blackness of the sea. A warm, soft darkness greeted me, and recognition melted over me like a salve. It was my very own room I lay in; the tangle of cloth around me, my very own bedclothes!
With difficulty I hoisted myself up on my elbows. I blinked in the dark, fighting the throbbing in my head.
It had been a dream then, after all—a terrible, bad dream! I closed my eyes to the memory of it, wincing at the images that crept into my brain. Mother, and then Father …
No … no.... I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head. I was home in my own bed, safe in our own house. The house creaked as if to reassure me, a familiar sound I’d never appreciated before.
But that other sound … that yipping. There was something familiar about it, too. I forced my eyes open again and turned toward the noise. At first, what appeared before me was a kaleidoscope of muted shapes and colors. I squinted harder and rubbed at my eyes. Slowly the jumbled images converged, and my eyes crossed in an effort to bring the scene
before me into focus.
A sound escaped my lips as I saw clearly for the first time. It was a little dog. A small, tawny dog with a blackish, pushed-in face; short, bowed legs; and a tail curled up like a pig’s. I fell back on the pillow and tried to control the racing of my heart. It was the dream again … the boat, the brutish man and his dog. How in the world could the pathetic pup be here in my room? My lips and mouth felt suddenly parched, and the room spun. Maybe I was delirious. Hallucinating. Perhaps I had lost my mind, maybe in the stupor of a fever.
But the yipping was real enough, although softer now. I closed my eyes and heard a rapid clicking noise. I realized it was the retreat of the animal, the sound of its little nails tapping along Mother’s polished wooden floors. Mother wouldn’t like that, not one bit.
But then, the clicking returned, followed by the sound of footsteps. I felt a cool hand on my forehead.
I looked up to find Addie, her white apron tied over her crisp blue dress.
“Oh, lass,” she whispered, stroking my face, the hint of her Irish brogue creeping into her voice as it did whenever she was excited. “There ye’ are, finally.” She turned and hurried toward the door.
“Mrs. Simmons,” she called, her voice urgent, “’tis time to come up here, ’tis! Miss Lucy is awake! Do come quickly!”
Her words caused a quake in the pit of my stomach. She was calling to Mother! A small smile spread across my face, and the tension I’d felt began to melt away. I was home safe in my bed, and Mother was coming to me. I closed my eyes, saving my strength for the sight of her.
I heard her feet on the stairs, heavy and fast, so unlike Mother’s usual dainty, graceful step. She was worried, of course, I reasoned, and thinking of nothing but of getting to me more quickly.
In seconds I felt her take my hand. I opened my eyes slowly, anticipating how I would drink in the sight of her.
First, the kaleidoscope, a great dark splotch spinning round before my eyes. I shook my head slightly and scrunched my eyes very hard, peering out beneath lowered brows.
I blinked several times and sat up as best I could. The image before me came into focus. I froze.
The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons Page 1
