Legends of the Ghost Pirates Page 3

  When I get to Sara’s house, I set my bike against the Maple tree near the driveway and go to the front door. I poke the door buzzer twice and almost immediately Mr. Banks opens it.

  “Well hello, Fisher, my man.” Mr. Banks says. Trying to be cool he holds up his palm waiting for me to slip him five. I pretend I don’t see his hand. “When are we going to go after some more of those fat walleyes up at our lake? I was up there last weekend and—”

  “Dad!” Sara interrupts as she pushes him aside. “Fisher doesn’t want to hear about the stupid walleye you caught.”

  “Maybe some other time, Fisher,” Mr. Banks says and gives a wink before he disappears behind the door.

  “Come on.” Sara quickly grabs my hand dragging me through the front door then through the kitchen. “We’ll be in the basement, Dad,” she calls out, opening a door just past the kitchen.

  In the basement, Mr. Banks has turned it into his rec room. Each wall is covered with dark wood paneling with several of his walleyes mounted and hanging. Along the far wall is a pinball machine with old fishing magazines stacked on top. But I also notice there’s a single bed made up in the corner and a few baskets of clothes that look like Sara’s things.

  We sit down in chairs around a green felt-covered poker table laying the logbook between us.

  “Why are we down here?” I ask.

  “My cousin is coming later this summer for a visit and she’ll be staying in our room with my older sister. I thought I might as well move down here now before she comes. Besides, my sister’s home and I don’t want her to see the logbook even though she’s too stupid to care. She never comes down here, so we’re safe.”

  With her index finger she points to one of the entries. “As best I can tell, this is where it all starts with the date July 1716.”

  “Whoa! 1716? That’s like way over two hundred years.” I look where she’s pointing, but it still looks like Chinese scratching to me. I shrug my shoulders.

  “Actually, it’s 262 years. It says something about a French ship spotted five points to the east,” she says.

  I take a closer look; maybe it says that, but I sure can’t tell.

  “I don’t know what five points to the east means, but later—” Sara continues as she flips forward two pages she’s bookmarked “—it explains how they boarded the French ship and took the ship’s tax money it had collected. I wouldn’t really call it a treasure; it’s more like a strong-box of coins. But, it said the money was something like 30,000 British pound sterling.”

  “That sounds like a lot of money. How much is a British pound?”

  I grab the logbook from Sara to have a look for myself, but she quickly grabs it back. “Would you stop that? There’s more.” She carefully turns to the next page. “Here it explains they’ve hidden it somewhere on Damariscove Island ‘under the old man’s nose.’ ”

  “Under the old man’s nose? What does that mean?” I ask.

  Then it hits me. “Sara, do you know what this means? 30,000 pounds sterling; I don’t know what that is, but I think we’re gonna be rich!”

  “Whoa, hold on,” she says. “We’re not even sure this is a real logbook. For all we know it could be something entirely made up. Maybe for a summer play or something.”

  “Why would anyone make something like that up then write out all these entries,” I say.

  “Okay, let’s just say it is real,” Sara says with a serious look. “What are the chances that it’s still there? And it’s on Damariscove Island; do you even know where that is? And how would we get there?”

  I haven’t heard that last part she said because I’m thinking about all the money. When I turn sixteen I could buy the coolest car; a jet black Trans-am with the big V-8 engine along with a custom muffler to make it sound cool. The best part, though, it would have to have a stereo system that can blow the doors off.

  “Fisher!” I snap my head over toward her. “Did you even hear what I said? Do you even know where Damariscove Island is?”

  “Not really, but we can easily find it on a chart. I have a few charts on the sailboat we can look at. Tomorrow we can meet at the boat and see if we can find it.” My mind is still spinning daydreaming about being rich.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Sara says. “Why don’t we meet at the library because we can look through a Maine atlas and find the island, and maybe we can learn more about Blarney Bart.”

  Ugh…the library; more boring books. But she’s probably right. We should find more out about this pirate before doing anything else. It could be just some elaborate joke. “Okay. See you there about nine?” I stand up to leave, but before I go she grabs hold of my hands and pulls me in for a kiss.

  After a minute or so I break away and begin to head for the stairs. When I’m at the top of the stairs she calls up to me, “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you, my dad said it’s okay for me to go with you and Mr. Plankinton on your sailing trip. It should be fun.”

  “That’s great,” I say, and I give her a little wave from the top of the stairs.

  The next morning at the breakfast table, I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open. I wasn’t able to fall asleep for a long time last night because I was imagining myself driving past my friends in my new Trans-Am. It must have been pretty late when I finally fell asleep.

  My dad’s drinking a cup of black coffee while flipping through the morning Portland Press Harold. Wearing his white short-sleeve button down and a dark blue tie, he’s ready for work. “Unbelievable,” he says shaking his head. “The price of gas is skyrocketing to eighty-six cents a gallon. I need to be Rockefeller to fill up my tank.”

  “Dad,” I say. “How much is a British pound sterling?”

  He slowly lowers a corner of the paper and looks at me over the top of his glasses. “A sterling? You mean a pound? I don’t really know, we’d have to ask at the bank. If I had to guess, one pound is about equal to two dollars. Why do you want to know?”

  “No reason. They always talk about the pound on the news, so I was just wondering how much it is.” He keeps looking at me in a funny way.

  “Since when do you watch the news?” he asks as he slowly takes a sip of his coffee.

  I shrug, and he goes back to his paper. Grabbing a pen that’s laying on the table, I quickly scribble $30,000 on my napkin times two dollars. That’s pretty easy math. I circle the final number. Whoa! $60,000. That’s so much money. Then another thought hits me; maybe rare gold coins are worth even more—like millions! I grab the table so I don’t fall out of my chair.

  “What are you going to do with yourself today?” My dad asks from behind the paper. I quickly scribble out my math.

  “I need to get the sailboat ready for our trip.”

  Again, he peels back a corner of the paper, “That’s two weeks away. I’m glad to see you’re taking the responsibility to get things ready for Mr. Plankinton now rather than waiting for the last minute.” He gives me a slight nod and smiles before reading his paper again.

  I look at the clock on the kitchen wall. It’s too early to meet Sara at the library, but I’m too anxious to sit around here any longer. I might as well head over there and wait.

  *

  A little later after a short bike ride, I’m sitting alone at a long table in the library. There aren’t too many people in here this hour of the morning, just a few adults browsing for books. I feel a little funny because I don’t have anything in front of me; no books or atlas or even a pen and paper. I’m just sitting here. Eventually, I stand up and have a look around to see if I can find anything on my own.

  At the front desk a librarian is checking-in a pile of books. But she looks out of place in a library; her gray hair is all the way down to the small of her back that’s knotted at the end, and her nose is a bit crooked like she might have run into something a long time ago. When she looks up from her stack of books she smiles at me and I notice one of her front teeth is shorter than the other. The weird thing is, most women around here in th
e summer would probably be wearing some kind of a summer dress, but not her, she’s wearing all black; a black top with black slacks.

  “Help wit’ that ye be seeking, young Fisher?” she asks.

  “How’d you know my name?” I say, startled. Why is she talking so weird?

  With a quick glance at me over her wire-rimmed glasses, she doesn’t answer and keeps working through her stack of books.

  “I know whar everythin’ be located. Let me show ye th’ way.”

  Huh? She’s Coo-Coo. I bet she won’t know, so maybe if I ask she’ll leave me alone. “Do you have anything about Blarney Bart? He was a pirate—”

  She cuts me off. “I be knowin’ who he was.” She raises her right eyebrow. “Ye shall not be findin’ anythin’ on t’ shelfs. Follow me.” She motions me to come around the counter, so reluctantly I do as I’m told.

  In the back room there’s a door which she opens with a long key. It’s completely dark when she sticks her arm around the corner flipping a light switch. The yellow flickering light doesn’t do much to make me want to follow her. When I step through the door I can see she’s almost at the bottom of a stairwell to what must be the basement and another door. The lower door also requires a key.

  She leads me through the lower door which opens up into a large room with many tall shelves stacked with old boxes and books covered in dust. In this part of the basement it looks as though we’re the first people down here in several years. The bare light-bulbs have a layer of cobwebs which gives kind of a murky glow to everything. As she slides a dust covered box off a shelf, she says, “Be searchin’ fer—” she pauses and places a single finger at the side of her nose like it’s supposed to mean something to me. “—recent history?”

  “Recent history? What does that mean? He was a pirate back in 1716. I just want to learn something about him.”

  “Ah…” she says looking disappointed then slides the box back onto the shelf. “Over thar ye shall be wishin’ to look through ‘tis book.” On the other side of the isle she pulls a single book off the shelves and opens it somewhere in the middle, flipping several pages until she finds what she’s looking for. “Thar be wee in t’ history books, there be fer well-nigh Blarney Bart; fer only ‘tis lone page.” She hands the open book to me.

  “But—what’s that over there?” I point to the box she’d pulled out a moment before.

  “Nothin’,” she says, her eyes narrowing. “Take ‘tis book. Ye can study at yar dwelling house. Yes,” she says with a forced smile closing the book shut still in my hands. Her mood has suddenly gone cold.

  “But…” is all I manage to say when suddenly she’s shut off the lights and is standing by the open door to the stairwell. I follow her back up the stairs and out into the open library where I notice Sara’s near the big front doors.

  “Over here,” I call to Sara coming around the back of the counter.

  “What were you doing back there?” she asks.

  “That librarian was showing me this book about Blarney Bart.” I start to point to the librarian.

  “What librarian?” Sara asks looking around. “I just saw Mrs Shelly putting some books away in the Mystery section. She’s the only one who works in the mornings.”

  I’m looking back but she’s gone. “She must’ve stepped into the back room. Well, whoever she was she gave me this to look at.” I hand the book to Sara as I look behind me for the librarian.

  Sara looks at me with a puzzled expression then glances quickly at the book in her hands before giving it back. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay, Fisher?”

  “I swear she was right there a second ago.”

  “Okay. I believe you,” Sara says. “Seeing as you found a book already, I have to run. I had forgotten I’ve got the breakfast shift this morning. See you around noon?”

  “Yeah. Sure,” I say, still uncertain about what just happened. Sara’s quickly out the front door and I do the same. Once I’m outside, I open the book. I realize there’s a note-card tapped to the inside of the cover. ‘Carefully read page 183 for the knowledge you seek.’ Slowly I pull it off and examine it closer turning it over and over in my hands.

  Chapter 4

  More Books

  While I’m waiting for Sara on the restaurant deck, I read the book the librarian gave me for a second time.

  “Blarney Bart, as he was known, sailed the coast of the Province of Massachusetts Bay, now Maine, in the early1700s. He started out his career as captain of a merchant coastal schooner delivering various product of the time, to many of the New England ports. It is believed that he began his piracy when a French vessel raided his schooner’s money calling it a tax. Blarney Bart was so outraged he then ordered his boat to chase the French vessel in the darkness of night where he then recaptured the money originally taken from them…”

  Blah, blah blah… We already know that from the logbook entries. As far as pirates go, the whole thing doesn’t seem all that exciting. Big deal; he stole back some money that was taken from him. He sounds more like Robin Hood than a pirate. Where’s the good stuff about the treasure and all the other vessels they stole money from? All it says after the dull stuff is, “Legend has it the money was buried on one of the many islands of the area, yet no one really knows for sure.”

  I set the book down on the table and look over at the take-out window. Sara should be done soon. Suddenly, a woman who’s taking her dirty paper plate and broken up lobster shells to the trash barrel, backs into my table knocking the book to the ground. She’s an older woman wearing a Trent Harbor Maine sweat shirt and long denim skirt with white sandals. No one from around here would wear that.

  “Oh dear,” she says looking at the book lying on the ground. “I’ve lost your place.” She bends down to pick it up.

  “It’s all right, Ma’am,” I grumble.

  When she sets the book back on the table she gives me an odd wink then smiles as she reopens the book. After she walks away I glance at it and can see she wasn’t even close to the page I was on. Tourists! But there’s something about it that catches my eye. It’s a poem or a rhyme.

  “Taking riches not of their own

  Blarney Bart chased as midnight shown

  The French feared the cougars head

  Soon the thieves would be dead”

  What in the world? And it doesn’t even make any sense. What’s the deal with the cougars head? There’s nothing else on the page explaining what the poem’s about. This is all getting a little strange; the weirdo librarian, and now this passage in the book just shows up.

  But the stuff in the book seems to follow the entries Sara had found in the logbook. So there’s still a good possibility there’s buried money out there. And best of all, we have the logbook telling us exactly where to look; Damariscove Island.

  Still, I wish there was more information about this Blarney Bart guy. It seems like a pirate around here should have more stories about him. While I’m thinking about this, I flip through more of the book, but come up short.

  I look at my watch and see it’s now 11:30 a.m. Sara’s shift should be over in about a half hour. There’s a tapping on my shoulder and when I turn around I see Sara’s smiling face. I notice she isn’t wearing her work apron. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s kind of slow today, so Mrs. Fennel said I could punch out early. So here I am.”

  I notice she’s got another book under her arm. “What’s that,” I say pointing to it.

  “Just one more book I found at the library while you were goofing around in the basement. I didn’t have time to look through it yet, so I thought we could look at it together.”

  “I hope there’s more in there than the book I was given. But there’s something really strange going on,” I say pointing to her to sit down.

  Shaking her head, she says, “No, not here. If a crowd shows up, I don’t want Mrs. Fennel changing her mind and make me work again. It’s a nice day; how about we go down to the pier?”

 
“Sure,” I answer. The pier is just at the edge of town where many of the working lobster boats offload their catch. This time of day it’s usually quiet because the lobstermen are still out tending to their traps.

  The walk is short, and when we arrive I point to a green painted bench just off the pier. Later in the afternoons, the men usually sit around it talking and telling stories, but at the moment no one’s here. We have a seat and don’t say anything for a moment while we look out at the inner harbor. The bright sun is warm, but it’s not too bad because there’s a cool sea breeze starting to push in off the water. The wind blows Sara’s long hair around before she quickly wraps it in a ponytail.

  I’m about to show her the poem in the book when a dark green Ford pickup pulls alongside the pier. On the door of the pickup in red letters it says, Emery’s Lobster Pound. Sitting behind the wheel is a short older man with white military cropped hair and a cigar hanging out of his mouth. It’s Gus Emery; he never smokes cigars, only chews them. With a scowl on his face he scrutinizes over us sitting on the bench. Sara gives him a slight wave and a weak smile.

  “What are you kids doing sitting on that bench?” he barks at us. “It’s for the working men. This is private property. Now get the hell out of here.”

  The look on Sara’s face quickly changes to anger as she stands up and says, “Mr. Emery…”

  I grab her hand. “Sara, we can just sit over there by that tree,” I say quietly while pointing to a large maple up on shore.

  “Mr. Emery …what!” he says challenging her as he throws the wet cigar stub to the ground.

  “Nothing,” Sara says barely above a whisper. “What a grumpy old man.”

  When we’re sitting under the maple, Sara opens the book and starts paging through it. While she’s doing that, I watch a lobster boat pull up alongside the pier, and the man tosses a dock-line to Mr. Emery. She’s still flipping through the pages as the lobsterman begins to offload his catch into the back of Mr. Emery’s truck. I look down at her book as her finger traces down the page and stops.