Legends of the Ghost Pirates (3 page)

After a quick look around the kitchen we move into
the living room. The only thing left is a bad painting of a bird on
the wall.

“There's not much here,” I say. “Let's get out of
here and go hang out in town.”

Sara scrunches her face. “I don't want to go back to
town. We just came from there and it was too crowded with
tourists.”

“You're right,” I say.

Sara pushes open another door just off to the side.
“Let's just have a look in one more room.”

Why not. We've got nothing better to do, so I follow
her into the next room.

It's a little darker in here because the walls are
stained wood paneling. Along two of the walls are bookcases filled
with many old books that look like they haven't been pulled off the
shelves in twenty years. But I do like books; comic books, that is.
“I doubt there's anything good to read.”

“Only one way to find out,” Sara says.

I start looking on one end of the shelves while Sara
begins looking through some of the others. Suddenly I sneeze. The
dust is thick. I carefully brush some of the books, trying not to
breathe in any more dust, so I can read the titles. After a few, I
stop. There doesn't seem to be anything interesting. It all seems
old and boring. I notice Sara's carefully pulled out a single book.
It's brown and seems to be larger than the rest, but what I
actually notice is it seems to be very old. It’s so old it looks
like it could crumble if she's not careful.

“What'd you find?” I ask.

“I'm not sure. There's nothing on the cover.” She
sets it down slowly on the desk and turns on the overhead lamp. A
yellowish light fills just a small area around the book. Carefully,
she opens the book to the first page. The pages are mostly dark tan
and look like a dry maple leaf. I move closer and take a look over
Sara's shoulders.

“It's hand written,” Sara says, “and it's pretty
hard to read.”

There's only two lines on the first page. “Can you
tell what it says?” I ask.

Carefully without touching the page she reads, “Log
of Captain Bartholomew Bonney.”

“Whoa! This is an old logbook from some sailing
ship. That's cool!” I say. I try to grab the book from Sara, but
she pushes my hand away.

“I wonder how old it is,” She says.

“Well turn the page and find out.”

The next page is even harder to read because the
whole page is filled with hand written notes that must be entries.
I think there’re dates written on the sides, but I can't tell for
certain; the ink's faded and smudged. There's something in the back
of my mind that feels like a tickle, but I can't figure out what it
is. Something about the name. “Bartholomew Bonney? What is it about
that name?”

Sara says, “I was wondering the same thing.” We both
think about that for a moment while Sara carefully turns the page.
It's another page filled with hand written entries that are almost
impossible to read.

Quickly taking a few steps back Sara gasps and puts
her hands to her mouth. “Bartholomew Bonney, wasn't he also known
as Blarney Bart?”

My eyes go wide and I move in closer to read the
name in the book. “It can't be—can it? Blarney Bart—the
pirate!”

Chapter 2

Logbook

We’re
both standing over the
logbook, almost afraid to touch it, reading and rereading the name
Bartholomew Bonney, also known as Blarney Bart the Irish pirate of
the Massachusetts Bay Territory, which is now Maine. Finally, in a
soft voice I say, “This is so cool. And nobody knows it's
here.”

“We should tell Grandpa Woodridge's cousin, Martha.
She'll want to know.”

I reach around her and close the book. “No. We found
it, it's ours.”

Sara shakes her head looking at the closed logbook
on the desk. “I don't know, Fisher. Somehow that seems
dishonest.”

I roll my eyes; girls. “It's not dishonest. She said
we are welcome to anything we find.” I carefully pick it up in my
hands and feel its weight. It's crazy to think this is probably
more than two hundred years old.

Thinking about it, finally I say, “I'll make a deal
with you. Why don't we take this home so we can look through it?
Then when we're done we'll give it back. But really, it's ours fair
and square.”

“I guess that's okay.” Sara gives in but doesn't
actually sound too convinced.

I look around at the rest of the books until I find
what I'm looking for. It's a book slightly bigger than the logbook,
and I place it on top.

Sara shakes her head. “Why?”

“It's to cover up the logbook so no one asks any
questions.”

We’re about to leave through the front door when
Grandpa Woodridge's cousin pokes her head out from the kitchen
door. “What'd you two kids find? Anything good?”

“Just a couple of old books,” I say and quickly hold
them up for her to see.

“Books, huh? I don't do too much reading myself.
Have fun.” She gives us a bored wave and disappears back into the
kitchen. She's probably just happy that's two less books she'll
have to remove from the house.

* * *

After a short ride on our bikes, we stop at Well’s
Park which is close to the water’s edge. We sit at the last picnic
table not being used, so we can have a closer look at the logbook.
With the book lying flat on the table, I open it up to about the
second or third page. There're a lot of entries, and the penmanship
in old ink makes it almost impossible to read. In fact, most of it
looks like chicken scratching to me. Sitting next to me, Sara looks
on as I carefully turn the brittle pages. It doesn't look much more
than endless scribbles that I can't read. After a while, giving up,
I close it.

Sara pulls the book closer to her, and says, “You
mind if I take it home and have a look at it? Maybe I'll be able to
find something interesting.”

“Sure. You figured out last summer the monkeys were
trying to talk to us with sign language; maybe you'll find out
something cool about the pirates.”

The weirdest thing happened to us a while ago. My
tent-mate Hingy and I were camping in the woods when some monkeys
found us. They were doing all kinds of crazy things with their
hands, and it was Sara who figured out they were trying to talk to
us by using sign language. So she might be able to figure out the
logbook entries too.

We sit for a moment with the book between us just
watching the ocean. Finally she says, “So when are you taking Mr.
Plankinton on that sailing trip?”

“In two weeks from,” I reply. I've got the world’s
greatest summer job. I take care of a little sailboat, called the
Sticky Wicket
which is about twenty-one feet long, for a man
named Mr. Plankinton. He's usually only around on the weekends, so
I keep it clean and ready to sail. If there are any repairs that
need to be made I take care of that too. You see, Mr. P. didn't
know how to sail when he bought it. He just purchased it because he
liked the way it looked, and besides, he's got a lot of money so it
was no big deal for him. I've also been teaching him to sail. It's
a great job for a fourteen-year-old.

In two weeks he wants to try a week long sailing
trip, so I thought we'd try sailing to Hunter's Island. It's really
the only place I know how to get to by sailboat because it's where
I hid out for the summer...with Mr. P.'s sailboat.

I think for a moment. “You know, I really could use
another crew member. Mr. P.'s still pretty new at sailing and isn't
gonna be much help. Wanna come along? You could be the head cook
and cleaner too.”

Before I realize what's happening, Sara has a firm
grip on my earlobe. With a giggle she says, “Do you really think I
want to be the head cook and cleaner, Fisher Shoemaker?”

“You'd do anything just to be with me,” I say with a
smirk.

“Guess again!” Sara says letting go of my ear but
suddenly attacks me with tickles to my side.

I laugh so hard I fall off the picnic bench. “Stop
it! You can do anything you want on the boat. Just stop tickling
me.”

“Anything?” she asks.

“I'm serious. You're a good sailor. I really could
use your help. I taught you how to sail after all.” The assault of
tickles hit me again only with more fury. “Would you stop
that!”

“I already knew how to sail before I met you. You
just helped me pass my solo-sailing test. That's all.” She looks at
me then smiles slightly. “You really want me to come along?”

“Yes, or I wouldn't have said it. Please don't
tickle me anymore.”

“And your parents said you can go with Mr.
Plankinton on a sailing trip?”

“Yeah, they're cool with it.

Sara thinks for a moment, then says, “Well, I'll ask
my dad. He's kind of friends with Mr. Plankinton, so if he knows
he'll be along maybe my dad won't mind. I'll also have to see if I
can take a week off from the Sea Side Restaurant. They might not be
too happy about that. If I promise to do double shifts maybe I can
get off.”

“You never know unless you ask,” I say.

“I should be on my way home.” Sara leans down toward
me on the ground and gives me a kiss. The little hairs on the back
of my neck suddenly tingle. “I'll call you later.” Sara picks up
her bike with the book in her hand and rides off toward her house.
Standing up, I brush the grass and dirt off as I watch her ride
away.

* * *

Monday night; my favorite night of the week. My
annoying younger sister is at band practice, and I can watch the
Six Million Dollar Man
on TV without anyone bothering me.
How cool would that be, to have bionic legs and be able to run
sixty miles an hour and lift a truck off someone. I turn on the
good old color Zenith TV and flop down on the couch.

“Fisher!” My dad calls out from the other room. I
groan; my show is just about to start. “You have a phone call.”

“Who is it?”

“I don't know. I'm not your secretary! Get your butt
over here and see who it is for yourself.”

I roll myself off the couch just as the music starts
for the
Six Million Dollar Man.
“
...We can rebuild him,
faster, stronger...
”

I grab the phone from my dad. He's frowning at me.
“Hello?”

“Fisher, it's Sara.”

“Oh. Hi. Did your dad say you can go on the trip?” I
ask.

“I didn't ask him yet. What are you doing tonight?
Can you come over? I found something in the logbook you should
see.”

I can hear my show starting in the other room.
“Hmm...maybe later. I'm sort of in the middle of something.” I try
stretching the phone cord so I can see the TV, but it comes up just
a little short pulling me back.

“You have to come over now.” Her voice is stern.
“There's an entry in the logbook about a lot of gold coins they
stole from the French.” There's a pause on the other end.
“According to the logbook it's buried on Damariscove Island.”

I'm not sure I heard that right because I'm trying
to catch what's on TV. “You mean like a buried treasure?”

Softly on the other end of the phone, she replies,
“Yes. Like buried treasure.”

The stretched phone cord snaps the receiver out of
my hands sending it bouncing across the floor. There's a tiny voice
coming from it, “Fisher? Fisher? Are you there?”

Chapter 3

Library Witch

While
I'm riding my ten-speed
Schwinn to Sara's house, I can't stop thinking about what she said
over the phone. Buried treasure. That can't possibly be. Everyone's
heard stories about pirates burying treasure, but not here in
Maine. I would've paid more attention in history class if we were
studying pirates especially around here. Buried treasure's like one
of those crazy stories that gets better over the years but never
really happened. Sort of like the Big Foot stories that seem to be
going around a lot these days. They're fun to hear and tell, but I
don't really believe any of them. Besides, pirates just never hung
out in Maine, probably too cold.

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
s
lip
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.”