by M. D. Lee
“You might be right,” I say looking at my box of stuff.
A sharp whistle comes from the take-out window. Mrs. Fennel gives Sara a slight wave to come back. Sara stands up then puts her apron back on. “I better get back to work.” Just before she and Jo leave, she hands me the logbook. “Here. Why don’t you keep this. I don’t want to look at it anymore.”
I hadn’t noticed she had the logbook with her, but I slowly take it from her and place it in the box with all my other things. “I’ll see you later.” I shout to her. Sara waves back just before she enters through the side screen door to the kitchen.
As I sit here, I think about what she said. Eventually it comes to me that she might be right, I should tell my parents. They’re going to find out one way or another, so it might as well be from me. Picking up my box off the table I head over to where I parked my bike.
*
Walking into the house I know my dad’s home for lunch because his car’s parked on the street in front of the house. Might as well get it over with and wreck his day. I find him sitting at the kitchen table eating a sandwich while he’s reading the paper.
“Hello, Fisher,” he says from behind his paper. “You’re back early.”
Part of my dad’s lunch routine is to read the morning paper. He says it’s a more relaxed time of day to read the paper rather than in the morning while he’s trying to rush out the door.
When I look at my dad’s paper my heart skips a beat; there on the front page of the Trenton Harbor Times is a photo of Skinny Pete and Turk in handcuffs. The headline reads, Local Smuggling Ring Captured. From the angle my dad’s holding the paper I can’t quite read the rest of the story. I’m sure he’s read it already; it’s the front page after all. And I know he remembers about the last time I ran into Skinny Pete.
I set my cardboard box down at the foot of the table and pull out a chair. “Dad, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Oh?” He lowers his paper slightly and his horn-rimmed glasses appear over the top.
“I don’t work for Mr. Plankinton anymore.” He keeps looking at me hard, lowers his paper to the table and neatly folds it up. “I did something I know I shouldn’t have done.” I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t say a word. “I took his sailboat without him knowing it. You know the trip we just took, well, he wasn’t exactly with us.”
Slowly my dad says, “So you used it without his permission.” That’s all he says for the next ten minutes while I tell the whole story for the second time today. Again I sort of leave out the part about Skinny Pete and Turk capturing us.
When I’m finished he simply pushes his half-eaten sandwich away, stands up, and turns around to look out the kitchen window. He doesn’t say anything for a full minute. But it feels like an hour.
When he finally turns around, his arms are crossed, but for the most part he looks calm. “You know I’m disappointed with you?”
I just nod.
“Losing a summer job as nice as that one is probably punishment enough.” I can feel a slight smile building at the relief. But he continues, “Yet as a responsible parent I can’t let it slide.” My smile is quickly replaced by the sickening feeling in my stomach once again. “You are going to write a two thousand word essay why you shouldn’t have done what you did. Also, to make sure you have plenty of time to write it, you will stay in the house after dinner with no TV. When you are done with it, I will read it for evaluation. If there’s something I don’t like or agree with, you will rewrite that section until I’m satisfied with it. Do you understand?”
I nod, then ask, “So when can I go back outside and get TV back?”
“When you’re done with the essay.”
“Oh,” I say a little more happily. “That shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Have you ever written two thousand words?” he asks.
I shake my head no. I suddenly have a feeling the rest of my summer is shot while I write my essay.
My dad sits back down to his sandwich, but doesn’t take a bite. “So tell me about this logbook you found at Grandpa Woodridge’s house.”
“Do you want to see it? It’s right here.” I reach into my cardboard box and pull it out then place it on the table in front of him. Carefully he wipes his hands on a napkin and slowly opens the book while he squints reading the hand-written entries. Slowly and carefully he turns the next several pages.
“Do you mind if I keep this for a while?” he asks while carefully closing the cover.
“Sure. Keep it as long as you want. I can’t even read the handwriting and Sara never wants to see it again.”
He takes one last bite of sandwich, stands up and tucks the logbook under his arms. “See you tonight. And best get started on your essay assignment.” He turns to give me a stern look then leaves through the door.
Just as he reaches the door, he stops. “There’s a front page story in today’s paper about that fellow, Pete McMillan,” he says pointing back at the folded paper lying on the table. He gives me that look like he knows something’s up. “You might find it interesting.” He then closes the door behind himself.
Chapter 24
The Letter
It’s been almost a week now since my dad gave me my essay assignment. I’ve been sitting at my deck all afternoon and realize it’s not as easy as I thought it was going to be; I’m only up to about three hundred words and I’m completely stuck. I stare blankly at the lined piece of paper in front of me. I desperately need to come up with something or I’ll never get my summer back. And now summer seems like it’s been suddenly flushed down the toilet. I miss taking care of Mr. P’s boat more than I thought I would; being out in the sunshine washing down the boat or whatever needed to be done to it. And I haven’t seen Sara all that much, either, because if she’s not working she has to go straight home. This sucks, but I suppose it’s my own fault.
“Fisher!” My dad calls out from downstairs. He must have just got home from work.
“Yeah, Dad?”
“Come down here. I need to talk to you.” Anything to put the pencil down. Maybe he’s changed his mind about the whole essay thing, but I doubt it.
When I’m standing in front of him in the kitchen, he says, “Fisher, I have something to tell you. But first I want you to call Sara and ask her to come over here.”
What in the world is he going to tell me? My stomach suddenly feels like I swallowed a rhinoceros. I look at the clock on the kitchen wall and it’s a little after 7:30 p.m. “Dad, Sara’s not allowed to leave the house after seven.” Hopefully that will keep her out of trouble too.
“Just call her,” he says. “If there’s a problem I’ll speak with her parents.”
I shrug, okay, and do as I’m told. I sure don’t want to get Sara into more trouble than she’s already in.
About a half hour later, both Sara, and myself are sitting at the kitchen table waiting for my dad to talk to us. Jo came along too, but she’s standing by the kitchen door. None of us have said a word since they got here. I sure don’t like where this is going. I wonder if Mr. P. was more upset than I realized and is demanding my dad do something more. But Mr. P isn’t that kind of guy. We worked it all out. I’m paying to fix his boat, and I don’t work for him anymore, what more could he want?
But why is Sara here?
My dad steps into the kitchen. “Hello, Sara.” He smiles at her, and then looks over at Jo. “And you must be Josephine, Sara’s cousin?”
“Yes, sir,” she says while looking at the table avoiding my dad’s eyes.
“How do you like it up here in Maine?” he asks her.
“Okay, I guess. A little chilly, though,” she answers. What’s he doing? Just tell us how you’re going to punish us now and let’s get this over with.
“I was talking with some of the fellows at work,” he begins, “and they gave me the name of a historian in Boston who specializes in old documents and that sort of thing. I was interested in learning more about your logbook, and when I
told him about it he became more intrigued by what I was telling him. He became so intrigued that at the end of our conversation he offered me a great deal of money to purchase your logbook from me. He claims it’s very valuable especially because it is tied into a piece of history. Anyway, as your parent, I took the liberty to accept his offer. Yesterday his check arrived in the mail, and I immediately shipped him the logbook priority mail.”
He steps closer to the table, pulls out an envelope, and places it on the table. “I believe this belongs to you. The check is made out to me, but I will sign it over to you.”
Both Sara and I look at each other with surprised expressions on our faces. Sara nods to me, and I reach for the envelope and slowly pull the check out. I can’t believe what I’m seeing! In my hands is a check, in my dad’s name, for $5,000! Quickly I turn it around so Sara and Jo can see it too. Their eyes almost pop out of their heads when they see the typed-out number on the check.
Sara quickly covers her mouth. “Oh my God! I can’t believe someone wanted to buy that old book for that much money.”
I look over at Jo, but the smile on her face seems somewhat forced. “I’m happy for you two,” Jo says. “It’s a lucky thing you found that logbook. Now you’re rich. Fisher, you can buy that cool car when you turn sixteen.”
I think about that for a moment, “Hmm…yeah, I guess.” Then a thought occurs to me. I think hard about this for a moment, and I lean over and whisper into Sara’s ear.
Sara has a surprised expression on her face, but a huge smile breaks out and she nods her head yes.
I turn the check over to the back side, and reach for the pen that’s lying on the table. On the back of the check I begin to write Pay to the Order.
“Jo,” I say. “What’s your dad’s first name?”
“Joe. Joseph Banks. Why?” she asks as she suddenly looks very concerned.
“I get it,” I say with a grin. “I see where you get your name. You’re named after your dad. Very cool.”
“What’s going on, Fisher?” she asks.
I don’t answer and finish filling out the back side of the check with the name Joseph Banks. When I’m done, I slide the check over to Jo. “We want your dad to have this. We don’t want him to lose his charter fishing boat. Hopefully it’ll help the business out and get you guys back on your feet.”
Then I see something I thought I’d never see; tough-as-nails Jo begins to cry. Well, not much anyway, but there are clearly tears beginning to run down her face and she makes no attempt to wipe them away. She holds the check looking at it then she smiles at both me and Sara. Finally, after a minute, she says, “I can’t believe you want my dad to have this. This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” Quickly she stands up and leaves the room. Sara stands up too, gives my arm a light squeeze, then follows Jo. I’m left sitting at the kitchen table by myself while my dad’s leaning up against the sink.
“That’s a nice thing you did, Fisher,” my dad says. “Let’s call your essay done.” He’s holding out his hand for me to shake. Slowly I reach out and give his hand a solid squeeze.
*
It’s been several weeks since we tried to find treasure on Damariscove Island, but now things are almost back to normal. To make a little money I’ve been cutting lawns here and there. It’s certainly not as cool as taking care of Mr. P’s sailboat, but I messed that up pretty good. I probably should have kept a little of the money to help pay for the boat repairs, but I didn’t think that far ahead. The day after I signed the check over to Jo’s dad she sent it home, registered mail. Her dad told her to tell us he’s very thankful for the money, but it’s just a loan until his business gets on its feet again. And I’m invited to come down to North Carolina anytime I want to do some deep-sea fishing. I’m not sure how I’d get there, but Sara warned me, I’m not going anywhere within a hundred miles of Jo without her. I think she’s serious.
Tonight I’m walking home after I was at Sara’s house. Tomorrow Jo leaves to head back home, and even though my dad’s been keeping a sharp eye on me lately, tonight he let me go over to Sara’s to say goodbye. Jo and I simply shook hands while Sara stood close. Jo really gave me a hard time at every possible moment, but the funny thing is, I think I’m going to miss her. She came up with some pretty cool ideas on the fly that got us out of some tough jams.
Taking a shortcut through the park on my way home, I’m near the city pier, thinking about everything that’s happened. Away from Main Street, the darkness of the park seems to swallow every bit of light making it tricky finding my way under the large trees.
Suddenly behind me there’s a low grumbling voice. “Young Fisher. I wish to speak wit’ ye. Yes.” My heart almost leaps out of my chest as I spin around. Only a few feet from me is a dark shape scarcely silhouetted by the streetlight off in the distance.
I’m about to run as fast as I possibly can when the dark silhouette says, “Halt. Fer I ‘ave importance o’ which to give.” In that split second I realize from the crazy way she talks, the dark figure is the librarian. She’s still dressed in all black, and tonight in the cool sea air she is also wearing a black cloak pulled tightly around her. A cloak? My mouth hangs wide open. I still want to run, but curiosity is winning. I stand perfectly still not moving an inch.
A slight smile grows across her face as if she’s enjoying seeing the fear in me. “A friend has requested I gift ye a message. Yes.”
My heart’s still racing a hundred beats a second. I open my mouth to talk but nothing comes out.
“Sit. Fer fear has consumed ye.” This time, certain I can make a run for it, I take a step back as I’m ready to sprint. But somehow there’s a park bench directly beneath me and my butt lands on it with a thump. My head’s spinning. I know there wasn’t a park bench there a second ago!
“Yar to be receivin’ of ‘tis note. Yes,” she says. In this light it’s hard to tell, but I swear her eyes are inky black. There’s a cold trickle of sweat running down my back.
With drawn-out movements, she opens her cloak extending a thin arm toward me. It takes me a second to realize she’s holding a folded piece of paper. I stare at it a moment.
“Accept, yes,” she says holding the folded paper closer to me.
Cautiously I take it from her outstretched hand and look at it closely. It’s a large piece of brownish paper, kind of crinkly, as if it might be very old. I think it’s some sort of note. Along the center fold there’s a red waxy circle sealing the paper together. I can’t tell in this light, but there’s something imprinted into the wax. “What is this?” I ask still looking closely at it in my hands.
When she doesn’t answer I look up only to suddenly realize she’s gone! “What the…!”
In an instant I jump up and sprint toward home. I’m through the park and quickly put several streets behind me, faster than I’ve ever gone in my life, when thank God I reach our driveway. Still sprinting I dash to the side door of our garage, struggle with the doorknob for a second, then bound through. In that same second I flip both light switches and the garage fills brightly in light.
It seems almost impossible to fill my lungs with air. I’m bent over with both hands on my knees sucking in deep breaths when I realize I still have the note in my hand. It’s as if a jolt of electricity rips through my body because peering at the paper, I see just above the red wax seal it says, “Master Shoemaker.”
Just as I’m about to pull it apart from the waxy seal, I stop. Imprinted into the wax is something that looks like—a cougar head baring its teeth— like the figurehead Gus Emery described. Just below the figurehead are two little letters, Q and R. “Queen’s Rose,” I whisper.
The note in my hand begins to shake violently, so I quickly take a deep breath to calm myself down.
When I settle down enough, I take a putty-knife from my dad’s work bench and carefully slide it under the wax seal so I don’t ruin it. Now with the seal removed, yet still in one piece, I carefully open the letter.
It begins;
“Dear Master Shoemaker,
The gold coins for which you searched were never to be had. For centuries legend had grown that I was a pirate stealing and pillaging from vessels in these northern waters. This is not truth for the lads and I had long ago returned the gold coins to the people from which they were taken. After which I remained a simple schooner captain for years to my end. That is the plain truth.
Sincerely,
Captain Bartholomew Bonney
The End
About the Author
Award winning writer, now author, MD Lee writes and lives on the coast in New England with his wife and young daughter. Many of the pieces he writes about are inspired by his true life adventures in the woods and on the sea. Depending on conditions, if there’s spare time in the day, he will grab either a surfboard, mt. bike, windsurfer, or kiteboard,.
The Legends of the Ghost Pirates is his fifth book, third in the Fisher Shoemaker Adventure series. There will be more to follow!
If you like Legends of the Ghost Pirates, please leave a review so others can enjoy it too.
Fisher’s webpage at http://fishershoemakeradventures.wordpress.com/
On Twitter, please follow @mdlee62
Sneak Peek from The Boat Thief:
Chapter 1
Hiding Out
It’s the summer of 1978, here in Maine, and unknown to me, things are about to happen that will change my life forever.
I’m a scrawny thirteen-year-old, smaller than most kids my age. My pants look like I need to grow into them, and my button-down shirt always seems too loose. Other than the scrawny part, I really couldn’t care less how my clothes fit. My name is Fisher Shoemaker.
I wait all school year for that last day because summertime is my time. I can finally get out of the stuffy classroom and be free. These final days, nine days to be exact, but who’s counting, with the weather getting nice, time moves so painfully slow; the grass has turned green, and for about a month now the leaves have been out. The green leaves taunt me. In the first part of spring, I seem to be the only one to notice the air has the smell of fresh-cut grass. It’s morally wrong to keep a kid locked up in a classroom on a beautiful spring day. It just isn’t right.
