Seven Dead Pirates

by Linda Bailey

  Text copyright © 2015 by Linda Bailey

  Illustration copyright © 2015 by Dan Holst Soelberg

  Tundra Books, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, a Penguin Random House Company

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher—or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency—is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Bailey, Linda, 1948-, author

  Seven dead pirates / by Linda Bailey.

  ISBN 978-1-77049-815-0 (bound).—ISBN 978-1-77049-817-4 (epub)

  I. Title.

  PS8553.A3644S49 2015 jC813’.54 C2014-906939-1

  C2014-906940-5

  Published simultaneously in the United States of America by Tundra Books of Northern New York, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, a Penguin Random House Company

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014952940

  Edited by Tara Walker

  Designed by Terri Nimmo

  The artwork in this book was rendered in traditional pen and ink.

  Tundra Books, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, a Penguin Random House Company

  www.penguinrandomhouse.ca

  v3.1

  For Maurice

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Acknowledgments

  It was the worst birthday party Lewis had ever been to. But then, what could you expect when the guest of honor was a corpse?

  Okay, so Great-Granddad wasn’t exactly a corpse. But he sure looked like one. The old man lay stiff on his back on the narrow bed. His eyes stared sightlessly, and his mouth was fixed open in a round toothless O. If it weren’t for the pink party hat, you’d never guess he was alive.

  Party hats! At a 101st birthday party. It was ridiculous. Lewis’s parents certainly looked ridiculous, with their dark-rimmed glasses and pointy cardboard heads. He, Lewis, must look ridiculous, too, in the clown hat Mrs. Binchy had forced on him. As for Mrs. Binchy, she was the silliest of all, wearing a gold paper crown as she bustled in with the cake.

  When Lewis’s father spotted the cake, his eyes darted nervously around the room. Lewis knew what he was looking for. A fire extinguisher! The cake was ablaze with candles, and a draft from the window was fanning them into a bonfire.

  “I couldn’t do 101 candles, of course,” said Mrs. Binchy breathlessly. “That would be foolish. But I wanted to do at least half, and I think I managed. Mr. Douglas, look! We’ve brought you a lovely cake. All together, everyone. Happy birthday to youuuu …”

  Lewis’s parents joined in, his mother’s powerful voice drowning out the others. Seeing Lewis hesitate, she frowned. Lewis sang.

  “Happy birthday, Great-Granddad. Happy birthday to you!”

  Mrs. Binchy smiled and motioned for Lewis to take Great-Granddad’s place blowing out the candles. It took three tries.

  “I do love a party!” said Mrs. Binchy.

  The whole thing had been her idea. Mrs. Binchy was Great-Granddad’s housekeeper, and Lewis figured the party was just an excuse for her to have company. She must get lonely, living in a sprawling old house like Shornoway with nobody but Great-Granddad to talk to.

  “Just imagine!” Mrs. Binchy was saying. “A hundred and one years old! I hope I look half that good when I’m his age.”

  Beaming, she passed around slices of chocolate cake. Lewis cheered up as he reached for his piece—a three-layered beauty, with marshmallow frosting and chocolate shavings on top.

  He dug in, trying to remember the last time he’d had birthday cake. When he was little, he’d gone to parties where the whole class was invited, but now that his classmates were older, they only invited their friends. Lewis mostly celebrated birthdays with his family, which was small—just him, his parents and his father’s sister, Aunt Edith in Boston. And Great-Granddad, of course. Lewis stared at the scrawny figure under the sheets, wondering whether he might not enjoy a piece of his own cake. He would have, in the old days.

  When Great-Granddad was younger—ninety-five or ninety-six—he’d been a whole different person. He’d called Lewis “Sonny Boy” and slipped him crumpled twenty dollar bills when his parents weren’t looking. He’d made jokes that only Lewis appreciated, sticking straws up his nose and making walrus noises.

  And, once in a while, he had yelled at people who weren’t there.

  “Leave me be, you waterlogged old bludger!” Great-Granddad would holler, glaring into an empty corner of the parlor.

  Or he might shake a fist at the peeling wallpaper. “I’ve no time for your foolishness! Can’t you see I have visitors?”

  Lewis thought the yelling was funny. But his mother just sighed. She thought Great-Granddad was crazy. Not that she ever used that word. Dementia was what she called it. Lewis knew what that meant. Nuts. Bonkers. Loony.

  “More cake, Lewis?” said Mrs. Binchy. “I’m sure you still have room.” She cut a thick wedge.

  As quickly as Lewis held out his plate, his mother intercepted. “Thank you, Mrs. Binchy. I think not.”

  Mrs. Binchy’s gray curls bobbed in surprise. “But surely on this special occasion …”

  “Sugar disagrees with Lewis.”

  Lewis clenched his teeth. It wasn’t sugar he disagreed with. He and sugar got along just fine, thank you.

  He waited, quiet and cake-less, hoping Mrs. Binchy would argue. And she might have, except that Lewis’s mother began peppering her with questions about Great-Granddad. His medications. His blood pressure. Even his—ugh!—bowel movements.

  Slumping in his chair, Lewis began to poke at the stuffing escaping from its arm. The furniture in Shornoway was falling apart, just like the old house itself.

  “Pssst!” said Great-Granddad.

  Lewis blinked, then stared at the bed. Great-Granddad’s face on his pillow looked exactly the same, but his left hand had risen slightly off the yellowing sheet, and his pointer finger stuck out.

  As Lewis watched, the O-shaped mouth moved. “Sonny Boy!” it whispered. The finger beckoned.

  Lewis glanced around.

  His father was dozing, and his mother and Mrs. Binchy were talking about bedsores. So no one heard Great-Granddad. No one except Lewis, who stared again at the clawlike finger, hooked and gesturing. Holding his breath, Lewis rose to his feet.

  “Closer!” whispered Great-Granddad in a voice as thin as tissue paper.

  Lewis swallowed hard and obeyed. He leaned his head toward the old man’s, expecting something awful—foul breath, at the least. But all he could smell was a medicinal odor, like cough drops, and the general mustiness of the room.

  �
�Libertalia,” rasped Great-Granddad with difficulty. Then, more urgently, “You!”

  Lewis watched as the mouth slowly returned to its O. The finger relaxed.

  Libertalia?

  Lewis waited politely. He cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon?” he said to Great-Granddad.

  “Lewis?” His mother’s voice. “Is Granddad all right? Did he speak?”

  Lewis nodded.

  “What did he say?”

  Lewis didn’t answer. He stared at Great-Granddad, transfixed.

  “Well?”

  Lewis wasn’t sure why he didn’t tell her. It wasn’t like him to lie, not even a white lie. Maybe it was his second piece of cake, still sitting there, uneaten. He heard himself say, “I don’t know.”

  Mrs. Binchy gave Great-Granddad a pat. “His teeth are out, poor dear. You can’t understand a word.”

  “It would be nonsense, anyway,” said Lewis’s mother.

  Nonsense, thought Lewis. Was that what it was?

  Later, as they drove home, his parents had the conversation they always had after visiting Shornoway. Mrs. Dearborn said it was high time Great-Granddad was moved out of that drafty old wreck of a house. He should be in a hospital for the elderly where he could get professional care. Mr. Dearborn replied that yes, the situation was awful, but at least Mrs. Binchy was a kind soul. They both agreed there was nothing they could do. Great-Granddad had given instructions to his lawyer that he was not to be moved from Shornoway unless his doctor decided it was necessary.

  Lewis didn’t say anything, but he for one was glad Great-Granddad still lived at home. Even if it was wrecked and shabby, even if it smelled funny, it was better than visiting a hospital. And after all, Shornoway had been a grand mansion once, a long time ago when it was first built. Even now, with most of the rooms closed off, you could still feel something as you walked down the halls. A cool, prickly pulse of long-gone excitement. Sometimes it was so strong it made the hair on Lewis’s arms stand up.

  And sitting now in the back seat, Lewis wondered, as he’d wondered since he’d first heard them, about Great-Granddad’s whispered words.

  Libertalia. Had he gotten it wrong? No. He was sure that was what the old man had said. But what did it mean? And why did he say “you”? With such insistence, as if giving Lewis an order?

  It probably was just nonsense, as his mother had said. All the same, Lewis decided to look up libertalia when he got home.

  He fell asleep instead. His father led him, dozy, into the house.

  The next morning, when his mother woke him to say that Great-Granddad had died in the night, Lewis was struck by an ache so powerful it took his breath away. It was like a fist clenching in his chest—and it surprised him. After all, they had been expecting this for a long time. Waiting, even.

  He reminded himself that Great-Granddad was extremely old. He told himself that it couldn’t be much fun, lying on your back that way, staring at the ceiling, while other people gobbled up your chocolate-marshmallow cake.

  Still, the ache remained.

  Then he remembered. Libertalia. You!

  “Did he say anything?” asked Lewis. “You know. Before …”

  “He died peacefully in his sleep, Lewis. He hasn’t said anything sensible in weeks.”

  As the door closed behind her, Lewis shook his head. His mother was wrong. Great-Granddad had spoken. To him, Lewis. To him, alone!

  At that, the tension in his chest eased. Lewis would never have said it out loud, but the thing he suddenly felt was … proud. Of all the people in the whole world, Great-Granddad had chosen him to say his last words to.

  And he knew suddenly, with a pounding in his heart, that those words had not been nonsense. They couldn’t be. Not the last words of a man who had lived so long and done so much. The very last words! They had to mean something.

  Libertalia. You!

  He asked his parents the next day. What does it mean? Libertalia. Neither of them knew. His father checked a dictionary, but it wasn’t listed.

  “Sounds like the name of a rock-and-roll band,” said Mr. Dearborn. “Heh, heh. Why don’t we look on my computer?”

  They did a search, but the results were confusing. There was a game called Libertalia, and there was also a long-ago place called Libertalia that may or may not have been real.

  “A pirate haven,” said Mr. Dearborn, reading aloud. “It was mentioned in a book written in 1724 called A General History of the Pyrates. Supposed to be … let’s see … a kind of perfect society. A place where pirates could live as equals, in peace and harmony. Heh, heh. Funny idea, that. Pirates living in harmony? Says here that this Libertalia was on Madagascar. That’s an island, Lewis, just off Africa.”

  “I know,” said Lewis. “So what do you think, Dad? Did Libertalia really exist?”

  Mr. Dearborn shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He leaned forward to squint at the computer screen. “No proof of any kind. Just a legend. Good bit of fun, though! I remember, I used to play pirates when I was your age.”

  No, thought Lewis. Not when you were my age. Nobody plays pirates when they’re almost twelve.

  But he nodded and said, “Thanks, Dad.”

  Lewis’s parents were ancient as parents go, so Mr. Dearborn had not been twelve for a very long time. He’d forgotten what it was like. He had also become a historian, which meant that he didn’t believe anything that didn’t come out of a book or museum.

  As Lewis wandered away, he was more confused than ever. Libertalia. He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  He repeated the strange word to himself, like a chant, through Great-Granddad’s funeral. Which turned out to be nothing like he’d expected. For one thing, hardly anyone came. Aside from his family and Mrs. Binchy, there were just four people there, all old. Two women, one man and one he-wasn’t-sure. Nobody cried except Mrs. Binchy, who snuffled noisily into a ratty tissue. Lewis wondered if he was supposed to cry. He couldn’t. Not if he’d tried. The service seemed to be about a stranger—some guy who had once been chairman of the Library Building Committee.

  “What?” whispered Lewis’s mother. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing,” said Lewis. Libertalia. He must have been saying it out loud.

  “Yes, you did. You were mumbling again.”

  Lewis pressed his lips together.

  “Stop mumbling,” said his mother.

  The next morning, when his parents went to see Great-Granddad’s lawyer about the will, Lewis asked to go along. Maybe there’d be a clue, something to explain those last words.

  The lawyer’s name—Mr. Lister—might have made Lewis laugh if he hadn’t coughed hard instead. He recognized Mr. Lister as one of the old people from the funeral. A tiny man, he looked even smaller sitting behind his huge desk, surrounded by dusty files. He read the will aloud in a sandpaper voice. Lewis didn’t pay much attention until he heard his mother gasp.

  “Surely you can’t be serious!”

  “Yes, indeed,” rasped the lawyer. “Those are the terms of the will, Mrs. Dearborn. You inherit everything—the house known as Shornoway, all the property including the beachfront and all the furnishings. But your grandfather did, as I say, place a condition. Before you can inherit, your family—meaning yourself, Mr. Dearborn and young Lewis here—must live in the house called Shornoway for a period of at least six months.”

  Mrs. Dearborn’s broad, pale face went as white as paper. “Live in Shornoway? That crumbling horror? Have you seen Shornoway?”

  “Oh my, yes.” Mr. Lister broke into a wheezing chuckle. “But Mr. Douglas had strong feelings about the property, and I imagine he hoped … well, in any case, the will is clear. And quite in order.”

  “In order” meant there was nothing to be done. Mrs. Dearborn argued for half an hour, just to make sure. If the Dearborn family wanted to inherit Shornoway, they would have to go live there. If they refused, the property would go to the Benevolent Association for Sailors Lost at Sea.

  “T
here’s just one other small bequest in the will,” said Mr. Lister. “For Lewis.”

  Everyone stared at Lewis. He sank deeper into his big leather chair.

  The lawyer read aloud. “To my great-grandson, Lewis, I leave my ship in a bottle. He will find it in the tower room of Shornoway. The key is in Mrs. Binchy’s possession.”

  There was a long silence.

  “That’s it?” said Mrs. Dearborn.

  The lawyer nodded.

  “A ship in a bottle? A bottle? Lewis! Do you know anything about this?”

  Lewis shook his head.

  “However that may be,” said Mr. Lister, “that is Mr. Douglas’s entire will. Please let me know what you decide.”

  Mrs. Dearborn was not happy as they left the lawyer’s office. For days, she was in what Lewis’s father called “a state.” Even though the Dearborns’ house was nothing special—in fact, it was pretty much identical to every other house on Maplegrove Crescent—she hated to be forced to move. And the list of things she disliked about Shornoway grew longer every hour. The damp. The dirt. The rot. The drafts. The mold. The spiders. The mice. And worst of all, the stairs, which would be “utterly impossible,” she said, for her arthritic knees.

  Mr. Dearborn did his best to soothe her. He pointed out that Lewis could stay in his same school. He reminded her that oceanfront property was worth quite a lot of money. And six months wasn’t, after all, such a long time.

  “It might not be so bad,” he said. “Perhaps we could even use a change?”

  The look Mrs. Dearborn gave him after that remark sent him scurrying to his study.

  In the end, she decided to do it—move the family to Shornoway. And then everything happened quickly. A FOR RENT sign appeared on the lawn of Lewis’s house. Moving men were hired, and the Dearborn family was thrown into packing.