Seven Dead Pirates

by Linda Bailey

  Lewis didn’t want to hear the noises. He wanted them to go away, and for the next few days, he did his best to block them out. But on his sixth day in the tower, after some particularly loud thumps, he went down to ask his father about it.

  “It’s nothing,” said Mr. Dearborn. “Old houses are like that. Shifting and settling on their foundations. Especially with these winds.”

  Lewis nodded. “But … sometimes it sounds more like voices.”

  “Oh? Well, that would be me and your mother, I suppose. Our voices traveling through the pipes. We’ll have to watch what we say, won’t we? No more secrets from Lewis! Heh, heh.”

  Mr. Dearborn’s jokes were almost always bad. But Lewis laughed at this one, out of relief. He returned to Libertalia feeling better.

  The window was open. Again! He was about to close it when he heard a thok behind him. He turned. One of the toy soldiers had fallen onto the floor. He went to pick it up. Before he could, the second soldier fell. Then the third.

  The wind? It didn’t seem strong enough. He shut the window.

  That’s when he heard the ping. Jerking around, he saw that a nickel—part of a handful of change he had dumped on his desk—had fallen to the wooden floor. As he watched, the rest of the change, one coin after another, slid off the desk. Ping, ping, ping … ping.

  Holding his breath, Lewis walked to the desk. He slid his hand along its surface. It was slanted. It must be.

  Or maybe the floor was slanted?

  As he bent to retrieve the coins, he realized, with a hammering of his heart, that he was wrong. The floor wasn’t slanted. Nothing was slanted. Because, as he watched, one of the quarters on the floor rose slowly into the air. It hovered above the desk briefly before dropping slowly onto its surface. Then, as Lewis struggled to believe his eyes, a dime rose from the floor.

  He let out a scream. At least, he tried to, but all that came out was the kind of thin, helpless squeak people make in nightmares.

  He ran for the door and yanked the knob. The door wouldn’t budge. Frantic, he kicked it, still trying to scream. But even the weak sounds he managed were muffled by something cool pressed against his mouth and upper body as he was pinned, with a thud, against the wall.

  There was a swirling like mist all around, and a deep voice said in his ear, “Awrrr, laddie, there’s no need to be afeared.”

  Lewis froze, rigid with fear. Only his eyes moved, flickering like a wild animal’s.

  There was no one there!

  Cold air enveloped him, tinged with a whiff of fish. He exploded, without thinking, into terrified struggle, flailing his limbs. All in vain. He was pinned to the wall as securely as a fly beneath a swatter.

  “Now, laddie, I just needs a wee moment, that’s all. I’m … well, let’s say I’m a friend of your great-granddaddy.”

  Chest heaving, Lewis sucked in great mouthfuls of air. Where was the voice coming from? He lashed out again.

  “He were a fine man,” said the voice, “and we was fond of one another, being two old sea dogs. Even if we quarreled now and then, it were a friendly sort of thing. He told me you’d be coming.”

  The mist swirled again. The voice seemed to be coming from its movement.

  “Me?” whispered Lewis.

  “Aye, you. He said you were a bold ’un.”

  “Me?” said Lewis again.

  “Aye, but as I watches you, I has me doubts.”

  The hair on the back of Lewis’s neck stood up. “You’ve been … watching me?”

  “Aye, lad, and if there’s any of your great-granddad’s boldness in you, it’s well hidden. And that’s a worry to me, see. Because we needs someone with a sharp eye and a strong hand.”

  Lewis’s heart was pounding so hard, he felt it would burst through his chest. There was a long moment when his mouth moved and no sound came out.

  “Who are you?” he finally managed.

  A rough laugh came back. “That’s it, lad. Ask away! I’m James Crawley, at your service—Captain James Crawley, although it be more than two hunnert years since I’ve walked the decks of me own ship. Still, lad, you’re here to fix that, ain’t you?”

  Lewis was suddenly even more terrified. “I … I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I can’t fix anything. I don’t know you. I can’t even see you!”

  “Ah, you wants to see Captain Crawley, does you?” said the voice. “Better be sure, lad. There were a time when I were as sweet-looking as you. But I’ve lost me best bits over the years, and I ain’t so pretty now. Are you brave enough to look on Captain Crawley as he be?”

  Lewis didn’t feel brave at all. His whole body was shaking, his hands worst of all, so he clenched them in an effort to keep them still. But he couldn’t help thinking that, however awful it might be to see Captain Crawley, it couldn’t be worse than not seeing him and not knowing who—or what—he was talking to.

  Lewis’s voice was uncertain as he replied, “Yes?”

  He watched as the mist formed a grayish cloud. It circled like a tiny tornado and then slowly settled into the outline of a human body—transparent at first, then gradually becoming more solid.

  “Aaaahhh,” said Captain Crawley. He was facing away, toward the sea. From behind, Lewis could see a mane of tangled hair that might have been brown once, but was now grizzled and gray. It looked like old rope that had come unstrung.

  The captain shook out his shoulders, rolled his neck and strutted to the window. Lewis took this chance to try again to break away from the wall. But something—what?—still held him there.

  “There ain’t nothing in this world like a good salt breeze,” said the captain. He wore boots of worn black leather and a mottled, reddish jacket that hung almost to his knees.

  Suddenly, he turned, revealing a face that would have made Lewis leap backward if he weren’t already plastered against the wall. It was pockmarked all over, with a lumpy nose, and a smile that revealed several missing teeth. But it was his eyes that caught Lewis’s attention. The right one, brown, glared at him fiercely. The left was nothing but a slit, showing white between half-closed lids.

  Lewis forced himself to lower his gaze, bringing it to rest on the soft leather sash around the captain’s waist. Tucked into it were a cutlass, a knife and an old-fashioned pistol. And there, clutched in the captain’s right hand, was the last piece of the puzzle—a faded black three-cornered hat.

  The hat was a dead giveaway.

  “You’re …” he tried, and then again, “you’re … a pirate.”

  “A pirate? Well, lad, that ain’t a word I likes. You may call me”—he bowed low, sweeping the ground with one hand—“a gentleman of fortune.”

  Narrowing his right eye, he gave Lewis a searching glance. “And besides, a man cannot be a pirate without he has a ship. That’s why your great-granddad sent you.”

  Lewis’s head was throbbing. “I—what do you mean, sent me?”

  “Well, roughly speaking, it’s this.” Captain Crawley stroked his chin. “We needs you, young Lewis. Me and the boys.”

  “The boys?” squeaked Lewis. “You mean, there are … more of you?”

  “Oh, aye,” said Crawley, and he yelled back over his shoulder. “Come on out, mates!”

  In front of the red door, a new cloud swirled and shimmered. As Lewis watched, it formed itself into a thin, ragged, hunched-over sailor with a long nose and a wide, wet mouth.

  “Jack the Rat,” said Captain Crawley. “Make your bow to the lad, Jack. Nice and polite now.”

  Jack didn’t bow so much as bend his knobby knees, visible through the rips in his pants. The knees, like the rest of him, were filthy. Narrowing his eyes, he peered at Lewis with a look that a spider might give a fly.

  Lewis flinched, but his attention was drawn immediately to a third misty figure. It took shape as a round-bellied man with pink cheeks and a greasy white beard. He looked almost like Santa, if you could ignore the jagged scar that sliced down his forehead and divided his ri
ght eyebrow in two.

  “Is that ’im?” said the man.

  “Aye,” said Crawley.

  “A bit small, ain’t he?”

  “Shut your trap, Moyle,” said Jack the Rat. “He’s big enough for what we wants.” He grinned wetly at Lewis, licking his lips in such a terrifying way that Lewis was convinced the apparition meant to eat him.

  Lewis struggled again. But when a fourth pirate appeared, an arm’s length away, he was shocked into stillness. This pirate was precisely at arm’s length, and the way Lewis knew that was because this pirate—a terrifyingly large man—was the one who was pinning him to the wall. He’s a giant, thought Lewis. He’s out of a fairy tale! Easily eight feet tall, the pirate had black hair, a thick black beard and coarse black hair covering what could be seen of his body. His hands, big as roasting pans, rested on Lewis’s shoulders.

  “You puts up a good fight,” rumbled the giant. “I had to use two hands to hold you.”

  “See?” said Jack the Rat to no one in particular. “The lad’s big enough.”

  “Big enough for what?” squeaked Lewis. Normally, he was shy with strangers. But when a person is shocked to the bone, as Lewis was, and wondering if he’s about to be eaten, shyness is apt to get pushed aside.

  “Now don’t be afeared,” said Captain Crawley softly. “Barnaby Bellows is like a big puppy, ain’t you, Bellows?”

  The giant leered into Lewis’s face. “I likes the lad’s red hair,” he said, his breath reeking of dead fish. “Red hair shows spirit!”

  And that was just the beginning. Three more pirates followed. There was Skittles, tiny, bald and missing an arm. Jonas came next, lean, brown-skinned and shivering. He, too, had missing parts—two fingers on his left hand.

  Last of all, and slowest to manifest himself, was Adam.

  “Why, look at these two,” said Moyle, glancing back and forth between Adam and Lewis. “They’re the same age, ain’t they? Two young lads as could be born the same day.”

  “Excepting,” said Jack the Rat, “that young Adam here was born in 1786, if I recalls right.”

  “You recalls right,” said Adam, staring at Lewis.

  The boys did appear to be the same age. Adam was shorter, and his long fair hair was tied back in a pigtail. But Lewis could recognize a sixth-grader when he saw one.

  Except, he remembered, that Adam was …

  A ghost?

  He still couldn’t believe it. But what other explanation could there be?

  “Adam’s our ship’s boy,” said Crawley, “and though he be young, he’s as stalwart in battle as any.”

  Adam, meanwhile, was studying Lewis’s face. “Did you have the pox?” he asked finally.

  Lewis blinked back, confused.

  “Naaaahh!” said Crawley. “Those marks ain’t pox scars. Them are just freckles! The lad’s got freckles like a dog’s got fleas.”

  This got a huge laugh from the pirates, all except Adam, who was staring now at Lewis’s green T-shirt and khaki shorts. When he got to Lewis’s shoes, his eyes widened. “Oooooh,” he said. “Boots for a prince.”

  Lewis looked down. “They’re just … running shoes.”

  “Running,” repeated Adam. He knelt for a closer look. “Aye, a boy could run far in such boots.”

  At that, all the pirates became transfixed by Lewis’s shoes. Even Barnaby Bellows glanced down, relaxing his grip on Lewis’s shoulders.

  It was like a signal.

  Lewis bolted!

  But when he reached the door, Crawley was there, blocking his way. “Not so fast, laddie. We won’t hold you long, I promise, but we needs you to hear us out.”

  “Aye,” chorused the others. “Hear us out!”

  Lewis tried to stop his knees from quivering. “Just tell me what you want,” he begged.

  Crawley smiled his gap-toothed smile. “We wants you to help us get our ship back.”

  It was like a horrible riddle.

  “I don’t understand,” said Lewis.

  Crawley pointed at the bottle on Lewis’s shelf.

  “You want me to … get your ship out of that bottle?”

  The pirates shouted with laughter, slapping their thighs.

  “Nay,” said Crawley with a final guffaw. “That’s just a model, boy. Our ship—our Maria Louisa—she’s sitting in a little house, down by the bay. Your great-granddad told us so. Four years ago, they brought her from some other place—”

  “Halifax, it were,” said Moyle.

  “Aye,” said Crawley. “And a miracle, by thunder, to hear of her after so many years. They took her to that little house—”

  “It were called a moo-see-um,” said Moyle, nodding wisely. “That’s what the granddaddy said.”

  Lewis blinked in comprehension. “You mean the Maritime Museum?” The Tandy Bay Maritime Museum was one of the town hall buildings, right beside the ocean, at the center of town. “They did bring a ship there. I saw it on a school trip.”

  “Aye,” said Jonas, in a voice filled with pride. “And that ship? She’s ours!”

  Barnaby Bellows thumped his huge fist on the desk. “Ours!” he yelled.

  “She was ours,” said Crawley, his voice rising with anger, “until she were stolen from us, in dead of night. Attacked, we was, by that son of a dogfish, John Edward Dire! He could have put us ashore. It were only fair and right. But, oh, laddie … he were the devil’s spawn, that Captain Dire, and so were his crew. They laughed as they kilt us. Laughed!”

  “K-killed you?” repeated Lewis.

  “Aye,” growled Crawley. “Tied us up, hand and foot, all together with the one rope. Hurled us overboard. We was helpless as babes.”

  “Sank like stones!” muttered Moyle.

  “Dropped to the bottom with nary a bubble,” added Skittles.

  “But at least,” said Adam, “we washed up here together.”

  “Aye,” agreed Jonas, “we did. Except for Laughing Harry.”

  At that, the pirates went glum and silent.

  Lewis was almost afraid to ask. “Who’s Laughing Harry?”

  “Our navigator,” said Crawley. “And a finer man never lived! Until he were keelhauled by Dire.”

  “Keelhauled?”

  “Aye,” muttered Crawley. “Keelhauled, laddie, is when they ties you to a rope and drags you under the ship’s bottom from one end to t’other. Does you know what’s on the bottom of a ship? Barnacles sharp as razors, that’s what. Shells as will rip your skin off—if you survive the haul, that is. Most men don’t. Poor Harry! He vanished forever under the Maria Louisa. Never even come up.”

  “Only the rope,” sighed Skittles, “all ragged and torn.”

  “Sharks!” said Jack the Rat. “They smells blood, even through the water.”

  “A nasty end,” said Moyle. “Can’t even be a ghost! Not after the sharks gets you.”

  “He weren’t laughing that day,” added Jonas. “Poor, poor Harry.”

  The pirates lapsed into reverent silence. But for Lewis, the story hadn’t ended.

  “And then … then you moved in here?”

  “Nah,” said Moyle. “This house weren’t built yet. We lived in a cave, them first years. It were down the beach, half mile north.”

  “You haunted a cave?” said Lewis to himself. At least, he thought he said it to himself.

  “We don’t calls it haunting.” Crawley gave Lewis an irritated glance. “Me and the boys, we don’t go around clanking chains or moaning or all that bilgewater. We just … what you would call, makes ourselves to home.”

  “It were terrible nasty and cold in that cave,” said Jonas, shivering fiercely at the memory. “Especially in winter! And we was there for many a year. So when this big house were built, this Shornoway, we was glad to come inside and make ourselves a nice, cozy place here.”

  Watching Jonas shiver, Lewis couldn’t help wondering if he had ever gotten over the effects of the cave.

  “Aye,” said Crawley, as if he were reading Lewi
s’s mind, “that cave were a misery, especially for our Jonas, being used to a warmer clime. And all these years since—”

  “Centuries!” said Moyle.

  “All these centuries,” repeated Crawley, “we’s been glad to have a home here with your family. Part of the family ourselves, you might say. Still, we knows where our real home is—on our ship. The Maria Louisa! Ever since we heard from your great-granddad that our ship were found and stowed in that little moo-see-um, why, we’ve been aiming to get ourselves there.”

  “It’s where we belongs,” said Moyle. “Your granddaddy, he promised to take us to that moo-see-um himself. But he were just too old! Couldn’t do it.”

  “We’s been waiting for you, lad,” said Skittles softly. “You’ll help us, won’t you?”

  The pirates all turned plaintive eyes on Lewis.

  “Me?” He shrank back. “Why do you need my help? Why can’t you just go there if you want?”

  The pirates looked suddenly uncomfortable.

  “Well, me and the boys,” said Captain Crawley, glancing around at his crew, most of whom were staring at the floor, “we been here a long time.”

  “We doesn’t get out much,” mumbled Skittles.

  “That’s not true,” said Moyle, giving Skittles a cuff. “We went to that picnic, didn’t we?”

  “You mean the church picnic?” said Skittles. “The one where we scared that poor skinny preacher fellow off the bridge? Why, that were back in 1902.”

  “Were it really?” said Moyle in amazement. “That long ago?”

  “Aye, it were a fine day in—”

  “Stow it!” roared Crawley. He turned to Lewis with a sickly-sweet smile. “You see, lad, we needs your help because some of us have, well … settled in. Gone soft, like.”

  Lewis tried to understand. “Are you saying you’re … scared?”