by Linda Bailey
He waved. Would they recognize him? His father disappeared and returned a moment later, holding something to his face. Binoculars. Mr. Dearborn became suddenly very excited, waving and jumping up and down. He passed the binoculars to Mrs. Binchy, who started bouncing around too.
Lewis waved back with both arms. With his whole body!
“A grand old house,” said Crawley behind him. “We was glad to have it all them years. How’s your sea legs, lad?”
“Good,” said Lewis. “I like it out here on the ocean. Things look different.” His school had appeared much smaller. His house looked more beautiful and perfectly placed.
More than anything, he was amazed at the coincidence. On her journey out of the bay, the Maria Louisa had come close to shore only twice—and those two places just happened to be his school and his house. He mentioned this to Captain Crawley.
“Weren’t no coincy-dence,” said the pirate. “It were good sailing.”
“You mean … you did it on purpose?”
“Aye. A chance to say good-bye, like.”
“Good-bye?” A jolt, like electricity, ran through Lewis’s body.
“Aye, lad. To your school. To your house. You’re coming with us, ain’t you?”
Seconds passed, during which Lewis could hardly breathe. He loved being here. Riding the Maria Louisa’s mast had been probably the best moment of his life. But … good-bye?
“Where are you going?”
Crawley smiled. “Ah, laddie. Do you have to ask?”
Lewis swallowed hard. His mouth could hardly form the word. “Libertalia?”
Crawley’s good eye closed for a moment, and he breathed deeply. “Libertalia.”
“But …” said Lewis, and for a moment that’s all he could get out. “But is it real?”
“Real enough,” said Crawley.
“I thought that Libertalia was like Neverland. Or Treasure Island. A story place. Made up.”
“Ah, what’s a story, lad?” said Crawley. “Life is a story. Your life is one. Mine’s another. Libertalia? It’s as real as …” He leaned in close to whisper, “You and me.”
Lewis turned and stared at the horizon. They were almost out of the bay now.
The captain’s voice in his ear was low and gentle. “They won’t like it back there, you know—what you done today. Us sailing away in the Maria Louisa? There’ll be the devil to pay for you, young Lewis, if you stay.”
“I know,” said Lewis.
“You’re one of us now,” murmured the captain. “You helped us take this ship. You’ll swing for it, lad.”
Lewis turned with a half-smile. “They don’t hang pirates anymore, Captain Crawley.”
The captain blinked. “They don’t?”
Lewis shook his head. “Especially if they’re eleven years old.”
Gazing at the horizon, bright with the promise of adventure, he wondered what would await him back on land. Not hanging. But Crawley was right that Lewis would be in terrible trouble. He remembered the shattering of the museum window, and the policemen running red-faced down the lawn.
Then he remembered Mrs. Sobowski. She had seen. She had understood. Lewis was pretty sure Mrs. Sobowski would be on his side.
“And my dad,” he whispered. “And Mrs. Binchy. And Abbie. And … my mom, too, probably.” He could think of others. In fact, there seemed to be a surprising number of people who might be on Lewis Dearborn’s side back on land.
“Me and the boys,” said Crawley after a moment, “we’d be proud as lords to have you on our crew. Why, seeing you run up those ropes—it done my heart good.”
“It’s my pirate blood,” said Lewis.
Then, of course, he had to explain. Crawley was dumbfounded. He grabbed Lewis and hauled him around the deck, telling one pirate after another about Laughing Harry Douglas. They stared into Lewis’s eyes as if he were the ghost of their long-lost shipmate, reincarnated and returned to take his place again on the crew.
“Aye,” they said. “I see the likeness. I do! I do!”
Lewis couldn’t imagine how there could be any family resemblance between him and Laughing Harry after so many generations. But something Bellows said made it clear.
“Aye,” he agreed. “Harry were a bold ’un. Just like this lad here.”
Crawley nodded. “That’s what your great-grand-daddy told us, young Lewis. I never believed him. But he were right!”
Lewis gazed back to shore. The Maria Louisa was moving farther out to sea with every moment. Shornoway grew smaller. As it shrunk, a feeling of profound longing came over Lewis, all the stronger because he wasn’t quite sure what he longed for. The rocking of the great ship beneath his feet was a powerful thing. But Shornoway touched his heart.
Crawley was at his shoulder again, whispering, “Will you sail with us, lad? To Libertalia?”
Lewis stared hard at the white spot that was now Shornoway. He turned to Captain Crawley.
“I think,” he said slowly, “I’ve already been there.”
The pirate squinted back out of his one penetrating eye. “Aye, lad,” he murmured. “I believes you have.”
A yell rang out from the foredeck.
“There!” cried Moyle, pointing. “There on them rocks, straight ahead. That were where we foundered before. If we don’t look smart, we’ll do it again.”
Crawley barked out orders. The crew raced to obey. Crawley turned to Lewis. “Can you make it back in a launch, lad?” He pointed at a rowboat. “We can lower one for you. Leastways, we can try. With the sea this rough, it’ll be terrible risky. Can you hang on?”
Lewis nodded. “I’m good at hanging on.”
He stared at the sea—a mass of heaving, roiling waves. They churned and broke against the ship’s side. What would it be like in a tiny boat? What if the boat flipped, or smashed against the hull of the rolling ship? Could he swim to shore?
And what did such questions matter when there was no choice?
“I can make it,” he said.
He turned to say good-bye to the crew. But they were rushing about, following Crawley’s orders. Only the captain and Mary-Adam were near. The cabin girl darted forward. “I will miss you sorely, Lewis Dearborn. But you are choosing right.”
He had to wait until enough crew was available to lower the rowboat. As he was about to climb in, Crawley spoke again, right into his ear, and Lewis was reminded of the first time he had heard that voice, in his brand-new room at Shornoway. It seemed like years ago.
“I won’t say good-bye, lad. Just fare ye well. We never knows about fate. Me and the boys might sail these waters again.”
Lewis gasped. “You might come back?” He couldn’t help adding, “When?”
There was a long pause. Crawley grinned his gap-toothed grin. “Mayhap when you needs us again.”
Lewis looked away so that the captain couldn’t see his eyes fill. He climbed inside the little boat, then turned to Crawley.
“Or mayhap,” he said, “when you needs me again.”
Crawley roared with laughter. “Aye!” he cried. “We may have need of a lad such as you. Now go!”
The crew readied the rowboat quickly. Lewis crouched inside, holding tight to the sides as the little boat was raised off the deck, swinging from side to side.
“It ain’t right,” yelled Jack the Rat. “It’s too rough. The laddie will drown!”
Lewis stared in surprise. The pirate’s odd, angry face was contorted with alarm. Lewis couldn’t believe it. Jack the Rat was worried about him.
“It’s okay, Jack,” he said. “Lower away!”
The rowboat rocked and banged against the ship’s side—two, three, five times—as it went down, so hard Lewis was sure it would splinter to bits. He closed his eyes. Suddenly, with a stomach-churning drop, the boat fell into the ocean.
It hit the water so hard, Lewis flew forward, his chin ramming into a cross bench. It stung horribly, but that was nothing to the rush of freezing water that surged in as the boat
tipped wildly to one side. Gasping, Lewis held on, leaning in the opposite direction. Great-Granddad’s face appeared in his mind, yelling something. Lewis couldn’t tell what, but he knew it was encouraging.
He stayed low. He hung on.
The boat rocked again, once, twice, before reaching such equilibrium as was possible in the churning sea.
Lewis sat up straight. He shivered and looked around. The Maria Louisa was already far away. At her stern, Lewis could see the ghostly figures, growing smaller—Crawley, Mary-Adam, Jack.
He waved.
They waved back. Then they were gone.
Lewis sat for a moment. Then he put his hands on the oars. Swaying with the sea’s movement, fingers icy, he looked backward over his shoulder toward land.
It was a long way. Shornoway was just a white spot with a tiny point for the tower. Lewis focused on that point. He began to row.
At first, it seemed impossible. The boat pitched and tossed, and his muscles screamed with the effort. But the incoming waves aided his struggles, and when he looked again, he could see tiny figures. Up in the tower window, the roundish figure of Mrs Binchy. Down on the beach, his father, wading knee-deep into the water to meet him.
They looked dear and important—but strange, too, like people he had known a long time ago. Hauling his boat through the sea, his arms sore and aching, he realized that he barely knew himself anymore. He felt as if he’d been on a long journey. The Shornoway that was waiting—and Tandy Bay, and Tandy Bay School—looked like different places from the places he’d left.
Better places, he thought. Happier places.
As he closed in on shore, he thought of Great-Granddad, feeling the old man’s presence in the boat. He thought about the pirates, whose drowned bodies had washed ashore at exactly this place all those years ago.
Letting go of the oars, he turned in the boat to face his home. He leaned forward, smiling, as he allowed the waves to carry him in. He felt as if he was arriving on this shore for the very first time.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Anyone who writes a pirate novel must rightfully thank Robert Louis Stevenson and J. M. Barrie for their enduring pirate characters and stories—bright beacons for the rest of us to follow.
Secondly, I’m very grateful to the BC Arts Council and Walter Quan for the writer’s grant that got Seven Dead Pirates started.
Being a first reader of a novel manuscript can be a thankless task, so let me express my deepest appreciation for the comments of Deborah Hodge, Ellen McGinn, Norma Charles and Maurice Verkaar. Other writing pals who offered feedback and wisdom include Margriet Ruurs, Beryl Young, Susin Nielsen, Nan Gregory, Ellen Schwartz, Berny Lucas, Ainslie Manson, Kathie Shoemaker, Andrea Spalding and Sheryl McFarlane.
How lucky can a gal get to have friends with lovely island homes who share them generously as writing retreats for a nautical tale? My heartfelt gratitude to Ellen McGinn, Susin Nielsen, Ainslie Manson and Margriet Ruurs.
I am lucky again to have a so-smart, so-passionate agent in Hilary McMahon. And lucky yet again with the amazing Tara Walker—editor, pal and sometimes even sailing advisor! Thank you, and thanks to copyeditor Jennifer Stokes, proofreader Shana Hayes and to the Tundra / Penguin Random House team—Terri Nimmo, Pamela Osti and Sylvia Chan.
Finally, and up close, I am always inspired by my daughters, Lia and Tess, whom I admire to no end, not least for their spirit of adventure. And to Maurice, a whole boatload of thanks—for naming most of the pirates in this book (Jack the Rat, gosh!) and for being such a generous, insightful listener.
