The Pirate's Coin

by Marianne Malone

“It’s frustrating that it happened today. I want to find out what’s going on with my coin. What if there’s something special about A12?”

  “Tuesday is a half day—we can check that room then. And I want to know more about Phoebe’s room.”

  The bus had arrived at his corner. “Let’s go,” he said, hopping up from his seat.

  At the door to his building, Jack reached into his pocket for his house key, pulling the tag out as well. He dropped it in Ruthie’s open palm.

  “Still warm and glowing,” she said.

  They felt mesmerized by the pulsing light on the otherwise ragged piece of metal. But the glow also challenged Ruthie. Her puzzlement registered in deep creases on her forehead.

  “I keep thinking about the box I saw at Kendra’s—the one that looked like the handbag. The handbag hid the tag and the tag led us to this ledger. Maybe Mrs. Thorne didn’t even know about it.”

  “Maybe. But it sure seems like everything’s connected,” Jack suggested.

  9

  KENDRA’S SURPRISE

  KIDS ALL OVER THE CITY had hoped that the power would be out for at least a day or two. But no luck. The power was restored by early Sunday evening and schools were open as usual on Monday.

  During the final period of the day, Ms. Biddle’s class listened to the last of the genealogy presentations. A classmate from Brazil, Miguel, sounded like his family had nothing but adventure in each generation, and Katie Hobson told about how her grandfather had known the Beatles in Liverpool, England. Kendra was the last to present.

  “I am also the descendant of a slave,” she said proudly. Interestingly, two other classmates had already presented on slave ancestors last week. “She was a woman who escaped from slavery before the Civil War and made a life for herself as a free woman in Chicago. We don’t have records of how she became free, but somehow she managed to. We know that it was very dangerous because African Americans in the North could still be recaptured and sent back to the South. And we know she came to the city with her young son and started a business, which was handed down to the next two generations.”

  Kendra went on to tell the story of how the business had been expanded by her great-grandmother—who was the granddaughter of the slave—into a very successful enterprise. She held up the framed picture of the woman that Ruthie had seen hanging in the hallway at Kendra’s house.

  “This photo was taken at the height of her career. Very few women owned businesses back then and segregation laws still existed in the United States.”

  Kendra paused while Ms. Biddle reminded the class about laws that said African American people could not go to the same schools or drink from the same drinking fountains as white people. Black people could sit only at the back of buses, and only if all the white people had seats already. “So Kendra’s great-grandmother’s accomplishments were exceptional,” Ms. Biddle added.

  But the story took a turn. Kendra explained how in Chicago in the 1920s and 1930s powerful “bosses” ran something called the mob. Ruthie remembered what Jack had told her about Al Capone and other gangsters. He had almost made them sound exciting and glamorous. But Kendra’s family history illustrated just how bad these people were. A woman—and especially an African American woman—could easily be victimized. Because her business was so profitable, they had stolen company secrets from her, all the while accusing her of stealing from them. Eventually the business was lost in a lawsuit that pitted her against these “bosses.” They dragged her name through the dirt and ruined her reputation, labeling her a thief.

  Kendra held up some old newspaper clippings about the case. “Crooked Colored Woman Steals Formulas,” one headline stated. Another read, “No Evidence, No Proof: Guilty.” “Claims Found Invalid, Colored Woman Found Guilty of Criminal Activity,” the final headline shouted in bold type. How awful, Ruthie noted, that the headlines don’t even mention Kendra’s great-grandmother by name.

  Photos taken during the trial were passed around the room, and the class saw a tired and sad face, nothing like the vibrant woman in the earlier, framed image. Ruthie had the strangest sensation—just like she’d felt at Kendra’s house—that the woman in the pictures looked familiar. She looked at Kendra in front of the class. No, they don’t really look alike.

  Ms. Biddle spoke up. “Kendra, this is fascinating. Tell us again, what kind of business did she start?”

  “Health care products,” Kendra stated.

  “And are you saying that she lost her business to the mob because she couldn’t prove that the product formulas were her family’s recipes?”

  “Yes, exactly,” Kendra answered. This must be the family scandal that Lydia had referred to, Ruthie figured. Kendra continued. “My mom has made it a personal goal to set the record straight. Her family knows the formulas belonged to them because they were also passed down orally; all the women in her family knew them and used them. And she remembers how honest and hardworking her grandmother was.” Kendra paused. “She wasn’t a criminal.” There was a slight catch in Kendra’s voice when she said this.

  Kendra went on. “My mom’s had a hard time finding out more information about the lawsuit against my great-grandmother. But she says she won’t quit until it’s made right—that since her slave ancestor risked so much to be free, our family has an obligation to her.” Ruthie could see that Kendra felt as strongly about this part of her family’s history as her mother did.

  Kendra opened a folder containing documents about her slave ancestor. She passed out photocopies for the class to look at. “These were handed down in our family.” Ruthie thought the handouts might be boring. But when the paper landed on her desk, she could barely believe her eyes.

  The document was from the city of Charleston, South Carolina, in the year 1835 and seemed to be an official license for a female slave who was to be hired out to another household. At the top of the page she read,

  Servant License Granted #587

  That number! It was the same number on Phoebe’s tag! Ruthie couldn’t even blink. Jack hadn’t seen the document yet, but Ruthie shot her hand up.

  Just to be certain—and trying to keep her voice calm and normal sounding—Ruthie asked, “Kendra, what kind of health care products did her business make?”

  “She invented lotions and soaps and things like teas and home remedies made from herbal extracts. It was how she supported herself after being a slave. It was her granddaughter—my great-grandmother—who really turned it into a profitable business, though.”

  Ruthie’s heart thudded in her chest and her hands shook as she came to the lines at the bottom of the document:

  Owner: Martin Gillis

  Hiring out female slave to: Mr. Robert Smith

  Age of said slave: 10 years

  Name of slave: Phoebe Monroe

  The document finally made its way to Jack’s desk. Ruthie saw his jaw drop. He looked at her and mouthed, “Phoebe!”

  10

  ASK ISABELLE

  RUTHIE WOKE UP ON TUESDAY morning feeling tense and agitated. She sat up and tried breathing slowly to shake it off. Getting dressed for school, she heard the conversation between Phoebe and her parents over and over in her mind, talking about freedom and trying to make their lives safe.

  And she couldn’t stop thinking of Kendra’s story about Phoebe and her descendants. How could such a terrible thing happen to someone who was innocent?

  Ruthie wasn’t sure what to do. She and Jack had found something—the ledger—that could mean so much to Kendra and her family. It could prove that their ancestor had invented the formulas! The ledger was also evidence of how diligently and how long Phoebe had worked on her project.

  And then to have it all stolen from her family!

  Outrage boiled inside her. Kendra’s family wasn’t looking to regain the stolen business. Kendra’s parents were successful and prosperous in their own right and didn’t need the money. But they were seeking justice!

  Ruthie wanted to charge to the museum, grab
the ledger from the cabinet and rush it straight to Kendra’s family.

  But she couldn’t just hand it over and say, Hey, look at this! Everyone would surely ask where she and Jack had found it, and they couldn’t tell the truth about that. She had to figure out a solution—one that protected the secret of the rooms but also let them return the ledger to Phoebe’s descendants.

  A whirlpool of worries swirled in Ruthie’s mind. She and Jack knew that other people had already visited the rooms by way of magic. Who had put the ledger in the cabinet, and what if that person was still alive? What if people related to the gangsters were still out there? There were so many what-ifs! Ruthie knew she and Jack had to proceed with caution.

  But Ruthie felt certain that finding out how—and why—the ledger ended up in the curtained cabinet would provide answers. Or at least help them figure out what to tell Kendra about the ledger.

  Ruthie decided the first place to look was in the Thorne Rooms archive. It was a half day on Tuesday, so Ruthie and Jack were free for the whole afternoon. They hopped on the bus as soon as school let out, inhaling sandwiches on the way.

  Jack had already emailed the archivist. He told her they were doing another extra-credit report, like the one they had written in February, and convinced her to let them come without a chaperone, since she knew them now.

  “Thanks for letting us work here on short notice,” Ruthie said to the archivist after she’d brought out the files for room A29.

  Jack added, “And may I please see the files for room A12 too?”

  “The Cape Cod room? Sure.” The archivist went to get them.

  Jack shot a glare at Ruthie. “Cape Cod? You didn’t tell me A12 was a Cape Cod room!”

  “Sheesh,” Ruthie responded. “I know the catalogue pretty well but not perfectly. I told you it was Massachusetts at least.”

  “Right. Sorry,” Jack apologized. “It’s just that it makes a big difference. Jack Norfleet’s ship sank near Cape Cod.”

  “I remember,” she replied. “I’ve been so preoccupied with Phoebe’s room, I never thought to look in the catalogue for some kind of clue. You’re right—it makes a huge difference.”

  The archivist returned with a daunting stack of papers and they got to work. Ruthie knew Jack would stay focused on the Cape Cod room. She was determined to stay focused on the other task: find anything related to Phoebe, her slave tag, the handbag and the ledger—whatever might help return it to Kendra’s family.

  The problem was, Ruthie wasn’t precisely sure what she was looking for. Any little hint might lead to an explanation. Surely somebody, at some time, knew why the ledger had been left in the South Carolina room. Ruthie hoped she would recognize something unusual, something that didn’t belong. Those details could be important.

  Jack ferociously scoured the files for the Cape Cod room and right off he had some luck. On an invoice for a desk and a model ship in a bottle he saw an asterisk in red ink next to them. A note at the bottom said, These two rare and animated items came as a pair of antiques from Boston. They are not to be separated.

  “I bet that’s important,” Jack said excitedly. “We know what Mrs. Thorne meant when she used the word animated.”

  Some files contained detailed records of costs for materials, while some were letters from antiques and miniature dealers. Others were quick sketches of furniture, still others elaborate room plans. There was so much information to look through. But about anything pertaining to her list they were coming up empty-handed.

  After a couple of hours Ruthie sighed and pushed back in her chair. “I haven’t found anything yet, and look at this pile.”

  She dreaded the thought of sifting through the stack but dug in again. After another hour something caught her eye. At the bottom of a page that described the dimensions and details of the rug in the room—the rug that matched Ruthie’s handbag—a small handwritten note read:

  “Look,” Ruthie said to Jack. “Maybe this is something.”

  “Interesting. Who’s Isabelle?”

  “Let’s go back over the files again to see if this name shows up anywhere else,” Ruthie suggested.

  They reopened the files and began carefully checking every page, but they had only gotten through a few pages when the archivist approached.

  “I’m sorry, but we’ll be closing soon. I’ll have to ask you to finish now,” she announced. “Any luck?”

  “Only a little,” Ruthie answered. “Can you tell us anything about someone named Isabelle who might have been involved with the rooms?” She showed the writing to the archivist. “And do you have any idea who might’ve written the name here?”

  “Hmmm. I don’t recognize the handwriting. It could have been a number of people who wrote that.…” She went to another file cabinet, searched for a minute and then pulled out a manila folder. “I’m sure the name refers to someone who used to volunteer here many years ago. I’ve heard stories about her but I’m not even sure she’s still alive. I imagine she’d be very old by now.” She scanned sheets of paper until she found what she was looking for. “Here it is: Isabelle St. Pierre. I’m surprised this is the first time you’ve come across her name. She was very important to Mrs. Thorne at one time.”

  She handed the paper to Ruthie; it was a list of names with addresses on it. Toward the bottom she saw Isabelle St. Pierre, Maison Gris, Wadsworth Street.

  “That’s not exactly an address,” Jack noted. He pulled out his phone and did a quick search, typing in the name for an address or phone number. “Nothing,” he said.

  “ ‘Maison Gris’ means ‘Gray House,’ ” Ruthie translated the French words.

  “I know where Wadsworth Street is. It’s not far.” Jack checked his watch. “But it’s too late to go today.”

  They thanked the archivist and then grabbed their backpacks to leave.

  “I bet we’ll find her,” Jack said.

  “I just hope she’ll be able to answer our questions,” Ruthie replied.

  Mindlessly setting the table for dinner, Ruthie focused on everything except what she was doing. She and Jack had decided the next thing to do was to go back and get the ledger, so they would have it when they went to look for Isabelle St. Pierre. Even if they never found her, it wasn’t doing anybody any good hidden away in the curtained cabinet in the room from South Carolina. But between Jack having baseball practice and Ruthie a dentist appointment, they had to wait until Friday after school.

  And now she couldn’t stop thinking about Kendra’s voice, the ledger, Isabelle St. Pierre, even Jack’s coin. Mostly, though, she thought about Phoebe and the dangers she must have faced in her life.

  “Ruthie—forks on the left!” her mom said, passing by the table. “Anyone home?”

  “Oops,” she responded vaguely, and switched the utensils.

  At dinner she asked her dad—who was a history teacher and loved to answer Ruthie’s questions—to tell her more about that time in America, around the Civil War.

  “Sometimes we think that because the Civil War ended slavery, the freed slaves could go about their lives just like white Americans could,” he explained. “Unfortunately, it didn’t always work out that way and freedom didn’t guarantee a safe and comfortable life.”

  “But what about slaves who made it to the North before the Civil War?” Ruthie asked.

  “A slave owner could follow an escapee to a free state and capture and haul him or her right back into slavery,” her dad answered.

  “What happened to slaves who saved money and bought their freedom? Were they safe?”

  “There are some very interesting histories about that. If someone had been born into slavery, they often found it difficult to convince society that they deserved to be free. Often a slave owner would take the money and deny the payment ever happened. And the laws were rarely in the slave’s favor.”

  Ruthie tried to imagine what it would be like if her own family had had such a history. How it would make her feel to know that her own great-great
-grandparent had suffered such unfair treatment. She remembered the demeaning headlines that Kendra had showed the class, and understood why Kendra and Kendra’s mom wanted the truth to be told. And Ruthie knew that truth! It preoccupied her so much that she couldn’t keep her mind on anything else, and she drifted through the next few days like a balloon about to burst. One way or another, she was going to see the ledger—and the truth—delivered to Kendra’s family.

  11

  SLINGSHOT

  “BUT WE ONLY HAVE TILL five o’clock,” Ruthie argued as she and Jack marched into the museum and down the wide staircase. It was Friday after school, the first chance they’d had since Tuesday to go back to the rooms. The debate had started on the bus as to which to go to first—A12, the Cape Cod room, or A29, the South Carolina room.

  “Aw, c’mon. Let’s go to the Cape Cod room first, to see about my coin,” Jack urged.

  Ruthie wanted to agree—because she would have been anxious to do the same thing if she were Jack—but she felt getting the ledger was job number one.

  “We really should go to the South Carolina room first. We have to help Phoebe—I mean Kendra.” Ruthie felt so strongly about this that she was having a hard time keeping the past and the present straight. “It’ll only take me a second to grab it,” she promised. “We can do both.”

  They found Gallery 11 crowded with a large docent-led tour congregating near the entrance. Ruthie and Jack had selfishly come to think of other museum visitors as one big nuisance.

  They hovered for what seemed like an eternity near the alcove door. Ruthie noticed a guard looking straight at them, so she stepped a few feet away and gazed into room E3, an ornate English reception room with a black-and-white checkerboard floor and an elaborately painted ceiling. Jack stood next to her.

  “Excuse me,” the guard said, tapping Ruthie on the shoulder.

  Ruthie stiffened and turned. “Yes?”

  “Are you the kids who caught the thief?” the guard asked. She was a round woman with a jolly face.