The Pirate's Coin

by Marianne Malone

  “I think … it’s possible. It depends on what the date is,” Ruthie answered, not wanting to get his hopes up.

  “If this is before the Revolutionary War,” Jack said thoughtfully, “Massachusetts wasn’t a state yet; it was still a colony. It would be good to know if we were about to walk into a Revolutionary War battle or something.” Jack actually sounded like that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

  They opened the gate and stepped out onto the road. A sign posted on a nearby façade read Main Street. They saw women carrying baskets laden with various supplies, and men pushing handcarts filled with wood, hay and piles of stuffed burlap sacks. No one stared at them since their clothing was perfectly authentic. Passing by a building, they heard the clank of metal on metal and looked in the broad doorway to see a blacksmith at work making horseshoes. Other wrought-iron objects such as pots and pans hung from the ceiling.

  “Perfect,” Ruthie said, noticing the next building. Through the rippled glass windowpanes they could see shelves lining the walls from floor to ceiling. It was a general store. Ruthie spied a stack of newspapers inside. She crossed the threshold to take a closer look.

  “The Boston Gazette,” she said to Jack. “June seventeenth, 1753! There’s our answer.”

  “And what is your question?” A man’s voice from behind the counter startled them.

  Ruthie hadn’t seen him and wished she had spoken more softly, but Jack said, “We were wondering if you sold the paper here.”

  “So I see,” the man behind the counter said. “Visiting?”

  “That’s right,” Ruthie replied.

  “From where?” the man asked. He was dressed just like pictures they’d seen of Ben Franklin, complete with wire-rimmed glasses that he peered over as he gave Ruthie and Jack a stern glance.

  “Boston,” Jack answered right off.

  “Do you want to purchase the Gazette?”

  “Um. No. We were just looking at the front page,” Ruthie said.

  “I’ll have no loitering in this establishment! Off with you both!”

  “At least we know the date,” Ruthie remarked once they were out in the street again. “Ten years after the date on your coin!”

  Jack pulled the coin from a pocket in his vest. It flashed at him. “I’m gonna ask that man …,” Jack began, and headed back into the store before he finished his sentence.

  Ruthie wasn’t sure whatever he planned to ask was a good idea, but talking Jack out of it would have been next to impossible. So she followed him in.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Jack started.

  The man was placing jars on a shelf. “Yes?”

  “Can you tell me where to find Jack Norfleet?”

  The man spun around to face them. “Why?”

  “It’s personal,” Jack answered boldly.

  “Luck be with you if you have business with a pirate!” He returned to his task. “Down at the harbor.”

  This news meant everything to Jack. They raced out the door and down the street, kicking up sandy dirt with every step.

  They approached a cross street and Jack looked down toward the waterfront. “Let’s go there.” As soon as he spoke, the coin pulsed brighter. “Must be the right way!” he said.

  Ruthie hustled to keep up with Jack, who, just as he had said before, seemed to be being tugged in that direction. The oceanfront was only a couple of hundred yards in front of them and the closer they got the more they could see of the busy harbor. Men worked on ships of all sizes and shapes; horse-pulled carts traveled on the road leading to the water.

  They were almost there when Jack stopped in his tracks. “There she is! The Avenger!” He quickened his pace like someone possessed.

  The ship was off to the left, not in the center of the harbor activity. It was large, with two tall masts, each holding three rectangular sails; behind them was a shorter mast with a single sail. Three smaller, triangular sails set at an angle were at the front and one odd-shaped sail was at the very rear of the ship. A long pointed rod jutted out from the prow like the sword of a swordfish.

  Nearing the ship, Ruthie saw the name first: not Avenger, but rather Clementine, painted on the wood boards of the bow.

  Jack saw it too. “But … it looked just like the one on the mantel.”

  “Let’s go closer,” Ruthie encouraged.

  Ruthie only knew the boats she had seen harbored in Lake Michigan—motorboats, small yachts, sailboats for recreation. She’d never seen one as impressive as this before. It bobbed in the water, the sails puffed up by the gentle breeze.

  Close to where they stood, near a pier that stretched out into the water, was a small, shingled structure with a sign over the door. Jack was still looking in the direction of the tall ship when Ruthie read the sign. In clear black lettering it said:

  JACK NORFLEET, SHIPWRIGHT

  “Jack! Look! We found him!” She felt something close to the electric tingling that Jack had been feeling since the first time they had neared room A12.

  The coin flickered like a tiny flame in Jack’s palm. He put it back in his pocket and without hesitating lifted his hand to knock on the door.

  “Wait!” Ruthie cautioned. “The man in the store … he didn’t seem to think this was such a good idea. What if Jack Norfleet’s—you know—not nice?”

  “Only one way to find out,” Jack said. He rapped on the door.

  They waited but there was no response. It was a very small building, barely bigger than a shack, so if anyone were inside, they would surely have heard the knock.

  “No one’s there.” Jack’s voice was heavy with disappointment.

  “Let’s walk on the pier. Maybe we’ll see him.”

  “Might as well,” Jack agreed glumly.

  The Clementine was moored to the pier by thick ropes tied to clusters of sturdy pylons sunk in the water. They walked along, getting a good close-up look at the ship and hearing the steady creaking of its timbers as it rose and fell with the waves. From this vantage point the white sails seemed even taller against the blue sky.

  “It’s beautiful,” Ruthie said.

  “Aye! That she is!” a voice behind them said. “The finest in the harbor.”

  Ruthie and Jack turned to see a woman who had just approached. She was young, perhaps about college age, Ruthie guessed, wearing a dark green dress edged with crisp white lace. She gazed at the Clementine.

  “Hello,” Ruthie said. “Do you know where we might find Jack Norfleet?”

  “More than a chance he’s on board. He doesn’t venture forth often,” the woman replied.

  “Do you know him?” Ruthie asked.

  “Only his reputation—which bridles my desire to meet him.”

  “What do you mean?” Jack responded.

  “It is said his temper is easily kindled,” the woman began. “I am therefore cautious to make his acquaintance, much as I wish to. I’m eager to convey to him the regard I have for his ship, how much pleasure it gives me each time I pass by.” The breeze blew and filled the sails into graceful arcs curving outward from the masts high above them. “Some stay far away from him, but I think a man who builds ships like this must be of good character. The commonly held opinion cannot be the summary of him.”

  “So you’ve never met him?” Ruthie hoped she understood this eighteenth-century English correctly.

  “In course I hope to, but my daring fails me in proportion to my esteem of his work.”

  Ruthie sensed herself translating as this woman spoke: She is intimidated because his work is so impressive. Jack seemed to understand.

  “You’re right. It’s a great-looking ship,” he agreed enthusiastically.

  “Forgive my manners.” The woman made a slight curtsy. “I’m Miss Wilshire.”

  “I’m Ruthie Stewart.”

  “Jack Tucker. Pleased to meet you.”

  “And I you.” She smiled. “You don’t live here?”

  “Boston,” Jack replied.

  “I shall wait here while you
find Mr. Norfleet. I should love an estimation of his mood. Perhaps today I will finally meet him—if you find him in agreeable temper.”

  “Sure. We’ll let you know,” Jack said. He turned and advanced toward the tall ship.

  Suddenly a board shot out in front of them, landing on the pier a few paces ahead. It was a plank with horizontal struts used for getting on and off the boat. Someone on board the ship had hoisted it out from the deck.

  “Avast!” a voice shouted at them. “Have you business here?”

  They looked up and saw a man dressed in brown canvas pants, a loose white shirt and a dark vest, unbuttoned. He wore a heavy leather belt with several knives and daggers hanging off it. His hair was long and pulled back in a ponytail, and a bandanna-like scarf was wrapped around his head. He didn’t exactly have a beard but he wasn’t clean-shaven. One word shot through Ruthie’s mind: pirate!

  17

  THE WHALE–TOOTH KNIFE

  “WE’RE LOOKING FOR JACK NORFLEET,” Jack called up to the man on the ship.

  With one foot on the deck, the other lifted to the plank and a hand on his hip, the man looked like he was posing for a movie poster. “I am Jack Norfleet.”

  On those words, Jack’s shoulders squared and Ruthie could sense his energy level surge. She thought that he might jump right up to the deck of the ship—without even needing the plank! He was standing just a few yards away from his great-times-six-grandfather, the man of his family’s legend!

  “I’ll ask you again—have you business here?”

  “We do,” Jack said. “My name is Jack Tucker and this is Ruthie Stewart. May we come aboard?” Jack asked with confidence, maybe because he felt the advantage of knowing this was his direct ancestor.

  Jack Norfleet eyed them thoroughly and then made a motion for them to come up the plank. He disappeared onto the deck.

  The plank was at a fairly steep angle and there were no handrails to grab on to. They had to scale about twelve feet from the pier to the deck, the choppy ocean directly under them. Holding on to the edge of the plank and climbing on all fours, Jack scrambled up first while Ruthie struggled with the heavy fabric of her dress. One false step and she could topple into the water.

  Jack reached the top and jumped onto the deck. Ruthie was about to do the same, when Jack Norfleet put his hand out for her. He still made her nervous but between the yardage of her long dress and the swaying of the ship she was glad to have the assistance.

  “Thank you,” she said. Even with this helpful gesture Ruthie found this man’s presence fearsome, although getting a closer look at his weathered face, she realized he might be younger than she first thought—older than a teenager, but not by much.

  The deck was beautiful and surprisingly large, Ruthie thought. She took a good look, reminding herself that she was standing on a ship in the year 1753!

  “So—what business have you with me?” Jack Norfleet asked.

  “You make boats, right?” Jack started.

  “I build ships,” Jack Norfleet corrected. He looked at Jack for some time and Jack at him. It was as if they recognized each other, which was impossible, of course. But Ruthie had to admit she did see something in each of their faces—around the eyes, and maybe the set of the mouth.

  “How old be you?” Jack Norfleet asked, still studying Jack’s face.

  “Almost twelve,” Jack answered. “Why?”

  “You remind me of someone. And we have the same name.”

  “We do,” Jack replied.

  Jack Norfleet knitted his brow and shook his head. “Well then, go on.”

  “Um, we’re from Boston, and Ruthie’s father is looking for someone to build him a bo—a ship,” Jack improvised. “He asked us to inspect your work.”

  Pretty good, Ruthie thought.

  “And he has no mistrust to enter into agreement with a pirate?” Jack Norfleet demanded, a note of bitterness in his voice.

  “The sign over there says shipwright,” Jack responded. “Which are you?”

  “ ’Tis not for me to judge.” Norfleet started toward the center of the deck, where stairs led down to the space below. Ruthie and Jack followed, watching how he had to duck in the stairway. Their own heads just barely cleared.

  They found themselves in a wide room. The ceiling was low, with hanging lanterns that rocked back and forth. Even if she got used to the movement of the ship, Ruthie thought, seeing these swinging objects all the time would be enough to make her seasick.

  A few narrow, horizontal windows let in light through the bowed walls and a broad table took up most of the center of the room. Benches were secured to the floor around it. Rolls of paper sat on the table, with ink pots and pens to one side. In another corner a small workbench held woodworking tools.

  “Is this where you work?” Ruthie asked.

  “In all but the foulest weather. I prefer being aboard ship.”

  Jack pointed to a wall of shelves containing several finely crafted model ships. “Did you make all these?”

  “Aye.”

  Ruthie and Jack surveyed the models while Jack Norfleet sat down on a bench, watching them.

  “Why does your father not come in person? Why send children?”

  “He couldn’t leave Boston,” Ruthie replied.

  “If your father is serious he should do me the honor of meeting face to face, man to man, not man to child!”

  “We’ll give him a report. He’ll come later,” Ruthie said, trying to hide her nerves. “He’s very busy.”

  Jack Norfleet rose and leaned into them. “So am I!” he bellowed.

  Ruthie wanted to leave but Jack asked, “Has each one of these models been built full size?”

  “Most.”

  “Look. This one is the Clementine!” Jack admired the beautiful twelve-inch version of the ship. “Did you build this ship for someone?”

  “No. She’s mine. Named after my mother, God rest her soul.” There was deep pride in his voice. Ruthie watched as it dawned on Jack that this woman Norfleet was talking about was also his ancestor.

  Ruthie gazed around the room again, impressed by the craftsmanship and hard work.

  “Did you also make this?” Jack asked, pointing to something that Ruthie didn’t quite recognize that rested near one of the models.

  “No, that is not of my making.”

  Ruthie got a better look and saw that it was a sculpture of sorts, small, smooth and white, in the shape of a whale.

  “Where did you get it?” Jack asked.

  “I’ve been on ships since I was a lad and that came in trade from sailors on the other ocean,” Jack Norfleet explained. “I appreciated the hand of the artist.”

  Ruthie wondered if he meant the Pacific Ocean but she decided not to ask and said instead, “My father will be pleased with your skill.”

  “Why did you ask us if Ruthie’s father worried about working with a pirate?” Jack asked.

  Jack Norfleet took a knife with what looked like an ivory handle from his belt and stabbed it into the table. Ruthie stiffened.

  “Because I was—I am—labeled a pirate, and I take neither pride nor remorse in the fact. That it causes vexation to others is not my affair. But I like to know the rectitude of a man before I work for him.”

  Ruthie was pretty sure she knew what remorse meant, but vexation and rectitude sounded foreign to her. “Does that mean you’re a pirate that doesn’t go pirating anymore?”

  This made Jack Norfleet laugh, and it was a full, rich sound, which relaxed Ruthie somewhat. “You seem an honest twosome. I will recount my history, which you may advance to Miss Stewart’s father.”

  Like a game of telephone, some of the details of Jack’s pirate ancestor’s life had been transformed over the generations of telling it. Now Jack and Ruthie got to hear the real story from the man himself! Jack Norfleet told of how, as a boy from England, he and his family—mother, father, two brothers and a sister—had begun the voyage to the colonies in the new land of America. They
were to be farmers and were ready to work hard, away from the strong-handed rule of King George and the powerful nobility. Jack Norfleet spoke of the bravery of his parents.

  “Crossing the ocean brings great risk and we faced more than our share. A brutal storm came up and our ship was lost, along with all on board.”

  “Except you,” Jack added.

  “Aye. Clinging to a board, half dead, I was plucked from the water by a ship of pirates, most of them former privateers.”

  “What’s a privateer?” Ruthie asked, fascinated by the story.

  “Those who earned their keep at the request of the king, doing the dirty work of claiming enemy ships and treasures on his behalf. Some good men, some bad.”

  “Why did they become pirates?” Jack asked.

  “They tired of risking their necks for little pay. If they were thieving for the king, they could readily thieve for themselves. But I was a mere lad, whose family had all been claimed by the deep.”

  “How old were you when that happened?” Jack asked.

  “Eight years of age. I lived six years on that vessel—the Avenger, she was named. I learned how to sail and repair a ship. I learned how to fish in the deep sea. I learned how to board and plunder another vessel, and how to divide the treasure equally. Most important, I learned whom to trust and whom to be wary of.” He yanked the knife free from the table where he’d jabbed it and ran his finger along the sharp edge of the blade. Ruthie figured anyone who saw him do that would not dare cross him.

  He continued. “The Avenger was a strong ship but she was taken in the end by a nor’easter. Crashed on a shoal not far from this harbor. Some of us dove in and swam. Few made it to shore. The men who did not run were taken to Boston and hanged for piracy. I sat in prison for some time whilst the citizens argued over my fate. Some said I was a common thief, having been formed already to the pirate’s life; others had pity for my plight because I was young. Finally I was freed. But to this day, the division concerning my reputation remains.”

  Jack was enthralled. “What did you do then?”

  “What could I do? I had only a few coins in my pockets. But I had skills that I’d learned on the Avenger. I had my wit and my muscle and put them to work here in the harbor.”