The Pirate's Coin

by Marianne Malone

  Kendra’s mother proceeded to open the tissue-wrapped will and finally the beaded handbag, her look of disbelief growing with each.

  “And see what’s inside the handbag,” Ruthie prompted.

  Mrs. Connor lifted the slave tag from the handbag and read the still-legible number 587. After a deep inhale, she said, “This is Phoebe’s slave tag! I knew it had to have existed—but I never, ever hoped to see it! Look, Kendra.”

  She dropped the tag onto Kendra’s palm. It was clear the magic had vanished, as if for all these years it had been waiting for someone to find the hidden items and return them to the rightful owners. The tag was a plain dull metal, but fascinating nonetheless, now that everyone knew its history.

  “Mom,” Kendra exclaimed, popping off the couch, “the handbag looks just like our little box!” She picked up the needlepoint-covered pillbox that Ruthie had noticed during the birthday party.

  “Undoubtedly made by the same hand,” Mrs. McVittie commented.

  “I know that the pillbox was given to Phoebe by an abolitionist who helped her travel north,” Mrs. Connor told them. “How did you find all of this, Minerva?”

  “Yeah—and what do you guys have to do with it?” Kendra asked Ruthie and Jack.

  Ruthie, Jack and Mrs. McVittie all turned to Isabelle.

  “Unwittingly, I had these objects in my possession, and were it not for Ruthie and Jack, they might never have made their way back to your family.

  “As you see,” she continued, “I’m getting along in years and have been revising my own will to properly dispose of my possessions. I contacted Minerva about some old books and antiques. She took a few items to her shop to do research on them. Ruthie and Jack saw the ledger there.”

  “It was just after you gave your presentation, Kendra. The ledger had the name Gillis on it. Just like on the documents you showed. And it was from Charleston,” Ruthie explained.

  “So we began digging,” Mrs. McVittie went on, “and found that Isabelle had all these things.”

  “But why did you have them in the first place?” Mrs. Connor asked.

  “When I was a young woman, I worked for Narcissa Thorne in her studio,” Isabelle started.

  “The Thorne Rooms lady?” Kendra asked.

  “The very same. Her chauffeur was Eugene Monroe—”

  “My great-grandfather!” Mrs. Connor exclaimed.

  “Precisely,” Isabelle said. “For some reason, these items ended up among Mrs. Throne’s possessions. She willed them to me—along with other memorabilia—when she died in the 1960s. I had no idea that they were important.” Then she added, “I’m so sorry.”

  Ruthie hoped Kendra and her mother would believe this explanation. Mrs. Connor sat quietly, appearing to slowly grasp what she’d just heard.

  “This takes my breath away,” Mrs. Connor said. “My grandmother’s name will be cleared. I have always hoped there would be some way I could prove that she was an honest woman, that the business and all the formulas were her inventions. She was so … dishonored.” She paused, reaching for a tissue. “Isabelle, did you know my great-grandfather Eugene?”

  “Yes. He was a lovely man, although he was already quite old when I came to work for Narcissa. I can only assume that he gave her all of these documents.” Ruthie watched how carefully Isabelle chose her words. “I wish I could tell you why.”

  “This is remarkable,” Mrs. Connor said, getting up. “And fills in so many gaps for us. I didn’t know how she got out of the South. I assumed she had run away from slavery, but the letter says she bought her freedom.”

  “That’s right,” Ruthie said. “She was very brave.”

  “Let me show you all something.” Mrs. Connor walked across the room to a bookshelf. She lifted a frame containing not a picture but some writing. The paper under the glass was yellowed with age. She laid it on the table for all to see. “This had been passed down in a family Bible. I had it framed.”

  That’s Phoebe’s handwriting! Ruthie thought, chills running up her spine when she saw the distinctive script that matched that of the letter exactly. “What does it say?” she asked.

  It was a poem. Mrs. Connor read aloud.

  ’Twas in the cool and moonless night,

  When I, with angels, did take flight

  To seek a fair and peaceful home

  Where sable-colored souls might roam

  About and do their work in course

  Without the owner’s threat of force.

  One’s life a number on a tag,

  One precious soul, clasped in a bag

  Of richly beaded greens and golds.

  The progress northward not in vain,

  At last to live released from pain.

  ’Twas magic that we did imbue

  Upon the tag, for fortune’s few.

  How small my life, hidden away,

  Intrepid traveler, till break of day,

  When thus did I, like sunlight, rise

  From dark, upward toward azure skies.

  Prepared to meet the life I chose.

  The measure of one woman grows.

  Phoebe Monroe, 1855

  The four guests looked from one to another, astonished.

  “That is a beautiful, extraordinary poem,” said Mrs. McVittie, finally.

  “In the letter, she called the abolitionists and Quakers her angels,” Jack noted, pointing to the letter on the table. “Because they helped her travel safely.”

  “I’ve always thought the symbolism was so poignant, as if she thought the world saw her as insignificant. It wasn’t until she gained her freedom that she could be measured as a person in full.” Mrs. Connor picked up the tag and closed her fingers around it. “And then, after all she went through, to have her granddaughter’s name dragged through the mud … I’m glad Phoebe was not around to witness that.”

  Kendra reached her arms around her mother and gave her a hug. “Now everyone can know what really happened, Mom.”

  With her arms still wrapped around Kendra, Genie Connor’s eyes sparkled and a bright smile spread across her face. They had had so much success in their lives, but setting the record straight and restoring honor to their family seemed to be what they wanted more than anything.

  “I’m especially grateful to have her slave tag—which I think she thought of as a good-luck charm—and the handbag, the very handbag that she carried it in to freedom.” She shook her head, taking it all in.

  Even for a slave who had legally purchased her freedom, the trek north was filled with peril, Ruthie remembered her dad explaining. So Phoebe had taken an extra measure of security. But she kept silent, certain that Jack, Mrs. McVittie and Isabelle were all thinking what she was thinking.

  One precious soul, clasped in a bag

  Of richly beaded greens and golds.

  The poem said it all: Phoebe, using the magic of the tag, had traveled north, safely hidden in the handbag itself!

  24

  AWARDS AND REWARDS

  IT FINALLY CAME—THE LAST day of sixth grade. Ruthie could hardly believe it. She was glad that the latest pieces of the Thorne Rooms puzzle had been put into place so that she could focus on this moment. Summer was here, and then in the fall they’d all be seventh graders, moving to the other wing of the school.

  Ms. Biddle stood at the front of the class giving out awards, something she did every year and which everyone looked forward to. They were not the usual kind, for academic achievements, but rather for some unique part of a student’s character, and each student got one. Ben Romero received the NASA Astronaut award, because he always stayed calm in stressful situations. Kendra won the Picasso award for her creativity, and Amanda Liu the Lucille Ball award for her ability to make people laugh.

  “Ruthie and Jack—just when I thought it couldn’t get any more impressive,” Ms. Biddle began, “Kendra tells us you found her family’s missing documents! I almost split one award for the two of you, after what you’ve done together this year. But that wou
ldn’t be fair because, even though you’ve worked as a team, you each brought your own talents to bear. So Ruthie, I award you the Agatha Christie award for thorough research and skillful investigation. Jack, I’m presenting you with the Lewis and Clark award for your fearless determination and adventurous nature.” There was another round of applause. They’d received round one earlier when Kendra reported the story to the whole class.

  It felt good, Ruthie thought. She liked what Ms. Biddle had said about them and that she had noticed their individual strengths. But no matter how terrific the day was so far, it was about to get even better. School was out at noon and she and Jack had planned to go back to the rooms and find out once and for all what secret enchantment flickered through the pirate coin.

  With every magical visit to the rooms, Ruthie always held a tiny fear, unspoken but constant, that at some point the magic would cease. Duchess Christina’s key still worked and she sensed no weakening of its power at all—so far. But the slave tag no longer held magic, its glow completely gone. The fact that it had lost its magic as soon as the important documents had been found made them wonder what else the glowing coin was trying to tell them. Would it behave like the key—or like the tag?

  This being the end of the school year, no field trip groups crowded the Art Institute, making their entry into the access corridor quick and easy. They thought nothing of the climb now and used the crochet chain to scramble up and through the duct and over to the American rooms.

  Ruthie hopped off onto the ledge first, with Jack right behind her. “How does it feel?”

  Jack lifted the coin from his pocket and he and Ruthie watched as the brightness gradually increased. “It’s hotter,” he said. He took a few steps toward room A12 and then stopped.

  Jack was still skittish about this room. They understood how careful they had to be about tampering with history, about the very real effects it could have on the present. They were pretty sure nothing bad would happen as long as they didn’t go out into the eighteenth century beyond the garden gate.

  Jack steeled himself and led the way.

  They stepped through the framework and up the back stairs that led to the room. From the landing, they saw that the coast was clear.

  They walked around the room, noticing that the strength of the flashes increased near the desk.

  “It’s got to be something in the desk that’s making the coin go crazy,” Ruthie declared, approaching it.

  “It’s super hot now,” Jack reported.

  “Let’s double-check the bottom drawers again,” Ruthie suggested.

  She slid them open. Both were empty. In order to see the third, upper drawer, Jack lifted the drop-leaf writing surface of the desk. As he did, they both saw something on the underside of the writing surface, something that would have been visible if that part of the desk had been in its upright, closed position. Inlaid in a contrasting color of wood, they read the initials JN.

  “Jack Norfleet! This was his desk! Look!” Jack yanked open the top drawer.

  “It’s empty too,” Ruthie said. There were three small, narrow drawers at the base of the top half of the desk. “Must be something in these!” She had to move an ink pot and a glass candleholder out of the way in order to pull each one open. Her eyes scanned the first and then the second; nothing in either one. Then she opened the last and looked, waiting for something—anything—to appear.

  “I don’t get it!”

  Jack peered in. He too saw an empty drawer. “But look at the coin!” Its glow had turned flame red and it felt nearly hot enough to melt.

  “Hang on. The middle drawer looked funny.” She opened it again. “It’s too shallow! I’ll pull the drawer all the way out.”

  She did this and then felt along the back of the drawer, finding a narrow slit cut in it. She put her palm flat on the bottom and pushed. The wood panel moved, sliding out of the slit. The drawer had a false bottom!

  There, in the skinny space between the false and real bottom of the drawer, lay two items: a folded piece of parchment and the whale-tooth-handled knife!

  “How … but …?” Jack started.

  Ruthie lifted the knife out and handed it to Jack.

  He held it as though it were fragile. The J and N were still visible but it looked much older now: the whale tooth had yellowed and had cracks running through it, and the blade was gray and tarnished with age. It was a true antique now, but it looked great to Jack. And the coin, right next to it in his hand, slowly calmed, the flashes dimming like dying embers of a fire.

  Ruthie took the parchment from the drawer and unfolded it. She saw delicate handwriting in black ink and read aloud.

  Dear Mr. Norfleet,

  As I was walking down Main Street, I came across this knife on the ground. Its fine craftsmanship caught my eye and I noticed the initials, JN, carved in the handle. I believe it is yours. I wanted to ensure that it was returned to you, and doing so gives me an excuse to tell you how much I admire the beautiful ships you build. I see them in the harbor and they are a sight to behold. I am not in the habit of introducing myself, but perhaps, if you would like to thank me for returning your knife, you could introduce yourself to me. Or am I too bold?

  Yours in admiration,

  Georgiana Wilshire

  142 South Street

  “I saw her—just after I talked to Jack Norfleet! She had found the knife and tried to give it to me to return it to you. But I told her I couldn’t.”

  “Whoa,” Jack exclaimed.

  “I bet he married Miss Wilshire!” Ruthie was almost giddy thinking about it. “I guess he didn’t mind that she was bold,” she said, remembering how he had labeled her that.

  “Miss Wilshire’s first name was Georgiana,” Jack pointed out. “Aunt George must have been her namesake! That means … I also met my great-times-six-grandmother! Wow!” He stared at the knife for a few beats, shaking his head in awe. “I always wondered what happened to the stuff that disappeared—like the arrows and the model plane.”

  “Miss Wilshire must’ve found it pretty much where it left your hand, since the room’s garden opens onto Main Street.”

  “So maybe,” Jack added, “later, after she gave it to him, he put the knife in his desk for safekeeping. Maybe he thought we would come back and he could give it to me.”

  “And then Mrs. Thorne got this desk.” Ruthie thought it through some more. “They probably weren’t in the desk when you got cold and started to fade, because we had created the other version of history, where Miss Wilshire and Jack Norfleet never met.”

  “I wonder when the knife appeared in the drawer,” Jack asked.

  “It must have been just about the time that you reappeared in the garden,” Ruthie suggested.

  “And then the coin started flashing again like crazy when we came back into the room. Remember? But we were in such a hurry to get out of here, we didn’t pay any attention.”

  “The coin was telling us the knife was in the desk!” Ruthie said. “I bet there won’t be any record of the knife in the archives. It’s yours.”

  “You’re right.” Jack grinned. “I mean, since my own great-times-six-grandfather gave it to me in 1753!”

  While Ruthie wound up the crochet chain in the European corridor, Jack stood next to her, still admiring his treasure. “How did you know to slide the bottom of the drawer?”

  “Mrs. McVittie. She’s got a desk like that in her apartment. She told me lots of old desks have hidden compartments. You know, before people had safe-deposit boxes for valuables.”

  “Good idea.”

  “What’s the coin doing now?” she asked him, putting the crochet ball in her bag.

  He took it from his pocket. “Nothing. Look.”

  It was dark in the corridor, but Ruthie knew from experience that when the magic in the objects was working, they sparkled anyway. The coin didn’t have that look anymore. It reminded her of Phoebe’s tag—old and interesting, but lifeless.

  “I’m guess
ing it won’t shrink me anymore. Like the slave tag.” Ruthie put her hand out and Jack dropped it in. She stood still, waiting. No breeze, no scent of salt water in the air. “It’s sort of sad—but I guess it’s done its job,” she said.

  But the key still worked magnificently. With his pirate knife and coin in his pocket, Jack handed the glittering key to Ruthie and they slipped out of the dusky corridor and back into Gallery 11.

  “So what do you think?” Jack said, out on the front steps of the museum.

  “About what?”

  “About everything,” he answered. “About Isabelle’s secrets, and Mrs. Thorne’s. About ours.”

  “I think we have to be careful,” Ruthie answered, thinking about how she had almost lost Jack and about the responsibility the magic gave them. It was all more complicated than at the outset, when they had first discovered the key. Back then, Ruthie thought the adventure was simply for her and Jack’s benefit; now she understood how intertwined people’s lives could be. They had changed history, perhaps in ways yet to unfold.

  The key had led them to people who Ruthie believed had benefitted from their actions. Through the magic of the key she and Jack had helped Phoebe to envision her life in freedom. For Kendra and her mother it meant honor could be returned to their family name. And it had even helped Jack to fill a void in his life by letting him come face to face with his ancestors. The enchantment had brought meaningful change to all these lives.

  What had it brought Ruthie? All of these adventures delivered her the excitement she had been craving, and with each one she had grown braver and more confident. But still, she was not the center of the adventures; the magic had had greater impact on people around her.

  Could it all have happened to any lucky girl who by chance stumbled upon the key? she asked herself. And was her role simply to help other people find answers to the questions in their lives? Maybe that was enough.

  Ruthie looked at all the people coming and going on the sidewalk, the bustle of the city street in front of her. Not a single soul had the least idea of what she and Jack had experienced just minutes before inside the building behind them.