Legends of the Ghost Pirates (19 page)

“Just call her,” he says. “If there's a problem I'll
speak with her parents.”

I shrug, okay, and do as I'm told. I sure don't want
to get Sara into more trouble than she's already in.

About a half hour later, both Sara, and myself are
sitting at the kitchen table waiting for my dad to talk to us. Jo
came along too, but she's standing by the kitchen door. None of us
have said a word since they got here. I sure don't like where this
is going. I wonder if Mr. P. was more upset than I realized and is
demanding my dad do something more. But Mr. P isn't that kind of
guy. We worked it all out. I'm paying to fix his boat, and I don't
work for him anymore, what more could he want?

But why is Sara here?

My dad steps into the kitchen. “Hello, Sara.” He
smiles at her, and then looks over at Jo. “And you must be
Josephine, Sara's cousin?”

“Yes, sir,” she says while looking at the table
avoiding my dad's eyes.

“How do you like it up here in Maine?” he asks
her.

“Okay, I guess. A little chilly, though,” she
answers. What's he doing? Just tell us how you're going to punish
us now and let's get this over with.

“I was talking with some of the fellows at work,” he
begins, “and they gave me the name of a historian in Boston who
specializes in old documents and that sort of thing. I was
interested in learning more about your logbook, and when I told him
about it he became more intrigued by what I was telling him. He
became
so
intrigued that at the end of our conversation he
offered me a great deal of money to purchase your logbook from me.
He claims it's very valuable especially because it is tied into a
piece of history. Anyway, as your parent, I took the liberty to
accept his offer. Yesterday his check arrived in the mail, and I
immediately shipped him the logbook priority mail.”

He steps closer to the table, pulls out an envelope,
and places it on the table. “I believe this belongs to you. The
check is made out to me, but I will sign it over to you.”

Both Sara and I look at each other with surprised
expressions on our faces. Sara nods to me, and I reach for the
envelope and slowly pull the check out. I can't believe what I'm
seeing! In my hands is a check, in my dad's name, for $5,000!
Quickly I turn it around so Sara and Jo can see it too. Their eyes
almost pop out of their heads when they see the typed-out number on
the check.

Sara quickly covers her mouth. “Oh my God! I can't
believe someone wanted to buy that old book for that much
money.”

I look over at Jo, but the smile on her face seems
somewhat forced. “I'm happy for you two,” Jo says. “It's a lucky
thing you found that logbook. Now you're rich. Fisher, you can buy
that cool car when you turn sixteen.”

I think about that for a moment, “Hmm...yeah, I
guess.” Then a thought occurs to me. I think hard about this for a
moment, and I lean over and whisper into Sara's ear.

Sara has a surprised expression on her face, but a
huge smile breaks out and she nods her head yes.

I turn the check over to the back side, and reach
for the pen that's lying on the table. On the back of the check I
begin to write
Pay to the Order
.

“Jo,” I say. “What's your dad's first name?”

“Joe. Joseph Banks. Why?” she asks as she suddenly
looks very concerned.

“I get it,” I say with a grin. “I see where you get
your name. You're named after your dad. Very cool.”

“What's going on, Fisher?” she asks.

I don't answer and finish filling out the back side
of the check with the name
Joseph Banks
. When I'm done, I
slide the check over to Jo. “We want your dad to have this. We
don't want him to lose his charter fishing boat. Hopefully it'll
help the business out and get you guys back on your feet.”

Then I see something I thought I'd never see;
tough-as-nails
Jo begins to cry. Well, not much anyway, but
there are clearly tears beginning to run down her face and she
makes no attempt to wipe them away. She holds the check looking at
it then she smiles at both me and Sara. Finally, after a minute,
she says, “I can't believe you want my dad to have this. This is
the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me.” Quickly she stands up
and leaves the room. Sara stands up too, gives my arm a light
squeeze, then follows Jo. I'm left sitting at the kitchen table by
myself while my dad's leaning up against the sink.

“That's a nice thing you did, Fisher,” my dad says.
“Let's call your essay done.” He's holding out his hand for me to
shake. Slowly I reach out and give his hand a solid squeeze.

* * *

It's been several weeks since we tried to find
treasure on Damariscove Island, but now things are almost back to
normal. To make a little money I've been cutting lawns here and
there. It's certainly not as cool as taking care of Mr. P's
sailboat, but I messed that up pretty good. I probably should have
kept a little of the money to help pay for the boat repairs, but I
didn't think that far ahead. The day after I signed the check over
to Jo's dad she sent it home, registered mail. Her dad told her to
tell us he's very thankful for the money, but it's just a loan
until his business gets on its feet again. And I'm invited to come
down to North Carolina anytime I want to do some deep-sea fishing.
I'm not sure how I'd get there, but Sara warned me, I'm not going
anywhere within a hundred miles of Jo without her. I think she's
serious.

Tonight I'm walking home after I was at Sara's
house. Tomorrow Jo leaves to head back home, and even though my
dad's been keeping a sharp eye on me lately, tonight he let me go
over to Sara's to say goodbye. Jo and I simply shook hands while
Sara stood close. Jo really gave me a hard time at every possible
moment, but the funny thing is, I think I'm going to miss her. She
came up with some pretty cool ideas on the fly that got us out of
some tough jams.

Taking a shortcut through the park on my way home,
I'm near the city pier, thinking about everything that's happened.
Away from Main Street, the darkness of the park seems to swallow
every bit of light making it tricky finding my way under the large
trees.

Suddenly behind me there's a low grumbling voice.
“Young Fisher. I wish to speak wit' ye. Yes.” My heart almost leaps
out of my chest as I spin around. Only a few feet from me is a dark
shape scarcely silhouetted by the streetlight off in the
distance.

I'm about to run as fast as I possibly can when the
dark silhouette says, “Halt. Fer I 'ave importance o’ which to
give.” In that split second I realize from the crazy way she talks,
the dark figure is the librarian. She's still dressed in all black,
and tonight in the cool sea air she is also wearing a black cloak
pulled tightly around her. A cloak? My mouth hangs wide open. I
still want to run, but curiosity is winning. I stand perfectly
still not moving an inch.

A slight smile grows across her face as if she's
enjoying seeing the fear in me. “A friend has requested I gift ye a
message. Yes.”

My heart's still racing a hundred beats a second. I
open my mouth to talk but nothing comes out.

“Sit. Fer fear has consumed ye.” This time, certain
I can make a run for it, I take a step back as I'm ready to sprint.
But somehow there's a park bench directly beneath me and my butt
lands on it with a thump. My head's spinning. I know there wasn't a
park bench there a second ago!

“Yar to be receivin' of 'tis note. Yes,” she says.
In this light it's hard to tell, but I swear her eyes are inky
black. There's a cold trickle of sweat running down my back.

With drawn-out movements, she opens her cloak
extending a thin arm toward me. It takes me a second to realize
she's holding a folded piece of paper. I stare at it a moment.

“Accept, yes,” she says holding the folded paper
closer to me.

Cautiously I take it from her outstretched hand and
look at it closely. It's a large piece of brownish paper, kind of
crinkly, as if it might be very old. I think it's some sort of
note. Along the center fold there's a red waxy circle sealing the
paper together. I can't tell in this light, but there's something
imprinted into the wax. “What is this?” I ask still looking closely
at it in my hands.

When she doesn't answer I look up only to suddenly
realize she's gone! “What the...!”

In an instant I jump up and sprint toward home. I'm
through the park and quickly put several streets behind me, faster
than I've ever gone in my life, when thank God I reach our
driveway. Still sprinting I dash to the side door of our garage,
struggle with the doorknob for a second, then bound through. In
that same second I flip both light switches and the garage fills
brightly in light.

It seems almost impossible to fill
my lungs with air. I'm bent over with both hands on my knees
sucking in deep breaths when I realize I still have the note in my
hand. It's as if a jolt of electricity rips through my body because
peering at the paper, I see just above the red wax seal it says,
“
Master Shoemaker
.”

Just as I'm about to pull it apart
from the waxy seal, I stop. Imprinted into the wax is something
that looks like
—
a
cougar head baring its teeth
—
like the figurehead Gus Emery described. Just
below the figurehead are two little letters,
Q
and
R
. “Queen's Rose,” I
whisper.

The note in my hand begins to shake violently, so I
quickly take a deep breath to calm myself down.

When I settle down enough, I take a putty-knife from
my dad's work bench and carefully slide it under the wax seal so I
don't ruin it. Now with the seal removed, yet still in one piece, I
carefully open the letter.

It begins;

“
Dear
Master Shoemaker,

The gold coins for which you searched were never to
be had. For centuries legend had grown that I was a pirate stealing
and pillaging from vessels in these northern waters. This is not
truth for the lads and I had long ago returned the gold coins to
the people from which they were taken. After which I remained a
simple schooner captain for years to my end. That is the plain
truth.

Sincerely,

Captain Bartholomew Bonney

The End

Award winning writer, now author, MD Lee
writes and lives on the coast in New England with his wife and
young daughter. Many of the pieces he writes about are inspired by
his true life adventures in the woods and on the sea. Depending on
conditions, if there's spare time in the day, he will grab either a
surfboard, mt. bike, windsurfer, or kiteboard,.

The Legends of the Ghost Pirates
is
his fifth book, third in the Fisher Shoemaker Adventure series.
There will be more to follow!

If you like
Legends of the Ghost
Pirates
, please leave a review so others can enjoy it too.

Fisher’s webpage at
http://fishershoemakeradventures.wordpress.com/

On Twitter, please follow
@mdlee62

Sneak Peek from
The
Boat Thief:

Chapter 1

Hiding Out

I
t’s the summer of 1978, here in
Maine, and unknown to me, things are about to happen that will
change my life forever.

I’m a scrawny thirteen-year-old, smaller
than most kids my age. My pants look like I need to grow into them,
and my button-down shirt always seems too loose.
Other than the scrawny part, I really couldn’t care less how
my clothes fit. My name is Fisher Shoemaker.

I wait all school year for that last day
because summertime is
my
time. I can finally get out of the
stuffy classroom and be free. These final days, nine days to be
exact, but who’s counting, with the weather getting nice, time
moves
so
painfully slow; the grass has turned green, and for
about a month now the leaves have been out. The green leaves taunt
me. In the first part of spring, I seem to be the only one to
notice the air has the smell of fresh-cut grass. It’s morally wrong
to keep a kid locked up in a classroom on a beautiful spring day.
It just isn’t right.

“Fisher!” My teacher’s voice pierces my
brain and I drag my gaze from the window. She looks hard at me from
the front of the classroom. She is not smiling. She’s wearing thick
horn-rimmed glasses, and her hair’s wound up in a bun that seems
painfully tight. The dress she’s wearing is boring blue: like she’s
working for the prison system. I’m her inmate.

“What is the answer to number seven,
Fisher?” I look blankly at her, then at the other kids. Are any of
them going to help me out? Or are they just going to let me hang?
They let me hang. I have no idea what we’re even talking about, and
I’m only vaguely aware that I’m in social studies.

She stares hard at me with cold eyes while
tapping her pencil on the desk. “Do you even know what we’re
discussing today?” she growls. I say nothing. The other kids don’t
laugh, or blurt out the right answers; they’re just glad she’s
picking on me and not them.

“Fisher Shoemaker, you really need to pay
more attention. I know you don’t think so, but social studies is
important. It’ll help you evolve into an adult who is more aware of
the world around him.”

An adult? I’m really not worried about
becoming an adult. At least, the thought has never occurred to me
before. Why should I worry about it now? There’re better things to
think about. All I’m really interested in is getting out of this
dang classroom so I can work on my hideout. It’s down by the
beachhead near Goosewing Rock. My bike is right outside, in the
schoolyard, waiting to take me away from all this.