Legends of the Ghost Pirates (6 page)

“Fisher. Honestly, a ghost pirate?”

“What about that stuff about the figurehead. If we
could find more out about it that would mean he's telling the
truth.”

“That doesn't mean anything,” Sara says. “It could
have been just a schoolyard song all the kids used to sing, and he
remembered the lines and used it to try and scare us.”

Then it hits me. “Didn't he say something about
lobstering off The Cuckolds?”

“I think so,” Sara answers.

Quickly I swing myself onto my bike and start
pedaling. “Come on,” I shout back to Sara.

When she catches up to me, out of breath she asks,
“Where are we going?”

“To Mr. P's boat.”

* * *

While we're walking down the dock in front of the
Plankinton's house toward the sailboat, Sara says, “What's this all
about?”

“I'm not sure yet. There's just something in the
back of my mind I need to check out.”

At the boat, we both hop onto the
deck of the
Sticky Wicket,
and I grab Sara's hand and take her
below.

With a slight smile growing across her face, she
says, “Mmm…Fisher. I didn't realize you wanted to make-out.”

“No. Sara. I was...um... actually thinking about
something else. She looks a little disappointed, but not too
much.

Underneath the table where we're sitting, there are
many charts of the area rolled up and neatly stacked. I have to
unroll two of them before I find the chart I'm looking for. I
spread it out on the small table and begin studying it.

“What are we looking for?” Sara asks.

“The Cuckolds. Remember he said he was just off The
Cuckolds.”

“Yeah. So?” Sara says. “I'm sure he didn't make that
part up. Finding The Cuckolds isn't going to prove anything.”

“That's not what I'm after.” I continue to study the
chart. It doesn't take too long before I find it right where Gus
Emery said it was, in Sheepscot Bay. I tap my finger on the spot.
“Here it is.”

“I still don't get it,” Sara says. “What does that
prove?”

I run my finger from The Cuckolds, a short distance
away, to a long narrow island just to the right; Damariscove
Island. “Nobody but us knows the treasure is actually buried on
Damariscove Island. It's only in the logbook we found, right?” Sara
shakes her head; she still doesn't get it.

“Don't you see? If no one knows
about a treasure on Damariscove Island, then Gus Emery couldn't
have made up the location about a ghost pirate. If it
was
a ghost pirate and
it
was
protecting
his treasure, this is where it would be.”

Chapter 6

Getting There

Sara
studies the chart where I
have my finger pointed then looks back at me. “Fisher. You really
believe the ghost of Blarney Bart is protecting his treasure?” she
says with doubt. “I think Gus Emery just made all that up because
we were bothering him. There's no such thing as ghosts, and
certainly no such thing as a ghost pirate.”

I sit up in the bench still below deck on the
sailboat. “I don't know. This is Maine after all. Everyone seems to
have at least one ghost story they know of. Heck, people have been
dying here a lot longer than anywhere else in the country. So why
couldn't there be ghosts?”

“Fisher, that's just dumb. There's no such thing as
ghost pirates.” Sara stands and climbs the short ladder to the
deck. “Only in the movies.”

I poke my head out into the daylight. “Okay, let's
just say there's no ghost pirates lurking around out there. But we
do
know for certain there was a captain named Bartholomew
Bonney and he stole some treasure.”

“Tax money,” she corrects me.

“We also know he was a pirate...well...sort of a
pirate, because the history books say he was. And we found his
logbook, which no one knows about, telling us
exactly
where
it's buried. There just
has
to be treasure buried out there
somewhere. I just know it. Sara, aren't you just the least bit
curious to see if there really is treasure?”

A smile slowly grows across her face. “It would be
kind of cool to find it for the sake of history. We'd be on all of
the news stations as the kids who found Blarney Bart's missing
treasure. Then afterward we'd probably be asked to give talks and
things at universities. Maybe even be offered a scholarship.”

I jump up on deck with her. “Right! And the money.
Think of all the money! What would you do with it?”

She doesn't think about it even for a second. “I'd
use it to pay for school.”

I roll my eyes. “Wouldn't you want to use it for
something cool? Like a little red convertible sports car?”

“Being able to go to a big university
is
cool. It's not cheap. It costs a lot of money to go to a school in
Boston. Besides, I'm not going to have my driver’s license for
another year so what would I do with some dumb car?”

I give in. “Okay. So you'd use the money to go to
school. So let’s go find the treasure. It's practically in our
hands already. Are you in?”

She hesitates for a moment then looks at her feet.
“I'm in, Fisher. But how are we going to get to Damariscove
Island?”

I shake my head. “I dunno.”

“We're going to need a plan,” Sara says.

“I didn't even see a ferry route marked on the
chart. The island must be too small to have ferry service.”

We sit quietly in the cockpit of the sailboat; the
warm summer sun heats our backs, while we think about this for a
few minutes. I look out across the water taking in the smell of the
salt air.

“I know how we can get out there,” I say finally,
jumping up to my feet.

“Me too. But let's hear yours first,” she says.

“While we were sitting down at the pier, I noticed
one of the lobster boats on a mooring had
Damariscove Island
ME
painted on the transom.”

“I don't get it,” Sara says looking puzzled.

“Don't you see; if he has Damariscove Island painted
on the transom that must be his home port. All boats have their
home port painted on the back end. So whoever owns that boat must
have a house or a mooring out there. Who knows, but maybe he can
take us with him.”

“Hmm...That might work,” Sara says not sounding too
sure. “But how are we going to find the owner of the boat?”

“That's easy,” I answer. “I can just hang out at the
pier until he shows up. When he does I just ask him if he can drop
us off on the island.”

“I guess it's worth trying,” Sara says doubtful.
“But I'm not convinced anyone's just going to give us a ride out
there because you ask him nicely.”

I cross my arms. “Let's hear your idea.”

The sea breeze blows her brown hair slightly off to
the side, and with her hand she brushes it back in place. “My dad
has a friend who has a powerboat; a Boston Whaler, I think. Maybe
if we ask him he'll take us out there.”

“That might work, too,” I say. “But the problem is
we can't tell him why we really want to go to the island; to look
for treasure.”

“All we have to tell him is we want to explore the
island a little, maybe go for a hike,” Sara says. “And really,
that's probably all we're going to end up doing anyway; just hiking
around.”

I lean against the mast. “Here's what we do. I'll go
and hang out at the pier and see if I can find the lobsterman who
owns the boat. While I'm doing that, you ask your dad if he'll ask
his friend to take us out to the island. One of our ideas has to
work.”

She stands up and lightly pokes a finger into my
belly. “What are we waiting for?”

* * *

I've been sitting here for more than an hour and a
half. Not much is happening on the pier. There's only been one
lobster boat that was loaded up on some bait. That only took him
about fifteen minutes then he was off. I'm starting to think maybe
this isn't the best plan. I've got plenty of time while I'm sitting
here to think up a new plan, but nothing’s coming to me. I'll give
this a little longer. I pick up some flat stones and skip them
across the water.

At the two hour mark, I give up. I've been staring
at the boat all afternoon, and I'm starting to wonder if the boat
is even used very much. It might not even be worth waiting around
here tomorrow. Maybe Sara's had better luck. It's time to head home
now anyway.

When I walk through the door of our house I see my
dad's home from work. He's in the living room reading his
paper.

He calls out from behind the paper, “Fisher, is that
you?”

“Yeah, Dad,” I answer.

“You have a telephone message from Mr. Plankinton.
He'd like you to call him back. That's a long distance number which
is
not
cheap, so make it fast.”

On the counter just below the phone is a note with
his phone number taped to the kitchen counter. I peel off the note
and dial the number.

After only three rings, Mr. P. answers. “Hello,
Fisher. Thank you for calling me back,” says the voice on the other
end. “I'm afraid I have some bad news. I'm going to have to cancel
our sailing trip next week. There’s been some business down here at
the office I can't get out of. Me and the Misses will be stuck here
in the city for a few more weeks, I'm afraid. When we get back up
to Trent Harbor you and I can sit down and discuss another time for
our trip.”

After a little more small talk with Mr. P about the
weather and his boat, I hang up. Drat. I was really looking forward
to that trip. It would've been cool to show Sara Hunter’s Island
and where I hid last summer. Hopefully we can figure out another
time he can do it. I'm unconsciously looking at the phone on the
wall when an idea hits me like smacking a baseball into the
outfield.

“Geez, I've got it!” I pick up the phone and
immediately dial Sara's house.

When Sara answers the phone, she says in a glum
tone, “Hi, Fisher. I didn't have much luck with my dad's friend. My
dad thinks he sold the boat last summer. But my dad—”

I cut her off. “It doesn't matter! I know how we’re
going to get out to Damariscove Island.” I look at my dad to make
sure he's still in the living room reading his paper.

In a hushed voice I say, “I can't tell you about it
over the phone. We'll talk later.”

Chapter 7

Who's She

“
Oh
, Fisher. I don't know if it's
a good idea just to take Mr. Plankinton's sailboat,” Sara says. “We
could get in a
lot
of trouble.”

“We'll be fine,” I say trying to reassure her.

“Sometimes I really think I need to find another
boyfriend.”

I can't tell if she’s joking or if she's
serious.

With her head in her hands, she says, “These weird
situations always seem to find you. I can't think of anyone else
who's actually seen a dead body being loaded into the trunk of a
car. That just doesn't happen to people. And then there's the
monkeys. You actually found monkeys living in Maine who talked to
us with sign language.” She stands up and looks at me. “And now you
want me to lie to my parents. I'll stand up to a lot of thing, you
know that, but lying to my parents?”

“We're not lying,” I say grabbing her hand. “We're
just not telling them everything. Your dad already gave you
permission to go on this sailing trip, they just don't have to know
Mr. P. won't be with us.”

“But that's why he gave me permission—because he
knows Mr. Plankinton and trusts him. And he thinks we're going to
Hunter's Island not Damariscove.”

“Fine. Just tell him we've changed plans and we're
now going to Damariscove Island. That way it won't be a
lie...much...and he'll know where you are.”

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath then let's
it out slowly, and says, “I should have my head examined. For the
sake of history, I'm in.” With a weak smile, she adds, “What could
go wrong?”

* * *

Less than a week later it couldn't be a better day
for a sailing trip. Today's the day we leave, and there's a nice
breeze coming from the south that'll push us straight toward
Damariscove Island. The sun is bright and according to the weather
report, it's supposed to stay that way for a while. But of course,
on the Maine coast there's nothing certain about the weather.

I've been getting the boat ready for our little
trip. I've made sure all the lines and rope are in good shape, I've
checked over the sails for wear, and I've inspected the rest of the
sailboat as best I could. It's a solid little boat, and it'll
easily get us there and back safely.

Sara's job in getting us ready was to provision the
boat with food. It doesn't sound all that important, but knowing
how much food and water to take with us isn't easy. You don't want
to end up with too many cans of Rav-O's because at the end of the
trip you'll get sick if you have to take another bite. She's also
loaded us up with a big jar of Skippy and some grape jelly, so with
bread you can make that into breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I look at my watch. The sailboat doesn't have a
motor, so we need to leave the dock within the hour if we want an
easy ride out on the ebb-tide. Hopefully Sara will be here
soon.

“Fisher!” I look up and see Sara coming down the
path toward the dock. She gives me a slight wave. But suddenly I
notice she's not alone. What's going on? It's another girl who
looks to be about Sara's age with red hair to her shoulders. She's
wearing a gray hooded sweat shirt, jeans, and I suddenly notice
she's also carrying a small duffel bag.

I stand up on the deck of the boat, arms crossed
tightly across my chest. As they approach the boat, I say,
“Sara?”