Seven Dead Pirates (5 page)

“Excepting,” said Jack the Rat, “that young Adam here was born in 1786, if I recalls right.”

“You recalls right,” said Adam, staring at Lewis.

The boys
did
appear to be the same age. Adam was shorter, and his long fair hair was tied back in a
pigtail. But Lewis could recognize a sixth-grader when he saw one.

Except, he remembered, that Adam was …

A ghost?

He still couldn’t believe it. But what other explanation could there be?

“Adam’s our ship’s boy,” said Crawley, “and though he be young, he’s as stalwart in battle as any.”

Adam, meanwhile, was studying Lewis’s face. “Did you have the pox?” he asked finally.

Lewis blinked back, confused.

“Naaaahh!” said Crawley. “Those marks ain’t pox scars. Them are just
freckles
! The lad’s got freckles like a dog’s got fleas.”

This got a huge laugh from the pirates, all except Adam, who was staring now at Lewis’s green T-shirt and khaki shorts. When he got to Lewis’s shoes, his eyes widened. “Oooooh,” he said. “Boots for a prince.”

Lewis looked down. “They’re just … running shoes.”

“Running,” repeated Adam. He knelt for a closer look. “Aye, a boy could run far in such boots.”

At that, all the pirates became transfixed by Lewis’s shoes. Even Barnaby Bellows glanced down, relaxing his grip on Lewis’s shoulders.

It was like a signal.

Lewis bolted!

But when he reached the door, Crawley was there, blocking his way. “Not so fast, laddie. We won’t hold you long, I promise, but we needs you to hear us out.”

“Aye,” chorused the others. “Hear us out!”

Lewis tried to stop his knees from quivering. “Just tell me what you want,” he begged.

Crawley smiled his gap-toothed smile. “We wants you to help us get our ship back.”

It was like a horrible riddle.

“I don’t understand,” said Lewis.

Crawley pointed at the bottle on Lewis’s shelf.

“You want me to … get your ship out of that bottle?”

The pirates shouted with laughter, slapping their thighs.

“Nay,” said Crawley with a final guffaw. “That’s just a model, boy. Our ship—our
Maria Louisa
—she’s sitting in a little house, down by the bay. Your great-granddad told us so. Four years ago, they brought her from some other place—”

“Halifax, it were,” said Moyle.

“Aye,” said Crawley. “And a miracle, by thunder, to hear of her after so many years. They took her to that little house—”

“It were called a moo-see-um,” said Moyle, nodding wisely. “That’s what the granddaddy said.”

Lewis blinked in comprehension. “You mean the Maritime Museum?” The Tandy Bay Maritime Museum was one of the town hall buildings, right beside the ocean, at the center of town. “They
did
bring a ship there. I saw it on a school trip.”

“Aye,” said Jonas, in a voice filled with pride. “And that ship? She’s ours!”

Barnaby Bellows thumped his huge fist on the desk. “Ours!” he yelled.

“She
was
ours,” said Crawley, his voice rising with anger, “until she were stolen from us, in dead of night. Attacked, we was, by that son of a dogfish, John Edward Dire! He
could
have put us ashore. It were only fair and right. But, oh, laddie … he were the devil’s spawn, that Captain Dire, and so were his crew. They laughed as they kilt us. Laughed!”

“K-killed you?” repeated Lewis.

“Aye,” growled Crawley. “Tied us up, hand and foot, all together with the one rope. Hurled us overboard. We was helpless as babes.”

“Sank like stones!” muttered Moyle.

“Dropped to the bottom with nary a bubble,” added Skittles.

“But at least,” said Adam, “we washed up here together.”

“Aye,” agreed Jonas, “we did. Except for Laughing Harry.”

At that, the pirates went glum and silent.

Lewis was almost afraid to ask. “Who’s Laughing Harry?”

“Our navigator,” said Crawley. “And a finer man never lived! Until he were keelhauled by Dire.”

“Keelhauled?”

“Aye,” muttered Crawley. “Keelhauled, laddie, is when they ties you to a rope and drags you under the ship’s bottom from one end to t’other. Does you know what’s on the bottom of a ship? Barnacles sharp as razors, that’s what. Shells as will rip your skin off—if you survive the haul, that is. Most men don’t. Poor Harry! He vanished forever under the
Maria Louisa
. Never even come up.”

“Only the rope,” sighed Skittles, “all ragged and torn.”

“Sharks!” said Jack the Rat. “They smells blood, even through the water.”

“A nasty end,” said Moyle. “Can’t even be a ghost! Not after the sharks gets you.”

“He weren’t laughing
that
day,” added Jonas. “Poor, poor Harry.”

The pirates lapsed into reverent silence. But for Lewis, the story hadn’t ended.

“And then … then you moved in here?”

“Nah,” said Moyle. “This house weren’t built yet. We lived in a cave, them first years. It were down the beach, half mile north.”

“You haunted a cave?” said Lewis to himself. At least, he
thought
he said it to himself.

“We don’t calls it haunting.” Crawley gave Lewis an irritated glance. “Me and the boys, we don’t go around clanking chains or moaning or all that bilgewater. We just … what you would call, makes ourselves to
home
.”

“It were
terrible
nasty and cold in that cave,” said Jonas, shivering fiercely at the memory. “Especially in winter! And we was there for many a year. So when this big house were built, this Shornoway, we was glad to come inside and make ourselves a nice, cozy place here.”

Watching Jonas shiver, Lewis couldn’t help wondering if he had
ever
gotten over the effects of the cave.

“Aye,” said Crawley, as if he were reading Lewis’s mind, “that cave were a misery, especially for our Jonas, being used to a warmer clime. And all these years since—”

“Centuries!” said Moyle.

“All these
centuries
,” repeated Crawley, “we’s been glad to have a home here with your family. Part of the
family ourselves, you might say. Still, we knows where our
real
home is—on our ship. The
Maria Louisa
! Ever since we heard from your great-granddad that our ship were found and stowed in that little moo-see-um, why, we’ve been aiming to get ourselves there.”

“It’s where we belongs,” said Moyle. “Your granddaddy, he promised to take us to that moo-see-um himself. But he were just too old! Couldn’t do it.”

“We’s been waiting for
you
, lad,” said Skittles softly. “You’ll help us, won’t you?”

The pirates all turned plaintive eyes on Lewis.

“Me?” He shrank back. “Why do you need
my
help? Why can’t you just go there if you want?”

The pirates looked suddenly uncomfortable.

“Well, me and the boys,” said Captain Crawley, glancing around at his crew, most of whom were staring at the floor, “we been here a long time.”

“We doesn’t get out much,” mumbled Skittles.

“That’s not true,” said Moyle, giving Skittles a cuff. “We went to that picnic, didn’t we?”

“You mean the church picnic?” said Skittles. “The one where we scared that poor skinny preacher fellow off the bridge? Why, that were back in 1902.”

“Were it really?” said Moyle in amazement. “That long ago?”

“Aye, it were a fine day in—”

“Stow it!” roared Crawley. He turned to Lewis with a sickly-sweet smile. “You see, lad, we needs your help because some of us have, well … settled in. Gone soft, like.”

Lewis tried to understand. “Are you saying you’re … scared?”

The gasp that followed came from every pirate in the room.

“Scared?” snarled Jack the Rat. “I’ll show you how scared we be.” Hauling out his cutlass, he lunged toward Lewis. Barnaby Bellows had to hold him back.

“Of course we ain’t scared.” Captain Crawley stepped neatly between them. “We’re blackguards! Scoundrels! Lived rough as nails and died a rougher death. We’re afeared of nothing!”

“Excepting maybe …” said Skittles, watching the captain warily, “them things that move so fast.”

Murmurs of agreement followed, even in the face of Crawley’s glowering.

“What things?” asked Lewis.

“On the roads,” breathed Skittles hoarsely. “We seen ’em. They go like lightning.”

“Try to get across a road,” added Bellows, “and them things runs right through you!”

“You mean …” Lewis struggled to understand. “Cars?”

“Cars! Aye, that’s what they’re called.” Skittles shuddered. “It’s unnatural how fast they go.”

“But …” said Lewis, then petered out. He didn’t know where to begin explaining things like traffic rules and pedestrian crossings to a crew of pirate ghosts.

“We tried going to that moo-see-um,” said Jonas. “But them car-things! They got us every time.”

“That’s why we wants
you
to take us there,” said Crawley. “Past them things and into that little house where the
Maria Louisa
be waiting.”

Lewis chewed his lip, unsure of what they knew. “There’s a police station there. It’s right beside the museum.”

“Police?” snarled Jack. “The law?” He whipped out a dagger and brandished it in the air. “
We’ll
give ’em a taste, we will! We’ll slice out their gizzards!”

“Slice ’em out!” chorused Jonas and Bellows.

Crawley hissed sharply, his hand raised in a warning gesture. Then, offering Lewis another wheedling smile, he spoke in the kind of soft, gentle voice you might use for a baby. “All we wants, laddie, is for you to give it some thought.”

Backing away from Lewis then, and also from the door, Crawley settled himself on the wicker chair. “Just a wee ponder,” he said. “Ain’t that right, boys?”

Taking their cues, the others found places around the room. Skittles and Moyle each sank onto a bed, while Bellows, Adam and Jonas settled on the floor. Jack the Rat swept Lewis’s chess set to the floor with a clatter, before hoisting his filthy body onto the dresser.

Lewis hardly dared breathe. Were they really going to let him go? The door, just steps away, was like a dream.

He got there in two leaps.

As he struggled with the knob, fingers slippery with fear, he waited for hands to grab him. He could almost
feel
the cold, ghostly fingers on his shoulders.

The knob turned.

He yanked the door open and ran.

S
kidding down the hall—stumbling, scrambling up—he expected any second to hear a shouted “Laddie!” from behind. But the only sound was his own feet, pounding the floor.

He hit the stairs in an explosion of thuds and didn’t stop till he reached his father’s study, a small room at the end of a hall. Gasping, he reached for the doorknob …

And stopped.

He stared at his shaking hand. Wait, he told himself. Think!

What would happen if he told his father?

His father would tell his mother, of course. Then what?

It was
possible
they’d believe him. But the more he thought about it, the less likely this seemed. All his life, they’d taught him that ghosts—or monsters or aliens, any such things—were “nonsense.” Even Santa and the Easter Bunny had been half-hearted visitors to the Dearborn house.

And if they didn’t believe him, what then? Would they think he was nuts? Lying? Having nightmares in broad daylight? What would they do?

Worry, that’s what. They worried about
everything
, his parents—in different ways, true, but they would get together on this. He didn’t have to think long to realize that a story about pirate ghosts would turn into a worry so huge—so absolutely
colossal
, in fact—he wouldn’t get a moment alone for the next year! They’d send him to that child psychologist again, the one who’d tried to get him to play with stuffed animals.

The study door opened.

“Ah, Lewis, it’s you.” His father frowned. “You’re panting. Are you all right?”

“Fine. Just … running.”

“Would you like to come in?”

Lewis ducked inside and dropped into a chair. He didn’t have to
say
anything. He could just sit.

“Are you sure nothing’s wrong?” Mr. Dearborn peered over his glasses.

Lewis glanced around. There was a parcel on his father’s desk. One side was open, revealing a thick stack of paper.

“Is that your book?”

Mr. Dearborn ran his fingers through the last few hairs on his balding scalp. He tried to smile. “It’s come back. Again. That’s eleven now.”

Lewis struggled to focus. Eleven. That meant publishers. The parcel contained the book his father had written,
Daily Life Among the Ancient Minoans
. As Mr. Dearborn often said, the book had been
his
daily life for more than six years. It was 693 pages long, and Lewis was sure it must tell everything that was ever known about the ancient Minoans and therefore be a book many people would want to read. But the publishers kept turning it down.

“Don’t worry,” said Lewis automatically. “Someone will publish it. Next time.”

Mr. Dearborn shook his head. “This was my last chance. There aren’t any other publishers who do this sort of book.”