Legends of the Ghost Pirates (2 page)

With the quickness of alley cats upon mice, Bonney's
men had their sharp pitch-forks at the throats of the French crew.
With a grin across his face, Captain Bonney said to the French
pirate crew, “Don't make a move or the last thing you'll remember
is the feel of an iron fork going through your neck.”

None of the crew even twitched. From below, there
was a constant sound of other French crew groaning in pain with an
occasional louder moan above the rest. When he heard the moaning
and groaning, the captain's grin grew bigger.

“The Back Door Trot's; it worked, sir!” The first
mate called out.

The captain called back still smirking, “The Whistle
Belly Thumps—if it didn't work we would each have several holes
through our middles by now.”

To the French pirate he was holding down with a
pitch-fork, he said, “You there, find your old man, the captain,
and send him on deck.” He pushed the sharp end of the pitch-fork a
little harder against his neck before pulling it away.

The French pirate stood up slowly, but not all the
way, still holding his stomach. Suddenly, he let out a moan,
grabbed his backside cheeks with both hands, and ran forward to the
head as he cried out, “Get the capitaine yourself! You shall find
him below. I have urgent business to attend.” Once he disappeared
under the fo’c’sle, there erupted an even louder wail from him as
he suffered.

Suddenly from the aft a voice boomed, “Ah! Capitaine
Bonney, you wish to speak to me?” Jacque LaPlante held a pistol
aimed at the center of Captain Bonney’s chest. “You have come to
your death, no?” He began to cock the hammer back on the pistol
when a noise, deep in his belly, erupted as if someone had stepped
on a fireplace bellows. Jacque LaPlante abruptly doubled over in
gurgling pain as his pistol fired hitting the main mast sending
splinters in all directions.

In a split second, Captain Bonney had his pitch-fork
to Jacque LaPlante's exposed neck. “We will be taking the taxation
money you have collected from the people of Massachusetts Bay
territory. Have your men bring it to me. NOW!”

Lying on the ground in a curled position, Jacque
LaPlante mumbled something in French to a crewman who scampered off
below. Soon, two men produced a small wooden box filled with gold
coins. The taxation money.

Captain Bonney ordered his men to load it into their
waiting longboats below. Then he looked up at the pirates’ flag
flying high on the mizzen mast, and nodded to the first mate. The
first mate nodded in return and quickly climbed up the rigging to
retrieve the black flag flapping in the breeze, tucked it under his
arm, and rapidly came back down to the deck.

“Aye, sir,” the first mate said with a smirk. “Looks
like we've become pirates ourselves.”

Captain Bonney took the pirates’ flag from the first
mate. “Aye. Looks like we have, at that.”

Chapter 1

Summer of 1979

The Old House

The
mouthwatering smell of fried
clam strips fills the air for almost a block surrounding the Sea
Side Restaurant. It lures in the tourists, who are shopping along
Main Street, straight to the take-out window like monkeys to
bananas. No one who walks past can resist the delicious smell of
fried clam strips and french fries. Soon there’s a long line of
hungry vacationers that quickly forms.

I'm not a tourist; I live here in Trent Harbor,
Maine. But every summer right about this time of year our quiet
little town gets invaded with people crowding the streets. I'm
sitting here on the outside deck at the Sea Side Restaurant at one
of the last empty picnic tables eating a hotdog with a side of
fries. I'm not big on sea food myself, but Sara Banks, who's
working the take-out window today told me if I stopped by to visit
her, she'd make a hotdog ’specially for me. It's not normally on
the menu.

Sara’s my girlfriend. I'm not sure how that
happened, but it just did.

I try not to stare at her while she's working the
window, but it’s fun watching her because all the customers seem to
really like her. She's lucky to have gotten the job because they
don't usually let thirteen-year-olds work the window. Today because
she’s at work, her brown hair’s pulled back in a ponytail and she’s
wearing a white work apron over the blue Sea Side T-shirt. Her gray
eyes have a weird way of getting me to say things to her I normally
wouldn’t share with anyone else. I guess I like that. She’s a
little on the small side too, but she sure doesn’t seem like it
when she’s speaking her mind. When I look at her I think she could
do better than me, but I’m not complaining.

Today the take-out window is too busy for Sara to
visit with me while I eat, so I told her I'd wait for her until
she's done with work. Her shift's over at about 2:30 p.m. which is
only a few minutes from now. I don't mind, it's a nice day to be
sitting on the deck, and there's a great view of the ocean. I like
looking out at the ocean because there's always plenty to watch.
Today there's a few lobster boats that are returning, and a couple
of sailboats enjoying a nice sea breeze.

“Hey, kids, watch this,” says a dad to his family.
Catching my attention I watch them. They are sitting at a picnic
table at the edge of the deck. The dad slowly takes a fry off his
daughter’s plate and tosses it into the air. A seagull that's
gliding in the breeze overhead swoops down snatching the fry before
it's even close to hitting the ground. Then as if nothing happened
at all, the gull goes back to gliding in the sea breeze just above
the family.

“Cool! Do it again.” The little boy squeals. The dad
takes another fry and tosses it again. The gull effortlessly swoops
in swallowing the fry. When it drifts back into its same spot it's
met by two other gulls that have magically appeared. Now there are
three gulls carefully eying up the family.

“Honey,” says the mom, “don't feed all our food to
the seagulls.” In front of the mom and dad there's a plate each
with a bright red lobster that's just come out of the steamer.

“Just a few more,” the dad says. This time he scoops
up four fries and tosses them into the air. None of the fries ever
hits the ground as the three gulls snatch them in their beaks. Both
the boy and the girl giggle in delight.

Suddenly, with the speed of a striking cobra, two of
the gulls swoop down snatching the lobsters right off the plates.
Their flapping wings send fries everywhere. Jumping out of the way,
the mom knocks over her diet cola splashing soda and ice cubes
across the deck. Covering her head, the little girl dives under the
table and begins to cry. Before anyone realizes what's happening,
the two gulls fly off to the parking lot with their prizes and
quickly begin ripping the lobsters to pieces. The dad and boy watch
with their eyes bugging out of their heads.

“George! Do something!” the mom shouts. The dad just
shrugs and hands her a napkin. “Tell them you want more food or our
money back. Those were lobsters, after all.” She stands up looking
at the brown cola stain on her white pants.

The dad reluctantly goes back to the take-out window
where Sara's working. I can't hear what's being said, but I can see
Sara shaking her head no. She then leans out the window and points
to the sign just below the menu. It says,
Do NOT feed the
seagulls. The management will not be responsible.
The dad looks
back at the mom with his upturned hands.

From the parking lot there's screeching and
squawking erupting over the torn lobster parts. The two gulls have
now turned into a dozen, each fighting over every scrap.

As I'm taking the last bite of my hotdog, Sara sits
down beside me. “Hi, Fisher. How's the hotdog I made for you?”

“Mmm...good,” I say between chewing. “Just the right
amount of relish. You almost ready to go?”

Sara turns to watch the family leave, and says,
“Just let me punch out then we can go.” She stands up and while
removing her white apron, quickly walks over to the kitchen's side
screen door.

Soon we are both riding our bikes down Main Street,
being careful not to run over any of the wondering tourists. We are
headed over to Grandpa Woodridge's old house. He's really not my
grandpa, that's just what everyone in town used to call him. I
never knew his first name was Elliot until last year when he passed
away. Since then his family has taken many of the items he left
behind. But in a few weeks the house is going to be put up for
sale, so the family told everyone in town they could help
themselves to whatever was left. Today, it's sort of a free rummage
sale. I doubt there's anything good left, but Sara and I thought
we'd have a look around just for the heck of it.

After riding only a few miles, there's a long gravel
driveway which leads to Grandpa Woodridge's house.

The house, which is not too big but looks like it's
been added on to several times over the years, sits in a heavily
wooded area. Even though it's late in the afternoon and a bright
sunny day, it's shady and dark near the house. Around the house is
a full wrap-around porch with a few green Adirondack chairs and a
two-person swing. On the side of the house is a lot of firewood
neatly stacked that must have taken Grandpa Woodridge all summer to
collect and chop.

Getting off our bikes we lean them up against the
porch. There's one car and two pickup trucks also parked off to the
side. Sara looks at me and says, “He's been dead now for a full
year. What do you think it's like in there? I'm starting to feel
weird about looking through a dead guy’s house.”

“Relax,” I say holding her hand. “It's no big deal.
It's not like his ghost will be greeting us at the door.” The two
of us walk up the wooden steps toward the front screen door. When I
open it to let Sara go through first, the old rusted spring makes a
straining noise. Inside, it takes us a moment for our eyes to
adjust, and when they do we can tell the house has been picked over
pretty good by the relatives.

“Do you think there's anyone here?” Sara asks as she
steps into the living room. Most of the chairs that are still left
behind have heavy white cloth covering them which gives them the
images of ghosts hovering in a room.

“Hello!” I shout out. We both listen for a moment.
Nothing. “It's kinda weird that the door would be wide open.”

“There's no reason to lock it because they said
anyone is free to take whatever they want,” Sara says. “Besides,
there's other vehicles parked out front. There must be someone else
in here.”

I try again. “Hello. Seems to me we've got the place
to ourselves. Let's have a look around.” Inside the living room
there's only three stuffed chairs left that are so worn out no one
would want to put in their home, but I bet they're still pretty
comfortable. “It's too bad my fort washed away in a storm, these
chairs would have been perfect in there.”

I had built a very cool fort down by the water’s
edge, but the summer I was not here, while I was hiding on Hunter's
Island, Sara had said the fort was washed away one night in a bad
storm. If I ever do that again I'll just have to build it above the
high-tide mark.

Just behind the front door is a wooden wall-mounted
hat rack with a mirror in the center. On the rack are still two
hats; one a red checked flannel job with ear-flaps, and the other
is sort of a fedora, like they probably wore in the twenties, with
a short feather sticking out the side. It’s funny to think people
used to put feathers in their hats and think they looked cool.

I carefully grasp the fedora and blow some of the
dust off. Inspecting it closely I then place it on my head and have
a peek in the mirror. I’m not sure my haircut matches the style of
the hat; longer hair just above my shoulders, that’s closer to
blond than brown from the strong summer sun. I usually try and comb
it back Eric Clapton style. Removing the hat, I keep studying
myself staring back. I’m certainly taller than I was last year, and
even slightly taller than most of my friends. My skinny-ish body
doesn’t look too strong, but I know from hauling lobster traps last
summer I’m stronger than most guys my age. I do a quick
‘double-barrel’ pose with both arms curled in the air then puff out
my chest. My gray T-shirt is too loose to show off my bulging
muscles if I had any, and my Levi’s are a little long with frayed
bottoms to look like a proper strong-man pose.

“Fisher! Quit goofing around. Over here.” Sara’s
standing by a two-way swinging door. “This must go to the kitchen.”
She pushes through and when the door swings back I follow her
in.

In the far corner by the cabinets in the dim light
looks like another piece of furniture covered with a heavy white
cloth. Suddenly it moves like it's trying to grab us! “AAH!” rips
out of my mouth. Both Sara and I jump back.

“Well, hello there,” says a woman in a white house
dress who was bent over looking through a cabinet. “I didn't hear
you two come in.” She squints at us with a tilt to her head and an
odd smile. I guess she doesn't get it that we thought she was a
ghost. She's an older woman, probably older than my mom, who kinda
looks like a large pear if a pear had arms and legs and short white
hair. “I'm Martha, Elliot's cousin from Connecticut.

Sara and I look at each other. It sounds funny to
hear him called Elliot.

“I think everyone around here knows him as Grandpa
Woodridge. We were cousins. He was much older than me.”

“Right. Grandpa Woodridge,” I say.

“There's not much left; the two guys with the trucks
picked over the last of the good stuff. But if you find anything
nifty they missed, it's yours,” she says.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Sara says.

I open a kitchen cabinet and take a look inside.
There's only a dented pot with a broken handle; I'm certain I don't
need that.