PIRATE JACK
A Novel
Alessandro V. Cima
Candlelight Stories Book Publishing
A Candlelight Stories Book Publishing Paperback
Pirate Jack. Copyright © 2000 by Alessandro V. Cima.
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from Candlelight Stories, Inc. or the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
For information, contact Candlelight Stories, Inc. by email at info@candlelightstories.com.
Originally published by Candlelight Stories in 2000 as an electronic book. Subsequently published as an online audio book.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2007901051
First Paperback Edition, February 2007
First Edition
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN 978-0-6151-4024-7
Candlelight Stories Book Publishing
For Bella
We all steal stuff because no one is looking,
It’s fun,
And it’s just this one time anyway.
~ a pirate said it
I - STONES
Here’s how I met the pirates—if you can believe that—and it all started right near home. My father and I lived in a wooden house on the shore of South Cove. From our yard, the cove was a great shining circle of water surrounded by beaches and trees. The far end opened into the Atlantic Ocean. Every so often, a motorboat puttered from one side of South Cove to the other. It was a mostly quiet place to live.
My dad was a boat builder. He made sailboats in the workshop that stood across the yard from our back door. When I wasn’t helping him, I was wandering up and down the beach, or rowing our skiff into the marsh until it was tangled in reeds. There I’d sit and eat a sandwich, pretending to be a sea captain or a marooned pirate.
One afternoon, I headed along the beach toward the dunes about a half mile north. They were covered with tall grass. It was taller than me in most places and it brushed my face as I climbed the highest dune.
When I got to the top, I looked over the thicket and could see out along the curved beach, all the way past the marsh, to a barbed wire fence that ran around a big, dusty construction site. Dump trucks drove between pillars. Cement trucks turned their barrels. A worker stood on some rocks holding a jackhammer that barely made a ticking sound from so far away.
I’d been down there a few times, sneaking under the fence at night with a flashlight, like a soldier on a secret mission. I’d poke around for a while, wondering what the shops and movie theaters would turn out like.
When my father drove our truck up the shore road he would frown at the new buildings and say something about them. “Look at all that rotten work. They’re hiding the ocean behind it.”
My dad was always pointing out stuff like that because when he saw people building things he thought they should do it right and that meant doing it as little as possible.
The site was spreading up the beach and shooting long gray piers into the water. Dad was right. They were hiding the ocean behind steel and concrete. I didn’t think it would ever spread this way, but it was big enough and ugly enough to hate. Dad said the people of South Cove had stopped caring about the cove and were more interested in business.
I watched the worker break rocks with his jackhammer and got mad. I picked up a chunk of driftwood and threw it as far as I could toward the worker on the rocks. It plopped into the marsh below the dunes. Feeling stupid, I swung my arm and swatted the reeds of grass in front of me. Then I turned from the ugly view and stomped through the grass, going downhill into the cool shade of the pine trees.
I’d been through here so many times that I’d worn out a path that circled back to the beach near my house. Every time I went through, I’d pass a little mound of earth with weeds on top. This time, I stopped and looked at it for a while. I was so mad at the construction site that I wanted to destroy something.
My face got hot. I made tight fists. In three big steps I was at the mound. I kicked it as hard as I could. My foot broke through the dirt and crumbled stones. I kicked into the pile over and over, breaking apart almost the whole thing. I kneeled and pushed stones away. When they were all gone, I saw nothing but sand. So I started digging. My fingers scraped and scooped until my nails felt like they’d break off.
I dug more than a foot down to a black rock. My fingers found the edges and scraped away lots of dirt. Finally, I braced my feet on both sides of the hole and pulled the rock with all my might. It tilted up and fell away with a thump.
When I looked into the hole I saw only more dirt, but I knew something could be buried down there, so I kept digging. I was sweating through my shirt and breathing like a jogger when my fingers finally hit something solid.
I brushed the dirt away and saw that the wood was carved. It had to be the top of a box or a treasure chest.
“Oh my gosh!” I whispered as the pattern on the wood became clear.
It was a map of the Caribbean that showed the tip of Florida, the islands, and the old Spanish Main. Carved underneath was this:
With these three and the sea, friend, make thy way
to a place thou knowest well.
I was so excited that I stood up and spun in a circle while jumping up and down.
I found a strong branch, snapped the end off to make it sharp, and used it to dig around the wood until I’d exposed the whole top and a black iron lock.
”Pirates! Pirates for sure!” I cried.
A stone, banged against the lock twenty-three times, broke it. The old hinges creaked and hitched as I pulled the lid up. My mouth fell open at what I saw.
Three corked bottles sat gleaming in the sunlight. Inside each one was a roll of brown paper. I stayed on my knees, staring at the bottles and felt the world stop moving.
I lifted one bottle out and pulled the cork. There was a hiss and a pop as the ancient air escaped. The roll of paper fell onto the pine needles. I picked it up and slipped the ribbon off. The paper unrolled easily.
It was a black ink drawing of a boat floating on tall waves. Ten men were rowing. There was fancy writing that said,
Thou hast, in thy hand, the untold power of history. Thou art a traveler in time, and so must commit this scroll to the sea if thou wilt find thy way back again.
This was more than I had ever imagined in my wildest dreams. This was something old and mysterious and powerful. Something so secret it had to be buried here under the pines where no one would ever find it… until now.
I rolled the paper, looped its string around, and dropped it inside the bottle. I pushed the cork in until it was snug.
I closed the box on the other bottles and piled the stones and dirt on top of it. No one would find my discovery before I came back with a shovel to dig it out. I ran along the beach toward home with my secret bottle.
When I reached our pier, I climbed onto the old gray planks and jumped off the other side onto the rocks that protected the beach from storm waves. My feet carried me over the jagged gray edges to a broad rock where I often sat with my fishing pole and tackle box. The little blue and white skiff was tied to the end of the pier, gently nudging the piling. It was the first boat my father and I ever built and it fit the two of us just right.
I held the bottle up and looked through it at the sea. I wondered if whoever buried it had meant to come back for it. Maybe it really was pirate treasure. Maybe the pirate had died before he could return to his hiding place. Maybe the scrolls were magic.
II - THE BOATHOUSE
I turned on the flat rock and looked back at the Boathouse. That’s what my dad and I called the old shop where we built our boats. It was up past the beach where the grass started. A big old, twisted live oak stood right next to it, shading the pointed roof. I liked the way these two old friends stood so close on the rise. The shop was built out of rough planks, sort of like the wood you might see on a barn. The roof was a dull silver tin that popped and twanged when you climbed it to sit on the pointed part.
I heard the table saw going and knew my father was in there cutting long strips of cedar wood that he’d bend and fasten to the boat’s frames. I never could believe how a straight, strong piece of wood could bend into the shape of a boat. It was one of those great secrets of boat building that my father knew.
I jumped onto the sand and walked up to the Boathouse.
My father had his goggles on and was guiding the saw along a pencil line that curved toward the end of a long cedar plank. When he finished, he looked up at me. The saw whined to a halt.
“Jack,” he said, pushing the goggles up on his head. “Want to help carry this over to the bench?”
I went over and picked up my end of the plank. We lifted it and stepped across the shop to lay it on the work bench.
He looked at the boat’s frames and said, “There she is, Jack. Set up, timbered out, faired, and ready for planking. How does she look?”
“Like a whale,” I said, admiring the perfect frames that made a boat shape, going from small at the stern end, to fat and round, then to a smooth point at the bow.
“I agree, Jack. It’s like there’s a whale indoors.”
We laughed. He turned to me.
“She’ll be our best boat yet,” he said, with that serious look that had something dancing behind his eyes.
He fit the cedar plank into metal clamps and picked up his heavy wooden plane.
“Remember, Jack. A good fitting depends on that last smooth pass of a plane in a gentle hand. No electric tool will ever finish off a boat plank as well.”
He put the tool on the edge of the plank and ran it all the way to the end.
“I found pirate treasure today, Dad.” I held the bottle up. He put down the plane and came over to me. He tapped the bottle with his pencil.
“Secret scroll,” he said, “I’ll bet there are some pirates out there who’ll be along for it soon.”
“I could join them. Fix their boats up.”
“You could do a darn sight more.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “But how will I finish this boat without you?”
“Well, I guess I’ll tell the pirates I have a good job and can’t join them.”
He went back to the saw and lined up another plank. The saw started and cut clean into the wood. His eyes were sharp and concentrated through the goggles.
III - THE LAND
My father stood at the stove, his big shoulders moving a little while he fried our trout. We lived on the ocean but we always went to the supermarket for fish. I can tell you my father knew how to make a fine lemon trout dinner and I always ate it up—every bit. He made a big salad to go with it and we were happy as a restaurant. That’s what he always said.
In seconds flat, he had the trout flipped out of the pan and plopped on our plates. The salad got piled on and he put the dinners down on the table at the same time. PLUNK the plates went and the trout steamed. “Okay!” he cried, “Let’s eat some barnacles!” We ate and he talked about the new boat. Then I lit into my pirate talk.
“Do you think pirates were ever really like in my books?”
“I think they were probably a lot worse than in your books, Jack. Pirates killed without mercy.”
“I like the fun stuff,” I said with a hot lump of trout burning my mouth. “Like ships and cannons. Did you know that sometimes a cannonball would just bounce right off the hull of an enemy ship?”
“They built them right, didn’t they?”
“They sure did.”
My father reached for his address book and pulled an envelope from between its pages. He finished chewing and gave me a serious look.
“Listen to the letter we got today.” He pulled a piece of paper from the envelope, opened it, and read.
“Dear Mr. Spencer. Murtaugh Development Corporation is currently building a twenty-five acre shopping and entertainment complex that will provide the local community with much-needed services and economic opportunity. We would very much like to discuss water access through your property as soon as is convenient. Please contact me regarding this matter. Sincerely, Anthony B. Murtaugh.”
He squished his lips together and sniffed. “What do you think of that?”
“You can’t sell our land, Dad. What would Mom have thought?”
“I know, Jack. She wouldn’t like it one bit.”
Mom had died almost two years ago and that left my father with a very big sadness. She’d loved this place and had helped him with the boats before I was even born.
“We’ll just write back and turn them down flat,” he said, stuffing the letter back in its envelope. “Come here.” He scraped his chair back and stood. “I want to show you something.”
He went to the door and waited for me. We went out onto the little back porch and down the stairs onto the damp grass. He moved me out into the middle of the yard with the sea on our left and the Boathouse in front of us across the way.
“See those trees over behind the Boathouse?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, looking at the dark gray lumps on the night sky.
“That’s their trees. Murtaugh’s trees.”
He turned me to the right. “And those there.” He pointed at the wall of forest where the road cut through to our front gate. “They’re all Murtaugh’s. Right up against us all around, Jack. It’s like we live in a little mouse hole near the water.”
“But it’s ours, Dad.”
“Yes. While we can keep up.”
“We always pay.”
“We keep it going. I know. But they’re coming. They want what we have.”
“They’re not getting it.” I looked up at his face as he gazed steadily into the trees like he smelled some animal in there. “They’re not getting it, Dad.”
“No, but they’ll get a nice letter back.” He looked down and made a little smile that didn’t quite make me happy.
The waves were brushing on the beach. I felt like we were right on the edge of a huge chunk of rock spinning in the night.
IV - INSPECTORS
They tried everything to get us out. We wrote them back and told them we were not interested in their offer. Another letter came that said we’d have to go to court to keep our land but that they’d be willing to do this or that to make an arrangement. We wrote again to say ‘No.’ Then we got a reply warning us about property limits that would be disputed and permits that had not been properly issued. I saw my father get more and more frustrated.
One afternoon, a building inspector showed up with a clipboard and a pen. My father took him into the Boathouse. The inspector shuffled through the sawdust, looking at the walls. He stuck his ballpoint in his mouth and looked up at the peaked ceiling.
“Only got three struts up there,” he said, waving his ballpoint at the beams.
“That’s the way I bought the place fifteen years ago.”
“I know. But it’s not up to code.”
“I have to put more struts in?”
“Sure do.”
The inspector wrote it down and walked out of the Boathouse. He looked at the building like it was something bad for dinner.
“Needs new paint,” he said.
“But it’s just fine the way it is,” my father said.
“Not up to code.” The inspector wrote it down, tore the paper off the clipboard and shoved it at my father.
“‘Til the twentieth of next month. Then I’ll come back.”
“Sure,” said my father as he folded the paper and stuck it in his pocket. “Anything else?”
“Not a thing. Good day.” The inspector left in his white car.
Then came a notice that said my father owed penalties on the business use of our property. He made phone calls to the city offices and got it figured out and didn’t have to pay any money.
A few days after that, my father came into the kitchen with another letter. He slapped it down on the table real hard, making the glasses wobble.
“Damn!” he yelled. He kept reading the letter over again. “Taxes!” he finally blurted out. “They’re going to check all our books and records like we’ve been cheating them.”
I got so upset at the idea of these tax people thinking poorly of my father that I ran upstairs to my room and stared at my pirate ship model. A brigantine. Little plastic pirates manned the deck and climbed the rigging. I imagined they were real pirates sailing for a battle with terrible enemies. I lay back on my bed and looked at the blue bottle on my windowsill.
“No tax people will come into my room,” I thought.
I knew for sure who was sending these people to bother us. Murtaugh. He really was after our land. I thought he should just go somewhere else to build his ugly shopping center and leave us alone.
The bottle showed me the crescent moon through its old glass.
I fell asleep thinking about how pirates would have told the inspectors to eat their paperwork with salt and pepper or get their tongues cut out most obligingly.
V - MURTAUGH
The next morning, my father and I took a ride in our pickup to see Murtaugh in the city. We went to a tall building on Peachtree Avenue that was all dark glass and brass lines. The parking garage was under the building so we got into the shiny brass elevator and went to the twentieth floor. When the doors opened we stepped into a round lobby with soft lights running invisibly all around the top of the wall, throwing pools of light on the ceiling. The lobby was softly carpeted and had a big flowery fountain splashing in the middle. The receptionist sat inside a curvy wooden desk that looked like a huge piece of driftwood. It slanted so much that I wondered how she kept her pens from rolling off.
We walked up to her. She had the phone wedged between her shoulder and ear while she poured jellybeans into a bowl that said “Have a Sweet Day!” in frosty letters.
“Excuse me,” my father said quietly. “We’re here to see Anthony Murtaugh.”
The receptionist whispered into the phone, “Just a sec.” Her long blue fingernail clattered on the phone as she pressed the “Hold” button.
“You have an appointment, sir?”
“Well, he sent me some letters and I’m sure he’ll talk to me. My name’s Henry Spencer.”
“Just a sec,” she said. Her nails tapped the buttons. “I have a Henry Spencer here to see Mr. Murtaugh,” she said carelessly, tapping her nails on the driftwood desk. She put the phone down and smiled at us.
“Someone’ll be right out for you, Mr. Spencer. Have a seat.”
We went to the soft bench cushion that ran the full circle of the lobby.
In less than twenty seconds, another woman came through a pair of glass doors and said, “Right this way, Mr. Spencer.”
We followed her down the hall past a bunch of doors. I peeked inside each one and there were guys behind desks who all looked up the same way, as if surprised to see me.
The woman opened a big cherry wood door and showed us into a round office with a great window curving behind a huge square desk. The office was filled with statues of cupids and fat ladies and angels with harps. A heavy bald man sat behind the desk. When he noticed us, he lifted his arms and held his hands spread out.
“Aha! How y’all doin’ today?” he said in a loud, rough but high-pitched voice.
“Very well, thank you,” said my father.
“Well now, git on over here and sit down comfortable, Mr. Spencer. I have a feelin’ we can git to work on this stuff real quick and git it squared away.” He rubbed his thick hands together like he needed to warm them. “Now, Mr. Spencer. What I got here is a deal with a tidy sum of money ridin’ on it ‘cause we puttin’ up a real doll of a waterfront center.” He cleared his throat importantly and frowned so hard it crinkled up his whole face and made his mouth go down at the corners so far it seemed to split his chin off. “And I hate to have trouble that makes me lose money, Mr. Spencer. I hate it.”
“I understand, Mr. Murtaugh. Only I came to tell you that I just have no interest in selling my property and I am wondering why all of a sudden inspectors are showing up.”
“Hoooweee! Mr. Spencer! You can come on out with a point!” He rubbed his hands together with relish. “Now, I understand your attitude ‘bout your property, you hear? I certainly do. And I can respect that. But... ” He leaned forward and drilled his eyes into my father. “... I gotta git my center built. And you, Mr. Spencer, happen to own the best spot on the whole damn South Cove for my boat center. You see... where you got your house has got just the right kinda water and no rocks aroun’ to mess everthin’ up for the big boats I plan to bring in. How much you want for it?”
“Nothing, Mr. Murtaugh. I don’t want to sell. I’ve got my business there and it’s been a good spot for me.”
Murtaugh grabbed his puffy cheek between his thumb and finger and wiggled it real fast. “Huh. Well shoot!” he said. “I don’t see no kinda give or take in what you saying. You got a real pretty spot there on the beach and I would love to do business with you the respectful way now. But gosh, I just don’t see no way ‘round you at all.”
My father just sat there looking at Murtaugh while Murtaugh looked back at him.
“Okay,” my father said, “Here it is. Just call off whoever you’ve been talking to and sending around my house.”
Murtaugh hunched his shoulders, cracked his thick neck with a sudden snap of his head and folded his beefy arms on the desk up against his chest. His face set into a solid dark mass of irritation.
“I’m gonna be busy now, Mr. Spencer, if you don’t mind.”
He just glared at my father without moving a muscle.
“I’m sure you’re a busy man, but you’re going to have to let go of this one.” Murtaugh sat like a statue. “Leave us alone. I’m not selling my land.”
My father got up and so did I. We both turned and walked toward the door. When I looked back over my shoulder Murtaugh was still glaring at us but one arm was stretched out to the far edge of the desk, pulling a cigar smoothly out of a wooden box.
I watched him put the cigar between his teeth and chomp off a bit that he spat across the room. He looked so comfortable being angry. It was something he did without effort, like answering the phone.
We walked through the lobby without a word to anyone and took the elevator down to the garage.
“Now there’s a fine old block of wood for you,” my father laughed as we climbed into the pickup.
“He looks like a rhino,” I said.