The Brotherhood of Pirates

by William Gilkerson

  “What am I supposed to learn from his example?”

  “Not to trust anybody, for starters, except to be who they are, and you’d better be able to trust yourself to see whatever that is. Unless they’re your mother. Maybe even then. Tricky business, what?”

  “Danger, and more danger,” said Jenny, who had insisted on reading my palm during recess. She had read it before, many times, with changing results, but had recently found a new book on the subject. I’d been complaining that I didn’t know where my life was going, beyond the move that Mother and I were going to have to make. I told Jenny the danger had come and gone, and we had lost, and if she wanted to be of some use, she should tell me what to expect next. I didn’t believe any of it, but I was glad for her company, and her concern. “Danger,” she repeated. “And travel. I see a trip.”

  “A voyage?”

  “Could be.” Jenny was more interested in my report on the captain’s activities in the cellars. If she’d had her wish, she would have dragged me back down there, but she had to justify every away-from-home visit to her mother, who would have come up pretty sharp if she’d ever learned what Jenny and I were up to in the dark corridors under the inn. Another secret. I had kept an eye on the captain, as promised, but his activities there had not been exciting. The only things he had brought out were some bits from the trash in the cave. He had sorted these into piles. Otherwise, he was even scarcer than usual. He had gone off to Halifax for nearly a week, to have a look at its library, he said. When he came back, he spent long hours in Tom’s shop working on Merry.

  So, April came and went, not taking with it the last pockets of winter snow. Autumn is Nova Scotia’s really glorious season; spring is bad to nonexistent. Nova Scotians who can afford to usually move south during March and April. Our own impending move would be no vacation, and it was the main topic after family dinner on the first Sunday in May.

  A fortnight earlier, with great reluctance, mother had contacted Moehner Realty & Development Company to accept their long-standing offer for our property, only to find they had retracted their original price. They were now offering a much lower one. Mother had steamed out of their office and advertised the sale on her own, with no agent. Also with no success so far. The Moehners had circulated pumped-up stories about the old property’s problems, driving away buyers. Mother summed up our situation to the sombre family table.

  “If the place doesn’t sell, we’ve got the money for the June payment, just, and some summer bookings, but the province is going to close us down unless we do the work they want by the end of June. That’s the ninety days we’re allowed. How can we take the bookings when we don’t have a prayer of paying for these?” She held up a stack of contractor’s quotes. “So there’s that, and then worse if nobody buys it pretty quick, and we default. I’m open to ideas.”

  “I didn’t find any treasure in the cellar,” said Robin, who had made good on his promise. He had gone down there, finding the entrance to the cave, and everything else we had discovered. “It’s the inn’s old garbage dump, it looks like. I think somebody’s been into it not too long ago.”

  “That would be me,” came the captain’s voice from the foot of the stairs. Having come down unnoticed, he approached our table, carrying something wrapped in a pillowcase. “I couldn’t help but hear the last of your conversation. Perhaps it’s an opportune moment to show you this.” Laying open the wrappings, he produced a very handsome something-or-other with a spout, clearly antique.

  “A Georgian coffeepot? Pewter?” asked Aunt Karen.

  “Close,” he acknowledged, “but what we have here is a Queen Anne period crested coffeepot, sextangular form, with original ebony side handles, and signed Francis Bassett, New York. Circa 1705. Quite a nice piece of pewter, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You found this locally?” Aunt Karen probed.

  “Quite. In your cellar.” He turned to Mother. “Per our agreement, Madame, I have investigated down there, and resurrected this junk. It was quite nasty, but I washed it, and it’s a very desirable collector’s piece, don’t you think? I reckon it could fetch five or six hundred dollars in Boston. Maybe more in New York, but I’m not going there. In any case, also per our agreement, you own three quarters’ share of this object, and there’s lots more. It’s not all as choice as this particular piece, but there are lidded flagons, ewers, creamers. There’s a warming pan by William Will of Philadelphia, circa 1785; a Charles II charger; tankards with the crest and crown of Holbourge; and all manner of plates and platters. Treasure. There’s four crates of it in all. Here’s a book I borrowed from the library, which has quite a lot to say.” With it and some telephone calls to Boston antique dealers, he had made a rough appraisal and an itemised inventory. “Here’s what we’ve got. It’s all down below, and you can take a look at it. If it’s properly sold, I should imagine it will cover your bills and save the inn. Such is my opinion, and here’s my proposal.”

  Before anybody had a chance to digest what he had already told us, he was presenting a plan that centred on Boston, where he had to be by mid-June on other business. He would sail with his share of the pewter trove and sell it there, and he would sell ours also, if we wanted him to. With luck, the money could be wired home in the nick of time to pay for the inn’s repairs.

  “Halifax is closer, and time’s important,” was Mother’s reaction.

  “Your share’s yours to sell when and where you like, but you won’t get a dime on the dollar for it this side of Boston, which is where the money is. The timing’s a close thing, as you say, but Merry will make a faster trip of it if Jim here comes along to stand watches. As crew. If I’m single-handed, I’ll be hove-to for days. He can be your representative, keeping watch over your goods. After that, I’m sailing east, and I’ll deposit him back here on the way.” There was stunned silence all around. “You can tow all of that alongside while you decide whether or not you want to haul it aboard.” So saying he withdrew, leaving the coffeepot and the book, along with much to be examined.

  The upshot of it was a good deal of confusion. First, there was the providential windfall of his discovery, and the possibility of the inn’s survival. Leafing through the library book, Aunt Karen nodded. “He’s done his research, and I wouldn’t be surprised if his figures are right. I suspect he’s also right about Boston being the place to sell it.” Here she gave Mother a look. “The question is, do you trust him to do it, and pay you, and return Jim safe and sound? I notice this book is from the reference section of the library, by the way. How did he get it out?”

  I piped in, assuring Mother my drinking days were over and that he was a good sailor. School would be finished. Others could fill my duties for the two or three weeks a round-trip to Boston would take in Merry.

  “Out of the question.” Mother shook her head. “He’s done some good things; I’ll give him that, but trust him with you? Not anymore. What do we actually know about him?” She turned to Robin. “Did you ever check up?”

  He had, but with no results. “There are a lot of Charles Johnsons in the system, and it’s hard to sort them out. The Home Office in England seems to be having some difficulty in locating his passport number. I’m still waiting to see what they come up with. The Bermudan authorities confirm that his yacht did sail from there when he said he did, and there’s no evidence he’s smuggling anything. When he got here, he didn’t bring anything ashore before he was examined.”

  “I’ll attest he’s a real historian,” Aunt Karen commented, “though he’s as coy as anybody I’ve ever met when it comes to talking about himself. He’s told us nothing.”

  “I think he had some bad experiences during the war,” I put in, “and he doesn’t like to look back.”

  At some point, everybody trooped below, with Aunt Karen being wheeled down the steps by Robin, to view the considerable pewter trove, which had been washed.

  “Very impressive,” said Mother, “but if it has to go to Boston to fetch what it’s worth, I’l
l carry it there myself, on the train.”

  “Hmmmm,” said Robin, hefting one of the heavy boxes with some effort.

  “I don’t care how heavy it is,” was Mother’s response. “It can go in the freight car. I’ll deal with it.”

  “Deal with who?” came a surprise question from Meg.

  “I’ll have to check into that,” said Mother.

  “But he’s already checked into it,” I said. “And . . .”

  “Jim, you’re not sailing with him, and that’s that. Put it out of your mind.”

  14

  Merry Adventure

  THE YAWL MERRY Adventure put her nose across the eye of a fair, warm breeze. Her sails filled on the opposite tack, and drew; she picked up her skirts and bubbled along in a splendour of new paintwork, under a full flutter of flags. Passing our point, we lost sight of the wharf, and the family, along with Noel Nauss and the other well-wishers who had come to see us off on our adventure. Meg was there, and Jenny, jealous that she wasn’t going, too. My last view of them was Mother, waving her blue scarf. Merry’s bowsprit aimed to the open sea like a thrown spear, startling a flock of gulls; they rose from the water with a great flapping of wings, then soared into the summer sun, like my heart at that moment.

  “Ease the stays’l sheet,” the captain growled, “and then coil down halyards and hang ’em off as I showed you. Jump to it.”

  “Yes, sir.” I jumped to it with great eagerness.

  “There’s no yesses and no sirs here. It’s ‘Aye, Cap’n.’”

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  “And when I say jump, I don’t mean literally. Take her slow, and she comes easy.” Pegging the tiller, he stooped out of the wind to light his pipe. “And when y’r done with that, you can fetch me a rum. Half water. I want to drink a toast to Merry, and to all the gods of the seas, and to freedom on the broad plain of the ocean.”

  I didn’t drink with him, but my sentiments were powerfully in the same place, particularly as regarding freedom. It had been hard-won. From the outset, Mother was opposed in a very stubborn way to my being where I now was, but the captain’s stock had risen again as my famous binge faded with time, more serious concerns arose, and the pewter find miraculously appeared.

  Mother and Robin had made an expedition to Halifax, where they spent an educational afternoon visiting the few antique dealers there. The best offer they got was a tenth of the captain’s appraisal, just as he had predicted, and Mother discovered her bargaining limitations. Hoping to induce one dealer into a better offer, she mentioned there were two more boxes of it, and the dealer immediately cut his offer in half. So much for Halifax. As to Boston, there was much family debate over the next fortnight. Aunt Karen’s hunch was that his appraisal was good, but she had character questions she couldn’t define. Robin had never been as worried as my mother by the drinking episode, and made the point that in Nova Scotia, sending sons to sea for a summer after grade school was as traditional as letting them have a beer with the crew. Nobody questioned his competency as a sailor. Mother’s remaining issues were further smothered by the reality that everything—the inn that we couldn’t sell, but couldn’t keep—hung on trusting the captain to do what he said he would.

  “It’s a roll of the dice,” as Meg put it, coming in on his side to my surprise. “He’s a big actor, and he’s very clever, and if he wants to steal your money, and Jim, they’ll be gone. But he gave you the money, you could say, and he’s already stolen Jim, and what other chance have you got?”

  In school, I’d had to turn in my pirates essay ending with Captain Kidd, and the explanation that his case stopped the entire system of state-sponsored piracy. Miss Titherington accepted this, along with the bibliography I handed her. (She made no response to my question as to who had a real democracy earlier than the buccaneers.) She graded the essay A-minus, noting: “Very thoughtful, but you make proper governments seem more piratical than pirates, which is an unacceptable notion. Otherwise well organised, with good bibliog. & exc. spelling.”

  At my graduation the captain took time from launching Merry to show up and sit with the family. I think it was his attendance at that event that turned Mother’s mind, at last, because he was invited back to the family table on the Sunday before departure. Aunt Karen had to give him a last grilling. “How do you plan to get good prices on all the pieces, when you’re flooding the market with them?”

  “Very carefully, Madam, my oath on it.” He smiled, and escaped back to Merry, and his many preparations to sail. Noel Nauss carried the heavy boxes of pewter and stowed them under the bunk where the captain’s chest had been. I moved aboard the next day. Mother had filled a navy surplus seabag with four times more than I could ever wear—a great weight of clothing—plus towels, shoes, boots, Band-Aids, sun lotion, candy bars, and so on. I could hardly lift the bag. Room for it was made on top of some spare sails in the fo’c’sle where my bunk was. It shared space with a small workbench and tools, clusters of tackle blocks, coils of line, and strings of shackles. The whole space smelled of Stockholm tar, and to me it was a headier fragrance than any perfume. I’d had little time to enjoy my new quarters before we were off.

  Time was all-important. Mother had taken the summer bookings and used the deposits to hire a plumber, electrician, and carpenter. They were going to start the work in time to satisfy the inspectors, but would soon have to be paid or they would stop, and we then would be in worse debt than ever, truly lost. If we could accomplish what we were setting out to do within two weeks, wiring back the money before then, all would be well.

  I hadn’t mentioned to Mother one setback, which was Tom’s failure to find the parts needed to fix the captain’s old diesel engine, but the captain didn’t seem concerned. “Merry’s weathered an ocean or two without it, and I reckon she can sail the six or seven hundred miles from here to Boston and back.”

  He thought we would have a slow trip there, against the seasonal southwesterly winds, and had allowed a week for it, giving another week to send the money, and follow with a fast run home. He would stay for only another week or so, pushing off for the Emerald Isle before the hurricane season.

  “What’s in Ireland?”

  “The sweetest uillean pipes ever to tickle the ears of the gods, for one thing.” He smiled. “And for another, I’ll confess there’s a certain Irish lady with whom I’d like to play a tune or two.” I asked her name, but he put his fingers to his lips.

  “Shhh,” he said. “No names. I’ve said too much as is. Merry’s listening, y’see, and she can get a bit, well, jealous, which we don’t want, my oath on it. Her wants are first, so let’s start you gettin’ to know what she wants from Master Jim. Take care of yourself, Dearie,” he said, pegging the tiller. Merry nodded on the crest of a small wave, tending herself nicely while I was given my duties. My first job was to work the wobble pump periodically, until her new planks tightened up.

  Meanwhile, she leaked plenty, it seemed to me. The pump was situated where the helmsman sat in the cockpit, and all of the lines for sail trimming led there, allowing one person to handle them, watch the compass, steer, and pump when necessary. While I counted strokes, he talked about the headsails (staysail and jib), the gaff mainsail and topsail, and, farthest aft, the little triangular mizzen sail that sheeted to a long bumpkin sticking out from the transom, like a backward-pointing bowsprit. “She’s not a true quay punt,” he informed me. “She’s got the same rig, but she’s beamier, and a bit bigger all around, and she’s better. Aren’t you, darlin’?”

  Merry flounced along while I was initiated into the operation of the kerosene (he called it paraffin) galley stove, which had to be pressure-pumped, then heat-primed with alcohol, which he called spirits. “You’ve got to do it all just right, or you’ll get black smoke.” The brass lamp that hung over the cabin table worked on the same system. My job was to fill them daily, without spilling kerosene, and also the little gimballed oil lamps, as well as the night navigation lights. The captain was n
ot a believer in electrical lighting or electrical anything aboard Merry. “The less to go wrong, the better, eh?” Hence, there were no gadgets, not even a pump-toilet as most yachts had. “Prob’ly they’ll legislate against pissing over the side some day, but you can bet that the politicians making the rules have stock in the big chemical factories fouling the sweet waters of the earth.”

  My immediate concern was noon dinner. Mother had stuffed the galley with food. I learned I was responsible for meals and cleanup, unless the captain took a whim to cook. If he did, I would still have cleanup. Astern, the hills and headlands of the only place I had ever known receded behind us, until they were barely visible as a purplish line on the clear horizon.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” he enquired. I told him it was one of the most perfect days of my life. “That’s good,” he approved. “Better appreciate it. Wind’s going to back sou’westerly, and we’re going to lose the lee shelter of the land. How’s your boat stomach?” I assured him that I’d been out with Grandfather and Tom many times, and didn’t get seasick.

  WHUMP! Merry took a hard lurch over the wave that had smacked her, did a twist on top of it, and then made a brief but dramatic roller-coaster plunge into its trough, before starting at once to do it again, and then again. True to the captain’s prediction, the wind had backed and increased, bothering up a short, nasty head-sea that Merry had been smashing into for two long days. I somewhat lost track of time, but I did fulfil all of my duties, and I think I could have gotten through it better but for the smell of kerosene. I didn’t get much sympathy.

  “You’re spillin’ that paraffin, and it’s stinking up Merry, and she says to tell you she doesn’t like it.” In accordance, the mainmast made a sudden, angry creak as the boat took a lurch. He looked quite comfortable at the helm, given the conditions. His hat brims were tied under his chin to keep the spray off his face, and he was smoking a thin cigar. I cleaned my smelly hands in salt water as best I could, then started to go back below, for whatever sleep I could get. It was my off-watch. It had been four on and four off, with sleep in two-hour snatches, in a universe that was full of sudden and unfair angles, plus noise—waves whumping into the hull six inches from my ear, sloshing sounds, massive creakings from the mainmast, tackle blocks thumping and drumming on the deck, wind gusts across the open hatch, pots and pans clinking and clanking in the galley, and every object below that could move making small sliding sounds and thumps, like our cargo of pewter. Under it all was an irregular groaning in basso that seemed to come from the very fabric of the ship.