[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman (18 page)

A high, circular stained-glass window let in a pool of sunlight in faded hues. The rest of the illumination was provided by two storm lamps suspended from a crossbeam. A tall, heavyset, elderly man with a full grey beard, wearing bell-bottom pants and a close-fitting dark blue seaman's jersey, with a spotted red-and-white neckerchief, was seated at a table. Upon it was a welter of cardboard filing boxes and books, parchments and scrap paper. Around him, the interior appeared to be covered in dust and draped with cobwebs. The man was poring over a document on the table, leaning on one elbow, holding a pencil poised.

Suddenly he sat upright, moving a much-repaired pair of glasses from his face. He looked to the front door, as if he had heard a noise from outside. Rising slowly, he crept to the door and placed an ear against it. From his pocket he took a child's toy, a cheap green metal clicker in the shape of a frog, and taking a deep breath he bellowed out angrily, “I know you're still out there! Shift yourself quick! I never miss with this shotgun! Ye'll get a full blast through this door if ye don't move, I warn ye!” He clicked the tin frog twice. Ben wrinkled his face in amusement—it sounded just like a shotgun. The old fraud!

Satisfied the intruder had fled, the big man went back to his table, where he lit a small paraffin stove and placed a whistling kettle upon it. From a box under the table he brought forth a large enamel mug, brown cane sugar, and a can of condensed milk. Whilst doing this, he sang in a fine husky baritone. Ben recognized the song as an old sea shanty he was familiar with. He listened to the man sing:

The big fellow paused, scratching his beard thoughtfully, obviously having forgotten the rest of the words. With the danger of being shot no longer a threat, Ben could not resist supplying a verse to help the singer's memory. So he sang out through a knothole in a raucous voice.

The man began moving toward the shutter, a smile forming on his rough-hewn features as he took a turn with a verse.

He paused. Ben knew what to do, he sang out the rest.

Then they both sang the last two lines lustily together.

The old fellow banged a huge callused hand against the shutter, causing Ben to jump. He banged it again, laughing. “Hohohoho! That weren't no Chapelvale bumpkin singin' a good seafarin' shanty. They've all got one leg longer'n the other from walkin' in plow furrows 'round here. Ahoy, mate, what was the first ship ye sailed in?”

Ben shouted through a knothole. “The
Flying Dutchman
, mate. What was yours?”

Placing his back against the shutters, the man slid down into a sitting position, overcome with laughter.

“Hohoho, if I'm as big a liar as you, 'twas the
Golden Hind
, with Sir Francis Drake as skipper. Hahaha!”

The boy laughed with him, shouting back a typical seafarer's reply. “And did you bring your old mother back a parrot from Cartagena?”

Bolts were withdrawn from the shutters, and Ben found himself staring into a pair of eyes as blue as his own. With a tattooed hand the man indicated a thick gold earring dangling from his right ear.

“Tell me, lad, why I'm wearin' this, 'tain't for fashion, is it?”

Ben shook his head. “No sir, that's in case they find your body washed up on a foreign shore, to pay for the burial.”

The old fellow helped him through the window and shook his hand vigorously. “Jonathan Preston, Jon to my mates. Ship's carpenter, man an' boy, for fifty years. Served in both Royal and Merchant Navies with not a day's loss of pay on my discharge books.”

“Ben Winn, sir, visiting the village for a while, stopping at my aunt Winifred's house.”

Jon produced another mug and wiped it clean. “Ho, then, better be watchin' me manners, seein' as you're the owner's nephew. Kettle's boilin', mate. Time for tea, eh!”

They sat together at the table, sipping hot sweet tea. Jon watched the boy thoughtfully. “Ye seem to have a fair maritime knowledge, m'boy. How d'ye come to know things only an old salt would know, eh?”

Ben had to resort to lies again, knowing the truth was too incredible for a normal person to believe. “Did a few trips along the coast, Jon. I read a lot, too. Ever since I first picked up a book, I always liked to read about sailors and the sea.”

Jon's craggy face broke into a grin. “Well, now, 'tis the other way 'round with me, lad. Here's me been at sea nigh on fifty years and I like studyin' the land an' its history. It was Cap'n Winn who gave me a berth. When I gave up seafarin', he let me stay here, rent free. I'm a sort of caretaker, just keepin' an eye on the old place. After a while I got bored, so I took myself 'round to the library. Mr. Braithwaite got me interested in local history, I'm very keen on it now. Studying Chapelvale's past an' so on.”

Ben cast an eye over the debris of papers and books on the table. “Aye, Jon, so I see. Perhaps you could give me a few pointers. I've become quite interested, too, since staying with my aunt.”

The old carpenter's voice became suddenly grave. “So, you might have heard what's goin' on hereabouts, lad. If that barnacle Smithers an' his big-city cronies get their way, there won't be no village left to study. Rascals! They'll turn the place into a quarry an' a cement factory!”

Ben took a sip of his tea. “I know, Jon, it's a real shame, mate, but I'm doing what I can to help Aunt Winnie. Nobody else in Chapelvale seems to care. I don't think they're really aware of the situation. Either that or they're so worried that they push it all to the back of their minds and hope it'll go away.”

Jon patted Ben's back approvingly. “Well, thank the stars there's someone else besides myself interested in helpin' the cap'n's wife. Y'are interested, aren't ye, boy?”

Ben did not need to reply, he merely stared straight into his new friend's eyes. Jon was taken aback at the intensity of the blue-eyed boy's gaze; it seemed to hold a world of knowledge and wisdom, so much so that the older man felt like a pupil in the presence of a teacher. Jon answered his own question.

“Right, I can see you are, Ben. Here, then, let me show ye what I've found out so far.”

Rummaging through the boxes on the table, Jon found the one he wanted. It was made from sandalwood, the label stating that it had once held cigars, Burmah Cheroots. He opened it and took out what appeared to be a folded piece of thick, yellow paper.

“See this, 'tis real vellum, the kind of stuff that only very rich folk could afford to use. Want to know how old it is, lad, well, listen an' I'll read it to ye. Mr. Braithwaite translated it from Latin, the kind that churchfolk used long ago. Let me see, ah, here 'tis!”

From the cigar box he produced two pages, torn from a school exercise book. Squinting slightly, Jon read aloud. “ ‘Given in this year of grace, Thirteen Hundred and Forty-one, by the hand of Bishop Algernon Peveril, chaplain to his illustrious Majesty, Edward III, King of England.
To my good friend in God, Caran De Winn,
loyal servant to the King, Captain and newly made Squire. Brother, I have marked the bounds of your land on a map. It will mark out the boundaries of the acres granted to you by our King, for your heroic services at the Battle of Sluys, which resulted in the defeat and capture of the French fleet. Chapelvale will be a fitting name for your property. I know you will receive good help from the honest folk thereabout to build the church we have planned. Friend Caran, make the name of Chapelvale and the Church of Saint Peter resound throughout the land. Thus will it add praise to the Lord, thanks to our King and grace to my true friend, Caran De Winn. I will send, under guard, a wagon to you, when winter's snows are cleared. It will contain the map, deeds, and title to your land, signed and sealed by the hand of our Monarch. There will also be gifts to grace the altar of our church, treasures that I give freely to you as a mark of my admiration and respect. Algernon Peveril, your friend at Court.' ”

Jon looked rather proud of himself. “There now, lad, what d'ye make of that, eh?”

“That's marvelous, Jon. Where did you find the vellum?”

The carpenter pointed at the floor, which had been recently repaired. “Under some old floorboards I was fixin'. 'Twas in an old box, heavily sealed up with beeswax. A lucky discovery, eh, lad?”

Ben nodded. “Very lucky, mate, but will it stand up as proof of ownership? What happened to the King's signed deeds and the treasure? Did Caran receive them?”

Swilling tea around in his mug, Jon replied. “I don't know yet, Ben, I have been lookin' 'round for more clues. But 'tis difficult, I can tell ye. There was only one other thing in that box 'neath the floorboards, though it don't look very helpful. See what ye think.”

Jon took the last scrap of paper from his cigar box. “Nought but an old torn piece o' thin paper, with two little holes burned in it an' a half line o' writin' on the bottom.”

Jon noticed the boy's hands gripping the table edge, white-knuckled. “What's up, mate, are you all right?” Jonathan Preston's eyes grew wide as the boy slowly drew an identical scrap of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. “Great thunder, Ben, where did ye come by that?”

“In the spine of Cap'n Winn's family Bible!”

They stood staring at the two pieces of paper, fascinated. Ben flourished a hand over them. “You're the senior historian, Jon, put them together!”

Jon's big workworn hands trembled as he reunited the two scraps. They fitted perfectly. The writing along the bottom of the piece now read:

They stared at the writing for a long time, racking their brains at the significance of it. Jon stroked his beard. “Trouble is, it don't tell us what the treasure is or where to find it, though I'll wager whatever and wherever 'tis, the deeds will be with it, Ben. We'll seek it out together, mate, just you an' me, eh?”

Ben accepted the old man's sturdy handshake, adding, “Well, not quite just us two, friend, there's others interested. My two friends, Amy and Alex Somers. Then there's Aunt Winnie. I'll bet Mr. Braithwaite could be useful, too. Oh, and one other, my dog Ned, he's a good searcher. Actually it was he who really found that paper. You'll like him, Jon.”

The old carpenter shook his head, chuckling. “I'm sure I will, shipmate, if he's anything like you! Alex and Amy Somers and old Braithwaite, your aunt, too? Looks like we've got quite a crew. You sure you don't want to bring the whole village along, Ben?”

The boy grinned. “Only if they want to come, Jon. I'm willing to take on any folk who'll try helping themselves, instead of sitting 'round hoping the problem'll disappear.”

Jon took out a battered but reliable pocket watch and consulted it. “Nearly four, time for proper tea. D'you like corned beef sandwiches and some of Blodwen Evans's scones? I bought 'em yesterday, but they're still fairly fresh.”

Ben remembered his four o'clock appointment. “I'd love to stay to tea, mate, but I've got to go somewhere. Tell you what, I'll see you here tomorrow, say about eleven. Will it be all right if I bring my friends and my dog?”

Jon waved at Ben as he leapt up to the windowsill.

“Aye. See you in the mornin', then, partner!”

When Ben had gone, the old seaman sat looking at the two bits of paper. He had worked long and hard at trying to defeat Smithers and help his old cap'n's wife, without an ounce of success. However, he felt with the arrival of the strange lad that things were beginning to happen. Stroking his beard, he stared at the empty window space. It was as if the blue-eyed boy had been sent to aid him by some myste-

CHAPELVALE VILLAGE SCHOOL WAS A small, drab, greystone building with the year 1802 graven over the door. Very basic, merely a couple of rectangular rooms with a corridor between them, it was typical of most small village schools. The playground at its rear opened onto the back of the library, which had been built later and was slightly grander. The library had mullioned windows, behind which Mr. Braithwaite could be seen studying a catalogue at his desk. The school playground was hemmed by a low stone wall, with bushes growing over it. Wilf Smithers stood, apparently alone on the dusty playground.