Castaways of the Flying Dutchman fd-1

by Brian Jacques

  and doves.

  Ben spread these on the carpet and studied them. "Hmm, what a handsome couple. Young Lieutenant Winn and

  his fiancee, Winifred, taken on the seafront at Brighton. Some wedding photographs, a picture of this house with Miz

  Winn standing in the garden. Here's another of them both with a baby carriage that must have been taken when their

  son Jim was born. Winnie wasn't joking when she said there were lots of memories here. What d'you think, Ned?"

  The Labrador turned over a packet of letters with his nose. "Shall we take a look at these? There's lots of 'em."

  Ben shook his head. "No, they're love letters from when the captain and Winnie were courting. We don't want to

  pry into personal things like that. They're far too private." He set the letters to one side. "Well, I think we'd better take

  a look in the desk. There doesn't seem to be anything that can help us here."

  Ned gazed reprovingly at his friend. "Except the Bible!"

  Ben did not catch his dog's drift for a moment. "The Bible?"

  The Labrador placed his paw on the volume. "Aye, Ben, the good book—every family should have one. Good

  for the spirit, a great source of scripture, and usually a book where family records are kept." Sometimes Ned's

  knowledge of things was as surprising as his own.

  Ben needed both hands to lift the huge Moroccan leather-bound family heirloom. "Of course! The family Bible.

  Good old Ned!"

  The dog stretched out and yawned. "Good old Ned indeed, where'd you be without me?"

  The boy placed the hefty tome upon the desk, smiling fondly at the big black dog. "Probably drowned off Cape

  Horn!"

  It was a magnificent Bible, with a stained silver clasp holding it shut, faded gold-edged pages, and woven silk

  place markers. Ben dusted off the cover with his sleeve, undid the clasp, and opened the ancient volume. On the inside

  cover was a hand-sketched angel, bearing a scroll written in gothic script.

  "This Bible belongs to the Lord and the family of Winn. Blessed are those who trust in the Lord and live by His

  word."

  Ben leafed carefully through the yellowed pages. Apart from beautiful illuminated verse headings and several

  colorful illustrations, there was nothing out of the ordinary. At the back of the book, he discovered a number of pages,

  some blank and others filled in by different hands over the centuries. Details recorded of births, deaths, and marriages

  provided an almost complete lineage of the Winns for several hundred years.

  Ben read some of the details aloud.

  "Listen to this, Ned. 'Edmond De Winn wedded to Evelyn Crowley. 1655. Lord deliver us from the plague of

  Black Death. 1665. A son, christened Charles in honor of our King. 1669. A daughter christened Eleanor.' It says here

  that Edmond fathered more daughters, Winefride, Charity, Gwendoline, and three others.

  "Poor old Edmond, eh, Ned, a son and seven daughters. Quite a few mouths to feed." Ben closed the giant book.

  "This doesn't seem to be getting us anywhere."

  The dog leapt up. Placing his front paws on the desk, he began frantically nosing at the Bible beneath Ben's

  hand. "What's the matter, boy?" Ben tried to push him away. "What'll Miz Winn say if you slobber all over her family

  Bible?"

  But the dog persisted, sending out urgent thoughts. "The back of the book! I could see it from where I was lying.

  The back, Ben. Down inside the spine, something's there!"

  Ben quickly shut the book and stood it on edge. He peered down the space between the spine and the pages.

  "You're right. It looks like a folded paper. Wait!" He took an ivory pair of chopsticks (one of the captain's souvenirs)

  and delicately fished the object out.

  As Ben carefully unfolded the paper, the black dog looked on. "A piece of torn parchment, with two tiny holes

  burned in it. There's some wording on it. Read it, Ben, read it!"

  The boy scanned the writing awhile. "It starts off strangely. Listen: 'Re, keep safe for the house of De Winn thy

  treasure.' "

  Ned's tail wagged furiously. "Treasure! I think we're on the right track. But what does 're' mean?"

  Ben continued staring at the scrap of parchment. "That's where the parchment was torn. 'Re' is probably the end

  two letters of a longer word. But well done to you for spotting this in the Bible's spine."

  Ned's tail wagged. "Hah! Who said horses were man's best friend? What about us dogs, eh, shipmate?"

  Ben put the parchment down. He leapt upon the big dog and wrestled him all over the floor, knowing this was

  his favorite sport, but the Labrador got the better of Ben. Pinning him to the carpet, he began licking his face. "What

  other way can your poor hound serve you, O master?"

  Ben giggled as the dog's tongue tickled his ear. "You can let me up, you great, sloppy hound!"

  Though they searched high and low, there were no other clues to be found. It was late by the time Ben had

  tidied the room up and put everything back in its place. He folded the torn parchment and put it in his pocket. "Well,

  at least that's a start, though I don't know what the message means, or the two burnt holes in the paper. But it's

  something definite to begin with. Let's hope we can solve the problem before time runs out for Miz Winn and

  Chapelvale. Right, mate, bed for us, I'll just go to the bathroom and wash my face."

  Ned looked indignantly at Ben. "But I just washed your face for you a moment ago, there's base ingratitude for

  you!"

  The blue-eyed boy gave his dog a glance of mock severity. "One more word out of you and I'll wash your face

  for you, with soap and a scrubbing brush!"

  20.

  SUNDAY MORNING, BEN ACCOMPANIED MIZ Winn to church services, dressed in his new clothes. He

  felt rather self-conscious in the new outfit, his unruly hair wetted and brushed into a part. The black Labrador had

  stayed home to keep Horatio company. Mrs. Winn brought her walking stick, as it was quite a walk to the church on

  top of the hill. At the churchyard gate they met up with Alex and Amy Somers, together with their parents. Mrs. Winn

  knew the Somerses, and she stood and chatted with them.

  Alex caught Ben staring up at the spire, looking rather nervous. "It's only a church steeple, Ben, what are you

  looking for?"

  There was a trace of perspiration on Ben's forehead, and his face was slightly pale as he answered. "The bell,

  has this church got a bell?" Mr. Braithwaite wandered close by, still in his scholarly gown. He scratched his frizzy

  hair as he peered over his glasses. "Er, what's that? Oh, a bell y'say, hmmm? 'Fraid not, young er, er, fellow. The, er,

  bell of St. Peter's church was, er, donated to the cause by the clergy and parishioners during the, er, er, Napoleonic

  Wars. Yes, hmmm, indeed, to make armaments for the Duke of, er, Wellington's army. Bell metal, useful stuff, very

  good very good!"

  The feeling of whirling waters, angel voices, and the Flying Dutchman out somewhere plowing the misty main

  passed. Ben felt an immediate surge of relief. At least he did not have to worry about a church with a mute belltower.

  Amy tugged his sleeve to go inside, the service was starting.

  St. Peter's, for all its size, was comparatively small inside. Beneath the arched wood ceiling, supported by eight

  plain limestone columns, were two main aisles. There was an odor of lavender furniture polish on the benches,

  kneeling hassocks were of frayed chenille. Morning sunlight poured through the few well-preserved stained-glass

  windows, capturing myriad dust motes in slow s
wirls. Ben sat with his two friends whilst Reverend Mandel, a severe

  grey-haired man, delivered a sermon on the merits of charity to one's fellow creatures. Ben felt as if someone was

  watching him. He turned his head and took a quick glance at the pews behind. There was Wilf Smithers, with his

  mother and the girl from London. Obadiah Smithers was not given to attending church on Sunday, or any other day

  for that matter. Ben smiled at Wilf. Surprisingly, Wilf smiled back.

  When service was over, Mrs. Winn stopped to drop a coin in the box for the new bell fund. Wilf came up

  behind Ben and jammed a scrap of paper into Ben's pocket.

  "Bet you won't be there!" he muttered in Ben's ear and moved away to join his mother and Maud Bowe at the

  lych-gate outside, where a pony and cart were waiting to take them home.

  Walking back downhill, Mr. Somers kindly assisted Mrs.

  Winn, offering her his arm. Ben walked ahead with his two friends, who saw him take the paper from his pocket

  and read what had been written on it. He laughed.

  "Wilf slipped me this outside the church. Listen." Ben read out the badly written message: " 'You meet me this

  afternoon at four behind the liberry if your not scared. Do not bring your dog cos I only want to talk. I will be alone. If

  you do not come your a cowerd.

  " 'Singed by W. Leader of the Grange Gang.' "

  Ben sat down on the grassy slope, shaking his head and chuckling to himself. He passed the note to Amy, who

  read it again, smiling at the childish scrawl.

  "Somebody ought to teach Wilf Smithers to spell library and coward. Oh, hahaha! He's put the letter g in the

  wrong place, instead of signed, it's singed. Written with a fiery pen, eh. Hahaha!" But his young friend did not find it

  the least bit funny.

  "Of course you're not going. Are you, Ben?"

  Summer breeze took the part out of Ben's unruly hair, and he flicked it out of his eyes. "Why not?"

  Alex had a number of reasons. He stated them all, anxiously. "Well, for a start, Wilf won't be alone. He'll have

  his gang hiding nearby. He doesn't just want to talk. You'll get beaten up, that's why he says not to bring Ned along.

  We know you aren't a coward, Ben, you don't have to go!"

  Ben's strange blue eyes were smiling, but the younger boy could see something icy behind his careless

  merriment. It sounded in his voice as he stood up and continued walking. "Four o'clock, I'll be there. Wouldn't miss it

  for anything!"

  "Then we'll be there, too!"

  Ben turned to Amy. "I'd rather you left this to me, but if you really want to be there, you'd be best doing what

  Wilf' s gang will do. Hide yourselves and keep an eye on my back. I'll shout if I need you, promise I will."

  Amy's fists clenched at her sides. "We'll be there, won't we, Alex?"

  Ben could see her brother's legs trembling as he replied. "You can count on us. We won't run off and leave

  you!"

  Ben threw an arm about his shoulders and squeezed lightly. "Thanks, pal, I'll feel safer with a friend like you

  around. Thank you, too, Amy. Well, I'm off for lunch and a nice nap in a deck chair on the lawn. See you two at four.

  Oh, sorry, I won't see you because you'll be hiding, but I'll feel a lot better knowing you're there. 'Bye, pals!"

  They watched him turn off to the house with Mrs. Winn on his arm. Alex gritted his teeth. "I won't run away

  this time, Amy, I'll stay and help Ben!"

  Amy took the hand of her normally timid brother. "You never ran last time, Alex, you're getting braver by the

  day, just like Ben."

  At midday Mrs. Winn took lunch on the lawn with Ben, Ned, and Horatio. It was a soft summer Sunday, and

  they had a pleasant time, basking in the quiet, sunny garden. Walking to and from church had tired the old lady out.

  Her eyes flickered as she watched two white butterflies circling, weaving interminable patterns around the

  lavender-blue blossoms of a bud-dleia bush. Bees droned lazily between dark crimson roses and purple-yellow

  pansies, the fragrance of flowers lay light upon the still early noontide. Within a short time she was lying back in her

  deck chair, sleeping peacefully.

  Ben and Ned held a thoughtful conversation. "So then, ancient hound, what are your plans for the day?"

  The big dog rolled luxuriously over on the grass. "Think I'll take a tour of the area with my feline friend."

  Ben raised an eyebrow. "I take it you've finally got through to Horatio, then. A good talker, is he?"

  Ned's ears flopped dolefully. "Not really. Sometimes he makes sense, but most of the time his thoughts are pure

  nonsense." He dabbed a paw at the cat's tail. "Isn't that right, pal?"

  Horatio turned his staring golden eyes upon the dog.

  Ben watched; it was obvious they were communicating. "What's he saying, Ned?"

  The Labrador shook his great head. "I'll translate word for word his exact thoughts at this moment. He's saying,

  'Miaow miaow! Butt'fly, mouse, birdie, nice. Mowwwrrr! Winnie Winn give 'Ratio sardine an' milky milky tea, purrrr

  nice!' "

  Ben chuckled. "Keep at him. I'm sure Horatio will improve."

  The Labrador stared forlornly at the cat. "Little savage, scoffing butterflies, mice, and birds. Ugh! What are you

  going to do for the rest of the day, Ben, sit out here and snooze?"

  The boy rose quietly from his deck chair. "No, I'm off to do a bit of exploring by myself... See you back here ...

  shall we say about six?"

  Ned waved a paw. "Six it is. Dinner will prob'ly be about seven. Mind how you go, Ben. Shout if you need me."

  Ben walked briskly to the gate. "Righto, and you bark out loud if you want me for anything. See you later,

  mate."

  21.

  CHAPELVALE VILLAGE SQUARE LAY DEserted and still in the summer afternoon, Ben was the only one

  about. Crossing the square, he strolled up to the almshouse fence. Only the unruly lilac and privet bushes held the

  rickety, sagging palings upright. He stood at the gate, weighing the ancient building up. A poor jumble, its thick

  hanging thatch, long overdue to be rethatched. Ben unlooped a faded noose of cord that kept the gate fastened, which

  creaked protestingly as he opened it, and started down the weed-scarred gravel path. A gruff voice cut the air with

  thunderous power.

  "Out! Get out, you're trespassin'! Out, out!" Ben stopped and held his arms out sideways. "Excuse me, I was

  only—"

  The voice from behind the almshouse door roared threateningly. "Out, I said! I'll give you a count of three. I'm

  loading my shotgun! Out, d'ye hear.... One!... Two!"

  Ben ran then, clearing the gate with a leap. Behind him he heard the click of shotgun hammers being cocked.

  The voice called out in menace-laden tones. "Ye'll get both barrels if ye come back! Be off now!"

  Ben knew it was little use arguing with a double-barreled shotgun. Thrusting both hands deep in his pockets, he

  walked off across the square.

  Dropping into the alley alongside Evans Tea Shoppe, the boy cut around the back of the stone buildings,

  circling the square furtively until he arrived in the shade of some hawthorn trees behind the almshouse. He stood still

  and silent there for several minutes, checking that his presence was unnoticed. Then, with a silent bound, he cleared

  the back wall, sinking down in a crouch amid the long grass and weeds. Three warped and weatherbeaten wood

  shutters covered the almshouse rear windows, with neither glass nor blinds behind them. Ben moved stealthily on all

  fours, over to the center window. He found it was
not difficult to spy inside through the ancient elmwood planks,

  which were riddled with knotholes and cracks.

  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:

  "I thought I heard the cap'n say,

  Go down you bloodred roses, go down!

  Tomorrow is our sailin' day,

  Go down you bloodred roses, go down!

  O you pinks and posers,

  Go down you bloodred roses, go down!"

  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.