"And now we're wallopin' 'round Cape Horn,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!
I wish t'God I'd ne'er been born,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!
O you pinks and posers,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!"
The man began moving toward the shutter, a smile forming on his rough-hewn features as he took a turn with a
verse.
"There's only one thing botherin' me,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!"
He paused. Ben knew what to do, he sang out the rest.
"To leave behind Miss Liza Lee,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!"
Then they both sang the last two lines lustily together.
"O you pinks and posers,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!"
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Bolts were withdrawn from the shutters, and Ben found himself staring into a pair of eyes as blue as his own.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 li
ttle
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:
Lord, if it be thy will and pleasure,
Keep safe for the house of De Winn thy treasure.
They stared at the writing for a long time, racking their brains at the significance of it. Jon stroked his beard.
"Trou-ble 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 consuited 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 mysterious power.
22.
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.
From the far side of the schoolyard, Amy and Alex hid behind a gable of the adjoining library, watching him.
All at once the village bully did a little hopskip, punching the air with both fists. A voice, obviously that of Regina
Wood-worthy, called out. "Give him the old one-two, Wilf!"
He turned to the thicket of lilacs growing over the far-side playground wall, hissing in a loud whisper. "Shuttup
and keep your heads down!"
Alex blanched with fear as he murmured to his sister. "That Wilf Smithers is a dirty liar, he was supposed to be
here on his own!"
The girl was about to reply when Ben strolled by not a foot from their hiding place. His lips hardly moved as he
spoke quietly. "Don't worry, pals. You're here, too. Hush now!"
Wilf came across the playground toward his victim, holding out his hand. As Ben shook it, the bully sneered.
"Well well, didn't think you'd have the nerve to show up!" He tightened his grip like a vise and gave a short whistle.
The Grange Gang clambered over the stone wall, surrounding Ben.
Smiling, Ben indicated them with a nod. "I see you've brought some help."
Regina poked a finger sharply into Ben's back. "It's you who's going to need the help, stupid!"
Keeping tight hold of his victim's hand, Wilf called out. "Any sign of that dog about?"
Tommo's squeaky voice reassured him. "Nah, it's all right, Wilf!"
Ben never blanched as Wilf applied more pressure to his hand. "Your note said you wanted to see me alone, just
to talk."
Wilf's eyes grew mean and narrow. "Did it, now? Well, I told a little fib. I'm going to teach you a lesson, to
keep your nose out of other people's business. That's if you've got any nose left when I'm done with you!"
Regina warned Wilf as the back library window opened. "Look out, it's old Braithee!"
Mr. Braithwaite had been studying in the library, notwithstanding the fact that it was Sunday. Time and tide did
not count in the absentminded scholar's scheme of things. He looked over his glasses at the young people in the
playground. "I say, er er, what's going on out there, er, not fighting I, er, hope! Not nice, er, fighting."
Regina called out in a little-girl voice. "Oh, no sir, we're only playing a game!"
The librarian-cum-schoolmaster scratched his bushy head. "Oh, er, very good, very good. Hmm, not nice, er,
fighting!" He shut the window and went back to his studies.
Ben suddenly stood on Wilf's toe, did a neat twist, and, releasing his hand from the bully's grip, he stood
grinning into the bigger boy's red face. "Hear that? It's not nice to fight, y'know!"
The sound of Wilf's teeth grinding together was audible as he leaped forward, swinging a fierce punch at his
adversary's face. He struck air. Ben was out of his way, holding up both palms open wide, his voice soothing and
reasonable.
"Steady on, friend, I don't want to fight you."
The gang were shouting out now, wildly excited.
"Knock his block off, Wilf!"
"Make his nose bleed!"
"Go on, Wilf, belt the little squirt one!"
Wilf charged like an enraged bull, swinging wildly with both fists. But each time, Ben either ducked or dodged
nimbly aside.
From behind the gable wall, Alex almost sobbed with disappointment. "Ben won't stand and fight, he's scared!"
Amy began to feel the same way as her brother. She stood out in the open, fists clenched, willing Ben to land
Wilf a blow each time the bully went staggering by. However, Ben kept up the same tactics, weaving around his
attacker, still open-handed.
"I told you, Wilf, I don't want to fight you!"
Wilf, breathing heavily, gasped out. "That's 'cos you're a coward. Come on, fight, you yellowbelly!"
This time he changed his assault, looping out a savage right. As Ben dodged it, Wilf kicked out just as Regina
pushed Ben in the back, sending him onto the kick. It caught his shin. The kick did not injure Ben greatly; however,
he decided it was unwise to leave his back unc
overed.
Amy, with Alex behind her, came running toward the fray, shouting out, "Foul, foul! Keep your feet to yourself,
Smithers!"
Not wanting them caught up in the fight, Ben backed off until he was up against the schoolhouse wall. Shoving
aside Amy and Alex, Regina laughed gleefully. "Get 'round him quick! Hahaha, you've got him cornered, Wilf!"
She was right. Ben found himself against the wall with the others standing around in a half-circle. Wilf was
right in front of him—Ben could not go left, right, or back. Leaping forward, Wilf aimed a swinging right at his face.
Ben ducked, and there was a meaty thud, followed by an agonized scream. Amy went white, she could not see what
had gone on.
Wilf Smithers came howling and screeching out of the melee, holding his right elbow in his left hand, his face
the color of a beetroot. As he stopped and did a dance of pain on the spot, his right hand flapped uselessly.
Mr. Braithwaite came hurrying into the yard, his dusty gown swirling about him as he called out to the dancing
boy. "Er, er, what, er, seems to be the trouble, er, Smithers?"
Wilf had lost the power of intelligent speech and continued to scream and dance. Ben came forward, unhurt,
calmly explaining. "We were playing a game, sir, and he punched the wall by accident. I think his hand is hurt. Are
you all right, Wilf?"
Mr. Braithwaite showered dandruff around as he scratched his wiry mop furiously. "Hand, er, right, er,
whats-ername . . . Woodworthy. Go and get somebody, er, immediately. Yes, right away, er, I should think!"
Regina went dashing out of the schoolyard, straight into Mr. and Mrs. Evans, who were out for a stroll.
Blodwen Evans strode purposefully toward the speechless dancing boy, with her husband Dai trailing behind.
She took charge of the situation, addressing Mr. Braithwaite. "Indeed to goodness, what's possessin' the lad?"
"Er, ah, er, hand I should, er, think, yes!"
She brushed Mr. Braithwaite aside, grabbed Wilf by his injured hand, and felt it. He gave out a last shriek and
fainted. Blodwen Evans pursed her lips as she made a quick diagnosis. "Look, you, the lad's hand is broken! Dai, Mr.
Braithwaite, you'll 'ave to help me carry him to the chemist. He's closed, but we'll rattle the door 'til he opens."
She seized the unconscious Wilf's feet, glaring at the librarian. "Don't lift him by the right hand, man, take his
Castaways of the Flying Dutchman fd-1 Page 13