Brian Jacques - [Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

Ben could see by Mrs. Winn’s clenched fists and quivering voice that she was defiant, yet frightened. He spoke soothingly. “So, what is it that Smithers wants with Chapelvale? It’s just a little village.”

With an effort she steadied her voice. “He wants limestone, would you believe. It appears Chapelvale is sitting on top of huge limestone deposits! As you know, limestone is the basis of cement, and what with all the building going on all over England, cement is in great demand. Progress means more buildings: more buildings, more cement! Obadiah Smithers, together with Jackman Donning and Bowe, a London firm, did a survey of the land and made the discovery. They plan to have a limestone quarry and a cement factory, right here in Chapelvale. They even had the railway branch line built so they can deliver cement anywhere. By next Thursday, when the demolition order is made official, the shops, houses, school, the entire village will be no more!”

“Couldn’t you move to another village?”

Ben’s remark was quite innocent. He was taken aback at the vehemence of the old lady’s reaction—she virtually exploded.

“Move? Certainly not, young man! Chapelvale and the surrounding lands first belonged to the Winn family. I consider it my village!”

The boy shrugged. “Has nobody tried to stop all of this?”

Mrs. Winn banged the table with frustration. “I tried, the day that Smithers posted his first notice in the square. I went straight to my lawyer, Mr. Mackay, and stated my claim as a member of the Winn family. But the only deeds of ownership I have are for this house. I haven’t any other written proof—I don’t even have the deeds to the village almshouse in the square, though Captain Winn said it still belongs to his family and it is our inheritance.”

“A village almshouse?”

The old lady poured tea as she explained. “Long ago an almshouse was a place where poor people could find free food and lodging. They were generally owned by rich families, or the Church. Poor friars, brothers of begging orders, mendicant monks, often stayed at them. Nobody really knows how old our almshouse is, but it’s very ancient. Unfortunately, it’s in a dreadful state of repair. An old friend of Captain Winn’s has taken to living there. His name is Jon Preston—the villagers think that he’s quite mad.”

Ben replenished the old lady’s teacup. “I’d like to meet him.”

She shook her head with a quick, severe, bird-like movement. “I’d advise you to steer clear of him, lad. That old hermit doesn’t take kindly to strangers or young people!”

She sniffed, wiping her eyes with her apron hem. “He’ll have to find somewhere else to live after next Thursday. The deadline comes in force then and there’s little I, or anyone else, can do about it.”

The strange boy’s blue eyes softened. He felt sad for the old lady. “Only one week, but why?”

Mrs. Winn gave a hopeless little shrug. “Smithers and his London investors are powerful people. I can’t prove the Winn title to Chapelvale land, and I haven’t the money to fight them. Jon Preston said he’d look for evidence, and Mr. Mackay has done his best to help, but it’s no use.

“A month ago Smithers and his friends took out a Court Order. They posted a notice in the village square. It says that any person—but it really means me—must prove ownership of the land. In the event of no legal claims turning up, Smithers and the Londoners intend to purchase the village, shops, houses, almshouse, farms, everything. Then they can demolish Chapelvale to make way for their quarry and cement factory.

“That was a month ago—there’s only seven days left now. Not only that. I know Smithers allows that boy of his to run loose with his gang. They harass me, the shopkeepers, and village folk. Some folk are so tormented by them that they’ll be glad to move away in the end!”

Ned and Horatio had wandered into the parlor. They both lay stretched on the hearthrug when the hall clock chimed nine. Other than that the room lay silent in the gathering dusk of late-summer evening. Mrs. Winn sat staring out of the window at her garden with its high redbrick wall, rhododendrons and roses, the neat square lawn separated by a gently curving path with borders of pansies, gypsy grass, and busy lizzie. Ben resisted the urge to comfort her. Instead he passed a thought to his dog.

“Did you hear all that?”

The big black animal opened one eye. “Well, almost, I’ve got the general idea of what’s going on. Though I don’t see how we can help.”

Ben’s fists clenched involuntarily. “But we’ve got to help. Now I know why the angel steered us to Chapelvale, Ned: We must help these people to help themselves in some way or other! Ned, you’ve closed that eye—are you going to sleep?”

The Labrador’s eye flicked lazily open. “No, I’m giving it some thought. The best way to solve a problem is to sleep on it. Not a lot we can start doing until tomorrow, is there, Ben?”

The boy watched Mrs. Winn rise and start clearing away the dinner things. He helped her to carry the dishes out to the kitchen, then took up a dishcloth. “You wash and I’ll wipe, Winnie. We’ll soon get these dishes cleared away, and please stop worrying, everything will turn out all right, you’ve got me and Ned to help you now.”

She shook her head and smiled. “Ned can’t help with the dishes.” Turning away from the sink, Mrs. Winn found herself staring into the boy’s wise blue eyes.

“You’d be surprised how me and Ned can help you!” he said.

15

AS SUNLIGHT STREAMED THROUGH the window onto the counterpane, a dairy cart clattered by in the lane. Ben wakened gradually, taking stock of his new surroundings. The house was quiet, which gave him the feeling it was quite early. He let his gaze wander from the lace curtains and the warm July day outside. Stretching lazily, he lay back, studying the flowered wallpaper and the small iron-and-tile fireplace with a lacquered screen standing on its hearth. He heard the hall clock chime faintly from downstairs and counted each chime. . . . Ten!

Leaping out of bed, he dressed hastily, rushed to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and dashed downstairs, having to leap the last three to avoid tripping over Horatio.

Ned was sitting in the kitchen beside an empty bowl. He nodded at Ben. “Morning. Sleep well?”

The boy answered the thought as he picked up a note from the table. “Why didn’t you come up and wake me earlier?”

The dog put his front paws up on the table alongside his mate. “Didn’t want to disturb any plans you were sleeping on, you know, to help Mrs. Winn. What does her note say?”

Ben scanned the scrap of paper. “ ‘Gone to village to do some shopping, porridge in pot on range, make tea for yourself. See you later. Winnie.’ ”

He felt the pot, it was still hot. So was the tea in the teapot. The boy served himself and sat at the table, thinking. “She can’t have gone too long ago.”

The big black Lab blinked patiently. “Not more than ten minutes or so. Well, what’s the plan, O wise master?”

Over the centuries, Ben had come to appreciate the dog’s banter. Dishing himself a large bowl of porridge, he conversed as he ate.

“A library, that’s it, Ned. If Chapelvale has a library, that’d be a good place for us to start. It would probably have local history and reference books concerning this area. Might give us a lead or two.”

The Lab snorted. “A lead: was that meant to be a joke? Libraries aren’t fond of dogs roaming ’round loose among the books. Not great readers, us dogs.”