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

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 buddleia 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.

“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?”