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

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Bolts were withdrawn from the shutters, and Ben found himself staring into a pair of eyes as blue as his own.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:

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. “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?”