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

Wilf had only heard the latter part of his father’s tirade. He leapt out of bed, a look of horror on his face. “B-boarding school?”

His father took him by the arm and shoved him in the direction of the bathroom. “Aye, boarding school. There’s a good one up in Scotland, so I’m told. I’ll make the arrangements today. Now, get in there an’ clean that mess off y’self. Then you can tidy your room up an’ pack your trunk. I’m not havin’ the good name o’ Smithers scoffed at by village bumpkins. No use appealin’ to your mother. My decision’s final, sir. Final!”

Slamming the bathroom door on his son’s stunned face, Smithers went downstairs and out onto the back lawn, where he took a deep breath of the summer air and straightened his starched collar. Maud Bowe was sitting primly, reading another of her young ladies’ etiquette books, not a hair out of place and not a sign of a flush upon her cheeks. She shut the book decisively, folding her hands on the cover. “You wanted a word with me, sir. Well?”

Clasping both hands behind his back, Smithers circled her chair several times, finishing up facing her.

“Those, er, associates you’re bringing up from London, Miss Bowe.”

Completely composed, she stared levelly at him. “Yes?”

He dropped his eyes and lowered his voice.

“Let them come and do what they’ve got to do. But no mistakes or failures. I want them in and out of Chapelvale as quick as possible. Understood?”

Maud could not help reveling in her victory. “Jackman Donning and Bowe are an established London company—we don’t deal in failures and mistakes. Like some I could mention . . .”

Blood mounted to Smithers’s cheeks, and he struggled to control himself. Turning on his heel, he made for the house, replying as he went. “I’ll leave it up to you . . . my dear!”

A black cat appeared out of the hedgerow. Purring, it rubbed its flank against Maud’s fine-grained, calf-button boots. She shooed it off with a swipe of her book. “Shoo, cat!”

Horatio prowled slowly back through the small gap in the hedge. “Miaow! ’Ratio go home now, Winnie got milk, sardines, purr!”

The black Labrador rose slowly from his hiding place in the shade of some lilacs. “Come on, then, me old furbag, I’ve heard enough for today. Sardines, ugh, nasty, slimy little fishes, don’t know how you can eat the things!”

Mrs. Winn was taking her afternoon nap in the sitting room. Ben sat outside on the sunny lawn. He unfolded the copy of the poem Amy had given him and began studying it.

“ ’Twould seem at the wicked’s fate

that bell ne’er made a sound,

yet the death knell tolled aloud

for those who danced around.

The carrion crow doth perch above,

light bearers ’neath the ground.”

Sweat suddenly beaded on his forehead, he felt cold despite the warm summer day. The bell ne’er made a sound . . . carrion crow. . . . Visions and images of death floated about in his mind. Villainous faces marked by evil appeared unbidden, the sounds of seawaves roared in his ears. Long, long ago, Vanderdecken, Petros, Scraggs, Jamil, he saw them all, leering, cursing. But others were there, mingled with the crew of the Flying Dutchman. Older, half shadowed, their features showing the wickedness of evil men the world over. Closing his eyes tight, Ben fell back upon the grass, shuddering, feeling the earth move like a rolling ship’s deck.

Warm breath and a damp tongue against his cheek brought Ben back from his dreadful trance. “Now then, pal, are you all right?”

Something smooth and silky brushed his hand, and Ben sat up, glad to be back in the normal world. Ned was sitting next to him, he caught sight of Horatio vanishing into the house. Immediately Ben felt better. He hugged the big dog’s neck.

“I’m all right now you’re here, you old rogue. It just happened, I was reading the poem from the base of the cross, when this awful feeling came over me.”

The Labrador nodded. “ Flying Dutchman again, eh?”

Ben ran his fingers through his tousled blond hair.

“Yes, it was Vanderdecken and the others, but there were strange faces there, too, frightening ones I’d never seen before. Good job you came and snapped me out of it. I think it was due to reading that poem.”

A bee was taking an interest in Ned’s nose, and he swatted at it with his paw. “Then don’t read the poem, leave it to the others to solve. They’re a pretty brainy lot, ’specially old Mackay and Braithwaite, real knowledge pots those two. Besides, we’ll have other things to worry about tomorrow. Bet you’d forgotten about those rough types due to come up from London?”

Ben smote his forehead with an open palm. “Of course, the four men Miss Wot’sername said were arriving Thursday! I’ve been so busy contending with riddles and dealing with Wilf and his gang, they completely slipped my mind. Have you found out any more about the situation, Ned?”

The black Labrador winked. “Oh yes indeed, I spent a very profitable hour at the back of Smithers’s lawn. You should have heard the racket. Mr. Smithers must have lungs of leather. By the way, isn’t it time for tea? Come on, I’ll tell you later, we’ve got the rest of the day. At least you won’t have to worry about young Wilf anymore.”

Ben followed Ned inside. “What d’you mean about Wilf?”

Ned helped himself to a drink of water from his dish.

“Tell you later, come on, get the kettle on, slice the seed cake. Where’s my old lady?”

Ben spread a clean cloth over the table. “Asleep in the sitting room, we’ll surprise her with a nice afternoon tea when she wakes. Ned, will you tell Horatio to keep from under my feet?”

Ned shook his head. “No use telling him anything, unless it’s about sardines!”

34

BY NINE O’CLOCK ON THURSDAY MORNing the sun was almost as hot as noon—it was a record summer. Jonathan Preston sat at his workbench, a pencil behind one ear. He stared at the poem and blinked. Stroking his beard, the old ship’s carpenter took a sip of tea and bit into a bacon sandwich. Hearing the noise of young people coming in through the back window, he spoke without turning around.

“Aye aye, mates, sun’s been up since six, so have I. What time d’you call this to be rollin’ up on deck?”

Tearing the crust and bacon rind from his sandwich, he fed it to the black dog who’d gotten to the table before his companions. “Like my breakfast better’n your own, eh, feller!”

Amy perched on the edge of the workbench, where she saw the poem. “Have you solved it yet, Jon? St. Matthew’s message?”

The old seaman smiled slyly. “No, not yet. Have any of you?”

Both boys shook their heads. Jon watched Amy drumming her heels against the bench. “Now then, pretty maid, d’you know something you ain’t telling us? How did you find out it was St. Matthew’s message?”

Her brother sounded rather injured. “Yes, how did you? You never said anything to me!”

Ben gave her a mock severe look. “Nor me!”

The girl plucked the pencil from behind Jon’s ear and wagged it at them. “That’s because you were asleep, my dear brother, and how could I tell you, Ben, you weren’t even there. So I thought I’d keep it a secret ’til we were all together. Now watch this.”

She drew two lines between the words of the first line of the writing on Jon’s copy:

“ ’Twould see/m at the w/icked’s fate.”

“Now, spell out the letters between the two lines, Jon.”