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

Before he could answer, Jon’s voice rang clear over the wall to where they were sitting. “We found it. Here ’tis, lad, we’re comin’ out!”

Will and Jon came running, waving their spades, followed by Mr. Mackay and Mr. Braithwaite, their clothing stained with soil and clay, bearing between them a bright green bucket. Sergeant Patterson was bent double, supporting the bottom lest it burst and fall. They flopped down on the grass with Ben, and he touched the object.

“What is it?”

Sergeant Patterson passed a forearm across his brow. “Och! ’Tis heavy, that’s what it is. Auld bronze pail, either bronze or copper. See how green it is? Must’ve been very thick, because it’s only gone through in one or two places. Ye’d be surprised at the weight of it!”

Amy chuckled. “Probably because it’s filled with tallow.”

Will lifted the pail and turned it upside down on the grass. “Well, we’ll soon see. Loosen it off, Jon.”

The old seaman began hitting it gently with the side of his spade, all around the sides. He tapped the pail’s bottom sharply and lifted it off, just like a child making sandpies with a bucket at the seaside. The solid tallow wax was dark and dirty from soil and clay leaking into it.

Will spoke to the sergeant. “Have you got a big knife? Jon’s old clasp knife ain’t big enough to slice through this lot.”

The sergeant hurried into the station house and was soon back with a large, fearsome-looking blade.

“Russian Crimean War bayonet, a souvenir brought back by Private Judmann. Ye should hear the tales he tells of how he came by it, a different one each time!”

The bayonet was more than adequate. In Jon’s capable hands it sliced through the tallow, until he brought forth two slender objects with heavy, spreading bases, still caked with the stuff.

Mr. Mackay identified them immediately. “ ‘Light bearers ’neath the ground.’ A pair of candlesticks!”

The three young friends searched through the shorn-off tallow, Mr. Braithwaite hovering anxiously around them.

“No, er, sign of any, er, further clues, scraps of, er, er, parchment and so forth?”

Amy looked up. “None, sir. Maybe the next clue is scratched on the bottom of the candlesticks, same as the cross.”

Jon handed the candlesticks to the sergeant. “Put these in a basin of hot water. It’ll clean ’em off, then we can take a proper look.”

Mr. Braithwaite followed Sergeant Patterson into the station house, his dusty black scholar’s gown flapping. “Very good, very good, go, er, careful now, Officer. Don’t, er, drop them. Precious objects, yes, er, precious indeed!”

When cleaned up in soap and hot water, the candlesticks were things of great beauty, gold-fluted columns spreading to broad elegant bases, each of which was inset with three of the bloodred, pigeon-egg rubies, to complement the chalice and crucifix. Mr. Braithwaite was ecstatic, running his fingertips over the fine Byzantine tracery patterned onto the heavy gold pieces. However, when he looked at the bases of both candlesticks, they were smooth and untouched by any messages scratched on either one.

The only noise in the still midday air came from Delia’s hoof as she struck it against the ground. The six sat staring at the treasure of St. Matthew glittering in the sun, the rubies shining as if they were afire.

Ben broke the silence by announcing to his crestfallen friends, “Listen, we can sit here all day looking at the candlesticks, but that won’t get anything solved. We’ve worked too hard and long to let this thing defeat us!”

The dairyman farmer got up to strap Delia’s nosebag on. “You’re right, lad, but what’s our next move?”

Mr. Mackay, who had been brushing clay from his clothing, rose smartly to his feet. “I suggest we go carefully back over all the evidence. Search the hole where we found the pail, inspect the pail, and sort through that tallow again. One of us will stay here and go over the candlesticks with a fine-tooth comb. If we’re all agreeable, of course!”

Eileen took a pail from the gig to fill with water for Delia. “Good idea! Nothin’ worth havin’ is come by easy, I say. Ben, you take the candlesticks. Will, take Jon and the sergeant an’ check that ’ole you dug. Mr. Braithwaite, Mr. Mackay, see if you can find any message in that old copper bucket. Alex, you ’n’ me will rummage through that tallow again.”

Amy pointed to herself. “What about me, Miz Drummond?”

“Oh, I’d forgot you, m’dear. Stay ’ere with Ben an’ help with the candlesticks. Keep an eye on him in case he tries to faint again. Come on, you lot, stir your stumps!”

The Labrador threw Ben a thought. “The lady forgot about me. I’ll stay here, too, with you and Amy. Be with you in a moment, I’ll just get a quick drink from my pal Delia’s water bucket.”

38

FIFTY MILES SOUTH OF THE POLICE station a small boy was trudging along a country lane toward the farmhouse where he lived. The boy, a small, sturdy lad of about eight years, stopped to witness a strange sight. Weaving from side to side and honking furiously, a machine was coming toward him. It was one of the new petroleum-driven motorcars, a bright green one, with its leather hood down.

He scurried to one side, hugging the hedge as it rumbled past him and ground to a halt with a screeching sound. There were four men in the car. One of them, wearing a long duster coat, gauntlets, and a cap, with the peak backward, climbed from the vehicle. He had on a pair of light-brown-lensed goggles, which he pushed up onto his cap as he approached the boy. The lad shrank further into the hedge as the man stooped and thrust his face forward.

“G’mornin’, sonny boy. Is that there Chapelvale?”

The man pointed to a church spire in the distance. The boy shook his head.

The man scratched his coarse, stubbled chin. “Oh, I see, well, wot’s that place called?”

The boy spoke a single word. “Church.”

This seemed to exasperate the man. “I know it’s a church, sonny, but wot’s the name of the village where the church is, eh?”

The boy considered this for a moment. “It’s not Chapelvale.”

Another man emerged from the car, dressed in a suit of very loud green checkered material. He sported a pencil-thin mustache, his hair was plastered into a center part. He shouted out to his companion, “Come on, Gripper, the kid don’t know nothin’. Let’s get goin’!”

Gripper was about to shout back an answer, when a farmer appeared at the gateway of a farmhouse further up the road. He was a giant of a man, his sleeves rolled up to expose two brawny arms. Slamming the gate open, he marched aggressively up to the one called Gripper, whom he pointed a thick finger at.

“Hoi you! Gerraway from my lad an’ leave ’im be!”

Gripper backed off hurriedly. “I don’t mean the kid no ’arm. I was only askin’ him where Chapelvale is.”

The boy ran to his father and clung to his leg. The man ruffled his son’s hair as he replied, “Chapelvale. ’Ow’s Georgy supposed to know, eh, ’e’s only a child!”

Gripper tried a friendly smile, it looked more like a leer. “Then p’raps you can tell me where Chapelvale is, eh, mate?”

The farmer did not like strangers. His big fists clenched. “No I can’t, an’ I’m not your mate. Now, get on your way, quick!”

Gripper drew himself up in a dignified manner and strode back to the motorcar, which was still running. He shouted back, “Stoopid big lump. Bet you’d ’ave trouble findin’ your own be’ind with both hands!”