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

There was nobody about to do Smithers’s shouting for him. Acutely embarrassed, he stood outside the marquee facing the villagers and cleared his throat, conscious of the carter and his men from Hadford chuckling behind his back. He held forth both hands like a politician at a meeting.

“Er, good morning, er, will you please listen t’me. I want you to form an orderly line, no pushin’, er, haha. We will begin the payments to those who have their deeds or, er, appropriate papers with them!”

There was not a move from the villagers. They stood silent.

Smithers tried again, this time with the voice of reason. “Oh, come on now, it’s for your own good. Form a line, right here where I’m standing. Come on, please. Anyone?”

Blodwen Evans’s voice rang out from her bedroom window. “For our own good, is it? You any relation to Judas? He sold the Lord for thirty pieces o’ silver!”

The Hadford workmen guffawed aloud, one or two clapped.

Smithers glared up at the window before marching back into the marquee, where he confronted Bowe. “They’re not movin’. Can’t you do anything?”

Bowe looked over Smithers’s shoulder at those outside. Men, women, children in hand, none moving. “Give it half an hour or so, then I’ll send out one of my London lawyers to read them the official notice. Any of those bumpkins too stupid to understand it will just have to stand and wait out there until sundown. By then the bailiff will have arrived with his deputies, they’ll hand out any unpaid monies and possess their houses and properties. By force, if necessary!”

Mr. Bowe turned away from Smithers. As he did, his eye caught a movement.

It was a two-wheeled dairy cart carrying four women and a baby. A young girl and a boy held the reins, leading the horse between them. Behind the cart strode four men, another boy, and a big black Labrador. Slightly to one side of the odd cavalcade, a police sergeant marched, nodding amiably to the village folk.

Mr. Bowe gave an inward sigh of relief. At last some of these rustics were coming forward. He moved to the table in front of the marquee, calling to his colleagues.

“To your places, gentlemen, our first customers are here!”

Two lawyers, the magistrate, and an official with a bag containing a ledger and a wad of certified money orders, took their seats at the table. Maud Bowe tried to whisper something to her father, but he ignored her. Putting on a smile of false cordiality, Bowe addressed the group. “Well well, it’s nice to see decent folk acting sensibly. Hope you’ve brought your deeds along with you, eh!”

Mackay ignored Maud’s father and strode up to the table, looking very dapper, from his clean-shaven face to his crisp white shirt, freshly pressed trousers, and tailcoat. Placing a leather satchel on the desk, he opened it and produced a long and ancient-looking scroll, which he unrolled.

Looking over the top of his nose glasses, he inquired politely, “Which one of you is the magistrate?”

The magistrate stared over the top of his spectacles. “I am, sir, state your name and business.”

Seething with impatience and excitement, the dapper lawyer kept his feelings hidden as he announced in a voice that could be heard all around the village square, “I, sir, am Philip Teesdale Mackay, a solicitor and chartered member of the legal profession. I represent Mrs. Winifred Winn, who resides in Chapelvale. On her behalf, it is my duty to inform you that said lady lays claim and title to the entire village, up to its boundaries and all dwelling houses, places of business, and land within the curtilage of such establishments!”

In the silence that followed, the drop of a pin could have been heard. Then the magistrate spoke. “I trust you have proof of this unusual claim, sir?”

Mr. Mackay’s eyes never left the astounded official. With a dramatic flourish he held out his right arm, palm open. Amy and her brother stepped forward. Picking up the weighty scroll, they unrolled it and placed it in the lawyer’s well-manicured hand. He grasped it firmly by its top. It was a huge thing, real calfskin vellum, with several silk ribbons—blue, gold, and purple—hanging from it. These were sealed with blobs of scarlet wax with gold medallions set into them.

The diminutive figure of the lawyer seemed to increase in stature. His voice boomed triumphantly forth, like a town crier.

“ ‘Be it known to all my subjects, nobles, vassals, and yeomanry. I do acknowledge the valiant deeds of my liege Captain Caran De Winn in the capture of the French fleet and our victory at Sluys. He served his sovereign and country right worthily, no man braver than he.

“ ‘Hereby I grant unto him freely the acres of our good English land, to be known hereonin as Chapelvale. Caran De Winn, his sons, daughters, and all who come after, bearing the name of Winn, will have squiredom over this place. Without let or hindrance, tax or tithing, for as long as any monarch shall rule our fair land. Let no man raise his voice or wrath against my edict. May the family of Winn serve God and England with loyalty, faith, and forbearance. Given by my hand on this Lammas Day in the year of Our Lord thirteen hundred and forty-one.

“ ‘By the grace of God. Edward III, King of England.’ ”

Ringing cheers and shouts of delight erupted throughout the village square. Hats flew in the air and the cobblestones echoed to the stamping of feet. People hugged and kissed one another indiscriminately; it was a scene of total jubilation. The black Labrador dodged to safety beneath the gig as Ben was surrounded by his friends, Will and Jon shaking his hands, whilst Mrs. Winn and Amy seized him and kissed both his cheeks. Mr. Braithwaite pounded the boy’s back, shouting, “We did it, boy. We did it!”

Catching his breath, Ben roared back. “No, it was you who did it, friends. I only started the search, me and good old Ned.”

The Labrador sent a thought from beneath the gig. “Keep me out of this, mate. I don’t want to be crushed, battered, and slobbered over!”

When the blue-eyed boy managed to break free, he saw Alex, with a crowd of other young people congratulating him. Among them was Regina Woodworthy and the former members of the Grange Gang. Amy clasped Ben’s hand. “Look at my brother, the village hero, thanks to you, Ben.”

The boy warded off an embrace from Eileen and little Willum, who had painted his face with a toffee apple somebody had given him.

“Don’t be silly, pal. Look at Ned. He knows the safest place—under the cart. Come on, Amy!”

They scrambled beneath the gig, laughing at the sight of Blodwen Evans leaning out of the bedroom window, waving a Union Jack and a Welsh red dragon flag, and hooting.

“Put those deeds back in my hat box, Dai, let’s open the shop!”

Mr. Bowe’s normally sallow face had taken on an ash-grey pallor as he turned his accusing gaze on Obadiah Smithers. “So, the old lady presents no problem, eh? Fool! I should never have listened to you and your harebrained schemes. Do you realize what this’ll cost my company?”

Smithers collapsed onto a vacant chair, his eyes wide in disbelief. “I—I—I’m ruined!”

Bowe stood over him, jabbing a finger savagely into Smithers’s arm to accentuate each word. “If you aren’t, then I’ll make sure you are. You’ll be glad to get a job selling matches on street corners when I’m done with you!”

Straightening up, Bowe offered an arm to his daughter. “Maud, I’ll talk to you back in London. Come on, girl, or we’ll miss the train!”

They turned to go and walked straight into the sergeant, whose voice was flat and official. “Mr. Percival Bowe and Miss Maud Bowe, ah’d like ye tae come up tae the station house with me.”