[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman (12 page)

BEN SAT AT A SPINDLE-LEGGED COFfee table in the parlor, tucking into a sizable wedge of Mrs. Winn's apple pie, with fresh cream poured over it. There was a tall glass of homemade lemonade with it. Ned had retired to the kitchen for his beef bone and water, where Mrs. Winn also gave him a piece of short-bread pastry. Horatio arched his back and leapt onto a table, until the big dog passed him reassuring thoughts. The cat did not reply, but after a while began purring and came down to rub itself against Ned's leg.

Mrs. Winn smiled approvingly as she came out to fetch the rest of her apple pie and cream. Returning to the parlor, she set it down in front of her guest.

“Boys always like apple pie; help yourself, son, you look as if you could use some more. Go on, don't be shy!”

Ben took another generous slice. “Thanks . . . Winnie, we haven't had much to eat since yesterday morning.”

As he ate, the blue-eyed boy studied the portrait over the mantelpiece. “Is that your husband's picture? Anchor Line cap'n, eh?”

Mrs. Winn stared curiously at him. “Not many lads your age would know that the Royal Navy is called the Anchor Line. Are you a seafarer, Ben?”

The boy took a thoughtful sip of lemonade. “Not really. I've knocked about on barges and coasters as a galley lad. You hear things about the sea . . . it's always interested me. I've read quite a lot of sea stories, too.”

The boy did not like lying to the old woman, but he knew he could not tell her the truth. Who would believe that he and Ned had sailed on the
Flying Dutchman
in the year 1620! It would strain any credibility to believe that boy and dog were still alive and well, ageless, in the year 1896.

He caught Mrs. Winn staring at him intensely and turned away as she asked, “I won't tell anyone, Ben, where are you really from?”

He shrugged. “I think I was born in Denmark, Copenhagen, but I'm not sure. Ned's from there, we've always been together. We've lived in quite a few places . . . here and there.”

Mrs. Winn shook her head, perplexed. “I'll bet you have. Any parents, brothers or sisters?”

“Not that I know of, ma . . . Winnie. I was planning on staying in Chapelvale for a while, as soon as I can find somewhere that allows dogs. I don't suppose you'd know of a place?”

Mrs. Winn suddenly felt sorry for her strange visitor. He looked so young, so alone. Concern showed in her voice. “You mean that you haven't anywhere to stay?”

Ben nodded. “I've got money. I could pay for lodgings, and I'd see Ned didn't bother anybody.”

The old lady sat watching the boy. The flat grandfather clock chimes rang out four-thirty. Ben had finished the last morsel of apple pie when his dog came from the kitchen and lay down contentedly, his head resting on the boy's scuffed boot. Fidgeting and fussing with her apron corner, Winnie looked up to the ornate molded ceiling, then down to her husband's portrait, finally settling on Ben.

Something in her eyes told him she had reached a decision. Tapping her worn gold wedding ring against the chair arm, Mrs. Winn pursed her lips. “You aren't in any kind of trouble, are you, my boy?”

Ben sat up straight. “Certainly not, Miz Winn!”

She touched his hand reassuringly. “I believe you. You said you were thinking of staying in Chapelvale for a while. I suppose that means you'll be moving on one day. Hmm, you're a puzzle, Ben. There's more to you and your dog than meets the eye, a lot more.”

She cleared away the plates and glasses, watching the crestfallen lad out of the corner of her eye. “Shall we say that you can stay here for a few days, then? I don't think those bullies will bother coming 'round to harass me if they see Ned wandering in the garden.”

Ben brightened up immediately. “Oh, thank you, marm! Ned'll keep them away and I'll help you 'round the house and do your shopping for you, and I can pay for lodgings, too. I have money, you know. . . .”

Mrs. Winn held up her hand, cutting Ben off frostily. “Please, I'm not rich, but I have enough to get by on with Captain Winn's pension. I'm not beholden to anybody, and I don't need you to pay me—I'm allowing you to stay here as a friend.”

Ned passed a thought to his master. “What a nice old lady Winnie is. This place feels just like home, whatever home's supposed to feel like. Don't forget to thank her for me. I've been trying to talk with that cat, Horatio, but he's not got much to say for himself. It must be with his having no other creatures to speak to that he's lost the art of conversation, poor fellow.”

Ben answered the dog's thoughts. “Well, when you do finally get chatting together, see what you can find out from him. It might give us a clue as to why we've been sent here.”

Mrs. Winn tapped Ben's shoulder. “Are you listening to what I'm saying, young man?”

“What, oh, er, sorry, Miz Winn. I must have dozed off!”

The old lady chuckled. “Hmm, you looked as if you were ready to drop off there, sitting and staring at the dog. I was just saying that you and Ned could take the rear upstairs bedroom. I sleep down here in the small sitting room nowadays. My left leg's not too good, I need help getting upstairs. Perhaps you'd best go and take a nap. There's a nice bathroom up there, too.”

Ben rose gratefully. “Thank you, Miz Winn. Thanks for everything from both of us. I think I will take a bath and a nap.”

The old lady took Ben's hand. “Help me upstairs and I'll show you your room. I'll have dinner ready for you both at seven. Come on, Ned, good boy!”

The Labrador looked questioningly at Ben. “I don't mind the nap, but a bath's out of the question. It's not half an hour since I had a good scratch and lick!”

Ben tugged at the black Lab's tail as they went upstairs. “Miz Winn means me, not you!”

 

 

It was a comfortable room with a soft, old-fashioned bed. Ben picked up a framed sepia photograph from the bedside table. A young man and woman with two small boys stood on a palm-fronded verandah. The boy studied it. “Hmm, looks like India or Ceylon, some sort of plantation.”

Mrs. Winn was mildly surprised at her strange guest's knowledge, yet looking at his wise blue eyes, it seemed right somehow that he should know about the photograph. “Your second guess was correct, Ben. It's Ceylon. That's my son Jim with his family—he manages a tea plantation for a British company out there. I've not yet seen his wife Lilian, or the children. That photograph is all I have of them. Maybe someday they'll come over for a visit. . . .”

Mrs. Winn suddenly looked very sad, and she sighed. “Still, maybe it would be better for me if they stayed in Ceylon.”

Ben became curious. “Why do you say that, Winnie?”

She shuffled slowly out of the room as she replied. “I'll tell you at dinner. Stay where you are, lad, I can manage going downstairs on my own quite well.”

After a good hot bath, Ben dressed in a clean change of clothing from his canvas bag and lay on the bed, watching a shaft of late day sunlight on the floral wallpaper. Bird-song from the garden and the distant rumble of a train sounded pleasant and comforting. He drifted off into a slumber, happy that Ned and he had found somewhere to stay.

The dream stole unbidden into his sleep. Gale-force winds sweeping over a heaving deck, tattered sails framed against a storm-ripped sky, great grey-green waves rushing across the raging main. He was clinging to the dog as they were washed overboard through the shattered midship rails. Water, water, the earth was awash in wild seawater, pounding in his ears, filling his nostrils, that odd faraway sound of muffled breath escaping beneath the ocean's surface. Then spray churning white as he and the dog surfaced in the vessel's wake. He tried to swim with one hand, whilst clinging to the dog's collar with the other, when he was struck by a spar and his dream became cascades of colored lights, exploding from the darkness. A velvety calm enveloped Ben as he floated off someplace in time and space. A gentle golden radiance filled his spirit when the angel's voice called, soft as noon breeze in summer meadows.

“Rest here, stay awhile, help those in need of your gifts. Even in a place such as Chapelvale there are petty tyrants and those whose hearts are ruled by greed. You and your dog must come to the aid of the good folk here. But, hearken, at the sound of a single toll from a church bell, you must leave!”

The message of the bell—a church bell this time—remained clear in Ben's mind, even as his dreams raced on, over centuries, across seas, over mountains, through distant lands, wherever he and Ned had been sent to assist the oppressed in their struggle against villainy. He saw faces from the past, friends and enemies alike, felt the apprehension of arrival, the joy of being part of so many communities and the sorrow of having to depart and leave them behind. Always onward to fresh adventures, with his faithful, unchanging friend Ned. The last thing that trailed through his dream was a vision of the
Flying Dutchman,
with Vanderdecken wild-eyed at the ship's wheel. Away, away across the dark waters it fled, until it, too, was lost to sight. Ben's slumber drifted with him off in the opposite direction, to calm, untroubled sleep.

Mrs. Winn's cottage pie was as mouthwatering as the dessert of jam roly-poly pudding and custard. She certainly knew how to cook for a hungry lad and his dog.

Ben brought up Mrs. Winn's remark from the afternoon. “Winnie, I hope you don't mind me asking, but why did you say that it would be better if your son and his family stayed in Ceylon? Don't you want them to visit you?” As if she had been waiting for a sympathetic ear, the old lady poured forth her tale of woe.

“A man from up north has come to live just outside of Chapelvale. His name is Obadiah Smithers, and he is in the business of industrial speculation. Do you know what that means? Small villages and hamlets right across Britain are being destroyed by men like Smithers. They build their mills and factories with chimneys belching black smoke, sink mines with slag heaps defacing the countryside, hack out quarries, scarring the fields and destroying the wood-lands—all in the name of progress, which they say nothing can stop! Yet all they bring, the Smitherses of this world, is misery, for money. Temporary hovels for their workers, low wages, and folk working right 'round the clock to make vast profits for their masters.”

Ben could see by Mrs. Winn's clenched fists and quivering voice that she was defiant, yet frightened. He spoke soothingly. “So, what is it that Smithers wants with Chapelvale? It's just a little village.”

With an effort she steadied her voice. “He wants limestone, would you believe. It appears Chapelvale is sitting on top of huge limestone deposits! As you know, limestone is the basis of cement, and what with all the building going on all over England, cement is in great demand. Progress means more buildings: more buildings, more cement! Obadiah Smithers, together with Jackman Donning and Bowe, a London firm, did a survey of the land and made the discovery. They plan to have a limestone quarry and a cement factory, right here in Chapelvale. They even had the railway branch line built so they can deliver cement anywhere. By next Thursday, when the demolition order is made official, the shops, houses, school, the entire village will be no more!”

“Couldn't you move to another village?”

Ben's remark was quite innocent. He was taken aback at the vehemence of the old lady's reaction—she virtually exploded.

“Move? Certainly not, young man! Chapelvale and the surrounding lands first belonged to the Winn family. I consider it my village!”

The boy shrugged. “Has nobody tried to stop all of this?”

Mrs. Winn banged the table with frustration. “I tried, the day that Smithers posted his first notice in the square. I went straight to my lawyer, Mr. Mackay, and stated my claim as a member of the Winn family. But the only deeds of ownership I have are for this house. I haven't any other written proof—I don't even have the deeds to the village almshouse in the square, though Captain Winn said it still belongs to his family and it is our inheritance.”

“A village almshouse?”

The old lady poured tea as she explained. “Long ago an almshouse was a place where poor people could find free food and lodging. They were generally owned by rich families, or the Church. Poor friars, brothers of begging orders, mendicant monks, often stayed at them. Nobody really knows how old our almshouse is, but it's very ancient. Unfortunately, it's in a dreadful state of repair. An old friend of Captain Winn's has taken to living there. His name is Jon Preston—the villagers think that he's quite mad.”

Ben replenished the old lady's teacup. “I'd like to meet him.”