[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

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Bolts were withdrawn from the shutters, and Ben found himself staring into a pair of eyes as blue as his own.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