shutters covered the almshouse rear windows, with neither glass nor blinds behind them. Ben moved stealthily on all
fours, over to the center window. He found it was not difficult to spy inside through the ancient elmwood planks,
which were riddled with knotholes and cracks.
A high, circular stained-glass window let in a pool of sunlight in faded hues. The rest of the illumination was
provided by two storm lamps suspended from a crossbeam. A tall, heavyset, elderly man with a full grey beard,
wearing bell-bottom pants and a close-fitting dark blue seaman's jersey, with a spotted red-and-white neckerchief, was
seated at a table. Upon it was a welter of cardboard filing boxes and books, parchments and scrap paper. Around him,
the interior appeared to be covered in dust and draped with cobwebs. The man was poring over a document on the
table, leaning on one elbow, holding a pencil poised.
Suddenly he sat upright, moving a much-repaired pair of glasses from his face. He looked to the front door, as if
he had heard a noise from outside. Rising slowly, he crept to the door and placed an ear against it. From his pocket he
took a child's toy, a cheap green metal clicker in the shape of a frog, and taking a deep breath he bellowed out angrily,
"I know you're still out there! Shift yourself quick! I never miss with this shotgun! Ye'll get a full blast through this
door if ye don't move, I warn ye!" He clicked the tin frog twice. Ben wrinkled his face in amusement—it sounded just
like a shotgun. The old fraud!
Satisfied the intruder had fled, the big man went back to his table, where he lit a small paraffin stove and placed
a whistling kettle upon it. From a box under the table he brought forth a large enamel mug, brown cane sugar, and a
can of condensed milk. Whilst doing this, he sang in a fine husky baritone. Ben recognized the song as an old sea
shanty he was familiar with. He listened to the man sing:
"I thought I heard the cap'n say,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!
Tomorrow is our sailin' day,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!
O you pinks and posers,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!"
The big fellow paused, scratching his beard thoughtfully, obviously having forgotten the rest of the words. With
the danger of being shot no longer a threat, Ben could not resist supplying a verse to help the singer's memory. So he
sang out through a knothole in a raucous voice.
"And now we're wallopin' 'round Cape Horn,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!
I wish t'God I'd ne'er been born,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!
O you pinks and posers,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!"
The man began moving toward the shutter, a smile forming on his rough-hewn features as he took a turn with a
verse.
"There's only one thing botherin' me,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!"
He paused. Ben knew what to do, he sang out the rest.
"To leave behind Miss Liza Lee,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!"
Then they both sang the last two lines lustily together.
"O you pinks and posers,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!"
The old fellow banged a huge callused hand against the shutter, causing Ben to jump. He banged it again,
laughing. "Hohohoho! That weren't no Chapelvale bumpkin singin' a good seafarin' shanty. They've all got one leg
longer'n the other from walkin' in plow furrows 'round here. Ahoy, mate, what was the first ship ye sailed in?"
Ben shouted through a knothole. "The Flying Dutchman, mate. What was yours?"
Placing his back against the shutters, the man slid down into a sitting position, overcome with laughter.
"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