Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

There was something about that great ship lying in the haven, blackened and charred … as though it had been sent to hell, and only returned when the devil had taken her crew. Poor fellows. Stephen had said there were eleven of them, too. All with wives and children, no doubt. All who would now struggle to make a living.

There were some men who fully deserved such a fate, no doubt, but Simon could not help but wonder at the wholesale nature of this destruction. It was a proof of the danger that all men lived with at all times, and a warning to make sure that they shrived themselves when they could, so that their souls might leave them with full confidence. No man knew the moment of his death, and these poor sailors were a prime example of that fact. If only they had been to church before they sailed, and had given Confession full honestly. Perhaps one or two did. Maybe they were already up in heaven. Simon heard a fox call, and closed his eyes, only to open them wide at a scratching behind his wall. No, it was a rat or something. Nothing else.

Christ’s ballocks, but he must calm himself. The whole town was the same. Everyone was jumpy and fretful. No surprise, really, when a man considered how sailors depended so much on their instincts. To learn that some eleven men had been lost, one of them found dead in the hold, but the others gone as though they had never existed, that was terrifying. There would be many families tonight who would have no sleep.

One of them was Widecombe Will’s. Simon had seen Will later in the afternoon, when people began to realise whose ship it was. Will was with one of his daughters: Annie. She saw the ship and shrieked with horror. Her man Ed had been one of the crew. Simon recalled him — a game lad, brawny and powerful. Now Annie was on her knees, throwing dust from the road in all directions as she squealed and groaned.

‘You don’t know it’s the Saint John ,’ Will was saying.

‘You think I don’t recognise my Ed’s ship? He was only going to be out for a couple of days, and now look at it! Everyone knows it’s his ship! My Ed! My Ed! He’s gone!’

The ship was one of Paul Pyckard’s. There was little doubt of that, as soon as they’d been able to take Pyckard’s clerk and servant, Moses, to the ship and had checked the cargo against the manifest which recorded all the goods loaded. She was clearly the Saint John , and if they needed further proof, the sight of Danny’s corpse was enough.

Although Simon felt squeamish at the sight of all dead bodies, it was those who had died from fire and water that most repelled him. Today, seeing that poor, whitened face, the flesh cold and soft as a fish’s, Simon could have turned and thrown up. It was bad enough to be on a ship, without the added churning in his belly caused by the dead sailor.

‘Who is he?’ he’d demanded as the nausea began to fade slightly.

‘I think his name was Danny. He came from Hardness,’ Hawley said dispassionately. He stood with his legs set firmly on the deck as though his boots were nailed to it, unconcerned by the rolling or the body. ‘Leaves a widow and three children, if I’m right.’

Henry Pyket had been brought back from the shore, and was sitting shivering on a coil of ropes. ‘I didn’t bring him up here until I was told to, Bailiff. I don’t want to be fined for moving him when it wasn’t my fault.’

‘Shut up!’ Hawley grated. ‘The Bailiff has better things to do than worry about your hurt feelings.’

‘It’s not a problem, Master Shipwright,’ Simon comforted him. ‘If the Coroner tries to be difficult, tell him to speak to me. You couldn’t have left the corpse down there in the hold. There was no point in that. Better that we took him out and brought him up here.’

‘Then it’s on your head,’ Hawley noted with satisfaction.

‘I’ll support your decision,’ Simon said sharply. He turned to the shipwright. ‘He was under the water, you said?’

‘I stepped on his arm, poor devil. He was there, under the surface, with a bale of wool on top of him.’

‘From the look of him, he was stabbed first,’ Simon said, looking reluctantly at the corpse.

‘Makes me wonder whether there’s any more down there,’ Hawley said speculatively. ‘Perhaps the rest of the crew are there as well?’

‘Yes, Master Hawley? You think there could be more, eh?’

This was from a heavy-set man with an enormous paunch, who staggered up the ladder to the deck and stood there, puffing a little as he gazed about him. Behind him came another man, taller, and more wiry.

Simon shrugged. ‘It’s possible, Master Kena. Good day, and good day to you, Master Beauley.’

The two were well known to the Bailiff. The portly Master Philip Kena, clad in a thick fur-trimmed cotte with a hood that had an extravagant liripipe and gorget in bright blue, was a close competitor to Master Hawley. He had twinkling eyes of grey-blue that were often wreathed in wrinkles as he laughed uproariously at some joke or other, but Simon disliked and mistrusted him. He was too sure of his own position and importance, and Simon sensed that he would be a dangerous enemy.

The slimmer man, Master Hilary Beauley, was a lesser merchant of the town, who lived still in Hardness, north of the mill, where more of the poorer people had their dwellings. His colouring was in stark contrast with Master Kena’s, for where the latter was pale with some colour, like an apple which has been left out in the sun over the autumn, Beauley was as dark as a moor, with skin the colour of an oak apple. His dark eyes were everywhere at once, as though he was always looking for a new customer or supplier.

‘Who could have done this?’ Beauley wondered now, gazing about him.

Hawley shrugged. ‘French privateers. Maybe the men of Lyme? They’ve always hated us. When they see our ships, they often try to board and fight.’

‘They’re a weird lot in Lyme,’ Kena said.

‘Cut your throat as soon as look at you, if they know you’re from Devon,’ Hawley nodded.

‘The men from Lyme? What’s the matter with them?’ Simon asked.

‘They reckon they own the oceans, that’s what,’ Kena explained.

‘It was fifty years ago they last had a pitched battle, wasn’t it?’ Hawley said.

‘Aye, before my time,’ Kena agreed. ‘They had a great fight that day. But we won it.’

Simon had never heard of a fight that the pugnacious Dartmouth, Clifton and Hardness men had lost — not from here in the towns, anyway. ‘And that’s all? Because of a fight before any of us were born, you say that they must have taken this ship?’

‘No. Last time they took a ship and plundered it, that was two years backalong,’ Hawley said.

‘You just said it was fifty-odd years ago.’

‘That was when there was a battle between us and the men from Lyme. If you’re talking about simple piracy against a Devon ship, that’s different. The bastards joined with some sailors from Weymouth or somewhere, took the ship, stole the cargo, killed the crew, and scuttled her. God rot them!’

Sitting in his little chamber later, Simon recalled the expression on Hawley’s face as he spoke those words. Here was a man who was more than happy to repay a debt. Especially a debt of blood, visiting vengeance on the men who had caused him grief.

It was an attitude much in evidence about the town. As he’d left the ship, returning with relief to terra firma after giving permission for the cargo to be brought ashore, Simon had noticed others muttering as they looked at the vessel moored close to the harbour. Their eyes were full of anger and resentment, and many was the time he heard the words ‘Lyme bastards’.

Many years ago, an arrogant squire at Oakhampton Castle had said to Simon that the locals here in Devon were as patient and calm as the cattle they herded. ‘They can’t be roused by anything,’ he had drawled.