Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

‘What of the men of Lyme?’

Pyckard shrugged. ‘It’s possible, I suppose. Yes. They have had arguments with us for many years now. It’s only two years since the last fight. Probably about time one of us was caught by them.’

‘Is it so normal for you to fear the people from other towns?’ Simon asked. He was still very new to the ways of the sea, he reminded himself.

‘Those daft buggers from Lyme have no comprehension of the rules of the sea or of land. Well, what can you expect from a bunch of peasants from Dorset, when all’s said and done.’

‘But why should they pick on your ship?’

‘I think it all began when some Dartmouth men found some rich fishing fields. When the men from Lyme heard about it, they barged in and tried to take the fishing from them.’

‘I see,’ Simon said. This was one of those disputes that had started in the mists of history, and which was kept alive by a number of unscrupulous folk who saw benefit in being able to steal from others who had worked for their rewards. ‘And the last fight was two years ago?’

‘About that. They helped the men of Weymouth and Portland when those thieving churls robbed a Plymouth cog. They took the ship, killed the men aboard, stole all the goods and scuttled her.’

‘Is it normal for them to sink an enemy’s ship?’

‘What else do you do with it if the thing’s clearly recognisable? Better to burn and sink her than leave her as evidence of your crime.’

Simon was tempted to ask whether Pyckard himself had engaged in such actions, but somehow this did not feel like the right time. The man was looking weaker and weaker, and his hand, as he reached for his wine, trembled like one who had the ague. If, as he had said, he had already confessed to his own crimes, what was the point in Simon’s asking too? He wasn’t going to be around for much longer, for good or ill.

‘There was nothing on the ship that would have tempted a man to rob it?’ he tried.

Pyckard’s hand stilled, as though he was concentrating with a massive effort. Then the goblet rose to his mouth, and he slurped at it thirstily, as if it was an elixir that could save him. ‘The cargo was all there — I’ve already said. There was nothing too valuable, anyway. The more expensive items I’d saved to be sent on my next sailing.’

‘And the crew were all dead. No one remained?’

He sighed and sat back again. ‘Apparently so.’

‘How many crewmen were there?’

‘Eleven all told, I think. The master and ten more. Yes, eleven.’

‘What can you tell me about them? Who were they?’

‘Oh, the master was Adam. I regret losing him, for he was my best man. He’s been with me for years. I trusted him with my life, and many times he has repaid my trust. Then there were Odo and Vincent, two men I’ve also known since they were young. They were rough and ready types, but sound in the ways of the sea. They were brought up to it from childhood, so it’s no surprise. They certainly knew how to sail, but they were bastards on board … and on land!’

‘Why do you say that?’

Pyckard stared at him and, for a moment, Simon thought there was genuine hatred in his eyes. ‘They would drink and fight, or even try to rape women in the town. I will not miss them, the churls! But there are others who deserve to be mourned: like young Danny from Hardness. He was an orphan I took in some years ago, along with his brother Moses, when his father died at sea. He always wanted to follow his father …’ his gaze turned inward sorrowfully, ‘and I suppose he has had his wish, poor Danny. There were others — three brothers from Exmouth I’ve used for many years … Why do you need to know?’

‘What of the others? That’s only half of them.’

With asperity, Pyckard spat, ‘There were men from Hardness, and some few from farther afield! Strangers, all of ’em. That black-hearted piece of hog’s dung Kena bought up four or five of my men just as the ship was sailing. I had to find new crew in a hurry, damn him! Who are they? I don’t know. I’ll see them in hell soon, so I’ll ask them then! Right — what more do you want to know? I’ve told you most of them. The rest are dead, so their names hardly matter, do they?’ The merchant settled back and closed his eyes, drawing several deep breaths. ‘I am sorry, but this slow death is exasperating! A dagger in the throat would be preferable to this drawn-out torture.’

‘I am sorry, Master Pyckard. I am just trying to understand what could have happened. So you can think of no reason why the ship should have been attacked?’

‘Wrong, Bailiff,’ Pyckard said, but his voice was weary rather than bitter. ‘I can think of many. There are lots of people who might like to ruin me by destroying my ships and livelihood. Kena hates me, and he likes to thwart me. Perhaps he had his men take my ship — and then the cowardly sot saw a sail on the horizon and ran away before he was caught. You take your pick, Master Bailiff.’

Hilary Beauley swung himself from the ratline over the sheer and onto the rope ladder, letting himself down into his boat. ‘Cast off,’ he ordered.

The little vessel lurched under the strong pull of the two oarsmen, and he was soon on the beach at Hardness. Here he sprang from the craft onto the shingle and set off homewards.

His house was less impressive than those of Kena or Pyckard, let alone Hawley, but he was happy that he was making enough money. Soon he would have another ship, and then he could begin to expand his contacts, start to import more valuable goods, take tin and cloth further afield, bring back spices and dyestuffs. The things that made a man wealthy.

Others he had grown up with had taken to business of different forms. For him, though, the only thing that mattered was the quick route to riches. He had studied merchants when he was young, and as soon as he could save, he had invested in a mercantile venture to Portugal. The wines brought back had not been so successful as the Gascon ones, but he had hopes that if the French remained in Gascony, as they threatened, the value of foreign wines would naturally increase. Until the Portuguese realised that, he could make a lot of cash. And it was easier than following the convoys. Damn that — in convoy every man was under the eye of his competitors. No one liked that.

His ship was almost ready. He’d looked to its fittings with care, and now, with a sudden injection of money, he had enough to order the new ship as well. Plans were being drawn up with the shipwrights, and when they were ready, he’d be able to order it. The new one would be a bigger ship, a cog of forty or fifty tuns.

The threat of war with France was worrying, of course. Like all the other merchants, he depended on the money which trade with Gascony brought in, and even if he kept his Portuguese interests going, there was always the danger of fresh piracy. The Bretons were very competent sailors and their fast boats could be a significant hazard to a merchant vessel. The fate of the Saint John would soon be forgotten. That was nothing: if the Bretons caught a ship, it’d be wholesale slaughter for the crew and the theft of everything on board. The money which one cog like her would bring to a small French fishing community could not be ignored.

As soon as war was declared, all the town’s ships would be pressed into the King’s service, too. Usually Edward would pay quite well, by the tun, but there was no saying how long it would take before the money would start to come in. Even if Beauley lived, it could be months or years before the King made good the debt. And by then, the ship could be sunk or stolen. War was a fickle master.