Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

Her sudden wail caught Baldwin by surprise, and as she slipped down to her seat again, he heard a sound at the door. Startled by her cry and the suddenness of the noise, he automatically reached for his sword as he snapped round seeking danger, but all he saw was a girl of maybe five or six and a little boy. The children stared fixedly at Baldwin as though expecting him to launch an attack on their mother.

‘Look at them!’ she added. ‘They think everyone coming here is trying to steal a few more pennies from my husband just because he’s gone. We can trust no one! No one!’

As she began to sob, the three children began to cry as well. It was for Baldwin one of the most appalling scenes he had ever witnessed. The distraught weeping youngsters, and their mother, bent over, arms cradling her belly, racked with deep sobs that wouldn’t go away.

Moses was only just able to keep himself calm as he walked with the priest to the church, his master’s body behind him, carried by six sturdy sailors and servants. People came from their doors to peer at the small cortège as it passed. It was rare enough that a man would have such a fine procession in the town, and all wanted to take a peek at it as Pyckard’s body passed by.

After his death, Moses had insisted that he himself should clean his master’s body and prepare him for his coffin. He was as near as Pyckard’s son as any, and he jealously guarded his right to perform this last service for the man who had saved him and his brother from penury and probably death. With one of the stable-boys he stripped the corpse and washed away the mess from voided bowels and bladder, before clothing the dead man in a shift. A bolt of linen had been ordered days before by his foresighted master, and he took it up with a sob in his throat. As he and the boy unrolled it by his master’s cooling body, he could scarcely concentrate, his mind was so taken up with thoughts of all the kindnesses Paul Pyckard had shown him.

He could hardly remember Mistress Pyckard, she had died so many years before. A terrible day that. Moses had thought he had lost his brother too, but luckily Danny had survived the shipwreck. At least it meant that Moses had a family to watch over. He would do all in his power to protect his nieces and nephew. And Danny’s widow.

By all accounts, Master Pyckard had loved his wife dearly. Amandine had been a rare beauty, with her flashing, dark eyes, her long tresses of blue-black hair and pale complexion. Her calm disposition and gentleness had won the hearts of all the household, and her husband had been utterly devoted. Certainly in all the years that Moses had lived with Pyckard, he had never seen another woman with him, although there were plenty hereabouts who would have been happy to earn a few shillings while their husbands were at sea. No, Paul Pyckard had remained loyal to the memory of his wife. Even as he breathed his last, Moses could have sworn he had heard a whispered, ‘Amandine!’

It was only fitting that he should be buried next to his beloved wife. Her body had been found washed upon the shore with some sailor’s body after the wreck. Only her clothing identified her after the scavenging sea-creatures had ravaged her, but Moses knew Pyckard was content just to be able to give her a funeral.

The priest had arrived a little before noon, giving them plenty of time to roll the body in the long shroud and bind it at head and feet. Moses had ordered the coffin a week or more before, and it was brought as soon as news spread of the death. He had an elderly ex-sailor help him heft Pyckard’s corpse into it, and he stood with his hand on his master’s breast for a few minutes before he could bring himself to place the lid atop. With a sigh, he finally submitted to the sailor’s persistence, and stood back as the cover was placed over Paul Pyckard, shutting off the light from his face for the last time.

Formed of seamen from Pyckard’s household and business, the procession moved off now to the churchyard. The six coffin-bearers wore mourning black, but their appearance and manner, although solemn, gave the impression of stern restraint, as though at any moment they might break into a sailor-like song. At the front walked the priest, taking care to show proper respect, as well he might. Moses knew how much money Pyckard had promised the church for the funeral and prayers afterwards. The bell tolled in the hands of the fossor, who paced slowly in front of the priest and set the speed for them all.

There had been nothing like this for Danny. When his body had been carted off to the church, there had been only Moses, Annie, Alice and the children, with the fossor and a priest.

Gil and some of the men from the cog had arrived, Moses saw, and he was warmed to think that they had not yet set sail, but came here to witness Pyckard’s funeral. With the loss of the Saint John , so many who should have been here were missing, and it was good to see the household’s numbers swollen. If Gil and his men had already left port it might have looked as though Pyckard had few friends, no companions or servants. In reality he had many who depended upon his patronage, from widows whose men had died in Pyckard’s service to waifs and strays like Moses himself, and the foreigner — the Frenchman. Well, at least he’d carried out his master’s last wish regarding him .

They carried on along the street, down to the mill pool and over the two-arched bridge that connected Clifton with Hardness, past the mill itself with the wheel sitting almost stationary as the tide lay idle at its lowest point, and on up the hill towards St Clement’s Church at Tunstal. Here, there were more seamen and fishermen standing. Pyckard had given so many of them chances of earning money, and they wished to show their respect for the man who had helped them.

As they passed by one group, Moses saw a tall, fair-haired man eyeing the procession with a condescending air. The expression made Moses set his jaw. The stranger couldn’t be expected to understand how important Master Pyckard had been, and yet to display such disdain was foul when any man was being carried to his last resting-place. Moses could see that others nearby had noticed his attitude and were giving him black looks.

And then his eyes met those of a man who stood hooded only a short distance from the fair man, and he felt a shock run through his frame. This was the man he had tried to save, the one he’d put on the ship to ensure he was protected: the Frenchman . What was he doing here?

Peter Strete wiped his metal pen on his sleeve, pushed it gently into his leather penner, thrust the cork into his inkhorn, and leaned back, yawning. There had been much to do today, and he was content that he had achieved a lot already. Most of the details of the last cargoes were recorded now, as well as the goods which had been rescued aboard the Saint John , and he felt it was time to find some lunch.

He tended to avoid eating lunch within the house. The other servants could be uncouth. There was one man who insisted on picking his nose and flicking the contents away, often speckling other men’s clothing; another could not help but spit and dribble as he chewed, as his mouth had been hit by a sword in a battle protecting Master Hawley’s ship some years ago. All in all, it was less stressful to eat something in the tavern. Today he desired a good capon, he decided, and was about to leave when John Hawley strode into the room.

‘I have to be off,’ he announced. ‘Everyone’s going to Pyckard’s funeral. Quickly: where are the accounts?’

Peter brought out his rolls again. He set to quickly, explaining what he had done, and then ran through the calculations of the values of the items again.