Michael Jecks: The Death Ship of Dartmouth

Late summer 1309, off the Breton Coast.

Danny would remember that night for the rest of his days.

He was heartily sick as the wind came up and a powerful gale started blowing from the south-south-west. Only a boy, he had been put on this ship after his father had died. He was an orphan, along with his older brother Moses. Their mother had been gone these last three years, and their father went down a month ago when his little fishing boat was caught in a storm.

There was a crack, and he felt the ship heel over. The shock was enough to stir him from his bleak mood.

This was an older ship. The decking was loose board to give quick access to the hold beneath, and the open deck was where the crew slept, under heavy canvas awnings, hoping that the weather and spray would not persecute them too much. From all Danny had experienced so far, that was a forlorn hope. At the rear of the ship was a castle, underneath which was the solitary cabin where the ship’s master would normally sleep.

Even though he was so young and on his first voyage, Danny could tell that the ship was suffering greatly. The mast was groaning, the canvas taut and straining, while all the sheets hummed with the wind. At the top of the mast, the great flag snapped and curled like a whip with every change in wind direction. It was reassuring that the older hands like Vincent and Odo were not overly troubled. Or if they were, they didn’t show it.

The men ran to the ratlines, clambering aloft and spreading out over the yards, and when Odo gave the order, they began hauling the sail up, in an attempt to tie it off and stop the hectic wind from ravaging it.

That was when they had the first disaster of the long night. Even as Danny stood, trembling with weakness and nausea, there was a scream, and one of the younger sailors slipped from his position near the mast itself.

The seamen depended on their horny feet maintaining a firm footing on the rope that ran under the yard, bellies hooked over the top as they hauled up the sail. This lad was one of the new young members of the crew; his feet were less hardened, and his foot slipped. As the ship swayed beneath him, he lost his balance and fell. One hand clutching wildly at a rope as he toppled, at last he grasped it. But it was a near-vertical sheet, and as he plummeted to the deck the palm of his hand was rasped away, leaving a smear of blood all down the hemp. There was a scream, followed by a crunch like a lettuce being hit by a mallet. Then, silence.

If the lad hadn’t died, perhaps the men could have reefed the sail, but as they stared in horror, it was too late and disaster struck them all. The sail flapped loose and then tore in half. In moments, the two halves were shredding, and now a tattered medley of flags were curling overhead. Long strips detached themselves and flew off ahead, chased by the wind that drove the ship on — and that was when Danny knew he must soon die. He scarcely noticed the door opening to the master’s cabin. He was staring at the boy’s body as it flopped about on deck with the ship’s roll; in that corpse, he saw himself.

Without a home, or any family apart from Moses, who was nine, the seven year old would have starved, were it not for the charity of the Church and the kindness of his benefactor. Master Paul Pyckard had sometimes used his father as crew on his ships, and when he heard of the two boys’ plight, he had his men seek them out. Before long, Adam, the sailor with the enormous beard, had tracked him down and taken him in, and the lad had been thankful for the offer of a warm cot for the night. To his delight, there was a fire in the morning, and bread and dripping to eat, washed down with as much ale as he could hold. At the time, still weak after the years of famine, and without food for almost three days, other than scraps from the church, young Danny had scoffed so much, he had promptly brought it all back up, but from that day he began to recover. Now, a month later, he was still weakly and feeling alone and vulnerable, but so much better than before.

Adam had become his closest friend. Reliable, always cheerful, he was Pyckard’s most trusted lieutenant, and just as it was only natural that Danny should pay his way by serving on Pyckard’s ships, it was as natural that he should want to serve with Adam. Moses had been taken in to live with Master Pyckard, and was settling in happily, learning the work of a servant.

Usually Adam would not have been on this craft, an older cog of some twenty tuns called the Saint Rumon , but she was strong enough, else Master Pyckard would never have let his most valued possession, his beautiful French wife, travel in her.

Madam Amandine was as sweet as a sister to Danny. He could admire her beauty, with the juvenile appreciation that noted perfection of form without lust. Amandine was slender and pale-skinned, with a slight peach tone to her cheeks. Her eyes were set wide apart under a high, intelligent brow, and her oval face was regular and unmarked with signs of pox or scurvy, so rare in these years of starvation. She was kind and gentle, and Danny worshipped her, as did the other men on board; she was respectful and attentive even with the lowliest sailors. And when, as now, she suffered from the dreadful consequences of a not-strong belly and vomited, the crew fought to take her little tidbits which were ‘guaranteed to settle her gut’ as the men all believed. It had taken some persuasion from Adam to make them leave the poor woman in peace after their ministrations began to make her feel even worse.

Rather than leaning over the sheer with him, she remained in her cabin with a bowl. Even over the wind, he could hear her wretchedly moaning. He joined in, spewing and retching as the ship lurched and rolled, men up at the yard attempting to replace the sail, until it grew clear that they could achieve nothing. It seemed to last the whole night. And then there was another, greater shuddering and wrenching, and men began to scream. Danny could hear the panic in their voices, and in the naked terror in the men’s eyes, he saw death. They would drown. He would drown.

He had no fear. His father too had been killed in a storm. It was the way for a man to die when he spent his life at sea. No, Danny had no fear, but he did think regretfully of the life he would lose, just as he was beginning it with Master Pyckard.

There was another slamming shock and the ship seemed to settle.

‘She’s on the rocks, boys!’

Over the monstrous howling of the wind, Danny could hear a new noise. No, not hear: he could feel it through the soles of his feet. It was the crackle and shriek of a dying vessel as the water poured in through joints and seams, forcing timbers apart. He clung to a set of oaken planks that suddenly reared up from the loose decking, and lay on them as the ship began to break. Adam was at his side, a hand on his shoulder, peering at him with concern, and then he saw men running from the mast to the sides, desperate men who couldn’t swim and who had nothing to cling to. Adam raced to the master’s cabin, but as he went, Danny saw the door burst wide, and then the wall of the cabin fell away; he saw the green sea thundering through it, sweeping table, benches, pots and cots from inside. And in among it all was Amandine, with blood on her hands and legs as the timbers of the dying Saint Rumon flew about her.

And then a giant wave tossed him overboard, and all he knew was the searing pain of saltwater in his lungs and a roaring sound in his ears.

Devon, September 1324

Her tears stayed with him all the long night after he left her, but there was nothing he could do to dry them. Not now. Probably not ever.