The Lady and the Captain (12 page)

A flat table performed as a bed. It was covered in white linen. The edges of three linens hung over the sides, draping the corpse. The unknown man was completely covered. Only the very crown of the deceased’s head, clean-shaven by the women of the village, was bare. His body was facing the foot of the made up bed, as was the custom.

It was believed that by placing the dead in this manner, it might avert the misfortune of being cursed by the deceased’s living spirit. And as the man had been murdered, they did not wish to have his ghost linger.

Her first impression was that this was not a very large man. He appeared to be about her height, and therefore not very tall. It might be Jeremy Kaye, she decided, not having a description of the steward, John Stafford. But she remembered that the young seaman had been only slightly taller than herself.

And Robert, how would he feel if it did turn out to be Jeremy? Would he be relieved because he no longer had the responsibility of capturing the deserter, possibly having him placed in prison? Or would he feel guilty because the lad had drowned trying to reach shore after he jumped ship?

Glancing over at his grim profile, it was difficult to tell.

*    *    *

In a corner of the viewing room sat an old woman dressed all in black, a comfy, long wool shawl wrapped about her. She was keeping vigil near the body. The old mourner had been tranquilly making lace by an open window until they entered the room.

Upon seeing them, she began to conspicuously start wailing and weeping.

“Musha, musha, the poor, poor man,” moaned aloud the mourner in Irish. The mourner looked at Sarah. “He was such a good soul, so full o’ life was he when he lived. Such an excellent provider, so kind hearted t’ his fellow men, he was. The poor, poor sod.”

She paused to look them over carefully, her eyes assessing them.

It was evident the village had thought of everything, even to hire a professional mourner. For who knew if the dead man found in the sea might not be one of their own?

The old woman eyed Robert’s naval uniform and added clearly in English, “And such an excellent sailor was he. So good at his duties was he, aye. To think he died loyally serving his king and country. ’Tis terrible! Oh, woe . . .”

She beat her chest with a small, clenched fist, grasping a large wood cross that hung from her ample bosom. Dramatically, she held the religious symbol up to the light of the window, making the devout sign of the cross.

“Such an excellent father and provider was the good man. Good Lord, show mercy on his pitiful, sin-filled soul!”

The professional mourner heaved a large sigh of woe and bent her head completely downward in a final show of sorrow.

Overtaken by grief for the unknown seaman, she fell heavily against the sturdy wood chair, apparently overcome by her own mournful sobbing. It appeared she had collapsed.

Sarah moved towards the old woman to check and see if she needed aid. She was about to touch her when suddenly the self-same lady brusquely held out her hand. It appeared from under the long, enveloping black shawl.

“Uh, hmm,” murmured the mourner, clearing her throat. She rubbed her pale thin fingers against her thumb in the universal gesture for blunt. A tip was expected.

“Right,” replied Robert, automatically removing a guinea from his coat pocket. He put it into the mourner’s outstretched hand.

The mourner bit into the coin.

Nodding, she smiled and said, “Long life t’ ye, Commander . . . and may I never attend your funeral.” The performance had come to an end. She quietly returned to her lace making.

The moment had come to stand closer to the man, to see who it was. Sarah felt Robert’s sturdy fingers dig into her shoulders.

The Garda pulled back the white linen.

“It’s our missing steward, John Stafford,” he said quietly.

He had immediately recognized the knitted tunic. The dark blue woolen still held the unique pattern of the steward’s cable knitted garment. The dead man’s body was battered. His eyes were missing. The fish had already made food of him.

“John always wore that particular pattern. See the double row of circles knit there.” He pointed to a part of the ruined tunic that had remained intact by the shoulder.

The close-knit circles of the tunic were called “beehives” by island knitters. The pattern was so-called because they resembled a bee’s honeycomb when knitted together in a cluster. The torn garment was shredded, but a good portion of the sturdy wool threads had held together.

“Those two rows are followed by a straight knit cable row, which was typical of the ones Captain Jackson’s servant wore. I have seen that small, gold cross he wears about the neck on Stafford many a time at meals. It always fell out of his shirt and caught the candlelight when he bent to serve the side dishes.”

He seemed lost in thought for a moment, remembering the living presence of the dead man. “Aye, it is him, John Stafford.”

The Garda gave him a questioning look, wanting to learn more about the dead man.

“And who was this John Stafford? Was he a member of your crew, Commander?”

Robert nodded. “He was . . . Stafford was Captain Jackson’s servant whom we thought had been tossed overboard by a wave and drowned.”

“So you knew him well, sir?”

“Aye.” He nodded and proceeded to explain how it had come about that the steward had gone missing during the tempest.

The constable picked up a white cloth in which was wrapped a weapon, a sharp knife. He showed it to him. The blade, stained by the blood of the dead man, glinted in the sunlight.

“Do you have any idea, as to who might have stabbed him? It was found in his back. ’Tis thought to be the true cause of his death.”

“Regrettably, none,” he replied, shaking his head.

He glanced at Sarah. All the color had drained from her face. She tensed, leaning against him for support.

She stared at the dead man and shook uncontrollably. She was frightened out of her wits.

“What is it?” he asked

“’Tis h-him. The ghost!” she said, swallowing down her fear. She turned around to face him. Her blue eyes were wide with astonished shock.

The dead man lying before her was none other than the supposedly fake poltergeist she had encountered in the hull. He was the ghostly vision who had greeted her and Jeremy. The same dead seaman who had pointed an accusing finger at them. But now he was no longer entangled in seaweed. He was no longer a prankster’s idea of a joke. He was very real.

*    *    *

They agreed that nothing would be said to the crew about Sarah having recognized the dead man. The constable of the port agreed with Robert’s decision, as well. If the knowledge that a murdered man’s spirit had been seen wandering about the English frigate, it could cause a mass desertion of both The Brunswick and the harbor.

As it was, several members of the crew were already on edge because of Captain Jackson’s death. They wondered if a plague might strike them all down. Who was next?

Robert paid off the old mourner with one gold guinea to keep her silent. She had nodded her gray head and agreed to do as asked. Worriedly, they left the undertaker’s house.

“It would worsen matters if it were made known that the steward’s spirit had made an appearance in the hull shortly after he’d been murdered,” he said as the carriage carried them back to the harbor. “The Brunswick would be labeled a cursed coffin ship. The men would refuse to continue serving if they thought that she might carry them to their grave. Aye, some might even take it into their feeble heads to do as Jeremy did and jump ship.”

Sarah quietly listened. She ran her hands nervously over the lace of her gown. She had not recovered from the viewing of the corpse.

She knew he was right in his assumptions about his men. Seamen were notoriously superstitious. They who made their living on the precarious seas looked to nature to give them a sign about their future. Strange beliefs and folklore sprung up as a result.

Sometimes she had watched helplessly as frightened sailors and fishermen labeled the most defenseless person or animal as a ‘Jonah.’ They blamed the hapless creature for putting the ill wind of fortune that sometimes blew their way upon them.

She had herself faced time and again these superstitious beliefs. Once she witnessed firsthand the cruelty caused by such a dark assumption. A fisherman discouraged by days of poor catch and foul weather, blamed his black cat.

The animal was venomously accused by its master as cursed. He blamed the poor creature for all his troubles. Every error was laid at the animal’s feet.

She watched as the fisherman viciously threw the wretched animal into the harbor. The cat meowed piteously to be rescued. Paddling its paws to keep afloat, the animal kept its head barely above water.

The man rowed away without a backward glance.

Feeling pity for the creature’s plight, Sarah grabbed a poled fishing net and scooped it out of the cold sea. Wrapping the wet animal in her comfy shawl, she put it in her own boat and took it home. She named it in Irish, Lucky,
Amharach.
It lived out peacefully the remainder of its days on her mother’s island home.

Sagely, she nodded in agreement to his suggestion not to say anything.

Aye, the lieutenant is right. I had best be quiet for now about what had transpired in The Brunswick’s hull between Jeremy and the dead man’s ghost. It would not do the living aboard any good to know what occurred.

“What shall we do next?” she asked. “Do you think that Jeremy’s disappearance is connected with Stafford’s death? It is almost certain the lad played some part in the murder of the captain’s steward. Did not the ghost point its white fingers accusingly at him? And didn’t Jeremy jump ship the following day? Perhaps he was afraid to be caught?”

She shivered. Seeing the apparition’s earthly body had unnerved her.

“I am as certain as you that Jeremy was somehow tied to the steward’s death,” he said. “But what if he was only one of several men involved? What if there remains another murderer aboard? Perhaps other mutineers are quietly planning another act of infamy to spring upon us?”

He shook his head.

“Nay, Mistress Duncan, we are far from finished with this mystery and even further from understanding why this path of destruction was chosen. We have much to learn once we are back aboard. It is now my turn to ask the questions.”

Upon returning to the ship Robert began to make inquiries as to whom Jeremy had been spending his off-duty time with. As he had surmised before, the lad was not well liked, very few of the hands had been on sociable terms with the sneering topsails man.

“He was a queer lad, Commander,” said one of Jeremy’s berth mates, the old toothless ship’s cook. “Aye, right shy he was . . . about certain things, sir.”

“Such as?”

The old man scratched his balding head and grinned. A devilish smile lit his face.

“He wouldn’t be caught with his knickers down. When we took our monthly baths, he’d shy off by himself. He wouldn’t let any of us come near him. Must’ve thought he would catch his death if he left them breeches of his off. Aye, sir, sometimes it made me wonder what he had hidden beneath them layers. Do ye think he had some gold hid on him, sir? Was that why he jumped ship? He didn’t want anyone else to know and steal it from him, sir?”

“I rather doubt it, Baker,” he replied, with a small smile.

He knew many sailors were on the look-out for hidden treasure, the mythic Aladdin’s cave. Indeed some seamen enlisted hoping to make a quick fortune off of captured enemy cargo and warships.

The truth was that such bounty brought an ordinary seaman little reward. Although recruitment advertisers played up the myth of immense plunder. Usually, the monetary awards received for the capture of a warship went directly into the captain’s pockets and the highest ranking officers. The rest of the crew saw very little of the prize money.

“Most likely the lad suffered from some contagion that he did not wish t’ have bandied about. And being modest, he hid it out of some sense of shame.”

“But, sir, most of us aboard suffer from one kind of condition or ’nother,” said the cook, not understanding how the young seaman could hide such a thing from his fellow shipmates. But then Jeremy had always been rather odd.

“Ye know, sir, the lad told us he was an orphan. He said that he was completely alone in the world . . . aye, that one never trusted his secrets to any of us. More silent than a mummer was he about his past. He wouldn’t share any tales about his life before he came aboard, sir. A strange one that lad was. He never quite fit with the rest of us, Commander.”

“Did he keep a knife about his person, do you know?” asked Robert, changing the subject, thinking of the corpse lying in the undertaker’s parlor in Dingle.

“Aye, a penknife he used to whittle with, sir. Once I caught him practice throwing it at a piece of wood. It was late one night during the second dog watch. I warned him to keep the knife safely hid away in his kit.”

“Did perchance this blade have a whale bone handle?” he asked sharply.

“Aye, it did, Lieutenant. I do remember that the captain’s steward came from below deck and when he saw Jeremy with it, he lit into the lad. He told him he’d take it and have the point broke off by the gunner’s hammer on the hatch band seeing how Captain Jackson liked his ship sweet and clean. Not full of blood baths between shipmates like ye have on some of them other vessels. Aye, Stafford was fair afraid that the lad might hurt somebody with it, sir.”

Robert nodded. So the knife had led them back to the dead steward and whatever his relationship with Jeremy might have been. But had the two men been friends or foes? It was difficult to know now that one was missing, and the other dead.

“Anything else ye be wanting t’ know, Commander?” asked the cook. It was nearing midday and he had yet to prepare the crew’s mess.

“Aye, I’ve just one more question. Before then, did Jeremy and John Stafford ever quarrel or disagree on anything?”