The Lady and the Captain

by Beverly Adam

  “Do you have any idea as to the man’s identity?”

  “Nay, not a wit . . . but what clothes the dead man wore were of a noticeable nature. He still wore a knit sweater with a distinctive pattern. I’m up and asking all the captains around the harbor t’ take a proper look at the body in case he be a lost member of their crew,” said the ruddy faced Irishman.

  He regarded Robert in a man-to-man fashion. He confided, “There have been a few good seamen gone missing these last few days because of the recent gales. I heard tell yours had lost a hand, and I must confess that this is not the only reason why I wish ye to take a look at him . . .” He hesitated, as if he were not certain he should continue.

  “What else?”

  Sarah could feel the hairs on the back of her neck prickle with anticipation. She second-guessed the reason why the town’s constable wanted him to see the body. Something was not right about the death.

  The constable glanced at them, as if weighing whether or not they were worthy of his confidences. They were not members of the small close-knit community. Could this English commander be trusted?

  At last he nodded and said, “The death was not natural. He was found with a whalebone dagger firmly stuck in his back. Well planted, it was, right between his ribs. It was deliberately forced into him. The blade skewered one of his ribs, splitting cleanly in half, undoubtedly touching his heart and killing him. It was done with evil intent. Murder it was, sir.”

  He took out a long stemmed clay dhudeen pipe from his coat and sucked on it thoughtfully. He pointed the stem of it at Robert. His face was grim with concern.

  “Aye, I do not envy the man who can identify him, Commander,” he said, “for he’ll have the devil’s own responsibility of cleaning up the mess and dealing out the dead man’s vengeance. Aye, that can be particularly unsavory. Especially if the murderer be found to be a member of his own crew.”

  The constable gave the newly appointed master and commander a thoughtful look. He had heard of how the first mate had been forced to take over command of The Brunswick because of Captain Jackson’s sudden death.

  By the speculative look he gave the young commander, Sarah could tell he was wondering if the English officer was up to the task of taking control of such a mercurial situation.

  Seamen were a hotheaded, superstitious lot. Even the militarily disciplined ones were known for their brash, unthinking behavior when pressed into an unyielding corner. How would the unseasoned commander handle the situation if the dead seaman proved to be one of his own men? Would he do his duty and go after the perpetrator?

  “Not every man has the stomach to deal with such bothersome troubles,” the constable said aloud. “Nasty business all this is, Commander. Nasty.”

  “Where has the body been laid?” asked Robert, catching the eye of the second mate, who stood next to them intently listening to the conversation.

  “We placed it with the village’s undertaker. For sure now, no matter whom he might turn out to be, we’ll give him a proper Christian burial. After all the local captains have had a good look at him,” said the Garda, “we’ll lay him to rest in our own churchyard. Unless someone can identify the body and give him a name.”

  “That is most kind,” remarked Sarah, thinking how others would have planted the unknown stranger in any plot of ground. It was charitable of the town to bury the stranger on holy ground. Some pressure must have been placed upon the church to accept the unusual burial.

  “’Tis the least we can do for the poor fellow,” agreed the official.

  “Do you think you can take me to him now, Constable?” asked Robert.

  “Aye, if you are willing to, sir. I’ll bring you there myself. ’Tis my own brother-in-law’s undertaking business in which we have laid him out in. Not far from the harbor, it is. Will you be after following me over there?”

  “Aye,” agreed Robert with a sharp, efficient nod, placing his hat on his head in preparation to leave. He turned to the second mate.

  “Mr. Litton, I’d like you take command while I’m gone. Have the hands finish the duties that were set for today. And I shall need you to take over my navigational lesson with the midshipmen at midday.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The second mate nodded, tipping his hat.

  He gave Robert a questioning glance at her. What was to be done about her?

  “I’m going with you, Lieutenant,” she said firmly.

  “It’ll be no fit place for a lady,” protested the constable. “You might take to fainting, ma’am. And I carry no smelling salts upon my person.”

  “The body will be quite spoiled,” agreed Robert. “I imagine a most unpleasant sight and odor awaits us. The corpse has undoubtedly been battered about the sea for the last few days. No doubt it will be in a dreadful state for viewing by anyone, Mistress Duncan.”

  “I’ve seen dead bodies before,” she said, remaining firm in her resolve to go. She looked Robert directly in the eye, reminding him that as a wise woman, she had already been a witness to the grim reaper’s handiwork. She was not afraid.

  A light of admiration shone in his eyes at her fortitude. She truly had a brave, stubborn spirit. He nodded in agreement.

  “You shall join us, if that be your desire, ma’am. We depart immediately.”

  Chapter 7

  They were conveyed in the village constable’s black carriage to the undertaker’s place of business. It was located on the edge of the harbor village. In a whitewashed stone cottage located off the main road, the body of the deceased had been laid out in the undertaker’s public viewing room.

  Most of the villagers had already taken a look at the unknown deceased. Some of the locals, mostly married women, lit candles in St. Mary’s Church afterwards. They gave thanks to all the saints that they did not know him. Many had been afraid that the dead man might be their husband or one of their sons, who were out at sea. None as yet, had been able to give the deceased a name.

  The fact the deceased had been murdered brought a dark air of gloom over the village. Old rivalries and hostile grudges were openly reviewed. Some bitter arguments were relived in the market place. The village was tense with suspicion. They wondered what evil had been dropped on their doorstep. The quicker the murdered man was identified and buried, the better.

  Sarah held up a rose-scented handkerchief over her nose. She mentally braced herself before entering the room.

  While it was true she had been in the presence of the dead before, it was also a fact that this was the first time she had seen one which had ripened over several days. Not to mention battered by the sea almost beyond recognition.

  The horrible stench hit her all at once as she stood at the parlor door. It was worse than the smell in the ship’s hull. Involuntary, she stepped back.

  Get a hold of yourself! ’Tis naught but a poor, dead soul awaiting you in there. You’ve seen such before.

  Robert put a firm, steadying hand beneath her elbow.

  “You don’t have to go through with this,” he said in a soft voice, whispering in her ear. “I will not think any less of you if you should desire to wait outside in the carriage instead. This will be most unpleasant.”

  “I’m after making for another try,” she said firmly, steeling herself once more, better prepared. She told herself she would look the body over as if it were merely a type of study examination created by her mother.

  Gladys had always kept her by her side when examining patients. As early as the tender age of six, she’d been taught what signs of illness to look for in the sick, learning the methods to cure and ease pain.

  Now she was once more the pupil, examining, thinking of the various ways which might have caused the dead man’s demise. How had this all come about? How had he been murdered at sea? And more importantly, who did it and why?

  This particular examination was to be unlike any tutoring she had ever had. She had never viewed a murdered man’s corpse. But she wanted to try and understand the events leading up to h
is untimely death.

  Could it be that the assassin who’d tried to poison the Captain had been involved in this crime, as well? Or was it simply a coincidence tying them together by time, she wondered?

  She quickly glanced at Robert to view his reaction.

  He had straightened himself in alert readiness. It was evident he was preparing himself for the worst. She could not help but ponder if the dead man had been one of The Brunswick’s missing crewmembers? If so, which one? Could he be the drowned steward or the runaway deserter? In a moment they would know for certain.

  Robert stood behind her. He held her shoulders firmly with his strong hands. He was ready to prop her up, if necessary.

  She was very aware of his touch. It was a comforting sensation, feeling his fingers supporting her. She knew she would not faint because of it.

  Candles were lit about the room for the viewing. It was a thoughtful gesture and she was touched by the consideration of the villagers. They had given the unknown man the same respect as they would have one of their own.

  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.