The Shipwreck continued . . .
Law Simms had come a long way since he first arrived in Burnham Market half a century
earlier as excise officer in charge of the coast from Lynn to Burnham. He was a
native of Romney in Kent and knew all the ways of the smugglers - knew, for example, that
when a cargo had been landed on Scolt Head the Brancaster shepherds would be paid to drive
their flocks along the marsh path to obliterate any tell-tale hoof marks.
Law Simms had prospered. He had married the daughter of the Burnham
carrier, John Raven, the victim of the Burnham Market murder described in a previous
issue. And he had fulfilled one ambition: in those early days, when he rested
with his horse Pompey, on the high hills behind Brancaster, he had
promised himself that one day he would build a house there. It still stands, though
largely altered by his grandson Simms Reeve. Law Simms' favourite daughter Anne had
married Newman Reeve, a Norwich grocer. There were disputes with the other children
and eventually it was Anne who inherited the estate. But on September 1st 1833 it
was Newman Reeve who rode down to the shore as the official representative of the Lord of
the Manor of Brancaster.
Brancaster Hall in the gloom of the trees
The house 'on the high hills behind Brancaster'
The Curate-in-charge at Brancaster, the Rev. James Holloway, had hurried to The Ship
Inn as soon as he heard of the disaster. He commiserated with the sailors then went
to speak to the passengers who were in another room. A chance remark sent him
hurrying back to the crew's quarters. Was it true that some passengers had been
lost?
A few, the captain admitted.
"A few?" asked Holloway. "Would you like to explain yourself?"
"I dinna ken what you mean by 'explain myself'".
"Do you intend by saying you have 'lost a few' that some persons are drowned?"
"Aye. Some ladies."
Holloway shouted at the captain: "Have you ever heard of a British sailor
eating his breakfast with the coolness and collectedness of a butcher under such
circumstances?"
The captain shrugged, went on eating. The rest of his crew, including his son, sat
in silence.
"Where are these ladies, then?", asked the clergyman.
"I left them in the cabin. It's full of water."
"How can that be? I've been told your ship is high and dry."
Patiently, Captain Nesbitt explained: about eight o'clock a heavy sea had swept over
the ship and carried away the cabin skylight, filling it with water.
"Are you mad?" asked Holloway. "Didn't you try to get them out?"
"It was no use", Nesbitt glanced at his crew. "They'd been dead for
hours."
The Rev. Holloway stormed out of the inn, pausing only to ask the assembled company
"if it were possible that such a brute could exist in the shape of a British
seaman." Obviously, he is not an impartial witness, but his written account of
the conversation was never challenged by the sailors.
He galloped off down the beach road but had to return to ask 'the brute' who had been left
in charge of the ship. He was told that it was a Mr. Green, one of the coastguards.
As Holloway reached the stranded ship, a waggon was drawing away.
The cover was pulled back, revealing eleven bodies. "Is this what the captain
calls 'a few'?", he asked.
"If only the skylight had been battened down", the coastguard
said, "they'd still be alive".
The curate told the driver that his grim load was expected at the church then rode
back to the Ship Inn where Nesbitt and his mate, David Mickelreid were sitting in front of
the fire.
"Your ship isn't being protected, it's being plundered!", he
said. Later, he estimated that about one hundred people had been swarming around it.
"How can we protect it?", the mate asked. "We haven't
even got any dry clothes".
Wearing some old clothes belonging to the landlord, the mate made his way
reluctantly back to the wreck.
Holloway crossed the road, pushed his way through the crowd outside the church door which
was being guarded by his parish clerk, Mr. Fiddyment. Inside, eleven naked bodies
were stretched on the stone floor.
"They're all women!", he exclaimed, "Get some linen
immediately!".
He called Hannah Pike and Mrs. Davies across to him. "Listen to
me: I expect you all to act with the strictest honesty. The smallest trifle
you find on any of these unfortunate people must be brought to me".
The women were uneasy. What about the traditional 'perks' which the
'wise women' of the village regarded as their rights for carrying out the disagreeable
task of preparing the dead for burial.
"There will be a reward!", Holloway said desperately. Who
would pay it he did not know.
"But they've already been stripped and searched", Hannah Pike
told him. She pointed to a dark stain on the bandage used to tie up the fallen jaw
of 'the stout woman'. Her earrings had been torn out and she had started bleeding.
But dead bodies don't bleed.
Holloway knelt down beside the little boy: he was still warm.
As were the others.
There was no doubt in Holloway's mind that long after the passengers'
cabin had been swamped, after the crew had been helped ashore, after the sodden bodies had
been dragged from the cabin and carried up to the village to be laid out on the stone
floor of the church - after all this, some of the eleven victims had been alive.
Now it was too late.
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