‘Here – take it!’ said the other, and flung something towards him. The farmer caught it deftly, surprised that it still seemed warm, but it was too dark for him to see what he was carrying, and when he turned to thank the huntsman, darkness had separated them so that there was no sign of him.
Holding his prize in the crook of his arm, the farmer went on his own way, and within half-an-hour reached home. As soon as he rode into the yard, he bellowed for his servant to bring a lantern and come to look after his horse.
The man came out instantly, carrying a lantern, though he seemed to be in distress and perturbation; but before he could speak, the farmer said, ‘Give me the lantern, so that I can see what I’ve got here!’ Obediently the servant handed up the lantern to the still-mounted farmer, who held it high so that its beams would fall on what he held in the crook of his left arm. To his horror, the light showed him plainly the face and form of his own baby son – though only for an instant, because at the moment of recognition the child vanished and the farmer found himself staring at his own coat sleeve. Then the lantern fell, and as he got down, the dazed farmer heard his servant’s broken voice saying, ‘Master! There’s bad news. The baby died sudden, about half-an-hour ago!’
The Phantom Coach
This is an account of an evil-doer being snatched from life while actually engaged in his nefarious pursuits. Though the Devil is not specifically mentioned, one is left with the feeling that he certainly had some hand in the mysterious end of George Mace.
Some houses seem destined to be haunted, by the nature of the events that happen there in the course of centuries. There’s a farmhouse between Thetford and East Dereham which is all that is left now of a once-beautiful Tudor mansion called Breccles Hall, and it certainly had a place in history. During Elizabeth’s reign, many a papist priest took refuge there; two of its owners committed suicide, and one was a queer old lady who insisted on being buried standing upright. However, it is not any of these eccentrics who is the protagonist in the ghost story connected with Breccles Hall, but an equally eccentric poacher who probably never set his foot inside the house.
George Mace his name was, and he hailed from Watton; a ‘mysterious sort o’ fellow, bor’, according to all accounts. He was one who kept his own counsel and was seldom seen abroad in the daytime, possibly because he had to get some rest some time, and it was at night that he was most active, especially in the game coverts. Yet somehow he possessed an almost superstitious hold over his associates, especially those of the poaching brotherhood, who all seemed to hold this loafing ne’er-do-well in great esteem, and looked up to him as to a well-loved leader.
He had called together a band of his cronies, and together they had hatched a plan for a night’s work both on the lands of Breccles Hall and in the coverts near by which were on the Merton estate of Lord Walsingham. Mace gave orders that they should meet in a plantation on the Breccles Hall estate, but when they were all gathered in the darkness, he decreed that they should break up into small parties, and set off in different directions. He assured them that by so doing their illicit bag would be greater, and to afford fair shares for all, they would meet again at a given time at the back of the Hall, and there do the share-out – ‘settle up, afore the moon went down’.
Obedient to their leader’s commands, they dispersed in twos and threes, Mace going off alone; and it was as he said – the birds seemed as if they wanted to be caught, and the aggregate of their night’s outing was as good as heart could wish for. They met as planned at the back of the Hall, and whispered in the moonlight about their good luck while waiting for Mace to join them. Time seemed long, and they began to get uneasy, but Mace being a law unto himself, they waited doggedly for his reappearance. The moon, however, was sinking, and they grew impatient. They took refuge from the cold in a shed behind the Hall, quiet as mice, but peering this way and that for sight of their returning ringleader. Without him they did not dare to do the proposed share-out, so perforce they continued to wait until the moon sank below the horizon and a profound darkness fell all round.
Then, suddenly, the deep silence of the winter night was broken by the rumbling of wheels, and every man’s blood ran cold, for they were all well acquainted with the tale of the phantom coach, drawn by four headless horses, that traverses the dark lanes of Norfolk in many places; but this seemed to be a solid enough vehicle, judging by the noise, and in a few minutes the band of poachers became aware that it was carrying some quite bright lamps, for the flashing of them lit up the old Hall in splendid fashion at it drove up to the front of the darkened house.
Indeed, the coach lamps were so bright that the old stained glass windows of the Hall showed up in brilliant colour as the light fell through them to the eyes of the watching group at the back, and as one of them noted, threw the pattern onto the frozen ground, for, as he said, ‘the very coat-of-arms was painted on the hoar-frost’. The vehicle came to a rumbling, jangling standstill at the main door of the Hall, and the men heard the door of the coach being opened, and the steps let down. Then, after a very short space of time, they heard the door close again with a bang.
Then the lights went out, like a candle being snuffed, and everything was once more in pitch darkness, and silence. The coach had vanished, without a sound.
Completely unnerved now, the poachers wanted nothing but to be home and in bed. They could wait no longer for George Mace. So away they went, thrilling with superstitious fear and nameless dread, but surefooted as cats, to their cottages.
Next morning, their dread was proved to have been justified. George Mace had been found by the first man on the spot in daylight, lying dead across the front doorstep of Breccles Hall. There was not a mark on his body to suggest how he had met his end; there was not a stain on his clothing to suggest where he had been. Only on his face was a grimace of horror, and his eyes, still staring glassily open, expressed the ghastly, frantic terror of the last living moments of George Mace.
The Mysterious Cannon Ball
Coming events cast more than a shadow before them when an absent Devon seaman learns of the unfaithfulness of his betrothed and her promise to wed another. The kind of warning the young lady in this story received must surely be unique, even among the many on record.
The grandeur of Ashe House crumbled in flames; the chapel in which the illustrious Duke of Marlborough was christened served as a barn or outhouse to the farm, though associations with him are not so easily destroyed. Nor are the tales still told of the Devon family of Drake, to which his mother belonged, who had owned and lived at Ashe House for centuries before John Churchill became the most famous man of his time.
There was a Drake, for instance, who was so wicked that at last he was banished from hearth and home, and forbidden ever to set foot in England again. Exiled on a foreign shore, his thoughts turned more and more to the home of his childhood among the fields and orchards by the river Axe; and his passionate longing to return there, to visit Ashe House just once more, lingered on after his death. His yearning spirit could not rest, and began its journey back to Devon, circling ever nearer and nearer to the place of its desire. Alas for the poor uneasy, unforgiven ghost, its presence drawing near began to make itself manifest to the living, and they didn’t care for it at all. So they called in the priest, with bell, book and candle, to send their kinsman’s spirit back to where it started. Undaunted, the ghost began its journey again, coming near enough to circle Ashe House once more, before the Church and its exorcist were brought in again to prevent the ghost’s entrance. And so it went on, for generation after generation, till the fire reduced the beautiful residence to a mere pile of rubble. Perhaps then the homesick spirit was allowed at last to return, for the living family perforce had to depart, and leave it to the dead.
Long, long before the time of the Wicked Drake, however, there lived at Ashe House one of the Drake family who was so beautiful that all who saw her fell under the spell of her charms. Among them was a sailor, whose adventuro
us spirit took him far and wide across the oceans, and into perils that landsmen could barely imagine. Though others among her suitors were far nobler in family, far wealthier and more famous, the girl set her heart on this young mariner, and with her parents’ consent they were betrothed.
He then decided to make a voyage with the intention of bringing back a fortune worthy of such a bride, and secure in the knowledge of her promise to be his as soon as he returned, he set out.
But voyages were slow, and the hazards many. When months passed into years and her lover did not return, the lady grew sad, then impatient, then fretful and at last petulant and angry. Why should she waste her youth and her beauty languishing alone, when almost every man who set eyes on her desired her? What had happened to her betrothed? Perhaps he was dead, and would never return. Was she to pine unmarried, or retire to a nunnery, simply because the news of his death had not reached her? Or perhaps he had fallen victim to the wiles of some foreign beauty, in whose arms he had forgotten completely the promise to his lady at home in Devon! She had no way of knowing if he was remaining faithful to his vow; why should she remain faithful to hers?
So, she argued herself into believing that what she really wanted could be no sin, and forgot her love for the absent sailor in the pleasure of being wooed and courted again. As each new admirer presented himself, the memory of her lover grew fainter, till at last she put him right out of her mind, and gave her promise to marry another.
The day for the betrothal party was fixed, and all went merrily forward towards the event. The bride’s parents arranged a great feast, to be followed by music and dancing. All the relatives and friends had gathered to wish the couple well, and to take part in the revelry. None was brighter of eye or lighter of foot than the bride-to-be herself, and none happier or more active in the games than her intended bridegroom.
As the hours passed, the fun grew merrier. The wine and ale flowed freely, and in the great ballroom the patterns of the dance formed and re-formed till the musicians sweated with the heat, for the massive oak door was closed.
In the moment’s hush that followed the ending of a dance, there was a noise that caused every head to turn towards the door. Then as they watched, the great iron latch was lifted, and the door began to swing slowly open – but no one stood behind it. It had opened absolutely of its own accord!
While hair at the nape of every man’s neck rose with fright, and goose-pimples stood out on the skin of every woman at this mysterious happening, they stood as if rooted like statues to the spot. But worse was to come.
Suddenly, through the open door, a heavy object came whizzing in. It fell to the floor with a thump, and then trundled gently and heavily along, among the feet of the company, till it reached the betrothed couple; and there, at the feet of the bride-to-be, it stopped. It was a cannon ball.
Staring down at it, she knew at once whence the strange portent had come; but her partner, her new lover, seeing that after all it was no more than a lump of iron, and suspecting a practical joker of being responsible, stooped to remove it from his fair one’s path.
He could not pick it up. Ashamed at not having enough strength to lift a cannon ball, in the sight of so many people, he bent again, using both hands. It would not budge.
Amused at his discomfiture, the man nearest to him went forward to give him a helping hand. Their combined strength could not shift it an inch. More and more stalwarts then went forward to try, but nothing would move the cannon ball. It was rooted to the ground just in front of the betrothed girl’s pretty feet. When she moved, it rolled after her, and stopped at her toes’ end when she stopped.
Not all the strength in the ballroom put together could lift it once it had stopped of its own accord.
The courage and the confidence of the girl were failing fast, for she had no thought but that this extraordinary omen had been sent to her to prick her conscience for her lack of faith and loyalty, and as a warning to her of worse to follow if she went forward with her plans for a new marriage in defiance of her former vows.
She began to weep, and to accuse herself of what she knew now to be true, unfaithfulness to a faithful lover. She could not but believe that somewhere her old lover was waiting for her, still on his way back to claim her for his own.
Hastily she pulled off her finery, and gave back to her new lover the tokens of her promise. In spite of his pleas, she sent him packing there and then. The party broke up in disorder and the girl shut herself in her room to pray for forgiveness and patience. The cannon ball remained rooted to the ballroom floor, and the guests were only too glad to leave the eerie object lying, and make their way home to less spine-chilling surroundings.
The girl had not long to wait. Within a few days the long-gone lover returned with his fortune made, and all ended happily after all. He had no knowledge of the mysterious cannon ball – and what happened to that, history simply does not relate.
The Fairy Fetch
Of all warnings and omens, the belief in ‘the fetch’ is perhaps the most frightening of all. This particular tale is given an extra-macabre twist by the involvement of the little people in a fashion not usually connected with them.
One of the most macabre of the old beliefs of rural England, and one of the most die-hard of them, too, is that of ‘the fetch’. This is the belief that the phantom of somebody still hale and hearty can, and does, appear as an omen warning that that very person’s end is near. Sometimes the phantoms appear to relatives, but often, so it is said, to the victim, who sees himself in circumstances that are acknowledged to foreshadow inescapable doom. In the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries (and no doubt before that), it was the custom for the bravest, well fortified with hemp-seed, to venture out to the church porch on New Year’s Eve, and there wait. As midnight approached, the phantoms of those from the parish destined to pass that way in their coffins before the coming year was out glided up the church path, through the door, and into the church. Many are the tales of those who have watched the grisly procession of loved ones, of family, friends and neighbours, only to be looked in the eye by the last phantom, which was their own ghastly ‘fetch’.
Such a tale, though one with a very original twist, is the story of a young man named Robin, of Longton in Lancashire.
According to this tale, young Robin had accompanied ‘a hoss doctor’ one night on a visit to a lonely farmhouse which was situated beside the ruin of an ancient priory, with its equally ancient church close by. The old man and his young companion, on their way home from the visit, followed the path that led through the churchyard to the road.
As the couple neared the gates, the heavy tolling of a single bell broke the silence with long, slow, single strokes.
‘ ’Tis the passing bell!’ said Robin, after the first few strokes. ‘For a man, too!’ This he knew, because it was always the custom to ring in single strokes for a man, in twos for a woman, and in threes for a child, followed after a brief interval by more strokes numbering the years of the dead person’s life on earth.
‘So it is,’ said the old man. ‘Though in all my years I’ve never known it ring at this hour of the night before.’ They listened in awe till the heavy echoes rumbled into the distance, and the silence grew more dreadful than the sound. Then the bell began again. ‘Count,’ said the old man, and they counted. ‘One, two, three … twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six.’ No more. Once again the reverberations trembled into silence, and left them in the awesome depths of fear. Both had the same thought. Twenty-six were the years already numbered by Robin himself.
It was at this moment that they became aware of something uncanny about the whole incident. There was no light in the belfry of the dark old church; who could be ringing the bell?
While they still stood, transfixed by this frightening thought, the gate in front of them swung open of its own accord, and a strange glow of light on the path at their feet showed them a tiny figure, clothed all in black except for his little scarlet cap, pacing
slowly and solemnly through the gateway. He was chanting as he walked, in a clear but small voice, and though his words were in a tongue they could not understand, there was no question but that it was a lament or dirge, so mournful were the notes and so sorrowful his mien. Robin made as if to run, but the old man laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Sh!’ he whispered. ‘ ’Tis a fairy! The fairies’ll ne’er hurt thee, if tha dostna meddle wi’ them.’ So they remained as they were, not daring to move a muscle, and barely daring to breathe. By this time, other plaintive voices, small but clear, were joining in the chant, and then came into view a whole procession of tiny figures, much like the first. Then, behind them, were six more with bare heads, carrying on their shoulders a tiny coffin. In the manner of country funerals in the past, the lid of the coffin was left open so as to reveal the face of the departed to his loved ones until the last minute. As the tiny coffin passed along the path at their feet, in spite of themselves the two men leaned forward, and peered down. The face of the corpse could not be mistaken. It was Robin’s own.
Robin knew as well as his older companion what the sight foreboded; but he was well and strong, and it was beyond all human nature to accept without protest such an omen. In spite of the old man’s warning, Robin sprang forward, and confronted the tiny funeral procession.
‘Stay!’ he said, in a trembling voice that croaked with fear. ‘Tell me my doom! How long have I now to live?’ – and he reached out his hand to touch the leader.
The Book of English Folk Tales Page 12
