by Tara Moore
The weeks went on, and the time fixed for the departure of Mrs. Ordie and her child drew near, but meanwhile the disastrous news had arrived of the outbreak in India, and it was deemed advisable to postpone it.
She was sitting one day in a gloomy mood; not a sorrowful one; more one of anger. She had not heard from her husband for some time, (his last letter was dated April,) and now, as she found, another mail was in, and no news from him. The rising at Delhi, where he was quartered, was known to her, but not as yet the details of its more disastrous features. She did not fear his having fallen, for had any thing happened to him, Mr. Main, or one of her sisters, would have written. They were all at Delhi. Mrs. Beecher came in, looking very pale and sad. Dr. and Mrs. Ling had gone off, in their pony carriage, to the county town, to pick up news. They were extremely uneasy.
“There has been another mail in these two days!” she exclaimed to Mrs. Beecher. “News travels slower to Enton than anywhere. Have you heard from James Beecher? You don’t look well.”
“He is come. He came overland.”
“And you have been worrying yourselves that he is dead! How are things going on over there?”
“Very badly. They can not be worse.”
“Does he know any thing of George?” continued Mrs. Ordie. “I think he might spare a minute from his fighting to write to me. What is the matter with you? You have not bad news for me?” she added, her fears touched, and rising in excitement. “Oh! surely not! Not for me!”
“James’s news, altogether, is very dispiriting,” returned Mrs. Beecher, at a loss how to proceed with her task. “My husband is gone to bring Dr. and Mrs. Ling back. We thought you might like them to be at home.”
“Has George fallen in battle? Have those half-caste rebels shot him down? O——”
“Pray be calm, Louisa!” implored Mrs. Beecher; “if ever you had need of calmness in your life, you have need of it now. Affliction——”
“Is he wounded? Is he dead?” interrupted Mrs. Ordie, with a bitter shriek. “O George! dearest George! and I have been calling you hard names for not writing to me! What is it?”
“There is a great deal to be told, my child. James Beecher was at Delhi in the midst of it.”
Mrs. Ordie suddenly rose from her seat and flew from the room. Mrs. Beecher supposed she had gone to her chamber, and followed her there. Not so. A thin man, looking fearfully ill, fair once, but browned by an Eastern sun, was lying on the sofa in the curate’s parlor, when a young, excited woman came flying in.
“Mr. Beecher,” she uttered, seizing his hands imploringly, “when did it happen? I am Mrs. Ordie.”
“Has my sister-in-law told you—any thing?” he asked, hesitatingly.
“Yes, yes. I know the worst. I want particulars.”
He had risen into an upright posture, though he could scarcely support himself, and she sat down beside him. He was a church missionary, a widower with children. “Are you sure that you can bear the details?” he asked, believing, from her words, that she knew the general facts.
“I am sure. Omit nothing. Mrs. Beecher says you were at Delhi.”
“I went there in the spring, to say farewell to some friends, ere I came home. At Delhi I was taken worse, and lay ill there.”
“But about the rising?”
“I am coming to it. On the second Monday in May, after breakfast, bad news came in. The 3d Light Cavalry had dashed in from Meerut, fully armed, and were slaughtering the Europeans. Eighty-five of this regiment had been tried by court-martial at Meerut, for refusing to handle the greased cartridges, and sentenced to imprisonment. Their sentences were read out to them on parade on the previous Saturday, the 9th, and they were sent to jail. On the 10th, Sunday, the regiment rose, released the prisoners, massacred the European officers, their wives and children, and on the 11th came to Delhi, in open revolt. I struggled up, dressed myself, joined my friends where I was staying, and we waited further news. It came in too soon. The mutineers had gone towards Deriowgunge, shooting all the officers they encountered. The brigadier ordered out the 54th Native Infantry and two guns; and, I believe, a detachment of another regiment, but accounts varied. They met the rebels just outside the Cashmere gate, and it was all up, for the Sepoys deserted their officers, and shook hands with the Sowars. Every officer was killed: treacherous, cowardly wretches! they did not spare one.”
She was biting her lips, and striving for calmness, determined to hear all. “Did the officers not resist?”
“All in their power, but they were unarmed,” he said. “The next account that came in was, that the natives had risen and joined the insurrection, were firing the bungalows at Deriowgunge, and ransacking the European residences. The troopers were raging about, destroying life, and when their work was done, the Goojurs,9 who had collected in great numbers, as they were sure to do, followed in their wake, and pillaged every thing, even to the matting. The bank was rifled.”
9 A race of a peculiar caste, who congregate round Meerut and Delhi. They have been compared to our gipsy tribes, and live by plunder, even in times of peace. Some years ago a regiment was obliged to be raised especially to keep them under. [Author’s note.]
Mr. Beecher paused, wondering whether he ought to proceed, but her studied calmness deceived him.
“No one knew where to fly for refuge, or what to do: none knew where to put the officers’ wives and children. Many were taken to the Flagstaff Tower, but it was thought unsafe, and had to be abandoned. Some escaped—many, I hope—in conveyances, or on horseback, or on foot. Some of the officers retreated to the cantonment, outside the gates, but the troopers got there when night came, killed them and their wives and children.”
“Were any of my family with them?” she asked, still with unnatural composure.
“No. I will tell you. Before mid-day the ladies of our house, my host’s wife and her cousin, escaped to a close hut, or outhouse, and I managed to hobble there with them. I don’t know how: but it is astonishing the artificial strength that fear brings out. Others also took refuge there, about half a dozen ladies, your two sisters being amongst them, three or four children, and a poor little ensign, as ill and weak as I was. We hoped we were in safety; that the rebels would not think of looking for us there; and some old matting, well wetted, was hung up across the entrance, as if to dry. A Sepoy, who was really faithful, (and there were many such in the city,) sat before it to guard it: many a one, raging after prey, did he turn aside with a well-assumed story that his old mother was in there, dying—let her die in peace.”
“Was my husband there?”
“Not then. No one came near us all day; they dared not, for our sakes; and we bore our suspense and apprehension as we best could, not knowing who was living or who dead, of those dearest to us. What a day that was! We had neither food nor drink; the heat of the weather was fearful; and so many of us stowed together, and closely shut up, rendered the air fetid. We thought it could not be less than 110 degrees. This was not the worst: there were the apprehensions of discovery. We men might brave it, at any rate to appearance, but the poor young women! I believe they would have been glad to die as they cowered there, rather than live to encounter an uncertain fate. I strove to speak comfort to them all, but it was difficult: one or two bore bravely up, and cheered the rest. Late at night, under cover of the darkness, Captain Ordie stole in.”
She raised a faint cry at the name. “My husband!”
“He told us what he could of the progress of the day: it was horribly bad, yet I believed he softened it for their ears: and then began to talk of our own situation. It would be impossible, he said, to keep in the same place of concealment another day, and that we had better join a party who were about to make their escape towards Kurnaul. All seized at the idea eagerly, and wished to start without the delay of an instant. Just then, Mrs. Holt, my friend’s wife, whom the idea of escape had aroused from lethargy inquired after her husband, whom she had not seen since morning.
“ ‘He i
s safe, and unharmed,’ replied Captain Ordie.
“ ‘On your honor?’ she said, fearing he might be deceiving her.
“ ‘On my honor. You will see him when we are fairly off; but it was not thought well for more than one of us to venture here.’
“ ‘And my husband?’ added Mrs. Main, who had done nothing but clasp her baby to her breast all day, and weep silently. ‘Is he safe?’
“Captain Ordie answered evasively,” continued Mr. Beecher, “and I knew, by his words and by the turn of his face, that poor Main was gone.”
“Was he? Is he dead?” shuddered Mrs. Ordie.
“I found he had been dead since the afternoon. The troopers had hacked him to pieces.”
“Go on,” she groaned. “George’s turn comes next.”
Mr. Beecher hesitated. “I will finish later,” he suggested.
“No: finish now. You can not leave me in this suspense. It would be cruel.”
“Captain Ordie spoke of the plan of departure. The officers had but three horses amongst them, and the ladies and invalids were to take it in turn to ride, two, with a child, on each horse. And all the party were to keep together. At that moment arose a yell, a horrible yell, which we knew proceeded only from a Sowar, and one of them appeared at the entrance, tearing down the matting. All the light we had was a night-wick in some oil, but we saw his dark face. The children shrieked; the ladies also, and huddled themselves together in a corner; and Captain Ordie advanced to the entrance, and dealt the man a blow on the temple with the butt-end of his pistol.”
“I hope it killed him!” she uttered, her eyes sparkling.
“I think it did, for he lay motionless. Captain Ordie kicked him out of the way, and, throwing himself on his hands and knees, crawled out cautiously to reconnoitre. Alas! we soon heard a struggle outside: two more were upon him.”
“And he was struck down! I know you are going to tell it me,” she uttered, in a low, passionate wail.
Mr. Beecher sat silent, his countenance full of distress.
“Louisa, my darling, be composed,” interrupted Mrs. Beecher, who had stolen in, in search of her. “You know the worst now.”
“Yes, I know the worst,” she moaned. “They killed him there and then.”
“They did,” whispered Mr. Beecher.
“You are sure he was dead?”
“Quite sure. It was instantaneous.”
“Where was he wounded? Let me know. I can bear it.”
“My child, you know enough,” said Mrs. Beecher. “Be content.”
“I will know it,” she frantically said. “George, George! Did they cut him to pieces!”
“They beheaded him.”
She turned sick, and shook violently. But, by a strong effort of control, spoke again. “Finish the history. What became of you, inside?”
“It was all commotion in a moment, dreadful commotion. The poor terrified women attempted to fly; some succeeded, and I hope escaped. Providentially there were only these two troopers; had more been upon us, none would have been left. The first thing I saw distinctly was, that one of them had got Mrs. Main’s infant, tossing it on the point of his bayonet. She stretched her arms up after it, and its blood trickled down on to her face: her cries for mercy for it ring in my ear yet. He next seized her.”
“Constance?” panted Mrs. Ordie.
“Yes. And killed her—killed her instantly. Be thankful.”
Mrs. Ordie pressed down her eyeballs, as if she would shut out some unwelcome sight. “Constance murdered,” she moaned. “And you tell me to be thankful!”
“Be ever thankful,” impressively spoke the missionary. “Others met with a worse fate.”
“Sarah Ann?” she shivered. “What became of her!”
“I am unable to tell you. I trust she escaped. At the moment of Mrs. Main’s death, I fainted on the floor where I was lying, and that must have saved my life. Had the troopers thought I possessed any still, they would not have spared me. When I recovered, not a creature—living—was to be seen. The children were lying about; they had been put out of their misery; two of the ladies, and the ensign. Poor young fellow! he had told us, in the day, that he had no parents or near friends to mourn him, so the loss of a little griff, if they did kill him, would not count for much.”
“Dead? All?”
“All. The two ladies were Mrs. Holt and Mrs. Main. Of the other ladies I saw no trace. I trust,” he added, clasping his hands fervently, “that they escaped. We shall hear of many miraculous escapes: I pray theirs may be of the number.”
“Now, Louisa, let me take you home,” urged Mrs. Beecher. “You do know the worst.”
“I must hear all,” was the answer, uttered in a tone of frenzy. “If I thought there was a word, a recital, left untold to me, I must get up in the middle of the night, and come and ask for it.”
“You have heard all,” said Mr. Beecher—“all that I know. My own escape I will not trouble you with. It was wonderful: and I lost no time in coming home overland.”
She leaned back on the sofa and closed her eyes. Mrs. Beecher was thinking of her random words—that she would rather lose every thing in the world than her child. But her thoughts had not grasped the dreadful possibility of losing her husband.
“When did this happen?” Mrs. Ordie suddenly asked. “What date?”
“I mentioned it,” said Mr. Beecher. “Late on the night of the 11th of May.”
She leaned forward breathless, her eyes staring. “How late? The exact hour? Speak?”
“It must have been near half past eleven. When Captain Ordie came in, we asked him the time, (for, strange to say, in our hurried hiding, not one of us put a watch about us,) and his watch said a quarter past eleven; and we were talking, after that, perhaps ten minutes. It must have been about twenty-five minutes after eleven when he was killed.”
“Listen to that!” shrieked Louisa Ordie, seizing Mrs. Beecher by the arm. “It was the very hour I saw and heard him. How was he dressed?” she rapidly asked.
“In full regimentals.”
“There! There! Do you believe me now, Mrs. Beecher? Ah! you, and all, ridiculed me; but hear it! It was my husband that came down the path here—appearing to me in the moment of his death.”
The reader must judge of this mystery according to his own opinion. It happened; at least, to the positive belief of the lady, here called Mrs. Ordie; as her friends can testify. They reason with her in vain. They point out that twenty-five minutes after eleven in Delhi would not be twenty-five minutes after eleven here: they believe that it was, and could have been, nothing but her own vivid imagination, that her thoughts were probably running on her husband through the “George” in the “Vicar of Wakefield:” and they ask—even allowing (for the argument of the moment) that such things are permitted, that the spirits of the departing may, in rare instances, appear to their relatives in a distant place, and that it was George Ordie’s which appeared to her—they ask to what end it came: what purpose was it to answer? They can see none. Neither can she; but she nevertheless believes, and will believe to the end of her life, that it was her husband’s spirit.
W. W. Fenn
THE HAUNTED ROCK
A LEGEND OF PORTH GUERRON COVE
William Wilthew Fenn (1827-1906) began a career as a painter, but an affliction of the eye and increasing blindness caused him to shift into the field of writing. He publicly recognized his wife’s contributions to his publishing success, as she worked as his amanuensis to create the books published under his name.10 After 1848, when the American press spread the story of the young Fox sisters using raps to communicate with a spirit bound to their house, the American Spiritualism movement quickly ignited.11 The movement became a well-publicized force, one that had political ramifications. In 1854 the U.S. Senate was petitioned to appoint “a scientific committee to investigate spirit communication,” and the death culture resulting from Civil War casualties further promoted spiritualism.12 So, when the narrator of this t
ale returns from an 1877 trip to the United States, he finds himself fascinated with the new ideas of communicating with the dead, and he is ripe for an uncanny encounter and considers what it will take to lay the ghost. This tale first appeared in the Christmas number of Illustrated London News in 1881.
10 “William Wilthew Fenn,” The Biography and Review (July 1881): 84-88.
11 Molly McGarry. Ghosts of Futures Past: Spiritualism and the Cultural Politics of Nineteenth-Century America. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008, 1.
12 Bridget Bennett, Transatlantic Spiritualism and Nineteenth-Century American Literature. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007, 7
Porth Guerron is in Cornwall. If you do not know the place it must be because, in your exploration of the hundred and one similar villages abounding on that romantic coast, you have overlooked the one—and that one must be Porth Guerron.
Like many of its fellows, it is situated in a little ravine in the dark serpentine rock running down to the sea from the higher land of gorse and heather-clad moor. Most of the thatched, and occasionally slate-roofed cottages, with their irregular patches of garden, nestle right and left among the ferny, craggy banks of the steep winding way by courtesy called a street, by which the traveller reaches the beach. Some few other dwellings, looking from the sea like huge white-winged gulls, are to be seen perched here and there upon apparently inaccessible ledges of cliff, whence they command many a fine peep across the “wide, wide world.” The square-towered tiny church on the verge of a few green pastures and corn-fields stands at the head of the village, and the watermill, worked by a miniature mountain torrent, stands at the bottom. Only a little below this, begins a conglomeration of capstans, beach-houses, boats and boat-sheds, anchors, spars, chains, and the rest of the rumble-tumble of the fishing-trade, which holds high change on the shore. Here the coast, broadening out with a curve on either hand, forms a secluded cove between two arms of frowning precipitous cliff, which seem stretching forth to embrace this lapful of deep green-blue sea. The rugged and lofty formation of the land almost hides the existence of the little industrial hive until you come close upon it; and, so far as its importance in the world is concerned, you may be excused for overlooking it altogether—as you probably have done. But, if so, you have missed a very beautiful and romantic picture, and will scarcely have realised to its full extent the superstitious side of the Cornish mind, for there is attached to this place a legend in which many of the inhabitants believe with an almost religious intensity. It was told to me some years ago by a brave and intelligent old salt, one Jacob Sellar by name, a native of the village, whose implicit credence of the story supplied a strong example of the characteristics of his race.
