On a frosty night, when George III was King, certain men, for the most part familiar customers, sat in the bar of the “Golden Anchor,” Daleham; and amongst them appeared that welcome addition to the usual throng: a stranger. For his benefit old tales were told anew and ancient memories ransacked; because this West country fishing village enjoyed rich encrustation of legend and romance, and boasted a roll call of great names and great deeds. Here dwelt the spirits of bygone free-traders, visible by night in the theatre of their lawless enterprises; and here even more notable stories, touching more notable phantoms, might also be gleaned from ancient intelligencers at the time of evening drinking.
The newcomer listened grimly to matters now much exercising Daleham. He was a hard-faced man with a blue chin and black eyes, whose short, double-breasted jacket, wide breeches, glazed hat and pigtail marked a seafarer.
p. 326“As for ghostes,” he said, “can’t swear I’ve ever seed one, but no sailor-man, as have witnessed the Lord’s wonders in the deep, would dare to doubt ’em.”
“Just picture a whole throng, my dear!”
John Cramphorn spoke. He was an ancient fisher, and his face might have stood for the Apostle Peter’s; but it quite gave the lie to his character, for this venerable man was hand in glove with the smugglers, had himself been a free-trader of renown, and now very gladly placed his wit and experience at the command of the younger generation. No word was ever whispered against him openly, and yet the rumour ran that Johnny had his share of every cargo successfully run upon these coasts, and that he was the guiding spirit ashore, while “Merry Jonathan,” or Jonathan Godbeer of Daleham, captained on the water that obscure body known as the Daleham free-traders.
With such a sailor as Jonathan afloat and such a wise-head as Mr. Cramphorn at home, the local smugglers earned a measure of fame that reached even to the Revenue. Indeed, at the moment of this story’s opening, the little fishing village, with uneasy pride, was aware that a Preventive Officer had been appointed for its especial chastisement and control; but none feared the issue. Every woman and child at Daleham knew that it would p. 327task men of uncommon metal with hard heads and thick skulls to lay their local champions by the heels.
“Ess,” said the white-bearded Cramphorn, “ghostes of men an’ ghostes of hosses tu. Ban’t many parishes as can shaw ’e such a brave turnout of holy phantoms, I lay. You might have seed that ruin in the fir trees ’pon top of the cliff as you comed down the hill p’raps? Wheer the fishermen’s gardens be. Well, ’twas a famous mansion in the old days, though now sinked to a mere landmark for mackerel boats. But the Stapledons lived theer in times agone, an’ lorded it awver all the land so far as Dartymouth, ’tis thought. Of course they died like theer neighbours, an’ many a brave funeral passed out-along wheer I grow my bit of kale to-day. Yet no account taken till theer comed the terrible business of Lady Emma Stapledon—poor soul. Her was ordered by her cold-hearted faither to marry a Lunnon man for his money—a gay young youth of gert renown, an’ as big a rip as ever you see, an’ a very evil character, but thousands of pounds in the bank to soften people’s minds. Her wouldn’t take him, however, an’ peaked an’ pined, till at last—two nights afore the marriage-day—her went out alone along that dangerous edge of cliff what be named the Devil’s Tight-rope. In charity us’ll say the poor maiden’s foot slipped, though if it did, p. 328why for should her funeral walk ever since when January comes round? Anyway it shows her had Christian burial no doubt, an’ the funeral can be seen evermore—hosses an’ men, hearse an’ coffin. Every moony night in January it may be marked stealin’ like a fog awver the tilth by the old road from the ruined gates; an’ to see it only axes a pinch of faith in the beholder. I’ve watched it scores o’ dozens o’ times—all so black as sin an’ silent as the grave. My sweat falled like rain fust time I seed it, but I minded how the Lord looks arter His awn. Of course an honest, church-going man’s out o’ the reach o’ ghostes.”
Mr. Cramphorn stopped and buried his beautiful Roman nose in some rum and water. Then Mrs. Pearn, mistress of the “Golden Anchor,” mended the fire, and a man, sitting in the ingle, asked a question.
“Where’s Jenifer to? ’Tis late for her to be out alone.”
The old woman answered:—
“Gone up the hill for green stuff. Her laughs at all you silly men. I told her how ’twas the time for Lady Emma’s death-coach; but her said so long as they didn’t want her to get in an’ sit along wi’ she, her’d not mind no death-coaches, nor ghostes neither.”
“’Tis very uns............