‘That is ‘er! I kin see ‘er now, clear as daylight. He’s cornin’ in, I tell yer!’
Dick got slowly to his feet, and gave all his attention to the vessel. There was no mistaking the rig of the expected lugger; and as Dan’el said, she was making straight for the roadstead, in broad daylight. Knots of men began to gather on the beach, standing in twos and threes. Excisemen also arrived, and took up watchful stations.
‘You’re whully right bor,’ said Dick, unperturbed. ‘Tain’t aginst no law, as far as I know, fer a Frenchy ter anchor in the roadstead, as long as ’e doan’t land nathen. We shall just ’ev ter wait ’n see, till ’e get word or signal tew us.’
‘They’ll be a-goin’ aboard,’ said Dan’el, anxiously.
‘Ah, bor, mebbe they will. But I reckon if they fare to search ’er, Cap’n Jarkies’ll be a match for ’em. No use worryin’. Every run’s different, an’ we’re never let them get the better on us yit.’
He dragged the sail to the back o’ the shed, and turned his bucket the right way up. Then with Dan’el at his side, he strolled down to join the men on the beach. There were nearly as many excisemen as there were beachmen, all with eyes on the approaching boat.
The beachmen conversed in interested innocence, watching the lugger’s every rise and fall; the excisemen’s jaunty confidence was beginning to give way a little to genuine bewilderment. A French lugger the craft undoubtedly was, but if she was carrying contraband she was certainly making no attempt to stand off or make a run for it. Indeed, she came right in, near enough for the assembled company on the beach to see the activity on her decks.
They’re a-lowerin’ a boat,’ said Dan’el unbelievingly, as if those round him were not able to see for themselves.
‘Ah bor, tha’s just what they’re a-dewin,’ said Dick, unconcernedly stuffing tobacco into his clay pipe, and expertly lighting it in spite of a fairly stiff breeze. The boldness with which the dinghy came towards them broke up the tension, while beachmen and excisemen discussed among themselves, and even with each other, the possible reason for this strange visitation.
As the little boat heaved itself towards them, they peered as one man to see what she contained. As she came in on the crest of a wave, and grounded on the sand, willing hands were ready to help beach her.
‘Tha’s a caafin!’ said Dan’el; and indeed, there could be no doubt about it. In the bottom of the boat lay a coffin, draped with the remnants of an old sail.
The French boatmen scrambled out, and a young mate who had apparently been appointed spokesman, approached the nearest group of excisemen.
‘Parlez-vous français?’ he asked, hopefully; then watching the slow shaking of all heads present, he shook his own, dejectedly, and shrugged his eloquent shoulders.
‘Non? I ’ave zink so. I ’av tell my captain zo. It must be necessaire that I spik ze English. Vous comprenez, m’sieur?’
The stalwart sergeant of the excisemen thus addressed nodded, shook his head, blushed fiery red, and finally committed himself to, ‘Ah! I reckon so.’
The Frenchman bowed.
‘My sheep, she is La Belle Jeanne. We leave Boulogne. We ’ave English m’sieur on board. ’E make to go to Antwerp. ’E eat ‘is dinner, et voilal! ’E is seek, ver’ seek. Non, Non. Not mal-de-mer, ‘ow you say? Not sickness of the sea! Sick to die. ’E know ’e is sick to die. ’E ask for capitaine. Where we be? ’e say. Capitaine say we are in La Manche – ze English Sleeve – ah – ze Channel.
“Is it that you see England?” says ze m’sieur who is sick. “Oui! Oui,” answer ze capitaine. “We see land. Zat is England.”
Zen le malade – ze man who is die – ’e begin to weep. ’E beg! ’E pray.
“I am die,” ’e say. “Take me to England. Let me die zere. I am Englishman! I will to die on England land.”
Zen ze capitaine, ’e say. “Non, non, mon ami! You not die! Tomorrow we laugh togezere. Ze wind is fair, it make big wave. I make good time. I not go to England port. Sleep. You will be well, demaine” – tomorrow, I zink you say.
Zo ze capitaine, ’e keep course; but ze English malade ’e grow bad, much bad. When ze capitaine veesit ‘im next time, ’e make to die, almost. Capitaine is very sad. “Mon pauvre!” ’e say. “Ow can I ’elp you now?” Zen ze Eenglish m’sieur, ’e sit up an’ beg, an’ beg ze capitaine for what ’e desire.
“Promise me!” ’e say, again and again, “promise me! Je vous en prie! When I am died, do not put me in ze sea! I ’ave ze ’orror of ze fishes eating of my bones! Take me to ze nearest shore of Eengland, my ’ome! Bury my bone in Eengland! I am Eenglishman! I love my countree! Take my gold, take my belong-ings, take everyzing zat I ’ave. Make me coffin, safe against ze fishes an’ ze worms, an’ bury me in my so-loved countree.” Zen ’e take ’oly Bible, an’ ask capitaine to swear ze oath. “To Lowestoft you will go, my friend”, ’e say. “I was borned in zat letle town, an’ zere I will bury. Swear!” ’e say. An’ ze capitaine, ’e cannot ’elp but do it. Zen ze Eenglishman, ’e just fell down, ’an ’e die!
‘E ‘ad not much gold, zat poor Eenglish; but ze capitaine ’ad swear, an’ ’e is good man, not break ‘is word to a dying m’sieur. Zo ze ship carpenter make coffin, ’an we set course for zis place, Lowestoft.
Where is priest? Capitaine, ’e tell me I must not go back to ship, till I see Eenglishman buried in Eenglish land. ’e wait. Please to take me to priest.’
During this recital, beachmen and excisemen alike had listened in fascination, their eyes roving from the speaker’s face and florid gestures to the rude coffin lying on the boards. The four French boatmen sat like waxworks, guarding it, with their oars shipped, trying to understand the story their leader was recounting. When the point was reached of the patriotic Englishman’s last request, Dick pulled off his seaman’s cap, and one by one the others followed his example, standing in the breeze with bowed heads bared while the waves whispered among themselves round the little boat with its sad burden.
The exciseman looked round the group.
‘What do you reckon we ought to do, now?’ he asked. ‘I make no doubt it’s a job for the coroner!’
‘Old yew ’ard bor,’ said Dick. ‘If we goo-a-gitten’ the coroner in on this ’ere, the poor fella never will get buried; an’ we can’t expec’ a French skipper to lay out there a-waitin’ while we put ’im to all that trouble.’ Soon as Frenchie ’ere understands what we’re up to ’e’ll be for taken’ the corp back, an’ buryin’ it at sea, like ’e’s got ivry right ter dew. That doan’t seem whully right for us to let that ’appen to a Looestorft man, whoever he is, not no’how. Well, tha’s what I think, bor. What d’yew think?’
There seemed general, if puzzled, agreement.
‘Let’s get ’im ashore come what may,’ said Dan’el. ‘Then these ’ere Frenchies can get off back to their boat, an’ we can ask parson what to dew.’
‘Non! Non!’ said the spokesman, who had obviously followed the argument. ‘I ’ave ze orders! I not return to ship till I zee ze passengaire bury in English land.’
He gave a sharp order in French, and the shipped oars were immediately lifted, with the looms laid across the coffin as if in two protective crosses. Then the leader placed himself in front of the boat, as if to resist to the death any attempt to remove his charge from him.
Dick regarded the crossed oars on the coffin silently for a moment. Then he said, scratching his head. ‘Let me go an’ see Parson Tackley, while yew wait ’ere. Then, do ’e agree to bury the poor chap, some on yer’ll ’ev to ’elp to dig a grave for ’im. Who’ll come along o’ me an dig it, if so be Parson agrees? Will you come, Dick? What about yew, ’Enery? Billa bor? Tha’s enough, I reckon. We’d best be getting on with it. It’ll take all four on us a tidy while to get a grave deep enough, while it’s still daylight. Take ’im into one o’ the sheds, an’ set a watch over ’im.’
Dick and his three chosen mates set off up the beach, leaving the exciseman to explain the procedure
to the Frenchman, whose English seemed suddenly to have deserted him altogether; but finally, after much delay, he ordered his men to lift the coffin from the boat, while willing hands pulled the little craft higher up the beach. So the patriotic Englishman was borne by four sturdy French seamen towards the sheds, while a motley procession of Lowestoft beachmen and interested excisemen followed reverently after. Once the coffin had been set down in the net-shed, the French officer and his men stood guard over it, while the excisemen, not quite happy with the Frenchman’s self-appointed leadership, set up a watch on the French, and the beachmen stood in a loose outer circle, keeping alert eyes on the excisemen. It seemed a very long time.
The sun had dipped almost to the rim of the world inland when Dick and his party returned.
‘Parson’ll be waiting for us at the gate, same as with all funerals,’ Dick announced. There followed an argument as to who should have the honour of carrying the coffin, but the Frenchman was determined.
‘It’s a goodish way,’ said Dick, looking a bit worried.
‘We carry, I ’ave ze orders,’ said the Frenchman. So once again the procession set out, with the coffin resting on the shoulders of four French sailormen, assisted by Dan’el and ’Enery, while Dick led the way at the side of the French officer, and excisemen and beachmen brought up the staggering rear.
‘Man that is born of woman,’ recited the mellow tones of Parson Tackley’s voice, as the sad cortège wound itself round the church to an open grave under a yew tree near the south porch.
‘Made a tidy job o’ that ’ole’, said one of the beachmen. ‘Tha’s a real job, that is.’
‘Shut yer gob!’ said Dick fiercely. ‘Shut yer mouth an’ doan’t show yer ignorance! Tain’t seemly.’
The parson made short work of the committal, and Dick and his mates seized spades. English earth began to thud down on the unfortunate expatriate. French and excisemen stood stolidly by until the job was nearly completed, but the beachmen, who had seen too many graves filled, slipped away in ones and twos, till only the self-appointed sextons were left. Dusk had now fallen into dark.
‘Blast, tha’s enough,’ said Dick. The more we chuck in, the more we’re gotta get out again.’ The others laughed, and replenished cheeks or clay pipes with tobacco.
That fare to be Cap’n Jarkies’ best trick yet, I reckon,’ Dick went on. Though I did whully think that fool Ben Tatt were gooin’ ter gi’ the game away! It were lucky for us as poor old Jarge Tabrum snuffed it at last. Sexton had got his grave all dug ready fer funeral tomorrow, an’ all we ’ad ter dew were ’ide the boards an’ mess Sexton’s tidy job up a bit, to make it look as if it had been done in a hurry. When we get it up again, we shall hetta make all ship-shape again fer poor old Jarge.’
‘Parson be whully in a takin’,’ said Dan’el. ‘ ’E say there ain’t no brandy wuth ’evvin’ in that there box.’ Dick snorted. ‘You’re as big a fewl as ’e is, Dan’el Hobbs! What do yew think Cap’n Jarkies an’ the rest o’ the bors a’ bin dewing while we buried this ’ere pat-ri-ot-ic English chap? If them kegs ain’t in Farmer Tranter’s stack afore morning. I’m a Dutchman.’
‘What dew yew reckon as we’re got there, then?’ asked ’Enery.
Dick shook his head. ‘We’ll ’ev ’im up at dawn termorrow, an’ find out. Oon’t dew ter ‘ang about ’ere now, ’cos like as not ‘they’ll’ be back to make sure.’
They tidied up around the grave, and shouldered their spades, leaving them ready in the church porch for their dawn assignment.
When the coffin lay once more on the grass among the headstones, Dick unscrewed the lid and Dan’el helped him lift it. Lengths of luxurious French silk and exquisite lace of the finest quality met the fishermen’s eyes. Dick sprang to action.
‘Dan’el and ’Enery!’ he ordered, ‘yew make that grave how we found it yis’ty, ready for poor old Jarge Tabrum. I’m a-gooin’ to rouse Parson out, to ’elp us stow this ’ere finery. Tha’s more in his line than ourn. Billa bor, yew ’elp me ter carry this box inta church fust.’
The Parish Chest, I think, as a temporary measure,’ said Parson composedly. ‘Cover it up well with whatever you find in there. There’s only one key, and I’ve got it. The chest hasn’t been opened for twenty years or more. What about the coffin?
‘Ah, I thought o’ that. Cap’n Jarkies’ll be expectin’ that back aboard any minute now. There’ll be a lot of other English folk anxious to be buried at ’ome from now on, I make no doubt. Pity no more on ’em can be Looestorft men. That were whully amusin’ ter see them ’elpen us ter git the poor chap ashore. Fare ter make me laugh in me guts ivery time I think on’t.’
‘A beautiful lady whose name it was Ruth’
This is one of the countless folk tales preserved in ballad form, available to us still because somebody somewhere heard a romantic yarn about the trials of a local couple whose love did not at first run smooth, and literally ‘made a song about it’.
In Sandwich there lived, according to the romantic old tale, a most beautiful girl named Ruth. She was the apple of her father’s eye, and her mother’s pride and joy, and they had every right to wish and hope she would make a ‘good’ marriage. They were worthy citizens of the town, respected and with well-lined pockets, and their daughter in her own right had more than her fair share of charm.
But hearts are not ruled by the wishes of parents, and as fate would have it, Ruth one day chanced to meet a young sea-faring man from Dover, and one look from his sea-blue eyes was enough to make her fall helplessly in love – a passion he returned with all the vigour of healthy manhood.
When her parents heard of this ‘foolish affair’ they were at first dismayed, then indignant, and finally extremely angry, and did everything they could to prevent her seeing her sailor-boy again.
But love has a way of laughing at lectures as well as at locksmiths, and they found all their breath wasted on Ruth; she continued to meet her Dover seaman. So the parents at length tried force when convinced that reason stood no chance, and locked the poor girl up. And there in her prison she languished, pining away for love, while her lover, equally miserable, could find no way to come to her, or even to get word of his love to her. In fact, it was made quite clear to him that while he remained in the vicinity, Ruth would not be let out.
Whatever it was that prompted him, he decided to go away – romance says it was solely in order to procure his sweetheart’s liberty. He left, anyway, took ship and in a short time landed in Spain, where he went to Cadiz to seek his fortune and, no doubt, to solace himself for the loss of his sweet and innocent English sweetheart.
It was only a matter of weeks before solace in the form of a dark-eyed Spanish beauty ‘with jewels untold’ and ‘a million in gold’ came his way. She was just as bowled over by the seaman from Dover as her English counterpart had been, and as she was her own mistress, without awkward parents to interfere, the marriage knot was soon tied, and it seems the couple were very happy.
Not so Ruth. As soon as her lover had sailed away, she was set free; but now she really showed her English grit, and finding out by some means where he had gone, she followed in the footsteps of many another such heroine, and went after him. She kept on his track till she came to Cadiz, where, to her horror, she met her lover in the street with his gorgeous black-eyed bride on his arm, surrounded by the atmosphere of untold wealth and riches!
History does not relate what Ruth’s feelings were at this unlookedfor turn of events, nor what the seaman of Dover (whose name is not disclosed) made of what must have been a most embarrassing predicament for him. At this point, of course, had Ruth been a fine lady, she would have gone into a decline and died, thereby hoping to ruin any chance of happiness for the faithless one in the future, by reason of his guilty conscience; but Ruth was not such a delicate flower.
She decided to stick it out, stay around in Cadiz, and await events, though whether out of hopeless love or out of jealous spite – or a mixture of the two – we
don’t know. But she seems not to have had to wait long for her reward, because Fate, perhaps deciding that two women after the same man was one too many, obligingly carried the Spanish wife off, leaving her husband with the jewels untold, to say nothing of the possessions and a million in gold.
He seems to have lost no time in offering his newly acquired riches to his English rosebud, who must surely have been convinced by now that Fate was an Englishman, having so conveniently disposed of the foreign wife seated, apparently, so firmly in the marital saddle. Be that as it may, the happy, reunited couple took ship for Kentish shores, and in due course arrived at Dover.
Now all this time, of course, the sorrowing parents had been bewailing the loss of their only chick, and blaming themselves and their worldly ambitions for the tragedy that had robbed them of their stake in the future. When she did not return in due course, starving and penitent as according to their book she should have done, they presumed her dead, and mourned for her truly as lost to them for ever. That being so, all association with her memory was embraced with tearful nostalgia, and that being the case, they accepted in a mood of tragic joy an invitation to the wedding, at Dover, of their beloved daughter’s ertswhile swain.
Came the day, and the discovery that the bride was none other than their own beloved headstrong but still-treasured daughter!
‘Dear parents,’ said she, ‘many hazards I run
To fetch home my love, and your dutiful son.
Receive him with joy, for now you must own
He seeks not your wealth; he’s enough of his own!’
The Book of English Folk Tales Page 25