The Book of English Folk Tales

by Sybil Marshall

  How wise of her to add that culminating detail to her father’s pleasure. So all was well that ended well, as the father was quick to admit.

  He ‘merrily smiled’ (as well he might), but had the grace to reply, ‘He’s brought home enough. He has brought home my child!’ and went on to give them a thousand welcomes, declaring that their presence dispersed ‘both sorrow and care’.

  And no doubt in the course of time the seaman of Dover did his duty in providing the worthy old couple of Sandwich with a bevy of well-brought-up and richly endowed grandchildren – but as even a story with such a happy ending must stop somewhere, here it comes to an end.

  The Smuggler’s Bride

  Another sea-side ballad, this time left in its metrical form. With a melody added, it would become a typical folk song.

  Attention give, and a tale I’ll tell,

  Of a damsel fair that in Kent did dwell.

  On the Kentish coast when the tempest rolled

  She fell deep in love with a smuggler so bold.

  Upon her pillow she could not sleep.

  When her valliant smuggler was on the deep.

  While the winds did whistle she would complain.

  For her valliant smuggler that ploughed the main.

  When Will arrived on his native coast,

  He would fly to her that he valued most –

  He would fly to Nancy, his lover true,

  And forget all the hardships he’d lately been through.

  One bright May morning the sun did shine,

  And lads and lasses, all gay and fine.

  Along the coast they did trip along,

  To behold their wedding and sing a cheerful song.

  Young Nancy then bid her friends adieu.

  And to sea she went with her lover true;

  In storms and tempests all hardships braves.

  With her valliant smuggler upon the foaming waves.

  One stormy night, when the winds did rise.

  And dark and dismal appeared the skies.

  The tempest rolled, and the waves did roar.

  And the valliant smuggler was driven from the shore.

  ‘Cheer up,’ cries William, ‘my valliant wife.’

  Says Nancy, ‘I never valued life.

  I’ll brave the storms and tempests through.

  And fight for William with a sword and pistol too.’

  At length a cutter did on them drive;

  The cutter on them soon did arrive:

  ‘Don’t be daunted. Though we’re but two

  We’ll not surrender, but fight like Britons true.’

  ‘Cheer up,’ says Nancy with courage true,

  ‘I will fight, dear William, and stand by you.’

  They like Britons fought, Nancy stood by the gun.

  They beat their enemies and quickly made them run.

  Another cutter now hove in sight

  And join’d to chase them with all their might;

  They were overpowered, and soon disarmed.

  It was then young Nancy and William were alarmed.

  A shot that moment made Nancy start.

  Another struck William to the heart;

  This shock distressed lovely Nancy’s charms.

  When down she fell and expired in William’s arms.

  Now Will and Nancy love bid adieu.

  They lived and died like two lovers true.

  Young men and maidens now faithful prove

  Like Will and Nancy who lived and died in love.

  Jack o’ Both Sides or The Biter Bit

  A story, one feels, that must have delighted the folk of Kent as a proof of the lesser men of the earth getting the better of the mighty, with no other assets than mother-wit and trusty fellowship.

  Year after year the wars with the French went on, without ever seeming in sight of a satisfactory end. The businessmen of the day cursed the war and the government for stifling their trade; the gentry who liked the feeling of French silks on their ladies, and a nip of French brandy in their toddy on cold winter nights cursed ‘the preventives’ whose job it was to see they only got it with difficulty; and the ordinary folk, as usual, made the most of a situation they couldn’t alter, and enjoyed grumbling about it.

  There was at the time in London a firm of bankers of Jewish origin whose loyalty lay more with international commerce than with any national spirit. They had legitimate business in France, and with the usual acumen of hard-headed financiers, they exploited the situation as profitably as they could by acting as espionage couriers for both sides without either of the warring governments being a wit the wiser.

  For this to succeed, however, cooperation at a more mundane business level was essential – but there was no shortage of that on the coast of Kent facing France across the Channel at its narrowest point. A large, swift and handy craft, manned by sturdy Deal boatmen, served the bankers ideally. When she left English shores, the lugger carried secret dispatches from the English government to their agents in France, and to the French government she carried a bountiful supply of much-needed English guineas. As every one of these gold coins was already worth approximately one-and-a-half times its face value, the bankers came off with a handsome profit on the side. When she made the homeward trip, she was laden with a cargo of silk, tobacco, wines and spirits – particularly brandy, which had a very ready sale. In addition, there were, of course, packages of information from our spies in France, which were in due course handed over to the proper authorities in London.

  Meanwhile, the illicit goods were stored, hidden, till they could be disposed of safely and profitably, to the satisfaction of all. Deal was notorious (or famous) according to the view you took of it, for daring boatmen turned willing smugglers, whose ingenuity in preventing ‘the preventives’ from catching up with them was never-ending; while ‘the worthies’ of Deal were certainly not behindhand in giving them a helping hand. One tale actually tells of a room in the headquarters of the excise being used as a hiding place – with the added detail that on one occasion the wife of a high official kept a wounded smuggler in safety there till he was sufficiently recovered to escape. It was not unknown for magistrates and clergymen, city dignitaries and landed gentry to be partners in the real ownership of boats which ostensibly belonged to their master-mariners, all taking a share in the profits of ‘a good run’.

  Now the bankers who owned the lugger in the present story had great faith in her master, both as a seaman and an efficient smuggler, and usually put him well and truly into the picture of what was afoot on any particular trip. He was therefore not at all surprised to be informed by the owners that on the next projected trip, he was to carry an extra-specially large assignment of gold – about thirty thousand guineas. So plans were laid, and the lugger stole away from Deal with her valuable cargo and the usual packet of papers, and made safely out to sea.

  Time passed, and the banker in question began to get anxious as he looked in vain for the master of his ship to appear with his report. When at last that worthy did make his appearance, it was with shamed countenance and embarrassed manner that he stood before his betters. His whole woeful attitude warned the owner that at last something was amiss, and the trip had gone wrong. Ruefully, the seaman told his tale. On the morning after leaving Deal, they had sighted a government sloop, and it soon became plain for all to see that she was giving chase to them. Moreover, in spite of all their seamanship, she was gaining on them, and by the time they were nearing the French coast, they were in danger of being overhauled. That being so, the captain bethought him not only of his own neck and liberty, but that of his employer, too. And sending for certain of his crew he knew could be well trusted, he had ordered them to fetch up the cargo, slit the bags containing the coin, and pour the yellow-boys over the side and into the sea.

  The banker’s chagrin was enough to give him apoplexy, though he could see the captain’s point about not being found with that amount of illicit coinage for the French aboard; but cupidity coul
d not bear to think of thirty thousand guineas at the bottom of the Channel, and a suspicious nature prompted him to make very searching and well-informed inquiries as to where, exactly, the terrible sacrifice of his gold had had to be made.

  The captain, cornered but reluctant, gave grudgingly bit by bit enough information to point to a spot very close to the French coast, and was thereafter allowed to leave.

  The banker at once set about getting help from the other side of the Channel, and sent couriers with all possible speed to his agents in France, commanding them to organize a search at the point the captain had indicated. No expense was spared, though the operation had to be kept as secret as possible. Eventually a team of French divers went over the side to see what they could recover. It was not long before they came upon the first bag – quite intact, and after it the others were soon located and brought aboard. Not a single one had been tampered with – which looked bad for the captain, and good for the banker – until in the course of time the bags were duly delivered to the consignee, when it was discovered that the yellow-boys had suffered a sea-change into an approximate weight of small pebbles.

  Then the banker sent for the captain, who came before him, large as life and twice as innocent, to know what the matter was. The banker raved and roared – indeed, report has it that he actually jumped up and down in his fury – while the sailor stood stroking his beard, and laughing as only a man can who knows he has got everybody else by the short hairs.

  He was dismissed from his employment by the banker, of course, but he didn’t somehow seem unduly worried by it, and neither did those of his crew who shared his dismissal. Nor did the captain return to the sea. Instead, he became a landsman, and after a short while bought a piece of land and put up a house on it, which in turn appeared to spawn other property, so that when his children reached maturity they became worthies of the town, parsons, lawyers and the like, all with a taste for French brandy and the feel of their womenfolk in French silk – of course!

  The Hand of Glory

  John Brand FSA, author of ‘Brand’s Popular Antiquities’, describes the Hand of Glory as ‘a piece of foreign superstition firmly believed in many parts of Germany, France and Spain’; and also gives an antidote to its power, so that thieves could make no use of it:

  the threshold of the door, or other places at which they might enter a house, must be anointed with an unguent composed of the gall of a black cat, the fat of a white hen and the blood of a screech-owl which mixture must necessarily be prepared during the dog-days.

  In the north-western tip of Yorkshire, where the county of Durham lies only on the other side of the dale, is a high, bare stretch of land called Stainmore – wide open spaces of ling and heather which in the past had an evil reputation. Few travellers whose business was not urgent would venture that way, for it often turned out to be a matter of life and death for them. The most desperate of outlaws congregated there, and from very early times there are records of the monks of Durham extending their sanctuary to those like Adam Ewbank, who on 10th October 1487 rang the bell and begged to be admitted, having ‘slain a man on Stainmore’.

  Be that as it may, it was still an unhealthy place to be in during the eighteenth century; but the road from Westmorland ran that way, and some were forced to brave the dangers, as well as the weather, in the same way as were the folks whose living was there in any case. Superstition added fear to fear, and among local superstitions was the belief in the macabre powers of the ‘Hand of Glory’.

  Now the Hand of Glory is the hand of a man who has been hanged, and naturally, if it is to be of use for any length of time, it has to be preserved. Being destined for use in magic afterwards, the details of its preservation must be carried out with meticulous care and ritual. Acquaintance with somebody able to supply the hand in the first place, (and certain other products of the deceased malefactor into the bargain) appears to be the first requisite for success.

  Having obtained the hand (fresh), it must be wrapped tightly in a piece of the winding sheet, and squeezed thoroughly to draw out from it any blood that may remain. It should then be placed in an earthenware jar, and wholly covered with a mixture of salt, saltpetre and pepper, carefully powdered and mixed well. After being a fortnight in this pickle, it is taken out and dried, preferably by exposure to the summer sun in ‘the dog days’, though an oven heated with vervain and fern is said to be a satisfactory substitute. It is then coaxed into a position so that, when fully dried, it will hold a candle, for that is the main element of the spell-binding.

  Next, a candle must be made, ‘from the fat of the hung man, virgin wax, and Lapland sesame’. The candle is set firmly into the pickled and dried hand, and when the candle is lighted, the owner of this grisly object has it within his power to render those in its immediate vicinity ‘as incapable of motion as if they were dead’.

  One evening at the end of the eighteenth century, a weary female traveller arrived at the Spital Inn on Bowes Moor. She asked for shelter from the weather for the night, as a dreadful storm was raging. But she stated that she had far to go the next day, and must be away very early in the morning. All she needed was a bit of food before setting out, and if the landlord would trust her, and leave her breakfast on the table, she would slip away after resting, without disturbing them. She was too poor to take a bed, but would be grateful to be allowed to sit by the dying fire till she had to set forth again.

  The landlord was a bit uneasy at the request, for it so happened that he had been that day to Brough Fair, and had returned with a considerable amount of money as a result of selling sheep. But he could not send the poor woman away at such a late hour on such a night. So at last he reluctantly agreed, on condition that his serving-maid should stay up and remain with the stranger until she had had her breakfast and departed. He and his family then retired upstairs to bed, leaving the disgruntled servant girl to get what rest she could in the strange woman’s company.

  The traveller sat in a chair pulled up to one side of the hearth, and the girl, thinking to get at least some sleep before the dawn of another hard day’s toil, stretched herself full-length on the old wooden settle at the opposite side of the room. She closed her eyes, and attempted to sleep, but somehow sleep would not come; yet she was not disposed to talk to the strange woman, who also appeared to be dozing on and off, so she kept her eyes closed and pretended to sleep, even now and then giving a gentle snore. She felt that the traveller was watching her, and in her turn, she peeped now and again through half-closed lids at her companion. It was during one of these surreptitious glances that she saw a sight that filled her with considerable unease. The stranger had moved in her chair, and stretched out her legs; and from beneath the skirts the servant girl had a glimpse of what were undubitably male breeches and a pair of men’s thick boots.

  Frightened though she was, she was an intelligent girl and realized that safety lay in keeping calm and thinking quickly. With great self-control, she turned over once or twice as if seeking a more comfortable position, closed her eyes tight, and turned her breathing to a low, regular, gentle snore. The traveller was completely taken in by her act, and after a minute or two, roused himself and stood up, while the girl, continuing to breathe deeply, squinted at him in the glow of the dying fire as well as she might.

  He took from his pocket a dead man’s dried and pickled hand, set it on the table, and fitted a candle into it. Then he lit the candle with care, coaxing the wick to a steady flame, and picking it up, went to the settle upon which the terrified girl lay. He bent down and passed the candle to and fro over her whole length, saying as he did so,

  ‘Let them sleep who are asleep, and let them as be awake stop awake.’

  Then he set the Hand of Glory down on the middle of the table, and drawing back the window curtain, said,

  ‘Flash out t’flame, Hand o’ Glory.’

  Immediately, or so it seemed to the terrified girl, the flame leapt up to twice its original size. Then the robber opened th
e door to the road, and stood on the top step whistling up his companions, who were watching and listening for his signals. The girl jumped up with alacrity, crept after him, and coming up behind him pushed with all her might, so that taken completely by surprise he pitched down the steps and into the road. She slammed the heavy door and barred it, and then rushed upstairs to wake her master.

  First she knocked on the bedroom door, but getting no answer, pounded it with both her fists. Still hearing nothing from within, she opened the door and went to the bed, calling for her master and mistress to wake. They lay as if dead. She screamed and shook them roughly, dragging off the coverlets and doing everything she could think of to rouse them, but still they slept on, as in a trance. From the room where the innkeeper’s grown-up son slept, the silence was just as complete in spite of all her attempts to wake him.

  By this time, the stranger had picked himself up, and his companions had arrived. She could hear them talking and cursing in the road outside, preparing to break in. Something had to be done, and quickly. Being a local girl, she had heard tales of the dreadful powers of the Hand of Glory, and was in no doubt that it was the instrument of evil burning on the table that was the cause of the trance into which her employers had fallen.

  The courageous girl left off her futile efforts to get them up, and ran downstairs to where the grisly candle still burned. Looking round for some way of dousing it without actually having to touch it, her eye fell on a bowl of fresh milk she had set aside the evening before to be skimmed in the morning. Grabbing up the wide pansion, she threw the entire contents over the hand, and the candle spluttered and went out.

  Immediately the family upstairs roused, and rushing up to them the girl told them quickly all that had happened. The landlord’s son, arming himself with a gun, went to the window to parley with the men, a little surprised that they had not made off at the first signs of resistance from inside the inn.