enormous quantities of gold, which he spent lavishly. Amongst other
things he bought a farm, which bordered on the sea, but the lawyer to whom
he was to pay the money was taken aback at receiving it in coins from
pretty nearly every country in the world, doubloons, ducats, dollars,
pistoles! At first he refused to accept them, but a look from Coppinger,
and a threat, made him change his mind. He accepted the coins without
another word, and handed over the papers.
Of course, when Coppinger realized his power, and saw how everyone
feared him, he grew more and more daring. He closed up bridle-paths, to
which he had no possible right, and made new ones, where he had no right
to make them, and forbade anyone but his own friends to use them after a
certain hour in the evening, and no one dared disobey him. Their roads
were called 'Coppinger's Tracks,' and all met at a headland called
'Steeple Brink,' a huge hollow cliff which ran three hundred feet sheer up
from the beach, while the vast, roomy cave beneath it ran right back into
the land. Folks said it was as large as Kilkhampton Church, and they were
not far wrong.
This was called 'Coppinger's Cave,' and here took place such scenes of
wickedness and cruelty as no one can imagine in these days. Here all the
stores were kept, wines, spirits, animals, silks, gold, tea, and
everything of value that they could lay hands on. No one but the crew
ever dared to show themselves there, for it was more than their lives were
worth, the crew being bound by a terrible oath to help their captain in
any wickedness he might choose to perpetrate. So it came to pass that
all, whether of his band or not, gave in to him, and were ruled by him as
though they were slaves and he their lord.
His own house, too, was full of misery and noisy, disgraceful scenes.
When John Hamlyn died, Coppinger had obtained possession somehow of
everything belonging to him, with the exception of a large sum of money
which went to the widow. Coppinger meant to have this money too, though,
so he began by getting small sums from his mother-in-law from time to
time, until she at last refused to give him any more, and even his threats
and coaxings failed to move her.
Cruel Coppinger was not a man to be baulked in any way, so he soon hit
upon a plan. Taking his wife to her room, he tied her to the post of the
great bedstead, then calling in her mother he told her that he was going
to flog Dinah with the cat-o'-nine-tails which he held in his hand, until
she handed over to him the money he had asked her for. They knew quite
well that he would be as good as his word, and that refusal meant death by
torture to Dinah; so the poor mother was compelled to give in, and finding
that this plan answered his purpose so well, he repeated the performance
until he had had nearly every penny poor old Mrs. Hamlyn was possessed of.
Amongst the numerous animals he owned, there was one favourite mare,
--a vicious, uncontrollable creature,--on which he used to scour the
country at a terrible pace, spreading terror wherever he went. He never
cared in the least how many people or animals he knocked over and trampled
to death; the more weak and helpless they were the more he seemed to love
to hurt them.
One evening, after spending a few festive hours at a neighbour's house,
he was just on the point of departing when he happened to notice seated by
the hearth a poor little half-witted tailor, who always went by the name
of 'Uncle Tom.'
Uncle Tom was a very quiet, extremely nervous little man, well-known and
pitied by all. He went from house to house all over the countryside,
doing a day's work at one house, and half a day's at another, and in most
houses he was given a meal in addition to his trifling pay, for everyone
liked him, he was always willing and obliging, and had never harmed anyone
in his life.
"Hulloa, Uncle Tom!" cried Coppinger boisterously, going up and laying
a heavy hand on the thin, shaking shoulder of the little tailor.
"We are both bound for the same direction. Come along with me, I'll give
you a lift on my mare."
The old man shrank away nervously, mumbling all sorts of excuses, for he
above all people lived in deadly terror of Cruel Coppinger, also of his
vicious mare, and the idea of being at the mercy of them both nearly
scared away what few wits he had.
The sight of his terror, though, only made Coppinger more determined to
frighten him. He loved to torment so helpless a victim, and the other
people present, partly from love of mischief, but chiefly to please
Coppinger, egged the tormentor on.
In spite of his struggles and entreaties they hoisted the poor little
tailor on to the back of the prancing, restive beast, and held him there
while Coppinger sprang up.
No sooner were they both mounted than up reared the mare, danced round on
her hind legs a time or two, and then sprang away along the road at a rate
which it made one gasp to witness. Tom clung in sheer terror to his big
tormentor, afraid of falling off, yet afraid to stay on. Coppinger,
guessing perhaps that the little man in his terror might spring off, undid
his belt, and passed it round the little tailor's body, buckling it
securely around them both. Then, having fastened his victim to him,
beyond all hope of escape, he urged the mare on to a more furious pace
than ever. They tore through the air at lightning speed. Tom shrieked
and prayed to be put down,--to be told whither he was to be taken,--what
Coppinger meant to do with him; and pleaded to be killed at once,
rather than tortured. They dashed on past his own little cottage, and his
wife at the door, catching sight of the pair, nearly fainted to see her
poor husband in the grasp of the tyrant. On they went and on, without sign
of stopping. They leapt ditches and hedges, animals, waggons, people,
anything that came in their way, until, coming at last to a steep hill,
they slackened their pace a little, and Coppinger condescended to speak.
"I promised the Devil I would bring him a tailor," he said, "for his
clothes sadly need mending, and I am going to carry you to him to-night.
It will not be very hard work, and he won't harm you as long as you do
what he bids you."
So terrified was poor little Uncle Tom on hearing this awful fate, that he
had a fit then and there from fright, and the violence of his struggles
was such that the belt gave way, and he was flung from the racing mare,
right into the ditch by the roadside.
There he lay all night, and there he was found in the morning, not only
battered and bruised and half frozen, but with his poor weak mind quite
gone.
"He would never sew for the Devil," he kept repeating over and over and
over again, "he would never sew for the Devil, nor for Coppinger either.
He believed Coppinger was the Devil, and he might do his work himself,
Uncle Tom would never work for such as he!"
Never again did poor Uncle Tom get back his reason, or do another stroke
of work to support himself and his wife,--but Coppinger had had his joke,
and thought it a very fine one.
Countless were the cruel pranks he played on the poor, the helpless,
and defenceless, until at last people became afraid to go outside their
houses, and were afraid to stay in them, for every day brought some new
wickedness done by him, and every fresh one was worse than the last.
Coppinger had one child, a boy; he was deaf and dumb, and as uncanny a
child as his father was a man. He was a beautiful boy to look at, with
soft fair skin and golden hair, but he had his father's cruel eyes, and
his father's cruel nature. From his babyhood his mischievousness and
wickedness knew no bounds; any bird, or animal, or even child that came
within his reach he would torment almost to death, and the more his victim
writhed and screamed, the greater was his delight.
When he was but six he was found one day on the headland, dancing in
frantic joy, and pointing with gestures of delight to the beach below.
Hurrying down they found the mangled and bleeding corpse of a little
child, his companion, whom he had enticed to the edge of the cliff, and,
by an unexpected push, sent headlong on to the rocks beneath. From that
day he was always to be found on the tragic spot, and when a stranger
passed he would make unearthly sounds of delight, and pointing down to the
beach, dance and throw himself about in ecstasy.
All this time Coppinger and his gang grew more and more reckless and
daring, until they were the scourge of the country-side. To what lengths
they might have gone, no earthly powers can tell, but money became scarce,
and times grew bad for them. Armed King's cutters came, not singly,
but in great numbers, and tidings of danger were brought to Cruel
Coppinger by strangely dressed foreigners.
And so, at last, things came to a climax, and deliverance was at hand for
the poor suffering people.
Just such another time as preceded Coppinger's arrival, burst again on
that coast; the rain and hail came down in sheets, the gale blew furiously
all day. At sunset a vessel appeared off the coast--full-rigged.
Presently a rocket went up from the Gull Rock,--a little rock island with
a creek on the landside, a spot where many smugglings had taken place.
A gun answered from the ship, again both signals were sent up. Then, on
the topmost peak of the rock, appeared the huge form of Coppinger.
He waved his sword, and a boat immediately put off from the ship, with two
men at each oar, for the tide is terribly strong just there. They neared
the rock, rode boldly through the surf, and were steered into the Gull
Creek by someone who evidently knew the coast well.
Then Coppinger, who was standing impatiently awaiting them, leapt on board
and took the command.
Their efforts to get back to the vessel were enormous. Like giants they
laboured at their oars to force a path through the boiling, seething
waters. Once, as they drew off-shore, one of the rowers, either from loss
of strength or of courage, relaxed his hold for a moment; in an instant a
cutlass waved above his head, and one swift cruel stroke cut him down.
It was the last brutal deed that Cruel Coppinger was ever seen to do.
He and his men reached the ship and got on board. What happened
afterwards no one knows, for at the same moment she disappeared like some
ghostly, phantom ship, nobody knows where or how.
Then, in even more fearful violence than before, the storm raged and beat
on that coast. Hail, thunder, lightning, hurricanes of wind blinded,
deafened, or killed all who were exposed to it.
Round Coppinger's home it expended the very utmost of its fury;
trees were torn up by the roots, the thatch was blown off the outhouses,
chimneys fell, windows were blown in, and, as Dinah, terrified by the
uproar and destruction racing round her, stood holding her uncanny child
in her arms, through the roof and ceiling came crashing a monstrous
thunderbolt, surrounded by flames, and fell hissing at the very foot of
Cruel Coppinger's chair.
MADGE FIGGY, THE WRECKER.
Those of you who know Land's End, and that part of it called
Tol-pedn-penwith, cannot fail to have been struck by a huge cliff there,
in shape like a ladder, or flight of steps, formed of massive blocks of
granite, piled one upon another, and on the top of which there is perched
what looks like, and is, a monstrous granite chair.
'Madge Figgy's Chair' is its name, for in it Madge Figgy, who was a
wrecker by trade, used to sit and call up the storms, and here, while the
rough, cruel Atlantic boiled and lashed in impotent fury over the face of
the ladder, Madge sat cool and unconcerned, keeping a sharp look out for
any vessels coming in on that terrible coast.
As well as being a wrecker, Madge Figgy was one of the most cruel and
wicked witches in the county; and hour after hour she would sit in her
chair plotting mischief, or hurling curses at any unfortunate person or
thing who had happened to offend her. The poor country-folk were afraid
of their very lives of her, and whatever wicked things she told them to
do, they had to do them, for they knew her power and lived in terror of
offending her.
Amongst the witches she was the leader in all their frolics and revels and
wickedness. Getting astride her broomstick she would fly right away
across the sea to some foreign land, a band of her friends and cronies
after her, and right well did they enjoy themselves,--which was more than
anyone else did who came across them while on their wicked revels.
Madge Figgy's home was in a little cottage in a cove not far from her
ladder and chair, and this cove was a nest of a gang of the worst wreckers
in Cornwall, gathered together by old Madge to help her in her cruel work.
No one can count how many noble vessels they lured on to the rocks of that
dangerous coast, how many bodies they stripped and cast back into the sea
again; while as for the treasure they had divided amongst themselves!--
they had quite enough to live on for the rest of their lives, even if they
never did another stroke of mischief. That, though, was not what they
cared about. They loved wrecking and robbing, and all their evil ways,
and would have been quite miserable if they had had to live quiet,
respectable stay-at-home lives.
Where all were so wicked there were none to shame them into being any
better, and they flaunted their stolen riches as shamelessly as though
they had come by everything honestly. It was quite a common sight to see
the great, clumsy country-women and girls going about their work dressed
in costly silks and velvets, all of the richest character and most
beautiful colouring, digging and ploughing, cooking and scrubbing with
valuable jewellery on their great arms and their coarse red hands,
sparkling gems in their ears, and very likely a tiara that would have made
a queen envious, fastened round their untidy, unbrushed hair.
Of all the crew, though, Madge and her husband were the very worst.
Most of them did abide by the old saying, 'Honour amongst wreckers,' but
not those two. If they could cheat or trick even their friends they would
do so; and did, too, very often.
One particularly stormy day, Madge Figgy sat in her great chair in high
glee. A tempest such as was seldom known, even on that coast, was raging
round her, and close on to the rocks below her was drifting a Portuguese
Indiaman which she had lured in to be dashed to fragments on the terrible
rocks by the boiling, maddened breakers which towered up like mountains,
then broke and fell with all their force on the helpless vessel.
Madge Figgy kicked her heels and clapped her hands with joy as she
watched, for the huge vessel laden with valuables of the costliest kind
was a prize such as they did not often get, and Madge in her mind was
already reckoning up her gains. Far better for the Indiaman had she
dropped her treasure overboard and sent it to the bottom of the sea, where
she would be ere long; for Madge could tell at any distance what a ship's
cargo was worth, and if it was a small one she let the vessel sail on in
peace.
Up aloft was the old witch dancing and singing, and down below struggled
the perishing crew, captain, sailors, passengers, men, women and children,
shrieking aloud for help, but seeing never a living creature coming to
give them a hand. Their cries might have melted hearts of iron, but not
the hearts of those who were hiding behind the rocks watching with greedy
interest for the moment when they might go down and seize their prey.
One by one the cries ceased as the sea swallowed up the poor struggling
creatures, then presently the vessel broke up, and in on the waves came
floating cases, casks, chests, broken spars, mingled with the dead bodies
of men and women and little babies.
As fast as they appeared they were seized on, and quickly stripped of
everything that was of value, the ladies were robbed of their jewels and
dresses, and even of their long hair, and even the babies were robbed of
the necklaces which still hung around their chubby necks.
When the bodies were stripped they were not thrown into the sea again,
but were carried away and buried in a great green hollow near Perloe Cove,
with a stone at the head of each to mark the spot. Though the graves
cannot be distinguished now, the hollow may yet be seen.
For weeks after the wreck of the Portuguese Indiaman, the wreckers were
continually finding gold and jewels washed in to the sand, and now and
again more bodies were washed ashore, all richly dressed. Oh, it was a
fine haul the wreckers had after that black storm, but one very curious
thing happened such as had never happened before.
Amongst the bodies washed in was that of a beautiful lady, dressed in the
richest of robes, and wearing more magnificent jewellery than any of the
other poor creatures. In addition to her jewellery, too, she had,
fastened about her, a very large amount of money and treasure, as though,
poor lady, she had thought that she could not only save herself, but a
great deal else as well.
When Madge Figgy, who had claimed this body, had finished stripping it,
she stood gazing at it very attentively for a long time. She appeared to
be troubled about something, almost frightened, in fact, and turning to
the rest of the gang she forbade them to divide any of the spoil, or even
to touch a single thing.
There was a fine row at that, of course, for they had all been counting on
a rich share, and they vowed they would have it, too! They quarrelled,
and fought, and a good deal of blood was spilt, but Madge took care of
herself and got the better of them all, too, for it would have taken more
than a gang of wreckers to outwit that wicked old woman.
She declared that there was a mark on the body which she understood,
though no one else could, and that if they divided any of the things
belonging to it, ill-luck would befall them all, and no one knew where it
would end.
"Trust a witch to know a witch!" she cried. She got her way, as she
generally did, for they were all afraid of her, and everything belonging
to the poor lady was put into a chest which stood in Madge's kitchen,
while the body was carried to the hollow and buried with the others.
The very night, though, after they had laid her in her grave, a very
curious thing happened. Out from the grave there came, as soon as
darkness fell, a little blue light. For a moment it flickered and gleamed
on the newly made mound, then glided swiftly away up over the cliffs until
it reached Madge Figgy's great granite chair. Up into the chair it
glided, and there it stayed for a long time, a weird, mysterious gleam,
looking most uncanny in the darkness. Then out of the chair it glided and
made its way to Madge Figgy's cottage, where it floated across the
threshold and straight to the chest where the dead lady's belongings lay.
All the wreckers were watching it, and all, except old Madge, were very
nearly terrified out of their senses. They felt sure that at last their
wickedness was to meet with its punishment, that the Evil One had come to
carry them away, and their hours on earth were numbered.
Madge Figgy tried hard to laugh away their fears and cheer them up.
She wanted no 'chicken-hearts' about her, men who would refuse to take
part in her wicked work, or even carry tales where she did not want them
carried.
"Get along, you great stupids, you!" cried Madge, trying to put some
spirit into them, "it will all come right in time. I know all about it!"
It took a long time, though, and the people began to lose faith in Madge's
cleverness; for three long months the little blue flame crept out of the
dead lady's grave at nightfall, glided to Madge Figgy's chair, and then to
the chest in the cottage, and nothing could stop it.
At the end of three months, when the people of the Cove were feeling they
could not bear this thing any longer, there came to Madge's cottage one
day a curiously dressed stranger. From his appearance all who saw him
concluded that he was a foreigner, but from what part of the world he came
no one could tell, for never a word escaped his lips.
Madge Figgy's old husband, who was home alone when the stranger arrived,
was very nearly scared to death. Firstly because the sight of a stranger
always frightened any of that wicked crew, and secondly because of the
man's signs and curious gesticulations. Old Figgy thought that he was a
madman, sure enough.
After some time, though, and a good many signs and misunderstandings,
the old man gathered that the stranger wished to see the graves of the
poor souls who went down in the wreck of the Portuguese Indiaman.
Old Figgy put on his cap readily enough to show him the way, only too
thankful to get him out of the house; but as soon as ever they had started
on the right road, the stranger did not need any further guidance,
he walked on by himself straight to the hollow, and making his way direct
to the grave of the Portuguese lady he threw himself on it passionately,
and broke into the most violent outburst of grief imaginable.
For some time old Figgy stood watching him in astonishment, until the
foreigner, looking up, caught sight of him, and signed to him to go away;
then returning to the grave, again, he threw himself on it once more and
stayed there weeping and moaning until nightfall.
When darkness crept on up rose the little blue flame from the grave as
before, but, instead of going to Madge Figgy's chair it made its way to
the cottage, and gliding on to the chest, gleamed there with twice its
usual brilliancy.
The foreigner, who had followed the flame closely, went, without let
or hindrance from the old witch or anyone, straight to the chest,
and clearing away with one sweep all the rubbish and lumber which were
piled on it, opened it as if he had known it all his life, picked out
everything in it that had belonged to the lady, then, without touching
anything else that the chest contained, closed it again, and, after giving
liberal gifts to every wrecker in the place, departed as mysteriously as
he had come.
Anything of his history, or whence he came, was never discovered, but from
the moment he left Madge Figgy's cottage neither he nor the little blue
flame was ever seen again by any of them.
HOW MADGE FIGGY GOT HER PIG.
Madge Figgy, as you already know, spent most of her life in injuring
someone. After she had left her cottage by the sea, where she spent so
much of her time in robbing the dead, she went to live in St. Buryan,
and there she spent her time in robbing the living, and doing any other
mischief that came into her head to do.
One of her victims here was her near neighbour, Tom Trenoweth,
a hard-working, struggling man who spent all his days trying to make both
ends meet, and mostly failing, poor fellow. Now Tom had a sow, a fine
great creature, on which he set great store, for when she was fattened up
enough he meant to take her to Penzance Market, where he hoped to sell her
for at least twenty shillings, for she was worth that and more of any
man's money.
As ill-luck would have it, though, Madge Figgy caught sight of the sow one
day, and from that moment she could not rest until she had got it for
herself.
Over she bustled to Tom's house in a great hurry. "Tom," she said,
"I've taken a fancy to that sow of yours, and I'll give 'ee five shillings
for her, now this very minute, if you'll sell her. Four would be a good
price, but I've set my mind on having her, and I don't mind stretching a
point for a friend."
"I ain't going to sell her now," said Tom, "I'm fattening her up for
market, and it's a long sight more than five shillings I'm thinking I'll
get for her. So keep your money, Madge, you may want it yet," he added
meaningly.
"Very well," replied the witch, shaking her finger at Tom, and wagging her
head; "I won't press 'ee to sell the pig, but mark my words, before very
long you will wish you had!" and away she went without another word.
Poor Tom! He did mark her words, and many a time he remembered them with
sorrow, for from the moment they were uttered his sow began to fail.
She ate and drank as much as ever he chose to give her, and seemed to
enjoy her food, too, but instead of growing fatter she grew leaner and
leaner, and from being a fine great beast, nearly fit for a Christmas
market, she became a poor, spare-looking thing that no one would say
'thank you' for.
"Are you willing to sell her now, Tom?" cried cruel old Madge, popping her
head round the door of the pig-sty one day, when Tom was feeding the
animal.
"No, and I wouldn't sell her to you for her weight in gold," cried Tom,
too desperate now to care whether he offended the woman or not.
"So get home to your own house, you ill-wishing cross-grained old witch!"