raggamuffin!' And I wor upon him in no time. I caught un by t' neck and
shook un furious. I wor nigh brussen wi' rage. He were fair down capped,
and said nowt. But, as you'll see presently, he were gathering up his
rage for a reglar outbust. He were nigh brussen too.
"'Well,' says I, 'wot is't a doing here? I knows! Thou'rt arter my
Rachel Anne. Well. Tha'lt never marry my daughter if I can help it. I'll
never own thee wi' thy ugly face for a son-in-law. I win't run the
chance o' a cock-eye i' my grand-children. If my dowter will ha' thee,
I'll disown her; I win't speak to her again.' Then I shook him. 'Take
that,' says I, and I gave him a blow o' the fist on his nose, and I
reckon I flattened it in. 'Dost a' like it?' says I. 'Take another
taste--a little stimulant will do thee good.' Then I kicked un off t'
chair, and dragged him up, and shook, and shook, and shook him till I
were all of a muck wi' sweat. So I hollered to my Phoebe. 'Phoebe, lass!
come and poise un i' t' rear. I'll hold un i' position.' Well, she came
out, and she gave him a crack.
"'Now,' says I, 'I'd like to look i' thy ugly face and take stock o' t'
damages. I've done thy beauty. Phoebe, lass! give me t' candle.' Shoo
went to t' lanthorn, and browt out t' candle and gave it to me.
"Jim Greenwood hung all limp, like old clothes i' my hand, and never
spoke. But I didn't know what fire and fury was in him then. He wor just
one o' them chaps as endures what you may say and do up to a certain
point, but when that point is passed, then--Lor'!'
"I took t' candle from my owd woman--that's my wife, I mean, tha mun
know--and I held it afore me. Lor-a-mussy, I were flayed! I let go hold,
and let t' candle tumble on Jim--that's owd Greenwood's son, tha
knows--and I stood shakin' i' all my limbs. I'd smashed his nose right
in; I'd broken t' bridge and knocked it in, and there weren't nowt on it
remaining. And his eyes--Lor'! I hadn't time to think, for I had passed
t' point, and t' chap couldn't stan' no more. I'd let t' candle fall on
him, and set him on fire. Folks don't over much like being set fire
to--leastways owd Greenwood's son didn't; for he did blaze, and bang,
and fizz, and snap, and crackle away! He reglar exploded, he did! I
stood in a sort o' maze like--I were dazed. Phoebe screamed. And then
came a great haw-haw from my boys, who were all there. I could see 'em
now by t' leet o' t' burning sweetheart. 'Lor', father!' said Rachel
Anne, as innocent as owt, _'What hast a' been doing to our Guy Fawkes?_'
"Well, sir, will you believe it?--it was nowt but a Guy Fawkes full o'
straw and squibs and crackers 'at I'd involuntarily set on fire."
This story was told, scarcely above a breath, during a missionary
meeting, whilst a colonial bishop was addressing us. James did not laugh
himself--was as grave as was proper on the occasion; but his little eyes
twinkled roguishly, and those who could hear the whispered tale with
difficulty restrained their laughter.
"I think I can tell you summut as happened to my brother Tommy," said
James, after we had sung "From Greenland's icy mountains," and were
walking at a judicious distance from the colonial bishop. "Well, my
brother Tom were a rare bird to drink. He'd been to t' Horse and Jockey
one day, and had supped enough beer for once, and when he came out about
half after ten, he warn't ower clear as to t' direction he sud go.
Howm'ever, he took t' loin (lane) all right. Presently there come some
one along t' road. 'Now,' thowt he, 'I mun keep clear o' he, or he'll
run hissel' again' me, and knock me down.' T' mooin were up, just
settin', and castin' shadows; so he made a great roundabout to avoid
lurching again' t' man as were comin' along; but seeing his shadow, ma
brother mistook that for t' man, and thowt t' shadow had cast t' feller.
So he tried to step ower t' chap and avoid t' shadow. As tha mun see, he
came wi' a crack again t' chap.
"'Ye druffen rascal,' said he, giving ma brother a bang on t' lugs
(ears) as made his head spin.
"'It's thy fault,' said Tom. 'What dost a' mean by having a standing-up
shadow and solid too?'
"The chap gives him another crack and tumbles him down. When ma brother
got up again he went on his road again, saying to hissel', 'I winna go
blundering again' no more shadows to-night if I see anybody coming.'
Just then he thowt he saw another chap; so to get out o' his way he
turned into a field by a gate to let un pass. Now, ma brother had a
little too much beer in his head; soa when he got into t' field he
couldn't get out again. He rambled round and round, and t' mooin went
down.
"'Weel,' ses he, 'I don't care; I'll sleep where I am.' And he ligs him
down on t' ground. He hadn't been long asleep afore he wakened wi' cold.
T' dews o' neet came falling on him and wetted him, and his teeth were
chattering; so then he opened his eyes. And what dost a' think he seed?
Why, standing above him were a hawful form as black as a crow. His legs
was crooked, his arms was spread, and Tom could see claws on his
fingers. His face were like nowt earthly; and he had bristling hair,
and great horns like a coo. Tom could see t' glint o' his wicked een
fixed on him.
"Weel, now, Tommas weren't that sort o' chap exackly as might flatter
hissen angels 'ud come after him out o' heaven; so the thowt came on him
it were t' owd chap come to fetch his soul to t' other place.
"Tom lay quite still. He thowt t' owd chap mebbe would let un lig a
while if he shammed sleep. He wouldn't be so unmannerly as to wake un up
for the purpose o' takin' him away. Tha knaws t' owd chap war' a gem'man
once, tho' he's fallen a bit sin'. Yet what's born i' t' bone comes out
i' t' flesh--leastwise so Tom thowt.
"Soa Tom lay quiet. But presently he thowt he felt t' owd chap's fingers
feeling in his pocket for four and twopence he'd gotten aboot him
somewhere. Soa Tom turned round sudden on him and ses, 'Tha mun tak ma
soul if tha's boun' to do soa; but I'll trouble thee to let t' four and
twopence aloan.'
"Ah! he war' a deep one war' t' owd chap. As sharp as owt, when Tom
turned on un, he were standing up stiff and unconcerned, and looking t'
other way.
"Nah, as Tom had spoken, 't warn't no use his pretending any more to be
asleep. So he thowt, 'What am I to do next? Tha mun do more wi' traycle
than tha can wi' brimstone. I'll soap un down a bit.'
"Then Tom opens his eyes and looks at un and ses, 'Owt fresh?' But he
wouldn't answer and reveal the mysteries o' his shop.
"So Tom ses, ses he, 'I reckon tha'st coom a rare long way, and it's
thirsty work walking, or flying, or travelling by train, or whichiver
way tha hast comed. And,' ses he, 'I tak it vara civil o' thee to come
for me. There's ma owd woman grummles if shoo's to come for ma to t'
Horse and Jockey, and that's half a mile from my home. And mebbe tha's
comed for me five thousand mile. It's vara civil. It's not like a north
countryman that,' ses he. 'We are outspoken folk, and there ain't much
civility among us, but hard rubs. But I won't be outdone by a south
countryman i' civility. I daresay tha'rt dry. Tha'll stop a bit, and
I'll fetch thee a sup o' home-brewed beer.'
"Soa Tom gets up on his feet, and away he goes as wick as a scoprell,
and gets home, and dashes in at t' door. There were Sarah Anne, his
wife, as red as a turkey-cock, and swollen fit to brussen wi' he getting
home so late.
"But Tommy he out wi' it at once. 'Sarah Anne, lass! run and get a jug
o' beer and a mug, and off wi' thee as fast as tha' can to t' owd
chap--he's waiting for thee.' He thowt, tha knaws, to get t' owd chap to
tak t' wife instead of he. But Sarah Anne she up wi' her fist and
knocked him down as flat as ginger-beer as has had t' cork out a
fortnight. 'Ah, James,' ses ma brother to me, 'I've tried to send ma owd
woman to t' owd chap, but shoo winna go. Tha mun tak' a horse to t'
water, but tha canna mak' un drink.'
"Weel, next morning ma brother Tom hoo went to look at t' place where he
was i' t' neet, and there he see'd t' owd chap still.... But by day
leet--what dost a' think?--he was nowt but a flaycrow (scarecrow)."
FOOTNOTE:
[15] As lively as a teetotum.
THE ONE-POUND NOTE.[16]
Samuel Sutcliffe lived at Hebden Hay, or Hawden Hole, about a quarter of
a mile west of Newbridge, nearly at the bottom of the steep slope which
descends from Whitehill Nook to the river Hebden. The house is still
standing, easy to be recognised by its whitewash and by the yew-tree
which grows between the door and the path leading to Upper Hepton and
Tommy Rocky's. Beside the farmhouse there is under the same roof a
cottage at the east end. In the field at the west end, and below the
house, stretching down to the stream, were formerly some mounds, where
it was said that the Heptonstall people during the plague buried their
dead. Crabtree says (p. 15): "Of that dreadful epidemic, the plague, one
hundred and seventeen persons are said to have died at Heptonstall in
1631, several of whom were buried at home, but all entered in the
register there." In the old barn near the house, pulled down a few years
ago, since 1817, an old man cut his throat. The yew-tree is no inapt
symbol of the melancholy associations of this secluded spot--a cemetery,
a suicide, and a murder.
Samuel Sutcliffe, commonly called Sammy o' Kattie's, lived there to the
age of eighty, a bachelor. He was a manufacturer of worsted pieces, and
for several years farmed the small farm. The only person living with him
was his nephew, William Sutcliffe. On Saturdays, sometimes the uncle,
sometimes the nephew, attended Halifax market; sometimes both. On
Saturdays, towards evening, the old man might have been seen crossing
the old bridge at Hebden Bridge, and calling at the "Hole in the Wall"
to take a single glass of ale and hear the news, while he gave himself a
very brief rest after his walk from Halifax, before passing on. He was a
stout, active man for his age; sober, steady, and industrious; and by
economy, but without penuriousness, had saved a considerable sum of
money. The cottage adjoining Sammy's dwelling was inhabited by a weaver
named William Greenwood.
For five or six years the nephew, William Sutcliffe, had carried on a
little business in the fustian trade on his own account; and for two
years he had the take of the farm, on which he kept a couple of cows.
His business led him to travel into Lancashire, Craven, and even
Westmoreland. His journeys were taken three times a year: he started on
Monday morning, and returned usually on Friday evening, sometimes on
Saturday. He left Hawden Hole on one of these journeys on Monday,
February 3rd, 1817, and was this time expected home on the Thursday
night following, but circumstances prevented his return till the
Saturday.
The name of the murderer was Michael Pickles, commonly designated "Old
Mike." He lived at Northwell, near Heptonstall, on the road leading from
Heptonstall by Newbridge to Haworth. His cottage, since pulled down, was
of one storey: it contained two rooms--one towards the valley and the
township of Wadsworth, into which the door entered, formed the dwelling
or "house;" the other, trenching back into the hill-side, was called the
"shop," and contained the looms. Some portion of the walls of the shop
are still visible. Approached from the road, Old Mike's cottage stood a
little below and a little beyond the principal house now standing at
Northwell. A small garden was attached, in the walls of which are still
to be seen the recesses which contained Mike's bee-hives. The
plump-looking navel-wort, possibly introduced by him, may be seen
peeping from crevices in the walls. Like Hawden Hole, Northwell has also
its characteristic tree. The sombre Scotch pine which stands prominently
forward in front of Northwell is in the corner of Mike's garden, and is
said to have been planted by him. He lived at this cottage fifteen
years. His age was forty-one. He is described as a strong, broad-set,
but not a tall man, with rather dark hair, pale, cadaverous face, no
whiskers, and large rolling eyes. He was left-handed, his hands being
very large: he often made exhibition of the power of his left hand in
grasping and crushing anything placed within it, in which exploit he
surpassed all competitors. He had a very large, flat foot; his knees
inclined very much inwards. He had the reputation of being
"double-jointed," whatever may be meant by that term. His occupation was
sometimes that of weaving at Northwell, sometimes of gardening for his
neighbours, but more frequently that of an out-door labourer in
dry-walling, and especially in constructing, of large stones, what is
called "weiring," for preventing the river-edge from encroaching on the
neighbouring fields; for which his great strength qualified him. He had
the reputation of being light-fingered. In dressing the gardens of his
neighbours he not unfrequently helped himself to some of the contents.
His house was generally very well supplied with milk in summer, which
was considered to have been obtained by milking the cows in the fields.
Above all, he had the reputation of stealing bee-hives, to which the
fact of his being a bee-keeper was a sort of cover. As a gentleman was
one night riding along the "Needless Road" when not quite dark, he and
his horse were suddenly startled, on coming in view of the steep field
stretching from that road up to Northwell, by the sight of a strange
figure moving slowly and heavily up the field: it was Mike with his not
uncommon night burden, a hive of bees on his head. Another gentleman,
stopping late at Kebcote Inn because of the rain, saw Mike and a
companion take shelter there about an hour after midnight, the former
being loaded with the customary "hive-piche" on his head. In the floor
of his house, under the bed, he had excavated a secret hiding-place for
stolen goods, covered by a moveable flag-stone. The paving before his
door had been raised by the earth taken from this so-called "cave."
Notwithstanding these dishonest practices, Mike made a considerable
profession of religion. He was a joined member at Birchcliffe Chapel,
having, with his wife, received adult baptism. Whether he was originally
sincere in his profession and afterwards fell away, is more than
doubtful when we consider that, notwithstanding his mal-practices, he
continued to make great religious profession. In conversation he would
expound at large the doctrines of Christianity. To approach him with
the view of holding short discourse with him on general topics while he
was gardening for you, was to incur the risk of a sermon from him. He
fetched milk from old Sammy's at Hawden Hole, and was in the habit of
sitting and conversing with him, not unfrequently of reading to him
during the long evenings. They had been acquainted many years.
Mike's accomplice was John Greenwood, a weaver, a tallish, slender man,
aged twenty-nine years, with lightish hair, whose features gave the
impression of a weak and undecided, rather than a depraved and wicked
disposition. His characteristic want of firmness rendered him the easy
dupe of any deeper adept in villany who might throw temptation into his
way. It is believed that he would not have been connected with the
murder but for the persuasion of Mike. His character does not appear to
have lain under any suspicion, although, as his confession afterwards
showed, he was already addicted to dishonest practices. He and Mike
married sisters. He lived in a cottage attached to a remote farm in
Wadsworth called Bog-eggs, above Old Town, a little below the moorland
prominence called Tomtitiman from which so noble a prospect of this
district may be obtained. His cottage, now unoccupied, forms the upper
part of the building at Bog-eggs, being contiguous to the farm-house.
On Thursday, the 6th of February, 1817, "Joan o' t' Bog-eggs" went over
to Northwell to try to obtain some money from Old Mike, saying that he
was "pinned." Times were very hard just now, and doubtless there was
much suffering among the poor. Flour was selling at eight shillings per
stone, and meal at four and sixpence to five shillings. Old Mike said
that he had no money, but that he knew of a place where they could get
some. This was just the sort of temptation in which Joan's (John's)
weak principles were likely to fail; and Mike was exactly the sort of
man to attempt to turn Joan's infirmities to his own advantage. Mike's
plausible speech soon prevailed over Joan's scruples; and it was agreed
that that night they should sally forth and rob Old Sammy.
On Thursday evening, February 6th, 1817, "Old Mike" and "Joan o' t'
Bog-Eggs" were sitting by Old Mike's fireside at Northwell. The night
was wearing late, and the family had been sometime in bed. It was
clearly understood between Mike and Joan, that after waiting till the
hour was sufficiently advanced, they should sally out and rob "Sammy o'
Kattie's." The hour agreed upon was midnight. Mike was smoking his pipe,
and thinking over the circumstances of the intended burglary. Simple,
unthinking Joan had fallen asleep under the influence of the warm fire.
At length the clock struck twelve, and Mike aroused his companion,
saying, "Come, it's time to be going." They took with them Mike's gun,
and left the house, proceeding towards Whitehill Nook, along a field
called Adcock, which is to the left of and above the public road leading
to Whitehill Nook. They then travelled down the steep rough wood to
Hawden Hole. Thrice Joan's heart failed him as he thought of the
possible consequences to them both of the meditated robbery. Reassured
by Mike's arguments, he proceeded to Old Sammy's. Half-past twelve was
the hour for the moon to rise; but the night was cloudy, though without
rain. Arrived at the house, Joan was placed as sentry before the door,
with the gun in his hand, and directed to shoot any person who should
offer interruption. Mike, perfectly familiar with the premises, took out
a window at the west end of the house. There were more than one window
at that end. He took out the larger one, being that nearest to the
river. He then entered the house, and undid the door, and opened it.
Besides a lock, the door was also fastened by a stout wooden bar placed
across it, with the ends inserted in holes in the masonry. Coming out of
the house through the now opened door, he fastened the door of William
Greenwood, the neighbouring cottager, by placing the wooden bar across
the doorway, and fastening the latch to the bar with string. Probably
they both entered Sammy's cottage. Mike mounted the stairs into the room
where Old Sammy was sleeping alone. About a month before, the old man
had bought a small oak box, in which he placed such of his papers and
documents as were of value, and most of his money. The box was placed in
a bucket which stood in one corner of his bedroom. Mike secured this
bucket, with its contents. Three cotton pieces and four warps were also
taken from the bedroom: the pieces were marked by William Greenwood. A
cloth-coat, and a pair of shoes belonging to William Sutcliffe, which
wanted soling, were also taken, and a new shirt of Sammy's.
But old men sleep lightly. Before these things were secured and got
away, Sammy awoke. Sitting up in bed to listen, he heard footsteps in
the house. He endeavoured to alarm his neighbour in the adjoining
cottage, and called out, "William! William! William!" Fearful of being
disturbed or detected, Mike approached the bed and seized his old friend
and companion by the throat with his terrible left hand. Gripping him as
in a vice, he held him down; nor did he quit his grasp till the spark of
life was extinguished.
William Greenwood was disturbed during the night. He fancied he heard a
noise in Sammy's house, but could not be sure. He called out, but
received no answer. He conjectured that the old man might be talking in
his sleep; at any rate, he took no more notice of the matter, and fell
asleep again. The wind was very strong, and roared terrible in the
yew-tree. Probably the noise which he heard was Sammy's voice calling
out "William" the third and last time. The silence which ensued was, as
Mr. Hardy eloquently described it at York, "the silence of death."
I have a short document drawn up at Halifax for the satisfaction of
William Sutcliffe, on the 17th or 18th of February, 1817, that he might
possess some account of the manner of his uncle's last struggles, in
which is recorded the substance of what Mike confessed on the subject at
Halifax, February 17th. It is as follows:--"The further examination of
William Sutcliffe, of Hawden Hole, in Heptonstall, who saith that on
Monday, the 17th day of February, 1817, Michael Pickles, the prisoner,
told this examinant that after he had entered the dwelling-house of his
late uncle, Samuel Sutcliffe, and had got into the bedroom, the said
Samuel Sutcliffe rose up on the bed and called out, 'William! William!
William!' on which the said Michael Pickles seized the said Samuel
Sutcliffe by the throat, and heard no more from him, except that he
sobbed, as it was soon over with him, and he bore very little. And saith
that the cause of his asking the question of the said Michael Pickles as
to his uncle's death was to know what his said uncle said previous to
his death, and if he suffered much."
Mike now descended the stairs, and greatly alarmed his companion by
telling him he was afraid he had killed Sammy. Leaving the bucket
outside the house, they made off to Northwell with their booty--the
cotton pieces, the warps, the shoes, the cloth-coat, the shirt, and,
above all, the oak box with its contents.
Having arrived at Northwell, Mike deposited the cotton pieces and warps
in the hiding-place under the flag-stone. Joan took the shoes. The oak
box they at once burnt to prevent detection, but preserved the
contents. Mike told his wife he was afraid he had killed Sammy, and she
began to cry. He also charged Joan to keep it a secret, even from his
wife, for his revealing it would cause them both to be hanged. In
dividing the money Joan contrived to take advantage of his more crafty
companion; for he pocketed one note unknown to Mike. Mike's "Confession"
says respecting the remaining notes--"John Greenwood took the
guinea-note, and gave me the two Bank of England notes, and I gave him
nine shillings and sixpence in silver, which made it equal--one pound
ten shillings and sixpence each."
William Sutcliffe in his evidence at York said that on going from home
on Monday, February 3rd, "he left his uncle four one-pound notes and
some silver, to pay wages with in his absence. His uncle had also some
notes of his own; among others, one of Mytholm Bank, which had been
issued without the signature of Turner, Bent, and Co. It was No. 63. His
attention had been called to this note on the 1st of February (the
preceding Saturday); his uncle had brought it down-stairs in an old
book: there were also in this book another pound-note and a
guinea-note"--in all seven notes. William Sutcliffe on his return said
that Sammy's three notes were pinned in a ready reckoner. Now, on
examining the house the following morning, among some loose papers in
the window down-stairs, there were found three one-pound notes which had
escaped the notice of the robbers. These three which were left being
added to the four which Mike and Joan took away, made seven notes. It
would seem that Sammy had separated one of William's four notes from the
remaining three; that this note he had placed in his box up-stairs with
the three notes belonging to himself; and that thus his three notes and
one of William's were taken away, while three of William's notes had
been left in the pocket-book in the window down-stairs. The note which
Joan appropriated to himself, unknown to Mike, was the unsigned Mytholm
note. Had this note fallen into Mike's hands, he would probably have
observed the danger arising from the circumstance, and destroyed the
note; but the ignorant and unsuspecting Joan was not aware of the
danger.
There was at this time a set of men in the Cragg valley who went by a
bad name. In order to shift the suspicion of the murder and robbery from
himself and Mike, Joan, on his way home to Bog-eggs, instead of crossing
the valley at Foster Mill, travelled down towards Mytholmroyd, and
crossing the Calder at Carr Bridge, threw down the papers and documents
obtained from Sammy's box at Carr Green, hoping thereby to induce
suspicion that some of the Cragg band were the robbers and murderers.