Sweet Mace: A Sussex Legend of the Iron Times

“What did she want Parson to do?”

“To do, why, to lay the spirit that kept walking uneasily night after night. Ay, and it keeps walking now, as a dozen Roehurst folk could tell, only they won’t speak about it for fear of doing themselves ill.”

“What did Betsy want him to do?”

“Why, just go and cut a piece o’ turf off her grave about a hand-breadth long and a hand-breadth wide, and lay it on the holy table in the church, and after that be done the spirit rests and doesn’t trouble people any more.”

“He might ha’ done that,” said the young mother. “I should say it would be wise to get a bit off Mother Goodhugh’s grave by-and-by to keep her from walking.”

“Eh, but you’ll never find grass grow upon her grave, lass. It will always be black and scathed like.”

“Nay, they’ll never bury her in no grave. She’ll be scattered in dust and ashes to the four winds o’ heaven.”

“Or the other place,” said one of the women, sententiously, and then they all watched the preparations.

“Hush! Look!” cried the young mother in an excited whisper; and a strange murmur ran through the crowd as, at a sign from Sir Thomas, whose florid face was blanched, and blotched with livid patches, a man ran into the cottage with a rough torch.

Master Peasegood saw that the end had come, and, pressing against the pile of faggots which reached up round the victim’s neck, he reached over one hand and touched her cheek.

“Courage, poor soul!” he cried earnestly. “Pray with me for mercy in that other land.”

The wretched woman seemed to be brought back by the parson’s voice, and she stared at him in a curiously dazed manner, her lips moving at last in a whisper that could not be heard.

“Pray with me, my poor soul – let us pray,” cried Master Peasegood eagerly.

“No,” she said sharply. “It be too late. I want to do some good before I die.”

“And it is too late for that,” said Master Peasegood to himself, as the excited murmur of the crowd went on.

“No, not to do – to say something, Master – and – and it seems all gone. Yes; I know,” she cried, striving hard to hold up her head, which fell back again heavily upon her chest. “No, I can’t remember. Yes, Mace, come here, child. I’ll give thee to thy father now.”

“Poor soul, she wanders,” muttered Master Peasegood. Then aloud: – “Try to pray with me, mother. Try – one word.”

“Yes, I was not a witch, master. It was only – Where be Jeremiah Cobbe? Here, let me tell him – quick.”

“He cannot reach thee now, poor soul. Pray with me quickly. Oh, Father have – ”

“Mace. Here – quick, child, come. Poor sweet – I had to fight hard to hate thee. My head – my head.”

Master Peasegood stretched out a hand to try and sustain the palsied head.

“Stand back, sir,” cried Sir Mark fiercely; and he laid his hand upon Master Peasegood’s arm, but the stout cleric shook him off.

“Back yourself, sir,” he cried, “an’ you would not singe your gaudy plumes. My place is here.”

Sir Mark stood back, for at that moment the smoking, flaming torch was thrust into the brushwood, which began to crackle and burn furiously, while a pillar of smoke rose high in the still autumn air, in company with a shriek from the women, some of whom turned away, while others covered their faces with their hands.

The torch was thrust into the faggots again and again, four times in all, and at each thrust there was a burst of flame and a cloud of smoke; but Master Peasegood stirred not, though the flames licked his long black garb.

The torch-bearer then rose up, and was in the act of thrusting his light right in the centre of the pile, when a strong hand seized it, wrenched it from his hand, and hurled it, as the man staggered back, full in the face of Sir Mark.

A loud chirping whistle rang out at the same moment, and a score of the rough country fellows in long gaberdines, who had been so busy in helping, now took advantage of their forward position to seize the burning faggots and hurl them furiously at the armed men.

Almost before the crowd could realise what was taking place, the flaming brushwood was scattered far and wide, and amidst the smoke a tall, bronzed fellow was seen cutting Mother Goodhugh free.

“Take her, Wat; she’s as light as any child,” he cried, in a clear voice. “Lead on, we’ll cover you.”

“Down with them!” shouted Sir Mark, as he recovered from his astonishment; and, drawing his sword, he made a rush at the disturbers of the judicial tragedy.

His first attempt, though, was unfortunate, for he fell over the prostrate body of Master Peasegood, who had been overset in the struggle; and his men hung back as they saw the rough-looking countrymen whip out the weapons they had concealed beneath their gaberdines, and form a bold front.

There was ample room, for the crowd fled shrieking as the bright steel flashed before their eyes. They had gazed in a stupefied, puzzled manner at the disturbance of the faggot pile, and wondered whether it was part of the show or the result of witchcraft; but the bold rescue of the wretched woman they could understand, and they hastened to find safety in flight.

Sir Mark was not long in recovering himself, and, calling to the armed men to follow, he pursued the retiring party, which retreated steadily along the narrow track, which, after it had passed Mother Goodhugh’s, gradually assumed the nature of a forest footpath, and grew more rugged at every step.

Attempts were made to outflank the party, but the density of the forest rendered that impossible, and those who left the path lost ground, while Sir Mark found himself kept at bay by the rear-guard of the retreating men.

“These are no countrymen,” he muttered to himself, as he saw how steadily they kept up the retreat; and he was in the act of cheering on his little force to make a rush where the pathway opened a little, when cries from behind warned him that he was attacked in the rear.

He bit his lip angrily as he found how cleverly his men were trapped, for it was evident enough that a portion of those he pursued had turned off to right or left, allowing him and his men to pass, and then closing up to attack, this rear movement being the signal for those in front to turn and make a desperate charge upon him and his London men.

It was so sharp a surprise that, at the end of five minutes’ cutting and thrusting, Sir Mark was down, faint and sick from a slash across the cheek, and his men had thrown up their weapons and fled helter-skelter through the forest, leaving the rescuers of Mother Goodhugh to proceed in peace.

“Single file, my lads, and away!” cried a well-known voice. “One of you relieve Wat Kilby, and change and change as you grow fagged. Wat, go round by the lower stream. I’ll come last and hide the trail.”

It required little hiding, for the men passed on and disturbed the herbage but slightly, while, after turning off to right and left in various narrow half-hidden tracks, their course could not have been discovered by the keenest eye, especially as one cut was made right across the forest.

Not a word was spoken, and the roughly-clad, brown-faced men went steadily on. Their load was changed from time to time, and after a while a stoppage was made by a stream, where Mother Goodhugh’s face was bathed, and the leader, whom it would have puzzled his best friends to have taken for Gilbert Carr, knelt beside her, and poured a few drops of spirits between her lips.

“Think she’s burned, captain?” said a rough voice that could be none other than that of Wat Kilby.

“No,” was the reply, “but I fear we were too late. She will hardly live to our journey’s end. Forward, my lads, forward! Did anyone see aught of Master Cobbe?”

“I saw him turn away and go behind the cart,” said one of the men. “He was not in the fight.”

“And Master Peasegood?”

“I helped him up, captain, and he staggered to the bank, and sat down on a half-burned faggot.”

“Then they are all right,” said the captain, musingly. “Wat, we shall have to be off to sea again at once. This affair will make the country too hot to hold us.”

“Why did you do it then?” growled the old man, gruffly, as he limped along, his scarred face shining in the sun. “She was no good, and will only curse us for our pains.”

“Well, Wat,” said the captain, sadly, “and if she does, we can bear another curse or too.”

“Ay, or a hundred,” was the reply.

It was a hot walk, through the still woods and over streams and ravine-scored hills. The men, as they grew heated, stripped off their rough country Saxon gaberdines, and appeared as light, active seamen of the time, one and all taking turns in carrying Mother Goodhugh, for whom a rough kind of hurdle had been hastily twisted together, and upon it she was laid.

At last the little party was ascending one rugged side of the valley where Anne Beckley had been left to wait the coming of her lover; and after a weary climb the men all had a rest, seating themselves by the spring that gushed from the rocks where the ferns and mosses hung, and after tempering the clear fluid with spirit they began to smoke.

“Let her rest for a time,” said Gil; “there is no danger here. Poor soul! A narrow escape from death.” As he spoke he covered the wretched creature with a cloak, and placed a doubled gaberdine beneath hothead.

He again trickled a few drops of spirits between the cracked white lips; and, after watching its effects, he rose from his knees, leaving Wat Kilby to fill his little pipe.

“Not much of a job after a twelvemonths’ cruise,” muttered Wat, as he limped uneasily up and down, “but better than leaving the poor old lass to burn. She’s too old and ugly, or she might have done; for I want a wife. Bah! No. She wouldn’t do. She’s not the witch I want. Eh! captain, did you call?”

“Yes,” was the reply; and, on rising, the old lieutenant scrambled up to where Gil, who looked bronzed and ten years older, stood pointing to the stones at the mouth of the store.

“Not been touched, eh, skipper?” said the old fellow.

“No; not by anything more than a rabbit,” said Gil, in a grave, quiet voice. “Get up the bars when the lads are rested. We shall have to stay here for the night.”

How Wat Kilby fired a train and Mother Goodhugh spoke

Gil sat down beside the old woman and remained thinking of what had taken place during the past year. He had sailed away, reckless and heart-broken, caring little where he went, and, after discharging cargo in one of the Spanish ports, he had taken in provisions, and, his men rather welcoming the change, he had made sail for the far East, touching at Ceylon; then on to the Eastern Islands, the lands of spices and strange growths. It was an aimless voyage, but they took in small articles of cargo – silk here, rice there, and dye-woods; and then sailing further went north and east to China and Japan, before the vessel’s stem was turned once more for home.

For a strange sense of longing had come over Gil Carr. Months back he had felt that he could never see Roehurst more. Then came the change, with its longing void in his heart. Night and day it was ever the same. There was the old place before his eyes, and a something tugging at his heartstrings to draw him back. The face of Sweet Mace seemed gazing appealingly in his as it asked him to come and save her.

“Save her – from what?” he cried passionately, as he paced up and down the little deck, looking wild-eyed and strange, while his men whispered the one to the other, and he set his teeth firmly and his eyes flashed with anger, for he knew they thought him mad.

It was the work of a minute almost. They were sailing into a fresh port in Japan, where they could see the strangely-dressed people staring at the new comers from the decks of their junks, when Gil suddenly gave orders – he recalled it all – orders to ’bout ship, and they were obeyed without a word.

It was not until they had been sailing on for days that Wat Kilby had come to him with the gruff question, “Where to now, skipper?”

“Home!” was the single word spoken in reply; and then, as he stood gazing straight before him at the wide expanse of ocean, there arose from the crew a tremendous cheer.

He recalled it all – how he had stood gazing there while order after order was given by Wat Kilby; how sail after sail had been set and the little vessel careened to the breeze; while ever before him, with a smile upon her face, the figure of Mace seemed to stand waving him on.

And so it had been during the homeward voyage. Every sail the vessel would bear had been kept set, and she seemed to skim over the sea in fair weather, and to battle bravely in foul, to get back to the little river and her ancient moorings beneath the trees.

He recalled telling himself that he was mad, for this was but another phase of his humour. But a short time back he was restless to get farther and farther away; now he had conjured up this phantasy to call him back – back to what?

A bitter sob would struggle from his heart as he told himself it was to gaze again upon poor Mace’s grave.

Always there, sleeping or waking, never shut from his mental vision, that sweet, pale face smiling at him as the ship sped on; and only when forced by want of provisions did they enter port, till once more upon the tide the weather-beaten ship rode safely into the mouth of the little river. Then the big boat was lowered and manned, a tow-rope run out, and the men pulled cheerily to keep the little vessel’s head straight as she glided on up the fast narrowing stream, till the spars nearly touched the branches on either side, and her old moorings were made.

Wat Kilby played the part of spy, and went ashore, for now that they were back the fancy that had floated before Gil’s eyes had been seen no more; and moody and despondent he had shrunk from leaving his ship.

It was Wat Kilby then who made his way over the hills and through the forest to the village, and had borne back the news which stirred Gil to action; and for Mace’s sake, as he said, he had determined to save poor old Mother Goodhugh from so horrible a fate.

“She would have urged me to do it,” he said to himself; and, making his plans, he had been successful; while there, half dead, the poor creature lay, with the adventurer sitting meditating by her side.

“What shall I do now?” said Gil to himself in a bitter tone. “Set sail again, I suppose, for this Sir Mark, unless too busy with his wedding, will try to hunt us down.

“Well, let him come if he will,” he added, wearily, and then rising. “Now, my lads!” he cried, “to work.”

His men jumped up; and as he stood by, watching and thinking how in one year the ferns and wild plants set in the crevices had concealed the mouth of the store, iron bars and shovels were plied, the stones loosened and thrown aside, till at last only one large piece remained, and that had so tightly wedged itself in that it resisted all their efforts to dislodge it.

“Come boys,” Wat Kilby cried, “have you left all your strength in the Indies? Lay to at it with a will. Now, all together – heave ho!”

As he spoke he brought his whole strength to bear upon it, but dropped the bar directly after, and stood shaking his head; for he had never recovered from the terrible burns and injuries he had received at the explosion – injuries that had left him for months a helpless invalid during the early part of the voyage, and a cripple for life.

“Skipper,” he said, “I’m not quite so strong as I was, and my bones don’t seem to be knit together as they were. It’ll take some pounds o’ Mas’ Cobbe’s best to lift that out.”

Gil frowned, for the old man’s speech brought up a host of painful recollections.

“Shall we get up some powder, skipper?” said Wat.

“And fire the barrels that are in the store?” said Gil sternly.

“Nay,” growled the old fellow; “we could hoist out that stone without reaching any that is in yonder: it is too far away.”

“Get it then,” said Gil indifferently; and a couple of men were despatched to the ship, returning after some two or three hours with the keg, which they carried in turn.

Mother Goodhugh had not moved, but lay in a kind of stupor with half-closed eyes, Gil sitting near and dreaming over the past.

A slight rustle near him made him gaze upwards once to see a rabbit scurry away from a hole beneath the great stone, and this he marked as suitable for laying the charge to lift away the mass.

At last, the men came toiling up the steep ascent, and Wat Kilby busied himself in preparing a mine that should do what was required without further damage to the store.

It was soon done – a train laid, and a fuse prepared. Then Mother Goodhugh was carefully lifted and laid behind a corner of the rock, where harm could not befall her, and Wat Kilby stood ready to fire the fuse after seeing all the men were safe.

“Now, captain,” he said, “as soon as you like.”

“Stop a moment,” said Gil, thoughtfully, though all the time he was experiencing a fierce longing to enter the cave once more.

“What for, captain?” said Wat gruffly, as he puffed at his pipe.

“The sound may be heard, and bring Sir Mark’s fellows down.”

“Nay,” cried Wat, “the noise will run down the valley and out to sea, my lad. They’ll not hear it inland, I lay my life. Bah! and if they did, what then? No one could find his way here without a guide.”

“Go on, then,” said Gil quietly; and, drawing back to the shelter of a little recess, he stood watching the acts of Wat Kilby, a famous old gunner in his way, as, after puffing at his pipe to make it glow, he just touched the end of the fuse, laid the other end by the train, and limped coolly to the captain’s side.

From the rocky recess they could see the fuse sparkle and burn rapidly away, and listen to the buzz of the voices of the crew as they talked of the explosion; then a zigzag line of fire seemed to run along amongst the heather and ferns; there was a blinding flash, a thick white smoke, and, lastly, a heavy dull roar that rolled down the ravine, and the fall of masses of the splintered rock.

The smoke rose slowly over the face of the cliff, showing the grey and blackened traces where the fire had blasted bush and tree; while, where the large block of sandstone had lain was now a dark opening, the rock having been lifted right away, reft in twain, and thrown some yards down the slope.

“There, skipper,” growled Wat, as he limped along, and the men came up; “there be not a cask split inside I’ll wager, and a few showers of rain will hide all the marks.”

Gil nodded.

“Four of you bring the old woman along,” he said. “We’ll make her a bed inside. Good God!”

He was startled at what he saw, for the explosion seemed to have roused Mother Goodhugh, who came crawling painfully towards them to raise herself upon her knees and point, and struggle to speak.

“Yes, yes,” she cried. “Powder, powder – the cursed stuff. Cobbe’s work; Cobbe’s work. He slew my dear with it, and now – ha, ha, ha! I have brought it home to him. Listen, boy, come here.”

Gil stepped to her side, and she clutched at his wrist, and clung to it, as she turned her ashy, distorted face to him, but only for it to droop back upon her chest so that she gazed at him in a way that was horribly grotesque.

“Listen; do you hear. She wanted it stopped – that wedding – Mistress Anne – the jealous fool, and paid me for it all. I did – I stopped it. Do you hear? I got the key – the powder-cellar, and laid a train – a long, long, train all the way to the cellar, and hid myself in the garden – there safe away. Do you see? just down yonder,” she panted, pointing to the part of the ravine from which she had crawled.

“I did it – I did it. I waited hours and hours till you came by me – all of you, and began to fight with Sir Mark’s men – and then I struck with my flint and steel – and the fire – ran along the ground – and the powder blew up as it did when I lost my dear, and – and – why is it daylight? Why does the sun shine?” she continued, gazing wildly from one to the other.

“She’s daft,” growled Wat. “Poor soul! they have frightened away her wits.”

“Silence,” cried Gil. “Let her speak.”

“Who says I’m daft?” cried Mother Goodhugh, gathering strength. “I am not; but I know, I know. Ha, ha, ha! I wanted to stop the wedding and make my words come true. It was a judgment, too, on Mas’ Jeremiah Cobbe, and I fired his powder-store.”

“She thinks it is a year ago,” muttered Gil, gazing at her with horror.

“Yes, yes. I’ve had my revenge,” muttered the old woman, gazing round wildly, as she struggled to keep her head erect, “and burnt his place. He has paid me now for my dearies, whom he killed. Poor souls! poor souls! One so white and cold when they drew him from the water; the other so blackened and so burned. But she was not so burned. Poor child! poor child! poor child!”

“Mother Goodhugh,” cried Gil hoarsely, “did you fire the Pool-house?”

“Yes, yes, yes; the powder,” gibbered the old woman, as she dragged her head up, and it once more fell back upon her chest. “I did it well; and now I’ll forgive him. I’ll curse Mas’ Cobbe no more. I did it just now. You heard it roar. See, it has burned my hands – my hair, but never mind; I’ve had revenge.”

“Then it was you who fired the powder there – that dreadful night,” cried Gil furiously, as he clutched the weak old creature by the throat.

“Yes, I did it,” chuckled the old woman; then, throwing up her hands as if in pain – “but Sweet Mace – poor Sweet Mace – they thought it killed her, too. I hated her; and yet, no; she was very good and sweet. I saw him bring her out – yes, it was you – and laid her – dead upon the ground. Yes, I saw; and she turned to a white spirit – yes, white spirit – and she comes to see me – no: does she? – I can’t think – it was just now I got her out, and she has come to me ever since, so white and sad, and she looks at me always with her great soft eyes. Poor child! poor girl! I’ve wept about her sore, for she was as good and gentle as Mistress Anne was bad.”

The spirit was in Gil Carr to strangle the old woman as she made her hideous confession, but her words of pity for sweet Mace disarmed him, and he let her sink to the earth, where she crouched, gazing feebly from one to the other, and fighting hard to sustain her tottering head.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she moaned piteously; “she comes looking so white and sad to ask me why I killed her, and it makes my heart so sore. But I shall bring her to her senses again some day, perhaps – some day. Hush, hush! not a word. If you speak she goes again. There – there – look, look!” cried the old woman in a hoarse whisper, as, throwing one arm round Gil’s leg, she leaned her head against it, steadied herself, and pointed with her skinny fingers. “Yes, there she be. Poor child! poor child! Mace, child, I did not mean to harm thee. Wilt forgive me, dear? See! see!”

As she pointed they glanced in the direction indicated by the old woman’s finger, and Gil uttered a cry, for in the dark, powder-riven entry to the store, and not a dozen yards away, stood a weird figure with long, flowing hair. The arms and shoulders were bare, and the white hands covered the face, giving it as it stood in the obscurity of the cave a spiritual look that made even the least superstitious of the party – Gil himself – shudder, feeling that he was in the presence of a being of another world.

How Culverin Carr solved a Problem

Sweet Mace stood motionless in the opening, a soft blue reek floating gently out from the store, as the damp air of the place was driven forth by a downward current through a fissure far in its depths; and this, as it surrounded the rescued prisoner, added to the unreality of the scene. For the figure was seen through a medium that rendered it unsubstantial in aspect, added to which the deadly whiteness of the brow and hands made it look unnatural to a degree.

For some time no one spoke. The men grouped together, stared at the strange apparition in the cavern mouth, and Wat Kilby gazed from it to his leader and back, while the soft wind wafted the blue haze from the opening away from the motionless figure, and then enveloped it again, as if it were part and parcel of the subterranean abode, and it sought to draw its occupant back to its shades.

Mother Goodhugh was the first to break the silence, as, crawling towards the place on hands and knees, she crouched at last at Mace’s feet, and lay there, panting.