The Glorious Hand of Whittington

A Historical Halloween tale from the 18th Century

Good Morning America or whatever time zone you are in, in the world on this glorious day in Derbyshire UK.

I felt like giving you all a free treat without any tricks at this mystical season of Halloween. My treat is free access to my Second Derbyshire Legend, adapted from a manuscript originally written in 1737, by someone else of course, as I was a mere boy at the time. Remember I am the Yorkshire Fenix arisen from the ashes.

If you enjoy reading this short story then for a modest fee you can access my other contributions by subscribing to Yorkshirefenix@7thwave.io

The Second Derbyshire Legend - The Glorious Hand of Whittington

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Whittington Moor was a lone bleak moor in 1735, some few miles north from the Church with the Crooked Spire.

Beneath the gallows tree, the murderers stand, hand in hand. There were three of them who stood in the moon’s cold grey light. Each touched the ‘form’ in turn, while the storm raged. The cold wind howled and the thunder growled, the lightening was broad and bright against the ashen sky.

So without a doubt it was very bad weather to be out and about, an unpleasant sort of a night.

The leader touching the hanging man’s wrist said to his compatriots, “sever me quickly, the dead man’s fist”, “Now which one of you dares to climb the body where he swings and pluck me five locks of a dead man’s hair”?

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Upon Whittington Moor an old woman dwelled in an old mud hut, she had at least four score years upon her back, some locals said she had a great many more. Her nose was hooked and her back was bent, her eyes were red and bleary. On the top of her head she wore a ‘Mutch’ and on top of that a really bad hat. The hat was extinguisher shaped, the brims narrow and flat. Her face was covered in a beard – from her appearance it was hard to tell her sex. The locals said you couldn’t tell whether she was a Punch or Judy.

That cold evening she sat with her knees up to her nose and her nose to her chin when a knock was heard on the rough plank of wood that acted as the door. She leered up with a queer expectant but indescribable grin. The murderers stood at the door, hand in hand. It was a horrible sight, the horrible crew at the horrible hovel being welcomed by the horrible old woman.

In the pale blue glare of the flickering flame, her words struck fear, as the prayer was said backwards with a sneer, that began with Amen. It was awful to hear. The murderer placed the dead shrivelled hand upon the old woman’s knee which she grasped with great glee.

Then the five locks of hair from the hanging man’s skull, with it’s grease and the fat of a black Tom cat is mixed and the locks of hair twisted into wicks, she recited the words of the spell,

Now open lock

to the dead man’s knock

fly bolt, and bar, and band

nor move, nor swerve

joint, muscle, or nerve.

At the spell of the dead man’s hand!

Sleep all who sleep!

Wake all who wake!

but be as the dead for the dead man’s sake!!

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In Whittington Hall, all was still except for the restless night outside. The great and the small, the gentle and the simple, the Squire and the Groom. Each had retired to the security of their separate rooms. The dark mantle of sleep had swept over them for the midnight hour had long passed. From all the windows nothing could be seen, but high on the moor the tiny stream continued it relentless journey to the valley below increasing in size along the way.

All was still and silent in the Hall, the Squire and the Groom in their separate rooms lay sleeping soundly then the Squire awakes, something on his mind. He’s in his secret lair where none may spy his wrinkled brow. He’s a man with thin grey locks what are left on his pate which is almost bare. When out and about he wears his full bottomed wig which is bushy and long, but now it sits on the back of his old fashioned high backed chair. His clothes are unbraced, his hose ungartered. His magnificent gown is bedizened with large tulips and roses of every hue – flowers such as Eden never knew.

In front of the Squire is a heap of good red gold And there lies the reason for the concern that robs him of much needed sleep. As he gloats on his treasure greedily, the fare ‘Rose Noble’, the ‘Bright Moidore’ and the broad ‘Double Joe’ from across the seas, he is unaware of one who watches him from a closet close by. On his truckle bed lies a little Foot-page, a lad uncommonly sharp for his age, like ‘Little Jack Horner’ who in his corner sat eating his Christmas Pie, Little Hugh peeps through a gap in the boards, whilst unaware, the old gentleman counts his hoards.

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The old man starts in his cane backed chair, he senses a voice in the air, a step on the stair. At the first faint sound he gazes around, his little Pug dog sniffs inquisitively. The steps though low get clearer as he hears the unholy words of the dead man’s spell.

Open lock

To the dead man’s knock

Fly bolt, and bar, and band

Nor move, nor swerve,

Joint, Muscle or Nerve

At the spell of the dead man’s hand.

Sleep all who sleep!

Wake all who wake!

But be as dead for the dead man’s sake.

Now lock, nor bolt, nor bar avails

Nor stout oak panel, thick studded with nails

Heavy and harsh the hinges creak

Though they had been oiled that very week

The door opens wide as wide maybe and there they stand, the murderous band of three, lit by the light of the GLORIOUS HAND, they passed by him.

They had passed through the porch and the hall, past the Porter who didn’t awake, he sat snoring and apart from that you’d have thought him dead as the GLORIOUS HAND passed by him.

And now the unscrupulous band reached the head of the stair and the scene was so horrible I fear to describe it. The wild, wild glare of the old man’s eyes, his dumb despair and deep agony.

The kid from the pen, the lamb from the fold are unmoved by the butchers blade, they dream not that the knife is for them. Until the knife drops, they dream not. It falls – the frail thread of their being is riven.

But for the old man who sees and knows that the bare knife is raised in the hand of the foe, he has no hope to repel or ward off the blow. I go no deeper into the fate of that grey unhappy old man.

But what of Hugh? He was aghast at the view through the crack in the wall, powerless to speak or do anything. In vain he tried to open his eyes but the scene was too horrific for one so young.

The weather at sunrise was bright, the grey clouds and tempest had died away, and it looked like being a very fine day. A lark was singing unaware of the shrieks and screams that filled the air throughout Whittington Hall. The Gentle and Simple, The Groom and the Porter had all hasten to the old man’s room, and there on the floor, the ghastly corpse lay exposed to the view, drenched in gore, Carotid and Jugular cut through. At his side, knelt the little foot page of the tenderest years. Fast falling tears ran down his cheeks. He was trying to staunch the blood with the full bottomed wig. Pointless of course, when the Jugular has been cut it’s all over for the victim.

***********************************************

There was a Hue and Cry throughout North Derbyshire and in chase of the cut-throats a Constable was sent to Whittington but there was no one to tell him which way the perpetrators had fled. The only witnesses was the little Foot-Page and the little Pug dog.

In Chesterfield at the sign of The George in the Shambles sat three shabbily dressed genteel men being served with a fat stubble goose with potatoes done brown. A little Foot-Page rushed in, upsetting the Apple Sauce, Onions and Sage, he takes the first man by the throat, the little Pug dog seizes the second by his coat and the Constable seizes the one farthest away. The waiter pulls out fair ‘Rose Nobles’ and ‘Broad Moidores’. The Boots and Chambermaids rush in and stare at the commotion.“You’re wanted Gentlemen one and all, for that precious lark at Whittington Hall.

There’s a black gibbet frowns upon Whittington Moor, where a former black gibbet has frowned before. It is as black as can be and murderers dangle there in the air. Three of them.

There’s a horrid old hag in a steeple crowned hat, round her neck they have tied a hempen cravat, a dead man’s hand and a dead Tom cat. They have tied up her thumbs and toes and her eyes and limbs. She’s been thrown into the Mill Pond in Whittington and to whoops and hollers they say She swims!, she swims! They drag her to land. A queer looking horseman appears, dressed all in black, he snatches up the old Harridan just like a sack. To the crupper behind him, puts the spurs to his hack, and makes a dash through the crowd at a crack.

No one can tell what will happen to her though they guess pretty well by the way the grim rider and the old woman head. For all see he’s a sort of infernal Ducrow. We can fairly decide the old woman did not relish the ride.

The Moral of the Story

This truest of stories confirms beyond doubt

That truest of adages – ‘murder will out!’

In vain may the blood-spiller ‘double’ and fly,

In vain even witchcraft and sorcery try:

Although for a time he may ’scape’, by and by

He’ll be sure to be caught by a Hue and Cry!

FOOTNOTE - They tell me this was bedtime reding for children at the time to teach them right from wrong. —’Thou shalt not kill’ Hm???

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