THE WRECKERS
Stories of Human Ghouls
THERE are few things more fiendish to be found in the story of the sea than the wholesale system of wrecking which was in practice from early times up to comparatively recent years. The wreckers were nothing less than ghouls who preyed upon mariners whom they had lured to destruction. Very severe laws were made to deal with them, but it is to be feared that they were very ineffective.
On September 11, 1773, the Charming Jenny, Captain Chilcot, was battling bravely against a storm off the Isle of Anglesea. For a while all went well, and Chilcot thought that he could weather the storm. Away in the distance there suddenly appeared lights as of ships passing in the night. But, had he known it, they were false lights—lanterns tied around horses’ necks. Scoundrelly men were leading the horses along the cliff-heads, taking care that they were near the rocks which poked their cruel noses above water. Chilcot, taking these lights for those of ships passing in the night, steered his vessel towards them, thinking he would thereby be safe.
Then, when it was too late, he discovered his mistake; there was a crunching, grinding noise as the Charming Jenny hurled herself on the rocks, and in an incredibly short time went to pieces, carrying all her crew to destruction with the exception of Chilcot and his wife, who were fortunate in getting on to a piece of wreckage, and after some hours of agony and exposure were washed ashore in an exhausted condition and were scarcely able to move. There, on the beach, they lay for a while, hoping for succour, instead of which there came—the wreckers. These, when they were satisfied that their fell work had been successful, hurried down from the cliffs and, searching the shore, came upon the almost lifeless bodies of the man and woman.
Chilcot they seized and took away, stripped him of his clothes, even cut the buckles from his shoes, and then left him to shift for himself. His first thought was for his wife, and hurrying as fast as he could to the shore, he found her—dead. The wreckers had killed her and carried away the bank bills and seventy guineas she had in her pocket.
The significant thing about this incident was that Chilcot, getting assistance from two kindly people near by, put the authorities at work, with the result that three men were arrested, and found to be well-to-do folk—one of them, indeed, so wealthy that he could offer £5,000 bail when he was arraigned at Shrewsbury Assizes! Probably these gentry had fattened on the misfortunes of dozens of other unfortunate mariners.
An incident of wrecking in Cornwall in 1838 is typical in many respects. The wreckers in this case were the miners of Sennen, who one day noticed a ship trying to beat up the Channel against a fierce storm. As it was daylight, the miners grumbled at the fate which seemed as though it had sent a prize to taunt them, for they could not lure the ship to destruction while it was light. But knowing, with that instinct of the coast-dwellers, that the storm would hold on for some time, and that the ship could not hope to make much headway, they set a number of men on watch on the cliffs to keep the ship in sight until night fell. Meanwhile the wreckers went on with their mining. When night fell they rushed to the coast, and soon were sent to a particularly dangerous part. They carried a lantern, which they set on a cliff-head.
To the mariners on the battling ship it seemed like a beacon. Where they had been buffeting blindly before, with no light to guide them, now they were able to take bearings. The captain set his course by the light, but, past masters in their craft, the wreckers manipulated the light so that the skipper was deceived, and, although he did not know it, he was gradually getting closer and closer to the shore.
Crash! The ship hit the rocks, and at once realising that he had been trapped, the skipper shouted commands; men flew to do his bidding, but the ship refused to budge; she was fast on the rocks.
Then the wreckers fell to work. There were no fewer than two thousand of them, and while the captain and crew were intent on getting ashore, the wreckers busied themselves in taking out everything of value, stripping the ship clean. The captain, knowing that the fiends had lured him to destruction, rallied his men together to oppose them. But what could a handful of men do against such a horde? Although the mariners put up a gallant fight, they were defeated and many of them cut down.
Then the coastguard turned up. Again only a handful to oppose thousands, who, in possession of a rich prize, were determined nothing should rob them of it. So there was another fight, fierce hand-to-hand tussles at first, for the coastguards did not wish to kill; then, when the wreckers began to menace their very lives, the coastguards opened fire. This only enraged the wreckers more, and they fell upon the officers, who were at last driven off, unable to cope with the force arrayed against them.
Then the wreckers completed their fell work.
In 1731—during the reign of George II., that is—there sailed from Copenhagen a Danish East Indiaman, the Golden Lion, with a valuable cargo, including twelve large chests of silver valued at about £16,000. Captain Heitman, of the Golden Lion, after encountering bad weather in the Channel and being driven northward to the Kerry coast, at last put into the Bay of Tralee, near the northern shore of which there lies another bay, called the Bay of Ballyheigue, abounding with sunken rocks and sandbanks, a place of terror to mariners.
How it happened is not clear, but on October 28 the Golden Lion entered this treacherous bay. It has been asserted that the men of Kerry lured her by false lights, though they vowed their innocence. In any case, the Golden Lion was in a serious fix, and the only way to save the crew was for Captain Heitman to steer his ship ashore. This he did, and succeeded in saving the sixty men comprising the crew, and also the £16,000 of silver and various other things, though the Golden Lion herself became a total wreck.
To the credit of the Kerry men be it said that for a long time the Danes were hospitably treated by them; the officers were housed at Ballyheigue House, and their treasure was allowed to be stored in an old tower, at the south-west corner of the court belonging to the house. The crew were taken in to billet at various houses round about. Meanwhile, Heitman sent news to London and Copenhagen of his misfortune; but it would appear that these never reached their destination, being held up in Ballyheigue, and the Danes had to wait long, and as patiently as they could, for news that never came.
Then there began to be a change in the attitude of the Kerry men. Thomas Crosbie, owner of Ballyheigue House, died, and a relative named Arthur Crosbie came to the help of his widow and mother, executors of the late host. Now, Arthur Crosbie was a queer customer—hard up, crafty, always with his nose in other people’s business. He felt that the Danes should be made to pay something out of their hoard for all the hospitality shown them. Heitman, nothing averse to doing so, objected, however, to the charges put down by Crosbie—namely, £4,000—and he sent a letter of complaint—though how it got through goodness only knows—to Dublin. The authorities at Dublin sent back a message that the Danes were not to be imposed upon; and Crosbie knew that he had been foiled.
But only in one direction, for his crafty mind soon set to work to devise a plan whereby he could get some of that treasure in the vaults beneath the square tower of Ballyheigue House; and he was not alone in his plotting, for others of the Kerry men were of much the same mind as he was.
A pretty plot was in the way of being hatched.
A man named Cantillon (a distant relative of the Crosbies) started things seriously. He conferred with David Lawlor, who kept an inn at Tralee, in April, 1732, and the result of their confab was that they paid a visit to the farm at Beinaree belonging to the Protestant Archdeacon of Ardfert, the Rev. Francis Lauder, who was also a J.P. The plotters told their scheme to one named Ryan, tithe-proctor and steward to the archdeacon, and he eagerly threw in his lot with them. The prize was worth it. He promised to do his best to get other helpers, and that night he tackled John Kevane, a labourer on the farm.
Now, Kevane was wary; he was not at all opposed to the plot, but he wanted to be sure that it had substantial backing in the shape of “the gentlemen of the county.” Ryan was evasive on this point.
“I’m going to see the master,” he said, “and feel sure that the gentry will consent to it.” But Kevane was not at all convinced, and reserved his opinion.
Having so far committed himself, Ryan naturally had to follow the matter up with Kevane and get him into the plot, lest he gave information; and next day he tried again to persuade him.
“If the gentry are really in it,” said Kevane at last, “then some of them ought to appear in it, so as to spirit up the folk.”
“We can’t ask them to do that,” answered Ryan craftily; “it would hardly do. But I can tell you, Kevane, that their servants are going to help us.”
This sounded reasonable to Kevane, who therefore agreed to enter into the conspiracy, and very soon Cantillon, Lawlor, and Ryan found themselves with a fairly respectable (or disreputable) following, including William Banner, the butler, and Richard Ball, the steward at Ballyheigue, Captain Stephen Macmahon, and John Malony, his mate.
There was one other man Cantillon was anxious to have in with him. This was Denis Cahane, a poor smallholder at Kilgobbin, who refused at first, but at last asked time to think it over. Thinking it over, he felt he would like advice, and, having been told that the gentry were in it, had a talk with his landlord, Mr. John Carrick, a J.P. The magistrate soon put Cahane right, and told him to have nothing to do with the matter, and the poor chap gave his promise.
“Keep it quiet, sir,” he said tremblingly, “or they’ll kill me for an informer!”
Cahane knew Cantillon and his roguish comrades!
The following Sunday, May 16th, Cantillon was coming for Cahane’s answer, and the smallholder, worried almost to death, interviewed the Protestant vicar in the morning, after the service at Kilgobbin. To him he poured out his story, asking him to keep his informant’s name secret. The vicar promised, and then went to see Mr. Carrick, whom he asked to warn Lady Margaret Crosbie of the plot, so that she might put the Danes upon their guard. Carrick promised, and then broke his word; whereupon, some days later, the vicar himself called upon Lady Margaret and told the whole of the tale.
Lady Margaret thanked him, and promised to warn the Danes and get them to remove the chests of silver from the vault to her house, where it would be quite safe.
As a matter of fact, the good kind lady was in the plot, and she did not warn the Danes. The conspirators were able, therefore, to set about maturing their plans which, with so many people concerned, it is not surprising became common knowledge amongst the peasants, rumours even reaching Tralee Custom House, whence Heitman was advised to obtain a guard of troops from Tralee barracks.
One would have thought that, in view of this information, Heitman would have taken every precaution; but he did not. Instead of applying for soldiers he contented himself with asking Lady Margaret to let him have some of the arms which had been put under lock and key when the Golden Lion was wrecked; and when his request was refused, and yet another that he might gather all his crew into the ground floor of the square tower, he apparently shrugged his shoulders and let the matter slide!
Then Dick Ball turned traitor; he confided to one of the Danes, John Suchdorf, that there was going to be an attempt to steal the silver. But for sheer foolishness these mariners want beating. Suchdorf shrugged his shoulders, laughed all over his honest face, and told Ball it was a really fine joke he was trying to play on him! And he doesn’t even seem to have told the captain, though perhaps it would have done no good if he had.
It came about, then, that when the plotters considered the time ripe everything was clear. The day determined on was June 5, when Lady Margaret had a few friends come to her house on a visit.
At dinner that evening Captain Heitman and his officers were invited to join the party, probably to keep them out of the way, for while the convivialities were in progress our old friend Suchdorf noticed that three men were prowling about the foot of the square tower; and a little later saw Lawlor and a companion go into Ballyheigue House. In view of what he had been told previously, had Suchdorf been anything but a muddle-headed man, he would have suspected what was afoot and rushed off to Captain Heitman; but he did nothing, said nothing, not even when, about seven o’clock, he came upon Ball and Malony and three or four others gathered about the tower. So the plot, which was coming to a head, was allowed to progress unimpeded, and soon after midnight, when everyone had retired to rest, there was a fine hullabaloo—guns were firing, men were shouting, women screaming, and doors being banged, opened and shut noisily as folk awoke.
The work was in hand!
When they were sure that the people were in bed the conspirators had rushed the tower, and, with cutlass and pistol, had fallen upon the sentries which Heitman always had there. There was a stiff, stern fight for a short while, and two of the sentries fell to the ground, dead, the third managing to get away, wounded and bleeding, to arouse Suchdorf and his other comrades. Suchdorf now began to realise that there had been something in Ball’s story, and, jumping out of bed, he dashed down to the door, followed by Alexander Foster, Peter Mingard, and George Jenesen. They put up a fine show, and succeeded in forcing the thieves out of the tower and fastening the door; after which they hurried upstairs and, looking out of a window, saw “a great multitude, whose faces were blacked.”
Here was a fine to do; the whole countryside seemed to be come out against them, and the four men had only a case of arms and one gun amongst them, and only enough powder and ball for one charge! They conferred amongst themselves, and realising that they could make but little resistance, and that futile, they would be better not to make any at all, lest “it might be the means to have them murdered.”
Meanwhile, in Ballyheigue House all was excitement. Heitman, hearing the noise, and realising that his silver was perhaps in danger after all, dashed downstairs, to find the hall filled with the guests and other occupants of the house.
“My silver!” he cried. “It is being stolen! Help me to drive the thieves off!” He hurled himself at the door, trying to pull back the bolts. Before he could do this, however, Lady Margaret, crafty woman that she was, threw herself in front of him, and beseeched him not to be foolhardy!
“They will kill you!” she cried. “Stay here!”
And Heitman stayed, while away over at the tower things were moving pretty briskly. The conspirators had forced their way in, and, working like Titans, got all the silver-chests out, and by various means took them into certain places previously arranged. The holy Lauder, archdeacon and magistrate, had considerately lent his chaise and horses, and these bore away three of the chests to his farm, where they were broken open and their contents divided amongst the thieves. Six chests were left at Ballyheigue, to be shared later; one was carried to Tralee for the same purpose, but was afterwards seized by the soldiers; and two others were hidden safely at Ballygown.
And the Lady Margaret and her family received half the proceeds!
Poor Captain Heitman! When it was too late he called for the aid of the authorities; and although the soldiers managed to seize the chest that was taken to Tralee, and though Heitman offered a tenth part of the treasure to anyone who would give information that would lead to the recovery of the treasure, all he ever got back was some £4,000. A good part of it probably went across the seas in Malony’s ship.
Justice was very tardy; after many weeks nine or ten of the thieves were caught, though only three were convicted. One was hanged, but a second cheated the gallows by committing suicide; and the third was pardoned, because Heitman thought he might turn King’s evidence, as did some of the others who were caught. Seeing that the “gentry” were in it, it is not surprising that justice was tardy, and that Heitman was kept in Ireland until the autumn of 1735, waiting for justice and his treasure—and got neither.
Whether the Kerry men had lured the Golden Lion to her destruction or not, there is no doubt that they were of the family of wreckers.
IT was in 1817—on February 19, to be precise—that the Inverness went ashore in the Shannon, through her captain mistaking Rinevaha for Carrigaholt. Everything would have been all right, and the ship been able to float at the next spring-tide, had not the peasants considered it too good a chance to throw away. It was like turning good luck away! So, banding themselves together, they went down to the shore, boarded the Inverness, and, their numbers being large and their methods none too gentle, succeeded in scuttling the ship and tearing away all her rigging, having taken the precaution of sending to shore the barrels of pork and other provisions with which the vessel was loaded. Then they robbed the crew—even to their shirts, which they used as bags to carry their plunder in!
The news spread, and next day the police appeared on the scene, and found the peasants still hard at work collecting their salvage. Although there were only twelve policemen, a sergeant and the chief constable, they pluckily threw themselves into the fray, routed the wreckers, and stood guard over the provisions that still remained on shore. All night they kept their vigil; but with the coming of dawn they found themselves surrounded by thousands of peasants. Angry at being robbed of their prey, the wreckers had aroused the countryside, determined to get back what they had lost.
They advanced in three companies, shouting threats, waving hats, cheering—to keep their spirits up, probably—and vowed they would have the salvage as well as the arms of the police guard. Although they knew they had a ticklish job in front of them, those policemen were staunch and bold; they refused to be intimidated. Forming into one body, they faced the three mobs and waited for them to come on. They came on; and there ensued a miniature battle; sticks and stones were flung at the police, the wreckers charged down upon them with scythes and axes, and the police replied by firing their pistols. But it was all in vain; the mob was overwhelming in numbers, and the chief constable saw that they could not hold out very long. He must have help.
Off went one of the policemen, a mounted man, making for Limerick, pursued by fleet-footed men, who, however, were soon left behind. In less than two hours he returned with Major Warburton and a body of twenty cavalry, with infantry behind them. They dashed down upon the shore, to find that the police had been compelled to retire, which they had done in an orderly manner, and that the wreckers were once more upon the Inverness, hard at it breaking it up. Warburton and his men boarded it; a hatchet blow narrowly missed the major, who promptly turned and presented his pistol at the would-be murderer, and so scared him that he flung himself overboard. But he did not escape, for one of the soldiers charged at him as he waded ashore and cut him down.
The wreckers now saw that they had brought a hornet’s nest about their ears, and began to think of escaping. They flew for their lives, pursued by the soldiers, who wounded some and took many prisoners.
The thoroughness of the wreckers’ work may be gauged by the fact that only nine barrels of pork were saved, and that the bowsprit, gaff, and spars of the ship had been stolen; all her sails and rigging had been taken away, her anchors and cables—and even her pump!
An extract from an old book gives in the words of one present a picture of another wreckers’ incident:
“On Friday, October 27, 1811, the galliot Anna Hulk Klas Boyr, Meinerty, master, from Christian Sound, laden with deals, for Killala, was driven ashore at a place called Porturlin, between Killala and Broadhaven. The captain and crew providentially saved their lives by jumping on shore on a small island or rock. At this time the stern and quarter were stove in. The crew remained two hours on the rock, when they were taken off by a boat and brought to the mainland.
“Shortly after, the captain’s trunk, with all the sailors’ clothes in general, came on shore, which the country people immediately began to plunder, leaving the unfortunate wreck. Then they cut away all they could come at of the sails, rigging, etc., while hundreds were taking away the deals to all parts of the country. Though the captain spoke good English, and most pitifully inquired to whom he might apply for assistance, yet he could not hear of any for fourteen hours, when he was told that Major Denis Bingham was the nearest and only person he could apply to. With much difficulty he procured a guide, and proceeded to Mr. Bingham’s, a distance of twenty miles through the mountains.
“In the meantime, after thirty-six hours’ concealment of this very melancholy circumstance, Captain Morris, of the Townshead cruiser, who lay at Broadhaven, a distance of about ten miles from the wreck, heard of it, and approaching it landed with twenty men well armed. In coming near the wreck he first fired in the air, in order to disperse the peasantry, which had no effect; he therefore ordered his men to fire close, which had the desired effect, when he immediately pursued them into the interior, from three to five miles distance, dividing his party in different directions, when, by great exertion and fatigue, they saved about 1,800 deals and a remnant of the wreck.
“Captain Morris had some of the robbers taken, but, his party being so scattered, they were rescued by a large mob of the country people.”