THE WESTCOMBE WITCH

THE COVEN

A Pindarick Ode

In Honour of

Miss Fanny Flashwood

By One of Them

Hecate, arise! Assist me while I sing!

Weird Sisters three, approach and tread the Ring!

Cybele join the Round, and Proserpine

To praise your sister Fan, propitiously incline!

“A brummagem effusion!” remarked Dr. Sam: Johnson, the learned critick. “Well, sir, what flower of fancy comes next?”

I continued to read: “Her Coven we—Pray, sir, what is a coven?”

The great lexicographer answered readily: “The followers of a witch. What, is Miss Fanny Flashwood then a witch?” he added with a smile.

“Miss Fanny Flashwood is so reputed,” assented our friend Mr. Ashton seriously.

It was the warm September of the year 1768, and with my friend and mentor, Dr. Sam: Johnson, detector of crime and chicane, I had come to visit the South coast. Our host was good old Mr. Azariah Ashton, late a landwaiter of the King’s Customs, in his snug retreat in the seaside village of Westcombe. To start off our sojourn with éclat, he had this evening fetched us to tread a minuet at the local assembly.

The scene of the coming revels was the upper room at the old half-timbered inn called the Admiral’s Head; but before ever we entered the place, we came upon the Ode to Miss Fan, writ large in a fair hand, and tacked upon the outside of the door.

“You must know,” pursued little old Ashton, his nutcracker countenance wrinkling with relish, “Miss Fanny is a great heiress, and the lads are after her like flies after honey. They call themselves ‘the Coven’ in her honour. Sir Francis Flashwood at the Abbey is a man of money; his father amassed it in the French trade, and Miss Fan will have it all.”

“But a witch!” smiled Johnson. “To take a witch with the bundle!”

“I don’t deny,” said Ashton, “that the Squire is up to queer doings at the Abbey, if folk say true. They call him ‘Hell Fire Francis.’ There’s orgies in the ruins, and the Black Mass is celebrated, they do say, in the caves, and the Devil himself has been seen in the deer park, and what is done in the Witch’s Round on Hoy Head in the dark of the moon, I’d rather not know—”

“Sir,” said I, “you raise my curiosity.”

“Subdue it, sir, there are dark matters afoot at the Abbey. Yet Miss Fan is a beauty, and an heiress, and a lass of salt and fire—”

“Say no more!” I cried. “I’ll have her!”

Rising twenty-eight, newly admitted to the bar in Scotland, I was ready to settle down, and was ranging England, Scotland, and Ireland in search of a wife. Why not a beautiful heiress of Dorset?

“How can I view this paragon?” I demanded.

“Nothing is easier,” replied Mr. Ashton, “for here she comes.”

I threw myself into a genteel attitude, the better to shew my assets—a good leg, a face well enough tho’ swarthy and long in the nose, a figure not tall but well set up, adorned for the festivities in a suit of plum-coloured brocade and ruffles of Spanish lace. As I took my stance, a crested coach drew up at the inn door, and Sir Francis Flashwood descended.

“Hell Fire Francis” was well fitted to raise the Devil, if indeed that was his pleasure—tall, spare, with countenance deeply lined and black brows quirking upward in perpetual quiz. I noted no more, for extending sinewy fingers he handed down—

Miss Fanny Flashwood. Of her what shall I say? She was tall like her father, but soft and round where he was hard and spare, gently clad in leaf-green, gold-embroidered tissue that clipped her slender waist and swelled out over a wide hoop. Her upswept hair was unpowdered, and shone fiery red in the torchlight. Her milk-white face was delicately modelled, her bee-stung lip laughed, and her shining eyes were green as the sea.

While I stood staring a dozen stalwart young men surged about her, clamouring their greetings. Yet the one who did not clamour claimed her, a well-knit youth with a handsome unmoved face whose still smile revealed wide-set sharp-looking teeth in a thin-lipped mouth.

“The Honourable Mr. Thomas Talley,” murmured Mr. Ashton, “Sir Francis’ nephew.”

For a moment the fellow stood holding his cousin’s white hand and smiling into her green eyes. Then the surging youths bore the pair with them into the inn, and I was left gaping on the step.

Thus did I first glimpse Miss Fanny Flashwood, the Witch of Westcombe, surrounded by her Coven.

Tho’ little Mr. Ashton as a meer landwaiter did not move in the Flashwood circle, the fame of my learned companion soon brought us an invitation to visit the Abbey.

For this event, my burly friend attired his majestick form in mulberry broadcloth and clean cambrick ruffles, and clapped a well combed brown scratch-wig above his strong-cut countenance. I was decent in chestnut brown, and little Ashton in mouse grey, and so we presented ourselves for tea at the Abbey.

The tea was well enough, the best Bohea, and Miss Fan, clad in coppery shot silk from France, presided at the urn like a queen. But it was the tour of the grounds that provided so much matter for astonishment.

Sir Francis Flashwood had been busy adorning his domain, and we followed him agape from the Grecian columns of his mansion to the Abbey ruins to the curious church tower to the mouth of the caves to the Roman garden and then back to the mansion again.

The ruins of the antient Abbey had been extended and made habitable. The “ruined tower,” indeed, with its greenery-filled crannies, was totally the work of Sir Francis’ stonemasons, only by art seeming to moulder. The truly antient refectory had been roofed over anew, and the monks’ cells flanking the crumbling arches of the cloister were weather-tight. In one I glimpsed a luxurious bed. I wondered much what “nuns” might shelter there. Over all, a painted motto from Rabelais commanded: “Fay ce que voudras.” “Do what you please.”

The church on the hill, where once, it is said, stood a heathen shrine, had been rebuilt according to Sir Francis’ rather eccentrick fantasy. Atop the tower rose, not a spire or a cross, but a gilded ball. It was reached by a narrow iron ladder from the tower. When we swarmed up, clinging to the swaying chains that served for support, we came through a trap door onto a circular floor perhaps twelve feet across. Unglazed windows looked eight ways. Landward stretched the tree tops of Carnock Chase. In the seaward window was set a spyglass, by which we could look across woods and meadows to Hoy Head, and beyond Hoy Cove to the open sea, where a pretty bark was coming in with white sails swelling.

“Make haste, gentlemen, we have much to see,” said Sir Francis abruptly, and we descended again.

“And the caves, Sir Francis?” I urged him.

“The caves, Mr. Boswell? Oh, the chalk pit. There the chalk was mined to pave the harbour road, d’ye see, sir. There’s nothing inside save hollows in the chalk. Walk this way, you shall see the entrance. So ugly was the gash, I have masked it.”

He had masked it indeed, with solemn “ruined” arches, new built of grey flint, under the night-dark yew trees. I longed for a peep inside—was there a sable-draped altar with reversed cross and black candles upon it?—but was given no opportunity to see. Sir Francis led us back towards the house along the edge of the deer park.

Handing Miss Fan, I yet kept a sharp eye for any appearance of the Devil. Once I thought I glimpsed him in a tree; but on second glance there was only the wind in the leaves. Then I spied a presence of the ground; but that was no Devil neither, only a gamekeeper. The fellow had a bull’s hide waistcoat and an ill-favoured countenance, with a desperate bony jaw and hairy brows meeting over a needle-sharp nose. He sketched a grudging salute as we passed.

“Laggett, my keeper,” said Sir Francis, “he does wonders with my outlandish flora and fauna, imported from India.”

I own my attention, fixed upon my lovely companion, wandered from her father’s discourse, which touched on the datura, a dream-making plant, and among the fauna a certain noteworthy specimen of the simian kind.

Then we came to the Roman garden. In the statuary here Sir Francis had expressed a host of exotick fantasies. A naked marble Venus was bending over to take a thorn from her foot: a most unseemly sight, at which Dr. Johnson snorted.

In a grotto a cock was crowing and a Carmelite was laughing in glee at their proverbial amatory prowess. Nearby, a satyr had overtaken a nymph, and a Latin inscription made a bawdy pun: PENI TENTO NON PENITENTI. By this time Dr. Johnson was thoroughly scandalized, and made off without further ado, followed by Mr. Ashton, whose ears were red, and perforce by our host, still discoursing of his Indian specimens. To my great delight I was left alone with Miss Fan, who seemed nothing loath.

We seated ourselves on a marble bench against the boxwood hedge. Beside us a statue of Priapus was adorned in a manner I thought hardly suitable for the young lady, but she paid it no heed. Resolving to improve the opportunity, I took her soft hand and breathed passion. I was quite the Sicilian swain, and my nymph was so gracious I quickly put my fortune to the test.

“Dear sorceress,” said I earnestly, “I most eagerly desire to make one in your Coven, and I entreat you’ll account me of the number.”

I meant no more than to be admitted of her train; but she took it otherwise.

“You shall attend the next Sabbat,” said she, smiling, “if you are not afraid.”

“Try me!” said I boldly; tho’ truth to tell I knew myself susceptible to impression, and how I should behave if in the Witch’s Round I came face to face with the Old Scratch himself, I could not foresee.

But the Westcombe Witch did not doubt me. We shook hands on the bargain, and so left Priapus leering in the hedge, and walked sedately up to the house after our elders.

It was now only a matter of awaiting the next gathering of the Coven. Whether it would prove to be only a rustick revel, or whether the green-eyed witch would in fact pay homage to Beelzebub, I could not decide. I awaited the summons. It did not come. Michaelmas approached, and with it the end of our visit.

When twilight fell on Michaelmas Eve, something was seen to be astir. Dusky shapes began to pass our garden gate, making for the Abbey. They wore dark cloaks, and—I perceived with a frisson—their faces were blackened. The Sabbat! And I had been invited!

I knew not what Dr. Johnson would say; but why ask? With our host he was safely ensconced by the parlour fire, brewing a bason of punch. In the kitchen I hastily burnt a cork, applied it, tied back my hair with a thong, viewed my Ethiopian countenance in the bottom of a copper pot, threw my cloak about me, and made for the Abbey.

Inside the grounds, dark shapes were gathering. I saw that they were making for the cave. Silently in the dusk I followed, into the wood, and under the arches of the entrance. Inside, the cavern smelt brackish. Drops of water fell with measured sound from the dusky vault above. Smoky torchlight thickened the air, and flickered on dark-clad figures and blackened faces. By the entrance stood a slim boy, all in black from neck to toe. The uncertain light caught fiery gleams from red hair clubbed at the nape—red hair—?

“What, Mr. Boswell,” came the laughing voice, “you come to our Sabbat after all?”

Someone behind her rapped out an oath, and beside her “Hell Fire” Francis, sable clad, exclaimed:

“This is too bad of you, Mr. Boswell. What have you to do here? Take him home, Laggett.”

The burly gamekeeper gripped my arm. Was I to be cheated of the experience after all? But the lady intervened.

“Stay, Laggett, the night is young yet, we may initiate Mr. Boswell, and I’ll take care of him thereafter. Do, father, I have a fancy to see what he’s made of, and no harm shall come by him, I promise you.”

The idea was acclaimed by Miss Fan’s Coven of young fellows.

“Do, uncle, let us have him,” drawled Talley with his frozen smile.

“We’ll initiate him, I warrant you,” grunted a rustical lad at his elbow.

“Well, well, Fan, have your way,” said Sir Francis, suppressing a smile. “You can manage him, no doubt. There’s time yet, and you may follow on.”

Laggett loosed me with a grin, and melted into the gloom. The Witch turned her green eyes to me.

“Are you afraid?”

I was; but I would not say so. Dark figures were moving deeper into the cave; but the Coven stood by. In a trice I was hoodwinked with a vast black neckerchief. It smelt vilely of barnacles. I was propelled down a rough slope, and thus began an adventure from which I came home dripping wet, with my head in a whirl.

There was still a light in the parlour when I crept in, as I had departed, by the kitchen door. In the fitful light from the hearth-fire, the same copper pot showed me my plight: lank hair dripping, face washed clean in the highlights and still murky with burnt cork in the hollows.

“Well, Mr. Boswell,” came my friend’s voice from the inner door, “where have you been, and what have you done, to come home in this pickle?”

“I went to the Sabbat,” I muttered.

Our host, beside him, uttered an ejaculation. It sounded like a prayer. He bustled about me solicitously, pressing upon me a mighty dram of strong waters, fetching his own voluminous flannel bedgown to warm me. Dr. Johnson planted himself on the settle by the fire, and demanded my story.

“Well, sir, the Coven undertook to initiate me, that I might become fit to attend the Sabbat. Miss took my hand, sir, and never let it go through thick and thin, and so I endured.”

“Endured what, sir?”

“First, I swore an oath, sir, if ever I tattled I desired the Devil might carry me off, body and bones, toenails and tripes … et caetera,” I faltered, swallowing. “I’ll say no more.”

But my mentor feared neither man nor the Devil (tho’ our host appeared to fear both), and his determination overrode my reluctance. I went on:

“Then, sir, being become one of them, I was released from the blindfold. I found myself in a commodious room dug in the chalk. Torches in standards gave light. In an alcove stood a blackened altar, incised with strange symbols and lighted by a pair of black candles. Before it rose the ever-smiling Talley, wearing a vestment like a carter’s smock. He presided over the ceremony as I was baptized anew with—with unholy water, most noisome; ask me no further on that head.”

“By what name, sir?” asked my friend curiously.

“Brimstone,” I mumbled.

“And then?”

“And then, sir, I was dubbed.”

“Dubbed, sir?” asked little Ashton, fetching more brandy.

“Dubbed knight, sir. With a dung fork. The whole Coven shared in the dubbing. My shoulder is sore. “I wriggled it tentatively. Nothing seemed to be broken.

“And we are to call you—”

“Sir Brimstone of Tophet.” I had to grin at that. “After—further ceremonies”—I gulped and rushed on—“there ensued the Black Mass they tell of.”

“Go on.”

I called back the scene to memory, the smoky light flickering on the blackened faces, the cabbalistick gestures and frozen smile of the celebrant, cousin Talley.

“Well, sir, we all bowed low, but in reverse, presenting our posteriors to the alter. Talley mumbled from a black-bound book—I think he was reading it backwards. He made magical passes, and consecrated a turnip.”

“A what, sir?”

“A turnip, sir. We all bowed again, and the Devil appeared.”

“O come, Mr. Boswell.”

“I assure you, sir, there was a mighty clanking of chains, and the Devil leaped up upon the altar. He hunkered down and ate the consecrated turnip, with long black fingernails and teeth like a shark. My head swam. When I looked again, the Devil was gone, and Sir Francis Flashwood was standing on the altar step. Enough, he said, be off, the Sabbat awaits us. Hastily Talley blessed us with an upside-down benediction. The entire Coven seized torches from the standards and followed Sir Francis into the inner recesses of the cave.”

“And did you also follow?”

“Well, sir, you may suppose that these events had agitated the tender bosom of the young lady. She clung to me, sir, and I—ah, comforted her. Before her agitation was soothed, I know not what length of time passed; but suddenly we became aware that the Coven had left us behind. Torch in hand, we hastened on to the banks of Styx—”

“Well, sir, hac iter ad impia Tartara mittit, that is the way to the under world,” smiled my friend. “Was Charon there to ferry you?”

“No, sir, ’tis an underground water course they call Styx, by which they sail to the Sabbat.”

“In a sieve?”

“May be, sir. When we reached the murky bank, all boats were gone save one crazy shallop, most like a sieve indeed. In this we made shift to embark. Scarce had I begun to ply the pole, however, when the young lady, terrified anew by I know not what, flung her arms about me, lost the torch in the water, and overset the boat. ’Twas my luck that the stream was shallow.

“Well, sir, what were we to do? Our hope of following to the Sabbat sank with the boat. Dripping wet, we crept back towards the light of the two black candles, and so out into the grounds of the Abbey. There I looked to be invited in; but no such thing—my fair companion pushed me out at the little foot door beside the gate, and peremptorily bade me go home to bed.”

“Sage advice, after all that horse play.”

“Horse play! Nay, sir, could you have seen that diabolic rout with their blackened faces—”

“Blackened faces!” Dr. Johnson put up his brows and little Ashton sucked in his breath, as they exchanged a look.

“Why were we not told of this?” demanded Johnson. “On with dry breeches, Bozzy. I’ve a mind to attend this Sabbat after all.”

“How then? The boats are all gone.”

“Above ground. Come, your breeches.”

Mr. Ashton, horrified at our daring, barred the street door and retired to bed, leaving us to depart inconspicuously by the kitchen and the garden gate. We slipped in at the Abbey postern. Nothing was stirring in the grounds, and the mansion lay dark. A waning moon was rising.

From the cave mouth we went on through the wood, following what I remembered of the passages beneath. Where I guessed Styx to run, we angled off on rising ground, and so came out in the open on Hoy Head. No one was to be seen there, but a hum of voices told us we were nearing the scene of the Sabbat.

“Down, sir,” muttered my friend. “We must not be detected.”

Prone, we worked our way through rough stems and grasses to the edge of the bluff, and looked over.

Below us, on Hoy Cove, the Coven and a host of black-face followers were active as ants around an ant-hill. They were not conjuring up the Old Scratch. They were prosaically busy unloading a fleet of small boats and carrying the freight up the side of a sturdy coasting vessel lying at anchor in the cove. I saw kegs—“French brandy,” muttered Dr. Johnson—bales—“French silks”—japanned boxes—“China tea—to such a smuggler’s fortune is Miss Fan an heiress!”

And there was Miss Fan herself, in a red hunting coat, astride a tall bay horse; and beside her, mounted too, Sir Francis Flashwood and Mr. Thomas Talley directed operations.

The better to view Miss Fan, fetching in her tight buckskin breeches, I edged forward. A stone dislodged, and rolled down the steep incline. Blackened faces turned upward, there was a shout, and several of the band made for the long zigzag path that snaked up the bluff.

“Run!” said my intrepid friend, adding grimly, “for your life!”

Nimbly, considering his bulk, he led the way. Our feet pounded along the path through the wood. We had passed the cave mouth, and were skirting the deer park, when we heard them shouting on the headland. Twigs cracked under running feet on the wood path, and lent us wings. We stumbled through the postern, crossed the road, gained our garden, tumbled in at the kitchen door, and drove the bolt home.

“Quick, Mr. Boswell, your nightcap.” He was up the stair and cramming on his own. “Your bedgown!” He was out of his breeches and into his own gown. I followed suit as a mighty summons began to sound on the front door.

“What shall I do?” wailed our host, appearing in his shirt. “They are desperate men, they’ll kill us all!”

“Go to bed, and leave this to me,” said Johnson resolutely. “I’ll deal with them, I warrant you.”

The front door cracked alarmingly under the battering. Johnson put back the shutter and thrust his head out at window.

“Leave off your noise, you scoundrels!” he cried sharply. “The household’s asleep. What’s the mighty matter that you raise such a pother?”

Our pursuers looked up. It was the grim gamekeeper Laggett who headed the posse. He growled something about poachers and trespassers.

“Be off, man, you know we are neither,” commanded Johnson.

“Then they are sheltering here,” snarled Laggett, and resumed his tattoo on the door.

I heard no sound of hooves on the chalk roadway, but suddenly three horses were at the gate.

“Muffled with leather,” muttered Johnson.

Three faces took the faint moonlight—Sir Francis’, Mr. Talley’s, Miss Fan’s.

“That will do, Laggett, be off,” said Sir Francis. The understrappers withdrew.

“You, sir (to Johnson), bid Mr. Boswell come down.”

“I am here, Sir Francis,” said I over my friend’s shoulder.

“You have put your long nose into our affairs this night, Mr. Boswell. I strongly counsel you to keep your tongue between your teeth hereafter.”

“Be at ease, father,” struck in Miss Fan. “Mr. Boswell suffered things, and did things, this night in the cave, that he would not chuse to have told.”

“That is true,” I muttered.

“As long as he is silent—and no longer—so are we.”

I heard this outrageous bargain proposed by that bee-stung lip with revulsion. Yet I knew she spoke true.

“I am not likely to blab,” I granted unwillingly.

“So, sir,” said Dr. Johnson blandly, “Mr. Boswell is muzzled. But who will muzzle me?”

Three heads jerked up. He stood four-square in the casement, magisterial in spite of the nightcap.

“Yes, sir, I know the secret of Styx, and by my own eyes, not Mr. Boswell’s. If you would have me be silent, hear my terms. My friend Ashton goes unmolested; and you, Sir Francis, you will see to it that smuggled goods are no longer hidden on Styx.”

“I know not what you refer to,” said Sir Francis frostily.

“Put it how you will, sir, so the traffick ceases. And you, Miss, smuggling is no trade for a lady. Give it over.”

“I shall, sir,” smiled Miss Fan, “for I have given my hand to Tom here, and once wed, he decrees it, no more night riding.”

“Give you joy, Mr. Talley,” said Dr. Johnson.

Talley bowed in the saddle, his frozen smile softening. I would have wished joy, but the words stuck in my throat.

“Goodnight, Sir Brimstone!” the laughing voice floated back to me as the horses moved off silent-footed.

“So, sir,” said I over the breakfast tea tray, “Sir Francis is but a common smuggler, no diabolist, and there was never a Black Mass in the cave—”

“I did not say that, sir,” said Johnson. “Sir Francis is a man of many talents; he is not called ‘Hell Fire Francis’ for nothing. Of course there have been Black Masses in the cave. Why otherwise the altar, the cabbalistick adornments, the black candles, all so ready to hand? But I knew very quickly that what was done to you was no genuine Black Mass, but meer horse play, designed to fright you into keeping silence.”

BOSWELL: And Miss overset the boat o’ purpose?

JOHNSON: To keep you away from the smugglers’ ‘Sabbat,’ that is true.

BOSWELL: And I dreamed the Devil on the altar? A datura dream perhaps?

JOHNSON: No, sir. The ‘Devil’ was real. We glimpsed him in a tree in the deer park. ’Tis a baboon, a most intelligent beast, of whom Sir Francis was bragging all the way to the house ’tother day. His name is Puckrel. I daresay the gamekeeper fetched Puckrel into the cave on his chain, and loosed him at the appropriate moment, of purpose to affright you.

BOSWELL: But how did you know that smuggling was toward?

JOHNSON: By the blackened faces. ’Tis smugglers black their faces. Witches go nude to the Sabbat.

BOSWELL: How come you, sir, to be so instructed in the Black Arts?

JOHNSON: By reading King James his Daemonologie—Olympiodorus—and the rest. But no matter, the Devil is not in it, save as he tempted Sir Francis to turn smuggler.

BOSWELL: Yet you let him go free.

JOHNSON: I am no catchpoll, sir. But if he persists I shall certainly denounce him.

BOSWELL: But why do they play at witchcraft while working at smuggling?

ASHTON: To affright the country folk, and keep them at home while the smugglers are abroad.

BOSWELL: And why send the smuggled goods boating on Styx?

ASHTON: The caves of Westcombe are sea caves, sir. Mining chalk was only Sir Francis’ pretext for making the natural caves more commodious for his purposes. Styx is an arm of the sea, giving on the harbour on one side, and on Hoy Cove on the other. Thus may the Coven unload a French vessel in deep water, hide the laden boats on Styx, and come out on the Cove side at their leisure, to load the smuggled goods again on a coasting vessel for distribution. ’Tis safer than pack horses.—Dr. Johnson, your cup is empty (pouring).

BOSWELL: You seem knowledgeable in these matters, Mr. Ashton.

ASHTON: Of course I am, sir. Was not I formerly a landwaiter with His Majesty’s Customs? And who has not heard of the Westcombe Blacks?

JOHNSON (setting down his cup): Well, well, sir, they’ll be heard of no more, I warrant you.

BOSWELL: And thus, sir, have you once more rendered a publick service by your art of detection; tho’ we are not to brag of it.

JOHNSON (smiling): And thus have you, ‘Sir Brimstone of Tophet,’ fortunately escaped a matrimonial alliance with THE WESTCOMBE WITCH.

[This story was suggested by the raffish career of “Hell-Fire Francis” Dash wood. With his ruined Abbey at Medmenham sheltering blasphemous “monks” and “nuns,” his erotic garden, his curious church tower, his rumored Black Masses in the chalk caves of West Wycombe (which these days are open to the public for a trifle), his Indian baboon and his beautiful wild daughter, it was a career too wide-ranging to be encompassed in a single story. (For all of it, see Ronald Fuller, Hell-fire Francis, London: Chatto and Windus, 1939.) That Sir Francis was ever involved in such goings-on as are here depicted is, of course, my fictitious contribution to his legend. This is why I have called him out of his right name, as “Sir Francis Flashwood” of “Westcombe.”

“You can not,” said my husband the Professor severely, “have Dr. Johnson attending a Black Mass!”

“No,” I replied, “but Boswell can!”

Boswell, I reminded him, liked to savor—and record—all his emotions, including his fears and terrors, and sometimes he courted such Gothic feelings. I am sure he would have been delighted to attend a Black Mass and tremble at its horrors.]