The Rev. W. H. Thornton avers that Mr Fortescue was in the habit of winking his eye and confessing that he had excellent cognac in his cellar. Apropos of this weakness, he reports these not quite “imaginary conversations.”
“‘I found one morning that both my horses were gone,’ he would say, ‘but James Dadd (his coachman), James Dadd knew which way to search, and we found them loose in a lane beyond Exford, and there was a keg of this brandy left under the manger too. Will you try it?’
“Now, in all my intercourse with smugglers, illicit distillers, and such-like people, I have remarked the peculiarity that their wares either were, or were honestly deemed to be, of extra quality! Was it that the sense of irregularity added flavour to the dram, or were the smuggled spirits really particularly choice? I do not know, but later in my life I sat by the deathbed of a very old smuggler, who told me how he used to have a donkey with a triangle on his back, so rigged up as to show three lanthorns, and how chilled he would become as he lay out winter’s night after winter’s night, watching on the Foreland or along Brandy Path, as he called it, for the three triangled lights of the schooner, which he knew was coming in to land her cargo, where Glenthorne[17] now stands, and where was the smugglers’ cave. ‘Lord bless ee, sir,’ and the dying man of nearly ninety years chuckled, ‘we never used no water. We just put the brandy into the kettle, and heated it, and drinked it out of half-pint stoups.’”
If it is to be a question of retailing smuggling stories, I also can tell one of Exmoor origin, only it relates to Minehead, whither our course now lies. Many years ago—I fancy it was in the forties—there was a certain quay-lumper, who “caddled about” anywhere, away under Greenaleigh. His name was Moorman. Just about this time a French vessel was on her way with a cargo of smuggled brandy, but a fall-out between uncle and nephew, on account of the former refusing to lend money, led to information being given, with the result that one of Her Majesty’s cutters was seen cruising up and down before Minehead. The whole town was in an uproar.
After a while the foreigner drew in under Greenaleigh, and discharged her cargo; and
Moorman, having been called to assist, was rewarded with a sum of money and a quantity of brandy. It was beautiful brandy, and Moorman’s wife very kindly gave some of it to her neighbours, remarking as she did so, “My old man helped discharge the cargo.” This observation was carried to the excise officers, who searched for Moorman, and insisted on his telling them where the spirit was concealed. As a matter-of-fact, it had been hidden in the sand; but this was perfectly smooth, and Moorman, though he made a show of looking for them, declared he could not find the kegs. Just as they were about to give up in despair, one of the party hitched his foot in a rope, with which, it turned out, the kegs had been slung together. Several persons were arrested in connection with the affair, among others an old Mr Rawle, a farmer; and some few were sent to prison. As for the cutter, she had been lying useless in Minehead harbour, in low water.[18]
It cannot be charged against Minehead that “the hobby-horse is forgot,” and those mindful of him belong, for the most part, to the seafaring class. Early on May morning, they perambulate the town with the idol, a rough similitude of the equine species, decked off with ribbons; the “counterfeit presentment” being supported on the shoulders of a man whose legs are concealed by the trappings, and who is responsible for its motions. Its progress through the streets is heralded by the tap of the drum, and horseplay—seldom is the expression so apt—is the order of the day. For it may be taken for granted that there is more than one performance, and the worship of the beast is resumed at intervals till vesper-time. However, the custom, which was formerly observed at Combmartin also, is gradually dying out.
Probably one of the most sensational events in the annals of Minehead, which do not appear to be particularly rich in historic interest, is a seventeenth-century episode, in which the chief actors were the Rev. Henry Byam, rector of Selworthy, and “another.” A notable man was Henry Byam, who was born at Luccombe, in 1580. Being a devoted Royalist, he attended Prince Charles in his flight to the Scilly Islands, and thence to Jersey. Byam was in great esteem as a preacher, and his sermons were edited by Hamnet Ward, Prebendary of Wells, who states that “most of them were preached before His Majesty King Charles II., in his exile.” Perhaps, however, the discourse which will most attract modern readers, is that entitled: “A Return from Argier.—A Sermon preached at Minehead, in the County of Somerset, the 16th of March, 1627, at the re-admission of a Relapsed into our Church.” It seems that a young Minehead man had been taken prisoner by the Turks and compelled to embrace the Mohammedan religion. Having escaped, he returned to Minehead, where, clothed in Turkish attire, he had to stand in St Michael’s Church, whilst the rector of Selworthy “improved” the occasion. In one part of the sermon, the preacher addressed himself directly to the offender: