On This Spot,
August the 25th 1782,
Mary Bax, Spinster,
Aged 23 Years,
Was Murdered by
Martin Lash, a Foreigner,
Who was Executed for the Same.
Poor John Winter left the country immediately after, and did not return until thirty years had elapsed, when the event was forgotten, and most of his old friends and companions were dead or gone abroad. His little brother David was drowned at sea.
This Mary Bax was cousin to the father of John Bax, who figures so conspicuously in our tale.
At the tomb of Mary Bax, then, as we have said, Long Orrick resolved to make a stand. Tommy Bogey had, by taking a short cut round a piece of marshy ground, succeeded in getting a little in advance of Orrick, and, observing that he was running straight towards the tombstone, he leaped into the ditch, the water in which was not deep at the time, and, coursing along the edge of it, reached the rear of the tomb and hid himself there, without having formed any definite idea as to what course he meant to pursue.
Whatever the intentions of the smuggler were, they were effectually frustrated by an apparition which suddenly appeared and struck terror alike to the heart of pursuer and pursued. As Long Orrick approached the tomb there suddenly arose from the earth a tall gaunt figure with silver hair streaming wildly in the gale. To Tommy, who crouched behind the tomb, and Rodger and Orrick, who approached in front, it seemed as if the spirit of the murdered girl had leaped out of the grave. The effect on all three was electrical. Orrick and Rodger, diverging right and left, fled like the wind in opposite directions, and were out of sight in a few seconds, while Tommy, crouching on the ground behind the tomb, trembled in abject terror.
The spirit, if such it was, did not attempt to pursue the fugitives, but turning fiercely towards the boy, seized him by the collar and shook him.
“Oh! mercy! mercy!” cried poor Tommy, whose heart quaked within him.
“Hallo! Tommy Bogey, is it you, boy?” said the spirit, releasing the lad from a grasp that was anything but gentle.
“What! old Jeph, can it be you?” exclaimed Tommy, in a tone of intense surprise, as he seated himself on the tombstone, and wiped the cold perspiration from his forehead with the cuff of his coat.
“Ay, it is me,” replied the old man, sadly, “although I do sometimes doubt my own existence. It ain’t often that I’m interrupted—but what brings ye here, lad, and who were these that I saw running like foul fiends across the sandhills on such a night as this?”