A sad troop of ghosts appear’d,
All in dreary hammocks shrouded,
Which for winding-sheets they wore.”
Admiral Hosier’s Ghost.
I prefer giving this story in the words in which it was communicated. For its singular character, it is a ghost story well worth preserving:—“Just seventeen years since, I went down on the wharf from my house one night about twelve and one in the morning, to see whether there was any ‘hobble,’ and found a sloop, the Sally of St Ives, (the Sally was wrecked at St Ives one Saturday afternoon in the spring of 1862,) in the bay, bound for Hayle. When I got by the White Hart public-house, I saw a man leaning against a post on the wharf,—I spoke to him, wished him good morning, and asked him what o’clock it was, but to no purpose. I was not to be easily frightened, for I didn’t believe in ghosts; and finding I got no answer to my repeated inquiries, I approached close to him and said, ‘Thee’rt a queer sort of fellow, not to speak; I’d speak to the devil, if he were to speak to me. Who art a at all? thee’st needn’t think to frighten me; that thee wasn’t do, if thou wert twice so ugly; who art a at all?’ He turned his great ugly face on me, glared abroad his great eyes, opened his mouth, and it was a mouth sure nuff. Then I saw pieces of sea-weed and bits of sticks in his whiskers; the flesh of his face and hands were parboiled, just like a woman’s hands after a good day’s washing. Well, I did not like his looks a bit, and sheered off; but he followed close by my side, and I could hear the water squashing in his shoes every step he took. Well, I stopped a bit, and thought to be a little bit civil to him, and spoke to him again, but no answer. I then thought I would go to seek for another of our crew, and nock him up to get the vessel, and had got about fifty or sixty yards, when I turned to see if he was following me, but saw him where I left him. Fearing he would come after me, I ran for my life the few steps that I had to go. But when I got to the door, to my horror there stood the man in the door grinning horribly. I shook like as aspen-leaf; my hat lifted from my head; the sweat boiled out of me. What to do I didn’t know, and in the house there was such a row, as if everybody was breaking up everything. After a bit I went in, for the door was ‘on the latch,’—that is, not locked,—and called the captain of the boat, and got light, but everything was all right, nor had he heard any noise. We went out aboard of the Sally, and I put her into Hayle, but I felt ill enough to be in bed. I left the vessel to come home as soon as I could, but it took me four hours to walk two miles, and I had to lie down in the road, and was carried home to St Ives in a cart; as far as the Terrace from there I was carried home by my brothers, and put to bed. Three days afterwards all my hair fell off as if I had had my head shaved. The roots, and for about half an inch from the roots, being quite white. I was ill six months, and the doctor’s bill was £4, 17s. 6d. for attendance and medicine. So you see I have reason to believe in the existence of spirits as much as Mr Wesley had. My hair grew again, and twelve months after I had as good a head of dark-brown hair as ever.”[50]
THE PHANTOM SHIP.
Years long ago, one night, a gig’s crew was called to go off to a “hobble,” to the westwards of St Ives Head. No sooner was one boat launched than several others were put off from the shore, and a stiff chase was maintained, each one being eager to get to the ship, as she had the appearance of a foreign trader. The hull was clearly visible, she was a schooner-rigged vessel, with a light over her bows.
Away they pulled, and the boat which had been first launched still kept ahead by dint of mechanical power and skill. All the men had thrown off their jackets to row with more freedom. At length the helmsman cried out, “Stand ready to board her.” The sailor rowing the bow oar slipped it out of the row-lock, and stood on the forethought, taking his jacket on his arm, ready to spring aboard.
The vessel came so close to the boat that they could see the men, and the bow-oar man made a grasp at her bulwarks. His hand found nothing solid, and he fell, being caught by one of his mates, back into the boat, instead of into the water. Then ship and lights disappeared. The next morning the Neptune of London, Captain Richard Grant, was wrecked at Gwithian, and all perished. The captain’s body was picked up after a few days, and that of his son also. They were both buried in Gwithian churchyard.