The Forty Thieves of Exmoor; or, The Doones of Badgeworthy.

Auckland Star, Volume XXV, Issue 95, 21 April 1894, Page 3 (Supplement)

The Forty Thieves of Exmoor; or, The Doones of Badgeworthy.

The Author's Childhood in t'hk Doone Valley, and Traditions Told Her.

By Gratiana Chanter.

The first thing that I can remember of the valley where the Doones once lived, was long ago when I was quite a little girl, and sat building a castle out of the ruins of the very houses they once lived in. Those poor tumbled-dosvn ruins which had once been the stronghold and the hiding place of the terrible • Doones of Badgeworthy !'

I remember how angry the furze-cats were, because they thought I was hunting for their nests. They sat on the sharp points of the yellow furze, and scolded at me, but I did nob mind them a bit. I only thought how pretty they were; what bright eyeß they had, and what a way they had of making a fuss about nothing. For I did not want their neat) just then; I wanted to build my castle.

And then I remember how 1 took up a big grey stone, and under it hurried and skurried and flurried, a whole colony of red ants. I remember how I laughed to pee them tumble over one another, and drag their fat white eggs into little holes and tiny tunnels and weeny underground passages, i felt quite proud to havo caused such a commotion in the little world, and wondered where the passages led to, and if there were any rooms below. So I poked with a bit of stick to see. But the soft earth passages fell in and buried the ants, and 1 felt ashamed of having teased them so. Then an ant bit me on the hand, so I went away to get another stone for my castle, and left the ants to build theirs up again. Uuder this stone I found something else. What do you think? Well, a family of young snakes. You may fancy how quickly I dropped the stone, and how fast I ran away. The snakes were a beautiful red brown colour, and wriggled delightfully. Still, I knew an adder by sight, and I knew he could bite—so I ran away.

Somehow, my casblo did not get on so well after that. I had an uncomfortable feeling that there were snakes under every stone—and I quite believe there were under a great many. So I eat down a bit, and watched a skylark go up and up into the sky, and a red hawk hover. Ho was watching some poor little bunny or mouse that he wanted for his supper, and I did wish he wouldn't get it. Of a sudden he swooped. I turned round quickly to see where he had gone and toppled right over over the bank of the Doone's house into a bed of nettles.

' Come, baby,' eaid my sister, ' let us find adockleaf.'

Then I believe I cried, for the nettles hurt a good deal. But that was long ago, and when I grew bigger people told me wonderful and wild stories about this same Doone Valley, where I had built my castle—atoriea of Forty Thieves—the terrible Doones of Badgeworthy. They told me a great treasure was buried in that same valley—gold and jewels, which the lawless Doones had taken from terrified people in coaches and carriages on the highroads. And other lovely things they had stolen from time to time—they were all buried somewhere, deep down, where no one should find them. For many folks had dug and dug, from rise of sun, until the long shadows spread over the lonely Doone Glen, but never as yet had they found the treasure of the Doones.

One man discovered a passage which led under the ground. He followed ib In, and every step he took he thought was bringing him nearer to the hidden treasure. But suddenly he was brought to a standstill. He could go no farther. The passage had fallen in—even aa the ants' had—and he groped his way back again into the daylight, terribly disappointed, and maybe leaving the treasure behind him. If it is there, it is buried deep and stitt remains to be found. Then they told me that there was a gun in the old farmhouse on the hill; ari old gun which the farmer treasured, for one of the last Doones was shot with ib, and a woman had shot him. Now, before I go any further with my story about the Doones and their evil doings, let me tell you what Exmoor is like, as far as I can in a few words, so that you may understand how difficulb it was for the people to hunt down these lawless robbers, and how easy it was for them to get away. There are miles and miles of wide open moorland - hills and valleys, valleys and hills, the whole way round as far as you can see. AH the rounded hills are covered with brown heathor in the winter and purple in the summer, Every valley has its tumbling trout stream full of troub —of which I have caught many a good basketful. Some of the valleys have thick oak woods, where the great red deer lie. There are deep black bogs, on the moor, which will swallow a man and horse, if they are unlucky enough to get into them. Ib is a beautiful wild country to wander over, on a summer's day, or evening, when the fun glows over bho purple moors, and the air is full of the scent of the heather, the singing of larks and the humming of bees. But it is a different matter on a stormy night or in a blinding fog, for the moor is the land of marsh and fog. People often get losb on moors, when the fog comes down like a white web blanket—even those who know it the besb. You may wander on the moor for whole days, and never meet a human being—only wild birds, wild deer and wild ponies. Here, in a lonely glen, surrounded by open heath-covered moors, and within easy distance of the farms which they robbed when they liked, the terrible Doones took up their abo-le. There they built their house? nnd the erreab ovens in which they baked their bread—bread made of the flour they had stolen from the farmers on their way to market. You can still see the ruins of tho great ovens, the stones are covered with white and yellow lichens, nettles grow inside, and never more will bread be baked in the oven of the Doones. The other n'ght old Bale came1 to see mo —not the old god of the heathens, though for all I know he may have got his name from him. Surely, though, he is a son of Aiv.k !— ior he is a srand old ginnb, with vast shoulders, blue eve«, and hair as silver as the gleam of moonlight on his own moorlarid streams. B.ile'« father was on Nelson's ship, whon Nelson died. He had seen the beautiful Lariy Hamilton, He had seen Caracciol, hang from the yardarm of the ship. He had helped to tie 40 pounds of shot; to his head and his heels, and seen the corpse float after ! —so that they rowed him ashore after all, and buried him on dry land. Bub, I rnusb tell you no more of Bale's father, though his adventures were most interest-' ing, arid would fill a book, but of Bale himgelf, and what he told me about the ; Doones.

1 Fifty years agOne,' he said, • I used to go sheephording in the Doone Valley, and father, well, he did the same before me, until he runned away to sea. But, bless 'cc ! I know every stick and stone out over the moor, and if I don't, who should ! ' Father told me; and his father told he before him that the Doone come from a place called Northumberland; a good ways off from here. There'd been a rebellion up here, he said. And they'd got turned oub of the country. So they runned away to Exmoor, being a wildish sorb of place, where they couldn'b easily be tracked.

' There was an old farmhouse in the Doone Valley. 1 can mind it myself, for I helped to pull it down, nigh 40 year agone. 'Twas a quar old place, to be sure ; and however ib come to be built in such an outlandish spot I can't tell'ee. 'Twas a terrible pity to pull it down. For 'twas an old-fashioned place; full of queer passages, and odd rooms. Well built, too; though 'twas so.many years agone. Well, thia old house, I heard father say, was built long before the Doones corned there. ' 'Twas one terrible snowy night, when the wind was blowing tierce oub over the Black Hills thab the Doones first found their way to Badgeworthy Water. An old farmer and his maid were in the house. But the Doones they turned him right oub neck and heel—though 'twas a nighb bhat no one bub a Doone would have turned a dog oub in. Well, I've heard my fabher say, they was bobh picked up dead, sbone dead. The maid up by the witbybush, and the man farther in over the foresb. I reckon the snow and the Doones between them, had done for them, sure enough, poor eouls !

• I've heard father say, that the Doones was respectable farmers in bheir own country, and farmed their own land. Bub they never tilled a bit in Badgeworthy Bottom and took to thriving wonderful quick. Everything bhey wanbed they helped themselves to, sheep, cows, pigs, corn, hay and horses. Even some of tha women and children round was carried off. Tho farmers could do nought, for they was so few and the Doones so many. They was terrible folk to be sure.

1 There must have been ten families altogether, and forty men. So father's father told him. But they didn't all settle there at once, but came in twos and threes. No doubt but) what they found it an easy thing to live by other men's toil. And that Exmoor mutton was sweet. ~

' Father said they'd shoot any man who bad got a word to say to him. So 'twas best to bide quiet.

' Once, so he said, the Doones had been off Winehead way robbing a farmhouse. They got "all they wanted, and was coming home again, when someone fired at them in the dark. No person said he was hurt, so they rode right on and took no account of it.

'They had ridden some miles over the heather, when one of their men fell from his saddle, dead ! Tho Doones they laid him right down in the heath, and rode straight back to the village where the shot was bred. And father said he heard tell that there was not one soul left alive but one little maid, who was quite mazed with all the terrible sights she'd a seed.

• Yes, the folks round was terribly afeared of them, and well they might be.

1 But 1 fancy, from what) father said, that it got bo bad at last that the Government interfered. But I haint quite sure, for they didn't take much account of these parts in those days ; and things went on, I fancy, pretty much as they liked.

'But I know in time the farmers got pretty mad, and shot the Doones down like snipe, whenever they got the chance. They say that one of them was shot to Robber's Bridge to Dareford—and that's why 'tis called Robber's Bridge. That another was shot out of the window op to Yanworthy by the farmer's wife.

1 She was left all alone, poor soul! Her husband had gone to Porlock market, and wan not coming back that night. She was in bed when she heard someone shouting to her to come down and unbar the door. She looked out of the window and saw a great tall man standing in the moonlight). She knew in a minute, 'twas a Doone. She took l^er husband's loaded gun from the corner, opened the window and shot him dead. There was only one; lucky for her; but she finished that one They've COG that gun now, hung up to the ceiling of Yanworthy kitchen. 'Tis a queer looking old thing. I dare say you've a seed it, miss V

Why yes ! I had seen it often—always slung up to the old oak beams in the kitchen at Yanworthy. Ib is a long slim gun, so old they are almoßh afraid to take it> down for fear ib will crumble to pieces, bub still kepb and treasured in memory of a daring deed !

And still the sun shines on the lonely valley of the Doones. The rain beats, and the wind howls. The savage Doones are all dead, years and years ago. Bub the story of their bloody deeds is yeb told by the country folk. And the old gun still hangs to the smoke stained rafters at Yanworthy, telling its bale of lawless days and desperate times. Those few grey stones at the bottom of the glen, where I played as a child, are all that is left of the once feared and famous stronghold. And only the ants and snakes know where to find the hidden treasure of the terrible Doonea of Badgeworthy.