Scarred by Industry- The Ghosts of Benthall Edge Wood

 

To wander through Benthall Edge woodland is to truly be immersed in nature. Indeed, there is a certain magic to this place, particularly in spring and summer, when the leaves are stained glass, blanketing the floor with innumerable shades of green. The birds sing sweetly whilst you wander and it becomes hard to imagine that this woodland could have been anything but the way it seems now, a quiet corner of tranquillity away from daily life. The woodland itself is a SSSI (site of specific scientific interest) and worth a visit. Its abundance of trees includes one of Britain’s rarest – the large leaved lime which is scattered across the forest, with oak, birch, rowan, and holly for company (Interestingly folklore emphasises the importance of all these trees, suggesting they have significant protective power).

Geographically, Benthall Edge runs along the southern slopes of the Ironbridge Gorge and rises 100 meters to a plateau above the River Severn. It follows the river to meet the picturesque Buildwas Abbey beneath it who’s stories I have covered in a previous post. It lurches over the gorge like an omnipresent deity, a source of life and beauty. This woodland is special. Certainly, there is a unique energy which seems to rise from the land, whispering of secrets yet to be told. Perhaps this is due to the area’s history.

Though picturesque today, Benthall Edge looks very different to its previous centuries. Innumerable lifetimes have played out where the rich vegetation now grows, as Benthall Edge provides the backdrop for the advent of industry in Shropshire. The whole area was crucial for the development of key technologies such as the coke blast furnace, steam powered locomotion, wrought, and cast iron as well as the world’s first iron wheels. As well as this, for much of the latter part of the 18^th century, more coal iron was being produced in Shropshire than any other county in Great Britain.  The land has not forgotten this, with the battered wrecks of blast furnaces, limekilns and foundries still littering the landscape. Even today, a third of Telford’s landscape is directly affected by the results of shallow mining. In Its heyday, the whole region would have been alive with the hum of human activity, a busy, noisy morass of people. Industrialisation changed the course of Shropshire’s history, catapulting the population into an age of iron, furnace, and kiln. This was a changing world of opportunity, illuminated by furnace fires that never dimmed but also, it was a world of misery and misfortune. The sights, smells and sounds of industry, both day and night would have been provocative, even hellish in the minds of those there to witness.

 During the 18^th century, Ironmaking in particular was seen as ‘The most awe inspiring of industries^’ a real spectacle, enthralling all those who bore witness to this seemingly alchemical process. The advent of industry in this quiet corner of shropshire brought visitors from all over the world, who watched in equal parts fascination and horror. An Italian visitor wrote extensively of his stay in the area in 1787, stating that.

 

 ‘The approach to Coalbrookdale appeared to be a veritable decent to the infernal regions. A dense column arose from the earth…a blacker cloud issued from a tower which was a forge; and smoke arose from a mountain of burning coals which burst out into turgid flame’.

Understandably then, the gorge is awash with ghosts. Even the Ironbridge itself is haunted by multiple spirits, including a loving Victorian couple, who are said to walk arm in arm along the bridge, pausing to kiss at its centre, and a pair of little girls, who play merrily nearby. It’s lovely to think of these spirits wandering around, oblivious to the tourists and general daily goings on. However, the spirits of Benthall Edge are not as happy. Indeed, they are an imprint of a time when the whole gorge sang the song of industry and remind us of the pain such a world could bring. They speak of a darker time, and the suffering of individuals that society and indeed history left behind. Through these ghost stories we can hear their voices again, and understand how their blood, sweat and tears soaked the landscape. The earth remembers these marginalised poor and implores us to tell their tale. So, tell we will.

This is not an exhaustive account of the spirits of the area, or even of the spirits of Benthall Edge, however we will cover two of these ghosts in more detail. So, let us begin our journey into the woods, and into Shropshire’s past.

Our first tale takes place in the Victorian period, when the edge was a busy centre of industry. There was a route that cut along Benthall, which joined you to Ironbridge and the wider area. One morning, a sadly unnamed man from Ironbridge set out on his route to walk, following the path through the area. He was the site manager of a local brick kiln and knew the route well, hence the relaxed pace he took, despite carrying all of the wages for the kilns workers. The wages were due that day, so he was carrying with him a large amount of money. The folklore gives us a glimpse of his character, stating he was a fair and well-liked individual, well known in the area, and thus this made him feel safe on his journey.

This would prove to be a fatal mistake. After a short time, the man was set upon by unknown assailants and brutally attacked. They beat the man relentlessly and robbed him of the wages, despite his pleas and shouts. He begged them not to take the other workers’ wages, even offered them his own money, for he was worried about how the other men would manage. They had families after all and relied on him. He didn’t fight back, trying not to provoke them further and in desperation, he even assured them he wouldn’t report the crime, but the attackers refused to listen, hitting him harder and harder. The strangest thing about the attack was that it felt so pre-meditated, as if they knew he was going to be there. With such organised precision did the men attack him, before tying him to a tree.

 It was at this point that the man realised that he knew the attackers, they were none other than three of his colleagues. He called them by their name, imploring them to see sense, even suggesting he could try and help them if they were hard on their luck. The man’s kind words only panicked the attackers. Perhaps they felt guilty or were acting out of fear of what was to come, but the men took their feelings out on their colleague, beating him senseless, until eventually he was unconscious. The attackers then picked up his bruised and bloody body and threw it into a disused mine shaft. They sealed it up with a large stone, leaving their former manager and friend for dead.

The fall had brought the man back to consciousness. Though confused in the encroaching darkness, he knew he had to fight.  He was not willing to die in that hole alone.  Mustering all of the strength left in his body, he shouted and screamed, hoping that someone, anyone might hear. Sadly, his shouts were dulled by the clattering throngs of industry around him.

He knew that he must try to untie himself and remove the stone that was slowly crushing his chest. He was fading fast now, but with all of his might he struggled under the stone. One cannot imagine the desperation and sheer determination coursing through his veins as he twisted and writhed, trying to free himself.

The poor man’s body was found later that week. It was a frightful sight, battered beyond recognition and crushed to death by a heavy slab of stone. The police launched an investigation, but sadly there were no leads. No one could fathom why this crime had occurred, and why someone would harm such a kind fellow. The murderers kept their silence, and so, as the years melted away the memory of this man, the incident faded from recollection.

However, this is not where we leave this tale. For many years later, on the deathbed of one of the murderers, we rejoin the narrative. Despite the fact that he had tried to live a good life, to atone for his actions, the crime had gnawed and eaten away at him, leaving his soul blackened, and fraught with misery. He was haunted by his actions and convinced that his former manager’s spirit had not left him. He believed that he was always close, watching and waiting. Unable to take the growing tides of guilt, on the eve of his death, the man confessed his crimes. He told his family everything, how he attacked a good man, and left him dying down a mine shaft. How he had murdered the man who had trusted him, who had given him the job he’d worked all these years, when he had needed work the most. He had hoped that his confession would absolve him of his sins, and he wouldn’t have to meet his victim in the afterlife. Who can truly tell if the men did see each other again, once he had passed through the veil. Perhaps they were united and were able to discuss the reasons why such a terrible crime occurred, we will never truly know.

What we do know, is that the murdered man has not left the woods. He wanders the area still, often on the very same path that lead to his death. He seems to wander at ease, unaware of his fate. Further reports are more upsetting, as his death cries are said to still be heard below ground, begging passers-by to save him. These cries echo all across Benthall Edge. One can only hope that somehow, the poor man’s spirit is saved.

Or second story is sadly no less of a tragic tale. Indeed, not too far from the manager’s tomb is Benthall Pool, which on certain days of the year is said to turn a violent shade of red. Folklore suggests that this is a reminder of a horrendous crime which occurred at the location one balmy summer day. The crime involved a young woman, who was walking from her small cottage near the edge to Ironbridge, to see her fiancée. She was carefree and was enjoying her walk, with her mind filled with thoughts of her beloved. She was so excited, that she didn’t notice the limestone workers who were approaching her. Sadly, these would be the last souls she would ever see. These workers were violent, unfeeling men and unfortunately, as with so many stories such as this, took their cruelty out on the woman. She was brutally assaulted by them, suffering every way imaginable, before being murdered. She died in a frenzy and was left floating face down in Benthall Pool.

When she didn’t arrive at the Tontine Hotel, the girl’s fiancée began to worry. He was a kind man and loved her dearly. As the worry grew to fright, he began to ask around the bar and the street outside, but no one had seen her that day. He resolved that the only thing he could do is trace the path through the edge and try and find her.

Unfortunately, he did find the woman he loved, but not the way he would have wanted. He found her face down in the waters, clothing torn, and her body covered in blood. What an awful, awful thing to witness. It is said that his screams and pained cries can still be heard today, as he was never able to recover from her death. The woman also haunts the area. She is often seen sat at the water’s edge, bedraggled, and bloodstained, though as beautiful as she was in life. She stairs deep into the waters, confused as to why they are changing from blue to blood red. Stories such as this can be found throughout the corpus of British Folklore, and often such murdered and wronged women are said to haunt bodies of water, though I do not believe that this reduces the tales importance.

Indeed, such stories symbolise the inherent vulnerability of womanhood, in a society set up to harm them. She is the one that didn’t get away, all our unspoken fears realised. This narrative has come to typify the fears and nightmares of a society being brutalised by the advent of industry. Sadly, her story is not unique and the lady of Benthall Pool is but one of character in Shropshire’s lore who experienced unbelievable cruelty. Perhaps she was a real woman, forgotten by the tides of time. She joins ranks with both historical characters, whose plight can be understood through reading the newspapers and broadsheets of the era, as well as our folkloric woman and those reduced to ghostlore. Whether her story is based on an actual crime, we do not know, however there were some rather ghastly murders in the area which fall into the same vein, one of which is the death of ‘The girl in the Pit’ murdered by Samuel Johnson in 1822.

Samuel Johnson was a 22-year-old married man from Ironbridge, who became obsessed with Mary Sandfod, an 18-year-old also from the district. He visited her frequently, attempted to charm her and gain her affection. The girl was flattered by the attention, and on the night of her death had agreed to join him at a local dance. However, this was to prove a fatal decision. Samuel lured Mary into a field, stuffed hay into her mouth and sadly sexually assaulted her before murdering her in a fury of violence, which included a pitchfork. He left her naked remains in a pit. The brutality of such a murder is striking, even 200 years later. Samuel’s crimes were uncovered the following day, when the landowner, Mr Stubbs recovered her body. The subsequent trial was said to last minutes before the verdict of guilty was passed. Samuel Johnson was executed on 30^th March 1822, his body was given to surgeons for dissection.

Though there is no haunting attached to this crime, could this malicious death have influenced our Benthall Edge tale? We can only speculate; however, it does provide us with a precedence for such unbridled violence being enacted against women, throughout the area. It also makes stories such as these even more important to tell, as they become representative of the plight of so many women.

I want to end our journey of Benthall Edge now, but if you ever happen to be in the area, keep these spirits in mind, as well as all the other nameless faces, who lives were forever marred by industry.