From the time I first began studying true crime (which was, as I recall, at the “shouldn’t be reading about such things” age) I have found it interesting how some dark deeds, no matter how weird or memorable they may be, are soon forgotten, while more banal deviltries somehow manage to lodge in the public consciousness for years, even centuries. An outstanding example of the latter is the following case.
On September 24, 1786, three Irish sailors, Michael Casey, James Marshall, and Edward Lanigon (or Lonegan) were walking the London to Portsmouth road, returning to their ship from shore leave. To make their long journey more palatable, they stopped at a pub at Moushill, near Godalming. There, they met another sailor who was taking the same route back to Portsmouth. This man--whose name was fated to remain unrecorded--was obviously a generous and convivial sort. He bought the three men drinks, and volunteered to continue to supply them with liquid refreshment for the rest of their journey. He paid the bill with a guinea--a considerable sum of money in those times. This show of affluence put some very dark ideas in the minds of his new acquaintances.
The quartet left Moushill together. Two miles later, they stopped at the Red Lion Inn in Thursley, where, once again, the anonymous sailor paid the tab.
Tragically, the sailor was buying rounds of drinks for exactly the wrong people. Instead of feeling gratitude and friendship to their benefactor, his munificence made his companions conclude that he made an excellent target for robbery. On a deserted stretch of the pathway somewhere between Thursley and Hindhead, the three Irishmen pounced on the stranger. They stripped him of his clothing, and, despite his pleas for mercy, repeatedly stabbed the man. His throat was cut so badly he was nearly decapitated. When the murderers had finished their work, they rolled the mutilated corpse off the pathway and down into an area fittingly named the “Devil’s Punch Bowl.”
Fortunately for justice, the three villains were unaware that they had eyewitnesses. Two local men saw them dumping something down the slope, but sensing that there was some evil business afoot, they were afraid to investigate until the trio had left. When they saw what the men had rolled off the pathway, they ran back to the Red Lion for help. An impromptu posse of eight or nine men immediately set off in pursuit. They caught up to the Irishmen at a pub in Rake, where the murderers were trying to sell their victim’s possessions. After a brief struggle, the sailors were taken into custody.
En route to Guildford jail, the group made a macabre side trip. The murderers were taken to the house where the body of their victim had been taken, and they were ordered to touch the body. (In the “old days,” there was a surprisingly persistent belief that if a killer touched the corpse, the wounds would bleed afresh.) It was reported that one of the criminals--we do not know which one--openly wept at the grisly sight, but the other two showed the heartless indifference one would expect from such men.
The Irishmen stood trial at the Lent Assizes on April 5, 1787. They were charged with two crimes: theft, and, of course, “wilful murder of a male person unknown.” The case against them was about as irrefutable as they come, and two days later, they faced the inevitable penalty. They were brought to Hindhead Hill and hanged in front of an immense crowd. Afterwards, their corpses were covered in tar and hung on a gibbet thirty feet high and eleven feet in diameter. They were left to rot, as a gruesome public warning for anyone who might consider similar crimes.
Meanwhile, their victim was treated with great respect, even reverence. The poignant nature of his murder--killed for being too bountiful--as well as his anonymity, touched everyone’s hearts. The man was given a dignified funeral in Thursley churchyard, and a collection was taken for a headstone to mark the grave. The stone depicted the murder (now known to locals simply as “The Deed,”) and the inscription read:
In Memory of
A generous but unfortunate Sailor,
Who was barbarously murder’d on Hindhead
On Sep 24th 1786
By three Villains
After he had liberally treated them,
And promised them his father [sic] Assistance
On the Road to Portsmouth
With pitying Eyes to see my Grave shall come,
And with a generous Tear bedew my Tomb,
Here shall they read my melancholy Fate,
With Murder and Barbarity complete,
In perfect Health, and in the Flow’r of Age
I fell a Victim to three Ruffians Rage;
On bended Knees I mercy strove t’obtain
Their Thirst of Blood made all Entreaties vain
No dear Relation or still dearer Friend
Weeps my hard Lot, or miserable End
Yet o’er my sad Remains (my name unknown)
A generous Public have inscribed this stone
This unfortunate man (generally known as the Unknown Sailor) has never been forgotten by local residents and historians, all haunted by the mystery of his identity. One researcher, Peter Moorey, believed he had finally solved the puzzle in his book “Who Was the Sailor Murdered at Hindhead?” Moorey had discovered that in 1932, a woman named Anne Macmillan wrote a letter to the “Farnham Herald,” claiming that the victim was her father’s great-uncle, and that the story of his ghastly end was well-known in her family. Although she did not know the man’s first name, she was able to say that he was the brother of Samuel Hardman, a soldier in the 10th Light Dragoons, and that he died leaving an unclaimed fortune of a quarter of a million pounds--a sum that she said still remained in Chancery. Mrs. Macmillan knew all the details of the crime and its aftermath, and added that when the bones of the gibbeted murderers began to fall through the bars someone with a taste for memorable souvenirs gathered up a middle finger bone from each of the corpses, tipped them in gold, and presented them to the family to use as toothpicks.
Armed with this information, Moorey did some digging. He found the records of Lieutenant Samuel Hardman in the National Archives, which told him that Samuel lived in Lambeth, Surrey. Moorey examined the baptism records for the parish, where he found the entry, “1752 August ye 30th Edward son of Samuel Hardman and Mary his wife.”
It can probably never be proven that Edward Hardman was the Unknown Sailor. Macmillan’s account is a plausible one, but if the family was told of his murder, it is strange that no one around Hindhead ever learned his identity.
Rest in Peace, poor sailor, whoever you were. Ave Atque Vale.
