This open bible is on the gravestone of William Whitehead, scripture reader for St Philip’s parish, who died in April 1910
Open bibles are common motifs on Wardsend gravestones. There are several just in the immediate surroundings of this grave. But these other examples are all similar to each other in design. The lettering in each case closely resembles that recording the family details.
The overall design of these stones would have been chosen from a catalogue – Victorian catalogues survive though I have not seen one – and they probably arrived at the local monumental mason’s workshop with the pages of the carved bible blank. On all these other examples there is a single phrase of text which is from the familiar and some might say limited repertoire of quotations and verses which are found throughout the cemetery.
The bible on William Whitehead’s gravestone is very different. The lettering does not match the professionally carved family details and in fact looks amateurish. But the chapter headings were clearly chosen for a purpose and that purpose must be to spark our curiosity and persuade us to find those chapters of scripture and read them. How fitting a device to continue the work of the scripture reader buried here!
There are two chapter headings and these chapters are not two halves of a single story or episode so perhaps there are two distinct messages to be read from their presence here.
Matthew 23 has the repeated refrain “Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites”. Jesus admonishes them for being more concerned with their position and the outward embellishment of the temple and the altar than with what they represent. He doesn’t mince words…
“Ye serpents, ye generation of vipers”.
If this message was important to Whitehead, who, for him, were the modern day Pharisees? He was a scripture reader for St Philip’s for 38 years so I hope his parish was not the target of his own righteous anger but he might well have been critical of other parts of the established church. Or the lesson may refer to the wider vainglorious and hypocritical world.
In Chapter 24 Jesus talks about the end of the world and his second coming, warning against false signs and prophets. His message is that all should be ready. One phrase appears on many gravestones in this cemetery
“Therefore be ye also ready: for in such an hour as ye think not the Son of man cometh”
Who decided to decorate the gravestone with this image and its crucial annotations? Did the scripture reader himself in his last illness plan this last stone-carved expression of his work? Or was there someone within his family who was confident enough in their reading of him, his views and his wishes to instruct a mason to add these details?
And was it a mason who made these marks? The contrast in quality between the chapter headings and the crisp carving of names and dates might suggest otherwise.
But I must not be tempted to see only the outward show rather than the inner message, which is so effectively communicated.
The many connections, by blood and by marriage, between the crowned heads of Europe are well known. Here are three grandsons of Queen Victoria: Tsar Nicholas II, King George V and Kaiser Wilhelm II.
But at all levels of society the countries of Northern Europe were linked by migration and naturalisation. When these countries went to war, cousins were likely to find themselves fighting on opposite sides.
A British Tommy remembered
Albert FS Mills was mobilised in October 1916 as a member of the York and Lancaster Regiment. He was promoted to Lance Corporal before he left England and passed through the 3rd and 2nd Battalions before arriving at the front in France in the 10th (service) Battalion. Within a month, on April 21st 1917, he was posted as missing in action, presumed killed.
Albert is commemorated on the Arras memorial and on a family gravestone in Wardsend Cemetery…
Wardsend grave NP700 – monumental inscription
In loving memory of EMMA MILLS who died Jan 2nd 1932 aged 62 years Also FREDERICK son of the above who died Aug 31st 1921 aged 16 years Also L/Cpl 37480 ALBERT F S MILLS 10th Y&L who fell in action April 21st 1917 aged 19 years
The pages of Albert’s service record (in images at Ancestry.co.uk) are charred and sooty and clearly fragile. The building where these records were stored was damaged by bombing in London during WW2 and many were destroyed. Painstaking work has saved a proportion of them, teasing apart the charred and fragile remnants, which are now known as “the burnt documents”.
We can see that Albert was only 18 when mobilised in October 1916.
His full name can be read on this document: Albert Frederick Schwabe Mills. Another page gives his weight as 120 lbs and lists two vaccination marks on each arm. His occupation was ‘pawnbroker’s assistant’.
His mother, Emma Mills on the gravestone, had an even longer name: Emma Ernestine Marie Augusta Mills, and her maiden name was Schwabe. (Albert’s father George Frederick had been married before and is buried with his first wife in Norton).
Came to cook, stayed to marry
Emma was born in the city of Schwerin in the northeastern German state of Mecklenburg-Vorpommern. She had at least seven siblings. This part of Germany is traditionally a poorer area, partly because of its inferior agricultural land. Her large family, and life in a poor region might have been a factor in Emma’s move to England before 1891. There is no sign of other family members in England. In the census Emma was working as a cook in the household of another German emigré family, in Lewisham in London.
George Mills, a joiner and later a builder, was born in Spalding in Lincolnshire but was in Sheffield by 1881. It is not clear how he and Emma might have met, but they married in Sheffield in 1896.
Height, weight, chest expansion in deutsch
Here is another military document. It is from a bound volume which has not been charred or soaked. The measurements in the right hand columns are in metres and kilograms:
In Germany, in peace time, all young men between the ages of 20 and 22 were liable to be called to give two years military service. This might only mean being away from home for a small part of those years. After that they were reservists up to the age of 45. The document above is from a ledger which consists entirely of a list of men born in 1894 who were coming up to military age in 1914. It comes from the city of Bremen.
Converting the figures, here is a comparison of these two young men:
But this is not an idle comparison. These young men were cousins*.
Otto’s father Franz was Emma’s sister.
Both Otto and Franz were tilers. The notes at the bottom of the entry say that Otto, who had completed an apprenticeship (perhaps with his father) had moved for work and was transferred to a different military district in April 1914. This Bremen ledger, therefore, does not show that he was called up to fight in the war, but he will have registered in his new home and quite possibly was in uniform during the war.
He could have been involved as early as August 1914 when mobilisation swelled the German army from 800,000 to 3.5 million men in just 12 days.
(*not by blood since the German document notes that Franz was Otto’s “adoptive father”. It doesn’t say that Adelheid was his adoptive mother so I assume he is her son from a previous relationship.)
“No Germans wanted here”
It is not clear from census records whether Emma was a naturalised British subject, but no record of naturalisation can be found in the National Archives. In any case anti-German feeling, particularly after the sinking of the Lusitania on May 7th 1915, led to calls from some to deport all those with German links, whether naturalised or not. This did not happen, but public anger spilled over into riots throughout the country.
On May 14th thousands of rioters wrecked and ransacked German-owned businesses in Attercliffe. The stock of pork butchers were looted. Some Germans were said to have asked the police to intern them for their own safety.
It is not possible to say how Albert’s family was affected, but the uncertainty and climate of violence must have been of concern to them. Workers with German names or known German family could be driven from their posts by the hostility of other workers. If Emma was still a German citizen she would have been required to register and report regularly to the police or other lawful authority. A son in the British army would have been seen by many as proof of allegiance to their adopted country.
Other Germans anglicised or changed their names – not necessary when you have the common England name of Mills but it is noteworthy that Albert’s brother Herman kept his first name throughout his life, and Albert himself is listed with his full name in the British military records.
So they didn’t have to follow the lead of the middle of the three cousins in the photo at the top of this page, who issued this proclamation three months after his loyal subject Albert Mills had laid down his life for his country in France:
(17 July 1917)
credits: monarchs: Getty Images Arras memorial: CWGC British Military Record: Crown Copyright (National Archives) via Ancestry.co.uk German military list: Bremen Archives via Ancestry.co.uk Proclamation: British Library via FMP
“There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.” – Shakespeare
As we approach the anniversary of the tragic events of the night of 11th March 1864, I’ve been dipping my toe back into the tides and currents of my own family history. My maternal ancestors connect me to Sheffield, and it was with an awareness of the Great Sheffield Flood that I stepped off the beaten track to Wardsend one August morning in 2005.
I’d lost my great great great grandmother, you see. Careless, I hear you say! I’d lost her behind one of those brick walls so notorious to family historians. I’d chased her through history, through census returns, certificates and directories, record offices and repositories. But as to her grave site, I’d lost her completely. Now I’d come to Wardsend, one last hit and hope chance to find her final resting place and run her, quite literally, to ground.
Her name was Elizabeth, born in 1788 into the Davenport dynasty of Sheffield saw makers. Their premises were situated along Rockingham Street, manufacturing ‘circular and all other saws’ as well as those saucy-sounding staples of the nineteenth century lady’s wardrobe, ‘elastic steel busks’ among other specialist steel items.
An incident at the Davenport factory was even reported in the Illustrated London News in 1851, when a horrific steam-engine accident occurred, involving a faulty bolt that gave way and fatally scalded engine tenter Richard Robertshaw and his co-worker Daniel Wilkins, and left a third man, John Crookes, with life-threatening injuries from the blistering hot steam. Bizarrely, Robertshaw’s four-year-old son had also died on the Davenport site, by drowning in a reservoir used for the steam-engine machinery. Just over a decade later, the power of water unleashed, not as steam but as spate, was to prove fatal to at least 240 souls in Sheffield, and the shadow of corporate culpability, amid an outpouring of grief and outrage, would fall more widely across the whole city.
When I came looking for Elizabeth at Wardsend, though, I had no idea that another distant relative had been directly caught up in the fate of the Dale Dyke Dam, and that he too was laid to rest at Wardsend. I was travelling in hope of finding Elizabeth’s grave after sniffing up several blind alleys. Her husband, a cutler called James Wallace, had died young of liver disease in 1840, leaving Elizabeth a widow with eight sons. She can be seen on successive censuses, moving from the family home in Garden Street, first to Wheeldon Street, then to the slum housing of Pea Croft where her eldest son, Joseph, was cutler and publican at “The Barrel.” Later, Elizabeth moved in with another son, Henry, in Edward Street, where she eventually died of ‘old age’ in her early seventies.
I had read somewhere that the overflow of burials from St Philip’s, Shalesmoor, might mean that Elizabeth, who died on the third day of 1862, could be among the earliest burials at Wardsend. Her interment would have been only two short years before the flood surged past the gates of the cemetery itself. It was this haunting image that led me there in search of answers. As with so much that touches us deeply, I found myself with even more questions and some surprising answers I hadn’t been looking for!
Now, as an Owl, I’m no stranger to the Hillsborough side of town, but when I travelled from the far side of Rotherham, by bus, train and Supertram, discovering Wardsend was like coming across a little unsung plot of paradise. It has an atmosphere all its own. Some of the monumental inscriptions seemed so crisp, as if the stonemason’s chisel had not long left off chipping away the lettering of cherished names and the symbols of remembrance. I never did find Elizabeth’s plot, but I was reluctant to leave, wandering up and down the paths, marvelling at the beauty of the spot on the hillside, catching glimpses on every gravestone of the lives of many strangers and neighbours who might have touched fingertips with my own ancestors.
It was only years later, when to my delight I discovered the Friends of Wardsend Cemetery was a ‘thing’ via Facebook, that I finally had proof from the kindly expertise of Howard Bayley that Elizabeth Wallace is indeed buried at Wardsend, in Plot S230, exactly where I’d hoped she’d be. Armed with this knowledge, I hope to make a return trip one day!
Elizabeth’s grandson, my great grandfather James Wallace was, according to those who knew him, ‘a bit of a lad.’ From the merry dance he led me over the decades of playing genealogical hide-and-seek with him, I learned that ‘bit of a lad’ was a polite family euphemism for a bigamist, an incorrigible player and a bloke who was, by any standards, pathologically economical with the truth – a rogue, albeit a loveable one.
James had a colourful childhood, touring the hostelries and music venues of the Victorian North of England with his father Charles, a professional vocalist and sometime cutler, another of Elizabeth’s brood of boys. James was trained, in true Davenport family tradition, as a saw maker. After a stretch in the Army in India, where he seems to have spent an inordinate amount of time in hospital with malaria and the after-effects of being knocked out by a cricket ball, back in Yorkshire he had almost as many jobs as he did extra-marital moments. From engineer’s tool fitter to bicycle maker, from invoice clerk to spade and shovel maker, Lucky Jim Wallace, all six foot something of him, couldn’t or wouldn’t be pinned down.
James kept the law off his scent, not to mention myself as his baffled descendent, by bailing out from Sheffield to Halifax, knocking a few years off his age, naming his uncle Henry as father of the groom and giving himself the middle name “Maitland” on his bigamous marriage certificate in 1924. ‘Maitland’ was a false moniker which stuck with him till his peaceful demise at the age of 92. But it was James’ first and only legal marriage, to my great grandmother Alice Jane Seagrave, that had me shinning back up that parallel branch of my family tree towards the Great Sheffield Flood itself.
Alice Jane’s father was William Seagrave, a circular wood sawyer and earthenware dealer living on Thomas Street and then on Portobello in the shadow of St George’s Church. He had moved from Mansfield as a youngster with his eldest brother Solomon, a seedsman, nurseryman, florist, fruiterer and market gardener who founded the famous Seagrave Nurseries, was a leading light in the Gleadless Land Society, and who has several roads in Gleadless named after him, including the road where he once lived, Seagrave Road.
Alice Jane herself was a shy, long-suffering lady who, it’s said, “wouldn’t say boo to a goose,” – even when that goose was her serial adulterer husband. She was a buffer girl and sang in the choir of the renowned Dr Henry Coward, the pioneer chorus-master, while going home to the house on Gleadless Road she shared with James, their three children (including my grandmother Elsie), James’ mistress Annie, who was also their landlady, Annie’s grandmother, Annie’s best friend and the child James had fathered with Annie right under Alice Jane’s nose. After Annie’s early death from tuberculosis, Alice Jane adopted the child, always fondly loved by his step-sisters, if not by his step-brother, who emigrated to America soon afterwards, following a violent showdown with his father. Alice Jane continued to care for all James’ children even after he disappeared into the sunset to commit bigamy with another unwitting lass, also called Alice. Oh, to have been a fly on their wall!
Alice Jane’s mother was Emma Goddard, born in 1833 to table knife cutler Charles Goddard and Mary Bartholomew. Six days before Emma’s sixth birthday, on the 11th of May 1839 at their home in Green Square on Charles Street, her elder sister Mary, just nine at the time, was helping to make the fire by wafting the flames with her petticoat. As was upsettingly common in the days of open hearths, the material caught fire and Mary was so severely burned that she died shortly afterwards. The inquest brought in a verdict of accidental death. This had a profound effect on Emma and stayed in her mind all her life. I know it did, as although the incident was never spoken of, the tight tucking in of skirts around the calves became a precaution passed down through the maternal line for five generations in our family, to prevent such accidents with naked flames in future. This preventative hem-hitching was passed from Emma to Alice Jane, from Alice Jane to Elsie, and on down to my own mother and to me.
It didn’t always quite do the trick, however. My grandmother Elsie worked as a young woman in a Sheffield corset factory where glue was heated over a fire. Elsie once briefly set her skirt alight, thankfully without the same fatal consequences as befell her great aunt Mary! So, fire brought tragedy to my Goddard ancestors. But it was the force of water that was to claim another member of the clan.
Joseph Goddard, a third great granduncle of mine, was a plumber, glazier and painter who travelled around for work. In 1841 he was in Arundel Lane and ten years later he had moved to the aptly named “Putty Cottage” in Swinton. But by the night of the census in 1861, he was living back in Sheffield with his son Edwin in Howard Hill, before his final fatal move to Malin Bridge. Edwin was a son from Joseph’s first marriage and worked as an engine tenter or stationary engine driver.
Joseph had remarried in 1856 to Sarah Bettany, a widowed pauper potter, as she is described on the census before their marriage. She had previously been married to a man called Samuel Edwards, by whom she had a daughter Mary who was with Joseph and Sarah when the Dale Dyke Dam burst in the bleak darkness above their cottage.
That March night, the sliver of waxing crescent Moon had already set, and the rain was lashing down in a south-westerly gale-force wind, so the darkness was deep indeed when the embankment cracked, and the dam finally breached. Dale Dyke flung its deadly torrent across the countryside, from the broad plains and meadows where the Loxley meets the deeper Don, along valleys, over fields, mills, grinding wheels, inns, gardens, homes containing sleeping families, pets and livestock, licking at the gates of Wardsend Cemetery with its grisly flotsam of masonry and machinery, churning with drowned souls and the corpses of stricken animals, to lap at the walls of Hillsborough Barracks and onward towards the town.
As it approached the row of twelve cottages known locally as Bower’s Buildings in Malin Bridge, Joseph was about to have a rude and terrible awakening. He had been in bed with Sarah, or, judging by what followed, perhaps scrambling to dress in the chaotic darkness. Also caught in the nightmare were Sarah’s daughter Mary, plus Sarah’s infant grandchildren, Mary’s youngest children, Rosina Yeardley, aged three, and John, aged two. All were swept away as the flood raged on, destroying the Stag Inn and ripping open the “The Cleakum” as the Malin Bridge Inn was known to locals.
Just below Hillsborough Bridge, the tide of horror burst through the village of Owlerton, where, as paper mills and public houses dissolved into the seething maelstrom of filthy water, a lodger in a nearby cottage was confronted by Joseph’s naked corpse, his sodden and ragged shirt still attached to his wrist by the cuff, helplessly buffeted at the mercy of the deluge.
In the following days, amid grief, shock and the inevitable recriminations, came the frantic attempts to locate missing loved ones, to identify the deceased, some swept into the debris against Lady’s Bridge or washed away as far as Mexborough in the Dearne Valley. Once the bodies of Joseph and Sarah were identified at Owlerton on the day after the flood, son Edwin had the death mask made from his father’s face and from that a memorial bust, viewable online here on Mick Armitage’s excellent website: http://www.mick-armitage.staff.shef.ac.uk/sheffield/photogal/artefact.html
Joseph and Sarah were buried at Wardsend, a fact I have only recently confirmed through the invaluable knowledge and help of the F.O.W.C. I understand the Yeardley family is buried at Moorgate Cemetery in Rotherham, where Mary’s husband Alfred lived. There is also a memorial stone for some of the flood victims in the churchyard of St John the Baptist’s far downstream at Mexborough, where I took this photo while searching for some of my ancestors from my father’s side, who were blacksmiths, farriers and wharfingers there.
You can take Sheffielders out of Sheffield, but you can never take Sheffield out of their hearts. My maternal ancestors didn’t leave Sheffield by choice, but by necessity. Tragedies and trials were witnessed and weathered until the Great War broke out and left their world unutterably changed.
My mum’s dad, Christopher Mamwell, had married Elsie Wallace, youngest daughter of ‘bit of a lad’ James and Alice Jane, in 1920 after the war ended. Granddad tramped nearly thirty miles northeast, all the way from 143 Derbyshire Lane in the days following the 1926 General Strike, to find work and a home for his growing family in Bolton-upon-Dearne. In the lamp room at Wath Main Pit, the acid used for cleaning damaged his skilled craftsman’s hands and fingertips, and this came to symbolise for him the loss of dignity and hope tied up with all he held dear in his life as a young man around Meersbrook, Heeley and Norton Hammer. Before the move away from Sheffield, he had been an artist and silver chaser who loved to walk out into the Peak District with its stunning views and clear horizons. Chris and Elsie always carried their Sheffield roots in their memory and in their hearts. The endless tributaries, meanderings and torrents of our family history lead us to where we are today.
So where do I fit in? I grew up as a railway child, in the Station Cottages of Bolton-on-Dearne on the LNER line from Sheffield to York at the start of the swinging sixties, a Dearne Valley lass born and bred. I love weaving echoes of the lives of my ancestors into my writing, including my first novel “Goatsucker Harvest” which was inspired by the lives of my dad’s waterway & railway ancestors, canals and Humber keels and the wilderness of lost fenland around Thorne and Hatfield Moors. Not surprisingly, Sheffield features in my second novel, a work in progress set again in the mid nineteenth century when shooting parties travelled from the inland cities to the Yorkshire Coast to bag seabirds and the “climmers” swung from the North Sea cliffs to gather eggs. Not without opposition, of course, or it would be a very short story! Sheffield sings in my blood – even though I’ll not plead that as an excuse for being a die-hard Owl – there are Blades too among my kin and ancestors for balance!
Over the years, I’ve walked most of Sheffield’s highways and byways in search of the places my ancestors lived and loved, mooching round cemeteries and records offices every chance I could snatch on the odd day off from my life as a Methodist minister. Two months after my unforgettable visit to Wardsend, I collapsed with a severe bout of autoimmune illness that left me bedridden and housebound. It abruptly ended that chapter of my gadabout genealogical adventures forever, but as one door closed, another opened, as my life was forced to slow down, on opportunities of sharing my lifelong passion, expressing my love for Yorkshire and its people, history, wildlife and wonders in writing, in poetry, prose, and fiction, and capturing it with my lens.
For those who lost their lives, homes and dreams when the Dale Dyke Dam burst its banks, whose blood runs through our veins, I think it’s so important to share their stories on this anniversary of the Great Sheffield Flood and on into the future. Let’s never stop celebrating them and telling their interconnected tales and tragedies. For as long as we do, they can never be forgotten.
(Picture Sheffield claims this image is from 1910 but there are no overhead wires. So the rails are for horse trams and the date must be before 1900)
Advertisements are designed to catch the eye and these are still catching my eye more than a century later. They are like the pages of a trade directory pasted up on the facade of an urban landscape. And when they are in places like this – the gateway to a suburban commercial centre – the majority were put up by local people and businesses. They want to tell you what delights, what bargains you will find if you enter…
H GREEN’S RICH CAKES ARE THE DAINTIEST IN THE KINGDOM
Harry Green owned the Don Bakery on Crookes Place (now Proctor Place). The bakery survived up to at least the 1960s.
TO OBTAIN GOOD MEAT FIT TO EAT IS SUCH A TREAT MORAL TRY PEAT
Leigh Peat, butcher, had shops in both Middlewood Road and Langsett Road, and a later generation (1966) were in Wadsley Lane…
The natural question (for an obsessive like me) is, can I link any of these advertisers to Wardsend?
Consider T (Thomas) FRANKLIN, top right, (pausing for a moment to consider also the difficulties for the sign writer, who could have been Mr Franklin himself, teetering over the river to paint the words). It is difficult to read at this resolution but it includes…
“YOU CANNOT BEAT THE BEST” T.FRANKLIN 88 Langsett Rd THE BEST BUILDING JOINERY REPAIRING PROPERTY SIGN WRITING… PAPER HANGING… [SINCE?] 1885 IN THE DISTRICT
Thomas Franklin’s bold words were matched by a thriving business judging by the frequent newspaper advertisements seeking skilled workmen. Here are some examples, almost all giving the address in Langsett Road…
[tradesmen required] 20 Oct 1894 good joiner SDT 11 May 1896 4 or 5 good brush hands and paperhangers, first-class grainer SDT 26 Aug 1896 6 good bricklayers SDT 21 Sep 1896 good bench hands and fixers SDT 21 Nov 1896 3 good joiners; first-class shop-front fixers SDT 30 Nov 1896 good joiners, bricklayer, slater SDT 9 Apr 1898 4 good wallers SDT 10 Jun 1898 joiner wanted SDT 28 Apr 1899 good joiners wanted SDT 12 May 1899 smart lad or improver to painting trade wanted SDT 15 Jun 1899 15 good brush hands SDT
31 Jul 1899 3 or 4 good decorators and 6 Plain Brush Hands SDT
[SDT=Sheffield Daily Telegraph, SRI=Sheffield and Rotherham Independent]
But misfortune can strike at any time:
(1 Apr 1899 SRI)
Fate can be cruel. Away from this public loss there was private tragedy. Within weeks of the financial loss inflicted by this fire, two children were buried at Wardsend…
Burial register, 1899
Thomas listed death, fire and sickness as factors in his bankruptcy two years later. In the meantime he had become landlord of a pub called the Grapes in Lock Street.
(16 Aug 1900, Sheffield Evening Telegraph and Star)
Another child was buried in the same grave in 1901.
A hint at a change in direction and perhaps fortune comes from the baptism of a child, in Dinnington. This is the only reference I can find to Thomas as a market gardener…
By the time of the 1911 census the family were back at 102 Langsett Road. Thomas wasn’t at home on census night (I can’t find him elsewhere) but the 1911 directory lists him as a painter. The census shows that Julia had had six children, of whom only two were living – Gladys Julia and Charles Edward (who was born c1902).
In 1917 Julia and her daughter are mentioned in a court case after a burglar stole a pair of gloves and a bangle from their house (then in Ash Street),
Gladys was listed as a health visitor and midwife in London in the 1939 register. She never married and died in 1980, her death registered in Hastings. Charles E married Dorothy Langley in 1930. They were still in Sheffield in 1939 and had two children. If there are descendants of Thomas and Julia today they must descend from this couple. (but note that Thomas had been married before and a daughter of that earlier marriage was also married with children in 1939)
The kerbstones for grave CA7 in Wardsend list only Thomas and Julia. The CA graves are in a favoured and prominent position – two rows of eight graves lining one side of the path that directly connects the drive to the sexton’s house. You can see the taller gravestones just peeping over the hedge on the right in this well-known picture of the chapel…
Thomas was buried in 1927 and Julia in 1939. I don’t know the date of this photograph but it must be earlier so even if we could see over the hedge there would be no memorial.
I think this counts as looking over the hedge. The CA graves seen just above the chapel in 1947…
(a murky image because it is much magnified from a much wider view)
In those two rows of graves of different shades of grey the very white kerbstones near the right end are not the Franklin grave, but the space behind them, as yet unfilled, is where the Franklin family are buried.
The Franklin grave kerbs, seen in the image at the head of this blog, are made of a fine but grainy granite which is very difficult to photograph. The words chosen for the foot of the grave, facing the path and therefore most easily read by passers-by, were chosen, perhaps, with those lost children in mind…
The memorial to Colour-Sergeant William Newell stands in an isolated position just inside the main gates (now lost). From here the drive climbs up to the chapel site.
The stone is scuffed and chipped, and sometimes difficult to read in the dappled shadow of the trees. Here is a transcription…
THE MEMORY OF
COLOUR SERGEANT M. COMPANY 2ND BATTALION
WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE MAY 16TH 1868
AGED 39 YEARS
THIS TABLET WAS ERECTED BY THE NON-COMMISSIONED
OFFICERS AND PRIVATES OF HIS COMPANY
AS A TOKEN OF RESPECT
This is not an area of graves. The sexton’s house and its garden separate this stone from all others on the site. So this is a carefully chosen spot. Colour-Sergeant Newell’s carved stone is the first meaningful symbol of remembrance passed by anyone entering the cemetery through the main gate. To the soldiers who had the stone inscribed to the memory of their lost comrade he might be thought of as a sentinel, or a sentry.
But is he buried there? Or anywhere in this cemetery? The evidence is not at all clear.
A death and a funeral
William Newell’s death is a matter of record…
The manner of his death may have dissuaded the press from covering the death and funeral of this popular soldier in detail. A short item appeared in the Sheffield Daily Telegraph four days later, reporting a funeral on May 18th.
Missing from the register
According to the burial register the only two interments that took place at Wardsend on May 18th (Monday) were those of a child called Benjamin HEWITT, and of John ARNOLD, a corporal in the same regiment as Newell.
A burial on the 19th May is listed between these two from the 18th, showing that the register was not brought up to date after each interment. This might allow for errors such as the omission of a burial, though I would think that this was rare.
I have searched the register pages for the whole of May in the hope of finding a misplaced entry for William Newell, but without success.
If these two soldiers were buried in the same cemetery on the same day you would think they would be buried at the same time, with the same escort and military ritual. Is it likely that the newspaper, even in a brief report, would fail to mention that two men were buried?
Both men are listed on the military obelisk at Wardsend…
However, inclusion on this memorial does not necessarily mean that an individual was buried in this cemetery. Investigation shows that at least six soldiers listed here are buried in other cemeteries.
I do not know of any ‘Woodside’ Cemetery in the Sheffield area. Could this be a mistake for Wardsend? Certainly, though Wardsend had been the centre of attention only a few years before, with bodies dug up from graves and the Vicar and sexton in prison. Reporters (and type-setters and proof-readers) would be expected to know of Wardsend, unless they were completely new to their jobs or from outside the town.
A Scottish Connection?
The only Woodside Cemetery I know to have existed at this time was in Paisley in Scotland. That might have some relevance, as a Scottish connection is suggested by the following brief notice:
Glasgow Herald (Friday 22 May 1868)
Noting his previous service, I think this may well be the same man in the Indian Mutiny Medal Roll (transcription from Find My Past):
Indian Mutiny Medal Roll 1857-1859
First name: William
Last name: Newell
Service number: 2987
Regiment: 79th Foot (Cameron Highlanders)
Medal type: Indian Mutiny Medal, 1857-1859
Taking each on its own merits, the two possible errors (omission from the Wardsend registers, ‘Woodside’ for ‘Wardsend’ in the newspaper) are certainly possible. It does seem a great coincidence if we consider them together. But I do not have another solution to suggest.
Just in case the newspaper was describing an event in Paisley I wrote to the Paisley Cemetery Company which now runs the Woodside Cemetery and Crematorium. They could not find William Newell in their registers.
Elusive in life as well as in death
I cannot positively identify William Newell in any census record. The newspaper report of the funeral implies that he enlisted before he was 20 and so may well have been overseas in both 1851 and 1861. There are a number of possible census entries in 1841, in Scotland and elsewhere.
A visitor to our recent 160th Anniversary event showed me a family tree which appeared to show that he was descended from William Newell. However, I found records to suggest that this was not the case. This was a disappointment as it would have given me names of other family members. Researching them might have suggested a burial location for William. As it is, I don’t even know if William Newell was married or had children.
Denouncing an impostor
An odd sideshow in the last few weeks of the life of William Newell is provided by the following news reports:
Sheffield Daily Telegraph (7 Apr 1868)
Sheffield Daily Telegraph (8 Apr 1868)
It was a long wait for the Assizes. The real Sergeant Newell was not around to know the outcome.
Sheffield Daily Telegraph (12 Aug 1868)
I do not know if William Newell is buried at Wardsend. If he is, I don’t know if the memorial by the gates marks his resting place. I have not considered here the possibility that the stone has been moved from an original location elsewhere, whether at Wardsend, or somewhere else entirely.
What is certain is that William Newell and the service he represents was important to those who caused the memorial to be made and then placed in such a prominent position.