Some Distinguished Victims of the Scaffold

A gentleman and officer – for things are not what they seem – is produced by Law in due course, one Thomas Poplett, a lieutenant under untamable Wall. This estimable Poplett confesses the Governor had him safely under lock and key – for disobedience – on the day of flagellation, which shows that the red Irishman was not a bad judge of some men’s deserts. From his prison Poplett witnessed the thrashing of Armstrong, and he produces rope with which it was done, or rather someone told him, who had it from one of its nigger wielders, that this was the very same. The Caledonian pencil scribbles industriously. Hearsay evidence? not a bit of it. Nor proof of malice neither, for the nice Poplett may be a collector of curios. But the nice Poplett had done some odd things in his time; had been sacked from Lord George Germaine’s office for telling tales out of school – a dabbling-in-Funds speculation – such things as disgrace men still. The name of Poplett, too, had been posted in the Stock Exchange, with a footnote, ‘Lame-duck’ or some equivalent compliment. A most estimable witness, indeed, this nice Poplett. Splendid material for Caledonian pencil.

There was yet another of similar breed – Peter Ferrick, surgeon of Goree. The rope’s-end business was well in hand when he arrived. Peter takes much credit for this unpunctuality, and the Lord of Isles jots it down a black mark against the prisoner – the why is not clear. “The Armstrong back-slashing did not seem more severe than usual to Doctor Ferrick, but the man is dead.” Doctor Ferrick was amazed at the time, but he knows now that the rope’s-end killed him – a marvellous pair of eyes in the skull of this Ferrick! “Brandy-drinking in the tropics after such fustigation would not be wholesome, and would be done contrary to leech-Ferrick’s orders.” Corollary, note by Scotch pencil – if there was brandy-drinking, the treatment was unskilful, and prisoner must answer for the leech-folly. Query – “Why didn’t Ferrick stop the flogging?” Great wrangling among counsel on account of this same query. “Improper question – the twelve honest tradesmen must not be prejudiced against the man in the dock.” Still, innuendo remains: i. e. leech-Ferrick did not interfere, because he was afraid of Wall! The Scotch lip lengthens, and its owner pats the timid leech on the back approvingly. What a grim, bloodthirsty tyrant, this Governor Wall! think the honest twelve. Leech-Ferrick steps down, proud and satisfied that Caledonian pencil has wrote him down an ass. To hang Wall is all he cares. Better a live donkey than a dead giant. Going home, he comes to the bad end of many fools – he writes a letter, which is printed by The Times.

Then the tyrant is called upon for his defence. It is simple and straightforward, for he knows nothing of Law-logic. “The soldiers were turbulent; Armstrong was disobedient; every cat-o’-nine-tails was destroyed, so he did the thrashing with a rope; he had no intention of killing the man, who might not have died but for brandy-soaking in hospital; he ran away from Reading twenty years ago, because the mob was howling for his blood, believing that he, like Kenneth Mackenzie, had blown men from cannons.” N.B.– The red soldier must have remembered how successfully the ’57 mob had howled for the death of kid-gloved Byng.

Witnesses for the crimson tyrant follow – a poor lot. Number one, mincing Mrs Lacy, wife of late second in command at Goree. This lady gets angry with magnificent Law, to the great scandalisation of the Lord of Isles, and tries to put everyone right, for they are all wrong. Contradictions annoy the Court. When there has been plain sailing – though close to the wind, no matter – it is annoying to think out new and perplexing tracks. “Welshman Lewis was not orderly-sergeant,” persists Mrs Lacy. “The deputation to the Governor was eighty strong. Her husband’s brain was turned by the sun in 1784, so he would have been no use as witness to the arrested Governor.” All this borders on the superfluous, shocking the Chief Baron, upon whom the honest twelve glue their round and honest eyes. “The soldiers threatened the Governor – upon my oath, they did,” vociferates Mrs Lacy, while the Lord-of-Isles, no doubt, thinks sadly of another such shrill voice that assails his ears at home. Then magnificent Law – a naughty Attorney-General now – plies witness with searching questions about solitary visits to imprisoned giant, here in Old Bailey; and though the military widow makes wrathful repudiation, this thin-ice skating exhibition sinks deep into the pious souls of the virtuous twelve. A wicked profligate also, think they, is this cruel red Irishman!

Mary Faulkner, gunner’s wife, comes next, and says similar things, and more; she even heard the men discuss the killing of Governor Wall. Her husband, gunner Faulkner, corroborates. Agrees with the two last that Armstrong was mutinous and threatening. Admits, however, he had little trial. Great excitement among Crown counsel, and learned Plumer presses the point. “Very little trial” is the conclusion sought, and Caledonian pencil records it. No matter that consistent Law has laid it down that if there was a mutiny he will not press for proof of elaborate court-martial. A prisoners witness has scored a point for the other side, and they record it – “Scarcely any trial at all.”

What matters the rest, while the prim Scotsman, in full-bottomed wig, brandishes his pencil! Peter Williams, soldier, endorses all said by women Lacy and Faulkner, but clever Plumer shows him up, on the word of an officer, as “a lying, shuffling fellow.” Private Charles Timbs swears that ‘cats’ were all destroyed by the men, but no one heeds him. Deputy-Advocate Oldham instructs the tribunal that drum-head court-martials are never reported to Government Department. Thus, why should Wall report his small explosion to Secretary Townshend, why – ? But what does this signify in face of what Law had laid down – “Never mind trial! Can prisoner prove the mutiny?” No need to press Deputy Oldham, for there is no chance of scoring another point at the expense of prisoner’s witness.

Then arrives the great and proper time. The pencil has done its work, and Caledonian tongue now speaks, and Caledonian lip, having arrived at full tension, trembles. Important comments are delivered – a general ripping-up of the Wall witnesses. Chief Baron reads the report to Secretary Townshend, and adds footnote: “No mention of mutiny” – suspicious. Again: “Two officers returned from Goree at same time as the Governor. This,” he echoes Law-logic, “does not indicate existence of mutiny.” Further: “Prisoner made his escape when all witnesses who could prove his innocence were alive” – still more suspicious. Twelve good and honest brows grow still darker and more vengeful. The rope-ending is contrasted with the birching of children; marvellous parallel – as though the maternal heart bore resemblance to the provisions of Mutiny Acts! Back-slapping of leech-Ferrick is long and loud. “Be careful not to hurt a toss-pot,” declares the Lord-of-Isles, “for if he drinks himself to death, you are his murderer!” Wonderful Caledonian pencil that is able to out-logic wonderful Law.

It is ten o’clock at night. For thirteen hours the unfortunate twelve have been box-fast. Within twelve honest waistcoats lies a dull and aching vacuum. The Laws, Plumers, and Lords-of-Isles have similar sensations, in spite of the adjournment-gorge in an upper chamber. Yet, when they retire, the good tradesmen debate this military cause sedulously for the space of sixty minutes. They have sons and brothers in the army, and doubtless much suppressed eloquence to explode. At last, an hour before midnight, they return into Court, faces stern and dark. The deaf giant receives the verdict with a start of surprise, but without tremor of limb. To him the proceedings have been a long, dreary mumble, and he longs for repose. In good set terms, for the benefit of reporters and the junior bar, the Recorder passes sentence, and, as the curtain falls, the gaol-bird mob outside growls forth its plaudits.

Till Friday morning, only thirty-two hours, has been allowed the prisoner to prepare for death. Before trial, Keeper Kirby had given him a spacious and comfortable room, but a cell in the Press Yard wing must now be his portion. With a cry of impotent rage the weary giant flings himself upon his bed, and declares he will not rise till the fatal hour. During the black winter night the felons in other cells hear his voice, for the poor crushed giant is singing hymns to his Maker. Next day there is much wear and tear of good cloth in the seats of the mighty. Government officials sit long over case, and a respite till the Monday following is the result of their labours. The love of the noble and devoted wife, given long ago to him whom she knew as one of the world’s pariahs, shines brighter and more beautiful amidst the dreadful darkness, and she toils without ceasing for a reprieve. All the influence of Clan Mackenzie – such as it be – is summoned to the aid of the condemned soldier, for the second daughter of the house had married Henry Howard, and their kinsman, his scapegrace of Norfolk, is induced to take up the cudgels on behalf of the chained giant. Unfortunately, the senior peer is not a favourite at headquarters. Still, Secretary Pelham gives heed so far as to send down another respite to Newgate on Sunday eve. Wall’s hanging-day is now settled for Thursday, the 28th of January, and the Monday morning mob of gallows-birds howls fiercely when discovery is made that it has been baulked of its prey for a few dozen of hours; which same howls, penetrating in ministerial mind’s-ear to the purlieus of Whitehall, set ministerial hearts palpitating with apprehension. For the Pilot who weathered the Storm no longer has a home in Downing Street, and the hearts of ministerial successors lack tissue.

Not all the wealth of woman’s tears can move authority to greater mercy on behalf of the red giant. The smug and closet-petted doctor, who cares naught for military matters, is bent on his French peace in spite of all that patron Pitt may say, and it seems a small matter to hang a mob-detested officer. “Soldiers a drug in the market – we are going to be friends with the good Buonaparte,” think Farmer George and his Council when they confabulate on Wednesday afternoon. The Caledonian pencil-notes are consulted, and cobwebs gather fast around the bewildered royal brain. Kingly thoughts dwell lovingly upon the royal prerogative of the gallows – a truly English pastime, worthy of a British prince whose blood has run itself clear of all Hanoverian coagulations. Chancellor Eldon, being interrogated, finds his load of learned lumber ill-digested for the moment, and doubts, and doubts, and doubts. Then some brave and discreet statesman – oblivion shrouds his illustrious name – mentions the mutineers of the ‘Fighting Téméraire’ a dozen or so of whom a few days before had ornamented the yard-arms at Spithead, and King and Council ponder deeply. Newgate howls have been ominous, Newgate cries have been eloquent, and the time-honoured platitude, “One law for rich, another law for poor,” has often ended in window – sometimes royal window – smashing. Mercy seems a great risk, far greater because of the ‘Téméraire’ yard-arm business than the unpopular pardon of Kenneth Mackenzie. On the other side there is the alluring picture of the great triumph of British equity – the balance of justice – ‘Téméraire’ rebels hanging on one side of the scale, and mob-hated Joseph Wall on the other. “Foreign nations please observe and copy!” A notable triumph for an English-born German prince. Like the peace that was to be, it seemed an experiment worth the while. Farmer George and Doctor Henry prove to have most forcible willpower in the Council, and when his Gracious Majesty posts off to Windsor at five o’clock, to drink tea with his Princesses, the Governor of Goree has been left for execution.

In the condemned cell that same evening the devoted wife and husband hope still for the reprieve that never comes. Keeper Kirby has promised the grief-stricken woman that she shall remain in the gaol till the last possible moment, and while the clock slowly beats its march to the hour of eleven the heart-rending tragedy unfolds its agonies.

“God bless you, my dear,” cries the giant in their last embrace. “Take care of the children. Let them think as well of me as you can.”

Then, while the Governor of the prison escorts the poor lady along the cold, dark corridors, she sobs forth her one piteous question for the hundredth time:

“Is there no hope?”

“Madam, I trust your wishes may be fulfilled,” replies Kirby. “But it is now a late hour, and I have received no orders.”

Sister Howard, who also has borne this terrible vigil, supports the fainting woman from the portals of the charnel-house, and their carriage rumbles away over the stones of Old Bailey. Even these loving friends have failed him, and the red giant must bear his last dismal journey alone. Two turnkeys watch over him, lest he may do himself injury, for he wears no fetters.

“It is a long night,” he exclaims about two o’clock, as he tosses wearily upon his couch.

Still, his voice is strong and resonant with its military ring, though his mighty form has sunk beneath a weight of torture into a mere gaunt framework of bones. Bread-and-water has been his diet since the sentence, and Sheriff Cox, although assiduous in his visits to the unhappy man, will not relax his stern rules. In a little while, as if he looked for sleep, he asks whether the scaffold will make a noise when it is dragged out into the street. With compassionate lie, they answer that it will not, but his thoughts dwell morbidly upon his destiny.

“I most earnestly request,” he tells his attendants, “that I may not be pulled by the heels when I am suffering.”

They attempt to appease him by the promise that it shall be done as he wishes, but he has seen hangings in plenty, and he knows what may happen.

“I hope that the fatal cord may be placed properly,” he persists, “and that I may be allowed to depart as fairly and easily as my sentence will allow.”

At last he falls asleep, and when the huge wooden machine lumbers between the prison doors with a sound that reverberates through the whole building, he is unconscious of what has happened. Also, it is not recorded that he heard the dread chaunt of the bellman outside in the Old Bailey:

“You that in the condemned hole do lie,
Prepare you, for to-morrow you shall die;
Watch all, and pray, the hour is drawing near,
That you before the Almighty must appear.”

About half-past five he awakes with a start as a mail-coach rumbles along Newgate Street.

“Is that the scaffold?” he demands, and they tell him no.

Once more he makes anxious inquiries about the methods of the hangman, and they satisfy him as well as they can. Shortly before seven he is led to the day-room of the Press Yard, where he is joined by Ordinary Forde, who, robed in full canonicals, with a great nosegay beneath his chin, seems prepared for a wedding day. A fire is smouldering on the hearth, and a nauseating smell of green twigs fills the chill stone chamber. Gaunt and terrible is the aspect of the red, untamable giant, who is meek and penitent, but with soul still unbowed. A yellow parchment-like texture is drawn tightly over his sunken features, and through their hollow sockets the piercing eyes shine as though in ghastly reflection to the glance of death – not the triumphant glitter thrown back by Death Magnificent, but the stony, frightful stare imparted by the Medusa of Shame. A suit of threads and patches hangs loosely upon his emaciated limbs – an old brown coat, swansdown vest, and blue pantaloons – a sorry garb for one who has worn a colonel’s uniform in his Majesty’s army. For a moment his piercing gaze falls upon Ordinary Forde.

“Is the morning fine?” is the strange, eager question. “Time hangs heavily,” the hollow far-away voice continues. “I am anxious for the close of this scene.”

As if in response to the wish, Jack Ketch’s lackey, a dwarf with face of a demon, draws near with his cords and binds the giant’s wrists.

“You have tied me very tight,” is the weary complaint.

“Loosen the knot,” commands absolute Forde, and the sulky wretch obeys with low mutterings.

“Thank you, sir,” murmurs the giant. “It is of little moment.” The green twigs upon the hearth crackle in a shower of sparks up the wide chimney, and a shovelful of coals is thrown upon the burning mass. Death’s piercing glitter flashes from the eyes of the dying man while his brain paints pictures in the flames. Then his lips move slowly:

“Ay, in an hour that will be a blazing fire.”

Ay, and you are thinking that in an hour, you poor, red, untamable giant will have finished your long torture, and be lying cold and still – while that fire blazes merrily. In an hour one loving, great-hearted woman will have entered upon the agony-penance that she must endure to the grave. In an hour your little ones will be children of a father upon whom his country has seared the brand of infamy – and these green twigs will have become a blazing fire! Sad – yea, saddest of words that could fall from human lips!

Then the demon of suspense torments the poor giant once again, and he turns to the Ordinary appealingly:

“Do tell me, sir – I am informed that I shall go down with great force; is that so?”

Ordinary’s thoughts cease for a moment to dwell lovingly upon his breakfast-gorge with the Sheriff – the epilogue to every hanging – and professional pride swells his portly soul. With reverent unction he explains the machinery of the gallows, speaking of ‘nooses and knots’ with all the mastery of expert, for Jim Botting and his second fiddle ‘Old Cheese’ are no better handicraftsmen than Ordinary hangman Forde. Presently he in his turn grows curious.

“Colonel Wall,” he inquires, “what kind of men were those under you at Goree?”

The haunting glance of death-shame fades from the piercing eyes, and through the portholes of his soul there flashes the living spirit of defiance.

“Sir,” he cries, “they sent me the very riff-raff!”

Suddenly the reverend Ordinary bethinks himself of his holy office, and plunges headlong into prayer; a contrast that must compel the tear of recording angel – smoke-reeking, unctuous, ale-fed Forde and contrite, half-starved, but invincible giant. Sheriff Cox and his myrmidons enter as the clock is striking eight. A look of eagerness passes over the cadaverous lineaments, a gaunt figure steps forward, and a firm, hollow voice murmurs:

“I attend you, sir.”

Although his head is bowed, his tread is that of the soldier on parade as they pass out into the keen winter air. A crowd of felons, destined soon for the gallows, is huddled in groups, here and there, within their courtyard den, and as the procession passes through the quadrangle they hurl forth curses of hell against the man who is marching to his death. The giant head falls lower, and the martial tread beats faster. “The clock has struck,” he cries, as he quickens his step. There is a halt in another chamber beyond the Press Yard. An ingenious law-torment is demanded – the Sheriff’s receipt for a living corpse. A legal wrangle follows; the red giant’s body is not described in good set terms, and there is much quill-scratching, while the giant gazes calmly. Then the march is resumed down the loathsome passages, and the soul of Greatheart warms as eternity draws nearer.

In another moment, the most wondrous prospect of his life opens before his eyes. High upon the stage, with back turned to the towering wall, as befits a soldier, his vision ranges over a tossing sea of savage faces, a human torrent that fills the wide estuary, surging full and fierce to the limits of its boundaries. Then a mighty tumult rises from the depths of the living whirlpool, the exultant roar of a myriad demons thirsting for blood. At last the giant limbs tremble, as the shouts swell fiercer and louder still – three distinct terrific huzzas – unmistakable to trained ears; they come from the angry throats of a thousand British soldiers, the fierce war-cry learnt from the cruel Cossack long ago. The red tyrant is delivered to the mob at last. Some say it is the shout of punters delighted to have won their bets, and loudly press the strange apology; but reason, giving preference to comparative methods, calls to mind the savage exultation that hailed the atonement of skipper Lowry and Mother Brownrigg, of Burke and Palmer, and muses thoughtfully upon this balance of justice.

The gnarled, bony fingers of the red giant grasp the hand of Sheriff Cox, while the foul-odoured beast fumbles with the halter around his neck, withdrawing the noose and slipping it once more over his head. The victim turns to the plump Ordinary with a last request:

“I do not wish to be pulled by the heels.”

The priest deftly draws the cap over the gleaming, shrivelled face, and mumbles from his book. No clanging bell disturbs the peace of the sufferer, for he is a murderer, and this blessed torture is not for those of his class. The bareheaded crowd gazes with rapture upon the wooden scaffold, shorn of its appalling garb of black – another mercy vouchsafed to him who dies guilty of a brother’s blood. Suddenly there is a second mighty shout of triumph. The rope hangs plump between the two posts, and the tall, gaunt form is swaying in empty air. In another moment there are cries of horror, but of horror mingled with applause. The noose has formed an even collar around the giant’s neck, while the knot has slipped to the back of his head, which is still upright and unbent. Horrible convulsions seize the huge, struggling frame. It is a terrific scene – most glorious spectacle of suffering that a delighted crowd has ever gazed upon – Jack Ketch has bungled! Minutes pass, and still the hanging man battles fiercely for breath. Minutes pass, and not a hand is stretched forth to give him relief. Sheriff’s eyes meet eyes of Ordinary in mutual horror. Sheriff’s watch is dragged from its fob, and when the little steel hands have stretched to a right angle, at last a hasty signal is made to the expectant hangman. Two butchers beneath the scaffold seize upon the sufferer’s legs, and soon his agony of more than a fourth of an hour is brought to a close. A fierce shock, indeed, to reason and the balance of justice argument – a fiercer shock still to those that cling lovingly to the tenets of Hebrew mythology.

With a sigh of relief Sheriff and Ordinary hurry away to coffee and grilled kidneys in Mr Kirby’s breakfast-room, leaving the crowd to watch the victim hanging – which crowd does with gusto, scrambling fiercely a little later for a bit of the rope, which Rosy Emma, worthy helpmate of Jack Ketch, retails at twelvepence an inch, and, furthermore, gloating with delight upon the cart that presently takes the wasted form of the dead giant to the saws and cleavers of Surgeons’ Hall dissecting-room, Saffron Hill. Tight hands at a bargain, these bloodletting, clyster-loving old leeches! They demand fifty, some say a hundred, guineas from the giant’s friends, and they pocket the ransom before they surrender their corpse. Devoted old leeches: sic vos non vobis– we are the learned legatees of your dabblings in anatomy. A few days later – it is a Thursday morning, numbered the 4th of February in the calendar – a few merciful friends bear the giant’s coffin to a resting-place in St Pancras Churchyard. Epitaph does not appear, for cant refuses to superscribe the true one – “England did not expect him to do his duty!”

As we look back upon the glowing perspective of our history, there are few scenes that stand out in fiercer grandeur than the flogging of Goree. Foul-smelling, Lilliputian picture, it shines, nevertheless, with the same unconquerable spirit of genius that clapped a telescope to the blind eye at Copenhagen. One untamable hero, armed merely with a crimson rope, faces a hundred cut-throats, and, within view of the ramparts of the enemy, cows them into licking his shoes, declaring that an insult to himself is an insult to his King. Truly a David and Goliath picture.

“Wrong,” cry Farmer George and Doctor Henry, glancing timidly, as with mystical prescience, down the vista of ages to Board School days, and quaking at swish of cat and clank of triangles, guilty of as deep anachronism as he who hurled a shell at the tomb of the Mahdi, to the great disturbance of bread-and-milk nerves. For birch twigs and cat – essential forerunners of Standards Six – had much Peninsular and Waterloo work in front of them, and it was just as easy to chain red giants as to hang them.