GIBBET.
A fortnight had passed since the incidents just related.
It was a Monday morning.
The clock of St. Giles's had just struck six, when the faint, flickering
gleam of a candle struggled through the uppermost windows of the
hangman's house.
The few persons who were passing along at that hour, and on that dark
winter's morning, shuddered as they caught a glimpse of the sickly glare
through the obscurity and the mist—for they thought within themselves,
"The executioner is up early on account of the man that's to be hanged
at eight o'clock."
And such was indeed the case.
Smithers rose shortly before six; and, having lighted the solitary
candle that stood upon the mantel, proceeded to the floor below to call
his son.
"Gibbet, you lazy hound!" he cried, thundering with his fist at the door
of the hump-back's room; "get up."
"I'm getting up, father," replied the lad, from the interior of the
chamber.
"Well, make haste about it," said the executioner in a savage tone.
He then returned to the loft.
There was something horribly fantastic in the appearance of that place.
The dim and sickly light of the candle did but little more than redeem
from complete obscurity the various strange objects which we have
already described. But as the penetrating eye of the executioner plunged
into the visible darkness of the loft, and beheld the ominous figure
balancing beneath the beam, while its mask of a livid white hue wore a
ghastly appearance in contrast with the black body and limbs which it
surmounted,—no sentiment of horror nor of alarm agitated his heart.
The avocations of the man had brutalized him, and blunted every humane
feeling which he had once possessed.
He walked up and down the room impatiently for several minutes, until
the door opened and his son entered.
The hideous countenance of the lad was ghastly pale, and distorted with
horror. His eyes glared fearfully, as if terrific apparitions flitted
before them.
"Gibbet," said his father, "you shall try your hand this morning on a
living being instead of a puppet."
"This morning!" repeated the lad, his teeth chattering, and his knees
knocking together.
"To be sure. Didn't I tell you so last night?" cried the executioner.
"Why, you hump-backed scoundrel, you—you ought to have prayed that no
reprieve might be sent for the chap that's to be tucked up this morning,
instead of working yourself up to this state of cowardly nervousness.
But I'll take it out of you, I will."
With these words, Smithers seized his leathern thong, and was advancing
towards the hump-back, when the wretched lad threw himself on his knees,
clasped his hands together, and cried, "No,—don't, father—don't! I can't
bear that lash! You don't know how it hurts.—I'll do all you tell me."
"Well, that's speaking proper—that is," said the executioner, dropping
the already uplifted thong.
"It's all for your good that I use it now and then, Gibbet. Don't I want
to make a man of you? Look at the money you can earn if you'll only make
yourself a name like me. D'ye think the sheriffs throughout England
would all apply to me to do their work for them, if I wasn't celebrated
for my skill? Why—even the criminals themselves must look upon it as a
regular blessing to have such a knowing hand as me to tie their last
cravat for them. I'd bet a pound that the man who's to be turned off
presently, isn't half as miserable as people think—'cos why, he's well
aware that I shan't put him to no pain."
"I know you've got a great name in your business, father——"
"We'll call it _profession_ in future, Gibbet; it's more genteel. And,
after all, it's as good as a barrister's; for the barrister gets the man
hanged—and I hang him. That's all the difference."
"I know it's very respectable, father," resumed the lad, submissively;
"but—still—I——"
"Still what?" cried Smithers, savagely, and taking up the thong again.
"Nothing—nothing, father," faltered Gibbet.
"So much the better. Now come to the model, and take and pinion the
figure—'cos that's what I mean you to do presently down at Newgate.
Begin by degrees, as the saying is; you shall pinion this man to day;
you shall let the drop fall for the next—and you shall put the halter on
the one that comes arter him, whoever he may be."
"Must I—pin—in—ion the man this morning, father?" inquired the lad, the
workings of whose countenance were now absolutely terrific.
"Must you? Of course you must," answered Smithers. "Why, what the devil
are you snivelling at now? I'd wager a crown to a brass farthin' that
there's many a young nobleman who'd give fifty pounds to be able to do
it. Look how they hire the winders opposite Newgate! Lord bless their
souls, it does me good to think that the aristocracy and gentry
patronises hanging as well as the other fine arts. What would become of
the executioners if they didn't? Why—the legislature would abolish
capital punishment at once."
Gibbet clasped his hands together, and raised his eyes in an imploring
manner, as much as to say, "Oh! how I wish they would!"
Fortunately for him, his father did not perceive this expression of
emotion, for the executioner had approached the candle to the
model-gallows, and was now busily occupied in arranging the figure for
his son's practice.
"I'll tell you who are the patrons of my business—profession, I mean,"
continued the executioner; "and if you had a grain of feeling for your
father, you'd go down on your knees night and morning and pray for them.
The old Tories and the Clergy are my friends; and, thank God! I'm a
stanch Tory, too. I hate changes. What have changes done? Why swept away
the good old laws that used to hang a man for stealing anything above
forty shillings. Ah! George the Third was the best king we ever had! He
used to tuck 'em up—three, four, five, six—aye, seven at once! Folks may
well talk of the good old times—when an executioner could make his
twenty or thirty guineas of a morning! I'd sooner take two guineas for
each man under such an excellent system, than have the ten pounds as I
do now."
While Smithers was thus talking, he had lowered the figure until it
stood upon the drop. He then took off the halter; but the puppet still
retained its upright position, because it was well stiffened and had
heavy plates of lead fastened to the soles of its feet.
"Now what a cry the rascally radical Sunday papers make against the
people they call the _saints_," continued Smithers, as he unfastened the
cord which pinioned the arms of the puppet; "and yet those very _saints_
are the ones that are most in favour of punishment of death. For my
part, I adore the _saints_—I do. When Fitzmorris Shelley brought forward
his measure to do away with capital penalty, didn't Dinglis and
Cherrytree and all those pious men make a stand against him? And don't
they know what's right and proper? Of course they do! Ah! I never read
so much of House of Commons' business before, as I did then:—but I was
in a precious fright, it's true. I thought of calling a public meeting
of all the executioners in the kingdom to petition Parliament against
the measure; but I didn't do it—because the House of Commons might have
thought that we was interested."
Smithers paused for a moment, and contemplated the puppet and the
model-gallows with great admiration. He had fashioned the one and built
the latter himself; and he was not a little proud of his handiwork.
"Now, come, Gibbet," he at length exclaimed; "it's all ready. Do you
hear me, you infernal hump-back?"
"And if I am a hump-back, father," returned the lad, bursting into
tears, "you know——"
"What?" cried the executioner his countenance assuming an expression
truly ferocious.
"You know that it isn't my fault," added the unfortunate youth,
shrinking from the glance of his savage parent.
"None of this nonsense, Gibbet," said the man, a little softened by the
reminiscence that he himself had made his son the object of the very
reproach levelled against his personal deformity. "Come and try your
hand at this work for a few minutes before breakfast; and then we'll go
down yonder together."
Gibbet approached the model-gallows; but his countenance still denoted
the most profoundly-rooted disgust and abhorrence.
"Let's suppose that the culprit is as yet in his own cell, Gibbet,"
continued the executioner. "Well, it's time to pinion him, we'll say;
there's the sheriffs standing there—and here's the chaplain. Now, you go
for'ard and begin."
Gibbet took the whip-cord which his father handed to him.
"That's right. Now you won't bounce up to the poor devil just like a
wild elephant: remember that he's more or less in an interesting
situation—as the ladies say. You'll rather glide behind him, and
insinuate the cord between his arms, whispering at the same time, '_Beg
pardon_.' Mind and don't forget that; because we're under an obligation
to him to some extent, as he's the means of putting money in our pocket,
and we get the reversion of his clothes."
Here Gibbet cast a hasty but terrified glance towards his father's
attire.
"Ah! I know what you're looking at, youngster," said Smithers, with a
coarse laugh; "you want to see if I've got on my usual toggery? To be
sure I have. I wear it as a compliment to the gentleman that we're to
operate on this morning. This coat was the one that Pegsworth cut his
last fling in: this waistcoat was Greenacre's; and these breeches was
William Lees's. But go on—we mustn't waste time in this way."
[Illustration]
Gibbet approached the puppet, and endeavoured to manipulate the string
as his father instructed him; but his hand trembled so convulsively that
he could not even pass it between the arms of the figure.
While he was still fumbling with the cord, and vainly endeavouring to
master his emotions, the leathern thong descended with tremendous
violence upon his back.
An appalling cry burst from the poor lad; but the executioner only
showered down curses on his head.
At length Gibbet contrived, through fear of another blow, to pinion the
figure in a manner satisfactory to his brutal parent.
"There!" exclaimed Smithers; "I shall make something of you at last.
What virtue there must be in an old bit of leather: it seems to put the
right spirit into _you_, at all events. Well, that's all you shall do
this morning down at Newgate; and mind and do it as if the thong was
hanging over your head—or it will be all the worse for you when we get
home. Try and keep up the credit of your father's name, and show the
Sheriffs and the Chaplain how you can truss their pigeon for them. They
always take great notice—they do. Last time there was an execution, the
Chaplain says to me, says he, '_Smithers, I don't think you had your
hand nicely in this morning?_'—'_Don't you, sir?_' says I.—'_No_,' says
he; '_I've seen you do it more genteel than that._'—'_Well, sir_,' says
I, '_I'll do my best to please you next time_.'—'_Ah! do, there's a good
fellow, Smithers_,' says the Chaplain; and off he goes to breakfast with
the Sheriffs and governor, a-smacking his lips at the idea of the cold
fowl and ham that he meant to pitch into. But I only mention that
anecdote, to show you how close the authorities take notice—that's all.
So mind and do your best, boy."
"Yes, father," returned Gibbet.
"So now we've done the pinioning," continued Smithers, once more busying
himself with the puppet, which he surveyed with an admiration almost
amounting to a kind of love. "Well, we can suppose that our chap has
marched from the cell, and has just got on the scaffold. So far, so
good. We can't do better than polish him off decently now that he _is_
here," proceeded Smithers, alluding to the figure, and rather musing
aloud than addressing himself to his son. "Now all we've got to do is to
imagine that the bell's a-ringing:—there stands the parson, reading the
funeral service. Here I am. I take the halter that's already tied nicely
round the poor devil's neck—I fix the loop on this hook that hangs down
from the beam of the gibbet—then I leave the scaffold—I go underneath—I
pull the bolt—and down he falls so!"
"O God!" cried Gibbet, literally writhing with mental agony, as the drop
fell with a crashing sound, and the jerking noise of the halter met his
ear a moment afterwards.
"Now, then, coward!" exclaimed the executioner; and again the leathern
thong elicited horrible screams from the hump-back.
The lad was still crying, and his father was in the midst of sundry
fearful anathemas, levelled against what he called his son's cowardice,
when a knock was heard at the door of the loft.
"Come in!" shouted the executioner.
The invitation was obeyed; and an elderly man, dressed in a shabby suit
of black, entered the room with an affected solemnity of gait.