(_From Sir Jonah Barrington's Sketches._)
Among the extraordinary characters that turned up in the fatal
"ninety-eight," there were few more extraordinary than Lieutenant H----,
then denominated the "walking gallows;"--and such he certainly was,
literally and practically.
Lieutenant H---- was an officer of the line on half pay. His brother was
one of the solicitors to the Crown--a quiet, tremulous, _vino deditus_
sort of man, and a leading Orangeman;--his widow who afterwards married
and survived a learned doctor, was a clever, positive, good-looking
Englishwoman, and, I think, fixed the doctor's avowed _creed_: as to his
genuine _faith_, that was of little consequence.
Lieutenant H---- was about six feet two inches high;--strong, and broad
in proportion. His strength was great, but of the dead kind
unaccompanied by activity. He could lift a ton, but could not leap a
rivulet; he looked mild, and his address was civil--neither assuming nor
at all ferocious. I knew him well, and from his countenance should never
have suspected him of cruelty; but so cold-blooded and so eccentric an
executioner of the human race I believe never yet existed, save among
the American Indians.[6]
[6] His mode of execution being perfectly novel, and at the same
time _ingenious_, Curran said, "The lieutenant should have got a
patent for cheap strangulation."
His inducement to the strange barbarity he practised I can scarcely
conceive; unless it proceeded from that natural taint of cruelty which
so often distinguishes man above all other animals when his power
becomes uncontrolled. The propensity was probably strengthened in him
from the indemnities of martial law, and by those visions of promotion
whereby violent partizans are perpetually urged, and so frequently
disappointed.
At the period alluded to, law being suspended, and the courts of justice
closed, the "question" by torture was revived and largely practised. The
commercial exchange of Dublin formed a place of execution; even
_suspected_ rebels were every day immolated as if _convicted_ on the
clearest evidence; and Lieutenant H----'s _pastime_ of hanging _on his
own back_ persons whose physiognomies he thought characteristic of
rebellion was (I am ashamed to say) the subject of jocularity instead of
punishment. What in other times he would himself have died for, as a
murderer, was laughed at as the manifestation of loyalty: never yet was
martial law so abused, or its enormities so hushed up as in Ireland.
Being a military officer, the lieutenant conceived he had a right to do
just what he thought proper, and to make the most of his time while
martial law was flourishing.
Once, when high in blood, he happened to meet _a suspicious-looking_
peasant from County Kildare, who could not satisfactorily account for
himself according to the lieutenant's notion of evidence; and having
nobody at hand to vouch for him, the lieutenant of course immediately
took for granted that he _must_ be a rebel strolling about, and
imagining the death of his Most Gracious Majesty.[7] He therefore, no
other _court of justice_ being at hand, considered that he had a right
to try the man by his _own opinion_; accordingly, after a brief
interrogation, he condemned him to die, and without further ceremony
proceeded to put his own sentence into immediate execution.
[7] The lieutenant's brother being a Crown solicitor, had now
and then got the lieutenant to copy the high treason
indictments: and he, seeing there that _imagining_ the death of
a _king_ was punished capitally, very naturally conceived that
_wishing_ it was twice as bad as _supposing_ it: having
therefore no doubt that _all_ rebels wished it, he consequently
decided in the tribunal of his own mind to hang every man who
hypothetically and traitorously wished his majesty's
dissolution, which wish he also conceived was very easily
ascertained by the wisher's countenance.
A cabinet-maker, at Charing Cross, some years ago, put on his
board "patent coffin-maker to his majesty:" it was considered
that though this was not an _ill-intentioned_, yet it was a very
improper mode of _imagining_ the king's death, and the board was
taken down accordingly. Lieutenant H. would surely have hanged
him in Ireland.
However, to do the lieutenant justice, his _mode_ was not near so
tedious or painful as that practised by the grand signior, who sometimes
causes the ceremony to be divided into three acts, giving the culprit a
drink of spring water to _refresh_ him between the two first; nor was it
so severe as the burning old women formerly for witchcraft. In fact, the
"walking gallows" was both on a new and simple plan; and after some
kicking and plunging during the operation, never failed to be completely
effectual. The lieutenant being, as before mentioned, of lofty stature,
with broad and strong shoulders, saw no reason why they might not answer
his majesty's service, upon a pinch, as well as two posts and a crossbar
(the more legitimate instrument upon such occasions): and he also
considered that, when a rope was not at hand, there was no good reason
why his own silk cravat (being softer than an ordinary halter, and of
course less calculated to _hurt_ a man) should not be a more merciful
choke-band than that employed by any _Jack Ketch_ in the three kingdoms.
In pursuance of these benevolent intentions, the lieutenant, as a
preliminary step, first knocked down the suspected rebel from County
Kildare, which the weight of mettle in his fist rendered no difficult
achievement. His garters then did duty as handcuffs: and with the aid of
a brawny aide-de-camp (one such always attended him), he pinioned his
victim hand and foot, and then most considerately advised him to pray
for King George, observing that any prayers for his _own_ d--d _popish
soul_ would be only time lost, as his fate in every world (should there
be even a thousand) was decided to all eternity for having imagined the
death of so good a monarch.
During this exhortation, the lieutenant twisted up his long cravat so as
to make a firm, handsome rope, and then expertly sliding it over the
rebel's neck, secured it there by a double knot, drew the cravat over
his own shoulders, and the aide-de-camp holding up the rebel's heels,
till he felt him _pretty easy_, the lieutenant with a powerful chuck
drew up the poor devil's head as high as his own (cheek by jowl), and
began to trot about with his burden like a jolting cart-horse,--the
rebel choking and gulping meanwhile, until he had no further solicitude
about sublunary affairs--when the lieutenant, giving him a parting
chuck, just to make sure that his neck was broken, threw down his
load--the personal assets about which the aide-de-camp made a _present_
of to _himself_.
Now all this proceeding was very painstaking and ingenious: and yet the
ungrateful government (as Secretary Cook assured me) would have been
better pleased had the execution taken place on timber and with hemp,
according to old formalities.
To be serious:--this story is scarcely credible--yet it is a notorious
fact; and the lieutenant, a few nights afterwards, acquired the
_sobriquet_ which forms a head to this sketch and with which he was
invested by the upper gallery of Crow Street Theatre--nor did he ever
get rid of it to his dying-day.
The above _trotting_ execution (which was humorously related to me by an
eye-witness) took place in the barrack-yard at Kerry House, Stephen's
Green. The _hangee_ was, I believe, (_as it happened_) in reality a
rebel.
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