A PRIVATE EXECUTION.
THE eventful day at length dawned when the scaffold was to be brought
into requisition. “The condemned sermon” of the day before, to say
nothing of the evident bustle that was going on, had sufficiently
prepared our minds for what was about to happen; and the getting our
breakfasts half an hour earlier, and the omission of the usual passage
cleaning, all clearly pointed to some unusual occurrence. My friend the
warder, too, kept me thoroughly _au courant_ with what was passing, and
when giving me my breakfast added, “Well, I sha’n’t be back just yet, as
I’ve got to assist at a little business down below that will take about
an hour.” After, therefore, he had left me, I mounted my stool, and
having contemplated Mike’s handiwork with considerable satisfaction,
removed the pane of glass and awaited the procession with very much the
same sensation that I have looked out for the passing of the Lord Mayor’s
Show or Mr. Hengler’s circus. The view I anticipated can hardly be said
to have been obtained under the most favourable circumstances. Perched
on a stool, and liable, if detected, of getting into a very serious
scrape, was in itself sufficient to infuse a certain amount of alloy into
the transaction; but when to all this must be added my own feelings—that
here was I, ONE prisoner actually confined within the same walls, and
watching the execution of ANOTHER prisoner—it will readily be conceived
that a piquancy was introduced into the proceeding such as seldom or ever
has fallen to the lot of an individual in my position. I could not have
had long to wait, though the discomfort of my position and the anxiety
attending it made it appear a matter of hours; and no twenty stone of
humanity ever suffered more torture than I did whilst with craned neck
and squinting through a crevice I awaited the advent of this hideous
procession. The dismal toll of St. Sepulchre’s bell and the distant
tramp of advancing footsteps, however, announced that the “time had
come.” I could distinctly hear the “Ordinary” repeating in very ordinary
tones portions of the Burial Service as the weird procession passed below
me; a dense fog made it very indistinct, but there it was almost beneath
me—the warders first, then the Governor, and then the condemned man
trussed like a turkey, supported by Marwood, and immediately preceded by
the chaplain. I could have dropped a biscuit amongst the party, so near
were they, as they passed through a wicket and were lost to sight. A
solemn silence now ensued, followed after a few moments that appeared
like hours by a terrible thud; and I pictured to myself the lately
scrubbed floor giving way, and my fellow-prisoner suspended mid-air in
that dark and bottomless pit. The closing of the outer shed doors
recalled me to my senses, and the approaching sound of footsteps, as the
“small and early party” dispersed, some to breakfast and some to the
morning paper, but all to reassemble an hour hence for the inquest, the
quicklime, the thrusting into a hole, and the general obliteration of the
morning’s work, suggested to me the advisability of at once restoring my
apartment to its normal condition. So with one piece of bread jammed
into the window, and another jammed into my mouth, I resumed my breakfast
as if perfectly oblivious of the terrible drama that had just taken
place. A few hours later we were exercising in the identical yard, and
the modest coach-house with its closed doors looked as disused as the
portals of a swimming-bath on Christmas Day.
The scene just enacted and the _débris_ of my breakfast forcibly recalled
to my mind an execution I witnessed many years ago from, as I believe,
the identical eating-house that had just supplied me with my breakfast.
It was in ’65, as near as I can recollect, that myself and three or four
others engaged a room on the first floor with two windows to witness the
execution of Müller for the murder of Mr. Briggs. A public hanging has
been so often and so graphically described that I hesitate to attempt to
add anything that is not already known. On the night before (Sunday) we
agreed to rendezvous at 10 o’clock at the Raleigh Club. It was raining
in torrents, and it was a question in our minds whether or no we should
brave the elements; but an empty four-wheeler standing outside settled
the point, and we proceeded on our ghastly journey. As it turned out,
the deluge was all in our favour, for had it been fine we should never
have got near the place, and would assuredly have shared the fate of a
cab-load of young Guardsmen who had preceded us about an hour, and who
unluckily arrived between the showers and never got beyond Newgate Lane;
at this point they were politely but firmly invited to descend, stripped
to their shirts, and then asked where the cabman should drive them to.
We, however, were more fortunate. In a sheet of water that even the
stoutest burglar found to be irresistible, we alighted in a comparatively
deserted street in front of our unpretending coffee-house; and a few
minutes found us in a cosy room with a blazing fire, and a servant who
had preceded us laying out the contents of a hamper of prog. The scene
on the night previous to a public execution afforded a study of the dark
side of nature, not to be obtained under any other conditions. The
lowest scum of London appeared to be here collected in dense masses,
which, as the hour of execution approached, amounted, according to the
_Times_, to at least 100,000 people. The front of Newgate was strongly
barricaded, huge barriers of stout beams traversing the street in all
directions; they were intended as a precaution against the pressure of
the crowd; they, however, answered another purpose, not wholly
anticipated by the authorities. As the crowd increased, so wholesale
highway robberies were of momentary occurrence; and victims in the hands
of some two or three desperate ruffians were as far from help as though
divided by a continent from the battalions of police that surrounded the
scaffold.
The scene that met our view as we pulled up the windows and looked out on
the black night and its still blacker accompanyists baffles description.
A surging mass, with here and there a flickering torch, rolled and roared
before us; above this weird scene arose the voices of men and women
shouting, singing, blaspheming; and as night advanced, and the liquor
gained firmer mastery, it seemed as if hell had delivered up its victims.
To approach the window was a matter of danger; volleys of mud immediately
saluted us, accompanied by more blasphemy and shouts of defiance. It was
difficult to believe we were in the centre of a civilised capital that
vaunted its religion and yet meted out justice in such a form.
The first step towards the morning’s work was the appearance of workmen
about 4 A.M.; this was immediately followed by a rumbling sound, and we
realized that the scaffold was being dragged round. A grim, square,
box-like apparatus was now indistinctly visible, as it was slowly backed
against the “debtors’ door.” Lights now flickered about the scaffold; it
was the workmen fixing the crossbeams and uprights. Every stroke of the
hammer must have vibrated through the condemned cells, and warned the
wakeful occupant that his time was nearly come. These cells are situated
at the corner nearest Holborn, and passed by thousands daily who little
know how much misery that bleak white wall divides them from. Gradually
as day dawned the scene became more animated, and battalions of police
marched down and surrounded the scaffold. Meanwhile a little
unpretending door was gently opened; this is the “debtors’ door,” and
leads direct through the kitchen on to the scaffold. The kitchen on
these occasions is turned into a temporary mausoleum, and draped with
tawdry black hangings, which conceal the pots and pans, and produce an
effect supposed to be more in keeping with the solemn occasion. From our
standpoint everything was visible inside the kitchen and on the scaffold;
to the surging mass in the streets below this bird’s-eye view was,
however, denied. Presently an old and decrepit man made his appearance,
and cautiously “tested” the drop; but a foolish impulse of curiosity led
him to peep over the drapery, and a yell of execration saluted him. This
was Calcraft, the hangman, hoary-headed and tottering and utterly past
his work.
The tolling of St. Sepulchre’s about 7.30 A.M. announced the approach of
the hour of execution; meanwhile a steady rain was falling, which,
however, in no way decreased the ever-increasing crowd. As far as the
eye could reach was a sea of human faces. Roofs, windows, church rails,
and empty vans—all were pressed into the service, and tightly packed with
human beings eager to catch a glimpse of a fellow-creature on the last
stage of life’s journey. The rain by this time had made the drop
slippery, and necessitated precautions on behalf of the living if not on
those appointed to die; so sand was thrown over a portion (not of the
drop—that would have been superfluous), but on the side, the only portion
that was not to give way. It was suggestive of the pitfalls used for
trapping wild beasts—a few twigs and a handful of earth, and below a
gaping chasm. Here, however, all was reversed; there was no need to
deceive the chief actor by resorting to such a subterfuge: he was to
expiate his crime with all the publicity a humane government could
devise. The sand was for the benefit of the “ordinary,” the minister of
religion, who was to offer dying consolation at 8 and breakfast at 9 A.M.
The procession now appeared, winding its way through the kitchen, and in
the centre of the group walked Müller, a sickly, delicate-looking lad,
securely pinioned and literally as white as marble. As he reached the
platform, he looked up, and placed himself immediately under the hanging
chain. At the end of this chain was a hook, which was eventually
attached to the hemp round the poor wretch’s neck. The concluding
ceremonies did not take long, considering how feeble the aged hangman
was. A white cap was first placed over his face, then his ankles were
strapped together, and finally the fatal noose was put round his neck,
the end of which was then attached to the hook. I fancy I can see
Calcraft now, laying the “slack” of the rope that was to give the fall
lightly on the doomed man’s shoulder, so as to preclude the possibility
of a hitch, and then stepping on tiptoe down the steps and disappearing
below. The silence now was truly awful. I felt my heart in my mouth; it
was the most terrific suspense I had ever realized. I felt myself
involuntarily saying, “He could be saved YET, YET, YET;” and then a thud,
that vibrated through the street, announced that Müller was launched into
eternity. My eyes were literally glued to the spot. I was fascinated by
the awful sight; not a detail escaped me. Calcraft meanwhile, apparently
not satisfied with his handiwork, seized hold of the wretch’s feet and
pressed on them for some seconds with all his weight, and with a last
approving look shambled back into the prison. Meanwhile the white cap
was getting tighter and tighter, until it looked ready to burst; and a
faint blue speck that had almost immediately appeared on the carotid
artery after the drop fell gradually became more livid till it assumed
the appearance of a huge black bruise. Death, I should say, must have
been instantaneous, for he never stirred a muscle, and the only movement
that was visible was that from the gradually stretching rope as the body
kept slowly swinging round and round. The hanging of the body for an
hour constituted part of the sentence, an interval that was not lost upon
the multitude below. The drunken again took up their ribald songs,
conspicuous amongst which was one that had done duty pretty well through
the night, and ended with, “Müller, Müller, he’s the man”; but the
pickpockets and the highwaymen reaped the greatest benefit. It can
hardly be credited that respectable old City men on their way to
business, with watch-chains and scarf-pins, in clean white shirt-fronts,
and with unmistakable signs of having spent the night in bed, should have
had the foolhardiness to venture into such a crowd, but there they were
in dozens. They had not long to wait for the reward of their temerity.
Gangs of ruffians at once surrounded them; and whilst one held them by
each arm, another was rifling their pockets. Watches, chains, and
scarf-pins passed from hand to hand with the rapidity of an eel;
meanwhile their piteous shouts of “Murder!” “Help!” “Police!” were
utterly unavailing. The barriers were doing their duty too well, and the
hundreds of constables within a few yards were perfectly powerless to get
through the living rampart.
From our window I saw an interesting case of mistaken identity, and I was
glad to have the opportunity of saving an innocent man from arrest. The
incident was referred to in the next day’s papers, and was briefly this.
A well-dressed old man had had his scarf-pin pulled out, and a policeman
by this time being luckily near, a lad standing by was taxed with the
theft. We, however, from our vantage ground had seen the whole affair,
and recognized the real culprit, who was standing coolly by whilst the
innocent man was being marched off. By shouting and hammering with our
sticks, we eventually succeeded in attracting the notice of the
constable, and pointed out the real culprit, and the pin was then and
there found on him.
Whilst these incidents were going on, 9 o’clock was gradually
approaching, the hour when the body was to be cut down. A few minutes
previously two prisoners had brought out the shell—a common deal one,
perforated with holes. I remember remarking at the time how small it
looked; and my conjecture proved correct, for it was with difficulty that
the body could be squeezed in. It showed with what consummate skill and
regard to economy the exact size of the body must have been calculated.
With its clothes on, the corpse was too big for the shell; divested of
them, however, there was doubtless ample room, not only for it, but for
the layers of quicklime that enveloped it. And now Calcraft again
appeared, and producing a clasp-knife, with one arm he hugged the body
and with the other severed the rope. It required two slashes of the
feeble old arm to complete this final ceremony, and then the head fell
with a flop on the old man’s breast, who, staggering under the weight,
jammed it into the shell. The two prisoners then carried it into the
prison, the debtors’ door closed till again required to open for a
similar tragedy, and the crowd meanwhile having sufficiently decreased,
enabled us to go home to bed, and to dream of the horrors of the past
twelve hours.