A PRIVATE EXECUTION.
I was quietly fiddling away one evening in the Civil Service band at
King's College, as was my custom while my leisure was larger than at
present, when the gorgeous porter of the college entered with a huge
billet which he placed on my music-stand with a face of awe. It was
addressed to me, and in the corner of it was written "Order for
Execution." The official waited to see how I bore it, and seemed rather
surprised that I went on with my fiddling, and smilingly said, "All
right." I knew it was an order from the authorities of Horsemonger Lane
Gaol admitting me to the private execution of Margaret Waters, the
notorious baby-farmer.
If anything is calculated to promote the views of those who advocate the
abolition of capital punishment, it is the fact of a woman meeting her
death at the hands of the common hangman. There is something abhorrent,
especially to the mind of the stronger sex, in the idea of a female
suffering the extreme penalty of the law. On the other hand, the crime
for which Margaret Waters suffered--which is too much a cause célèbre to
need recapitulation--is exactly the one that would exile her from the
sympathy of her own sex. Whilst therefore her case left the broad
question much in the same position as before, we are not surprised to
find that strenuous efforts had been made to obtain a commutation of the
sentence. Mr. Gilpin, Mr. Samuel Morley, and Mr. Baines had been
conspicuous for their efforts in the cause of mercy. All, however, had
been to no purpose. Margaret Waters was privately executed within the
walls of Horsemonger Lane Gaol at nine o'clock.
It was a thankless errand that called one from one's bed whilst the moon
was still struggling with the feeble dawn of an October morning, and
through streets already white with the incipient frost of approaching
winter, to see a fellow-creature--and that a woman--thus hurried out of
existence. On arriving at the gloomy prison-house I saw a fringe of
roughs lounging about, anxious to catch a glimpse, if only of the black
flag that should apprize them of the tragedy they were no longer
privileged to witness. Even these, however, did not muster in strong
force until the hour of execution drew near. On knocking at the outer
wicket, the orders of admission were severely scrutinized, and none
allowed to pass except those borne by the representatives of the press,
or persons in some way officially connected with the impending "event."
There was an air of grim "business" about all present, which showed
plainly that none were there from choice, nor any who would not feel
relief when the fearful spectacle was over. After assembling, first of
all, in the porter's lodge, we were conducted by the governor, Mr.
Keene, to the back of the prison, through courtyards and kitchen
gardens; and in a corner of one of the former we came upon the ghastly
instrument of death itself. Here half-a-dozen warders only were
scattered about, and Mr. Calcraft was arranging his paraphernalia with
the air of a connoisseur. I remember--so strangely does one's mind take
in unimportant details at such a crisis--being greatly struck with the
fine leeks which were growing in that particular corner of the prison
garden where the grim apparatus stood, and we--some five-and-twenty at
most, and all in the way of "business"--stood, too, waiting for the
event!
Then ensued a quarter of an hour's pause, in that cold morning air, when
suddenly boomed out the prison bell, that told us the last few minutes
of the convict's life had come. The pinioning took place within the
building; and on the stroke of nine, the gloomy procession emerged, the
prisoner walking between the chaplain and Calcraft, with a firm step,
and even mounting the steep stair to the gallows without needing
assistance. She was attired in a plaid dress with silk mantle, her head
bare, and hair neatly arranged.
As this was my first experience in private hanging, I do not mind
confessing that I misdoubted my powers of endurance. I put a small
brandy-flask in my pocket, and stood close by a corner around which I
could retire if the sight nauseated me; but such is the strange
fascination attaching to exhibitions even of this horrible kind, that I
pushed forward with the rest, and when the governor beckoned me on to a
"good place," I found myself standing in the front rank with the rest of
my confrères, and could not help picturing what that row of upturned,
unsympathizing, pitiless faces must have looked like to the culprit as
contrasted with the more sympathetic crowds that used to be present at a
public execution.
One of the daily papers in chronicling this event went so far as to
point a moral on the brutalizing effect of such exhibitions from my
momentary hesitation and subsequent struggle forward into the front
rank. The convict's perfect sang froid had a good deal to do with my own
calmness, I expect.
When the executioner had placed the rope round her neck, and the cap on
her head ready to be drawn over the face, she uttered a long and fervent
prayer, expressed with great volubility and propriety of diction, every
word of which could be distinctly heard by us as we circled the
scaffold. She could not have rounded her periods more gracefully or
articulated them more perfectly, if she had rehearsed her part
beforehand! Though most of the spectators were more or less inured to
scenes of horror, several were visibly affected, one kneeling on the
bare ground, and another leaning, overcome with emotion, against the
prison wall. At last she said to the chaplain, "Mr. Jessopp, do you
think I am saved?" A whispered reply from the clergyman conveyed his
answer to that momentous question. All left the scaffold except the
convict. The bolt was withdrawn, and, almost without a struggle,
Margaret Waters ceased to exist. Nothing could exceed the calmness and
propriety of her demeanour, and this, the chaplain informed us, had been
the case throughout since her condemnation. She had been visited on one
occasion by a Baptist minister, to whose persuasion she belonged; but he
had, at her own request, forborne to repeat his visit. The prisoner said
he was evidently unused to cases like hers, and his ministrations rather
distracted than comforted her. The chaplain of the gaol had been
unremitting in his attentions, and seemingly with happy effect. Though
she constantly persisted in saying she was not a murderess in intent,
she was yet brought to see her past conduct in its true light; and on
the previous Saturday received the Holy Communion in her cell with one
of her brothers. Two of them visited her, and expressed the strongest
feelings of attachment. In fact, the unhappy woman seemed to have been
deeply attached to and beloved by all the members of her family. She
had, since her condemnation, eaten scarcely anything, having been kept
alive principally by stimulants. Although this, of course, induced great
bodily weakness, she did not from the first exhibit any physical fear of
death. On the night before her execution--that peaceful moonlit
night--when so many thoughts must have turned to this unhappy woman, she
slept little, and rose early. The chaplain had arranged to be with her
at eight, but she sent for him an hour earlier, and he continued with
her until the end. On Monday night she penned a long statement addressed
to Mr. Jessopp. This was written with a firm hand on four sides of a
foolscap sheet, expressed with great perspicuity, and signed with the
convict's name. Whilst still repudiating the idea of being a murderess
in intent, she pleaded guilty to great deceit, and to having obtained
money under false pretences. If she had not given proper food, that, she
contended, was an error of judgment. It was hard, she thought, that she
should be held accountable for the child who died in the workhouse. She
dwelt much upon the difficulties brought upon her by her dread of the
money-lender--that fungus growth of our so-called civilization, who has
brought so many criminals to the gallows, besides ruining families every
day in each year of grace! That she had administered laudanum she
denied. The evidence as to the dirty condition of the children she
asserted to be false. She wished to avoid all bitterness; but those who
had so deposed had sworn falsely. "I feel sure their consciences will
condemn them to-night," she wrote, "for having caused the death of a
fellow-creature." In the face of the evidence, she felt the jury could
not find any other verdict, or the judge pass any other sentence than
had been done. The case had been got up, she argued, to expose a system
which was wrong. Parents wished to get rid of their ill-gotten
offspring. Their one thought was to hide their own shame. "They," she
concluded, "are the real sinners. If it were not for their sin, _we_
should not be sought after."
There must surely be some whose consciences these words will prick.
However this woman deserved the bitter penalty she has now paid, there
is indeed a tremendous truth in her assertion that she, and such as she,
are but the supply which answers their demand.
And so we filed away as the autumnal sun shone down upon that gloomy
spectacle, leaving her to the "crowner's 'quest," and the dishonoured
grave in the prison precincts. Up to the previous night strong hopes of
a commutation of the sentence were entertained. Her brothers had
memorialized the Home Secretary, and were only on the previous day
informed that the law must take its course. Let us hope that this stern
example will put a stop, not only to "baby-farming," which, as the dead
woman truly said, is but a consequence of previous crime--but also to
those "pleasant vices" which are its antecedents and encouragements.