BBOXWILL GAOL――GUILTY OF WILFUL MURDER――PEACE SEES THE LAST OF
GREGSON.
While Peace was in comparative security, and enjoying immunity for his
past crimes, the hours were rolling away sadly enough with Mr. Edward
Gregson, alias the Bristol Badger, alias the Old Un. He was caught in
a net from which he was not likely to escape. He was deeply impressed
with this fact.
The day appointed for his trial was close at hand, the nearer it
approached the more anxious, nervous, and fidgety, he became. He was
anxious to obtain the services of some leading barrister to conduct
his defence, but he had not funds sufficient for that purpose.
His sister, who was married to a drunken, worthless fellow, was the
only person who stood by him in the hour of his extreme need. She
went, at his request, from one to another of the burglar’s quondam
associates, for the purpose of raising a sum sufficient for the
defence.
At Gregson’s direction she waited upon Peace, who was not a little
disconcerted when she presented herself at his lodging in Bradford.
He, however, did more than many of the others did――he gave her a few
pounds.
He also spoke words of kindness to her, and expressed a hope that the
verdict would be more favourable than anticipated.
And now let us return to Gregson, who had been confined in one of the
model cells of Broxwill.
The little money he had with him at the time of his capture, he had
spent entirely upon sumptuous dinners.
Gorging himself, like a boa constrictor, he would fling his enormous
frame upon the hammock-like bed, which oscillated beneath his weight,
and slept from dinner time to dinner time.
Thus did the earlier portion of his imprisonment pass pleasantly
enough.
It is true that he sometimes complained of the regulation respecting
the quart of malt liquor, but upon the whole behaved himself very
quietly.
In fact, as he was almost invariably asleep, it could hardly have been
otherwise.
But, alas! one dreadful morning he was informed that his money was all
gone, and that he must, for the future, content himself with the
prison diet.
He knew from experience what that was.
A mug of gruel and a piece of bread was brought him for his breakfast.
He surveyed it with contempt, and emptied it away into the slops.
He did not care about breakfast or tea. He liked being fed once a day,
like the lions in a menagerie, or the bull terriers in the mews.
His anxiety was great to see what his hot dinner was. It happened to
be a soup day; and his disgust on finding that he was to dine off a
little thin broth and a piece of bread defies description.
He entreated the warder, in the sweetest tones his rough voice could
command, to bring him something better than that.
The warder only laughed at him.
From entreaties he passed to threats, and from threats to a savage
blow with his fist, which would have annihilated the jocund official
had he not parried it with the iron door, which rang beneath the
shock, and covered the brawny hand with blood.
He howled with pain, and stretched himself on his bed in sulky
silence.
After this he became a little more tractable; contenting himself with
grumbling at everything that was brought him.
His sister paid him a visit. She informed him that she had obtained
some money towards paying counsel for his defence.
Upon hearing this he seemed greatly pleased; despite his recklessness
and bravado, he had become sad and serious as the time for the opening
of the assizes approached.
He still clung to hope, even as a drowning man might cling to a spar.
At length the day arrived on which the trial had been appointed to
take place. The facts connected with the charge of murder were simple
enough.
Jane Ryan, who had become by this time a sort of heroine, was the
chief witness; but there were others who were to be called as
witnesses for the Crown, who to a great extent could corroborate her
evidence.
Jane, when placed in the box, was calm and self-possessed.
She swore most positively to the prisoner as being the man who stabbed
James Hopgood. She averred that she had a distinct and vivid
recollection of every minute circumstance attendant upon the crime
committed on that fatal night.
The counsel for the defence by a series of cross questions and
inuendoes, strove to throw a doubt upon her testimony.
But Jane never wavered for a moment. Her answers were clear and
concise. Every word she uttered bore the impress of truth.
Her cross-examination was continued for so long a time that it became
wearisome.
There was, of course, the usual wrangling between the advocates as to
what was admissible as evidence.
Objections were taken to some of the questions put to the witnesses,
and an appeal was made to the judge, who overruled certain objections,
and admitted others.
Jane’s former master and her fellow-servant were the next. They both
swore positively to the prisoner as the same person who stabbed the
young carpenter.
Eight other witnesses were examined, amongst whom were the two Messrs.
Ashbrook and the policemen.
The weight of evidence was clearly against the prisoner, and after
retiring for a short time the jury returned a “Verdict of Guilty,”
upon the charge of wilful murder.
The judge passed sentence of death upon the prisoner in the usual
form, and Gregson, who did not display the slightest emotion, was
taken back to Broxwill gaol.
Jane Ryan, who had borne up with wonderful firmness and fortitude
throughout the trial, now gave way. When the sentence was passed she
swooned, and was carried out of court in a state of insensibility.
“Poor gal,” said Richard Ashbrook; “we none of us know what it has
cost her to get through this day’s business. Poor lass! it’s the
recollection of her sweetheart that’s done this. It can’t be any
sympathy she feels for that miscreant.”
“Ah! no――for it aint that as does it,” said a female attendant. “The
poor dear soul has nerved herself up to go through a trying part, and
she’s broken down now it’s over. It’s a chance if she ever overgets
this day’s business.”
“She’s none of your weak sort of bodies,” observed the farmer. “Jane’
got a brave heart.”
“May be she has, sir; but the bravest of us are a little overcome at
times,” returned the woman.
With care and attention Jane Ryan was soon sufficiently restored to be
taken by the good-hearted farmer and his relatives to Oakfield House.
She was with good kind friends, who strove in every possible way to
restore her to her wonted health and spirits.
But a canker worm was at her heart. And those about her acknowledged
to themselves that she was no longer the same Jane whom they had known
in an earlier day.
* * * * * * *
There were but a few grains of sand remaining in Time’s hour-glass for
the hardened criminal, Gregson. The morning of his execution was at
hand.
Let us visit the street before Broxwill gaol before the fatal day.
It was Sunday night, at eleven o’clock; the public-houses had closed
and forced the people into the air, which was rain――into the street
which was mud.
A vast crowd was already collected before the gaol, and were watching
the ominous preparations for to-morrow.
The new act for carrying out the last dread penalty of the law within
the precincts of the gaol had not as yet passed, and the public were
permitted to see the last throes of the doomed. Now, even the
representatives of the press are denied that privilege.
There were lanterns placed at intervals of several yards down the
whole length of the street. Dark shadows might be seen flitting round
these lights.
The harsh sound of iron striking stone rose in the air.
They were digging holes in the ground with picks and iron crowbars.
At the end of the street, at the farther extremity of the prison,
there was a yard surrounded with iron spikes.
The door of this yard was open, lights trembled in its mysterious
depths.
A group of men and women stood near it; a policeman was stationed at
each side of the door.
Occasionally men carrying large iron bars and wooden posts passed out.
These, planted in the ground, were formed into a barrier that the mob
might be kept at a certain distance from the scene of execution.
Gradually the group in front of the yard increased into a crowd.
As at every quarter of an hour the church bell gave forth its solemn
notes they clung closer together, and peered over each other’s
shoulders into that black space from which indefinite sounds were
raised and which was guarded so vigilantly by its two sentinels.
They heard the noise of wheels and cried joyfully――
“It’s coming! it’s coming!”
But they became silent as, drawn by three horses, a strange vehicle
passed them.
It was a large square cart of enormous size, upon four low, broad
wheels. It was painted black.
It passed slowly up the street, and halted before a small door which
opened from the prison into the street.
From the interior of the prison sprang three men in their short
sleeves. They dragged with them a huge pole, and erected it towards
heaven.
A low murmur ran through the crowd. This was a portion of the gallows.
How strange and absorbing is the interest of every class in all that
pertains to death!
Many of those assembled round Broxwill Gaol, remained there all night.
These were, of course, the “roughs.”
But it must not be for a moment supposed that the interest was
confined to them.
Numbers of persons belonging to the middle and upper classes had
engaged seats at windows of those houses commanding a good view of the
scaffold.
As the night wore on the throng of persons diminished in numbers.
There were, however, many around the apparatus of death when the first
few streaks of dawn were visible in the horizon.
In an hour or so after this people debouched from all quarters of the
town, hurrying on towards the fatal spot.
As the minutes flew by the multitude increased.
The salesmen of hot potatoes, coffee, pies, and other delicacies, were
threading their way through the crowd.
Some loud-voiced fellows began to cry out the last dying speech and
confession of the notorious murderer, Gregson, better known as the
Bristol Badger. They recited some doggrel lines as they took their way
along, which persons of a powerful imagination might suppose to be the
production of the wretched man who was about to die.
The windows of the houses commanding a view of the ghastly scene now
began to fill with people.
In them too, many of the fair sex were to be seen. The crowd before
the scaffold became denser――people, as is usual on occasions of this
description, push and elbow each other. An English crowd is bound to
do this.
“Where ye’re shovin’ to?” said a tall youth to a brawny looking man,
who to all appearance was a navigator. “Jest keep yer elbows to
yerself.”
“It aint my fault, yer fool,” said the navigator. “It’s the people
behind who’s a pushing.”
“Well, then, you’re strong enough, and can keep ’em back if you like.”
“Don’t you be so cheeky, young fellow,” returned the other; “you aint
everybody.”
“Give him a dab in the eye,” said a voice behind.
“I shan’t be at all particular about that if he gives me any more of
his cheek.”
“Hush! Order!” ejaculated another of the crowd. “This aint a time to
be a-quarrelin’.”
“Right you air, old man,” said another.
“Pies, all hot――all hot,” shouted out an itinerant vendor of those
delicacies. “Here’s some of the right sort, all hot.”
Several persons became purchasers. The morning air had given them an
appetite, and they devoured the pies with evident relish.
A man in a black suit, with a white necktie and a low crowned hat,
proceeded to distribute tracts to the gaping throng.
In a few moments he got unmercifully chaffed, but heedless of this he
proceeded on his mission.
The hours passed on. It was nearly eight o’clock.
A man in a sable suit, bent form, and a feeble step, made for the door
of one of the houses opposite to the gaol. He wore green spectacles,
and to all appearance was a cripple, with a false arm. He passed
through the doorway, and in a few moments after this had taken up his
position at one of the front windows of the second floor of the house
he had entered.
He seemed to be a broken, afflicted creature, who was past the
meridian of life. His form was bent with premature age or disease――it
was not possible to say which.
This person, who was disguised so completely that his own mother would
not have known him, was our hero, Charles Peace.
He had come to see the last of Ned Gregson.
His make-up suggested a Dissenting minister. He seated himself by the
side of a tall, thin, serious-looking person, of quiet manners and
gentlemanly appearance.
The prison bell began to toll.
Then, as if by presentiment, the crowd became more orderly, the men
ceased their jests, and the vendors their cries.
“It is nearly time for the carrying out the final act of the law upon
the poor condemned wretch,” said the tall gentleman to Peace. “What
must be his feelings now?”
“Ah, sir! the thought is terrible. It is painful to dwell upon. What,
indeed, must be his feelings?”
Here he heaved a profound sigh.
“I have never attended an execution,” remarked the other; “and now my
heart begins to fail me. I wish I had kept away. And you――――”
“I, like yourself, have never witnessed a scene of this nature, but,
having come, I shall endeavour to fortify myself as I best can.”
“I am not an advocate for the abolition of the punishment of death,”
remarked Peace’s tall companion. “I frankly own that I do not believe
it can with safety be done away with.”
“Most assuredly not,” returned Peace, in the mildest tone of voice.
“In the interests of society it is requisite that the guilty should
not escape punishment. The murderer is unworthy of sympathy from his
fellow-man.”
“I am quite of your opinion――indeed, I may say that you express my
sentiments to the very letter.”
Peace bowed, and his face wore a complacent expression, which was
altogether at variance with its ordinary appearance.
His companion was evidently quite taken up with him.
“The man who is about to suffer has been convicted upon the clearest
evidence of a most dastardly and cold-blooded murder. The
circumstances which led to his discovery are a little singular; and,
indeed, I might say romantic.”
“So a neighbour of mine was saying,” observed Peace. “I am not
acquainted with all the particulars.”
His companion gave a succinct but graphic account of all those facts
with which the reader is already acquainted.
“How very singular!――how remarkable!” exclaimed Peace, adjusting his
spectacles when his companion had ceased.
A short thick-set man, with dark piercing eyes, a close-cut grey
beard, now appeared on the scaffold, at which he took a hasty glance.
This figure presented a weird-like appearance.
“There he is!” said several voices.
“Who is that?” said Peace.
“Calcraft, the hangman,” answered his companion.
“Oh, indeed. What has he come for?”
“To see that the arrangements are made in a satisfactory manner. He
has made one or two mistakes lately, and I think the old man is
getting a little narvess.”
[Sidenote: No. 4.]
[Illustration: PEACE ESCAPES FROM THE POLICE, AND SEEKS SHELTER IN A
YOUNG GIRL’S BEDROOM.]
It was quite true that Calcraft had had one or two mishaps; but these,
it is said, were attributable to circumstances for which he was in no
way responsible. He certainly fulfilled the duties of public
executioner creditably for nearly fifty years, during which period he
made use of what is known as the “short drop.”
His successor, Marwood, advocates and makes use of the “long drop,”
and many have affirmed that his mode for putting criminals to death is
the most merciful of the two; but when doctors (I mean hangmen)
differ, who shall decide?
Calcraft has now retired. He is seventy-nine years of age, and was,
when I last saw him, in tolerably good-health for a man of his years.
The name of the gibbet’s victims have been legion; for until a very
recent period our penal code was most severe. We have hanged not only
the murderer, the ravisher, and the incendiary――not only the burglar,
the highwayman, and the forger, but the sheep-stealer, the petty thief
who purloined a roll of cloth or a loaf of bread from a shop-counter.
If any nation ought to know how to hang, it should assuredly be the
English.
Decapitation has been a mode of death reserved for aristocratic
culprits, although in the “Halifax gibbet” and the Scottish “Maiden”
some faint resemblance to the guillotine may be traced. But we have
always obstinately refused to employ the machine, adapted from the
mediæval types by the benevolent French physician, and have stuck
manfully to the gallows.
Formerly the convict doomed to the “triple tree” used to be flung off
a ladder. Then we grew more humane, and made him stand with a noose
round his neck in a cart, which was drawn from under him at a given
signal.
Ultimately, in the middle of the last century, being under the
necessity of hanging a lord――the noble convict was Laurence Earl
Ferrers, who had murdered his steward――the scaffold, with a trap-door
secured by a bolt, and flapping down from under the criminal’s feet,
was devised for the express accommodation of the murderous peer.
This was in the reign of George II.; and we have not advanced one step
since then in the way of hanging.
The “new drop” is more than a hundred years old, but nothing has been
done to render the grim agency more efficacious.
When the bolt is drawn and the drop falls, Marwood asserts, according
to his arrangement, that the neck of the criminal is at once broken,
and that death is instantaneous. This is his theory; but in practice,
we believe that in nine cases out of ten the wretched culprit dies
from suffocation.
A murderer, it may be urged, deserves no better fate.
He has shown no mercy to others, and has no right to expect that mercy
should be shown to him.
We adhere to the notion that hanging is the shortest and swiftest mode
of killing; and Marwood has declared that if he were condemned to
death, and had to choose the mode of execution, he would certainly
prefer hanging to any other.
Peace remained silent and thoughtful when Calcraft appeared on the
scaffold. The latter, after a glance round, returned to the gaol.
Shortly after this the prison door opened slowly. One of the gaolers
stood in the portal.
There was now a cry of “hats off” and a thousand heads were bared, a
thousand faces upturned.
One would have believed it was a performance at the theatre they were
witnessing.
Gregson appeared, bound and pinioned. This was the signal for groans
and hisses, which were, however, supressed by the more discreet and
better-behaved portion of the throng.
Behind Gregson was the chaplain, with an open Prayer-book in his hand,
the sheriffs in their robes, the officers of the gaol, the myrmidons
of the gallows.
A regiment of policemen encircled the scaffold with their truncheons
drawn.
A trembling ran through the crowd, which resembled the waves of the
sea beneath the first blast of the north wind.
This was followed by a murmur like that of the waves when the wind
lashes them into wrath.
The crowd became hushed and silent.
The chaplain began to read the service of the dead.
The Badger looked sullenly upon the ground, presently he raised his
head and examined the faces beneath him as if there was some one whom
he wished to find.
He withdrew his eyes almost reluctantly, and turned them upon the
officers behind him.
At this sign the clergyman moved on one side, and Calcraft approached.
All was hushed into silence, deep and terrible as that of the tomb.
Gregson had already made one step towards his death――he now placed
himself on the drop.
Calcraft adjusted the noose around the miserable man’s neck, then
passed a strap round his feet and secured it with horrible
deliberation.
He drew a white cap over his eyes and mouth――then he disappeared
beneath the gallows.
For an instant Gregson stood motionless upon his open tomb.
The eyes of Charles Peace were rivetted on the form of his quondam
companion.
The bolt was withdrawn from below; there was a frightful crash; a
black chasm opened beneath the feet of the culprit, whose body swung
round and vibrated in the air.
Then commenced those struggles, which, we are informed, are merely
muscular and involuntary, but which nevertheless are sickening to
behold.
Charles Peace was in no way moved by the appalling spectacle, albeit
he affected to be overcome, and buried his face in his hands.
His newly-made acquaintance, however, was visibly affected. The
expression of his countenance was indicative of the most profound
sorrow.
In a few minutes the crowd before the scaffold recovered from the
shock.
A motionless figure dangled from the rope. It was evident enough to
all the spectators that life had fled.
Gregson had paid the penalty of his crimes.
The crowd swayed to and fro; several groups of persons took their
departure in various directions.
During the whole of the melancholy proceedings the pickpockets were
industriously plying their vocation.
More than one of the light-fingered gentry had been given into the
custody of the police.
This was a common thing at the time of public executions.
Full two-thirds of the multitude had in the space of a quarter of an
hour bent their way homewards.
Many, however, still remained to witness Calcraft’s re-appearance on
the scaffold for the purpose of cutting the rope from which the body
of the murderer was suspended.
Those that remained were, of course, the roughest and least sensitive
of the throng.
Their thirst for the horrible appeared to be insatiable.
The unprincipled scoundrel, Gregson, who, as a just penalty for his
manifold crimes, suffered death on the public scaffold, was a ruffian
of the very worst type. Educated to crime from his earliest youth, his
conscience, which had never been tender, became, as years passed over
his felon head, “seared as with a hot iron.”
If we were to take a retrospective glance at his career from the day
that he first enlisted in the “Devil’s Regiment of the Line” until the
last dread sentence of the law was carried out, we should find
abundance of evidence to prove that the way of the transgessor was
hard. As we have before signified, “A life of crime is always a life
of care.”
Gregson found to his cost, despite his callous nature, that this axiom
was a true one; nevertheless, he was so steeped in vice and immorality
that he found it impossible to reform or mend his ways.
Throughout his whole life there was not manifested one trace of mercy
or generosity such as was attributed to the old highwaymen.
On all occasions he displayed a spirit of almost animal ferocity,
shown to all who interfered with him.
Gregson, in fact, loved crime――the double life it involved, the
excessive danger it created, and the cynical enjoyment it yielded him
of doing always the worst thing he could think of.
The man was so radically bad――so naturally prone to wickedness――so
utterly dead to the whispers of conscience――that he was a foul blot
upon the face of nature.
He was a sort of wild beast, who waged ceaseless war against society.
It is indeed a sad thing to reflect upon that in this civilised
country, with the means of education and moral training open to the
poorest and humblest in the land, such monstrosities as Gregson and
Charles Peace should have existence.
But we will not dwell further upon this painful theme. Gregson, as we
have seen has paid the penalty of his crime.
The career of Peace it is our purpose to chronicle. In doing this it
will be necessary, as this work progresses, to diverge occasionally to
note the actions and doings of other groups of characters with whom
Peace was more or less connected.
Charles Peace, when he had seen the last of Gregson, rose from his
seat, and moved slowly towards the centre of the room, which was more
than half-filled with sightseers.
The tall gentleman who had sat by his side during the execution also
rose, and prepared to take his departure.
“This is a scene when once witnessed is not easily to be forgotten,”
he observed to Peace. “I assume, sir, you are like myself, but too
glad it is over.”
“I am, indeed, sir,” answered Peace, in oleaginous accents.
“You do not desire to remain longer?”
“Oh, dear me, no.”
“Nor I. We will get away as speedily as may be convenient.”
“By all means.”
The two companions descended the stairs, and gained the street. This
done, they walked side by side until they had got clear of the gaol
and its ghastly surroundings.
It transpired, in the course of conversation, that Peace’s companion
was journeying in the same direction as our hero, who expressed
himself very well pleased at having his company on the road.
“We have met for the first time this morning, sir,” observed Peace;
“allow me to express a hope that we may meet again under more
auspicious circumstances.”
The gentleman bowed, and said, “I hope so, I’m sure. Any way, we shall
not meet again under similar circumstances, for I tell you frankly
that this is the first, and it will be the last, time of my being
present at such a scene.”
They walked on for some little distance further, and came within sight
of a roadside inn, with seats and alcoves in its front.
“I think a little cold brandy and water will do us both good,” said
Peace. “What say you?”
“As you please, I have no objection,” was the ready rejoinder. “As a
rule I do not take any spirits in the morning, but this is an
exceptional case.”
The two strolled in the grounds in front of the hostelry, and glasses
were ordered and paid for by Peace.
“It is a terrible thing to see a fellow-creature put to death――terrible
to even the most callous and unimpressionable. But it is a
necessity――an absolute and imperative necessity.”
“Undoubtedly it is.”
“I do not complain of the law as it stands,” observed the other; “I
think it a just and reasonable law; for the very least a member of a
civilised community has a right to expect at the hands of his
fellow-citizens, should he fall by the blow of an assassin, is that
his murderer, after being convicted by a jury of his countrymen,
should be put to death. What say you?”
“I am of the same opinion as yourself.”
“I think the mischief arises, or has arisen, on more than one
occasion, by the injudicious use made of the prerogative of the Crown.
Villains of the deepest dye have been respited, while criminals of a
lesser degree have been executed. This, I think, has materially
weakened the effects of the punishment of death. It is not only
unjust, but is manifestly injurious. It is by the reliability of
punishment――by the certainty that punishment follows conviction――that
we can hope or expect it to act as a deterrent from the commission of
crime. I have given the subject some consideration, and I could cite
many instances in which the clemency of the Crown has been made use of
in an unjust and most injudicious manner.”
“I am not so well up in the subject as you are,” remarked Peace, who
throughout his life was always ready to moralise; “still, at the same
time, I see the force of your argument.”
“Well, sir, I will instance a case which came under my own knowledge.
In the year 1844 I had a brother residing at Battersea, and, when in
the metropolis, I was in the habit of paying him a visit once or,
indeed, sometimes twice a week. One evening I was crossing Battersea
Bridge, on the left-hand side going from the Bridge-road, when all of
a sudden I observed a woman on the opposite side running along with
her hands to her throat, from which a stream of blood was flowing. I
was, as you can readily imagine, moved to an extremity of fear at the
heartrending sight. The poor creature proceeded onwards with tottering
steps, and did not stop till she had reached the ‘Old Swan’ tavern, on
the Battersea side of the bridge. This was kept at that time by a man
named Goslin, who was a friend of my brother.”
“And what followed?” inquired Peace.
“You shall hear, for I remember every incident in this fearful tragedy
as clearly as if it had occurred but yesterday. The woman rushed in
front of the bar of the ‘Swan,’ and fell on the floor, deluging the
place with her blood. Her throat was cut from ear to ear. I arrived at
the tavern just in time to see her fall, and to also see her breathe
her last.”
“And who was her murderer?”
“A man named Dalmas. It transpired in the course of the subsequent
inquiry that he had been paying attention to the murdered woman, whose
name was Macfarlane. She was a school teacher, and had half supported
the odious wretch who so cruelly and remorselessly took her life.”
“And the motive――jealousy, I suppose?” said Peace.
“Nothing of the sort. The ill-fated woman, Macfarlane, was engaged to
be married. She wrote to Dalmas, informing him of her engagement, to
which he did not presume to offer any objection, neither had he any
right to do so; indeed, he clearly understood that she was about to
make an alliance with a gentleman, which would place her in a much
better position in life. Dalmas wrote a very kind letter to her, in
which he requested her to meet him on the Middlesex side of Battersea
Bridge that he might bid her a last farewell, declaring that he was
about to return to his native country, France, but did not like to
leave without bidding her good-bye. She acceded to his request, and
met him at the appointed time. The wretch proceeded to carry out his
fell purpose unperceived, and while behind his victim he drew a razor
across her throat, and inflicted such a fearful wound that she did not
survive many minutes――certainly not more than five or six minutes. The
wretch, after his barbarous act, coolly walked through the turnstile
on the Chelsea side, and succeeded in making his escape.”
“And was never caught, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes, he was; the police captured him in the course of a few days,
and brought him in a four-wheeled cab to the Millman-row
Police-station. Strange to say I saw him taken there. Well, to cut a
long story short, he was tried and convicted upon the clearest
evidence. There was not the faintest shadow of doubt as to his
guilt――indeed he did not attempt to deny it. The murder was
cold-blooded, premeditated, and brutal. Most assuredly, if any man
ever deserved hanging certainly it was the wretch Dalmas, for there
was not one redeeming point in the whole case. Well, sir, what do you
think happened?”
“I cannot say.”
“To the surprise of everybody the fellow was respited. Why or
wherefore no one could possibly tell. No one has ever been able to
account for the strange caprice of the executive. I don’t believe
there was an attempt made to even get up a petition to spare his
worthless life. I don’t believe there was a single individual――certainly
none that I ever heard of――who was not perfectly assured at the time
that the law would be suffered to take its course. Indeed, as far as I
can remember, everybody was thunderstruck upon seeing it announced in
the public papers that Dalmas had been respited.”
“How very extraordinary!” remarked Peace. “And what became of him?”
“Oh, he was of course doomed to penal servitude for his natural life.
He is at the present time in Portland prison, dispensing the
medicines. He was a chemist by profession. He has been kept all these
years at the expense of the public, and the probability is that he has
found himself much more comfortable during his incarceration than he
did when earning, or endeavouring to earn, a precarious existence
outside the walls of his prison house.”
“It seems hardly possible.”
“I have been giving you a plain narrative of facts,” returned the
other, “and I can vouch for the truth of all you have heard fall from
my lips; but this is only one of the cases I could cite to prove to
you or anyone else the injudicious use made of her Majesty’s
prerogative.”
“A scoundrel who would be guilty of such an atrocious crime was
utterly unworthy of the clemency of the Crown,” said Peace. “It seems
to me most singular that mercy should be extended in such a case.”
“It surprised everybody――none more than myself. I shall never forget
the death of that poor creature in front of the bar of the ‘Swan.’ It
has made so lasting an impression, that we have been, and still are at
a loss to imagine the sympathy――the misplaced sympathy, I may term
it――for those who imbrue their hands in the blood of their
fellow-creatures.”
“But I do not believe for one moment in the sincerity of anyone who
endeavours to screen a murderer,” observed Peace.
“Neither do I, sir――neither do I,” ejaculated his companion. “If it
became a personal question if a murder had been committed in their own
immediate circle, they would be the first to demand the assassin’s
life. We have a practical instance of this in the Marquis of Boccaria,
who, while the sheets of his work against capital punishment were
passing through the press, did his best to get a servant hanged who
had stolen his watch.”
It was evident to Peace that the topic was a favourite one with his
companion, for he gave one or two more instances of a similar nature
to Dalmas’s case.[1]
After some further discussion the two companions took their departure
from the roadside inn, and walked on towards their respective
destinations. When the time came for them to part company Peace’s
picked-up friend gave him a card, with his name and address on the
face, and said he should be glad to see him at any time he could make
it convenient to call. Peace thanked him, and promised to pay an early
visit.
And so the two parted.
When left to himself, Peace had more time to think over the sad event
of the morning. Gregson’s fate made an impression on him, but it is to
be regretted that this was but of a transient nature. He was too fond
of adventure, too prone to wrong-doing, to allow the miserable end of
his brutal and guilty associate to take deep root in his heart, or
have any influence over his future actions or way of life. He returned
to his lodging, it may be a sadder, but certainly in no way a better
man.
[1] The description given by the speaker, of the murder on
Battersea Bridge, is true in substance and in fact. The
trial of Augustus Dalmas, for the murder of Sarah
Macfarlane, took place, June 14th, 1844. The prisoner was
found guilty; there was not one extenuating circumstance in
the case, and no possible plea for a respite. Dalmas is at
the present time, or was a few months ago, at Portland, in a
responsible situation as dispenser of medicine to the sick,
and his life is not one of hardship or suffering. He must be
now close upon seventy years of age, if not more.