THE LAST HOURS OF THE CONDEMNED.
The wretched criminal, Giles Chudley, during the period which elapsed
between his condemnation and execution, was deeply impressed with the
awfulness of his position. He was, nevertheless, calm and composed.
The prison officials declared that he was remarkably docile, and
exhibited a capacity and eagerness for instruction, which was singular
in a man of his type. He was visited by his aged mother and sister,
and the interview was, as may be readily imagined, of a painful
character.
Throughout this terrible trial, however, he preserved his fortitude
and resigned demeanour with a singular absence of excitement.
The chaplain of the gaol zealously continued his ministrations, and
the unhappy man appeared to profit materially.
He was communicative to his spiritual adviser, and said that he was
perfectly satisfied with the verdict of the jury and the sentence
which had been passed upon him.
At the same time he declared that he should never have committed the
crime for which he was about to suffer had it not been for the spell
which had been cast upon him by the “cunning woman,” who he declared
was nothing more or less than a witch.
He said he was perfectly assured that he was in her power for months
before the commission of the murder, that she it was who caused him to
be in Dennett’s-lane when Ellen Fulford met his young master.
Before that she had set Peace on to him, and it had always been a
matter of surprise to him that she had not caused him to take Peace’s
life, which he believes he should have done had he not left Broxbridge
so suddenly.
The superstition and bigotry of the man was one of his most remarkable
characteristics.
There were a number of persons who sympathised with the unfortunate
misguided man, and a petition was prepared by the industrious Mr.
Slapperton, praying for a respite of the culprit.
As is usual in cases of this description a goodly array of signatures
was attached to the document in question.
It was not, however, deemed advisable to make Chudley acquainted with
the efforts which were being made on his behalf――efforts which, it
would perhaps be needless to say, were entirely futile.
The petitions of this nature almost invariably follow a conviction for
a capital offence.
It is astonishing how illogically and irrationally some persons reason
upon the punishment of death.
We have one broad fact to deal with――namely, that all that a man hath
he will give for his life; that no fear can operate on him like the
fear of death; that every man calculates upon the chapter of accidents
bringing up something in his favour as long as he lives and breathes;
and, in fact, the words which Shakespeare put into the mouth of
Claudio are not more eloquent than true.
Remove this powerful deterrent, or restrict its operation, and we must
be prepared for very mixed results.
At the present time each case is taken on its merits, and the chances
are that no man is ever hung now for what is understood to be “murder
of a second class.”
There is no valid reason for asserting that the substitution of
imprisonment and hard labour for death, as a punishment for murder,
would more effectually deter men from the commission of that crime.
Nothing that has been brought forward by the abolitionists leads us to
believe so, and the direct testimony of those best acquainted with the
criminal classes negatives such a supposition.
It is generally admitted that the most reckless and violent have a
thorough fear of the gallows, which secondary punishments do not
inspire. It will perhaps be answered, “why not hang for everything?”
If death be the best deterrent, and society has the right to inflict
it, “Why not bring the coiner and forger to the gallows as of old?”
The answer is that murder is a crime so pre-eminently hurtful to
society that it is advisable to distinguish it by a punishment above
all others, and by one which may be held up before the eyes even of a
man who is undergoing the most extreme sentence for a minor offence.
Secondly, the crime of murder is contradistinction to ordinary crimes
of larceny, or fraud, and is generally the offspring of that kind of
savage disposition, which only the fear of death will effectually
control. If the opinions of those conversant with prisoners are to be
taken, there does exist a salutary fear of the death penalty among the
worst class of the population.
A man will rob a house and waylay a traveller, but in the heat of his
act, or in the very height of his fury, he will know how to hold his
hand and avoid the actual killing of a human being.
It is said, and, we do not doubt, with perfect truth, that the reason
why the proportion of murders to minor offences is so small――why the
deed so often stops short of the capital offence, even at the risk of
leaving a witness of the scene――is, that there is among the criminal
classes the very strongest fear of actually causing death.
They know that the pursuit will be far more keen if a murder be in
question, and that, if caught and convicted, a very different doom
awaits them.
If this be the effect of the law, it is certainly a most important
advantage to society, and one that certainly should not be thrown away
in deference to either sentimental humanity or the vague theories of
abstract justice.
In his speech at Mr. Spurgeon’s Big Bethel Mr. Bright used the
following strong language on the subject of capital punishment:――
“Notwithstanding such defence as can be made for it the gallows is not
only the penalty but the parent of murder.” As this remark about the
gallows is founded on a delusion, to some extent popular, it may be as
well to devote a few lines to its refutation.
The idea that the gallows is the parent of murder is founded upon the
statistics which show the decrease of that crime since the abolition
of capital punishment for minor offences.
The abolitionists say that since murder has decreased in proportion to
the restrictions placed upon the exercise of the last penalty of the
law it would decrease still more if that last penalty were altogether
abrogated.
This conclusion is, however, a transparent _non sequitur_. It is
obvious that when burglary, sheep-stealing, and other offences were
punishable with death a housebreaker or other criminal would resist to
the last, even to death, in order to escape detection.
[Sidenote: No. 36.]
[Illustration: CHUDLEY VISITED IN PRISON BY MR. JAMBLIN AND HIS
DAUGHTER.]
He knew that whether he murdered his captors or not his punishment
would be the same, and consequently it was his intent to carry deadly
weapons with him and to use them if interrupted.
Punishment was not sufficiently cumulative, and, after a man had
arrived at a certain degree of crime, he knew that no offence, however
great, could add to the penalty consequent on detection.
Thus it happened that a highwayman or burglar was indifferent whether
he took your money or your life, or both, and thus the restriction of
capital punishment to the offences of murder alone restricted also the
frequency of the crime itself.
Peace often declared that he never took human life if there was any
means left open for him to escape without having recourse to such a
dreadful alternative.
He was, perhaps, the most reckless scoundrel of modern times, but
“fired wide,” as he termed it, to frighten his pursuer, whose life he
had no desire to take.
It is very questionable indeed whether he intended to kill Mr. Dyson
when he fired at him, but in this case he seems to have lost himself,
and to have been worked up into a sort of furious kind of madness; but
his conduct, as far as the murder of Mr. Dyson is concerned, does not
accord in any way with his former acts.
If, however, capital punishment were altogether abolished the
completeness of the chain would be destroyed, and offenders whose
crimes had already occasioned them to fear penal servitude for life
would be encouraged again to resort to violence in order to escape
detection.
It has been shown conclusively, on more than one occasion, that the
punishment of death, while best for the protection of society, could
not be compared in cruelty with the alternatives suggested by the
would-be abolitionists. The horrors inflicted upon a man by immuring
him in a living tomb without hope are too horrible to contemplate.
The deterrent effect exercised by the punishment of death mainly
consists in its appearing more rigorous than it is; its real severity
is much less than is supposed.
It is, perhaps, true that the cold-blooded premeditating murderer
commits his crime with the full knowledge of the punishment he must
suffer. This, however, is no argument for the abolition of capital
punishment.
For such men our laws are not made, and it is best that such wretches
should be destroyed like beasts of prey.
The evidence of prison governors and warders before the Royal
Commission went to show that the lives of turnkeys and warders would
not be safe from such men, devoid of hope; and the idea of holding out
to them any expectation of being once more let loose upon society is
quite out of the question.
Shortly after the condemnation of the wretched man, Joe Doughty
presented himself at the prison gate with an order from the sheriff to
see the prisoner. He was at once conducted into the cell in which
Chudley was confined.
“I could not rest without seeing ye,” said Joe Doughty. “I want ye to
say you bear me no ill-will. What I have done has been done in the
cause of justice, an’ it warnt no fault o’ mine that ye be in your
present position. What say ye, Giles? Speak, man.”
“I don’t blame you, Joe. I never have done so. It be right that I
should be brought to justice, an’ ye did nothing more than your duty.
I wish, when ye laid hands on me in the parlour of the ‘Lord
Cornwallis’ that yer grip on my throat had been a little harder. I
should have been spared a world of anxiety and misery.”
As he spoke he gave his hand to Doughty.
“You bear me no ill-will?” cried the latter.
“No――none whatever. I bear no ill-will to any mortal man. Why should
I? I forgive as I hope to be forgiven.”
“Ah, that be good――I’m glad to hear ’ee say so. I was that angry when
I saw ’ee in the ‘Cornwallis’ that I could ha’ killed thee then and
there, for I was as savage as a meat hatchet; but that be all over
now. We ha’ known each other for goodish many years, Giles, ha’ worked
together for Lord knows how long, an’ I be sorry for this bisness. How
came ’ee to do such a thing?”
“How?” cried Chudley, “Dunno myself. I was bewitched. People won’t
bleeve me when I tell ’em, but I was, Joe. I was under a spell. How is
Nell Fulford?” he inquired, suddenly.
“She be broken down, but is better nor what she were――a deal better, I
think.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the prisoner, “When I saw her a talkin’ to Mr. Philip
in Dennett’s-lane my heart seemed to be a fire loike, an’ my head was
all of a whirl. I could see she were a listnin’ and a listnin’ to what
he were a sayin’. I could see she had eyes and ears only for him. And
this drove me wild loike. And then――――But you know the rest.”
The miserable man covered his face with his hands and heaved several
deep sighs, which seemed to shake his frame to the very centre.
Joe Doughty placed his hand gently and mildly on the shoulder of the
prisoner, and said, in a broken tone――
“Ye must bear up――indeed you must. There be one above who sees and
knows all our hearts, and he will not desert ’ee, he will not desert a
truly repentant sinner, Giles. Mind ’ee that, mate, and think o’ that
while ’ee have time. Do ’ee understand?”
“Aye, aye, I understand.”
“Well, then, be mindful o’ what I ha’ bin sayin’.”
“I ha’ bin mindful of it; and Mr. Jamblin, how be he, and Miss
Jamblin?”
“Ah, they are neither of them much to boast of. The old gentleman is
sadly broken. He looks ten years older.”
“Does he?”
“Ah, more――a goodish bit more than ten years. He’ll never be the same
man again; but I won’t pain ’ee by talking about him or his. What be
done can’t be undone, and it aint o’ no use trying to call back the
past, because the past don’t belong to no man. Think o’ that, Giles,
ask for forgiveness. Is there any request you have to make――anything
you wish me to do for ’ee? I pledge my word to carry out your wishes
as far as lies in my power.”
“I dunno that I want ’ee to do anything,” said the prisoner,
hesitatingly. “I have done with the world, but still I should loike
’ee to see Nell Fulford, and tell her that if I had not loved her so
much I shouldn’t have been so jealous.”
“Oh, it will never do to tell her that, Giles. Better say nothing
about it now.”
“Well, perhaps you be right. Well, then, ask her to forgive me.”
“She will do that, poor girl, without the asking.”
“An’ she was fond o’ him?”
“Of who?”
“Mr. Philip.”
“Ah, surely, that she were――more’s the pity.”
“Yes, more’s the pity for all of us.”
“I will tell her what you say.”
“An’ you may tell her and maister that I aint so much to blame as
people suppose. I never meant any harm to Mr. Philip, and never should
ha’ dun any harm to him if the witch who had me in her power had not
made me go to Dennett’s-lane on that fatal night.”
He still insisted that he was in the power of an evil counsellor at
the time he committed the murder, and this belief he clung to even
when he ascended the scaffold.
It was not simulated――not a paltry excuse to cover his guilt but a
species of bigotry or superstition, which could not be eradicated.
Joe Doughty made no reply to the last observation. He knew perfectly
well that it would be useless to argue the question with his
companion, who throughout his life had been most obstinate and
self-opinionated on the questions of evil spirits.
“Well,” said Joe, after a long pause, “ye be goin’, let us hope, where
there be no warlocks, witches, gnomes, or evil speerits o’ any sort,
so let that pass. Ha’ ye anything else to say――any other request to
mek?”
The prisoner hesitated.
“I dunno as I have.”
“Think agen, I be in no hurry,” said Joe. “I haint in no hurry.”
“Noa, nuffin else,” said Chudley, “only do’ee speak a good word for me
to maister and Miss Jamblin. I should loike to see un once more afore
I dies.”
“I will tell ’em what you say, but can’t promise that they will come,”
said Joe.
The two men shook hands cordially, and, after a few more words of
counsel and consolation, Doughty passed out of the cell, and returned
to Broxbridge.
He was greatly relieved in his mind at having seen the murderer of his
young master. He had done his best to bring him to the bar of justice.
Nevertheless, deep down in his heart there nestled a feeling of
regret.
Bad man as Chudley unquestionably was, now that he was condemned, Joe
Doughty could not rest satisfied without “making it up wi’ him,” as he
termed it, and hence his visit to the gaol.
The governor and prison chaplain took special pains to impress upon
the wretched man the fact that there was not the slightest chance of
his gaining a reprieve, and Chudley had said nothing to indicate that
he had any hope that his life would be spared.
It was thought, however, by those in attendance on him that he
scarcely realised the full extent of the crime of which he had been
found guilty.
Strange as it may appear, people took an interest in the prisoner,
Giles Chudley; and there were many who believed that her Majesty’s
prerogative ought to be exercised in his case.
The venerable vicar of Broxbridge, Canon Lenthall, paid a visit to the
prisoner, and did his best to bring him to a sense of the great change
which awaited him. Chudley listened to the admonitions of the reverend
gentleman, but still persisted that he had been a mere puppet in the
hands of a wicked and designing woman.
The worthy vicar, upon returning to Broxbridge, made the earl, Mr.
Jamblin, and his daughter, acquainted with the mental condition of the
wretched man.
A long consultation and conversation took place, and a day or two
after this the porter of the gaol in which the condemned man was
confined, while looking out of his lodge, saw a gentleman and lady
crossing the street towards him.
The lady was pale and sad-looking, the gentleman was tall and
broad-set, with the ruddy sunburnt face of a man who had spent his
life in the country and open air, but his step had lost its
elasticity, and lines of sorrow were observable on his features.
He was draped in black, which farmers in the country believe to be the
proper and fashionable costume for Sundays, holidays, and visiting
days.
It was easy enough for anyone to divine that these two persons were
bent on some mission which was new and strange to both of them.
The farmer made a formal bow to the porter, whom he believed to be
governor at the very least, and handed him a sealed letter.
The porter said in a careless tone――
“An order from Lord Ethalwood.”
The farmer nodded.
“An order to see the gaol?”
“If you please.”
“Certainly――pass on.”
The farmer and his daughter did as they were directed. They happened
to meet the head turnkey in the quadrangle――he received them with a
grin of recognition and respect. He knew them both, and guessed the
reason for their paying a visit to the prison.
He had so great a respect for both that he would have shown them over
the gaol, even without an order from Lord Ethalwood or any one else.
The two strangers were none other than Mr. Jamblin and his daughter.
This the reader has doubtless already divined.
They had never been inside the walls of a prison before, and were
awe-struck as they were shown all the mechanical wonders of the place.
Mr. Jamblin inquired if he could see the condemned man, Giles Chudley.
The head turnkey, who had been expecting this, like a cunning fellow
as he was, affected to be surprised. He raised his eyebrows and gave a
short cough.
“See the condemned man?” he murmured. “This is not a visiting day;
besides, I must have an order from one of the visiting magistrates.”
“Lord Ethalwood told me he had given me the order,” returned Jamblin.
“Oh, I see,” observed the turnkey, looking at the paper. “Yes, he has
included it in the visiting order. It’s all right Mr. Jamblin. You can
see the prisoner; this way, if you please.”
He descended some steps, and the farmer and his daughter followed him.
“In what state of mind does this guilty man appear to be?” inquired
Patty.
“He isn’t so restless as he was, miss,” said the turnkey, “not by a
long way, nor is he so unruly. Before trial he was awdacious to be
sure, made a desperate attempt to escape, cut through the wall, and
nearly got away.”
“Did he, though?” exclaimed the farmer.
“Ah, that he did, and no mistake. After his attempt at escape we
handcuffed him――it was by order of the justices we did it,” he added,
cautiously.
“And quite right, too, I should say,” returned Jamblin.
“Yes, quite right, sir. Well, he was that stubborn that when we came
to look at his handcuffs after three days we found them shaved down as
thin as a sixpence just by rubbing ’em together. That was just before
his trial, and after his trial he seemed so meek and quiet that the
deputy-governor said I might take him out for a walk in the yard with
the _darbies_ or the _slangs_ on. And would you believe it, sir? You
see that high wall there. I assure you I only turned my head for a
moment, and when I looked round he was right on the top of the wall.
How ever he got up is a marvel to me. He must have climbed up at the
corners like a cat.”
“Dear me, is it possible!” exclaimed the farmer. “I shouldn’t ha’
b’lieved it on him unless you had told me.”
“Fact, sir, I assure you, though none of us said anything about it to
the authorities. However, when he was up there,” continued the man,
with a laugh, “he had only to come down again, which he did without a
murmur, and went on with his walk as if nothing had happened.”
“What an odd thing!”
“Yes, strange――wasn’t it? But you see he must have thought that this
here was the outer wall, instead of which it’s the drying-yard between
that and the street, and another wall topped with revolving iron
spikes. Oh, he was precious artful.”
The prison chaplain came out of the cell as they approached it. The
turnkey touched his cap.
“Been to see the prisoner, sir?” said he.
“Yes; he’s bigotted and superstitious to the last degree, but he is
deeply sensible of the great crime he has committed, and of the change
which awaits him.”
The chaplain passed on.
“Oh, father, perhaps we had better turn back,” cried Patty, in a state
of alarm.
“Nay, nay, gell,” returned the farmer; “as we have come thus far, we
may as well see un; it be our only chance, and as he told Joe that he
would loike to ha’ a last look at us, why it be our duty to see ’im.”
“You need not be afraid, miss,” said the turnkey, “he’s calm enough
now, and is quite resigned.”
“Oh, he be――be he?” said Jamblin.
When the farmer and his daughter entered the cell they inhaled a cold
mephitic atmosphere like that of a funeral vault; one pale ray of
light filtered through the iron bars; faint and solitary as a last
hope, it could not illumine the whole of the cell.
They found themselves in the most horrible of twilights――the twilight
of a dungeon.
When their eyes become accustomed to this sombre light they beheld a
man seated on a rough wooden stool; he was ironed hand and foot; he
was frightfully thin, wan, and worn; his eyes wore a hollow dejected
look.
Mr. Jamblin failed to recognise in the miserable prisoner the stalwart
ploughman who for years had been in his employ; he shuddered, the
change was so awful.
When Giles Chudley recognised the two visitors he gave a start which
resembled a spasm.
“We’ve coom, Giles,” began the farmer, in a voice broken by emotion.
“I know it; ye ha’ coom to upbraid me,” interrupted the prisoner. “Go
on――I deserve it, maister. You, too, whom I ha’ most injured, be coom,
too.”
“Not to upbraid ye,” observed Patty. “It is not likely we should pay
ye a visit to do that.”
The felon condemned to death gave the speaker a smile of welcome, and,
rising, presented his clumsy seat to her.
She hesitated for a moment, and then sat down.
The turnkey, with the instinctive delicacy of nature’s gentlemen,
stood as far from them as he could. He would have left had it not been
against the prison rules.
Duty compelled him to be present――not to obtrude.
There was a silence for several minutes; neither of them knew what to
say. It was Patty who spoke first. She rose from her seat and drew
back to the side of her parent, upon whose shoulder she placed one of
her hands as if to support herself.
For, to say the truth, the poor girl was deeply moved, and trembled in
every limb.
“We have come to you, Giles,” said Patty, in a low sweet musical
voice, “to tell you how sorry we are that you should have brought
yourself to this, and we hope that before――before you die――you will
try and drive out all malice and hatred towards us from your heart, as
we have driven all from ours.”
The convict made no reply. He looked intently at the speaker, and then
seated himself once more on his stool.
“Ye hear what my daughter ha’ bin sayin’,” observed the farmer. “What
answer ha’ ye to mek?”
“You forgive me, then?” said the prisoner, in a low breathless tone.
“Aye, surely; it aint loikely we should do otherwise. It be but
natural when ’ee’s about to leave the world. We do forgive ’ee.”
“Yes,” said Patty softly, “we forgive you from our hearts.”
“Heaven bless you! Heaven bless you!” cried the prisoner, as he wrung
their hands with his, which were chained. “I thought that you would
when I asked Joe to tell you I could not leave the world without
asking your forgiveness.”
“Ah!” he said, in continuation, “you do not know how bitterly I have
been punished for my cowardice and treachery, and this be the
consequence,” he ejaculated, glancing at his chains.
Patty sighed――the sight was a painful and touching one.
The prisoner went on telling them how he had been in the power of an
evil woman, and how he had been driven to desperation on that fatal
night, and what miseries he had endured since then.
As he gave this recital they closed their eyes that they might not see
his face, which was distorted with agony.
The door of the cell was suddenly opened, and the venerable Canon
Lenthall entered.
“I am glad you have consented to see the prisoner,” he said,
addressing himself to the farmer and his daughter; “glad for many
reasons.”
The farmer nodded and said, “It was not loikely, after what you told
us, that we should fail to coom. But he be sadly altered.”
“Ah, sartin sure I be,” said the prisoner, with a hoarse laugh. “You
see the chill of the grave be already upon me; man’s hopes and man’s
heart canna’ live for ever, though the hopes be high and the heart be
young. I may die before the gallows claims me――think o’ that.”
“I hope you are in a better frame of mind and are embued with a due
sense of the awfulness of your position,” observed the canon.
“I be all that, reverend sir. Perhaps you will tell me――you who are so
good and so religious――why I have been saved so long, why I was
tempted to commit so dreadful a crime, and why I am doomed to die on
the scaffold?”
“We cannot understand how the corn grows in the earth,” said the
vicar, “how birds fly in the air, how insects crawl across a ceiling,
how then can we understand the mysterious ways of the Creator?”
“You are right,” returned Chudley, sharply. “I have probably bin
created, like thorns and nettles, for some mysterious purpose.”
“That may or may not be,” returned the vicar. “Providence is like the
sun――when we first look at it we are dazzled and blinded; we believe
that it is faultless. But art and science――those dangerous tutors of
man, which teach him little, but which cannot teach him much――show him
that there are spots upon the sun, apparently so spotless, and,
perhaps, if he could understand the nature of these apparent blemishes
he would worship with greater faith the majesty and effulgence of the
Deity.”
The prisoner looked at the speaker and bowed his head reverently.
The words he had been listening to had a visible effect upon his
superstitious, ignorant mind.
“It be a blessing to hear ’ee talk,” he murmured.
“Has your mother paid you a visit?” inquired Patty.
“Yes, she war the first to coom. I ha’ seen her,” said the culprit, in
a softened tone.
“I’m glad of it,” said Patty. “You will not be angry with me if I ask
you something?” she added.
“Angry with you?”
She hesitated, and then said――
“If I ask you whether you do fear the tribunal which awaits you in the
other world.”
“Fear!” he cried, in a husky voice. “What wretch is there condemned to
death who does not quake at the sound of his own voice――who does not
shudder at his own thoughts? When pepple are wi’ me, though they be my
gaolers, when the sun shines upon me, though it be wi’ only one pale
ray, I feel that I can look the worst in the face, but when I be
alone, and in darkness――――” He paused, as an icy tremour ran through
his frame. “I could silence the turnkeys both by words and a bold
front, but I cannot silence my own conscience――that’s not possible.
Night arter night I reproach myself for my crime. Night arter night a
band o’ pale specters, the witch at their head, flit past me, and
point at me wi’ their thin bony fingers, and reproach me wi’ their red
and sunken eyes. Oh, it is horrible, surely.”
“And do you never pray to be released from these dreams which come
from remorse?” said Patty Jamblin.
“It is too late to pray now. My prayers would not be listened to.”
“You are mistaken,” said the vicar. “The prayers of a repentant sinner
are always heard and answered.
“Ah, I do not know how to pray,” he muttered. “No one ever taught me
that.”
“I will teach you,” said Patty Jamblin, and she knelt down upon the
pointed stones and raised her hands towards the one ray of light which
faint but beautiful fell like the eye of the Omnipotent upon her
upturned face.
Slowly and sullenly the criminal fell upon his knees. The farmer also
knelt, and the turnkey bared his head and lowered it, that he might
listen to the prayer.
Soft and melodious as the murmurings of distant water, the farmer’s
daughter’s voice rose from the depths of that dark cell, and pleaded
with Heaven for the sinner’s soul.
The fountains of that hard and ignorant man’s heart were at length
opened, and tears flowed from his eyes for the first time.
Patty ceased, then the venerable vicar, in a solemn and sonorous
voice, gave utterance to an extemporaneous but beautiful prayer well
adapted to the occasion, and after this Giles Chudley became an
altered man.
Jamblin and Patty left, but Canon Lenthall remained with the prisoner
for an hour or more after they had taken their departure.
It was thought strange by many who were acquainted with all the
_dramatis personæ_ connected with the tragedy in Larchgrove-lane, that
Giles should never at any time have expressed a wish to see Ellen
Fulford.
Without doubt he was devotedly attached to the girl, having been an
admirer of her for the best part of his life, and there can be but
little question with regard to the motive for the commission of the
crime for which he was about to suffer.
Everybody attributed it to jealousy, and this was a righteous
conclusion.
Nevertheless, Chudley did not request to see her, or send any message
by those who would have delivered it.
After his interview with his master and his daughter, he seemed
content, and did not appear to have a wish for further visitors.
Mr. Slapperton, it might be said, almost forced himself into his
presence.
The only effect of the lawyer’s visit was to disturb and distract the
wretched man’s thoughts from other and more weighty matters. But the
irrepressible Slapperton was heedless of this.
As the time for the final day drew on he was informed by the governor
that he could not be permitted to see the prisoner any more.
At this Slapperton was greatly incensed.
Since his interview with Patty and her father, Chudley had eaten well
and slept well every night till the night of Saturday, when it was
noticed that he did not sleep so soundly.
To the last he maintained that he was under a spell and in the power
of a witch.
He occupied the same cell in which he had been confined, and was never
for a moment left alone; and at night, in addition to the warder
sitting up with him, another officer was patrolling in the corridor
outside the cell.
The books he was supplied with were a Bible, a Prayer-book, “Hymns
Ancient and Modern,” a Scripture picture book, and “Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s
Progress.”
When the governor and the sheriff announced the day appointed for the
final act of the law being carried out, he evinced no further emotion
than a low moan, and then said he was quite prepared to meet the
dreadful fate that awaited him, and which he knew was inevitable.
On Sunday night, the condemned man, after being visited by the
chaplain, who was unremitting in his attendance on the culprit, was
locked up at the usual hour, eight o’clock. He partook of supper, and
afterwards had some beer.
He asked if he might be allowed to smoke, and being answered in the
affirmative, he lighted his pipe, which he seemed to greatly enjoy.
At a little before nine o’clock, the night warder took charge of him.
After conversing for some little time Chudley retired to rest. He gave
no trouble――so his attendant said.
After going to bed he sank into a peaceful slumber, from which he did
not awake till past four on the Monday morning.
He opened his eyes and stared round the cell, and, upon his eyes
meeting those of the warder, he said――
“What is the time now?”
“Ten minutes past four,” was the answer.
“Oh, no later than that?” he returned.
He then went off to sleep again, and did not wake till he was aroused
by the entrance of the chief warder. It was now six o’clock.
Giles Chudley got up and dressed himself with more than usual care.
He was asked if he would have any breakfast, and said he could not eat
anything, but he, however, had a cup of tea.
Soon after this the governor of the prison entered the cell, and said,
“Chudley, the time approaches, and we want you.”
“I am ready, sir,” returned the prisoner, who was then introduced to
Calcraft.
At the sight of the grey-headed man, with dark malicious-looking eyes,
the unhappy wretch trembled.
“Get it all over as quickly as possible,” he whispered to his
executioner.
Calcraft nodded. He never was a man of many words――that is, when
engaged in his professional duties.
He was the very antithesis of his lively successor, Marwood, whose
manner is brisk, cheery, and self-reliant. Calcraft, on the contrary,
was morose, and as close as an oyster.
Chudley offered no resistance to the process of pinioning, which was
performed with the hangman’s usual skill.
A leathern belt, about an inch wide, was buckled round the culprit’s
waist, and to this his wrists were fastened down by small but
stoutly-made straps.
His arms were fastened just above the elbows, and drawn back as far as
it was possible to do so without giving him unnecessary pain, and then
connected with the belt round the body.
The procession to the gallows was then formed. It consisted of the
chaplain, the governor, the under-sheriff, and another gentleman whose
name did not transpire.
When the prisoner appeared on the scaffold there was a low murmur like
the moaning of the sea from the immense crowd assembled in front of
and around the gallows.
Chudley was deathly pale. A glance at his face showed that he was
suffering intense agony, and it was only by the exercise of a powerful
control that he was able to bear up and meet his fate with anything
like fortitude.
He took a hasty glance at the upturned sea of faces before him.
He then gave a piercing look at the uprights and cross beam, and
pendant rope now swinging lightly in the morning breeze.
The sight of the ghastly engine of death seemed to unman him.
He trembled violently, and those who were near him afterwards declared
that his hair stood literally on end. Presently he appeared to recover
himself somewhat, and he placed himself under the beam, on the spot
pointed out by Calcraft, and indicated by that functionary by a chalk
mark. The chaplain, who stood about a yard and a half from the
culprit, went on with the burial service, while the other members of
the sad procession ranged themselves behind the doomed man.
Chudley again scrutinised the faces of the spectators in front of him,
but he was unable to recognise any person whom he had known. He was
too affected to single out any.
Calcraft lost no time in making the preliminary arrangements, and,
stooping down, he fastened a strap round the wretched man’s legs.
As soon as he felt the hangman’s touch, Chudley seemed as if about to
swoon; he gave utterance to a short prayer, and swayed his hands to
and fro in a manner which was piteous to behold.
The executioner next proceeded to adjust the rope round the man’s
neck, but he displayed none of that professional coolness which he was
usually credited with. He was agitated and nervous, and it was some
little time before he could adjust the noose to his satisfaction.
At length, however, this task was accomplished, and stepping back a
pace he produced from his pocket a white cap which he drew over the
prisoner’s head.
The miserable convict during the whole of this painful period of
suspense was ejaculating appeals to the Almighty for mercy in a
muffled voice, the pitiful tones of which will long ring in the ears
of those who heard it.
He was scarcely able to stand upright by reason of the shaking of his
limbs, and when Calcraft, after putting on the white cap, left him for
the purpose of pulling the fatal bolt he nearly fell backwards, but
quickly by a powerful exertion of will he resumed an erect position.
The chaplain repeated “I am the resurrection and the life,” the fatal
bolt was withdrawn, and the man fell like a plummet.
There was of course the usual “thud.” It is impossible for any
newspaper reporter to describe an execution without making use of that
expressive and favourite word.
His struggles were terrible to witness, and it was quite four minutes
before they ceased, and he could be fairly pronounced to be dead.
He was hung with what is called the short drop――which Calcraft
invariably made use of. He declares to this day it is by far the most
humane and preferable of the two.
Within the last few weeks we have been favoured with long
dissertations upon the various modes of putting criminals to death.
A morning paper has given space in its columns for the insertion of
several letters under the heading of “Bungling Executions.”
The gallows is a dreadful alternative to have resort to, but it is one
which cannot be safely dispensed with till some other mode of putting
criminals to death is substituted.
No doubt the ghastly apparatus of the scaffold, the halter, and the
drop is a shocking topic for public discussion, but the controversy,
crude and well-nigh grotesque as it is in form, opens a field for
inquiry, the consideration of which calls for curious attention.
It so happens that at the present moment there are only three nations
in Europe which retain the undeniably clumsy and barbarous custom of
putting human beings to death by suspending them to a beam with a rope
round the neck.
Those three nations are Great Britain, Russia, and Turkey. France,
Italy, Belgium, and Greece employ a highly-perfected guillotine. Spain
and Portugal adhere to the swiftly-killing and painless garotte.
Germany, in the rare instances in which capital punishment is
inflicted, uses the sword.
We share with our estimable ally, the Turk, and with despotic Russia,
the honour of strangling malefactors in the good old conservative
fashion.
Impalement seems to have been abandoned, the bowstring appears to have
fallen into disuse, and the gallows appears to offer an additional
advantage in the circumstance that the patient can be hanged first,
and decapitated afterwards.
The apparatus in Turkey is that fine old institution, the gibbet, to
which a malefactor can be at once strung up without any nonsense in
connection with long and short drops, the efficacy of which have been
so frequently discussed by the press of this country.
We have been hanging rogues and others in England for considerably
more than a thousand years, but it should be extremely humiliating to
us as a civilised, scientific, and mechanically ingenious people that
we are as inexpert hangmen as in the days of the Saxon heptarchy.
It would be as well if half a dozen mechanical engineers and practical
anatomists were commissioned by the Home Secretary to draw up a
succinct report on hanging――distinguishing between the phenomena of
strangulation and those of vertebral dislocation, and deliberate on
the question of long _versus_ short drops.
Marwood has declared on more than one occasion that his method is the
most merciful one that has ever been put in practice; but the veteran
Calcraft denies this assertion.
The public at large are perhaps indifferent as to whether an assassin
dies from a broken neck or from strangulation, but there is a
widely-spread feeling that no more physical pain than is absolutely
necessary should be inflicted on the miserable wretch.
Marwood’s system should be subject to careful tests and exhaustive
analysis, and if it is pronounced efficient he should enjoy immunity
from further criticism.
If, however, the man’s method is faulty he should be directed to
execute his victims in a more workmanlike style.
In any case, the recent discussion on “Bungling Executions” may be of
service, as it is not improbable that advancing civilisation may some
day devise a better mode of carrying out the last dread penalty of the
law in a more satisfactory manner than that adopted at the present
time.
A few French medical men revived some short time ago the strange
paradox of the elder Sue――the famous anatomist, whose son was the
author of the “Mysteries of Paris,” “The Wandering Jew,” and other
popular works of fiction――that the action of the guillotine is not so
painless as people have been led to imagine, and that the sensation
does not cease for some moments after the head has been separated from
the body. Dr. Sue’s arguments have been long since ably, and it would
seem conclusively, refuted, and the fact that decapitation, skilfully
performed, is an operation of anything beyond instantaneous pain to
the criminal has been once more distinctly affirmed by the most
eminent scientific authorities in France.
After this resuscitated dispute died away, Professor Haughton, of the
University of Dublin, came forward with a learned and exhaustive
disquisition on the economies of hanging, and on the best way of
killing a murderer without causing him unnecessary agony. The
Professor quoted a statement of the surgeon of Newgate that under
Calcraft’s _regime_ he had frequently seen the criminal struggle for
more than twenty minutes before he became inanimate.
The retired executioner may be left to fight his own battles as
regards his aptitude of putting people out of the world.
Those who know him best are perfectly well aware that he is not likely
to trouble himself about what people say; but the medical officer of
Newgate――we are not aware to what particular one Professor Houghton
refers――is doubtless aware that convulsive muscular action may be
prolonged for some minutes after the suspended culprit has ceased to
experience any sensations.
Professor Houghton tells us that the “old system of taking the
convict’s life by suffocation is inhumanely painful, and necessarily
prolonged, and revolting to the spectators whose duty it is to be
present;” that the object of an effective execution by suspension
should be the immediate rupture of the spinal column through the fall,
and that the use of the long drop, which by habit has become known as
the Irish method, is not only much preferable from a humanitarian
point of view, but is the only method by which the desired object can
be effectively attained.
It may be as well to hint to the professor that, to judge from an
illuminated Anglo-Saxon manuscript in the “Harleian Miscellany,” the
severing of the cervical vertebræ occupied the attention of our
ancestors centuries ago.
Every executioner, from Derrick to Brandon and from Brandon to Jack
Ketch, has done his best to break the criminal’s neck, either by
sitting astride his shoulders as the culprit was swung, or by pulling
his legs from beneath.
As regards the long drop, a few years since the Irish method was but
too painfully manifested at Dublin by the fact of a criminal who was
given too long a rope and too sharp a fall so that his head was
completely severed from his body.
Suffocation was never “systematic” in cases of hanging in this
country, and the custom is immemorial of adjusting the knot of the
rope under the sufferer’s left ear, in order that death might be
instantaneous.
Professor Haughton thinks that Marwood has done wonders by placing the
knot under the criminal’s chin, but a Spanish executioner could very
much improve on Marwood’s method by exhibiting the capacity of that
compact and efficient machine for rupturing the spinal column, called
the “garotte.”