THE PUBLIC HANGING OF THE PIRATES.
IN the sixties “hangings” were done in public, and anything of an unusual
kind attracted large parties from the West End; this was as recognised a
custom as the more modern fashion of making up a party to go to the Boat
Race or to share a _coupé_ on a long railway journey.
And so it came about that the phenomenal sight of the execution of the
seven _Flowery Land_ pirates in ’64 created, in morbid circles, a stir
rarely equalled before or since. Members of the Raleigh, as may be
supposed, mustered in considerable numbers, and days before the fatal
morning trusty agents had visited the houses that face Newgate Gaol and
secured every window that gave an unobstructed view of the ghastly
ceremony.
The prices paid were enormous, varying from twenty to fifty guineas a
window, in accordance with the superiority of the perspective from “find
to finish.”
The rendezvous was fixed for 10 p.m. on Sunday at the Raleigh, but as it
was raining in torrents it was a question with many whether to face the
elements, or content themselves with a graphic description in the next
day’s papers. But the sight of three or four cabs, a couple of servants,
and a plentiful supply of provender decided the question, and the
procession started on its dismal journey.
Cursing the elements, the sightseers little knew in what good stead the
downpour served them, and with nothing worse than being drenched to the
skin the party arrived safely.
A cab-load of young Guardsmen, however, preferring to wait till the storm
abated, never got beyond Newgate Lane—where they were politely invited to
descend, and, after being stripped to their shirts, were asked where the
cabman should drive them to.
The scene on the night preceding a public execution afforded a study of
the dark side of nature not to be obtained under any other circumstances.
Here was to be seen the lowest scum of London densely packed together as
far as the eye could reach, and estimated by _The Times_ at not less than
200,000. Across the entire front of Newgate heavy barricades of stout
timber traversed the streets in every direction, erected as a precaution
against the pressure of the crowd, but which answered a purpose not
wholly anticipated by the authorities.
As the crowd increased, so wholesale highway robberies were of more
frequent 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 surrounding the scaffold.
The scene that met one’s view on pulling up the windows and looking out
on the black night and its still blacker accompaniments baffles
description. A surging mass, with here and there a flickering torch,
rolled and roared before one; above this weird scene arose the voices of
men and women shouting, singing, blaspheming, and, as the night advanced
and the liquid 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 one, accompanied by more blaspheming and
shouts of defiance. It was difficult to believe one was 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 one
realised that the scaffold was being dragged round. A grim, square,
box-like apparatus was now distinctly visible, as it slowly backed
against the “debtors’ door.” Lights now flickered about the scaffold—the
workmen fixing the cross-beams and uprights. Every stroke of the hammer
must have vibrated through the condemned cells, and warned the wakeful
occupants that their time was nearly come. These cells were situated at
the corner nearest Holborn, and passed by thousands daily, who little
knew how much misery that bleak white wall divided them from. Gradually
as the day dawned the scene became more animated, and battalions of
police surrounded the scaffold.
Meanwhile, a little unpretending door was gently opened; this was the
“debtors’ door,” and led direct through the kitchen on to the scaffold.
The kitchen on these occasions was turned into a temporary mausoleum and
draped with tawdry black hangings, which concealed the pots and pans, and
produced an effect supposed to be more in keeping with the solemn
occasion. From the window opposite everything was visible inside the
kitchen and on the scaffold, but to the surging mass in the streets below
this bird’s-eye view was denied.
Presently an old and decrepit man made his appearance, and cautiously
“tested” the drop; but a foolish impulse of curiosity leading him to peep
over the drapery, a yell of execration saluted him. This was Calcraft,
the hangman, hoary-headed, tottering, and utterly past his usefulness for
the work.
The tolling of St. Sepulchre’s bell about 7.30 a.m. announced the
approach of the hour of execution; meanwhile a steady rain was falling,
though without diminishing 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 service, and tightly packed with human
beings eager to catch a glimpse of seven fellow-creatures 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 of
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, with a
gaping chasm below. Here, however, all was reversed; there was no need
to resort to such a subterfuge to deceive the chief actors who were to
expiate their crime with all the publicity that 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 a.m., and breakfast at
9.
The procession now appeared, winding its way through the kitchen, and in
the centre of the group walked a sickly, cadaverous mob securely
pinioned, and literally as white as marble. As they reached the platform
a halt was necessary as each was placed one by one immediately under the
hanging chains. At the end of these chains were hooks which were
eventually attached to the hemp round the neck of each wretch. The
concluding ceremonies did not take long, considering how feeble the aged
hangman was. A white cap was first placed over every face, then the
ankles were strapped together, and finally the fatal noose was put round
every neck, and the end attached to the hooks. One fancies one can see
Calcraft now laying the “slack” of the rope that was to give the fall
lightly on the doomed men’s shoulders so as to preclude the possibility
of a hitch, and then stepping on tiptoe down the steps and disappearing
below. At this moment a hideous _contretemps_ occurred, and one poor
wretch fell fainting, almost into the arms of the officiating priest.
The reprieve was, however, momentary, and, placed on a chair, the
inanimate mass of humanity awaited the supreme moment in merciful
ignorance. The silence was now awful. One felt one’s heart literally in
one’s mouth, and found oneself involuntarily saying, “They could be saved
yet—yet—yet,” and then a thud that vibrated through the street announced
that the pirates were launched into eternity. One’s eyes were glued to
the spot, and, fascinated by the awful sight, not a detail escaped one.
Calcraft, meanwhile, apparently not satisfied with his handiwork, seized
hold of one poor wretch’s feet, and pressing on them for some seconds
with all his weight, passed from one to another with hideous composure.
Meanwhile, the white caps were getting tighter and tighter, until they
looked ready to burst, and a faint blue speck that had almost immediately
appeared on the carotid artery gradually became more livid, till it
assumed the appearance of a huge black bruise. Death, I should say, must
have been instantaneous, for hardly a vibration occurred, and the only
movement that was visible was that from the gradually-stretching ropes as
the bodies 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
“Calcraft, Calcraft, he’s the man,”
but the pickpockets and 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 they were there
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.
Whilst these incidents were going on 9 o’clock was gradually approaching,
the hour when the bodies were to be cut down. As the dismal clock of St.
Sepulchre’s chimed out the hour Calcraft, rubbing his lips, again
appeared, and, producing a clasp knife, proceeded to hug the various
bodies in rotation with one arm whilst with the other he severed the
several ropes. It required two slashes of the feeble old arm to complete
this final ceremony, and then the heads fell with a flop on the old man’s
breast, who staggering under the weight, proceeded to jam them into
shells.
And then the “debtors’ door” closed till again required for a similar
tragedy, the crowd dispersed, and the sightseers sought their beds to
dream of the horrors of the past twelve hours.
After the trapeze performance we have just read of, given by the
venerable Calcraft to a delighted audience in front of Newgate Gaol, it
appears to have dawned upon the “Hanging Committee” of the Home Office
that, although much of the solemnity of the “painful” performance would
be lost by the removal of the patriarchal beard, counter advantages might
be attained by the substitution of a younger man to fill the Crown
appointment so popular amongst the masses. A new era was thenceforth
inaugurated. Instead of the length of the drop being left to the
discretion of the _artiste_, the exact measurement was not only fixed,
but the rope itself supplied by the Hanging Committee, after a careful
calculation by dynamics of the height and weight of the principal
performer. But the immediate successor of the venerable Calcraft was
found wanting in certain material qualifications, and although admittedly
an expert operator, had a habit of talking when under the genial
influence of stimulants.
An unrehearsed incident, when the head rolled off at a private execution,
thus got into the papers, and it became apparent that a combination of
expertness and reticence was the desideratum to be sought and found.
It was thus that the hero we are discussing came upon the scene some few
years later.
Marwood allowed nothing to interfere with business, and he would as soon
have hanged his grandmother—if duly instructed—as the most brutal ruffian
that ever passed through his hands. To arrive over-night with a modest
carpet-bag and be up betimes the following morning were to him matters of
routine; to truss his subject with a kicking strap 6 in. wide and then
drop into the procession with a face like a chief mourner’s were to him
sheer formalities; to give evidence later in the day before an
enlightened but inquisitive coroner’s jury was to him a matter of
courteous obligation; and to step into the street half an hour afterwards
with the same bag—but with evidently less hemp in it—all came to him as
part of a routine to be henceforth cast from memory till the service of
his country again demanded his undivided and best attention.
Any one looking at the retiring little man, dressed in the most funereal
of clothes, clutching a pint pot with his long and nervous fingers, would
have found it difficult to associate him with anything more formidable
than a bagman hawking samples for “the firm,” and it was only when a sort
of intimacy had been struck up and a certain quantity of swipes had been
consumed that, yielding to pressure, the great man launched out upon his
unique experiences.
Marwood’s invariable resort was the Green Dragon in Fleet Street, and so
certain as a malefactor met his doom at eight so certain was the hangman
to be found at twelve in the “select” section of the pub. This
peculiarity, of course, by degrees got to be known, and so it came to
pass that young bloods with a thirst for knowledge resorted thither, and
“hanging days” raised the “takings” of the fortunate house in Fleet
Street.
Incredible as it may appear, this morbid craving is by no means confined
to a few, and large sums used to be paid by reckless young scamps thirty
years ago to assist at these ghastly functions. It is an undeniable
fact, moreover, that a baronet still alive posed as the hangman’s
assistant at numerous executions.
But with the reaction that came as regards public hangings, the
stringency connected with the private performances made these hobbies
impossible, and the present era may take credit for having advanced
considerably in this respect on the usages of the long-ago sixties.
Before quitting this dislocating subject, it may interest the student of
ancient days to know that where now stands an imposing public-house, next
St. Giles’s Church, Bloomsbury, was once the Beer House where every cart
freighted with living victims from Newgate to Tyburn pulled up for their
“last drink.” After which, wending their way along Oxford Road (Street),
they alighted at Tyburn Tree, now the garden of 1, Connaught Place,
opposite the Marble Arch.
Surely no passer-by can walk under the porch of Gilbey’s offices in
Oxford Street without shuddering at the many sad scenes that ancient
portico and that ancient street have witnessed.
It was beneath it that De Quincey nightly waited for poor Anne when both
were on the verge of starvation; and it was there that he poured out his
lamentations of the stony-hearted stepmother—Oxford Street.
The same miseries exist in the present day, and every night bundles of
human rags lie huddled together under its inhospitable shelter; whilst
within, the old Pantheon—delight of our childhood when it was a huge
bazaar—blazes with electric light as the headquarters of a certain whisky
which, advertisements tell us, may be procured of 3,000 agents.
The trial and execution of Müller in ’64 for the murder of Mr. Briggs in
one of the tunnels on the Brighton Railway, created more universal
excitement than anything before or since, except, perhaps, the case of
Mrs. Maybrick. On the night before his execution, the German Ambassador
was closeted with the Home Secretary at the urgent request of his
Government, and petitions innumerable were presented; but the Home
Secretary was a firm man, and the culprit was duly hanged next morning in
front of Newgate. Personally, I was sceptical of his guilt, and so
interested was I that I obtained an order to visit Newgate, and by the
judicious expenditure of a shilling, peeped through the observation hole
of the condemned cell; later on I saw him hanged, and it was only on his
confession to the Lutheran minister, just before the bolt was drawn, that
I admitted the justice of the sentence. But the fair-haired Saxon youth
of refined and prepossessing appearance had got on my nerves, and when, a
week later, his effigy was advertised as having been added to Tussaud’s
Wax-works, I determined to again see the youth, whom I had last seen
being jerked into eternity.
In those days the exhibition was in the Baker Street Bazaar, and if the
premises were not as roomy as the present palatial building, they
certainly appeared to me “snugger.” The Chamber of Horrors was snugness
itself.
It was whilst exploring this dismal chamber that an attendant told me
that wax figures were the most improvident creatures in the world; that
they ran their toes through their stockings with reckless unconcern, and
that two or three people were constantly employed darning and mending the
belongings of these weird beings.
As I left the building I pondered over what I had seen and heard, and
soon discovered I had not heard the last of Müller yet. This is what I
saw, or fancied I saw, in my dreams:
As I entered the Chamber of Horrors a few nights after, Müller—whose pose
is of the meekest and most becoming—suddenly shot out his arm, and,
pointing at me, exclaimed in a loud and guttural voice: “Seize him, seize
him; the man!” Then Rush and Greenacre and a host of others yelled and
execrated me, and Mrs. Manning (whose crime was probably the cruellest on
record) shrieked like a curlew: “Seize him, seize him!” On this I
dropped my umbrella—a weakness that I trust will be deemed
pardonable—under the circumstances—and immediately followed it with a
terrific flop on the floor; so terrific, indeed, was it that it brought
me to my senses, and I awoke in a cold perspiration in Jermyn Street.