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As one of my objects in writing this book is to give the public a solid basis for the formation of a sound public opinion upon the subject of capital punishment, it is necessary that the present chapter should be a long one, and that many of its details should be painful—because they are true. If I glossed over the facts I should signally fail in my duty to my readers, but I have endeavoured, so far as possible, to avoid revolting details.
To the ordinary Englishman a murderer is a murderer and nothing else. He is a vile creature who has taken life, and who by law, divine and national, must die because of his deed. He is a creature different from the rest of humanity, a fiend, a monster, who has outraged Justice, and must die like a dog. To me, a murderer is a study. He is a man who has done an ill deed, who may or may not be naturally vicious; who may or may not be really responsible for his actions; who may or may not be devoutly penitent. My own ideas on capital punishment are given in another chapter. I believe, honestly, and from long study of the subject, with unique opportunities of judging, that with a certain low class of the human brute, the fear of death is the only check that can in any way curb their lusts and passions. But I have sometimes thought that amongst those whom I have executed, for crimes which they have undoubtedly committed, there were men to whom their crime was a trouble more terrible than death; men who had not premeditated murder, who had taken no pleasure in it and expected no profit from it, and who, if they could by any means have been set at liberty, had within them the making of model citizens. Logically, and as a matter of conviction, I feel that if one sheddeth man’s blood, by man should his blood be shed; but as a matter of sentiment, I sometimes feel sorry that certain murderers can not go free. The power of reprieve is, of course, often exercised, and very rightly so, and yet it sometimes seems as if murderers who have been wilful, deliberate and thoroughly vicious in their acts and characters are reprieved because they possess interesting personalities or influential friends, while others are executed who have a better plea for mercy, but no one to present it. The whole subject is a very difficult one; I must lay the facts before my readers and let them draw their own conclusions. But I may say that the executions which have given me the most trouble have not been those in which the convicts were violent or hysterical, not those in which they struggled and fought and cursed, or doggedly and stubbornly resisted; but the few cases in which they have been devoutly penitent, and almost seemed to welcome death as a release from a burden too heavy to be borne and an expiation for the sin which they deplored. In such cases the executioner’s task is, indeed, a painful one.
The conduct of the condemned in the cell and on the scaffold throws much light upon the various phases of human character, and to me it has always been an interesting study.
Robert F. Vickers and William Innes.
The first two men whom I executed, though strong chums and partners in crime, were totally different from each other in their conduct. They both showed deep emotion, although they belonged to a low type of humanity, and they both attentively listened to the chaplain as often as he was willing to visit them, and to such outside ministers as took any interest in their fate, but I believe they did this with the view of making the best of a bad job—if any “best” were possible—rather than from any deep conviction of the sinfulness of their offence. Beyond this, their demeanour was totally different. Vickers was buoyed up with hope throughout, and continually asked if “the reprieve” had come. Even when I was introduced to him on the morning of the execution he had not despaired, and his hope rendered him almost cheerful. Even when we were on the scaffold he was convinced that he was not to die, and seemed to listen as people on the scaffold did in olden times, for the horseman wildly dashing across the court-yard and crying, “Reprieve! Reprieve!” at the very last moment. It was not until the noose touched his neck that he realised that his execution was to be an actual solemn fact, and when the dread reality burst upon him, he fainted.
His companion in crime and death stood unmoved upon the scaffold, resigned and calm, without either hope or fear. The white cap was over his face when Vickers fainted, and no sound from the bystanders gave him any hint that Vickers was overcome. The fainting man was supported for a moment, then a touch on the lever, and it was necessary to support him no longer. The Gorebridge murder, for which these men were executed, caused a great sensation at the time.
Mary Lefley.
My next execution, in which the condemned person was a woman, was a very different experience. Mary Lefley, the culprit, was before her marriage a companion of Priscilla Biggadike, who was executed at Lincoln for poisoning her husband. Mary Lefley committed the same crime, poisoning her husband by inserting arsenic in a rice pudding. After the sentence of death, even up to the time of the execution, she expected a reprieve, and to the last she protested her innocence; though on the night before she was very restless and constantly exclaimed, “Lord! Thou knowest all,” and prayed fervently. She would have no breakfast, and when I approached her she was in a nervous, agitated state, praying to God for salvation, not as a murderess but as an innocent woman. On my approach she threw up her hands and shrieked, “Murder! Murder!” and she had to be led to the scaffold by two female warders, shrieking wildly all the time. She died as she had lived, impenitent and untruthful, denying her guilt to the last.
Joseph Lawson,
the principal actor in the Butterknowle tragedy, when Sergeant Smith was murdered, was a terrible combination of craven fear and reckless bravado. During the last few days of his life he was dull and despondent, and during the night before his execution his sleep was frequently broken by fits of terror and nervous exhaustion, when he shivered like one in an ague. On the morning of the last day he arose at six o’clock, and tried to appear cheerful or even jovial. In the pinioning-room he saluted the warders with a cheerful “good morning,” and on his way to the scaffold laughed hilariously at a stumble of his own. Then he commenced using foul, blasphemous language, and not ceasing even when the white cap was drawn over his face. His oaths drowned the voice of the chaplain who was reading the usual burial service, and with awful words on his lips he was launched into a dark eternity.
Peter Cassidy.
My very next case was a strong contrast to the foregoing. The condemned man was Peter Cassidy; his offence, wife-murder. It was one of those cases in which it is difficult to know whether the man should be most pitied or blamed, whether he was not more sinned against than sinning. That he committed the murder, in a fit of drunken frenzy, was undoubted—he did not deny it; but that he had received great and frequent provocation is certain. Both he and his wife were addicted to drink—which was most to blame for it I do not know—but on the day of the murder his wife was away from home for some time without his consent or knowledge of her whereabouts. When she returned she was drunk, so was he, and in the quarrel that ensued he slew her. But when he was sober again, his remorse was as deep as his drunken passion had been violent. He realised the gravity of his offence and the justice of his death sentence. To the ministrations of the Rev. Father BontÉ, the Roman Catholic chaplain, he paid great attention, and on his last day on earth he seemed peaceful and resigned. He walked to the scaffold with a free, firm stride. The morning was dark and gloomy, but just as we passed across the prison yard a thin bright gleam of sunlight pierced the leaden clouds and rested for a moment upon the little procession. In that moment of sunshine Cassidy breathed convulsively, but the sky clouded over almost instantly and he regained his composure. On the scaffold he entered into the Roman Catholic service, which Father BontÉ was reading, repeating the responses firmly and fervently, in fact, he was so engrossed in the service that I do not think he knew that I pinioned his legs. He continued his prayers as I adjusted the white cap over his eyes, but when the rope touched his neck he blushed crimson to the very roots of his hair, and his lips twitched. Intense shame and sorrow were never more plainly expressed by any man. A very large proportion of murders are directly traceable to drink, and in almost every case where a murderer has said anything about the motive for his crime he has blamed the drinking habit.
Moses Shrimpton.
As a rule, it is the first offender—there are many murderers whose great crime is their first offence—who is most affected by the terrible nature of his position when condemned to death. The old and practised criminal, though he has a great dread of the scaffold and the rope so long as he is at large, and though he usually takes more interest in his trial and uses greater efforts for his acquittal than the novice in crime, is usually resigned and indifferent as soon as the sentence is passed. As a rule, he pays but little heed to the ministrations of the chaplain, or the condolences of his friends. He is neither piously inclined, nor hysterically fearful, nor abusively rebellious—he simply waits his fate. A kind of hard stoicism seems to keep him quiet; he has played a desperate game with his eyes open, has played for high stakes—and lost. I say that this is generally the case with the gaol-bird; and yet there are exceptions, and amongst such exceptions in my own experience, Moses Shrimpton was notable. His life, almost from the cradle to the grave, was one long career of crime and punishment. He was a man of strong character and much determination of purpose, a leader amongst the ruffians of his district. He was sentenced to one month’s imprisonment for poaching in February, 1848, and from that time until his execution in May, 1885, he was seldom out of prison for many months together. He gloried in his success as a poacher, and told the tales of his desperate adventures in a most interesting manner to the warders in Worcester Gaol, where he was a well-known and frequent inmate. He was sentenced to death for the violent and brutal murder of a policeman, who arrested him red-handed when fowl-stealing. He expressed no surprise or sentiment of any kind when he found that he was condemned to death, but to the astonishment of all who knew him, he appeared to be entirely changed in character by the thought of death. Those who administered spiritual consolation to him during his last three weeks of life were persuaded that his repentance and amendment were real, and certainly his actions appeared like those of a man who was really convinced. He paid great attention to the chaplain who visited him, and he read the Bible hour after hour. Certain passages that puzzled him he carefully noted down, and asked for an explanation at the chaplain’s next visit. When the time for his execution came he was confident, almost defiant, and walked to the scaffold erect and firm. As he stepped on to the drop he glanced downwards and drew his feet together to assist me in fixing the strap that pinioned his legs. Before I pulled down the white cap he looked around as if to see the last of the world, and then, nodding to signify that he was ready, awaited the adjusting of the noose.
Rudge, Martin and Baker.
Some more ordinary examples of the deaths of hardened criminals were presented in the cases of Rudge, Martin and Baker. It will be remembered that these men committed a jewel robbery at Netherby, in Cumberland, and afterwards murdered police-constable Byrnes and made a murderous attack on other policemen, while endeavouring to escape arrest. These men, when once their sentence was passed, had no further interest in life; and I believe that if the choice could have been offered to them they would have preferred to walk straight from the dock to the scaffold, rather than to have had the three weeks’ grace which is given to condemned men. In the case of almost all habitual criminals I believe this is so—they do not fear death and they do not repent of their crime. So long as there is a ghost of a chance of acquittal or reprieve, they cling to life, but as soon as the death sentence is passed they become indifferent, and would like to “get it over” as soon as possible, mainly because the prison life bores them.
Of the three men I have instanced, Rudge was the only one who seemed to care to take any interest in life. He spent a good deal of his time in writing a statement of his views upon the present system of penal servitude, for the information of the Home Office. As he had undergone two long sentences he knew his subject thoroughly from the inside. With his attendants he talked freely, both about himself and about other matters of interest. He insisted that there was something wrong with his head, which had caused him trouble several times in his life. He did not ask for any reprieve on this account, but he begged the prison chaplain to examine his brain after death, and repeated the request almost the last thing before the time for the execution. Martin and Baker spent most of the three weeks in bed. They would neither talk nor do anything else. Rudge and Martin were baptised Roman Catholics, whilst Baker had received some Protestant education, but none of them seemed to care for the ministrations of the priest or the gaol chaplain. To them it seemed cowardly and unreasonable to ask God for mercy simply because they were condemned to death, when they knew very well that they would have been living in defiance of God and man if they had remained free. After some time they yielded to the counsel and entreaties of their spiritual advisers so far as to listen to all they had to say. Baker appeared to attend carefully to the chaplain’s ministration, and partook of Holy Communion an hour before the execution. Baker was troubled about the welfare of his sweetheart, Nellie, and spent part of the night before his execution in writing a long letter to her. In this letter he assured her of his love and constancy, and begged her to keep in the path of right.
All the three men walked firmly to the scaffold, where they shook hands all round, saying, “Good-bye, old pal, good-bye”—nothing more. The drop was already chalked with their names—Martin in the centre, with Rudge on the right and Baker on the left. The men stepped at once to their places and gave all the assistance they could in the final pinioning and in the adjustment of the nooses. Just before the drop fell Baker cried, “Keep straight, Nellie!” and then the three men died together, without a word of fear or even a quiver or a pallid cheek amongst them. The youth and manly bearing of Baker, and the strong affection of which he was capable, as shown by the way in which his Nellie was always uppermost in his thoughts, affected me very much. His execution was one of the saddest of my many experiences.
Mary Ann Britland.
I have said that the people who are most cruel and callous in their murderous deeds are often most cowardly after conviction. The class of cruel and callous murderers is quite distinct from that of the violent murderers, like Rudge, Martin and Baker. These men, fighting against the law, fight fairly according to their lights. They take risks and meet the consequences in a straightforward manner. But the cruel and callous class show a cowardice and selfishness of which Rudge, Martin, and Baker were incapable. An instance of this occurs to me in the case of Mary Ann Britland, whom I executed at Strangeways Gaol, Manchester. She was an example of the class of persons to whom the three weeks’ respite before death is the greatest possible cruelty. She was condemned for the murder of a woman who had befriended her, and in whose house she was living as a guest at the time of the murder. She was also proved to have murdered her own husband and daughter by the same means, namely, poison. It seems hard to conceive of any adequate motive for such a series of crimes, extending over a considerable time, but a theory was advanced, and supported by her confession, to the effect that she desired to marry the husband of her latest victim. To accomplish this object she first killed her daughter (for what exact reason is not clear, unless she feared that the girl had some suspicion of her design upon the others), then her husband, and finally her friend, who had pitied her lonely and widowed circumstances, and given her food and shelter. The husband of the third victim was tried, with a view to bringing him in as an accomplice, but the investigation showed that he had never shown any friendliness for Mrs. Britland, and that it was clearly impossible that he could have had any connection with the murders. At her trial she was completely unnerved, not by remorse, but by fear. When the verdict was announced, and she was asked if she had anything to say why sentence should not be passed, she burst into tears. During the passing of the sentence she incessantly interrupted the judge with cries for mercy, but finding such appeals of no avail, she screamed to Heaven in tones of the greatest agony. Even after she had been removed to the cells, her screams could be heard for a long time by people outside. During the time that elapsed before her execution she was partly buoyed up by the hope of a reprieve, and protested her innocence almost to the very last. In spite of her hope, she could not shut out the terrible fear that the reprieve might not come, and the dread of death was so heavy upon her as to reduce her in three weeks to a haggard wreck of her former self. She prayed long and apparently earnestly for God’s help, but did not acknowledge her guilt until almost the last moment, when she saw that there was no hope of reprieve. When the morning of the execution came, she was so weakened as to be utterly unable to support herself, and she had to be practically carried to the scaffold by two female warders. For an hour before the time of the execution she had been moaning and crying most dismally, and when I entered her cell she commenced to shriek and call aloud. All the way to the scaffold her cries were heart-rending, though her voice was weak through suffering, and as the white cap was placed over her head she uttered cries which one of the reporters described as “such as one might expect at the actual separation of body and spirit through mortal terror.” The female warders held her on the drop until the noose was fixed, then their places were taken by two male warders who stepped quickly back at a signal which I gave them, and before she had time to sway sideways or to collapse the drop fell and the wretched woman was dead.
James Murphy.
Some condemned persons are unconsciously humorous, whilst others that I have met with have shown an unconcerned and designedly humorous disposition, which is surprising when one considers the grave nature of my business with them. James Murphy, whom I executed at York, in November of 1886, for the murder of police-constable Austwick, of Barnsley, seemed to look upon his sentence and death rather as a joke than otherwise, and perhaps partly as a matter of pride. He never seemed to think that it was a very serious matter, and the principal reference that he made to the subject was a frequent assurance to his attendants that he would die firmly and show no fear on the scaffold. I was introduced to him by the Governor of York Castle the day before the execution, while he was at dinner. He was told that “a gentleman from Bradford” had come to see him, but he feigned not to understand my identity, and muttered, “Bradford! Bradford!—I have no friends at Bradford.” Then it was explained that the gentleman in question was his executioner, and he smilingly replied, “Oh! of course!” but continued picking the mutton bone on which he had been engaged when we entered. In the last letter that he wrote, speaking of this incident, he said:—“I am in good spirits the Governor brought your letter to me at dinner time and the hangs man with him. I shaked hands with the hangs man and he ast me to forgive him and I did so. But I eat my dinner none the worse for that.” The same statement might also apply to his supper, and his breakfast next morning, for during the whole of his imprisonment his good humour and resolution never deserted him for a moment. He was perfectly contented with the arrangements made for him by the prison authorities; but the Roman Catholic priests in attendance could get no satisfaction out of him whatever. He parted from his brother, wife, and daughter without any sign of emotion, in the light-hearted manner of a working man who was starting for his day’s labour. He did justice to his last meal, and when it was finished asked for a “pipe of bacca,” the only request that he made with which the Governor was unable to comply. He seemed to take a great interest in the pinioning process, and helped me as well as he could. His request was that I would execute him quickly and painlessly, and this favour I was able to grant.
Edward Pritchard
was hanged in Gloucester Prison on February 17th, 1887, for the murder of a boy at Stroud. The object was robbery, for the boy was carrying money to pay wages, from the bank. Pritchard practically pleaded guilty, and appeared to be sincerely sorry for his deed. He was not anxious to escape death, but took great pains to secure the forgiveness of the firm whose money he had taken, and of the parents of the boy whom he had murdered in order to get it. To the father of the lad he wrote a letter, earnestly begging for his forgiveness; and Mr. Allen, who was a good, kind-hearted man, journeyed to Gloucester to convey an assurance of that forgiveness in person, and to pray with the murderer. Owing to a prison regulation Pritchard was unable to receive Mr. Allen’s visit, but the fact that the visit was made seemed a great consolation to the prisoner. While waiting for execution Pritchard frequently showed much emotion and it was feared that there might be a “scene” at the last moment, but when the time came, he was composed. There was no reckless bravado, but a quiet submission. He walked uprightly to the scaffold and stood motionless upon the drop. For a second his glance wandered round the prison-yard, and in that second he seemed to comprehend everything. He saw his grave, ready dug, in a corner, and heaved a sob, but this was his only demonstration of feeling whilst in my hands.
Walter Wood.
Another man who was apparently truly penitent was Walter Wood, executed at Strangeways, Manchester, on June 30th, 1887, for the murder of his wife. When the sentence of death was pronounced he was calm, and so he remained up to the time of execution. He did not falter even when visited by his mother and his two sons. He neglected no means of showing his contrition and making his peace with God, and on the day before his execution he attended the prison chapel, occupying a screened pew, where he paid careful attention to the service and appeared much solaced by a portion of the sermon which was introduced for his special benefit. On the morning of his last day he was awake early and spent the time with the good chaplain of the gaol. As I entered the cell the poor fellow was slowly repeating the responses to the prayers read by the chaplain, and he continued to do so during the pinioning. The chaplain was assiduous in his attentions and did not weary of his good work even when on the scaffold, but continued to comfort and solace the doomed man with an earnestness that indicated the depth of his sympathy. At the last moment the calm, but wretched, culprit raised his head, drew a deep breath, and said in a deep, solemn, unshaken tone, “Lord have mercy upon me. Lord receive me.” And so he died. This execution affected me deeply. The man was fully conscious of the hideousness of his crime, and sincerely repented. He assured the chaplain that he beheld the world and all things in a totally new light, and that the consciousness of his crime had changed his whole character. What would have been the fate of such a man if he could have been allowed to go free.
Alfred Sowrey.
One of the worst cases I ever had to deal with was that of Alfred Sowrey, hanged at Lancaster Castle on August 1st, 1887, for shooting the girl to whom he was engaged to be married, at Preston. He was impenitent, violent, and half-dead with fear by the day of execution. At the time of his trial he glared about in such a mad way that those who stood near the dock feared for their personal safety. During the time between sentence and execution he became seriously ill through sheer terror, and it was thought that he could not possibly live to the day appointed for his execution. The efforts of the gaol chaplain to bring Sowrey to a calmer and more reasonable state of mind seemed utterly unavailing, the prisoner was too terrified to take much notice of anything that was said to him. On the morning of the execution he took his breakfast as usual, but rejected the chaplain’s ministrations. From the cell to the scaffold he had to be partly pushed and partly carried by two warders, in whose strong arms he struggled violently. His groans and cries could be heard all over the prison. His teeth chattered, and his face was alternately livid and deathly white. Every inch of ground over which the procession passed was violently contested by the criminal, who had to be bodily carried up the steps and placed on the drop. As he saw the beam above him a wilder paroxysm of fear seemed to seize the miserable youth, and four warders were required to hold him in position. Even with this assistance I had the greatest possible difficulty in pinioning his legs, and while doing so I received a nasty kick which took a piece of bone out of my shin, and has left a mark visible even to-day. After the completion of the pinioning process he still resisted the placing of the noose, throwing his head violently from side to side, and he continued his struggles until the drop fell. During the whole of this terrible scene the chaplain, who had taken much interest in his ungrateful charge, and who had done everything he could for Sowrey, continued reading the beautiful prayers for the dying; but Sowrey paid no heed.
Dr. Philip Henry Eustace Cross.
My first execution in 1888 was that of Dr. Philip Henry Eustace Cross, who poisoned his wife by slow degrees, administering doses almost daily for a long time. Dr. Cross was a retired army surgeon, of good family. His medical experience gave him a great advantage in the commission of his crime, and he was evidently convinced that there was not the slightest fear of discovery. After conviction he protested his innocence until he received the message to the effect that there would be no reprieve but that the law must take its course. He then relapsed into a mournful condition, and turned his attention entirely to the Bible. The last few days before his execution he was greatly prostrated, and on his last night of life he did not retire to bed until twelve o’clock. His sleep was restless and fitful. In the morning, however, he was resolute. He told his attendants that he did not fear death, for he had met it face to face more than once on the battlefield. He died unmoved, without a word.
Joseph Walker.
A sorrow-stricken face that often haunts me is that of Joseph Walker, executed at Oxford in November, 1887. He had murdered his second wife, after great provocation. Her reckless drinking habits and jealous disposition, developed soon after the marriage, had made the home absolutely miserable. On several occasions she threatened her husband with a knife, and the only way in which he could defend himself without injuring her was by seizing her wrists and holding her down on the floor until her fury abated. The climax was reached when one of Walker’s sons by his first wife, who had been driven from home by his step-mother, committed suicide. The father attributed this to the step-mother’s cruelty. She went to Croydon, where the suicide was committed, to attend the inquest, and instead of returning home remained in London until her husband went to fetch her. Up to this time he had been steady, but after the return from London he gave way to excessive drinking and neglected his work. On the day of the murder there was a violent quarrel between the man and his wife, and when he fell into a drunken sleep she rifled his pockets of a considerable sum of money. At night Walker cut his wife’s throat, killing her with one terrible blow, and then, sobered by his act, called a neighbour to witness what he had done, and surrendered to the police who had been fetched to the house. The verdict of “Guilty” was brought in by the jury, but a strong recommendation to mercy was at the same time handed to the judge. In consequence of the great provocation which had been received by Walker, strenuous efforts were made to induce the Home Secretary to commute the death sentence to one of penal servitude, but without avail. The condemned man was perfectly willing to die, and his earnest repentance greatly touched the chaplain who laboured early and late to comfort him. Walker spent much of his time in fervent prayer, not for himself, but for his children. He prayed continuously that his sin might not be visited on them, for he knew how our Christian country usually treats those who have the burden of a dishonoured name to bear. He besought both God and man to treat his children kindly, and to lead them in the way of sobriety and honesty. For himself, while confessing the murder, he denied any premeditation of the matter. At the time of execution he was perfectly composed, and walked calmly to the scaffold, but he seemed to see nothing—his thoughts were far away—and even after death his face wore the same expression of sad composure. Walker was a heavy man, weighing over sixteen stones, and received a drop of 2 ft. 10 in., the shortest I have ever given.
John Jackson,
whose daring murder of warder Webb and escape from Strangeways Gaol, as well as his success in hiding from the police, caused immense interest to be taken in his case, was executed by me in the same gaol in which his crime occurred. Although he was commonly supposed to be incapable of feeling, his emotion at the prospect of his own fate was so touching that the official who had to tell him that reprieve was refused was very loth to break the news. On hearing it, he bowed his head and burst into tears, for, strange as it may seem, he had hoped that the death sentence would not be carried out. His grief continued to the last, and to the last he maintained that he had only intended to stun, and not to kill the warder. On the night before his death he did not sleep two hours, and when I entered his cell in the morning he was engaged in fervent prayer. He shook hands with me in a manner that was most affecting, and submitted quietly to the pinioning. He walked resignedly to the scaffold, and died without uttering a sound.
Charles Joseph Dobell and William Gower.
One naturally expects a hard indifference from an old criminal, but it saddens me to see it in the young, and yet two of the youngest men—or rather, boys—that I have executed were callous to the last degree. They were Charles Joseph Dobell (aged 17) and William Gower (18), executed in Maidstone Gaol for the murder of a time-keeper at a saw-mill in Tunbridge Wells some six months before. So carefully was the crime committed that the police could obtain no clue, and it was only found out by the confession of the lads to a Salvation Army officer. There is reason to believe that the lads’ natural taste for adventure had been morbidly stimulated by the reading of highly sensational literature—“penny dreadfuls” and the like. They seem to have conducted themselves with a sort of bravado or courage which, if genuine, would have done credit to a patriot or martyr sacrificing himself for country or for faith, or to one of their backwoods heroes fighting against “a horde of painted savages,” but which was distressing in two lads, almost children, sentenced to death for their crime. After they were sentenced they paid careful attention to the chaplain’s words, but they showed no sign of emotion, and it was said that “it is doubtful whether at any time they fully realised the serious nature of their position.” They walked to the scaffold in defiant manner, more upright than was their wont, and neither of them looked at or spoke to the other. There was no farewell, no word of repentance or regret, merely a brief supplication to God to receive them.
Samuel and Joseph Boswell.
It is a terrible trial to have to execute men who firmly believe, and apparently on reasonable, even if not correct grounds, that they are suffering an injustice. The worst instance that I remember of this kind was in the case of Samuel and Joseph Boswell, executed in Worcester Gaol for the murder of a game-keeper on the estate of the Duc d’Aumale, at Evesham. Three men, the Boswells and Alfred Hill, were found guilty of the murder, and the only difference which the jury could find in their guilt was that Hill was, if anything, the worst of the three. An application for a reprieve was made, apparently on the ground that though the men were guilty of poaching, they had not intended to commit murder. The Home Secretary responded to this application by reducing the penalty in Hill’s case to penal servitude for life. This action fairly astounded the people of Evesham, who thought that there was no possible reason for making any difference in the fate of the three culprits. The Vicar telegraphed to the Home Secretary that his decision was “absolutely incomprehensible;” the Mayor, on behalf of the borough, telegraphed to the effect that “universal indignation” was “expressed by the whole community in Evesham and by county gentlemen.” Several other similar messages were sent from other bodies, and the Vicar of Evesham was dispatched to London to interview the Home Secretary. The news was communicated to Hill but not to the Boswells, and as the feeling amongst outsiders was so strong, it can be imagined that the two men who had to suffer the punishment were shocked with a sense of injustice when they met on the morning of the execution and found that Hill had been reprieved. When they met on that fatal morning the brothers kissed each other, and, looking round, they enquired simultaneously, “where’s Hill?” On being answered, they seemed utterly broken down with the feeling of the injustice of the arrangement. They asserted that Hill was the real murderer, whilst they were only accomplices. The men had been much troubled during their imprisonment by the thought of what would happen to their wives and children, and were in a terribly harassed and nervous condition. I put the white caps on their heads before leaving the cells, and a few steps from the door of the house in which the scaffold stood I pulled the caps over their eyes. This I always do when men are not quite firm and determined, before they see the scaffold. In the case of Samuel Boswell this simple act caused him to fall back into the arms of one of the warders in a state of collapse, and he had to be almost carried on to the scaffold. He moaned several times, until he heard his brother’s voice give the response, “Lord, have mercy upon us,” when he again drew himself together and answered, “Christ, have mercy upon us.” Then Joseph piteously cried, “Oh, my poor, dear wife,” “Yes,” answered Samuel, “and my dear wife and my poor children.” Joseph turned his head a little and said, “Good-bye, Sam,” to which his brother answered, “Good-bye, God bless you, Joe boy. Oh! dear, dear,” Joseph continued: “I hope everybody will do well,” and as he finished speaking the drop fell, and together the brothers expiated their crime.
Richard Davies.
Another case in which “the one was taken and the other left” was the Crewe murder case, in which Richard and George Davies were found guilty of the murder of their father, with a strong recommendation to mercy on account of their youth. So far as could be made out, there was absolutely no difference in the degrees of their guilt; but the sentence of George was commuted to penal servitude simply because he was the younger. At this there was great excitement throughout the country, and thousands of telegrams and petitions were poured into the Home Office, begging that the leniency might be equally extended to both since the guilt of both was equal. But all to no purpose. The condemned lad protested, to his last moments, that although he took part in the murder, he never struck his father nor handled the hatchet with which the deed was done. He wrote most affectionate letters to his mother, brothers and sisters; who seemed to fully believe the truth of his statements with regard to his share in the crime. Ten minutes before his death he wrote out the same declaration and handed it to the chaplain. He stated that he had no wish to live, but that he hoped and expected to meet his relations in heaven. When I entered his cell he was pale, but calm. After pinioning him his face seemed still paler and his mouth worked convulsively as he strove to keep back his emotion. Along the corridor he walked firmly, with bent head, but when we reached the yard where a fresh breeze was blowing and the blue sky was visible, he raised his head and eyes for a last look at the world and the sky. He died firmly, with a brief prayer on his lips.
In both the cases last described the action of the Home Secretary was very severely commented upon by press and public, and it seems to me that such occurrences are the strongest possible arguments in favour of the re-arrangement of the law which I suggest in the chapter on “Capital Punishment.” It is decidedly injurious for the public to have the idea that the life or death of a man depends upon the urgency of the petitions in his favour and the amount of sympathy expressed for him, rather than upon the justice of the case. Moreover, it seems to me that by singling out special cases, and attacking the decision of the Home Office, the press and the public place themselves in a thoroughly illogical position. If they object to the system of leaving the matter in the hands of the Home Secretary, surely it is the system, and not the man, that should be attacked. On the other hand, if they are satisfied that the Home Secretary is the proper tribunal, they ought surely to rest content with his ruling, remembering that he has far better opportunities of judging the merits of the case and the whole of the evidence than any outsider can possibly have, and that his responsibility in the matter makes him more careful in his enquiry than any outsider possibly can be.
The melancholy interest of the subject allures me to continue, yet the details of murderers’ deaths at the best are ghastly and grim, and I fear that my readers will shudderingly wish me to stop. Two more experiences, and I will close the sad record.
Mary Eleanor Wheeler,
better known as Mrs. Pearcey, was a woman of decidedly strong character. Her crime is so recent and aroused so much interest that I need not go over the circumstances. The night before her execution was spent in the condemned cell, watched by three female warders, who stated that her fortitude was remarkable. When introduced to her I said, “Good morning, Madam,” and she shook my proffered hand without any trace of emotion. She was certainly the most composed person in the whole party. Sir James Whitehead, the Sheriff of the County of London, asked her if she wished to make any statement, as her last opportunity for doing so was fast approaching, and after a moment’s pause she said:—“My sentence is a just one, but a good deal of the evidence against me was false.” As the procession was formed and one of the female warders stepped to each side of the prisoner, she turned to them with a considerate desire to save them the pain of the death scene, and said, “You have no need to assist me, I can walk by myself.” One of the women said that she did not mind, but was ready and willing to accompany Mrs. Pearcey, who answered, “Oh, well, if you don’t mind going with me, I am pleased.” She then kissed them all and quietly proceeded to her painless death.
John Conway,
who murdered a boy of ten years old, at Liverpool, was a case that was most difficult to understand. His previous record did not indicate any quarrelsome or murderous tendency, though he was known to get drunk occasionally; and there seemed to be absolutely no motive that could be assigned for the crime. His confession was made privately, to the priest, the day before his execution, with instructions that it should be read as soon as he was dead, but it left the matter of motive as mysterious as ever. It was as follows:—“In confessing my guilt I protest that my motive was not outrage. Such a thought I never in all my life entertained. Drink has been my ruin, not lust. I was impelled to the crime while under the influence of drink, by a fit of murderous mania, and a morbid curiosity to observe the process of dying. A moment after the commission of the crime I experienced the deepest sorrow of it, and would have done anything in the world to undo it.” Conway was a very superstitious man, a believer in omens, witchcraft and all sorts of supernatural powers, and he had a firm idea that if one good man could be induced to pray for him he would be saved from execution. He was sure that his own prayers would avail nothing, and he thought that he was not fit to receive the sacrament of his church; but he attended the service at which the sacrament was administered, and begged that one of his fellow-prisoners, who partook of the rite, should pray for him. As he reached the scaffold Conway stared wildly around and cried out that he wanted to say something. The priest interfered to induce me to stop the execution for a few seconds, and I did so, but the convict merely thanked the gaol officials and his Father Confessor for their kindness. And so he died.
Does the reader think that I have spun out this chapter too much? Does he think that I have unnecessarily harrowed his feelings? If so, let me assure him that I would not have given this chapter, I would not have written this book if I had not had what I believe to be good purposes in view. I have tried to avoid sensationalism, but I want to make every reader think. I want to make him think that murderers are, after all, men and women, with human sympathies and passions. I want to make him think that there are degrees of murder, that justice, and not spasmodic leniency should be the aim of our laws, and a few other thoughts that will occur to the reader without any suggestion of mine.
Lancaster Castle.
