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.