<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</SPAN><br/> <span class="smaller">How Murderers Die.</span></h2>
<div class="drop">
<ANTIMG src="images/dropa.png" width-obs="73" height-obs="76" alt="A" /></div>
<p class="afterdrop"><span class="fstwd"><span class="hidden">A</span>s</span> 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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<h3><i>Robert F. Vickers and William Innes.</i></h3>
<p>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”<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="center">
<ANTIMG src="images/i_068.png" width-obs="299" height-obs="429" alt="" />
<p class="caption">Mary Lefley.</p>
</div>
<h3><i>Mary Lefley.</i></h3>
<p>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.</p>
<h3><i>Joseph Lawson</i>,</h3>
<p>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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</SPAN></span></p>
<h3><i>Peter Cassidy.</i></h3>
<p>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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="center">
<ANTIMG src="images/i_071.png" width-obs="349" height-obs="406" alt="" />
<p class="caption">Moses Shrimpton.</p>
</div>
<h3><i>Moses Shrimpton</i>.</h3>
<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<h3><i>Rudge, Martin and Baker.</i></h3>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<div class="center">
<ANTIMG src="images/i_075.png" width-obs="297" height-obs="469" alt="" />
<p class="caption">Mrs. Britland.</p>
</div>
<h3><i>Mary Ann Britland.</i></h3>
<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</SPAN></span>
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,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<div class="center">
<ANTIMG src="images/i_077.png" width-obs="342" height-obs="475" alt="" />
<p class="caption">James Murphy.</p>
</div>
<h3><i>James Murphy.</i></h3>
<p>Some condemned persons are unconsciously humorous,
whilst others that I have met with have shown an
unconcerned and designedly humorous disposition, which<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</SPAN></span>
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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</SPAN></span>
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.
<i>But I eat my dinner none the worse for that.</i>” 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.</p>
<h3><i>Edward Pritchard</i></h3>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<div class="center">
<ANTIMG src="images/i_079.png" width-obs="295" height-obs="440" alt="" />
<p class="caption">Walter Wood.</p>
</div>
<h3><i>Walter Wood.</i></h3>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<div class="center">
<ANTIMG src="images/i_081.png" width-obs="301" height-obs="435" alt="" />
<p class="caption">Alfred Sowrey.</p>
</div>
<h3><i>Alfred Sowrey.</i></h3>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</SPAN></span>
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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<div class="center">
<ANTIMG src="images/i_082.png" width-obs="341" height-obs="567" alt="" />
<p class="caption">Dr. Cross.</p>
</div>
<h3><i>Dr. Philip Henry Eustace Cross.</i></h3>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<h3><i>Joseph Walker.</i></h3>
<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<h3><i>John Jackson</i>,</h3>
<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<div class="center">
<ANTIMG src="images/i_085.png" width-obs="301" height-obs="467" alt="" />
<p class="caption">John Jackson.</p>
</div>
<h3><i>Charles Joseph Dobell and William Gower.</i></h3>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<h3><i>Samuel and Joseph Boswell.</i></h3>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</SPAN></span></p>
<h3><i>Richard Davies.</i></h3>
<p>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.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>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 “<SPAN href="#CHAPTER_X">Capital Punishment</SPAN>.” It is decidedly injurious<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>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.</p>
<h3><i>Mary Eleanor Wheeler</i>,</h3>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<div class="center">
<ANTIMG src="images/i_090.png" width-obs="332" height-obs="403" alt="" />
<p class="caption">Mrs. Pearcey.</p>
</div>
<h3><i>John Conway</i>,</h3>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</SPAN></span>
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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<div class="center">
<ANTIMG src="images/i_091.png" width-obs="303" height-obs="394" alt="" />
<p class="caption">John Conway.</p>
</div>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>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 <i>think</i>.
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.</p>
<div class="enddeco">
<ANTIMG src="images/end7.png" width-obs="81" height-obs="139" alt="" /></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</SPAN></span></p>
<ANTIMG src="images/i_093.png" width-obs="600" height-obs="342" alt="" />
<p class="caption">Lancaster Castle.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</SPAN><br/><SPAN name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</SPAN></span></p>
<hr class="chap" />
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