by Argyle, Ray
TO BE HANGED
By the neck till he is dead!
COOK TEETS!
Found guilty of murder & sentenced to be hung
Leonard folded the copy into an envelope and addressed it to the Chronicle It was a story every reader would devour.
Chapter 19
THE PETITION
November 6, 1884
Leonard Babington stumbled into a gale that whipped his cheeks, blew snow against the Grey County Court Building, and rattled its windows. He went first to the railway station to put his copy on the overnight train. After, he visited the bar of Coulson’s British Hotel, ate an egg and a sausage, and went to his room. He had no desire to debate the trial, which was being heatedly picked over at the bar downstairs. The decision of the jury was final. There would be no appeal; Cook’s only hope lay in the jury’s recommendation for clemency.
When Leonard awoke the next morning his first thought was that it was Thanksgiving Day, and Cook Teets was in his cell at the Owen Sound jail. What did Cook have to give thanks for, Leonard wondered. He had awakened to a thankless day. He dressed, went to the dining room, and ate a quick breakfast of bacon and eggs. The storm had abated during the night and Leonard decided to go for a walk while waiting for the one o’clock train.
The air was clear and Leonard noticed a small crowd trailing off toward the Methodist Church. Leonard fell in with a couple on their way to Thanksgiving service. The man was big and bearded and the woman wore a thin cloth coat. When Leonard brought up the Cook Teets trial, the man snorted, “I was there, what a farce! That lawyer did a poor job of it. How could a blind man poison somebody? Not my idea of justice.” The remarks irritated his wife. “You men! Worried about Cook Teets. What about his wife? What kind of justice did she get?”
The notice board at the church door said the Rev. James Howell would preach at ten o’clock. Leonard followed the couple inside.
Nearly every pew was filled. Leonard felt warmed by the heat of the bodies and the friendly recognition of those he sat beside. The congregation sang lustily, prayed fervently, and sat quietly as the Rev. Howell looked out onto his flock. His sermon included the usual Methodist repetition of John Wesley’s three precepts – shun evil, perform acts of kindness, abide by God’s edicts. The minister took note of Thanksgiving Day and likened the good fortune of his flock to the parable of how Jesus had transformed a few loaves and two fish into a feast for a crowd. All this Leonard expected from a Methodist minister; what he had not expected was what came next.
“In our age we have wandered far from Biblical truth,” the Rev. Howell proclaimed. “We are diverted and distracted by the inconsequential and the irrelevant. We are immersed in an outpouring of putrefaction from the press. Their words tempt us to immorality and invite us to mimic the lives of the sad souls whose sinful and degrading actions they glorify in their pages.”
Leonard cringed. Putrifying – a good word for that story he’d written on Cook Teets. He couldn’t leave without speaking to the minister. He had to explain himself. He lingered at the door of the church as the Rev. Howell blessed departing worshippers. The warmth of the minister’s smile made Leonard wonder if his heart was as stern as the words he had spoken.
“My paper is the Vandeleur Chronicle,” Leonard told him. “I’m here for the Cook Teets trial. I’m not proud of everything we’ve published but I hope we’re not the cause of your sermon.”
“Goodness no,” the Rev. Howell answered. “It’s those dreadful Toronto papers with their scandalous stories of actors and their nonsensical discussions of evolution. I’m sure they could find more uplifting subjects to write about.”
Leonard intimated there were unpleasant truths of which the public had to be made aware.
“A man sits in Owen Sound jail, sentenced to hang. It’s more than possible he’s innocent. Would you be willing to go and comfort him?”
Leonard saw a sparkle in the minister’s eyes.
“Innocent or guilty, it’s my duty to bring the comfort of Jesus to all sinners. We’ll go and see him now.”
A half hour later, Leonard and the Rev. Howell stood outside Cook’s cell. For a condemned man, Leonard thought, Cook gave off an air of complacent disregard. He talked with the minister for several minutes. “I’ll never hang,” Leonard heard Cook say. “I’ll be out of here by Christmas.”
Rev. Howell told Cook he would visit him every day. “You don’t have to pray unless you want to,” he said. “In any event, I’ll pray for you.”
A sound signalled the opening of the door to the upstairs landing. A guard allowed James Masson to enter. He carried a bag of biscuits his wife had baked that morning. He reached through the bars to give them to Cook and turned to face Leonard. “We need to send petitions to Ottawa,” he said in a tired voice. “Try to get the sentence commuted to life. Will you help?”
Leonard weighed James Masson’s plea while the train carried him south to Flesherton Station. He thought Cook’s trial had been a farce, just as the man outside the Methodist Church had said. Nothing but circumstantial evidence, burdened by a weak defence – Cook could well be innocent. Leonard’s resentment of Cook’s marriage to Rosannah had evaporated as the likelihood of this sunk in. He couldn’t forget the article he’d written about Cook before his arrest; there was no doubt it had inflamed public opinion. Everything told Leonard he should do whatever he could to save Cook from the rope, even at the cost of stirring up his subscribers. What would it matter if he lost a few readers here or there?
Leonard was at the Chronicle early the next morning. Tyler and the new printer, Virgil Bannerman, had done their jobs. The paper had been printed and was ready for the post office. He settled behind his desk to review his account of the trial. It took up the front page. Inside, Virgil had played up Leonard’s story about the life of Rosannah. He had to admit he had been a little maudlin – especially the part about the “innocent girl deceived by a succession of iniquitous suitors.”
The air over Vandeleur was clear and cold with hardly a cloud in the sky. Leonard decided to walk to Munshaw’s Hotel. It felt good to be home. He was going to take a meal at the hotel, then make a call on a gentleman who could be of great help in organizing a petition to save Cook. Before leaving Tyler and Virgil to strip the week’s pages, he addressed a note to the editor of the Weekly Globe, a new man who had replaced Melvin James. He hoped the man’s news sense would override any prejudice he might have about receiving information from someone who had left the paper under questionable circumstances.
“This is a case that warrants closer examination,” Leonard scrawled. He tucked the note into a copy of the Chronicle and asked Tyler to get it on the night train.
Leonard found Aaron Munshaw presiding over a saloon filled with noisy customers. They were enjoying their freedom to buy strong drink again after the enforced abstinence of Thanksgiving Day.
“You’ve been at the trial,” Munshaw told Leonard when he took the last vacant seat at the bar. “Do you think they’ll hang him?”
Leonard drew a copy of the Chronicle from his satchel. “Save you a trip to the post office, read all about it. Yes, I think they will hang him, unless folks do something.”
The innkeeper served Leonard a meat pie and a glass of beer. He passed the paper down the bar and as it went from hand to hand Leonard heard a variety of opinions.
“Folks feel strongly about what’s happened,” Munshaw said. “You know I had to get out of this country after the Rebellion back in ’37. I had ten years exile in the States, with William Lyon Mackenzie. Took that long to get an amnesty. That tells you what I think of the justice that’s served up in Canada.”
Leonard ate quickly and an hour later he was in Robert Trimble’s dry goods store. He told Trimble that Cook Teets’s trial had been a questionable affair and that James Masson was looking for someone to start a petition.
“I remember very well when Cook and Rosannah came in to buy things before their wedding,” Trimble said. “They
sure looked to me like they were in love. I can’t imagine Cook murdering that poor girl.”
Leonard was sure he had come to the right man. They talked about getting up a petition. Trimble would be the first to sign, and he’d pass it around to his customers and other merchants. He agreed Leonard should not sign; a newspaperman should appear neutral. “But how will we word it?” Trimble asked.
Leonard had brought a pad of lined paper. He laid the pad on the counter and asked for pen and ink. He told Trimble the petition should express surprise at the verdict – it should stress that Rosannah could have been poisoned by some person other than Cook.
The chief evidence, such as it was, came from members of the Leppard family who were not known for their reliability. The petition should ask that the death sentence be commuted to life imprisonment, as the jury recommended.
“Put in that he’s been blind for years,” Robert Trimble interjected. “They shouldn’t overlook that.”
Leonard addressed the petition to the Minister of Justice, Sir Alexander Campbell. Robert Trimble borrowed Leonard’s pen to sign it.
“Come with me,” he told Leonard. He led the way across the road and in a few minutes two more merchants had signed: Robert J. Sproule and Matthew Richardson. Sproule said his uncle Dr. Sproule, who had conducted the autopsy on Rosannah, was going to write to Ottawa to request clemency. He’d heard that the coroner, Dr. Christoe, was doing the same.
People came and went as they talked. One of them was a solicitor in Owen Sound. Sam Platt had come down to deal with a property dispute.
“People seem to feel a little different about Cook Teets now that he’s been convicted,” the lawyer told Leonard.
“When this petition gets to Ottawa they’ll have to show mercy,” Robert Trimble said. “Sir John A. won’t want the hanging of an innocent blind man on his conscience.”
Sam Platt removed a silver plated watch from the pocket of his vest and checked the time.
“I have to be on my way but I can tell you a couple of things about petitions,” he said. “The government generally doesn’t give a hoot about them, so don’t expect too much. Just the same, I agree with what you’re doing. Two other lawyers besides me are sending in their own letters. You shouldn’t hang a dog on the evidence against that man.”
When Robert Trimble’s petition reached Ottawa a few days before Cook was to hang, it had 168 names on it. It went before the cabinet at the end of a long day, when Sir John A. Macdonald and his ministers were tired from hours of acrimonious discussion.
Leonard Tilley sat across from Macdonald in the cabinet room, another “Father of Confederation.” Now the minister of finance, he’d spent two hours talking tariffs. The talk droned on until Sir Alexander Campbell, Macdonald’s old law partner in Kingston, plopped the Cook Teets petition on the table.
Sir John A. Macdonald was accustomed to the consequences of violence. He’d seen as a child how sudden and unpredictably it could come about. A family caretaker, in his parents’ absence, had beaten young John’s little brother to death in a drunken rage. He’d lost three men to the gallows while practicing criminal law. One of the first things he did, as Prime Minister, was to speak out against public hangings. He’d commuted as many death sentences as he dared. But of course he’d allowed the hanging of Paddy Whelan, the assassin of Darcy McGee, one of the Fathers of Confederation.
“Sir Alex,” he said, turning to Campbell, “what are the circumstances of this case?”
The justice minister told the cabinet the case had been tried by one of the best men on the bench, Mr. Justice Armour. The Department had ordered up notes from the trial, fifty-two pages of them, all done up on one of the new typing machines. The case was largely circumstantial, but was brilliantly presented by Alfred Frost, the crown attorney for the county. A recommendation for mercy from the jury.
“Now, here is a rather remarkable thing,” Sir Alex said. “An outburst of support for the prisoner; people no doubt feeling sorry for him, blind for thirty years, something about a snowball fight. Our member for Grey East, Dr. Sproule, has written me. Says he knows Cook, man’s never been in serious trouble, only support of his aged mother, et cetera, et cetera, and says he thinks the evidence is not wholly to be relied on. The coroner, Dr. Christo, concedes Teets is guilty but he supports commutation. Three lawyers from Owen Sound have sent notes, same thing. On top of that, there’s a merchant out there, Robert Trimble, who’s gotten up this petition. Signed by all sorts of substantial men.”
“And the judge,” the prime minister inquired of Sir Alex, “have you determined his sentiments?”
“I have his telegram to hand. Ah yes, here it is. Says, and I quote, ‘I am satisfied with the verdict.’”
“And your recommendation, Minister?”
Chapter 20
THE PENALTY
December 5, 1884
At about the time the cabinet meeting was breaking up, Leonard Babington stepped aboard a train of the Toronto, Grey, and Bruce Railway for its run to Owen Sound. He’d put the Chronicle to bed that afternoon, its front page asking the question ESCAPE FROM THE ROPE? He’d also added an item under the heading CLARIFICATION. No newspaperman ever likes to publish an apology, but Leonard was faced with having to admit he’d been less than fair to Cook in the story about him shooting at a gang of schoolboys who had hurled snowballs at him. Leonard’s note, which appeared with a box around it, took pains to point out the story was based on an unverified report, and therefore could not be accepted as absolute fact.
His conscience somewhat pacified, Leonard began to focus on Cook’s chances of finding mercy in Ottawa. By now, he felt the prospect of a reprieve was driven by more than just blind hope or mere faith. He had expected no more than twenty or thirty to sign Robert Trimble’s petition, and was surprised that 167 men had added their names. He was even more surprised by a sympathetic editorial in the Globe; it was clear it was based on his report in the Chronicle. Other appeals that had gone to Ottawa each made an equally compelling case for the sparing of Cook’s life. Leonard was beginning to believe he was on the verge of accomplishing something truly worthwhile. He was feeling better about himself than he had in years.
There’d been arguments, of course. He’d encountered Moses Sherwood, the neighbour who’d testified to Rosannah having that slip of paper filled with something that looked like medicine when he saw her with Cook the afternoon before her death. “Remember what Judge Armour said,” Moses told him. “He didn’t hold out any hope. Told Teets to prepare to meet his maker. Couldn’t be any clearer than that.” At the Eugenia post office, James Rowe figured the jury’s recommendation was just a harmless gesture. “They found him guilty, didn’t they? Intelligent men, all of them.”
Leonard shrugged off these remarks. He was convinced Ottawa would have to consider public opinion, as evidenced in the petition and letters that had been sent in. In Owen Sound, Leonard went to the jail to call on Governor Miller. He thought the Governor looked frazzled, bearing the demeanor of a man who would be glad when he no longer had to contend with having Cook Teets as one of his prisoners. Dozens of people were demanding to see the hanging and there were reports half the town would watch it from the hill behind the jail.
“I’ve got my men in the yard now,” Miller said. “I’m putting the gallows at the south end. And I’ve told them to build a screen over it. I’m not going to entertain people on the street.” He called a guard to escort Leonard upstairs.
Leonard found two clergymen sitting outside Cook’s cell. The Rev. James Howell was there, along with an older man. The man was introduced to Leonard as Hugh Scott, the minister from Knox Presbyterian Church. He was urging Cook to confess.
“You have told us you were taught the name of Jesus,” the Rev. Scott said. “You were warned against evil and advised towards good. Remember the words of Scripture, ‘as a man soweth so shall he also reap.’ You only have twenty-four hours, Cook. You need to make your peace with God.”
Leonard was surprised by the harsh way Mr. Scott was speaking to Cook. He thought a man with the prospect of hanging in his immediate future deserved kinder words.
Cook sat quietly on his cot, his head down, showing no reaction.
“Let’s just pray for a reprieve,” the Rev. Howell said. “Dear Lord, we beseech thee to allow mercy to be visited on this humble subject …”
The arrival of James Masson interrupted the prayer. Gripping a bar of the cell with his right hand, the lawyer muttered an apology. In his left hand he held a sheath of paper. Leonard could tell from the look on his face that he was unhappy.
“I’ve been at the telegraph office,” Masson said. “Now this.” As he spoke he flourished the paper in midair. “Cook, I have to tell you it doesn’t look good.”
The lawyer read a telegram he had just received from the deputy minister of justice.
“‘The Governor General in Council’ – that’s fancy language for the cabinet,” James Masson interjected – ‘has not informed me of his conclusions but I can hold out no hope of execution interference. Will telegraph decision.’”
It took a moment for Leonard to absorb the lawyer’s message. He wondered if Cook realized its significance. “Are you sure they’re not just being cautious?” he asked. “Afraid to say anything definite, so they put things in a bad light, knowing we’ll forget it soon enough when the commutation comes through.”
“Perhaps, but it’s not encouraging,” James Masson said.
Leonard stayed with Cook most of the day. He took a break at noon to spend an hour walking the streets, growing more nervous as the minutes went by. He marvelled at Cook’s composure. Nothing seemed to upset him, not the importuning of the ministers, the frantic last-minute exchange of wires by his lawyer, or the worries of unexpected visitors, all unhelpful and unwanted. Leonard imagined he would be frantic if he was in Cook’s shoes, knowing it was likely he would be mounting the gallows in less than twenty-four hours.