The Yorkshire Witch

by Strevens, Summer;

  The first to suffer the post-mortem fate of dissection after the ‘Murder Act’ came into force on 1 June 1752 was seventeen-year-old Thomas Wilford. Found guilty of the murder of his wife, who Wilford had stabbed to death just one week after their wedding, he was executed on 22 of June 1752, hanged upon London’s infamous ‘Tyburn Tree’, the site of which is today occupied by Marble Arch.

  In the case of Mary Bateman, execution was scheduled for the Monday following the trial. It was usual for all those prisoners condemned at the previous Assizes to await the next scheduled day of execution and then be hanged in groups, irrespective of gender. In York, Monday was the designated day for murderers to be hanged, while the execution of other criminals was kept back for Saturdays as this allowed for the largest weekend crowds.

  Yet she still had one last trick up her sleeve. When the Clerk of the Arraigns asked ‘Mary Bateman, what have you to say, why immediate execution should not be awarded against you?’ Mary burst into floods of tears, and announced to the court that she was twenty-two weeks pregnant.

  Chapter 9

  ‘Quick’ with Child?

  Under English common law ‘pleading the belly’ permitted women in the later stages of pregnancy to be reprieved of their death sentences until after the delivery of the child. The plea did not constitute a defence and could only be made after a guilty verdict had been passed, and verification of the claimant’s condition was determined by what was termed as a ‘jury of matrons’, customarily drawn from the women observing the proceedings in the courtroom. If found to be ‘quick with child’ (that is, the movements of the foetus could be detected), a reprieve would be granted until after the birth of the child, after which the sentence of execution was reinstated and enacted on the date set for the next round of hangings.

  Some fortunate women awarded such a reprieve would even subsequently be granted pardons, or have their sentences commuted to transportation or imprisonment. In spite of the perceived increase in levels of crime, the late eighteenth century witnessed the development of non-capital punishments such as transportation and imprisonment as an alternative sentence for certain crimes. Needless to say, consequently the system was open to abuse. In Daniel Defoe’s novel Moll Flanders written in 1721, one character successfully pleads her belly despite being ‘no more with child than the judge that tried [her]’. And the practice of selecting a jury of matrons from the courtroom observers opened up the opportunity for planting sympathetic accomplices in the public gallery, causing one eighteenth century commentator to complain that female felons would have ‘Matrons of [their] own Profession ready at hand, who, right or wrong, bring their wicked Companions quick with Child to the great Impediment of Justice.’

  While of course such examinations could not have detected the condition of those who had only recently conceived, in theory, the very early stages of pregnancy, prior to the foetus ‘quickening’, did not qualify for a stay of execution. There had been an earlier example of this in the execution of Christian Murphy on 18 March 1789 at Newgate for counterfeiting silver coins. Though she had ‘pleaded her belly’, the matrons who examined her concluded that she was ‘... not quick with child, but it was their opinion that she was with child, and has been so a short time’. Her execution went ahead nevertheless, and Christian Murphy was the last woman in England to be strangled and burned at the stake, the crime of ‘coining’ classed as petty treason.

  In an attempt to limit the abuse of the system further, the law decreed that no woman could be granted a second reprieve on an original sentence passed if she were later found to be with child, even if they were actually pregnant. While the gaoler or local sheriff in charge of any female prisoner falling pregnant while held in their custody was subject to a fine, this threat did not always present an effective deterrent however, as the case of Mary Burgan shows. Originally convicted in 1705 of killing her first baby, for which she would ordinarily have been hanged, while awaiting trial at York, Burgan became pregnant again, in all probability by the Turnkey, Thomas Ward. Mary was allowed to live in the prison with her son Thomas, who grew up in York Castle Gaol, supported by payments made by the Three Ridings until 1718 when he was put out to apprenticeship at the age of 12. Mary had been listed as a reprieve in the Calendar of Felons for York Castle 1707, and her sentence subsequently commuted to that of transportation, but it appears that she was eventually released under a general pardon issued by Queen Anne in 1710, the power of pardon being a royal prerogative of mercy in the gift of the monarch of the United Kingdom and most frequently cited in cases where the death penalty had been given. As for Turnkey Ward, clearly not all the criminals were behind bars! Responsible for the daily running of the gaol, Ward exploited his position, charging a fee for showing visitors round the cells. He was a bully and an extortionist and forced prisoners to buy food and drink from him at inflated prices. Matters came to a head in 1709 when prisoners signed a petition against his ‘inhumane and unchristian’ behaviour. Nevertheless, in 1718 Ward became the Governor of York Castle Gaol.

  Other women who claimed to be enceinte – with child – were also fortunate enough to escape the noose, though punishment for their crimes was not entirely negated. Both Elizabeth Cahill and Naomi Hollings were transported for a sentence of fourteen years apiece after both had given birth in York Castle Gaol.

  Elizabeth Cahill had indulged in a spot of pick pocketing in Leeds Market on New Year’s Eve 1728. After languishing in gaol for some time, she was reprieved on successfully pleading her belly and her daughter, Ann, was baptised in York Castle on 15 May 1733. Elizabeth’s sentence was revised and she was sentenced to transportation, enacted in the summer of 1735.

  Naomi Hollings had been sentenced to death at the Lent Assizes of 1739 for the theft of money and goods after breaking and entering a private dwelling house. Again she was reprieved on successfully pleading her belly, and on 13 June 1739 her son was christened ‘Castellus’ in York Castle, an apt name given the child’s place of birth. Her sentence was also reinstated after the birth, though again commuted to that of transportation the following summer of 1740.

  Not every convicted female felon fared so well however. Despite legitimately pleading her belly, Elizabeth Webster had her sentence reinstated for the poisoning of her husband and was ultimately executed on 5 March 1744 some five months after the baptism of her son in York Castle Gaol. There is no record as to what became of the orphaned William Webster, but a prison birth in the eighteenth century was in all probability not the most auspicious of beginnings for a child. Some were lucky enough to receive support for their upkeep from the Three Ridings until old enough to be put out to an apprenticeship, usually around 12 years of age, as was the case with Turnkey Ward’s progeny.

  What was the outcome in Mary’s case? To verify her plea, Judge Le Blanc ordered the sheriff to empanel a jury of matrons from the courtroom, twelve married women who would be asked to ascertain whether or not Mary was indeed pregnant. This order ‘created a general consternation among the ladies, who hastened to quit the court, to prevent the execution of so painful an office being imposed upon them’, but, anticipating this reaction, the judge ordered the doors of the courtroom be locked, lest the jury of empanelled matrons try to escape their duty. In about half-an-hour, twelve married women had been sworn in and charged to inquire ‘whether the prisoner was quick with child?’ Mary was escorted to another room where, after intimate examination, the twelve women eventually pronounced that her claim was unfounded. Even if Mary’s plea had been verified, it is unlikely that in view of the high profile of her case she would have been granted any reprieve other than that of delaying the inevitable. Mary was remanded back to prison. Pregnant or not, the records of Mary’s last days in prison confirm that she was allowed to have her youngest child with her in the condemned cell until her removal for execution.

  At the time it was common practice for a woman’s children to accompany their mother to prison, especially in the case of infants classed as car
e-dependent of a nursing mother. Such children often remained in the cell with their mothers until they were executed, clinging on for dear life as their parent was led away to the gallows. While the sex of the child that shared Mary’s cell is not stipulated, in all likelihood it was her son James Bateman who was incarcerated along with his mother, the parish records of St Peter’s, Leeds showing his date of baptism as 19 July 1807. After her trial, it was noted that as soon as Mary was returned to her cell she ‘took her infant child and gave it breast’, a circumstance which ‘considerably affected the gaoler who attended her on this melancholy occasion’.

  Over the course of the intervening weekend, between her receiving sentence of death and her appointed execution, the Ordinary, or prison chaplain, the Reverend George Brown, was at great pains to prevail on Mary that she acknowledge and confess to her crimes before her date with the gallows. Had it been forthcoming, as well as assuaging the threat to her mortal soul, Mary’s confession would have provided legitimacy to the court’s decision, and justification for her hanging, as well as material for sensationalised public consumption, as such confessions were often published and devoured by a populace hungry for the sorrowful repentances of those who had formerly pleaded their innocence. Exemplified by the popularity of ‘broadsheets’, these confessions were published as public accounts, and in turn proved a significant contribution to bolstering the legitimacy of the justice system. Mary’s refusal to make any admission of her guilt was the exception rather than the rule however, as the majority of convicted murderers, regardless of gender, played their role in the propagation of ‘public justice’ by admitting to the horror of their crimes after condemnation, ‘acquiescing to the justness of their fates’. Nevertheless, Mary held fast. At the Reverend Brown’s mention of the deaths of the Quaker Kitchin sisters and their mother back in September 1803, Mary said she would not be pressed on the subject as at the time she had been ‘confined in childbirth’. Using the baptismal records of St Peter’s Church from 1804, Mary can only have been in the very early stages of pregnancy, if, indeed, she was pregnant at the time at all.

  In spite of her circumstances, observers noted that Mary continued to behave in a decorous manner; she joined in with the ‘customary offices of devotion’ but she showed no sign of remorse or repentance, and ‘maintained her caution and mystery to the last’.

  On Sunday, the day before her execution, Mary wrote a letter to her husband, who had not visited his wife since the guilty verdict had been pronounced. With this letter, she enclosed her wedding ring and asked him to give it to their daughter. While she lamented the disgrace she had brought upon John and the family, and admitted to being guilty of some frauds [my italics], she nevertheless maintained her innocence and continued to deny her involvement in Rebecca Perigo’s death. Mary also wrote in the letter that she had made her peace with God. As this was Mary’s last letter, and the only one in her own words, the transcription in full, as it appeared in Rede’s York Castle in the Nineteenth Century is perhaps warranted:

  ‘My Dear Husband,

  I do send you herewith my ring, that as I had of you when I was mor[e] happy, and had not disgraced you. You must give it to my dear girl, who will keep it for ever in remembrance of her poor unhappy mother. Though you are disgraced by me, I trust in Christ you will forgive me, as I am sorry and hope to be forgiven. I am innocent of murder - I did get the money at many times, but that was all. I did never destroy that woman, for whom I am to suffer - I am innocent of that, though I did many things else for which I am much aggrieved. I have made my peace with my God, and am easy in mind. The worst is when I will part with my blessed baby - God bless you; forgive your poor wife who is only in affliction for you. To-morrow will end all here, and the Lord will care for me hereafter.

  Your loving and sorrowful wife,

  MARY BATEMAN.’

  Yet in spite of her outward show of contrition, it was later reported by the Leeds Intelligencer newspaper that Mary continued her criminal habits, even from the condemned cell, telling the fortune of one of her female attendants for the price of a guinea, and incredibly, even during her final few hours, Mary found time to commit one last fraud – perhaps resigned to her fate, she thought she had nothing to lose. With her usual cunning, she convinced a fellow prisoner that if she could somehow get hold of a specified sum of money, by allowing Mary to stitch the coins into her stays (the contemporary term for a corset) this ‘charm’ would somehow bring her sweetheart to visit her in prison. But when the lover’s promised visit failed to materialise, the girl tore open her bodice and discovered that the coins had mysteriously vanished. Mary protested her innocence to the accusation of this theft with the same conviction she had applied to her denial of her having any part in the death of Rebecca Perigo.

  The Reverend Brown again visited Mary on Sunday evening, but in spite of his exhortations to confess to her sins on the eve of her execution, Mary resolutely maintained her denial of the crime for which she was to be hanged the following morning.

  At 5am on Monday 20 March, Mary was woken and removed from her cell to attend communion service in the prison chapel, and while this afforded her a further opportunity to unburden herself with a confession, no admissions were forthcoming. Mary kissed her youngest child, still asleep on the bed in the condemned cell, for the last time before being led away to the gallows, the preparations of which must have been clearly audible. The scaffold was almost certainly permanently erected, but the ropes had to be tried and tested and this was not a silent operation. It must have been an eerie experience for those shortly to die as they heard the crash of the drop and the creak of the rope.

  Mary was to be hanged on York’s New Drop, the executions formerly carried out on the Knavesmire upon the ‘York Tyburn’, or ‘Three Legged Mare’ as it was known, having ceased in 1801. The former gallows, which overlooked the racecourse, had been a cleverly designed tripod arrangement that in name and structure echoed its London counterpart, the Tyburn Tree, a triple gallows configuration allowing multiple hangings on the same day.

  Although the public spectacle of execution was supposed to act as a deterrent to the populace, making them afraid and fearful of falling victim to the same fate, this was not always the case, and amongst those laughing and joking about the awful sight they were about to witness there would inevitably be pickpockets and robbers exploiting the opportunity to work the crowd, literally in the shadow of the gallows. To quote Dr Johnson’s opinion of public execution: ‘If they do not draw spectators, they do not answer their purpose’; but he had clearly missed the point.

  Public hangings often took on a mass entertainment quality, perhaps akin to an open-air concert atmosphere today. Human nature being what it is, these events turned out to be a perversely enjoyable distraction from the routine grind of everyday life. With food and drink on sale, and souvenirs being hawked, crowds including families with young children would bring along a picnic and make a day of it, and despite the obvious taste and enthusiasm for the spectacle of a public execution, the ultimate decision to move the proceedings to York Castle Gaol was heavily influenced by the objectionable initial impression of the City given by the Knavesmire gallows, located as they were next to one of the main highways into York. On execution days, the sight of the gallows were also a cause of major road congestion, a parallel perhaps to the traffic jams resulting from the ghoulish curiosity at the site of an accident today, the gathering crowd impeding traffic flow. In an article printed on 25 July 1800, the York Herald explained:

  ‘Thus will be removed from one of the principal roads leading to the city that disagreeable nuisance, the gallows; and thus will the inhabitants and passengers be no longer interrupted, and their humanity hurt, by the leading of unfortunate people to the place of execution.’

  As a consequence, in order that the ‘entrance to the town should no longer be annoyed by dragging criminals through the streets’ at a civic meeting it was decided that investment in a new gallows should be made,
the cost of which totalled £10 15 shillings. The New Drop, as it became known, constructed by Joseph Halfpenny, joiner of Blake Street in the city, was set up at the back of the Castle in an area bounded by the Castle Mills Bridge and the river Ouse, roughly where the roundabout by St George’s car park is today. Looking toward York Castle Museum, still discernable in the wall to the right is a small doorway through which the condemned prisoners were led, a far shorter and less disruptive route than the one formerly taken in an open cart, the condemned sitting on their coffin and already wearing their shroud, jolted on out through Micklegate Bar towards the Knavesmire for their execution. Though sensibility had won the day, the first execution on the New Drop having taken place in 1802, the Knavesmire gallows stood, albeit unused, for a further ten years before being finally dismantled in 1812.