On the Head of a Pin

by Janet Kellough

  Even though the sun was barely above the horizon in the morning sky, there was already a crowd gathered around the jail. Hangings were popular affairs, and like most, this one would be held in the open air to afford onlookers an excellent view. The yard had already been staked out, blankets were spread, and chairs had been brought in. Whole families had been hunkered down in these spots since the previous evening, and small children ran back and forth while their parents anchored the seats. It was a field day for merchants of all descriptions — food and beverage were being hawked, mementos of the occasion had been hastily manufactured and were offered for sale, small bibles and books were in great demand. Lewis thought wryly of the Caddicks’ pins. It was a shame they were no longer making them. They would have done a brisk business on a day such as this.

  He left his horse with Spicer and shouldered his way through the crowd. Three constables were stationed at the door to the jail, turning away those attempting to get inside. Some had good reason to demand admittance — there were several newspapers represented — but most were simply the morbidly curious or the seekers of notoriety who wanted to claim a special connection with the hanged man that they could parlay into a fleeting fame or, far more likely, a few drinks at the tavern.

  One of the constables recognized Lewis. “Are you here to offer comfort, Preacher?” he asked.

  Lewis nodded. There was no reason to add that the comfort would be his own, not Simms’s. The constable opened the door and let him slip through, to the roaring disapproval of the mob gathered outside.

  Simms seemed to be himself, the affable peddler, again, and quite aware of what was about to happen. It was hard to believe that this calm, pleasant-looking man was a convicted murderer. He looked up as Lewis entered.

  “Lewis. Good of you to come. Thank you.”

  “Are you prepared for this, Isaac?”

  “Yes. There’s been a minister — Anglican, of course — and I’ve received as much comfort as I can expect to get from that quarter. To tell the truth, I just want it over with. All of it. I want it ended.”

  “This is only the first of the accountings you’ll have to make, I’m afraid.”

  Simms nodded. “I know. I’ll speak before they hoist me. That’s a good first step, I think.” He turned away and faced the light from the small window set high in the wall of the cell. “There were five of them, you know, all told. I’m only being hanged for the one, but I feel I should confess to the others. It may bring some small comfort to the families.”

  “It will. For one of them was my daughter.”

  Simms spun around. “Your daughter?!” He closed his eyes, and began to shake again, just slightly. “Oh, my God, I should have known. I wondered why you were so determined, why you seemed to dog me. Everyone else was content to count them natural deaths, or brush them aside, but you wouldn’t let go. But for you, I’d have gone on killing forever. Why did you take so long to stop me?”

  In spite of the shaking, his voice had become flat and toneless, a fact that Lewis found more chilling than if he had wept or shouted as he had on previous occasions. “I didn’t mark them out deliberately, you know. They just happened to be there. Which one was your daughter?”

  “The first, I believe. On the eve of the rebellion.”

  Simms nodded. “Everywhere I went that night there were men on the move, with weapons in their hands, moving like ghosts through the woods and down the back roads. Mackenzie had called down the smell of blood, and men were answering to it. I tried to run from it, go in the opposite direction, get away from it — yet they kept passing me, marching by on the way to their doom. I ran as far as I could. Then I saw her — Esther. She was standing in front of a cabin by a dooryard well, her chestnut hair spilling down her back. It took my breath away; I thought my heart had stopped, for I never expected to see her there. And I saw my chance. A chance to end it. I knew that death would soak the ground that night, and who would notice but one more?”

  “No, not Esther. Sarah.”

  But Simms had ceased to hear him.

  “And the next thing I knew,” he went on, “she was dead beneath my hands. I don’t recollect leaving the little Book of Proverbs, but I must have, for my stock was short by one the next day. I know I did something with the pin, for it seemed as though she needed a prayer to go with her.

  Lewis grabbed one of the iron bars of the cell to steady himself, for surely he would swoon to the floor if he didn’t. He wanted to scream for Simms to stop talking, stop telling him what had happened to Sarah. But he couldn’t, for he needed to know.

  “And then I noticed the child.”

  His mind reeled with the words — Martha! He had forgotten that Martha was there that night. How could he have forgotten little Martha lying there in her cradle while a madman leered above her?

  “I didn’t know where she had come from. I thought she was Esther’s, and mine as well — living proof of our sin. I didn’t know what I should do next. I stood there and looked at her for the longest time. She had chestnut hair, like her mother. And just for a moment I thought it might be kinder to let her go, too — to stop her before she grew old enough to stand testament to our wickedness. I almost did it, Lewis, I almost took the babe as well.”

  The words were cracked and dusty when they finally came out. “What stopped you?”

  “She began to cry. Only it wasn’t a cry, it was a terrible wail, and it filled the cabin. It filled my ears, it filled my mind, and the child wouldn’t stop. I even shook her a few times, but that only made her cry the harder. And then I began to hear what she was wailing, and it was accusation, she was telling the world that I was a murderer and a sinner. And then my brain was full of that: ‘Murder, sin, murder, sin,’ over and over again until I could stand it no more. And so I turned and ran, just to get away from those words.”

  Martha, who made more noise than all the boys put together, and thank the Lord for it, Lewis thought, for it had saved her life. His chest pained him from the idea of it. How close she had been.

  “I rode hard to get away from those cries,” Simms said. “I rode far. And then, when I could no longer hear them, when they could no longer rail against me, I began to feel better.” He looked at Lewis squarely for the first time. “In fact, I began to feel fine, better than I had in many months. I had taken steps to end my wickedness, and I could look forward to leaving my sin behind. I didn’t know then that more would be necessary, that the blood call would come again, and again I would be compelled to answer it. Then, after a time, it got so that I didn’t need to hear the call. I didn’t need the scent of death to spur me on. I had only to ride into a clearing or up to a cabin and there would be Esther — ‘a proud look, a lying tongue, a heart that deviseth wicked imaginations.’ And again I would slay her. I killed time and time again and still she would rise up from hell reborn and I would be compelled to send her back. You can see why I was forced to do it, can’t you, Lewis? ‘For can a man take fire in his bosom and his clothes not be burned?’”

  Lewis had to shake his head to clear his thoughts, for Simms’s voice was mesmerizing in its monotony. When he spoke, it was harshly, as a weapon against the strange seduction of the peddler’s account. “All this because you couldn’t leave your sister alone.”

  Simms face twisted in disgust. “It was she who wouldn’t leave me, Lewis. If she had been other than what she is, none of this would have happened.”

  “No,” Lewis said. “I’m sorry, that is not reason enough, Isaac. There were two of you in this. It would only have taken one to stop it.”

  “You just don’t understand, do you?” Simms’s words came out in an angry hiss. “You still don’t see what she is. How she used me. How she would torment me. I had no control over it. I couldn’t stop her.”

  “Because you didn’t want to.”

  Surprisingly, Lewis suddenly felt a crushing pity for the man — about to answer to his Maker and still unable to admit accountability for his sin.

 
; “You were so stupid.” Simms said with contempt. “You should have known it was me. Who else would want to murder her so many times? I’d watch you afterward, to see if you knew, and sometimes I thought you did, but still it took you so long to fit all the pieces together, didn’t it? You could have stopped me if you’d been quicker. You could have, but you wouldn’t.”

  And then, suddenly, suspicion crossed his face. He looked at Lewis narrowly. “Were you in it together, you and Esther? Did you conspire with her? Did you want her, too? She used you, too, didn’t she? She’d make me kill her and then you’d raise her from the dead so I’d have to kill again.”

  “Yes, I was stupid,” Lewis said. “And yes, it took me far too long to find you. But, believe me, if I had known sooner, I’d have stopped you. I’d have stopped you whatever way I could. As much as your first sin is great, your second is the greater because it carries no real remorse. You’d do well to think on that, Isaac, in the little time you have left.”

  “Go. Leave me. Take your infernal sanctimony and get out.” Simms turned again to the window.

  “There’s something very important I need to say before they come and take you,” Lewis said. “I’m not leaving until I say it. Listen to me. Look at me.” He drew on every ounce of authority he had within him to command the man to turn around. “Look at me!”

  Simms looked around, his face stony.

  “I forgive you, Isaac. Not for the sake of your soul, but for mine.”

  VI

  He had not thought it possible to cram more people into the yard around the scaffold, but it seemed to Lewis that there were hundreds more than there had been when he went into the jail. The platform was surprisingly low, for they had not built a drop. There would be no sudden plunge as the trapdoor opened — no instant, merciful breaking of the neck — just a slow steady hauling on the rope until the feet were off the floor, and an agonizing, interminable strangulation.

  The crowd was growing impatient waiting for their entertainment to begin. They had not long to wait, for Lewis had only just pushed his way toward the front of the crowd when the sheriff appeared, drawing raucous cries and hoots of approval. As befitted such a solemn occasion, he was dressed in formal clothing and carried a sword. A minister followed, presumably, Lewis thought, one from the Church of England, as would be appropriate for Simms, having been raised in that church. Then came the hangman dressed in convict clothing, a mask over his face to protect his identity. He needn’t have bothered with this disguise. Everyone seemed to know who he was and several called out his name in greeting. The man checked the knot on the noose, and two constables escorted Simms to the platform, his arms tied behind his back, his head hanging, his face in shadow. The shouting from the crowd grew frenzied as he was marched over to stand beneath the rope.

  The sheriff read the charges against him and noted that he had been found guilty and duly condemned to die “with no order of reprieve having been received by this office.” He turned to Simms. “Have you anything to say?”

  “Yes,” Simms replied, and the roar from the crowd was deafening. This was what they had hoped for: words from the prisoner confessing his guilt, protesting his innocence, explaining his actions. This was why they had massed in the yard — to take note of the murderer’s last words — then to watch him die.

  Lewis pushed forward another step and caught Simms’s eye. Isaac the peddler was there. He had returned to being the congenial companion of the trail, the traveller who heard everything, the man who was always welcomed for the news he brought and the goods he carried. It was not to the minister provided by the authorities that Simms looked now, but to Lewis, the entire time he spoke.

  He cleared his throat a little. “I am ready to go to God,” he said, “although I am not sure that God wants me. I confess freely and fully to the crime for which I am about to be hanged.”

  A cheer from the crowd.

  “I confess freely to my other crimes as well, and they have been many.”

  There was a sudden hush. This was more than anyone had expected, and Lewis could hear the murmurs behind him.

  “Not only did I commit the murder for which I stood trial, and for which I will die today, but I also killed four other times, purely for my own gratification.”

  There were screams now, and Lewis was aware that people were shoving at his back, trying to get closer so as to hear every heinous word. He stood his ground and held Simms’s eyes.

  “I committed these other murders in other places, and was never found out nor brought to trial for them. I am truly sorry, and I can only hope that I will be forgiven for it.”

  He choked a little as he said this, but he held Lewis’s gaze.

  “I die on account of one sin, but I am punished for them all. Oh, Father, be with me now and forevermore …”

  At this, his words became indistinct, and the hangman moved forward to cover his face and place the noose around his neck. He tied Simms’s legs together and checked the bonds that held his hands. Suddenly, the yard was silent, as if the crowd was collectively holding their breath in anticipation. The rope wound its way through a pulley at the top of the scaffold and there was a faint rasping sound as the wheel turned. Simms’s feet began to rise, kicking and bucking as his body fought against the constricting pull.

  The crowd cheered and Lewis watched only long enough to make sure that the hangman had done his job well. He had; the noose held and Simms struggled for only a few minutes before his body became still and hung limp from the rope. It was done.

  It took Lewis a long time to make his way out of the yard. Several of the women had fainted, and the knots of people around their fallen bodies obstructed the flow of traffic. No one seemed to be in any hurry to leave. They were prepared to make a day of it, and now baskets were being opened and cloths unfolded for picnic lunches. He finally made the gate and collected his horse, happy to leave the throng to their grisly holiday.

  Spicer had not been able to get any closer than the gate, but had seen enough to make him sober and thoughtful as they rode along, neither speaking of what they had just witnessed. They had scheduled appointments that Lewis knew they should hasten to meet, but he felt a sudden reluctance to carry on, to spend the rest of the day with the petty and picayune transgressions that would be trotted out for him to exclaim over and chastise. At this moment they hardly seemed worth the effort.

  What he wanted more than anything was to sit with Betsy for a time. He didn’t want to talk about the day’s events, or about Simms, although he knew that at some point he would share with her what he had learned about Sarah’s death. He wanted only a cup of tea and the comfort of his wife — to hear her sensible comments on everyday affairs. To hear Minta’s tinkling laugh and the steady beat of Seth’s hard-working hammer. To sit with his feet on a stool and watch Martha and Henry play in the yard.

  He reined in his horse and turned to Spicer. “Why don’t you go ahead and take those meetings?” he said. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  Spicer’s face lit up. “All by myself? Really?”

  “Really. I think I’ll call it a day.”

  And with that he turned his horse toward home.

  acknowledgements

  Although this is a work of fiction, the roots of the story lie in historical fact, and I am greatly indebted to Reverend Thaddeus Lewis, who recounted, albeit briefly, the tale of the girl in Demorestville in his autobiography published in 1865. As well, I borrowed several other incidents from the colourful life of this faithful Methodist circuit rider. But the sentiments and philosophies expressed in the book belong, of course, to the fictional Thaddeus Lewis and not to the historical figure.

  A number of sources were invaluable in providing background to the story, most particularly: Petticoats in the Pulpit: The Story of Early Nineteenth Century Methodist Women Preachers in Upper Canada by Elizabeth Gilliam Muir (United Church Publishing House, 1991) for insight into the lot of women preachers and their subsequent demise; My Neighb
our’s Keeper by David R. Taylor (1994), which described early law enforcement in Upper Canada; the excerpts provided to me in 1992 from Reverend K.J. Crawford’s monumental work on the history of Methodism in Canada; The Firebrand: William Lyon Mackenzie and the Rebellion in Upper Canada by William Kilbourn (reprinted in a new edition by Dundurn Press, 2008); and the incredible array of publications, websites, pamphlets, and history books produced by both small volunteer historical societies and individual history buffs across eastern Ontario.

  On a personal level, I would like to express my gratitude to Evelyn Beaumont, direct descendant of the real-life Thaddeus Lewis, who supported the use of both his book and his name in a fictionalized fashion; the Quinte Branch of the Ontario Genealogical Society for their enthusiastic encouragement; readers of my other works who have continued nagging me for another book; J.D. Carpenter for his generous sharing of the secret handshake; Beth Bruder at Dundurn for championing the manuscript and Allison Hirst for editing it; and, as always, my husband, Rob, who steadfastly supports the obsession.

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