by Andy Gavin
But the facts didn’t sound so good.
“You must needs take him if we’re to hang,” Yvaine says. “You be his father, you has to.”
Ben nods. He looks as nervous as I feel.
Chapter Thirty-Six:
Condemned
London, Spring, 1725
THE SENTENCING IS EVEN SHORTER THAN THE TRIAL, but just as crowded.
We’re “condemned to hang until dead” on a Monday over a month from now.
I try to shrug it off. The prison is bad, but in eight days its walls won’t matter. We’ll be gone.
Then two men enter the room.
One of them is Rapier. His blue suit is ratty, dirt clings to his mask, and one arm hangs limp and useless at the shoulder, the other at the elbow.
“Who’s that with him?” I whisper to Yvaine.
“Jonathan Wild, the Thief-taker General.”
The other man is short and ugly, but his coat and wig are fine and primped.
Rapier leans close to him, and Wild approaches the judge. They speak for a minute.
“On further consideration of the particulars,” the judge announces, “this execution shall take place one week hence.”
The slam of his gavel feels as final as it sounds. The noise is still ringing in my ears when I look up to find Rapier standing toe-to-toe with me. I stumble backward, but he edges after me until I’m trapped by a wooden wall and the turnkey’s grip.
“No fraternizin’ with prisoners,” one of our guards says.
Rapier doesn’t care. His hands might not be working but he uses his functional upper arm to open my jacket, then dips his face to my chest.
He’s going to gum me to death? The guards have me good and pinned. I wait for the burning pain — but he steps back, the Regulator’s page in his jaws.
“Sir,” a bailiff says, “I must ask you to remove yourself.”
The Rapier doesn’t move, just stares at the sword shoved through my belt.
The bailiff grasps his limp arm and leads him away.
I’m still recovering, catching my breath as the turnkeys force us, along with several other condemned, to hold out our hands while a guard binds our thumbs together with a thin metal cord.
He winds it so tight it cuts deep into the skin.
They don’t take us back to the regular ward but instead throw us into the Condemned Hold, a single room of stone with a slit of a window too high up for any prisoner to see through. Wooden bench-like shelves serve as beds and seats, with most of the half-dozen or so inmates perched or reclining on them.
The Deputy Keeper, who introduces himself as Mr. Rouse, cuts the cords around our thumbs as he shoves us inside. In the hour or so since our sentence, the pain’s retreated to a dull ache, and the color of the affected digits has faded to white. Their release reveals thin red slices where the cords cut in, so deep I half expect to see bone.
And the real kicker is when the blood returns.
“Do you think Ben will come?” Yvaine asks after the pain becomes manageable.
I’m slouched at the end of one of the bench-beds. Yvaine’s stretched out along the full length, her head in my lap.
“He’d better,” I say. “I saw him before the Tick-Tock showed up, so I know he heard our sentence. At least he’s alive, and if he takes Billy their futures should be more or less on track.”
It’s our own lives that are royally screwed.
“I hopes your mum remembers you again.” Her eyes gleam. “And likes me better than your da.”
“We’ll just have to escape and find out,” I say.
But I seem to have lost my natural optimism. Maybe it’s this hellhole we’re in, maybe it’s the pain in my battered body, maybe it’s Rapier’s worming his way back here so easily. My English teacher, Mrs. Pinkle, had a word for what I’m feeling. She taught it to us when we read Hamlet last fall: melancholy.
Just because we’re on death row doesn’t mean we’re isolated. If anything, the whole setup is more convenient but less private than the felony ward. Our cell is separated from a public room called the Lodge, which serves as a kind of prison guard social club where food and drink are for sale. Which, if we had any money, would be great.
As it is, I’m lightheaded with hunger and so thirsty the chamberpot might start to look appealing.
“Can I borrow some coin?” I ask one of the turnkeys as he passes.
“Let me guess.” He grins. “You’ll pay me back in two weeks.”
“You don’t want us to starve before you can kill us, do you?”
“Tell you what,” he says, “Give you two shillings for your jacket.”
One of the other prisoners told me the turnkeys sell souvenirs off the condemned.
“Ten,” I say, “but you loan me yours until I don’t need it anymore.”
“I’ll lose me job, but I can offer you a guinea for the girl’s knickers,” he says. “Today.”
“And your uniform?”
He shakes his head. Not that I’d sell Yvaine’s clothes, but it was worth seeing if I could talk the jacket off him.
“Set us free,” I say, “and you can have everything we own.”
That earns a laugh. “I likes you. A silver crown, and I’ll rent you back your jacket till your final mornin’.”
I accept. At least we have money to eat and drink.
The ringing sound of a turnkey’s club on the bars wakes us from a fitful nap.
“Printhouse pillagers!” he shouts, using the nickname the papers gave us. “You got visitors.”
The Lodge is open to the public for a couple pennies a head. This time it’s Carrot, and he’s brought Nancy and the baby.
“Billy!” Yvaine shrieks, reaching.
Nancy lets her hold him, although it’s awkward at arm’s length through bars. Billy doesn’t look any older than I remember, but it’s only been a couple days — for him.
“Carrot,” Yvaine says, “can you run and get Mr. Franklin? He can often be found at The Horns tavern, near the priory.”
“Me?” He leans close to whisper. “What if the other printers recognize me?”
“Send Nancy,” I say.
While we wait for her, Yvaine sings softly to Billy. I catch myself wondering what our kids might be like. But first we have to survive Monday!
If we do, and if our kids are travelers, I’m going to tell them all about it. As soon as they’re old enough to understand.
“Any luck with that uniform?” I ask Carrot.
“Couldn’t find none.” He presses a loaf of bread into my hands. “But take this.”
I fish inside to find coins and a heavy-duty steel file.
“Bless you.” But if there is a God, he sure as hell isn’t watching out for us.
“Jack Sheppard used one of those t’saw through right ’ere.” Carrot taps the bars. “But methinks they might’ve replaced ’em thicker now.”
There are no guards around, so I set to work in the corner filing away at the base of a bar. Trust me, ‘slow going’ doesn’t begin to cover it.
Nancy returns with Ben Franklin, who looks troubled.
“I spoke to the judge again. He told me flat out that Jonathan Wild would never allow a stay of execution.”
“Magistrate’s just some man with a purse heavy enough for his post,” Yvaine says.
Ben shakes his head. “Treating government positions as prerogatives is inherently corrupt.”
Yvaine says, “The real question be, are you going to do right by Billy and me?”
“I think I have it in me to be a better printer than a father, but I’m no shirk.”
“Thank you.” She pats his shoulder through the bars.
“If it’s all right with you,” he says, “I’ll take him back to Philadelphia. I lost my position here. There’s a postal frigate leaving tomorrow at dawn.”
“Family be more important than place,” Yvaine says.
Uh oh. In my original history, he was here for another year.
&n
bsp; “You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say.
His turn to shrug. “Mr. Palmer was fair enough. Someone has to take responsibility, other than the insurer.”
“You should start your own print shop in Philadelphia,” I say, hoping to help keep him on track.
“I plan to. Plenty of things to keep me busy.” His face lights up. “In fact, I couldn’t help noticing the discharge of sparks you caused that terrible night. There was something about it that made me think lightning might be electrical in nature.”
He isn’t supposed to begin his electrical researches for another twenty years. Looking at him, I imagine the gears spinning — not Tick-Tock gears but Ben Franklin super genius gears.
Yvaine pulls Billy’s head close enough to whisper in his ear, then holds him out.
“Your son, Mr. Franklin.”
Ben eyes the baby like he might bite, but he takes him.
“William, then,” he says.
Tears are trickling down Yvaine’s face.
“One more favor,” I say. “When you write your memoirs, put in a sentence about William’s mother. Say she was a good girl from Scotland, hanged at Tyburn. Give the date, too. The date’s real important.” Indirect manipulations, Dad said.
Now tears are squeezing out the corners of Ben’s eyes.
“I’ll also say she fought for her son to the end, showing her bold and generous character.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven:
Tyburn
London, Spring, 1725
IN THE MORNING, the turnkey who rented me my jacket claims his property and we’re taken to the yard. The weather outside is cool and gray. I feel the damp against my bare chest. A blacksmith strikes off what shackles remain on the four of us who stand condemned.
I feel a quiver deep inside my groin. In Philly, that started a day or so before I could travel.
“My cooldown is almost up,” I whisper to Yvaine.
Her eyes brighten. “Mine too. I’d say it be a close race, but Rapier always be one step ahead.”
“How could he—”
A turnkey cuffs me hard with his stick.
“Quiet. Under Sheriff Watson is here.”
An officious man demands a receipt for each of our bodies from the turnkeys. Damn creepy.
Next, we’re muscled through the gate and onto the street. Several constables on horseback lead four carts. All in all, it’s a pretty sorry parade.
Our perfectly rational escape plans fizzled — no uniforms to walk out in, not enough time before they hang me to file through the bars. But I’ve still got two crazy schemes. First, with Ben Franklin alive and on his way back to America, I’m hoping that when the timequake hits, Dad will reread the Autobiography. If he notices that date, Sophie should be all over the rescue plan. Failing that, we delay and hope our cooldowns reset. Yvaine’s right next to me — I’ll just step on her foot and off we go.
Turnkeys grab our arms and force us toward separate carts.
“Yvaine!” I scream.
“Watch out, Charlie!”
A sharp pain across my temple gets me about a thousand stars. These guards are really pissing me off.
They lift me onto the cart and loop the noose over my woozy head. But instead of cinching it about my neck, they pull it tight around my elbows and torso. A priest hops up next to me, so I’m squeezed between him and a turnkey.
“Call me Mr. Wagstaff.” His white pilgrim-style clerical collar flaps in the breeze.
I tell him my name. He nods as he forgets it.
When our procession rolls out the prison gate, I’m surprised to find the street packed like Philadelphia at Thanksgiving. The cheering crowd would make a rock star happy. Kids line the rooftops, bare legs dangling. Every window is jammed with faces, and the constables have to use whips to clear the path.
Two new wagons join our procession, each loaded with a pair of coffins. Perched on one of these is a heavyset man dressed in black, a black hood over his face.
“Normally I sit with Mr. Ketch,” Mr. Wagstaff says, nodding at the black blob. “But my stomach’s unsettled this morning. Can’t take his stench.”
“He’s the…” My mouth’s so dry it’s hard to talk.
“Mr. Jack Ketch, Esquire, King of Tyburn, the hangman,” Wagstaff says. “Not that his mum gave him that name, but it’s tradition to call them after a notorious predecessor who botched his duties.”
I don’t want to know how you botch an execution.
“Why’re you here, sir?” I ask.
Our cheery little column halts before a stone church.
“As pastor of St. Sepulchre,” Wagstaff says, “I offer solace to the damned. Take mass if you like.”
I’ve never been much for church — nothing against it or anything, but the only time I went it was, well, boring. I glance back at Yvaine on her own cart, her arms held tight by her noose, her teeth nibbling at her lips.
Today, a nice long service might be just what we need.
Yvaine is maybe twenty feet ahead as we step out of the church into bright sunshine. She twists around to look at me.
“Me cooldown be back—” The turnkey boxes her in the ear.
I lunge forward. My own power is still a couple hours off, but if I can just touch her, we’re out of here, leaving Mr. Jack Ketch, Esquire, at the altar.
I only get two steps before a blow to my shoulder knocks me to one knee. Two of the guards grab me by the arms.
“Turnkeys take such pleasure in their work,” Wagstaff says once I’m shoved back into my cart. “Let me buy you a drink instead.”
Sure enough, we pull up before a tavern and a screaming crowd. Pints of ale are passed around to guards, priest, and prisoners alike.
I’m required to clink mugs with my admirers. I look back at Yvaine and watch for any opening. We only need an instant’s proximity.
The first prisoner stands in his cart and raises a pair of tankards above his head.
“I’ll buy you all a round on me way back!” he yells.
The crowd on the street goes wild with cheers and toasts. Jack Ketch sits on his coffin throne. People press beers into his hands. He rolls his hood up over his mouth and chugs away.
Maybe if they get the hangman drunk enough he’ll pass out. Maybe—
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the too-sharp impression of someone near Ketch and the coffins. Someone out of phase with time. The surging crowd hides the traveler from view, but hope rises in me.
Only to be dashed when I spot Rapier’s crisp blue-coated form. He must’ve checked out the hangman, then stepped back to get a view. Noticing my gaze, he waves with his ‘good’ arm. His bicep lifts but his forearm and hand dangle.
Doesn’t matter. His being here makes my already slim chances of touching Yvaine even slimmer.
I’ve been afraid countless times since this whole adventure began, but I always thought that things would work out. I already lost my optimism, and now I feel like I’ve lost all hope. Without it, the fear I’m feeling is different, a growing certainty that man is not God, and that the course of history will drag us both to the gallows and hang us by the neck until dead.
Tyburn Fair is outfitted like an all-day summer concert. Where the stage should be, the gallows looms, three thick horizontal beams set atop heavy vertical posts like a grotesque wooden Stonehenge. On one side is a rock wall topped with shoulder-to-shoulder spectators. On the other side are enormous wooden bleachers filled to precarious capacity. The field between is packed with everyone from picnicking gentlemen wearing clean wigs and pressed jackets to gutter whores clutching dirty babies to their breasts.
The chance to touch Yvaine never comes. I’m wedged between turnkey and pastor, and two extra guards cling to the cart. Not to mention the press of people worming, jeering, and reaching between us.
Rapier seems content to let justice take its course. He remains at a distance as our parade halts near the gallows. One prisoner is in the cart in front of me, Yvaine is behind mine,
the last behind hers. The first cart is wheeled under the beams and the loose end of the condemned man’s rope tossed over. So drunk he can barely stand, the hangman takes several minutes to get the knot tied around the poor man’s neck. He jumps from the cart, stumbles to his knees, but the crowd lifts him to his feet. He ties the rope tight to a gallows post.
Mr. Wagstaff stands near the cart, Jack Ketch staggers toward the horses. We wait as the roar of the crowd settles and the sea of humanity falls silent.
The prisoner reaches up to tug the handkerchief down, half covering his face. Jack Ketch slaps the lead horse on its rump, and the cart rolls out from underneath the doomed man.
The roaring cheers return a hundredfold. I watch in horror, expecting a Hollywood Western drop and snap. But the prisoner doesn’t really fall. He kicks and thrashes within a small ring of constables that hold back the crowd, his hands clawing at his neck, his feet reaching for a foothold that isn’t there.
The volume of shouting dies down, but he keeps on kicking and squirming. His efforts work the handkerchief free to reveal a purple face contorted with terror.
This macabre dance continues for what seems like hours. I glance back at Yvaine. Her eyes are wide open and her face drained of color. The afternoon can’t be warmer than sixty, but her hair is plastered against shiny skin.
Back on the scaffold, the kicks grow feebler until, with a last spasm, they stop. Jack Ketch steps forward and whacks the body with a long stick, inducing a further series of convulsions. When these stop, he strikes again. The corpse doesn’t twitch this time, just spins around like a gruesome piñata.
The hangman cuts the rope and the body drops. The crowd cheers and breaks through the constables to hoist the dead man aloft. His lifeless form is lifted on their hands, passed from person to person like a singer crowd-surfing the mosh pit.
My cart pulls up beneath the gallows. I’ve never been so scared in my life. I can’t even count the number of times I nearly died lately, but this is the first one where I’ve seen a live action demo of my fate.