Kill All Kill All

by Craig McNish

  “You're saying that you believe me, what I said to the coroner?”

  “Maybe not every last word, but I think any man would be hard pushed to kill three so young unless his hand were forced.”

  Mills could fathom no reason why the gaoler might be inclined to say this if he didn't believe it to be true. He stood to gain nothing from the death and had never been so unkind as to torment a man in his final moments of life. The words were considered, spoken with a careful tongue and thoughtful mind. But as much as he might wish to live, Mills knew it would be unfair in the extreme to plead with the gaoler for his life; the man was right when he had said there was nothing at all he could do to prevent the execution from going ahead.

  “Let me tell you something I heard” the gaoler carried on. “It has been said that a crow can remember the face of its enemies – did you know that?”

  “I think whoever told you that must have been in drink when they did so...”

  “Not at all. Swears it to be the truth. So you think about this; you know what happens to them who find themselves at the wrong end of the hangman's noose, right?”

  “Quite probably left to rot and be pecked at by the crows, and maybe hanged in chains, even.”

  “So if them crows see you as a fancy feast, and you really do have the Devil inside you guiding your hand, then might they not just end up with the Devil inside them, too? And might that Devil not just think 'all them folks who watched me die have my blood on their hands'? Eh? And that could make them crows just a bit on the nasty side, don't you think? And they can also get other crows to help them fight back against those enemies. So it might just be that you can avenge yourself from

  death after all.” Mills looked at the gaoler, not knowing what to make of his words.

  “If your plan was to make me feel somewhat happier about going to the gallows then you have succeeded” he said, a smile on his lips. “You should be congratulated on managing to hold your sense of humour when you work in such a miserable place as this.”

  “Every word I spoke is true, lad – you shouldn't be so quick to pay no regard to that you can't prove.”

  “Wise words indeed. Pity I have not the time to find out one way or the other.” The gaoler sighed, and nodded with some sadness.

  “I suppose it is. We should be going...” The two men climbed to their feet; Mills offered no resistance when the irons were clamped around his wrists and ankles. He'd forgotten just how much they weighed, so long it had been since he had worn them last.

  The hour of reckoning was at hand.

  *

  There was to be a short stop before Mills had to leave the jail, and he cared nothing for it. Were it up to him, he would request they keep going and get him to the gallows as soon as possible, but this was the final stopping place of every convicted man before they would hang. A door was opened into a small room; it was lit by three oil lamps for there was no window. In the middle of the room was a small table, with a stool at one of its sides and a more comfortable chair opposite. That chair was already taken by a man who Mills vaguely knew. Anthony Agustine, a Priest who had his church in Spennymoor but would sometimes travel into Ferryhill, motioned for Mills to sit.

  “I am here to give you the sacrament and offer you a chance at redemption” said the holy man. “If you were to atone for your sins and die with a clear conscience, then God may forgive you.”

  “And if I want none of those things?” Agustine looked surprised by the question, or even shocked.

  “What man wouldn't want his soul to be saved before going into the afterlife?”

  “If there was an afterlife, and it was created by your God, then why would he wait until death is upon me before wanting to save my soul? Why not many years ago?”

  “Because He cannot be there for every man, woman and child every minute, but He does come to them in their time of need.”

  “And it is He who decides that my time of need is to be moments before I am led to the gallows? He did not feel me worthy of His help when I suffered the cruel taunts of strangers for many a year before now? And why would that be?”

  “Because he wants us to prove ourselves to Him by overcoming these difficult times to show that we are worthy of his love” said Agustine, but Mills still wasn't convinced.

  “And what of the ones who deliver these blows? He spares them and says they are without sin?”

  “If they have sinned then they will be called into question when their time is at hand.”

  “You do realise that many of the people whom I speak of attend worship each Sunday, do you not? So are they not living a life of lies by committing sin every day of the week before setting foot into God's house on a Sunday and pretending he will save them? Surely that would make God look very foolish.” Agustine could feel himself becoming irate.

  “God is no fool! Why, it is you who is the fool if you believe you can be saved any other way!”

  “Does God direct his Messengers to deliver such insults on his behalf, Priest? Or shall you be praying for your own soul to be saved when the time comes? I do not believe your God to be real, and I shall tell you why. If he was a man of compassion, I would not have lost my mother to illness at such an early age as I did. He would have guided my father onto a path less difficult and he would have taught all of these other false worshippers to understand the differences in men such as me, rather than insult them.

  “I have never harmed another human being of my own doing. That night at Brass Farm I was overpowered by the Devil himself, but your God was nowhere to be seen to either save me or any one of those Brass children who died. Did He deem them not to be worthy of His help? When I end up in a place such as this, living among thieves and killers and those who owe money because they have fallen on hard times, how could I possibly believe that there is one Almighty being who has the intent of helping me?” Agustine was finding it more and more difficult to answer Mills' questions now. Laxe stood over by the door, shocked by Mills' audacity to speak without regard but also amused and even in part agreement with some of the things Mills had said. He had never come across anyone before who would argue so passionately against what was such a common belief, but the young man was making at least some sense. And for every word Mills uttered, Laxe found himself more in doubt of the man's guilt.

  “I offer you one final chance, Andrew Mills. Will you receive the sacrament and offer God your forgiveness for all of your past sins?”

  “I will not.”

  “Then to Hell with you! Your soul will be banished to the depths of Hades and burn forever! Your torment will be all-consuming and the pain never-ending!” Mills was not at all moved by the ranting of the Priest.

  “You cannot make a man believe what you want him to believe unless he finds reason to do so” said Mills. “And you have given me no words that make me think anything you claim is the truth. Just because you say it is so does not make it so. Do not force your ideas upon a man, for he is more likely to stay strong-willed and back away because he does not want to be told what to do. If people believe and it is their own choice, then may they be happy and prosperous, but I will not be made to think there is a God who is righteous when he has no evidence of having helped anyone I know or love the entirety of my life. Go back to Spennymoor and spout your ridiculous words to those who seek comfort for want of having something better to believe in. Laxe, get me out of here!” The gaoler made good on Mills' request while Agustine prayed for the strength not to leap out of his chair and strangle the ignorant young man with his bare hands.

  “Strong words indeed, and spoken with passion” remarked Laxe, who walked alongside Mills while Lieutenant Hodgson was a short way ahead with Cadet Officers Smith and Urpith following behind.

  “You think I spoke out of turn and with disrespect, Laxe?”

  “Yes and no” said the gaoler. “Anthony Agustine is a man of the cloth and I've never heard him say a bad word until he shouted at you back there. The church does a lot to help the po
or and plenty of people would surely be dead were it not for people like Agustine. But you reasonably questioned the man's beliefs and I believe you should always hold your own opinions. Not many would be brave enough to voice them as you did and any man who does so has my respect. There is a reason for what you did to them young 'uns at the farm, and I don't think you had much choice. If it was meant to be, then so be it.”

  “Thank you, Laxe – I admire your honesty.” The five men now walked in silence. Hodgson opened the door into the courtyard a minute or so later, and then the noise began proper.

  “Sounds like they're baying for your blood, lad” Laxe said quietly to Mills. “There's not been a crowd this hostile for as long as I can remember. I would reckon it will be like this right the way up to Dryburn. I pity you for having to having to tolerate such behaviour, Mills, but nothing can be done to stop it.”

  “A beast does what it feels it must to survive, yet we do not show them pity for slaughtering their prey because it is in their nature to do so. Show me no pity, Laxe; save your sympathies for those out there who would hate without prejudice. It is they who are in need of pity, not I.” The shackles were removed from Mills' legs as he was made to walk up the wooden steps and climb into the cage that would take him to his final destination. His wrist irons were fastened to the wooden floor of the cart on which the cage sat, his ankles held by longer chains. Hodgson closed the door to the cage and it was locked. Now they were ready to leave, and Mills was ready to die. He had never felt more calm than he did right now, and that surprised him some.

  “Goodbye, Andrew Mills. May your next life be better than this one.” Mills turned to his right side, looked down at Laxe.

  “You are not coming to the execution?”

  “My work keeps me here, Mills. Besides, I have no wish to see you die.”

  “Then I will bid you farewell, sir. My thanks for the respect you have shown me over the days I have been in your custody, and also for all of your words of honesty. They will not be forgotten.” Laxe nodded slowly, smiled a grim smile. The horses were given the order to move, and Laxe watched until he could see the cart no more.

  *

  It was Mills' fullest intention to keep his head held high, look as many of these wrath and vengeance-filled folk in the eye as was possible to show he was without fear, but the objects he found hurled in his direction often and without remorse made the task difficult. The overripe fruits he could take, and even understand why these humans might feel the need to treat him with no more dignity than a dog that has been tethered to a post and left with neither food nor drink. There were moments when he relished the taste from the juice of the tomatoes that ran down his face and into his eyes and mouth, but now it was becoming tiresome. Hadn't they made their feelings known enough already? The larger rocks would constantly clang off the bars of the cage in which he sat like a trapped animal, but smaller stones thrown by those with a keen eye and many a lucky shot would strike him in the legs, arms, body, and more than he would have liked in the side of the head, with each hit greeted by a laugh and a cheer from all of those who had seen. The chains around his ankles made his legs ache, but with arms chained behind him there was nothing to be done except endure.

  Palace Green and Owengate had been left behind now; they had gone through the Great North Gate of Durham Gaol, and Saddler Street had just been passed by. Dryburn continued to draw ever closer. Many of the crowd followed behind the cart, a grisly procession who would take great delight in seeing him hanging from the end of a rope. There was lots of noise – words and cursing – and it never stopped, but Mills had closed his ears to all that was coming his way. The market place was approaching; he chanced to lift his head and see what kind of hospitality might be awaiting him there. His arms and legs might be bound, but his mouth wasn't, and the temptation was often there for Mills to speak his mind and ask all of these people if they had nothing better to do with their lives, that they should go home and tend to their land and their livestock. But to speak so freely when trapped at the mercy of many an angry man, woman and child would be folly, he reasoned. He thought of Jane again; not as she was the first time he had laid eyes on her, or even the hundredth, but the very last, when she had lain battered and broken in her bedroom. Far from making him sad, as once it might have done, Mills drew strength from this anguished picture in his mind and recalled the words of the gaoler.

  “I think any man would be hard pushed to kill three so young unless his hand were forced.”

  And what was it he had said about the crows? Surely that had to be nonsense! A crow that was able to remember the face of a human that had done it wrong? Ha! He smiled when he thought of these words, glad of the little humour he allowed himself as he made his way to the place where he would die. And then, a voice from the crowd. Mills knew the man to whom it belonged in an instant, for it was so distinctive as not to possibly be anyone else. He found his eyes searching the swarm of faces on the other side of the bars. It didn't take long, for this unwanted intruder into his final moments of life had hopped onto the back of the cart that took him now into Silver Street, and it irked Mills greatly that no effort had been made to remove his presence as would have been in any other case. The journey would now likely be tortuous as much as it was tedious.

  “Sellby” Mills said to the man in a voice that made his annoyance plain. “What do you want, vagrant?” Ralph Sellby took a drink from the bottle that was never far removed from his hand and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  “I've never had me a chance to look a murderer in the eye before, you know” Sellby answered back in a deliberately loud voice. “I heard the Devil himself lurks somewhere inside you – wanted to see into them eyes and find out if it was true. Not sure I see it meself, like...”

  “Maybe because you spend too much time thinking about the inside of a bottle, old man...”

  “You know, you might be right there.” Sellby took in a mouthful from the bottle, then he looked directly at Mills and spat the liquid right into his face. Mills tried not to let his anger show as the onlookers began to laugh and applaud, but it would have made even the most placid of men react when it happened again directly after, as Mills did now. Rolling forward and bringing himself to his knees, his face came up against the bars just inches away from Sellby's, and he spat at his tormentor. Mills felt a warmth run through his entire body, but such was his anger he paid it no mind.

  “You are lucky I am in this box or I would quite happily remove your head from its shoulders.” Sellby merely laughed, took another drink from his bottle. Mills felt calmer now, resumed his seated position and looked Sellby in the eye.

  “You think to be brave now, when there is no chance you might carry out that threat, but if it had been you and me in the same place them three kids were you butchered I'm thinking you wouldn't be saying the same thing, murderer. Hanging's too good for you. I reckon Mister Brass should be able to pick up them axes you had and do right the same to you as you did to them young 'uns.” There was much agreement to this statement.

  “I had no choice in what I did. As I told the gaoler, the Devil took hold of my mind and my hand and made me do these things. I assure you, vagrant, if he had took a hold of you then just the same thing would have happened.”

  “No it wouldn't, and here's for why. You might think I'm nothing but a drunkard and a no-gooder, but my mind is clear as glass. He picked you because everybody knows that you're an idiot – an imbecile. Easy to take over the head of an imbecile, even the Devil knows that.”

  “I am NOT an IMBECILE!” Mills hated those words, had heard them way too often. His temper rose again. They laughed at the way he would run his plough in an exact straight line, and whip the oxen if they strayed even just a little. They would watch as he counted his steps while he wandered through the market place, and recall how many footfalls it had taken him to get from one vendor to the next. It was thought odd that he would always count his coins three times before purchasing an item. There
were many stories such as these that people would share about Mills and have them question his behaviour. Some thought it to be like that of a child playing a game; others would say he had no mind by which to remember and so had to talk to himself all the time to make sure he wouldn't forget even the very simple tasks, and yet more suggested he was plotting with unholy forces to bring about destruction. And now it seemed those who had this last thought were right.

  “So, murderer, if you're not an imbecile as you say, then why haven't you thought that instead of being fastened away in that box that the Devil you claim to have inside you is going to let you die? Eh? I don't fancy the Devil would let himself be done away with so easy, so that means it's nothing but a story so you could be sent to a madhouse and not the gallows. Well whoever might take that tale as true would be put in a madhouse, believe me.”

  “The gaoler knows it was the Devil who took my hand and made me do those things – he told me so not two hours ago.”

  “Ha! Tom Laxe has been too many years in that place, listening to nowt but the talk of criminals and debtors. I reckon if I told him I was going to London next week to marry a young Princess he would believe me.”

  “Even your whore wife couldn't stand you, so I doubt much anyone could believe such an untruth as big as that.” Now it was Sellby who was being laughed at, and he didn't like it one bit. His anger flared; he finished off his bottle and smashed it against the outside of the cage, trying to stab Mills through the bars with an outstretched arm. It was probably lucky that the cage was as wide as the cart or Sellby might just as easily got at him from there. Mills lifted his shackled legs and kicked out; his foot caught a decent hold of the vagrant's arm and there was an awful cracking sound. Sellby withdrew his arm, shouting out in pain all the while.

  “Hush down, vagrant; even the Brass boy didn't make such a racket when I cleaved his skull with my axe, you old fool. You run your mouth too much, old man – don't be so shocked when someone decides to shut it for you. Maybe you should run off to find the innkeeper and buy yourself another bottle to help you forget about your own problems rather than taunting a murderer, don't you think?” It was while he was engaged in this end part of his discourse with Sellby that Mills noticed the missiles hadn't come his way for some time. There were words, but a lot of these had been cajoling to comment that had been made by either him or the vagrant. In fact, since Sellby's arm had been broken not long since, Mills saw that the cart on which he was riding wasn't so tightly hemmed in any more. The people were starting to fear him – he could see it in their eyes.