Rebeccah and the Highwayman

by Barbara Davies

  “All you that in the condemned hold do lie,

  “Prepare you, for tomorrow you will die….”

  When he had reached the end of the verse, he started to repeat it. Kate stuck her fingers in her ears.

  After he had gone, she rolled awkwardly onto her knees - the leg irons and staple made everything awkward - and prayed … not for her soul, as the bellman had been urging, or even for a pardon (for if it were coming, it would surely have done so by now), but that she might meet her end bravely and, God willing, see Rebeccah one last time.

  Kate picked up the looking glass and checked her appearance as best she could. Her outfit looked incomplete without a tricorne and a baldric, and she missed the weight of a sword against her hip, but it would do. She brushed a speck of lint from her sleeve, then shuffled over to her chair.

  For a long moment she sat, listening to the muffled tolling of the bell and the sounds of the prison going on all about her, then she took the scrap of paper and stub of pencil Wryneck had provided, and set to work on her speech.

  ***

  They had just crossed over the Thames near Staines when the carriage slowed and a few moments later came to a dead stop.

  What now? Rebeccah glanced at her mother in dismay. She opened the door and leaned out. The coachman had jumped down and was stooping beside the lead horse, examining its fetlock. “What is it, Robert?”

  He straightened and looked back at her. “This horse has gone lame, Mistress Rebeccah.”

  Stifling a very unladylike curse, she relayed the information to the other passengers, then hopped down, and went to join him. “Can he continue as far as London?”

  “No, Madam. We must have a replacement.”

  Rebeccah’s mother had come to join them and was in time to hear his unwelcome verdict. She gave their surroundings a dubious glance. “But will we be able to find a replacement here, Robert?”

  Rebeccah shared her mother’s doubts. They had stopped in the middle of a village that comprised precisely four small houses and a seedy-looking tavern called the Cock Inn.

  “No, Madam,” agreed Robert. “But Egham isn’t far. And if I remember correctly from the journey down, there is a coaching inn there that will have horses for hire. If you and the others care to wait in the coach, I will lead poor Conker to the Red Lion, arrange to have him cared for, then set about hiring us a replacement.”

  “If Egham is the nearest place to hire a horse, then Egham it must be,” said Mrs Dutton with a heavy sigh. “Do as you suggested, Robert. Get them to send me the bill and don’t worry about the cost - for we must have a replacement, and that’s that.”

  “And please hurry,” added Rebeccah. “For every minute we delay …” She trailed off, thinking of Kate and her approaching appointment with the hangman.

  He gave her a nod and said quietly, “You may rely on me, Mistress Rebeccah. “I know what’s at stake.”

  “Thank you, Robert.”

  While he unhitched Conker, Rebeccah’s mother took her by the arm and led her back to the carriage.

  “What’s happening?” Wyatt peered down his nose at the two women from the open door. “Can your driver not even take a stone out of a hoof?”

  Rebeccah frowned up at him. Her mother was more diplomatic. “Alas, Mr Wyatt, if it were only that straightforward. The horse is badly lamed and we must find a replacement. … While our coachman is gone to get a fresh horse, we can wait in the carriage … or repair to that hostelry.” She pointed.

  Wyatt stared at the ramshackle Cock Inn with open dismay, and a wicked impulse overtook Rebeccah.

  “Since we are bound to be cooped up in this contraption for the rest of the day, Mama,” she said, indicating the carriage, “perhaps it would be as well to avail ourselves of the tavern’s facilities while we can.”

  Her mother nodded. “Good idea, Beccah.”

  “Very well.” Wyatt climbed down, followed by Mary, who gave her mistress a suspicious glance. “Perhaps the inn won’t be as bad as it looks,” he sniffed.

  Rebeccah kept her straight face with difficulty. She seriously doubted it.

  ***

  It was almost noon when they came for her.

  Kate had long ago finished her speech. She filled the remaining hours smoking a last pipe of her favourite tobacco, singing ‘The Female Frollick’ (which earned enthusiastic applause from the inmate in an adjoining cell), stretching the cramp from her legs, or peering out the barred window.

  If she leaned over far enough she could just catch a glimpse of sky - it promised to be a fine day for it. A fine day for riding too. She sighed. At least Clover would be in good hands with the Duttons.

  As the morning dragged on, Kate felt more and more unreal. She kept thinking that at any moment she would wake to find that the last few weeks had been a nightmare. Alice would be lying next to her, the shells from their oyster supper stacked on the plate on the bedside table. But if it were just a nightmare, then Rebeccah would be but a dream, which would be a mixed blessing indeed.

  The cell door creaked open. “It’s time,” said Wryneck, beckoning.

  Heart thumping, Kate stood. As they walked along the maze of corridors and up and down stairs, at a painfully slowly pace due to her leg irons, prisoners pressed their noses to the grilles and yelled obscenities or good wishes. Kate acknowledged a shout of “God Speed, Nick,” with a smile and a nod and kept on going, pausing only when Wryneck had to unlock and then relock the numerous gates that barred their progress.

  The journey seemed endless, but at last the turnkey led her, stooping, through a low door out into the open air. She glanced up at the sky for a long moment before turning to scan the Press Yard, a long narrow yard with high spiked walls. Two open, horse-drawn carts were waiting there, with prisoners sitting in the back. The dung from their horses adding to the general stench.

  Kate curled her lip at the onlookers, faces flushed with excitement, eyes avid, who had paid to join the turnkeys and prisoners. The Ordinary was also there, making a nuisance of himself as usual, praying loudly and giving counsel, whether wanted or not. A man in a black mask stood a little way apart from the others. He raked Kate from head to foot with calculating eyes.

  Assessing how much my clothes will fetch, I’ll wager.

  “Oi, you there. Come here.” A blacksmith with bulging biceps beckoned to Kate. She shuffled over, and as instructed put a foot on his wooden anvil. Deftly, he hammered the rivets from her leg iron.

  “Other foot.”

  The hammer came down again and Kate’s fetters clattered to the flagstones. Before she could stoop to rub the raw welts, the turnkey assigned as Yeoman of the Halter came over. He tied one cord round her wrists then slipped another through her elbows and pulled it tight, pinioned her. Finally, he looped a halter round her neck and curled its free end round her body.

  Thus bound, her movements were restricted and she had to be helped up into one of the carts. Isaac Minshul made room for her on a coffin. She grimaced and sat between him and Jemmy Powell. Both felons were looking unusually clean and dapper.

  “Not wearing skirts?” asked Powell, grinning.

  Kate gave him a mock glare. “As you would say, Jemmy … ‘Bollocks!’” Minshul chuckled. The cart rocked and she saw that the Reverend Rewse was scrambling up into their cart, while the hangman was to travel with the other. On balance, she decided, as the Ordinary launched into a Psalm and urged the three prisoners to join in for the sake of their immortal souls, her cart had drawn the short straw.

  A turnkey unbolted the barred gate, which swung open with a screech that set Kate’s teeth on edge, and the drivers urged their horses forward. As the carts emerged from the Press Yard into the street, the roar from the waiting crowd made Kate blink. An escort of peace officers, constables, and javelin men fell in around them, the City Marshall and the Under-Sheriff took their places at the head of the procession, then they were off.

  The cart rumbled over cobblestones, jolting every bone in Kate
’s body, but she barely noticed it for a loud rhythmic chant of ‘Blue-Eyed Nick; Blue-Eyed Nick’ that had started up. Better acclaim than a rain of rotten cabbages, she decided, nodding and smiling at the sea of faces surrounding her, none of whom she recognised.

  “They’re lively,” said Minshul.

  “Ay,” said Kate.

  The Ordinary finished his Psalm and started on another

  The procession had barely got going before, at St Sepulchre’s entrance, it halted to allow the sexton to ring his hand bell twelve times. (More poxy bells!) Then he began his address.

  “All good people,” he intoned, “pray heartily unto God for these poor sinners, who are now going to their death…” Kate tuned him out until the final “Christ have mercy on you.” There were only so many exhortations to repent she could take.

  He presented each prisoner with a nosegay of flowers (Kate tucked hers in a buttonhole) and a cup of wine. There would be much more to drink along the route - she could arrive at Tyburn roaring drunk if she wished - but she decided she’d rather keep her wits about her, drank only half her cup, and gave the rest to an appreciative Powell.

  With a cheer from the crowd, the procession resumed its progress, the carts turning a sharp left at the bottom of Snow Hill, and crossing the foul sewer that was the Fleet Ditch. Kate remembered the last time she had walked these streets with Rebeccah, searching for her sister, and sighed. Then they were climbing towards High Holborn, the smell receding with every yard, and she sucked in a welcome breath of fresh air.

  The journey to Tyburn was a long one, the roaring of the crowd a constant almost physical battering. It was made slower by frequent stops at taverns. At the first stop, the Bowl Inn in St. Giles, Kate accepted a beer from someone anxious to say they had drunk with Blue-Eyed Nick. She made the customary joke, “I’ll buy you a pint on the way back,” took a mouthful and left the rest. Then it was back into the cart and on to the next tavern.

  The crowds along the route were getting thicker by the minute. People leaned out of windows and thronged rooftops. At last Kate began to see faces she knew. There was Tom the stableboy, his expression doleful. And Henry Flude the little fencing cully, straightening his wig and nodding as their eyes met. John Elborrow was standing with several of his regulars, trying to comfort the Rose and Crown’s buxom barmaid, Nan. He doffed his tricorne to Kate, and she had a sudden hankering for a last taste of his wife’s pies. Inexorably the cart moved on.

  ***

  “Look at the crowds!” Rebeccah stared out the window in dismay. “We’re never going to get there in time.”

  Delay had dogged them all the way from Windsor. They had hitched up the replacement horse only to find that the team was now unbalanced. The carriage had almost run off the road twice, before Robert pulled up and set about moving a different horse into lead position. Unhitching and rehitching the team consumed valuable time, and there was no guarantee that things would be any better. Fortunately, Robert knew his horseflesh, and when they set off once more it soon became clear that the horses were pulling smoothly again. The passengers’ relief was short lived though, for a few miles later, and perhaps because of the strain they had been put under, the traces parted and they had to halt for half an hour while they were repaired.

  Rebeccah had long ago given up all hope of reaching Newgate in time and, with Wyatt’s reluctant approval, had told Robert to head straight for Tyburn. She had forgotten how clogged the streets would be though. And now the carriage had ground to a halt.

  “We must force our way through,” said an irritated Wyatt. “For it’s the Queen’s business we’re about and none shall stand in our way.” He opened the door, leaned out, and yelled, “Driver, use your horsewhip to clear the way if you have to.”

  Rebeccah exchanged an appalled glance with her mother and hoped Robert would have more sense. If the mob were to turn against them things could get nasty, and the presence of the horses should surely be enough to make people stand clear.

  She willed the carriage forward.. After a moment, it lurched into motion, but its progress was now at a mere snail’s pace. She blocked out the noise of the crowd and the relentless tolling of the bells. Wait for me, Kate. I’m coming.

  ***

  When they left the Mason’s Arms in Seymour Place, the last tavern on the route, Jemmy Powell was so drunk he had to be carried back to the cart.

  The gallows loomed at the end of the road, and as the procession drew closer, Kate’s guts tightened. Especially when she saw the wide cart standing empty beneath one of the three huge beams, waiting to ferry its unwilling passengers to the other side.

  Will it hurt? she wondered, as the halter around her neck seemed to grow heavier. Will there be any hangers-on willing to do for me what I helped Nell do for John Stephenson?

  The hanging procession halted at last, and was met by a resounding cheer. The constables, peace officers, and javelin men hurriedly formed a new configuration around the prisoners. They gripped their staves and javelins with white knuckles, and looked about nervously as though expecting the crowd to rush them at any minute. Rescues of prisoners had been known, but Kate knew better than to pin her hopes on one. The crowd might say how much they loved a charming rogue, but they loved a good hanging better.

  She searched the faces of the onlookers, especially those at the front with the best view, since they were probably the prisoners’ relatives. She was relieved to see no sign of her addled mother. If Jane Allen was the woman Kate hoped she was, she had kept Martha ignorant of her daughter’s fate. The two women were probably at this very moment sitting in Jane’s comfortable kitchen, trying not to pinch Beau the lurcher’s tail beneath the runners of their contentedly rocking chairs. At least she hoped so.

  Samuel Josselin was there though, arms folded, eyes triumphant. So was a tall young man in a black cassock who seemed oddly familiar. Wasn’t he the clergyman she had bested in a swordfight? Berry something … Berrigan, that was his name. He caught her gaze and nodded. A flash of red hair drew her attention further along the row. Ah, Alice. Have you not yet had your fill of me? The landlady looked haggard with weeping. Would she be willing to help speed Kate’s passing from this world to the next? Kate doubted she was capable of such a thing.

  There was no sign of the Dutton family. She pursed her lips, uncertain whether to feel chagrin or relief then opted for the latter. They had done enough for her. That Rebeccah had evenattempted to obtain a pardon meant everything. Let the young woman’s last memory of Kate be a pleasant one.

  “Down we get,” cried the Ordinary, leaping down, then turning to grin up at those still in the cart.

  “Bollocks!” slurred the inebriated Powell.

  The Under-Sheriff’s officers hurried over to help the prisoners down. One urged Kate towards the gallows. She felt offbalance without the leg irons, and for the first time her courage failed her, and she faltered.

  “Keep moving,” ordered the officer. Kate tried to slow her racing heart. “I said -“

  “I heard you.” Teeth gritted, hands balled into damp fists, she resumed her awkward progress.

  The noise of the crowd swelled and ebbed as Kate and the others, eight in all, took their places on the wide cart. The only other female to hang today was Phebe Woolley; the skinny young woman looked even more pale and pinched than usual and was panting with fright.

  “Breathe slowly,” Kate advised her, but the other woman was too deep in her panic to hear her. As for the men, some were befuddled by drink and others were either cursing or cracking black jokes. Isaac Minshul still seemed relatively sober. He caught Kate’s gaze and gave her a rueful shrug.

  A flurry of movement proved to be the constables and peace officers parting to allow through the prisoners’ relatives. Kate tried not to feel alone and unloved as they swarmed round every prisoner except her, hugging, kissing, and crying - even Powell had a sister with the same lank brown hair. It was a relief when at last they were escorted back to their places among the
crowd.

  That part of the proceedings over, things moved swiftly on to the next.

  The hangman climbed up to join the prisoners. At his appearance, the crowd let out a great roar, which frightened the horse. The cart lurched and bucked under Kate’s feet until the animal could be calmed down. The man in the black mask began working his way along the row of prisoners, tying the free end of each halter around the massive beam above.

  “Those of you who have farewell speeches to give, give them now,” said the Ordinary, also joining them. “Go to God with a clean breast. Confess your sins and admit your guilt.”

  “Bollocks!” slurred Jemmy Powell, swaying until someone steadied him.

  While some might wish to prolong their stay on earth by speechifying, Kate just wished this ordeal were over and done with. So her speech was short and to the point, with none of the expressions of false humility or religiosity that she was sure the Reverend Rewse would have liked.

  “My name is Blue-Eyed Nick,” she shouted, as onlookers hushed one another so they could hear, “and I have lived a short life but a merry one. I’ve taken the cards Fate dealt me and played the best game I could. That in the process I hurt those who didn’t deserve it pains me, and I am heartily sorry for it. But as for hurting those who deserved it … To the Devil with them!” The unrepentant tone drew a cheer from the crowd and a black look from the Ordinary.

  Isaac Minshul was next to speak, the sobbing of his wife almost bringing the big man himself to tears. Then came the swaying Jemmy Powell, whose obscene suggestions about what the Ordinary could do with himself left his sister blushing and the onlookers howling with laughter. Terror had stolen Phebe Woolley’s voice so she did not speak. The remaining prisoners’ speeches were longwinded, slurred, and inaudible, and by the time they drew to a close, the crowd was visibly restless, anxious to get on with the main event. There also seemed to be some kind of disturbance going on at the back, though Kate couldn’t make out its cause - a drunken dispute probably.

  The hangman reappeared with some white sacks, asking each prisoner whether they wished to be hooded. Kate had no desire to witness Josselin’s enjoyment of her final moments, so she accepted, and as the hood dropped over her head, the crowd disappeared from view.