by G. M. Best
‘Was that a safe thing for a young lad to do?’
Gaunt smiled at Trollope’s ignorance. ‘There was nothing to fear. The people I served were just in prison for debt. Such contact as I had with them served only to convince me never to become like them. I saw their misery and I vowed never to gamble or otherwise get into debt by borrowing. I’ve seen the suffering moneylenders cause. They seize on those in need and plunge them into even greater debt. I’m proud to say, sir, that I’ve kept my vow unbroken to this day. I’ve either gone without or saved until I could afford what I wanted. ’
‘I wish I could say the same,’ replied Trollope ruefully. ‘Unfortunately a few years ago I borrowed some money and fell into the hands of a moneylender. He made my life hell so I know exactly what you mean. Presumably you became a gaoler because you wished to follow in your uncle’s footsteps?’
‘Yes, but often I wish I’d not chosen Newgate. When I’ve a bad night here and can’t get to sleep it’s usually because something has triggered off memories of my time there. I saw some terrible sights, sir, the worst being the public hangings on Monday mornings. It wasn’t just watching the condemned men and women go through all the agony of being hung. Far worse was seeing the faces of the scum who came to enjoy the spectacle. Sometimes as many as twenty thousand would gather, shouting and swearing and singing. ’Tis hard to believe this is supposed to be a Christian nation when one sees such a sight.’
A visible shudder passed through the old man’s frame and Trollope could see Gaunt was reliving in his mind all the wicked behaviour that humans at their worst can show. Wanting to bring the old man’s mind back to the present, he asked, ‘But what’s all this to do with events here?’
‘’Twas at Newgate I first met Mr Harding.’
Trollope’s mind reeled. Surely it was not possible that the kindly warden was a former felon? And if so, for what crime? Had he been imprisoned for debt or for some far worse act?
‘He used to come on Sundays,’ continued Gaunt, ‘in order to preach from the pulpit in the prison chapel. Those condemned to death used to sit with their coffins in the large black pen built for that purpose below the reading desk.’
‘Their coffins?’ queried Trollope, relieved that his initial concern about the warden had been groundless.
‘Yes. It doesn’t happen now but it used to be the tradition that each person’s coffin would be placed upon the seat by their side throughout the whole service.’
‘I’d no idea that such an unnecessary act took place.’
‘It was to bring home to the prisoners the fate they were about to face. That’s also why the walls of the chapel were painted with religious texts about them having to face God’s justice. Unlike some preachers, Mr Harding tried to offer them hope rather than condemning them. He preached of God’s continued love for them and how, if they repented of the wrongs they’d done, they’d be forgiven. He was very eloquent that morning and a couple of the condemned were sufficiently moved that they asked him to visit them in their cells. He promised that he would. That’s how he came to know Catherine Farrell and I wish for his sake that meeting had not happened. You’ll know why I say that when I tell what resulted from it.’
‘Who was she?’
‘A convicted murderess in her mid-twenties with the looks of an angel. I’ve never seen such a beautiful woman before or since. I tell you, sir, she had eyes that were the colour of cornflowers, a complexion that was as soft and white as rose petals, and hair as yellow as a buttercup. However, I knew from the reports of her trial that she was a most deceitful and wicked woman who showed no remorse for having killed her husband. No angel who fell from grace could’ve fallen as much as her.’
‘What had led her to murder him?’
‘From an early age she used her beauty to attract men and she eventually chose to marry the wealthiest of her suitors, a man called William Courtenay, the nephew of Lord Hazleworth and heir to his title. The jury was told he was a fine young man until he came under her influence. She encouraged him into a life of debauchery and, within a few years, drove him into bankruptcy through her wild excesses. Rather than relinquish her lifestyle she sought to seduce her husband’s rich uncle and so gain access to his wealth. When she discovered that he was too virtuous to succumb to her evil charms, she resorted to another method. She said that she’d accuse Lord Hazleworth of raping her unless he immediately made over half his wealth to his nephew. However, her husband refused to become part of such a monstrous scheme. He threatened to publicly denounce her. Enraged by Courtenay’s honesty, she stabbed him to death and then fled from the scene of her crime. The dead man’s uncle then exposed her crime and the police put out a warrant for her arrest.’
‘She was indeed a most wicked woman!’ Trollope declared.
‘That wasn’t the worst of it. Throughout all her trial she showed not an ounce of repentance at what she’d done. Instead she kept pretending she was a victim of both men and refused to be tried under her married name. She continued to make out that she’d suffered at the hands of both her husband and his uncle until her own parents told the court that was a lie. I thought Mr Harding was wasting his time in seeing her. I told him an unrepentant woman wasn’t worthy of God’s mercy.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He said that God’s mercy is offered to all and that he hoped to incline her heart to seek forgiveness.’
‘And so you took him to her cell?’
‘Reluctantly I did. I knew he would find it painful to see a well-bred woman held in a cell for the condemned. The fifteen cells used for that purpose are not designed for comfort. Each measures just nine feet by six feet and is lit only by a small doubly grated window. When we got there Catherine Farrell was sitting in an unwashed state on a filthy bench. Her face was hidden from us because she was looking downwards at a small bundle that lay in her lap. Mr Harding looked around in dismay at the noxious damp oozing its way through the blackened brickwork and he tried in vain to block the stench of urine and excrement from his nostrils by covering his nose with his handkerchief. As he entered she glanced up at him. She didn’t look the part of a murderess nor was there any hint of maliciousness in her face. All Mr Harding saw was her melancholy and hopelessness.’
‘I’m not surprised. The woman must’ve been in despair at the fate that awaited her.’
‘Yes, but that had not yet made her repentant. “I hope you’ve not come just to preach at me, sir,” she said. “If you have, then I warn you that words alone will fall on deaf ears. Why should I regret removing William Courtenay from this world? Only I truly know the suffering he caused me and I tell you that he deserved far worse than I inflicted upon him.”
‘”Aren’t you afraid of meeting your maker and facing his judgement?” replied Mr Harding. “Don’t you fear eternal damnation more than the hangman’s noose?”
‘She frowned and replied in an undertone that was hardily audible, “I’ve already spent years living in hell so why should I turn to a God who has long abandoned me? All I ask is that you should persuade the authorities to commute my sentence to one of imprisonment or transportation. Let them show the mercy that God has not.”’
‘Surely she should’ve known that he could do nothing in that respect?’
‘Even for the hopeless it’s hard to give up hope of living, sir. Mr Harding told her that she should accept that murdering a person deserved the death sentence and that her sin deserved damnation unless she threw herself on God’s mercy. “God’s mercy! What does that mean to someone whose life has known nothing but misery?” she exclaimed. “Look at me! I’m cut off from the companionship of any friend or family member. God has never listened to my prayers so what do I know of His love?”’
Gaunt seemed to sense that Trollope was finding it hard not to pity the woman just like Mr Harding had all that time ago. Neither man had seen the evil side of human nature in the way that he had experienced it over many years. He saw their generosity of spirit as mer
e naivety. He pursed his lips in disapproval before continuing his account. ‘Mr Harding fell silent but I reminded Catherine Farrell that life isn’t fair and none should use their own misery as an excuse for crime. When she wailed, “What will happen to me?”, I told her in no uncertain terms.’
‘Told her what?’
‘That she’d be woken in the early hours of the next day by the sound of the workmen fixing the crossbeams and uprights on the scaffold; that the bell of St Sepulchre’s would ring at 7.30 to announce the hour of execution was drawing near; that she’d be led through what we call “the debtor’s door” to where the mob awaited; that she and the other prisoners would be lined up on the scaffold where each would have a hanging chain attached to the hemp around their neck; and that she’d have a white cap placed over her face and have her ankles strapped together before having the noose placed round her throat.’
‘Enough, enough!’ interrupted Trollope, horrified by the gaoler’s catalogue of cruelty. ‘I find these details of a public hanging far too shocking. Poor woman, it must have been dreadful for her to hear her forthcoming fate.’
‘I meant it to shake her and it did. She asked me if it would be painful. I told her that much depended on the executioner, and that if he did his job well then her neck would be quickly broken and if he didn’t she’d dangle until she slowly suffocated. At that she looked truly terrified. She turned to Mr Harding and pleaded that he should pray that the hangman knew his business. He told her he’d do as she requested but unless she repented he could do nothing to stop the terrible pain that she’d experience once she was consigned to the flames of hell. He said escape from that agony rested in her prayers and not his.
‘“Then help me to pray!” she exclaimed. “Show me this day some evidence of your God’s love and do not just speak of it. Only then may I have cause to repent.”’ Gaunt paused to wipe some spittle from his mouth with the back of his hand and then continued. ‘She asked if Mr Harding had any family. He told her that he was married but had no children because of the frailty of his wife’s health. She then opened up the bundle that was on her lap. I knew what lay within it but the sight came as a great shock to him. It was her child, an infant girl but a few days old. She’d asked to have it brought to her so she could hold it for the last time. Now she thrust it into his arms. I could see that his heart went out to the unsuspecting babe as one of its tiny hands appeared to clutch at the watch that dangled from his waistcoat.’
So vivid was Gaunt’s account that Trollope almost felt he was there in the cell with the murderess and her child. ‘Poor innocent,’ he interjected as he envisaged the harrowing scene. ‘The infant child had no concept that Mr Harding’s timepiece was ticking away the little time left that her mother had to live.’
‘But her mother knew,’ said the former gaoler grimly. ‘“Take my baby!” Catherine Farrell begged. “Look at her! Is she not pretty? Is she not innocent? Yet when I die tomorrow morning I know she will also be condemned. Those responsible for her care will say she’s a child of sin. They’ll treat her with contempt and ensure she’s brought up in the direst poverty in the workhouse. Promise me that you’ll rescue my daughter. Promise me that you’ll care for her. Show her the love that you say God has for us and I promise you that I’ll immediately repent of all that I’ve done. I’ll give nothing but praise to you and your God.”’
Kind man though he was, Trollope was repelled. ‘I can understand the woman’s desperation, but what she asked was outrageous!’
‘I was as shocked as Mr Harding when she said it. I’d not expected her to make such a last-minute plea. I told her in no uncertain terms that it was her actions that had led to the child’s position and she couldn’t expect any such intervention. Mr Harding’s response was much the same, though he couched his reply more kindly. He told her that he was prepared to do anything in his power to bring her back to God, but what she asked was impossible. He suggested that Lord Hazleworth was a better choice to become the child’s guardian.’
‘A sensible thing to say.’
‘Yes, but, on hearing that, Catherine Farrell cried out as if she’d been lashed with a whip. She screamed that she could never entrust her child to such a monster. She claimed that he’d have only one aim – to make her daughter suffer for her mother’s crimes. She said even the workhouse would be a better place for her child than his home.’
‘She must have had strong reason to hate him if she said that. We all know that workhouses are known for their barbarity.’
Gaunt agreed. ‘Mr Harding had seen enough of the conditions that operate in such places to tremble at what lay ahead of the poor babe. Catherine Farrell saw the pity in his face and pressed her case more strongly. She pleaded with him, saying, “If I’ve to die knowing my child will suffer for my crimes then I’ll have no option but to curse God. If you and your wife have no child, why not take my infant, my innocent daughter who tomorrow will be motherless as well as fatherless. Save her and in the process save also my soul.” I saw in her eyes a hint of the madness that must have possessed her when she killed her unfortunate husband, but Mr Harding averted his gaze from her distraught face and chose instead to look at the child that lay in his lap.’
Trollope knew the outcome before Gaunt said anything more. How could a kind man like Mr Harding reject Catherine Farrell’s plea if it meant consigning the poor child to a life of misery and its mother to damnation? ‘I expect its sweet face argued far more forcibly than anything its mother could say,’ he said.
The bedesman’s eyes conveyed his agreement. ‘I can still hear as if it was yesterday exactly what Mr Harding told her. He said in a very calm voice, “I’ll care for your child as if she was mine but I’ll do so for her sake and not for yours.”’
‘It was a courageous decision!’
‘Rather say it was a foolish one! I tried to make him change his mind. I told him what he was doing was a rash act and one that he would later regret. I begged him to reconsider. “Think what you will do, sir,” I said, “when this child grows to be a young woman and you see her begin increasingly to resemble her mother not only in look but also in deed. Will you not then remember what wicked acts her mother committed and fear that she may repeat them?”’
‘But my guess is that you did not dissuade him from taking the child?’
‘He told me that what I was saying was nonsense! He said that she would grow up surrounded by love and that would more than compensate for the example set by a mother whom she’d only known for a few hours. He took a vow, saying to the child’s mother, “I’ll give this child all the advantages of a loving home and I’ll provide her with a fine education. Each day she’ll know the blessings of having God’s word read to her. Surrounded by kindness and supported by prayer, she’ll walk a virtuous path throughout her life.” I confess, sir, I was moved by his words, but that didn’t prevent me pointing out that the child would want to know of her real mother. The knowledge of her mother’s crimes would contaminate her. On hearing my words, Catherine Farrell shouted out, “Let her grow up thinking she is his daughter. There’s no reason why she should be burdened with the knowledge of my criminality.”’
‘That was a brave thing for a mother to say,’ commented Trollope, ‘but surely both she and Mr Harding must have known that people would ask questions about the child’s origins. A baby girl can’t just appear from nowhere! And what of Mr Harding’s wife? How would she react to having a murderess’s child foisted upon her?’
‘I said exactly that, sir, but Mr Harding said he’d no doubt that his wife would love her as if she were her own, once she saw the pretty child. He said that they could easily pass off the infant as their own because they could leave London and start a new life in some rural area far removed from the city.’
‘Is that why he came to Barchester?’
‘Yes, though I told him that he’d one day rue his action. I said, “This little child may look innocent enough now but one day she’ll turn into a viper. The
vices of parents are always inherited by their children. The girl will take after her real mother.”’
‘And what did he say to that?’
‘He said that he’d pray that the little child should take after her father because from what he’d heard he was a good man until he came under the influence of his nephew’s wife. I confess I laughed at such naivety and even Catherine Farrell looked taken aback, though she said nothing. I told Mr Harding that the child’s father was also fatally flawed because he’d surrendered his judgement to an evil woman just like Adam did to Eve. I told him that, although the child looked innocent, it carried seeds of sin from both its parents. Just as a child may inherit some disease and so end up deaf or dumb or blind or crippled, so this child would inherit wickedness. I predicted the only outcome for him and his wife was one of grief.’
Trollope thought Mr Harding’s action was ill advised but he did not believe the child was inevitability doomed to share the nature of its mother and father. ‘You make humanity sound like a machine that is preprogrammed, Mr Gaunt,’ he criticized. ‘Yet we each have a soul and surely that soul is open to good influence. I believe God has the power to wash away the sinfulness of any human being.’
‘You’re as soft as Mr Harding, sir. That’s more or less what he said.’
Such was the look on the old man’s face that Trollope knew it was pointless to argue with him. Gaunt was unlikely to change a lifetime’s opinion. ‘So what happened next?’ he asked.
‘I was sent out of the cell while Catherine Farrell made her confession to Mr Harding. I don’t know what she said but I’ve never seen a man leave a prison cell so shaken by what he’d been told. If you ask me, she probably spoke of many more crimes than had come to the knowledge of the court! Mr Harding then asked me to make arrangements for the infant to be looked after by a wet nurse until he was in a position to come and take her to a new home away from London. I did as I was bid and he paid me well for my troubles because it was many, many months before the child was collected.’