by Carol Baxter
Neither Parkes nor his men explained why they ignored this precedent. Perhaps a journalist captured the essence of their reasoning: ‘The clemency exhibited in the Maitland cases might have rendered Louisa Collins more reckless than she otherwise would have been, and that so far from having any fear of the scaffold before her eyes, she might have considered that, if the worst came to the worst, the law would never take her life.’
Of the council’s debate and decision-making process, all that has survived is the brief notation in the minutes: ‘After careful consideration, the Council are unable to see any ground for mitigation of the capital sentence and therefore advise that the sentence of Death passed upon Louisa Collins be carried into effect.’ They also set a date for her execution: Tuesday, 8 January 1889.
Louisa would be sent to the gallows in twenty-six days unless somebody could come up with a convincing reason to reprieve her.
Chapter 34
We kill an adder or a scorpion because its life imperils us. Must we spare Lucrezia Borgia or Madame de Brinvilliers?
Queenslander
The Executive Council approved her execution? It wasn’t what Louisa had been expecting. Women were not executed, not according to the Darlinghurst warders. They said that no woman had ever died on the gallows at Darlinghurst. Since Darlinghurst had been Sydney’s only gaol since 1840, this meant that no women had died on a Sydney scaffold for half a century, if not longer. Surely they wouldn’t execute a woman now.
There was more news. The Executive Council had set a date: one month to the day since her conviction.
What could she do? Appealing to the judge wouldn’t help. She had stood in the dock trying not to tremble as he berated her with his excoriating judgment, as he dismissed her case, her life, with his unforgiving conclusion, ‘I hold out no hope of mercy to you on earth.’ So how could she convince the authorities to reconsider their plan to kill her?
• • •
As the news spread, the public’s reaction was intense. Prior to the council meeting, most were satisfied with the verdict, being convinced that Louisa was guilty of one if not both murders. The less satisfied were not necessarily doubtful of her guilt; rather, their concerns focused on the legality and morality of her conviction. However, with the council’s decision to ratify her death sentence, the public mood changed.
‘In this our centennial year, drawing to its close, let it not be stained with blood,’ begged An Anxious Mother in a letter to a Sydney newspaper, ‘particularly the blood of a woman and mother.’
An Anxious Husband snapped back: ‘Persons who object to being hanged in our centennial year have only to abstain from murdering their fellow citizens during that particular twelve months’ period—not much to ask of them.’
It had begun again: the squabbling about capital punishment. The subject had long split the community, arousing passion and anger on both sides. Correspondents spat at each other through the letter pages of the newspapers, determined to have their own views heard on the subject of Louisa’s hanging and on capital punishment in general.
‘If the law is death,’ wrote D.Y., reducing the argument to its simplest legal foundation, ‘surely the law should be allowed to take its course.’
But laws change, countered Citizen. He reminded his readers that those who advocated death as a punishment for murder belonged to the same cult who had once advocated death as a punishment for petty theft. Moreover, when these people argued that Louisa should be hanged because ‘it’s the law’, they were attempting to place responsibility on the legislators of yesterday for a deed carried out today. ‘This won’t do,’ Citizen declared firmly. ‘No past parliament can force us to hang Louisa Collins.’
Justice attempted to push the law’s foundation back another step, arguing that it was biblical in origin and therefore divine and immutable. ‘He that killeth any man shall surely be put to death,’ he quoth. Fire-and-brimstone believer Zachary Pearce Pocock unleashed another biblical lightning bolt: ‘Who so sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed.’
G.E. Penly countered that these views might accord with the Old Testament Law of Moses but that, like the codicil to a will, Christ’s teachings had nullified such bloodthirsty commands. ‘Let him that is without sin cast the first stone.’ And he asked if the judges or cabinet members were so pure and holy that they should arrogate to themselves the powers of a deity and take a life that God had given?
His query produced snorts of disgust from those who knew the truth about their recently widowed premier. Parkes had long enjoyed the pleasures of a young mistress and was the father of her three bastard children.
The Bulletin’s editor weighed in, exposing the absurdity of the life-for-a-life biblical injunction. Since Nosey Bob, the executioner, was to shed the blood of Louisa Collins who had shed the blood of Michael Peter Collins, who then was going to shed the blood of Nosey Bob? And who would shed the blood of Nosey Bob’s executioner? ‘Where are we to stop?’ he demanded, because if the hangman represented the community then the lives of the entire community should be forfeited.
He also observed that all the scriptural reasons raked up by the hangman’s apologists were not so very long ago given for the burning and drowning of witches, an act that in current times was universally regarded as a piece of superstitious savagery. He added, ‘In much less than two centuries more, our own official stranglings will be justly looked upon in a similar light.’
• • •
Since capital punishment was still ‘the law’, abolitionists tried to motivate the public to think about what the law was aiming to achieve—justice for the victim, obviously, and punishment of the criminal—and whether it was succeeding. To some, retribution was, of course, the purest form of justice and the most effective deterrent.
Still, was death the ultimate punishment? The Bulletin’s editor, J.F. Archibald, recalled that when King George III granted pardons to two dozen female prisoners on the condition they accept transportation to New South Wales, six turned down the offer, preferring death to antipodean exile. Archibald felt that death, if it struck quickly, was not an appalling terror, that a lifetime of penal servitude with long stretches of solitary confinement would be a greater punishment. Moreover, with a lifetime behind bars, another aim of criminal punishment might be achieved: reformation. Needless to say, executed criminals could not be reformed.
As for ‘protecting society’ from the criminal herself, could Louisa be considered a serious threat? ‘She is not an evil exhalation which can arise in the night and defy prison walls and prison roofs,’ the Bulletin pointed out. To repeat her evil, she would require a lover, arsenic, milk and, of course, freedom, which could be prevented by the simple expedient of a sturdy prison door.
As for ‘deterring would-be criminals’, the hanging advocates believed that the only effective deterrent was to hang all criminals so that others would be too afraid to commit crimes. They claimed that reprieves gave hope to the wicked and spurred further crime. However, one letter-writer reminded the public that crime had not increased in England since the huge reduction in the number of crimes punishable by death—far from it. And the Bulletin added that capital punishment’s proven ineffectiveness as a community-wide deterrent was one of the reasons why a number of countries and American states had already legislated to abolish the barbaric practice.
Of course, setting aside the statistical evidence, one could simply mention the name of John Price, the English hangman who was himself hanged for murder. If a hangman—of all people—wasn’t deterred, could society truly expect anyone else to be?
No one talked about the financial benefits of executing criminals. It seemed too pragmatic, somehow, too brutal, particularly when one could use advocacy arguments that spoke of the supremacy and infallibility of divine will.
But what about the moral effects of capital punishment on society as a whole? Letter-writer Philanthros declared that it was an act of savagery disgraceful to the present age. Hum
anity argued that this relic from the dark ages had a hardening and brutalising effect upon society, and that a brutal society committed more crimes, not less. ‘Abolish it’ was the plea from many others as they flooded the press with reasons why such a punishment breached all standards of human decency.
The ‘death’ advocates, such as parliamentarian David Buchanan, declared that the notion that hanging inflicted a stain on society was the weakest and most perverted of all the weak and perverted notions being propagated by the ‘spurious, imbecile philanthropists pouring out their mawkish, miserable cant and diseased, rotten sympathy with crime and criminals’. It would take stronger arguments than these to convince the gallows’ apologists that the double-dyed murderess should be granted the indulgence of a reprieve.
• • •
As letter-writers sat at their desks furiously penning their opinions, a rumour began to spread. On the day Louisa was informed that the Executive Council had ratified her death sentence, she had ‘pled the belly’. According to that night’s Evening News, the premier had been notified. His response? If she were indeed pregnant, she would have to be withheld from execution.
Yet, how could she suddenly claim to be pregnant? Her husband had died five months previously and had been seriously ill for some weeks beforehand. Wouldn’t the gaol warders know if the woman was more than six months pregnant? Of course, it wasn’t unknown for female prisoners to fall pregnant during their incarceration. No prison was run solely by women.
A week later, the Evening News reported that the gaol physician, Dr O’Connor, had examined Louisa and had communicated the results of his examination to the authorities. No one would say what he had discovered. The authorities were keeping surprisingly quiet about the subject.
Chapter 35
The fell spirit of the Borgias is stalking through . . . society.
Michael Harris quoted in W.F. Bynum, Medical Journals and Medical Knowledge
A part from the fascinating tidbit about Louisa’s possible pregnancy, the journalists for the Evening News were struggling to find the type of information about Louisa that would motivate their readers to buy more newspapers. ‘Louisa Collins is one of the most uninteresting cases of condemned people that have ever been dealt with in Darlinghurst,’ one reporter lamented.
The pressmen continued delving. The editor sent reporters to the gaol itself, to Botany, even to the Merriwa and Scone districts where she had spent her youth, so they could ferret out every morsel.
What a minx the young Louisa had proven to be. Locals said she’d been the pet of the village, an especially appealing little girl. Blessed with good looks and winning ways, she’d become a country coquette by the time she reached her teens, soon earning for herself the reputation of being a heartless flirt. Despite her many suitors and youthful sweethearts, she hadn’t married any of them. Rather, she’d chosen Charles Andrews, a good-hearted fellow who was respected and esteemed by all who knew him. Reportedly, she had taken to drink within a couple of years of her marriage, which had caused tension in the household and had perhaps contributed to their decision to relocate to Sydney.
The Botany locals had their own stories about Louisa and the goings-on at Frog Hollow—or ‘Arsenic Flat’ as they had facetiously renamed the area. They gossiped about Louisa’s poor reputation, her drinking, her flirtations with the boarders—wishful thinking on the part of some, no doubt—and finally her ‘great intimacy’ with Collins. Some even mentioned seeing the couple kissing in tram cars or cavorting in the Botany bush.
Local draper Mr Bullock told a reporter that, shortly before Charles Andrews’ illness, Louisa had asked him what steps she would need to take to obtain her husband’s insurance money if he fell ill. Bullock said that he was suspicious when Andrews died soon afterwards, but had preferred not to make his suspicions known to the police. He had also thought it curious when Louisa ordered dress material of a light colour after Andrews’ death instead of the usual black mourning attire. When asked why, she had replied in a careless manner, ‘I can mourn in my heart without carrying my grief in my clothes.’ Bullock said that she had always seemed a bit eccentric. For instance, she refused to have her dresses fitted on her by the modiste but had never explained why.
The pressman thought this behaviour extraordinary. Why would Louisa relinquish what most women considered one of the joys of life?
The tales continued. Louisa, reportedly, didn’t tell her eldest son Herbert about his own father’s death. Apparently, he’d heard the news when he encountered an old friend and had travelled to Botany for confirmation where he discovered that Louisa had already found a replacement. She answered his indignant inquiry in her usual cool manner and, when questioned about his father’s money, told him that she had spent it all. Her astonished son said that he could have used his share to open a small business at Botany and help support the family. The gossips alleged that she afterwards disowned him—although logic would suggest that the family discord had occurred sometime before and would explain why Louisa hadn’t told him of his father’s death in the first place.
Neighbours said that the Collins baby was a sickly infant and that Louisa showed him little affection and disliked others looking at him. She would excuse herself by saying, ‘It’s only a very little thing.’ After the infant died, Ellen Price was called to wash and dress him. She told the pressman that she was disturbed by the infant’s swollen lips and tongue but saw nothing to justify alerting the police—no doubt a wise decision as the doctor had reported that he’d noticed nothing odd about the infant’s appearance.
And what about Collins himself? The pressmen’s questions received the type of knowing looks that spoke volumes. For a man with such indolent habits, a woman with a purse of gold was the ideal catch.
• • •
It was hard to sift fact from fantasy so the editor of the Evening News decided to publish it all, no matter how absurd. There were allegations that Louisa was a relative of the bushranger Ben Hall. Some even claimed that Hall had flown into a violent rage when he heard about Louisa’s marriage and had threatened to shoot Andrews at the first opportunity. (The Evening News was quick to point out that Hall had been killed some months before Louisa’s wedding while others confirmed that there was no connection between the two families.)
One gossip said that a Chinaman had died of opium poisoning in the same room as Andrews, as if the room itself contained an evil miasma. And a boarder, a hale and hearty ex-cavalry officer, had begun to waste away while residing at the Andrews house. He’d been ‘cured’ when he moved away but had fallen ill again after his return; eventually, he had packed his bags and sailed for England.
There were claims that Louisa had visited the house of a week-old infant, a most unusual occurrence in itself, and had suggested that the babe be given some condensed milk, which she insisted on preparing and administering herself. The baby had reportedly fallen ill after her departure and died soon afterwards.
Inevitably, ‘the ghost of Pople’s Terrace’ terrified some members of the locality with its bloodcurdling moans and violent retching. The reporter observed dryly, ‘As the house is still untenanted, it is not unfair to surmise that the ghost conjuror has been overawed by the solemn stillness of some lovely night and that recollections of a “good night” drink have muddled a superstitious brain.’
After the Botany locals had finished gossiping, they were asked if anyone had anything good to say about Louisa. Well, they replied, she always paid her way.
While offhand and dismissive, it was in its own way a curious accolade, suggesting a deep-seated honesty and integrity that was at odds with the picture of the drunken Jezebel drawn by the press. It was also a reminder of Louisa’s fortitude, which she was still managing to maintain, according to the gaol reports, despite a looming horror that would cause most people to collapse in despair.
Chapter 36
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
William Shakespeare, Hamlet
Abolitionist Frederick Lee had long wanted to cast the Bloody Code into the hellfires of history. So passionate were his feelings about this disgrace to humanity that he had helped found the Society for the Abolition of Capital Punishment in the aftermath of Henry O’Farrell’s iniquitous execution in 1869. Even prior to the society’s foundation, he had offered practical assistance to the condemned—like O’Farrell himself and, in more recent times, the Mount Rennie rapists. He believed that no one should be put to death for any crime, that the law’s purpose was to seek justice, not punishment, and that punishment itself was intended for the reformation rather than the destruction of the criminal.
Especially troubling was the irrevocableness of capital punishment. Lee liked to use Shakespeare’s poetry to make his point: ‘But once put out thy light, I know not where is that Promethean heat that can thy light relume.’ Lee and his fellow abolitionists were particularly alarmed when the convicting evidence was weak—for example, when it was founded on circumstantial evidence alone or the testimony of a single witness.
In recent times, Lee had given himself a title: the Standing Counsel for Condemned Prisoners. He monitored the capital cases moving through the court system to see if any might benefit from his philanthropic services, in particular those that lent themselves to suspicions of official malfeasance. Naturally, the reports of a woman standing in the dock on a murder charge—or two—had caught his attention.
Women had continued to be indicted on capital charges in the half-century since the Bloody Code had dropped theft from its statutes; however, in recent times, indictments and convictions had been few. In the current decade, only four other women had received capital convictions: the two Maitland murderesses (1885), along with Mary Laye (1882) and Harriet Williams (1886), the latter two for child-killing—both reprieved. Prior to the Maitland case, there had been no husband-killing convictions for a quarter-century.