The Hanging of Margaret Dickson

by Alison Butler

  ‘Of course I have, James. A hundred times, but they won’t listen.’

  A rag rests in Maggie’s lap, she holds both ends and twists with her fingers, tightening the tension until the material warps and distorts into a coiled snake.

  ‘Stop it. Give it here.’ James snatches the rag from her lap and flings it to the floor. ‘If you have told them you are innocent, why don’t they let you go?’

  ‘Because I have been accused of infanticide and concealment of being with child…’

  ‘Infanticide?’

  ‘It means the murder of a new-born child.’

  James sucks in his breath. ‘Oh, Maggie. Why did you go there in the first instance? You should have come home to Musselburgh, you know, after you left the child at the river’s edge.’

  ‘It does not matter, James. They would’ve found it and traced it back to me.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you reveal that you were with child and face the consequences? You didn’t get into that state on your own, what about the father? He could have shared his half of the blame.’

  ‘Oh, James, it’s no use looking back now. What’s done is done.’

  James shivers and wraps his arms around his body. For a while they just sit there opposite one another, at a loss for what to say.

  ‘Father sends his love, and Widow Arrock. Do you have a message for your children?’

  Maggie struggles to stand; the shackles are heavy and meddlesome and make a clinking noise all the while. ‘Aye, tell them I love them.’

  ***

  A sinister presence seems to lurk within the walls of the prison late at night. With some of the money from her petticoats she purchases a small cell off the main prison with a fire and a clean bed of straw. Soon, Maggie’s joined by a thief, a prostitute, and the burly gipsy – Black Bill. And for the majority of time, Maggie’s days are a miserable affair, most of them spent politely declining the gipsy’s advances, and hoping he’s gracious in her numerous rebuffs of him.

  To Maggie’s relief, after a couple of weeks, Black Bill finally relinquishes and turns to the prostitute for consolation. And for this she is thankful, because the last thing she needs is another child growing in her belly. Nevertheless, she’s far from a saint and in moments of weakness Maggie finds herself drawn to Black Bill and his chivalrous ways.

  Mr Kerr, the nervous gaoler, visits from time to time to teach Maggie to sign her own name instead of writing an X. When this happens Black Bill sulks in the corner, doing anything and everything to distract them. But Maggie never lets him get away with such nonsense and takes Bill aside, explaining that Mr Kerr’s a good man to be acquainted with – because he knows his letters and numbers. And if Maggie needs a message sending to Musselburgh, he’s the man to get it done.

  ***

  In the middle of March, Maggie receives important news. She’s to be moved to Edinburgh Tolbooth to await the beginning of her trial. Thus, with the stench of Jedburgh clinging to her skin, Maggie staggers out of doors, squinting into a searing bright light. The journey doesn’t take long and they are there in a few hours. With the wind and rain in her hair, she closes her eyes and pretends she’s at Joppa shore with the sound of a thundering sea in her ears.

  The tolbooth stands in the centre of Edinburgh’s old town, across from St Giles. Maggie knows it well. She’s passed it many a time as she’s cried out her wares. A formidable building with slit windows and large heavy doors, on the ground floor there is a shop and a thieves’ hole. The felons are held upstairs, and just like Jedburgh, it has thick iron bars on the floor where prisoners are chained and put to the gad.

  They ascend curved steps; gaolers escort Maggie on both sides. At the top of the staircase is a tunnel. Suddenly they’re plunged into an inky darkness. She gasps and reaches out ahead into a sinister passageway but there is nothing but blackness. A gaoler locates a torch and the tunnel soon flickers with weak amber light. She stumbles along with trembling knees, a feeling of suffocation descending upon her. Before long, Maggie struggles to breathe and places a hand to her breast.

  ‘I’ve bad feelings. Like feelings of darkness and sickness, as if I’ve reached a place where there are no boundaries between the living and dead. I can’t go any further…’ she wails.

  The gaolers laugh uneasily and move her along. ‘We feel it every time we go down here. Now walk on.’

  They proceed to a huge barred entrance. At the other side of the door a large cage dominates the main floor. A man sits cross-legged inside the enclosure, rocking back and forth. A quantity of spittle oozes from his mouth, and his eyes look like a crazed animal’s.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asks a gaoler.

  ‘That’s where we keep the dangerous and violent prisoners. Perhaps you would like to join him for the night? Keep him company.’

  Maggie shudders.

  ‘The gaol does a good trade here; you’d be wise to pay a fee – a lassie like you.’ His eyes look her up and down as though she’s a greased-up mulatto at a slave market. He licks his lips and stretches out one hand to fondle her, but before it reaches her a loud slap rings in the air as a hunchbacked man cuffs him across the head.

  ‘Leave the lass alone, she hasn’t even got to her cell yet. Be off with you, lecherous fool. I will deal with her.’ The hunchback takes hold of Maggie’s arm.

  With his shoulders forward, and his lower back curved, he shuffles forward passed the cage. As they proceed further into the tolbooth, he takes Maggie aside and pulls out a small book and a bag of coins.

  ‘Now, have you some money?’

  Maggie nods and hands him a few coins. ‘Will this do?’

  The hunchback nods his head and takes the money; despite the dim light he manages to record something into his small book.

  ‘I heard you ask about the cage. Well, if I was you, I’d stay well clear of it. The fellow in it now – well he’s evil, the devil’s own, he is. Do you get my meaning by that? Insane is what he is.’

  Maggie glances back at the barred enclosure with cautious eyes, wondering how a person can become so low as to be treated like an animal.

  The hunchback continues. ‘Aye, he’s insane all right. Bit someone’s nose off, he did, last week, a guard. Aye, bit it clear off, he did, and let me tell you there was blood absolutely everywhere. We picked up what was left of it and ran to the barber surgeon’s to stitch it back on. But it was no use; he’d eaten most of it.’

  ‘I’ll stay well away,’ nods Maggie.

  ‘That is wise.’

  ***

  He directs her to a solitary cell, inhabited by a few miserable creatures. In the pitch black, Maggie’s confinement enhances an acuteness of hearing and her senses become sharper. The days pass slowly, and for the most part she spends them sleeping, because in a land of slumber she can escape this godforsaken den of misery. One morning or night – she has no comprehension of time – Maggie’s ears prick up at a sharp high-pitched noise. Her back pushes off the moss-stained wall to peer beyond the shadows to the huge iron door.

  Maggie hears the steps first, and then a key turning in the lock. Finally the door flies open and Widow Arrock waddles in, wearing her best plaid pulled high around her head. A guard lights her way, keeping his eyes firmly ahead till she’s directed to Maggie. In haste, he turns on his heel, taking his torch with him, and thus plunging them into darkness.

  ‘Miserable blighter could have left us the light,’ the widow complains. ‘And what sort of greeting is this! Embrace your dearest friend.’

  The widow’s whiskers prickle Maggie’s face as she holds her in her arms. Nevertheless it feels good to be embraced by a friend. Maggie points to her bed of straw and motions for her to sit. ‘There are shops below. There is bound to be a chandler.’

  Then, before the widow contemplates whether or not to go to the chandler, the gaoler returns with his torch. For a while he hovers over them, and then he gets a good look at the widow’s face and promptly turns his back to them. The widow stares at Magg
ie from beneath scraggy brows, ugly as ever.

  ‘Well, I suppose this stinking flea-pit of a bed is better than sitting on the dirt floor. I bring you news, not that you deserve it. Your children are well and your father and brother send their greetings.’

  ‘What of Patrick?’

  ‘Still missing, but I suppose after everything that has happened, can you blame him?’

  Maggie hangs her head in disgrace. ‘Oh, for the love of God, I wish you could bring me words of comfort and not moral indignation…’

  ‘You’ve not a soul to blame, Maggie, but yourself. I took the children so that you could go to Newcastle to find that husband of yours, but you never got there, did you? Never got past Kelso, is that right? You’re fortunate to not feel the back of my hand, young lassie.’ She pauses for breath.

  Maggie holds out an arm to the widow and with her lips trembling says, ‘I wish I could… oh, I never intended for things to turn out this way. There’s nothing I can do about it now, is there? Don’t you think I feel wretched enough?’

  The widow takes her hand and squeezes. A tear pools in the corner of Maggie’s eye.

  Maggie forces a smile and asks, ‘How are the children? Have they been good?’

  ‘Aye, they are very well. Don’t be troubled concerning them, they are well cared for – Jean Ramsay has them now. And James looks after them occasionally.’ The widow suddenly shudders. ‘Lord above, this is a rat-infested hole if I ever saw one.’

  ‘Aye, it is not a pleasant place,’ Maggie says.

  The widow grimaces, somehow bringing more symmetry to her face. ‘The sooner you are out of this awful gaol the better, Maggie. Has your court date been set?’

  ‘No,’ Maggie shakes her head.

  ‘Well, I expect you’ll hear something soon.’ The widow pats her hand.

  ‘Aye, I expect I will.’

  ***

  In May, one of the bigwig’s clerks arrives, a fleeting visit, to impart vital news. It soon becomes evident that he has little interest in anything Maggie has to say. He hasn’t even the decency to acknowledge her with his eyes, preferring to talk to a spot directly above her head. With a handkerchief pressed against his mouth, his words are indistinguishable and mumbled.

  ‘I cannot hear you. Can you say that again?’ Maggie asks.

  The clerk takes the handkerchief away for just a moment. He immediately gags. ‘It’s the smell – gets me every time. I don’t know how you can stand it.’

  ‘It’s a case of having to.’

  ‘Never mind. The reason I am here is to inform you that the date of your first court appearance has been set.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘June.’

  ‘Can I ask for somebody to inform my friends and family?’

  ‘That can be arranged,’ he answers, returning his handkerchief to his face.

  ***

  When the weather turns sultry, the stench in the gaol is unbelievable. Sickness is rife in Edinburgh Tolbooth and gaol fever takes many a poor soul. Isaac the flesher died two days ago. And because the prison guards are too busy to collect his body, his remains are pushed into a corner. Somebody’s already claimed the blanket that covered his corpse. He lies uncovered, in plain view for all to see, and it isn’t a pretty sight. A mass of flies descend on him to lay eggs in every orifice. Soon maggots emerge and spew from his mouth, ears, nose – and worse. Rodents fight for his dead flesh, gnawing and chewing him, and somehow creating the illusion that he’s alive and twitching in his sleep.

  Maggie tears her eyes away from him; the smell that comes off him is unbearable. She sniffs her ragged clothes and her nostrils burn. The scent of death lingers everywhere; flesh, fabric and hair. Maggie has strange fancies of doom. Death is everywhere, and she knows the dead are known to terrorise the living. With the passing of time dark thoughts begin to taunt her – Maggie no longer cares. She peers into the dim shadows. A fat rat scurries along the floor, its long slimy tail trailing and swishing in the shape of a letter ‘S’ behind it. The rodent scratches about in foul straw, his pointy nose seeking prey and then he finds it. An old infirm man lies next to Maggie. He’s delirious and unaware of the mangy rodent. Maggie stares in horror as it climbs up his body, proceeding to chew his ear. The poor wretch doesn’t even have the strength to brush it off. And then all of a sudden, a calloused hand seizes the rodent and sends it flying in the air – like a flying trapeze act.

  ‘Bastard rats,’ rages Black Bill.

  ***

  Minister Bonaloy thinks he’s a worldly man, but as he descends into the miserable hole of Edinburgh Tolbooth, he realises that he is most definitely not. Horrible sights are everywhere and the stench; well it’s enough to knock a man down. Surely Maggie’s not survived this awful experience, but then he sees her.

  Upon a bed of filthy straw Maggie lies in a stupor. She’s much changed, hardly recognisable because of the weight she’s lost; he winces at the sight of her fettered feet, bloodied and full of sores. With a tentative arm he reaches out with his hand and strokes her matted hair, rousing her from sleep.

  ‘Maggie.’

  ‘Minister Bonaloy?’ her voice cracks with emotion.

  ‘Yes, it is I, Maggie. I’ve come to pray for you and comfort you.’ He holds out his hand.

  In a weak voice she mutters, ‘You’ve come to ask me to confess and repent.’

  ‘Let God be the judge, Maggie. I’m here to offer you my support and say a few prayers.’ He lowers his head and begins to recite a prayer.

  ‘I have sinned,’ she sobs. ‘Many, many times – and I’ve had impure thoughts…’

  ‘Hush…’

  ‘Please let me continue, Minister Bonaloy. I’ve been a slatternly witch – and I have strayed from my wifely duties many times. But I did not kill it. I could never murder my own child.’

  The minister shakes his head and his eyes fill with sorrow. ‘Your crime is one of ignorance, Maggie. And ignorance is the source of all evil. The knowledge of God is easily obtained. Your ignorance made you a faithful factor to the devil and evil. As a consequence you will be punished. But take comfort in the Lord, Maggie, because if you repent, He will forgive you. Have you anything to say?’

  ‘Nae, my fate is in God’s hands.’

  ***

  The hunchback gaoler does not attach himself to prisoners. But one prisoner is suddenly a concern. She is a bonny one; well, she was once he thinks, still is – in a way. As he peers down at her scrawny frame, he realises she’s been in exactly the same position for days. He shakes his head with frustration and wonders how she’s got beneath his skin, this fisher lassie at death’s door. With his boot he nudges her, but there is nothing, no noise or movement. He nudges her again and is relieved to hear her moan. In haste, he shuffles off into the darkness, his ghastly hunchback shadow falling behind him.

  ‘Ague,’ says the hunchback to the gipsy, Black Bill. ‘Weren’t you with the girl at Jedburgh gaol? She has a fever. I’m afraid she won’t last much longer.’

  ‘Let me tend her.’ The gipsy stands his ground and hands him a coin.

  ‘It’s up to you, gipsy. It is gaol fever, I tell you. You could go the same road as she’s going if you go to her, and you’ll be no use to anybody then.’

  ***

  The hunchback takes him to Maggie, and as he does so, Black Bill wonders what compels him to her – this strange lass he barely knows. Once he fixes his gaze upon her, he speculates no more. His eyes linger on her slender ankles; he steadies his rough hands and gently lifts them before turning her feet to examine the wounds.

  ‘Oh, lassie,’ he winces. Her feet are festering. ‘I wish I could take you away from this wretched gaol.’

  Somehow he manages to obtain a damp sponge to press against Maggie’s face. Afterwards, he strokes her hair and holds a cup of water to her parched lips. And slowly and carefully he cleans the wounds around her ankles, all the while keeping one eye on her.

  Suddenly Maggie cries out in delirium. ‘I ca
n’t bear it any longer. William, please help me. I need you.’

  ‘It is I, Black Bill. Who’s William?’ He can’t help feeling irritated, jealous even.

  ‘The child, William. I want to tell you…’

  ‘Shush, Maggie.’ Bill holds her hand.

  ‘It’s you I love, only you. I can’t see past you.’

  In a couple of days, thanks to Bill’s intervention, Maggie’s fever breaks and she’s able to sit up and take a little refreshment. But nevertheless, Black Bill stays by her side, and with his care and devotion, Maggie is soon feeling much better.

  ‘Drink the broth.’ He places a protective arm around her shoulders, and guides the bowl to her mouth.

  ***

  A clerk arrives with news of her trial again.

  ‘How long will the trial last and who will be there?’ Maggie enquires; she wrings her hands and gazes ahead. She’s never set foot in a court in her life and she wonders if folk will be allowed in there to witness her humiliation and shame.

  ‘These things take time. Lord Advocate Robert Dundas will be there. I don’t expect you’ve heard of him, well never mind he’s a very important man, having said that he is the most important man in court. Have you met your advocate yet?’

  ‘Advocate?’ Maggie frowns.

  ‘Yes – counsel for your defence?’

  ‘Nae.’

  ‘Well, you will, no doubt. Warrants have been issued for those people attending the trial, witnesses. Do you understand?’

  Maggie nods her head, but she really has no confidence in the matter. In short, she is perplexed; foreboding has left her crumpled and weak. She hasn’t the faintest idea what he is talking about. All she can fathom is that her first court appearance is sometime in June, and she knew that already.