‘Aye, but she did. And despite that she did not denounce me. And it pains me to say this, father – but I do not regret it, do you hear? I do not regret that night. Not even if she haunts me for the rest of my days…’
***
A week after her trial, Maggie’s sat next to Black Bill. He’s to be executed in the morning, and if one listens carefully, there is the sound of clanking and hammering as they erect the gallows at the north-east corner, near the foot of the West Bow. In less than a month it will be her own hanging, and the very thought brings a shiver to her bones.
Black Bill moves closer to Maggie. His eyes shining like black pools. ‘Will you lay next to me tonight, lass? I have not felt the arms of a woman for such a long time and I won’t take any liberties – I vow…’
‘Hush, Bill. I know you won’t. It is the least I can do.’
It pains Maggie to look at his miserable face, a sad contrast to the proud gipsy man she knows him to be. Gaol does that to folk; it breaks spirits and reduces all but the insane to shadows of their former selves. When night falls, Maggie grants Black Bill his wish and turns her thin body to his, allowing his head to rest against her breasts. He shrieks and jerks backwards.
‘Ouch – what is that?
‘A luckenbooth. I always wear it close to my heart.’
‘Well it just scratched my face, can’t you take it off?’
‘Never,’ Maggie shakes her head. ‘Now go to sleep, Bill.’
‘I don’t want to die,’ he whispers.
‘Hush now, I am here for you.’
***
In the morning, when they come for him, Black Bill keeps his nerves in check. There is no bravado about him, rather a calm, sorrowful look. As the guards lead him away, the wild creature flips in his cage, and his arms crash against the heavy iron bars as froth protrudes from his mouth. He chants: ‘Dead man, dead man, dead man!’
Meanwhile, Black Bill’s mouth twists with mirth. As he approaches the cage he stops and pauses to bang on his bars. And the guards suck in their breath at this brave feat, as they never get close and tend to poke things in with a stick.
‘Who rattled your cage?’ Bill bellows at him.
The caged man stands perfectly still, his face like stone. No one has ever seen him keep quiet or still for so long. All of a sudden he erupts into laughter and mimics the gipsy. ‘Who rattled your cage?’
***
Gaol is an empty and lonely place without Black Bill. Four days after his execution, a prisoner, one Maggie is not acquainted with, manages to acquire a broadsheet of his crime. Therefore, in haste, Maggie contrives to possess the broadsheet, and exerts herself to this stranger, in an effort to acquire the paper. However, once the precious document is in her hands, her face falls in disappointment – damn, she cannot read. In the end the old hunchback guard takes pity on her and snatches it from her hands, saying through gritted teeth: ‘For goodness sake, give us it here, you bunch of half-wits. I’ll read it for you if you want – although I have a much shorter version for you: he was a highwayman and that is that.’
‘Please,’ Maggie pleads. ‘I want to know the details of his crime.’
A group soon circles the disfigured man, all struggling for a spot of their own. Maggie, impatient as ever, prompts him to start. The hunchback clears his throat before reading. ‘That upon the twelfth day of December, William Leslie, alias ‘Black Bill,’ did commit the heinous crime of highway robbery. A Mr McFadden had set home in his carriage after a successful day at the races and was carrying £150. All had seemed well and quiet until he was stopped by a
well-dressed man of dark complexion wearing a green velvet coat with gold buttons. Furthermore, the dark man who was riding on a black horse and carrying a pistol demanded that Mr McFadden hand over all of his money and jewels. Initially, Mr McFadden refused until he was hit with a pistol over the head. Eventually his manservant became injured in the struggle. The man escaped quickly on horseback with the £150 and a precious Thomas Tompian pocket watch.’
Maggie gasps and repeats the words, ‘precious Thomas Tompian watch.’ She tries to remember where she placed her precious watch – the one she took from Alexander. Maggie bites her lip and near chokes with hysterics. She’s hid an incredibly valuable watch in a stinking pigsty.
The prison guard hushes her and continues to read from the broadsheet: ‘A sergeant was quickly ordered to search for the highwayman and a cash reward was offered for the capture of the perpetrator of the crime. A man fitting the description was quickly found and lodged in Jedburgh Tolbooth, and subsequently taken to Edinburgh Tolbooth to await trial. Black Bill was found guilty of highway robbery and sentenced to death by hanging.’
The gaoler returns the broadsheet to Maggie, a cheerless look on his face. ‘Your turn next.’
***
It was the dream, the one she’s suffered with for years. That damned tapping noise followed by clanging and hammering. Disorientated, Maggie turns on the filthy straw and realises it’s not the dream – it’s real. They are building the gallows for her.
Minister Bonaloy arrives, a Bible in his hand. Maggie rocks back and forth, her lips so dry they are stuck together. She tries to speak to him but nothing comes out and as he reaches for her hand she begins to cry.
‘The sheriffs are coming,’ says the minister. The minister winces as they drag her outside and in vain he tries to shield her from the coffin that sits on the cart outside – but she’s already seen it.
‘Who paid for the coffin?’ she enquires.
‘Jean Ramsay,’ he replies. ‘Folk are wondering how on earth she paid for it.’
Maggie knows how.
Before the cart sets off, she reaches a tentative hand out to Minister Bonaloy and looks him deep in the eyes. ‘Will you tell my children that I love them, and that I am sorry for all that has happened – and kiss them for me?’
The minister nods. ‘It shall be done.’
‘And there is something else. If Patrick should return, will you tell him that I begged for his forgiveness? And will you tell him that I am sorry for being an unfaithful wife and that I love him?’
‘Oh, Maggie – is it foolish of me to think that might be hard for him to believe? After all that has happened?’
Maggie stares into his fine face. ‘He will believe, Minister Bonaloy, because I have no reason to lie – not now when I’m about to die.’
‘Never mind, dear, let us pray together.’ He offers her his hand.
‘Aye, let us pray. I’m ready. I am ready to die.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE HANGING – 2 SEPTEMBER 1724
‘Honest John’ Dalgleish holds the unenviable position of Edinburgh executioner. It’s not the greatest job in the world, but someone has to do it and that someone might as well be him. When John’s not hanging or scourging folk, he’s expected to keep busy and that involves keeping the streets clean of stones and swine. Stranger things are found lying in the wynds – a dead baby inside a sheep’s bladder for instance, being kicked about by the beggar boys. But then there’s not much that surprises him in his line of work. John’s hardened to it all, and he more than anyone realises life is cheap. People live and people die and life goes on.
Nevertheless, it’s a living and in short, John Dalgliesh is a livery of the city – a public servant. For obvious reasons he’s not a popular man. But having said that he obtains no pleasure from watching folk suffer and there are times when he feels he can no longer stomach the job. It’s not all doom and gloom though, there are a few perks to being a lockman; such as all the free fish and peat he’s entitled to – and better still, all the ale he can drink during a punishment. Scourging in particular is thirsty work.
Many a public executioner abuses their power, but not Johnny Dalgliesh – he’s indeed an up-right character and just man. Only the other week someone asked John how hard he beats his criminals, and he said: ‘I lay my lash according to my conscience.’
The hangm
an’s house lies at the foot of the fish market. It’s a modest lodging but serves his needs. As always, at the crack of dawn he awakens, he stretches and yawns. A prickling sensation begins at the base of his neck, spreading all across his scalp with a searing heat. Another hanging, he thinks, wiping the sleep from his eyes – nothing remarkable except for the fact that he knows the woman, a Musselburgh fishwife by the name of Dickson, a popular lassie. He’s taken fish from her creel many a time.
‘Damnation,’ he curses under his breath. As he dresses in haste he hopes the crowd won’t give him any trouble. He must take his staff – just in case.
Delicate hands cut at a chunk of bread, knife protruding from elegantly tapered fingers that might have played a fine instrument or painted art. He eats his bread with haste, swallowing before he chews properly, not savouring the taste but mechanically so; to him it’s just fuel. A hand to his mouth, he wipes away crumbs then gathers a length of hempen span in his arms before closing the door behind him.
Outside Hingie House, he pauses to lean on his door; the sun beats down on his face, scorching his eyelids. When he opens his eyes all he can see is a fireball, a blinding light that makes the streets appear ghost-like and eerie. A knocking noise echoes in the distance. The banging noise of a hammer as the gallows is erected.
***
Horse and cart rattle downhill towards the Grassmarket, a spacious and stately rectangle 230 yards in length. They proceed along the north-east angle along an acclivitous and ancient winding alley towards the gallows situated at the foot of the West Bow. The minister shudders at the sight of the scaffold flanked by tall tenements, the windows of which afford a grandstand view. A young drummer boy bangs on his drum ahead of a sweating horse and guards surround the cart to protect the prisoner from the rabble. Outside a tavern, the wagon comes to a halt and one of the sheriffs jumps out to speak to the innkeeper.
‘One for the road, Maggie?’ a sheriff asks, and mimics the act of taking a drink.
‘Nae, I’ll stay on the wagon.’ She turns to Minister Bonaloy. ‘The tavern’s where all this trouble started.’
The cart moves off again, rattling down the steep hill. Maggie sits in the cart, perched on top of her coffin, her hands tied together in front of her so that she faces the back – they tied her thus to spare her the sight of the scaffold looming ahead. Not because they care mind – no they tie all condemned folk this way to avoid escape attempts from terror-struck prisoners. Minister Bonaloy prays at Maggie’s side, uttering words of comfort. The road is narrow and winding and all around them folk crowd around the cart, packed shoulder to shoulder to get a view of the condemned. At the head of the procession, the chief sheriff and hangman lead the way, and at the rear more guards keep the rabble from the cart. Maggie’s crying, tugging at the rope with her hands. The minister reaches out and continues his prayers but Maggie can’t hear him – a tall man with golden hair has burst his way through the guards.
‘Maggie!’ he screams.
William Bell chases the cart, arms pumping up and down; he is near – just within reach. Maggie tugs on the rope again and before long her hands are loose, she stretches out a hand – and as their hands entwine, Maggie passes him the silver luckenbooth.
***
Mr Cunningham, the baker, is excited as he hangs his floury apron on a rusty nail protruding from his flaking lime-washed wall. The streets of Edinburgh are heaving with activity, pie-sellers, beggars and whores weave their way through a massive crowd. As he opens and locks the door behind him, he hears the macabre beat of the drum-roll that marks a hanging day. Into the dense crowd he is drawn, hands guarding his pockets, vigilant and cautious of the pickpockets and thieves. The crowd is raucous and stirs along like a great ebbing tide, sucking Mr Cunningham into its current. He finds a spot at the West Bow well beneath the inscription ‘Nisi Dominus Frustra.’ He’s familiar with Edinburgh’s motto – ‘Without God Everything Fails.’ As he climbs onto a small platform to gain a most splendid view, a sea of bodies cover the Grassmarket. Thousands have turned out to see the wanton fishwife hang. The rat-a-tat of drums pulse through his body as the woman’s crime is read out to the crowd.
‘I’m innocent,’ she cries.
The crowd roars.
Mr Cunningham observes the damned woman with abhorrent fascination. With curious eyes he observes her family and friends standing near the gibbet foot, bidding her a tearful farewell. As the drum beats to a crescendo she remains calm and admits being unfaithful to her husband but denies murdering her child. Finally, a great hush descends over the crowd. Hecklers at long last silenced as anticipation and expectation crackles all around.
‘She’s all skin and bone,’ a fat water-carrier cries out.
‘The tolbooth’s left its mark on her. That’s what happens when you drown your baby,’ someone replies.
‘Some say she’s innocent.’
‘Aye, that’s what they all say.’
***
John Dalgliesh circles the scaffold. He’s forgotten something, he’s sure of it, but what? He checks the rope again – it’s a new one and he can find no fault. The fishwife stands next to her minister, he can hardly bear to look at her – it’s her face and the slender sweep of her shoulders. His hands are steady as he places the noose around her neck. The hangman glances at her again, she shows no fear, except for a slight tremble in her knees. He can’t help noticing her skin, so pale and white that he can make out spidery blue veins in the sides of her face and neck.
‘Turn around. I need to tie your wrists.’
‘I won’t be able to climb the ladder.’
His face reddens. ‘Aye, up you go then – I’ll tie them later.’
At the base of her spine he presses his hand, guiding her up the ladder, one rung at a time. His eyes become focused on her clothes, all ragged and torn, her soft skin visible beneath.
‘Stop,’ he commands in a gruff voice. He peers up at his assistant perched atop the crossbeam of the gallows and nods his head. With a sweep of his arm he throws up the loose end of the rope and watches him secure it properly. ‘Done?’ he calls out.
‘Aye, it’s secure.’
‘I’m tying your wrists now. If you struggle, I’ll hang you myself with me bare hands, do you hear me?’ He jumps off the ladder.
The drum-roll grows louder, tension building as he places two rough hands either side of the ladder. He curses and pauses to wipe sweat from his forehead. An awful feeling festers in his stomach as he handles the ladder once again and at the same time he looks up to the shadowy silhouette perched upon the top rungs. All is quiet – he takes a deep breath and twists the ladder.
‘May the Lord have mercy on your soul.’ The hangman turns the ladder away.
‘Her hands have come free,’ a woman screams. ‘She’s trying to pull the rope from her neck.’
But the hangman has turned to stone. His feet stick to the ground and his legs turn to mush and all the while he screams inside. He can’t believe his eyes – the lassie’s hands have worked their way under the noose, somehow trapped after the drop took place. Her feet thrash in empty air, writhing in the painful agony of death.
‘Cut her down,’ a man screams.
‘Shame – shame on you!’ another man in the crowd yells.
Suddenly the feeling in his legs returns and he springs to action. ‘Where is my staff?’ the hangman curses. He knew he’d forgotten something – how could he be so foolish? ‘I need a stick. Has anyone got a stick with a cleek?’ He ducks as stones and rocks are hurled at him.
‘No, you incompetent fool!’
The hangman lunges at a poor cripple. ‘Give me the stick now or you will be sorry.’ He snatches it away and recoils as the crowd surges towards him – holding out the stick to keep them away.
‘For God’s sake, get back. This poor woman is suffering and needs to be dispatched.’
He picks up the stick and gives the fishwife a few whacks, but before he knows it he’s on his knees being p
elted with stones. They stamp on him, curse and spit – then everything goes black.
***
Mr Cunningham, the most respectable baker, crosses himself and shudders, he can’t bear to watch. He closes his eyes to the hideous spectacle playing out in front of him and waits for the screams and shrieks to die down. Folk elbow and shove him in the ribs and shout down his ear, before long he’s tempted to peek out once again. He takes a deep breath, opens his eyes and stares at the gibbet.
‘Where’s the hangman?’ he questions a pie seller.
‘He fell. He’s with his assistant now. They were separated in the confusion – haven’t you been watching?’
The hangman emerges covered in muck and blood, his assistant helping him to stand. A light drizzle begins to fall, clinging to the shape of the hanged woman’s curves. The baker holds his breath and quivers at the macabre spectre, his eyes lingering over her for the longest time.
‘Watch,’ the pie seller points to the corpse dangling from the gibbet. ‘The hangie’s about to pull down on her legs.’
‘Whatever for?’
But before the pie seller can answer, the hangman wraps his strong arms around her and tugs down on her legs; it would seem to snuff out any life left in the poor woman.
***
John Dalgliesh slumps to the floor beneath the gallows, his body bruised and sore.
‘Fire and hell, man. Where were you? Did you see what happened?’ he mutters to his assistant.
The Hanging of Margaret Dickson Page 27