Doolan’s brother was on his way from Ireland to Glasgow to be with him, but Doolan had informed Luther when he and Maureen had visited the two condemned men, ‘His reverence told me to withhold him back.’
Bishop Murdoch had been with the men for a few hours on the night before the execution date.
‘I’ll be there,’ Luther assured them. ‘If it’s of any comfort to you.’
‘Indeed it is, sur. Indeed it is.’ Both men shook his hand in gratitude.
Boozer turned to Maureen. ‘I wouldn’t be wanting you there.’
‘What do you mean, you big ape?’ Maureen shouted. ‘Haven’t I always been with you?’
Luther said, ‘Be quiet, woman. He’s thinking of you.’
‘Thinking of me indeed! Did he think of me when he went off with Doolan looking for a fight?’
Boozer lowered his knobbly shaven head and Doolan said,
‘You’re a terrible woman, Maureen. I heard you say you’d like to bate the man yourself.’
‘Bate him, not kill him, you pair of idiots!’
But before they left the cell Maureen had flung herself round Boozer’s neck and was showering him with kisses and tears. It took Luther all his strength to drag her away. All along the corridors she fought him like a crazy woman, punching, scratching, biting, screaming abuse. In his private coach too the struggle continued until nearing Blythswood Square she lapsed into tears of exhaustion. Once at the house she automatically dragged herself downstairs to the servants’ entrance which was below street level behind the iron railings. He climbed the few outside steps to the imposing front door. Not as imposing as the entrance to his mansion was going to be, though. Thoughts of the new house fast taking splendid shape on the western outskirts of the city were never far from his mind. They even suffused him with pleasure now at this sombre time.
In the parlour, Augusta eyed him in shocked disapproval. A glance in the mirror told him why. The black silk scarf tied round his stand-up collar had come loose. His frizz of hair was dishevelled and some of his waistcoat buttons were undone. He did them up then deftly retied his neck-piece.
‘The girl’s demented with grief. I had one hell of a struggle to get her away from the prison.’
‘Was it absolutely necessary for you to go to that awful place?’
‘They’re my men. The authorities have asked me to be in the procession to the scaffold tomorrow. Apparently it’s to be led by cavalry, then the city marshal, the open coach with the condemned men, my coach, more cavalry, the executioner, the sheriff, the provost, the magistrates, then more cavalry coming up at the rear. And as if that’s not enough there’s to be cavalry and infantry and police along each side of the procession. They’re even talking about having a couple of cannons.’
‘Why should they expect you to go? It is too dreadful.’
‘I told you. They’re my men. Not just Doolan and Boozer but the whole army of Irish around here. I suppose the magistrates think I could exert some influence if there was a riot.’
‘Oh, Luther, you would be right in the middle of it. What could you do? Please don’t go.’
‘The provost says the men might listen to me because they respect me. But it would be one hell of a job to be heard if there’s going to be the crowd that I suspect there will be.’
‘Do not go, Luther, please.’
‘I’ve promised Boozer and Doolan. What the devil’s that?’
Wailing noises were floating up from the kitchen quarters, not getting louder yet pervading the whole house with an eerie melancholy.
‘That’s not just Maureen,’ Luther said. ‘It sounds like the whole staff.’
‘Oh, dear,’ Augusta wrung her hands in distress. ‘What can one do?’
‘I’ll go downstairs and speak to them.’
‘No, it is my duty to deal with the servants.’ She hesitated in harassment. ‘It is obvious that no one is going to have a wink of sleep tonight. We might as well resign ourselves to that.’
‘Tell them to help themselves to some whisky, especially Maureen. She wants to come with me tomorrow, by the way.’
‘Oh, no!’ Augusta gasped. Her skirts rustled over to where she kept her bottle of eau-de-cologne, then after dabbing some of the cooling liquid on her forehead and temples she said, ‘I must dissuade her.’
‘I’ve already tried without success.’
The wailing was getting louder. It dragged at the air, clung to the plush curtains, wound round the dark furniture, made the feeble gaslight feebler. It was like a place possessed. Suddenly Augusta swished from the room.
Only two small gas brackets flickered in the hall and were totally inadequate in dispelling the gloom. Candles were far more easily controlled and dependable and she always insisted that several candelabras were kept lit around the house to supplement the fashionable but not very successful gas. Tonight the servants had forgotten to light the candles, as they had forgotten to build up the fire, and to bring her hot chocolate, and to turn down the beds.
At first Maureen had harassed the other servants and, although they had expressed pity and regret, nevertheless they made it clear they wanted to be free of her disrupting influence. Gradually, however, the anguish of Maureen’s grief overwhelmed them. They had become part of it, despite themselves.
Descending the stairs to the staff quarters Augusta found the kitchen in chaos. The dishes from the evening meal had not been washed but instead flung in careless lopsided mountains on either side of the sink. The table was strewn with remnants of food and dirty mixing bowls and wooden spoons and ladles.
Around the table was crowded every member of staff, including even the nursery nurses. The only person not slumped at the table noisily weeping was MacKenzie the governess.
‘Stop this noise at once!’ Augusta snapped. ‘Kennedy, run to the cellar and bring up a bottle of whisky.’
They had all groped to their feet when Augusta entered and now they stood wiping their swollen faces with aprons or handkerchiefs. Only Maureen remained on her seat like a rag doll, boneless, helpless.
‘When Kennedy returns with the whisky,’ Augusta continued, ‘have a large glassful each. Then keep yourselves busy. Get all of these dishes washed and put away for a start. And this table is a disgrace. See that it is given a thorough scrubbing. Now, Maureen,’ she turned to the still sobbing Irishwoman, ‘what nonsense is this I hear about you going tomorrow? I forbid you to set foot out of this house. It is for your own sake, I will not allow you to subject yourself to such a dreadful experience.’
‘I love him, Mrs,’ Maureen said.
Augusta’s eyes flickered away in embarrassment. ‘Here is Kennedy. Have some whisky. It will make you feel better.’
‘I love him.’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘The stupid big ape.’
‘Drink the whisky. All of you. No, I shall have some upstairs with the master. Go on! Do as you are told!’
‘I’m going to stay with him to the end, Mrs.’ Maureen lifted a tragic face and immediately a new outburst of sobbing was let loose round the table.
‘No, you are not!’ Augusta raised her voice to make herself heard. ‘He would not wish you to be there. You will only distress him and yourself to an intolerable degree. And I will not stand any more of this dreadful racket. Stop it at once! Get these dishes done. I will come back downstairs in one hour’s time and if this kitchen is not clean and tidy by then I will by very angry indeed.’
Returning up the dark stairs she held up her skirts and moved slowly and exactly. Across the hall now and into the parlour.
‘Well?’ Luther was standing with his back to the fire, a whisky glass in his hand.
‘At least I have got them to do something instead of just sitting there, all that is, except Maureen. She is in a state of complete collapse. She ought to be in bed. I shall tell her so when I go back down again.’
‘I’ve poured you a drink.’
‘Thank you.’
‘She won�
�t go to bed.’
Augusta sighed. ‘I cannot see any of them going—or us for that matter.’
‘It’s late, drink your whisky and go upstairs.’
‘What about you?’
‘I feel restless.’
‘Luther, there is no point in me going upstairs to lie in bed alone listening to those dreadful sounds.’
Intonations of anguish peppered the house erratically now like a ghost that had lost its way.
She and Luther sat opposite one another and after finishing her drink she attempted to while the time away with some embroidery. He lit a cigar and opened a book. The pendulum clock drummed ominously.
‘I’d better go down again and at least try to get them to bed,’ Augusta said after an hour had ticked away.
Out in the hall after opening the door to the servant’s quarters she stood for a few minutes listening to the moaning. She had the impression of looking down into a pit full of lost souls.
‘Kennedy!’ she called. ‘Bring a candle.’
In a few moments light quivered at the foot of the narrow stairway.
‘Hold it high,’ Augusta commanded as she carefully picked her way down.
The kitchen had been cleared up and the staff were now huddled around the fire with Maureen in the centre of the group as if they were trying to support her physically as well as spiritually by their closeness.
The Irishwoman gazed dumbly across at Augusta as if pleading with her to make everything all right.
‘You should all be in bed,’ Augusta said. ‘Have you finished the bottle of whisky?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ someone said.
‘You have my permission to take another. Then go to bed.’
‘We thought we could just doze in front of the fire here, if you don’t mind, ma’am.’
Augusta’s eyes clung to Maureen’s. She longed to voice some words of comfort to the girl but did not know how. Eventually she managed to address the waiting parlour maid.
‘Give me the candle and go back and sit with the others. Help them to look after Maureen.’
Then she left them to the long night.
Chapter Thirty-six
A festive air sizzled over the city. Everyone in Glasgow and the surrounding towns had a holiday from work. In house and hovel the populace were hurrying over breakfast, donning their Sunday clothes, sallying on to the streets. At five o’clock in the morning, crowds had collected in front of the jail. By seven o’clock they amounted to many thousands.
Waiting in the coach, Luther tried to divert Maureen’s attention from the open carriage directly in front of them in which had been placed two coffins. The Irishwoman seemed dazed. The other members of staff said they’d had to dress her and do her hair. It had been pinned up, and its fiery colour and the thick red sweep of her lashes accentuated her unnatural paleness. She sat motionless beside him, hands clasped on the lap of her green dress.
Bewildered she gazed around when noisy clopping and jingling heralded the arrival of detachments of cavalry in scarlet trappings and glittering swords. Then the thunder of the horse-drawn cannon shook the ground, followed by the marching feet and the tartan uniforms of the infantry men.
A square was formed by cavalry, infantry and police, and at precisely eight o’clock Doolan and Boozer were brought out respectably dressed in black suits as if they were going to someone else’s funeral. They stared in astonishment and confusion at the spectacle before them, the gaudy uniforms, the magnificent robes of the magistrates, the provost’s gold chain of office. But when Maureen suddenly galvanised to life and shouted his name, Boozer’s craggy face lit up and he eagerly waved to her.
Luther tried to pull her back and shut the carriage window, but kicking and wriggling free of him she leaned further out and shouted:
‘You stupid big ape! Aren’t you grinning there as if you were going to the fair? And, holy mother o’ God, why are you wearing that suit and you with a perfectly good pair of white canvas trousers and the loveliest scarlet waistcoat that ever covered a man’s chest?’
Luther jerked her back on to the seat. ‘Shut your mouth.’
‘Jaysus, what are they doing to the poor fellas now?’
The men, having descended the steps, were being taken back to the hall again.
Luther leaned out and called to the sheriff. ‘What’s happening?’
‘The procession’s not completely formed.’
‘Christ!’ Luther thumped back in disgust and five more minutes passed before the men appeared again. This time they were taken to sit on top of the coffins in the open carriage.
‘And you without even your nice blue bonnet,’ Maureen yelled.
‘Sit down,’ Luther said, trying to prevent her from seeing the men being handcuffed together and chained by the legs.
The Right Reverend Bishop Murdoch and two priests took their seats in the carriage with the condemned men, and the exhortations which they had begun in the cell were continued in solemn chanting voice in the open air.
The procession slowly moved forward. The guard of six hundred cavalry men held their swords aloft. The guard of one thousand, two hundred infantry men marched with fixed bayonets. Doolan and Boozer, completely overwhelmed and out of place in the midst of all this grandeur, sat with bowed heads. They never raised them again despite Maureen’s sporadic burst of shouting. Hers was the only voice to be heard above the clatter of horses’ hooves on the cobbles, the trundle of carriage wheels and the shuffling of the infantrymen’s feet. The crowd were silent. In the Saltmarket and High Street every window and even the tops of the houses were packed with onlookers but no one made a sound.
About half-past nine o’clock the procession approached the railway.
‘My God!’ Luther gasped when he saw the workings. Every part of them was covered with people. It was as if the diggings, the railroad, everything had been overrun by ants. Everything except the temporary bridge and the platform on which stood the scaffold. It was surrounded by a guard of cavalry but pressing hard in on them on all sides was an enormous multitude as far as the eye could see.
At the sight of the gibbet Maureen let out a moan of panic. Luther pulled her into his arms.
‘Hold on to me. Don’t look.’
But as the scaffold drew nearer her panic increased. Wide-eyed she clawed at the door as Doolan and Boozer ascended the platform. The men, however, were told that the preparations were not complete and had to descend again. They were taken into a wooden shed.
‘The divils!’ Maureen shouted. ‘They’re tormenting these poor fellas.’
When the two Irishmen re-emerged, their arms had been secured behind their backs.
‘Boozer!’ Like a madwoman Maureen fought to get out of the coach, her hair tumbling wildly about her shoulders and her dress getting torn.
‘Maureen, for Christ’s sake!’
Luther struggled with her as they put the ropes around the necks of the two Irishmen. Her screams nearly drowned out the bishop’s impressive prayer and the men’s earnest response to it. The caps were then drawn over their eyes and at the moment the Bishop repeated the words, ‘O Lord, receive their souls,’ the bolt was withdrawn.
Neither man died immediately. Boozer’s sufferings were so long-drawn out and severe that Luther felt caught up in a tornado of madness. The big Irishman’s struggles became so convulsed that his knees were jerking up to his chest. And all the time Maureen’s cries pitched higher and higher.
Only when the last quiver of Boozer’s life had stilled did she allow herself to be gathered into Luther’s arms and her cries muffled against his chest. One of his hands entwined in her thick hair, the other pressed her soft flesh against him so that she didn’t see the bodies being cut down and placed in their coffins. Nor did she stir as the cavalcade made its way in the same order as before back to Glasgow jail.
Luther nursed her like a child, stroking her hair, smoothing his cheek against hers. Once back at Glasgow he waited until the bodies were carried in
to the prison and the military and all the dignitaries had dispersed before he ordered the coach to return to Blythswood Square. He carried her up the stairs and through the door opened by the parlour maid. Augusta was waiting white-faced in the hall.
‘Where’s her room?’ he asked.
‘I’ll show you,’ Augusta said. Then, turning to the maid, ‘Go and fetch some brandy and bring it up to Maureen’s room.’
In silence Luther followed Augusta up to the attic, still carrying the half-unconscious woman in his arms. There he laid her on the bed where Augusta began deftly untying her boots.
‘There’s no need for you to stay, Luther. I’ll see to her.’
Reluctantly, he returned back downstairs and in the parlour he made straight for the whisky decanter. Some time later, Augusta joined him.
‘I have given her something to make her sleep and told one of the other maids to stay with her. Are you all right, Luther? Was there any trouble?’
Pouring himself another drink he gave a humourless burst of laughter.
‘Oh, it was no trouble. No trouble at all. It was a real Roman holiday. I reckon there must have been well over a hundred thousand sightseers lining the route and at least another fifty thousand swarming round the gallows. The Glasgow bailies put on a grand show. What a march of pomp and circumstance. What a triumphal, processional air the whole proceedings had.’
‘Luther, you only do yourself harm by being bitter. You must try to put the whole thing out of your mind.’
‘Just like that, eh?’
‘It is over and done with now.’
‘Over and done with?’
‘Well, isn’t it?’
‘You’re good at banishing things from your mind, Augusta. I must give you credit for that.’
‘I have never evaded my duty.’
‘Such perfection!’
‘I know my own worth.’
‘Indeed you do.’
‘Luther, if you consume any more whisky you shall get drunk.’
The Dark Side of Pleasure Page 25