Amazing True Stories of Execution Blunders

by Abbott, Geoffrey

  Sentenced ‘to be taken to the gyppet [gibbet] at Wigtown, Scotland, on 31 August 1709 and there hang until dead’, Patrick Clanachan, the last man to be executed in that town, was being dragged on a hurdle en route to the gallows and, on seeing spectators running past to get a good place in the market square, called out, ‘Take your time, boys – there’ll be no fun till I get there!’

  Richard Johnson

  Not all criminals were thick-witted or resigned to their fate, of course; some were determined to stay alive at all costs and so worked out ingenious methods by which they could cheat the hangman. One such resourceful fellow was Richard Johnson. The Gentleman’s Magazine of April 1853 reported that:

  ‘He was hanged at Shrewsbury on 3 October 1696, but it was found that after he had been suspended for a full half-hour, life was still not extinct. An inspection revealed a skilful arrangement consisting of cords under his clothing, and two hooks concealed by his flowing periwig, which prevented the noose from effecting strangulation. Johnson, in planning his scheme, must have had the connivance of the under-sheriff, of a concession to the effect that the customary removal of all clothes from the corpse before being placed in the coffin should, in his case, be dispensed with, but had overlooked the difficulty of simulating death in such circumstances and for any considerable length of time.’

  His basic plan was excellent, and theoretically stood every chance of succeeding; the hooks, positioned beneath the back of his wig, not only prevented the noose from tightening around his throat by catching over the rope, but being also connected to the harness, took the weight of his body. And once placed in his coffin fully clothed, thanks to the under-sheriff ’s cooperation, he could possibly have escaped en route to the Surgeons’ Hall and subsequent dissection, and may even have arranged for colleagues to create a disturbance so as to distract those charged with escorting him thither.

  Alas, ingenious he may have been, actor he wasn’t; having to remain suspended, completely limp and motionless like a rag doll, was completely beyond his capabilities. Maybe he only half-stifled a cough behind his hood, or began to get cramp in his legs; whatever it was, it proved fatal in more ways than one, for after being cut down and his escape gear removed, the crowd received the bonus of a second item of entertainment as poor Richard was once more executed, this time decisively; after which his clothes were definitely removed before his corpse was deposited in his coffin.

  In 1549 the Mayor of Bodmin, Cornwall, had taken part in an uprising, but so minimal was his participation that he was confident of an acquittal and this was further endorsed by the visit of Sir Anthony Kingston, who had invited himself to dine with the Mayor. The purpose of the visit, Sir Anthony explained, was to hang a man, and after the meal they adjourned to the newly constructed gallows.

  ‘Think you it is strong enough?’ queried his Lordship.

  ‘It is indeed,’ quoth the Mayor, only to recoil in shocked horror as Sir Anthony retorted, ‘Well then, get you up – it’s for you!’

  Robert Johnston

  There have been many horrendous blunders committed by hangmen in the past, but few can surpass the undiluted horror caused by the ineptitude and downright inefficiency of the Edinburgh executioner John Simpson when, on 30 December 1818, he had to hang Robert Johnston, aged 23, for the crime of robbery on the highway. The Scotsman vividly described how:

  ‘the place of execution was in the midst of the most public place in the City, in the Lawnmarket. The gallows rested on the wall of the old Cathedral Church of St Giles, and under the gallows was erected a scaffold, in the centre of which was a small quadrangular table on which Johnston stood, while Simpson attached a rope to his neck, the upper extremity of which was tied to the gallows.

  When the criminal gave the fatal signal, it was intended that the table on which he stood should instantly drop to the level of the flooring of the scaffold, and leave him suspended [in much the same way as that used in the execution of Lord Ferrers in 1760]. But through the culpable negligence of those concerned in this operation, it really seemed as if the whole had been contrived to produce the shocking consequences which ensued. For, in the first place, the table, which seemed to be elevated only about eighteen inches above the level of the scaffold, was manifestly too low to admit of a sufficient length of rope between the neck and the gallows, unless it was intended to keep the unhappy man for a long time in torture, by making the rope quite tight before removing the table. In the next place, the table was so clumsily constructed that it could not be removed until some time after the signal.

  Accordingly, nearly a minute elapsed after the signal was given before the table could be forced to drop, and after it was got down, the perpendicular fall was so short that the unhappy man’s toes were still touching the surface, so that he remained half-standing, half-suspended, and struggling in the most dreadful manner.

  It is impossible to find words to express the horror which pervaded the immense crowd assembled round this shocking spectacle, while one or two officials were at work with axes beneath the scaffold in a vain attempt to hew down a part of it beneath the feet of the criminal. Meanwhile the cries of horror from the populace continued to increase. Still the magistrates and others on the scaffold did nothing effectual; and it is hard to say how long this horrible scene might have lasted had not a person near the scaffold, who was struck by a policeman, cried out, ‘Murder!’ Those unaware of the circumstances of this assumed that the cry came from Johnston and, their feelings not able to bear further lacerations, went into action, a shower of stones taken from a loose pavement compelling the magistrates and police to retire in a moment.

  The crowd then took possession of the scaffold, a genteelly dressed person cutting down the unhappy man and, after some time, they succeeded in restoring him to his senses. They then endeavoured to carry him off, and had proceeded some way along the High Street when the constables, who had abandoned their post on the scaffold, proceeded with their bludgeons to assail all the individuals who were around the near-dead man, of whom they at length recovered possession.

  A spectacle now presented itself which equalled anything witnessed on the streets of Paris during the Revolution; the unhappy Johnston, half-alive, stripped of part of his clothes and his shirt turned up so that the whole of his naked back and the upper part of his body was exhibited, lay extended on the ground in the middle of the street in front of the police station. At last, after a considerable interval, some of the police officers, laying hold of the unfortunate man, dragged him trailing along the ground for about twenty paces, into their den, which is also the old Cathedral.

  Johnston remained in the police station for about half an hour, where he was immediately attended to by a surgeon, who bled him in both arms and in the temporal vein, by which the half-suspended animation was restored; but the unfortunate man did not utter a word. In the meantime a military force consisting of men of the 88th Regiment arrived from the Castle under the direction of a magistrate. The soldiers, having been ordered to load with ball ammunition, were drawn across the street surrounding the police station and the place of execution.

  It was now within thirteen minutes of four o’clock when the wretched Johnston was carried out of the police station to the scaffold. His clothes were thrown about him in such a way that he seemed half-naked, and while a number of men were around him, holding him up on the table and fastening the rope again about his neck, his clothes fell down in such a manner that decency would have been shocked, had it even been a spectacle of entertainment instead of an execution. Simpson then released his victim temporarily, in order to shorten the rope by taking a few turns round the hook above, then noosed Johnston again.

  While they were adjusting his clothes, the unhappy man was left vibrating, upheld partly by the rope and partly by his feet on the table. At last the table was removed from beneath him, when, to the indescribable horror of every spectator, he was seen suspended with his face uncovered, and one of his hands broke loose from the cords
with which it should have been tied, and his fingers could be seen straining to loosen the noose. Dreadful cries were then heard from every quarter. A chair was brought and, the hangman having mounted on it, disengaged by force the hand of the dying man from the rope. He then descended, leaving the man’s face still uncovered and exhibiting a spectacle which no human eye should ever be compelled to behold. It was at length judged prudent to throw a napkin over the face of the struggling corpse.

  The butchery, for it can be called nothing else, continued until twenty-three minutes past four o’clock, long after the street lamps were lighted for the night, and the moon and stars distinctly visible, and the execution continued until nearly half an hour after, controlled by the magistrate who had earlier summoned the military force. The soldiers, who had behaved throughout with the utmost propriety, remained at the spot until the body was cut down, and as it was then dusk, the crowd gradually dispersed.’

  So appalled were the authorities at the fiasco that had taken place that Simpson was instantly dismissed; he moved to Perth, taking on the job of hangman there, but died soon afterwards, for which, no doubt, the criminal fraternity of that fair city were duly thankful.

  In court in May 1896, Albert Milsom and Henry Fuller accused each other of the murder of their victim. Both were found guilty and continued their violent quarrel while being taken back to their cells. Later, on the scaffold, they were kept apart by having another murderer, John Seaman, positioned between them on the drop, and it is reported that Seaman’s last words were, ‘It’s the first time in my life that I’ve ever been a bloody peacemaker!’

  Captain Kidd

  There may have been a small procession accompanying the infant William Kidd on his way to be christened at the local church; there was certainly a much more elaborate cavalcade on the day on which he died, the 23 May 1701. It assembled at Newgate Prison and was led by the Deputy Marshal of the Admiralty, carrying the Silver Oar, the symbol of the jurisdiction which that court held over all mariners. He was followed by the Marshal of the Admiralty, resplendent in his traditional uniform, riding in his official coach, his coachmen also clad in their distinctive livery, and behind them came the City of London marshals on horseback. The next vehicle, without which there would have been no need for such a parade of pomp and splendour, was far more commonplace but just as traditional, for, escorted by the sheriff ’s men, it had as passengers the City’s hangman, the Newgate Ordinary – and the victim, pirate Captain Kidd.

  The procession travelled to the bend of the River Thames at Wapping and Execution Dock, the site at the river’s edge reserved for the execution of those who committed maritime crimes. Thousands packed every conceivable viewpoint, the riverside inns and jetties being jammed with spectators. Near to the shore, long lines of barges accommodated those who could afford such front row seats, while further out in the river, larger ships were moored, their decks and even their rigging swarming with sightseers, all eager to witness the death of such a notorious pirate.

  In his younger days Captain Kidd had moved to New York, where he bought a small vessel and traded among the pirates who infested the area, although outwardly he professed to be such an honest and trustworthy man that the Earl of Bellamont, the Governor of New England and New York, employed him to assist in suppressing the pirates, and furthermore persuaded the authorities in London to raise £6,000 to subsidise such measures. Accordingly a vessel named Adventure Galley was fitted out and in 1695 Kidd and his crew sailed to Madeira, thence to Bonavista and St Jago, and eventually to Madagascar. Not encountering any of the pirate fraternity, he headed out into the Indian Ocean, where he stopped and captured the Quedah Merchant, a ship of 400 tons’ burden, the master of which was an Englishman named Wright, the crew members being of Dutch, French, Moorish and African nationalities.

  At that stage, reasoning that if he couldn’t catch a pirate he might just as well become one himself, he sailed back to Madagascar, burnt the Adventure Galley, and divided the prize money (the cargo of his latest catch) proportionally between the members of his crew, depending on their rank, keeping forty shares for himself. Having transferred his spoils to another sloop, he disposed of the Quedah Merchant to a man named Bolton who, for whatever reason, decided to expose him to the authorities as a pirate; accordingly when Captain Kidd later sailed his sloop into Boston Harbour in 1699, Bolton was there – as were the governor’s men, who promptly arrested him.

  The following year he was sent, a prisoner under guard, to England, and appeared before the bar of the House of Commons, the members of which were investigating the grounds on which Kidd had been recruited in the first place as a ‘pirate-catcher’. It was reported that ‘the prisoner, who was in some degree intoxicated, made a very contemptible appearance in the House, on which a member, who had been one of the most earnest to have him examined, violently exclaimed, “This fellow! I thought he was a knave, but unfortunately he happens to be a fool likewise!”’ He was committed for trial at the Old Bailey; his defence, that he had thought the Quedah Merchant was a pirate ship because it was manned by Moors, was rejected, there being no proof that the ship had ever committed any act of piracy, and he was sentenced to death.

  Kidd went to his death drunk, a state which, as the Newgate Ordinary observed at the time, ‘had so decomposed his mind that, now, it was in a very bad Frame.’ But the frame that really did the damage was the structure to which the intoxicated Captain was secured – the gallows. Perhaps it was just as well that the felon had partaken of a few flagons of ale that day ‘for the rope broke and he fell to the muddy foreshore again, but being immediately tied up again, the Ordinary again entreated him to prepare his soul to meet its important change. These exhortations appeared to have the wished-for effect, and he was left to swing, having professed his hopes of salvation through the merits of the Great Redeemer and his charity to the world.’ Whether his hopes of salvation were ever granted, is not known; what is known however, is that his ‘charity to the world’ stopped short of informing the chaplain or anyone else where he had buried his piratical treasure.

  After a suitable interval had elapsed and the tide was at its lowest, the executioner and his assistant cut the cadaver down and chained it to a wooden stake driven deep into the sands, its head and limbs to loll in rhythm with the waves of the next three high tides as a dire warning to the thousands of seamen who entered or left the City via the Thames each year.

  Guilty of murdering one of his crew, Captain James Lowry was another who had been sentenced to be hanged at Execution Dock but, unlike that of Captain Kidd, his corpse was to be coated with tar, trussed in a tight-fitting ‘suit’ of iron straps, and suspended from a gibbet as a dire warning to all felonious mariners. He accepted the verdict of the court philosophically but on being visited by the blacksmith who had come to measure him for his new metallic outfit, he fell back on his bed in a dead faint, thereby making it easier for his ‘tailor’ to carry out his task. On regaining consciousness the Captain explained apologetically that it was not the fear of death that had upset him, but the disgrace of the public exposure!

  Another condemned seafarer, William Jackson, awaiting execution in Newgate Prison in 1739, saw the blacksmith enter the condemned cell with his tape measure – and promptly dropped dead with fright.

  John Henry George Lee

  John Lee had been a servant in the household of an elderly lady, Miss Emma Anne Whitehead Keyse, who lived in Babbacombe on the Devon coast. Employing him had been an act of charity on her part, for when Lee was sentenced to prison for stealing from a previous employer, she had suggested to the authorities that rather than incarceration, it would help him correct his ways if he were to take a job in her house as footman and gardener. A fatal mistake, for on the night of 14 November 1884 one of the maids was woken by the smell of smoke and on venturing downstairs she found the dead and partially charred body of her mistress on the dining room floor. Shocked, she returned upstairs for help, there to be joined by Lee who, on
seeing her faintness, supported her; she was later to discover that her nightdress bore traces of blood.

  Investigations by the police revealed that Miss Keyse had been dealt a violent blow by a hatchet to the back of her head, her throat had been cut, and that at least five fires had been started in various rooms, paraffin oil having first been poured over the carpets and furniture. There were no signs of a forced entry, and in view of Lee’s criminal record, he was arrested.

  At the inquest, evidence was given regarding the blood found by the maid on her nightdress just after she had found her dead mistress; Lee refuted the allegation, saying that he had cut his arm on breaking open a window to allow the smoke to escape. What he apparently could not explain was the presence of hairs matching those of the dead woman found on his socks, and the fact that he had, in the recent past, uttered threats against her.

  At his trial in Exeter Castle he appeared quite indifferent; so composed in fact that when the judge commented on it, he replied, ‘Please, my lord, allow me to say that I am so calm because I trust in my Lord and He knows I am innocent.’ However, despite the evidence being mainly circumstantial, the jury did not agree with him, and brought in a verdict of guilty.

  Incarcerated in Exeter Gaol, he maintained his unconcerned attitude, and the atmosphere within the prison, tense at any time an execution was about to happen, grew even more jittery when the chaplain, the Revd John Pitkin, reported that Lee’s warders had related how the prisoner had apparently dreamed of being on the scaffold, had heard the bolts drawn, but that the trapdoors remained immovable no fewer than three times.