Amazing True Stories of Execution Blunders

by Abbott, Geoffrey

  On 5 October 1983, after a meal of hamburgers and chips, he was strapped on the trolley, the needles were inserted into his veins, and the first controlled flow, that of saline solution, commenced. Ten minutes or so later, as a result of a legal counter-argument, a stay of execution was granted, and just after midnight he was unstrapped and taken back to his cell. Callous murderer though he was, one cannot even begin to imagine his state of mind at the time, and the suspense of not knowing whether he was going to be executed or not continued for a further five months when, all appeals having been rejected, Autry found himself once again supine on the trolley. Once more the needles were inserted, the chemicals started to flow and the clock ticked away, dismay filling those who witnessed his slow death as fully ten minutes elapsed before the victim finally succumbed to the toxic cocktail.

  Roger Gray was the Exeter hangman in the seventeenth century, when the noosed victim had to mount a ladder which was then turned, propelling him or her into eternity. A professional come what may, Roger did not hesitate when his own brother had to be hanged, afterwards writing to his nephew, ‘I am sorry to be the conveyancer of such news unto you as cannot be very welcome. Your father died eight days since, but he was the most generous man I ever saw. I will say this of him everywhere; for I myself trussed him up. He mounted the ladder with good grace, but spying that one of the rungs was broken, and being a lover of good order, he turned to the sheriff and desired it might be mended for the next comer, who perhaps might be less active than himself.’

  Peter Morin

  Injection difficulties also occurred at Peter Morin’s execution on 13 March 1985. A suspected serial killer, he was also a confirmed drug addict, the result being that, so scarred were his arms and legs, the technician spent forty minutes trying to insert the needles, but in vain – or vein. So although it was reported that the victim took only ten or so minutes to die after the final injection, in actual fact Morin’s execution lasted fifty minutes; surely a barbaric and unacceptable way to dispatch a human being, no matter what his sins.

  A victim of the French Revolution, Mme Jeanne Roland had very fine long black hair, and executioner Charles-Henri Sanson explained the need to crop her tresses short, lest they impeded the guillotine blade as it descended. Calmly she allowed him to wield his scissors, interrupting him only to say, ‘At least leave me enough for you to hold my head up and show it to the people, if they wish to see it.’

  The Sword

  Marquis de Cinq-Mars

  This French aristocrat, Henri Coiffier de Ruz, born in 1620, was the son of the Marshal d’Effiat and held the title of the Marquis de Cinq-Mars. Nor was this the only title he possessed, for by the age of nineteen he had been chosen to become equerry to King Louis XIII, his Majesty further favouring him by making him not only Grand Seneschal (steward) of France and Master of the Horse, but the most ostentatious of all, Monsieur le Grand, the King’s confidant. Moreover he was granted the rare privilege of being present while the King discussed high affairs of state with his prime minister, Cardinal Richelieu, and was even permitted the liberty of putting his own suggestions forward. Such accolades and royal concessions, together with the power that went with them, went to the young man’s head, magnifying his own importance to the stage where, by 1642, he began to have serious ambitions of actually replacing Richelieu as the King’s personal adviser.

  But the wily and experienced Cardinal had intelligence agents in every quarter of the royal court and he acted with ruthless speed; Cinq-Mars and his accomplice, the King’s brother Gaston, Duke of Orléans, had barely started to discuss the means by which they could dispose of Richelieu, before both were arrested and put on trial, the court hearing to take place at Lyons.

  What followed was almost unbelievable. The Cardinal, a sick man, was virtually bedridden, but was determined to attend the trial. Because of his condition, travel by carriage was out of the question, and so a portable wooden room was made for him. It was painted all over with gilt, and contained a bed, a table and a chair, while the walls were draped with crimson damask. It was transported on the heads of twenty of his bodyguards, and in much same way as lamp-posts, traffic lights and the like are removed in order to facilitate the passage of a wide load along major roads in this country, so for the Cardinal’s caravan, walls, gateways, even houses, were demolished in order that its progress should not be obstructed or delayed. On reaching the river Rhône, it was transferred to a large barge which, together with another boat containing the two unfortunate prisoners, was then towed by horses to its destination.

  The trial began at 7 a.m. and was all over in a matter of hours, the President of the court, Chancellor Sequier, being a personal enemy of Cinq-Mars, decreeing that not only should both traitors be beheaded by the sword, but that as the instigator, Cinq-Mars should be tortured before being taken to where the executioner awaited.

  A Jesuit priest, Father Malavette, was appointed to minister to Cinq-Mars, the prisoner then exclaiming to him, ‘Mon Pére, they are going to torture me. I can scarcely bring myself to submit to it.’ But the priest’s reply hardly gave the doomed man any consolation. ‘You must submit to the hand of God, Monsieur,’ he said. ‘Nothing ever happens except by his permission.’

  The victim was then led to the torture chamber and although no details were divulged, it is likely that he suffered in the Boots, perhaps a version in which each leg was encased between boards in the manner of splints, both legs then being bound together. For the question ordinaire, that which persuaded the victim to admit his or her guilt, wedges would be driven between the two innermost boards with a mallet; for the question extraordinaire, requiring the divulging of the names of any fellow conspirators, four more wedges would be driven between the legs and the outer boards, crushing and eventually shattering the limbs.

  Whatever methods were employed, it was reported that he had to be supported by warders on being led from the room.

  Tightening The Screw-Type Boots

  After a little wine and some bread, he prayed with his priest before writing to his mother, asking her to pay all his debts.

  At 3 p.m. he and Gaston were taken by coach to the Place des Terrau, on the banks of the river Saône, where the scaffold had been erected. The thousands of spectators who packed the balconies and the area around the platform, even those perched precariously on the rooftops, greeted the traitors’ arrival with cheers and cries of abuse. Supported by Father Malavette, Cinq-Mars mounted the scaffold steps with great difficulty but, with the bravado of youth, he then saluted the crowd. There was little doubt that he had dressed for the occasion, for he wore a court suit trimmed with gold lace, his black hat being ornamented with red feathers, his stockings were of green silk, and diamond buckles glittered on his fashionably high-heeled shoes. Over his arm he carried a large scarlet cloak, to be used to cover his body after his decapitation, and a contemporary chronicler reported that:

  ‘his fair young face was perfectly serene, and his clustering curls, slightly powdered, were scented and tended as carefully as if he were in the royal presence. He bowed to the crowd, then replaced his hat on his head and looked about him. Nearby stood the executioner; he was only a city porter, the regular official being ill, and his replacement was a coarse and brutal fellow with a bloated face. When he approached Cinq-Mars with scissors to cut off his hair, Monsieur le Grand waved him away with a motion of disgust and instead begged Father Malavette to do him this office and to keep his hair for his mother.’

  While the priest-turned-barber snipped away the long shoulder-length ringlets, Cinq-Mars turned to the executioner, who had not yet taken his sword out of the dirty bag which lay beside him and, according to the chronicle:

  ‘asked him haughtily what he was about, and why he did not begin. The rude fellow making a wry face in reply, Cinq-Mars left him and said to the priest, ‘Mon Pére, assist me in my prayers, then I shall be ready.’ After he had prayed very devoutly and kissed the crucifix, he rose from his knees and in a firm v
oice exclaimed, ‘I am ready – begin.’

  He threw aside his hat, unloosed the lace ruff about his throat and put back his hair from his face. But the executioner, being unready and new to his office, delivered no fewer than eleven blows ere his head was severed from his body. When it fell, it gave a little bound, turned itself a little to one side and the lips were seen to palpitate, the eyes being wide open. His body was then covered by the scarlet mantle and carried away to be buried.

  Meanwhile, the King, having been previously informed by the Cardinal of the precise date and hour when Cinq-Mars would suffer death, took out his watch at the precise time and, with the most perfect unconcern, remarked to a companion, ‘At this moment Monsieur le Grand is making an ugly face at Lyons!’

  A victim of political intrigue, in 1766 the Chevalier de la Barre refused to kneel for the French executioner Charles-Henri Sanson to behead him, saying, ‘I cannot! I am no criminal – strike me as I am!’ Whereupon Sanson, an expert with the heavy, two-handed sword, swung it so accurately that it severed the victim’s spine and passed through the neck without dislodging the head from the shoulders. And true or false, as the victim’s body started to sway, onlookers reported that they heard Sanson exclaim, ‘Shake yourself – it is done!’

  Thomas Arthur de Lally-Tollendal

  One night in 1731 a group of young men left a bar in the suburbs of Paris after spending a convivial evening together and, losing their way entirely, found themselves on the Rue d’Enfer where they saw a house, the windows of which were brilliantly lit. They heard faint sounds of music and, peering through the gate, saw the figures of couples as they danced past the windows. The young men, somewhat elated by the wine they had been drinking, resolved to join in the fun; they boldly knocked on the door, requesting the servant who opened it, that they be allowed to participate in the revelry.

  The master of the house appeared, a man of about 30, of distinguished appearance, the elegance of his dress suggesting that he was one of the upper classes. He greeted them with courtesy and listened to their request with the smile of a man who understood the foibles of youth. He informed them that the ball which was taking place was to celebrate his marriage, saying that he would be honoured if they would join the festivities, but adding that perhaps the company they wished to join was not, perhaps, worthy of them. The young men, however, insisted, and the bridegroom, having conducted them to the ballroom, introduced them to his new wife and to his family.

  On meeting the dancers the young men realised that, despite their pleasure, they all seemed to look very severe, an aspect which dampened the gaiety they had anticipated; their faces remained rather grim and sinister even while they expressed the goodwill they felt for the strangers. Some of the women, however, were pretty, and the young men, who were all of noble birth, were in high spirits, and too youthful and light-hearted to let that bother them, and they proceeded to dance the night away, thoroughly enjoying themselves.

  At daybreak, the bridegroom, still smiling, told them that his name was Jean-Baptiste Sanson, that he was the Paris executioner, and that most of the gentlemen whose pleasures they had shared, followed the same profession.

  Two of the young men were visibly disturbed by this piece of information, but the third one, who wore the uniform of Dillon’s Irish Regiment, burst out laughing and said he had long wished to make the acquaintance of the official who decapitated, burned and broke (on the wheel) so many good people, and he was very glad now of having the opportunity. He then begged M. Sanson to have the kindness to show them his instruments.

  Jean-Baptiste acceded to the request and led the party to a room used as the arsenal of his tools of torture and death. While the officer’s companions were expressing their astonishment at the curious shapes of certain instruments, the young man examined the swords of justice with much attention. The executioner took one down and handed it to the officer, who looked at it carefully and, taking it with both hands, wielded it with uncommon strength and dexterity, meanwhile asking his host whether it was possible to strike off a head with it at a single stroke. Jean-Baptiste answered in the affirmative, adding jokingly that if he, the officer, ever committed the same crimes as one Cinq-Mars, he, Jean-Baptiste, would pledge his word that he would not allow him to suffer! The young man thanked his host, little knowing that his curiosity might almost be termed a prediction of things to come, and then made his farewells, giving his name, Count Thomas Arthur de Lally-Tollendal.

  Thirty-five years after that chance meeting, on 6 May 1766, the Parliament assembled in the Court of Justice and condemned the Commander of the French Forces in India, Lieutenant-General Thomas Arthur de Lally-Tollendal to death by the sword, for betraying the King.

  De Lally-Tollendal was of Irish extraction and at the age of twelve obtained a commission in Dillon’s Irish Regiment (of the French army), and later took part in the siege of Barcelona. By 1740 he commanded his own regiment and at the age of 37 he was promoted to Lieutenant General. Ambitious, possessing a strong streak of ruthlessness, he hated the English and even devised a plan involving the landing of 10,000 men on the English coast to support the Stuart Pretender, a scheme that was rejected by the French High Command who, however, gave him command of their colonial troops. But the unmitigated violence of his temper, his eschewal of any action other than brutal strength, led him to make appalling military errors. In India he captured Goudelour, swept along the Coromandel coast and took St David, where he permitted frightful excesses to be committed by his troops, who proceeded to ransack the town. Completely contemptuous of the Hindu religion, he allowed local revered sanctuaries to be violated, and caused any native suspected of spying to be blown from the mouth of a cannon. Against the advice of his generals, he later advanced northwards, only to be attacked by the English forces; in the retreat that followed, he lost a quarter of his troops and eventually had to surrender, together with most of his army, and was taken to England as a prisoner of war.

  In France he was, probably correctly, made the scapegoat for the disastrous defeat, but on news of this slur on his honour reaching him, he was filled with outrage and obtained permission from the English Government to be released on parole in order to return to France and defend his reputation. But his enemies, of whom he had many, were only too pleased, and soon after his arrival, as a result of their machinations, he was imprisoned in the Bastille prison and put on trial, charged with treason, an ordeal which dragged on for nineteen months. Still full of an overwhelming sense of his own importance, his arrogance remained unabated.

  On appearing before the judges he always wore the full uniform of a general, together with all the Orders which had been bestowed on him, but the President of the court ordered that he should be deprived of them. De Lally-Tollendal, protesting that he would rather be deprived of his life than the rewards of his bravery, resisted vehemently, but to no avail; in the struggle which followed, he fought with the soldiers as they tore his uniform and ripped off the epaulettes and decorations.

  In court he was no more able to control his temper than when he had been in India. He disputed the evidence step by step, protesting against the charges, disputing, fuming, retorting, and accusing others of cowardice and the Government itself of failing to support him in the field. But there were too many witnesses testifying about his abuse of power, the cruelty to the natives, and the violence against all who dared to cross his path. And on 6 May 1766 the court found him guilty as charged.

  After the sentence was read out, he remained dumbfounded and stupefied, but only momentarily, for he then started cursing, calling his judges assassins and executioners, and it was not until he had been taken back to the Bastille that he regained his composure. Some time later, however, he was approached by an intermediary who offered to raise a petition for his release; unfortunately the man mentioned the word ‘crime’ in connection with de Lally-Tollendal’s military campaigns; at that, it was reported:

  ‘the prisoner was overwhelmed by a fit of fury greater
than any he had ever experienced before and, seizing a pair of compasses [a measuring instrument, both arms of which have sharp points] with which he had used to draw the map of the former scene of his successes and reverses, he stabbed himself near the heart. The weapon encountered a rib and only inflicted a slight wound; whereupon the gaolers rushed upon him and wrenched the instrument from his hand.’

  The day of execution finally arrived, and, irony of ironies, his executioner was to be none other than Jean-Baptiste Sanson. He, recalling his promise made that night so many years ago, resolved to honour it to the full. Also on the scaffold would be his son, Charles-Henri, his assistance being essential, for Jean-Baptiste was now white-haired, and although only sixty, appeared to be much older, probably because of the stroke he had had some years earlier which had partially paralysed his right side. Accordingly, Jean-Baptiste selected from his collection the very sword which de Lally-Tollendal had handled while at the wedding party, and the two men went to the Bastille to collect their prisoner. There they found traces of a struggle which had just taken place, the authorities having decreed that in order to stop the victim inducing the crowds to attempt a rescue, he was to be gagged, and it was not until his fierce resistance had been overcome, that an iron gag was forced into his mouth.

  Charles-Henri was about to order his assistants to escort the bound prisoner down the stairs when his father stepped forward, saying that he alone had a right to command. He knelt down before the Count and, perceiving that the cords were so tight that they almost cut into the flesh, ordered that they be slackened. De Lally-Tollendal looked down and, recognising him, smiled, a tear coming to his eye.