Separated from the rest of Newgate by the press yard, the prison’s condemned block suffered from an austere appearance and a funereal atmosphere. In all, there were fifteen cells arranged over three floors, but it was rare that more than one or two of these was occupied at any time, especially, as a turnkey informed him, since in recent years the Bloody Code had been scaled back. This was a set of legal statutes which insisted upon capital punishment for crimes as trivial as forging coins. Pyke did not comment on the irony: he was being executed by an administration that wanted to introduce more humane forms of punishment. Nor did Pyke ask whether the man was one of the two guards who had been approached by Townsend and offered a hundred pound to assist him in his escape attempt.
Pyke had tried to make it clear that this aid would not involve them physically assisting his bid for freedom.
Rather, they were simply to turn a blind eye to particular occurrences, if and when they took place. As such, they might be dismissed from their posts for negligence but not prosecuted for aiding and abetting a crime. In which case, a hundred pounds would be more than enough to compensate them for the ‘inconvenience’ of having to find alternative employment.
When Godfrey visited him on the Friday evening, the turnkeys were to make sure he was not searched, or rather, if he was searched, that their search did not reveal anything. Nor was Pyke’s cell to be searched, after Godfrey’s departure. He was starting to worry that the turnkeys would not honour their side of the bargain when Godfrey thrust a small key into his hand. He permitted himself a hushed sigh of relief.
This did not, however, mean that the condemned block’s incarceration regime was a lax one. The governor’s promise of additional security had been realised in the form of reinforced leg-irons and handcuffs. These devices, and the thickness of the stone walls, meant that Pyke’s chances of escape would normally have been slim.
They still perhaps were, despite the arrangements that had been made, but he chose not to focus on such concerns.
Instead, after Godfrey had departed, Pyke rummaged through the items that his uncle had smuggled into the cell: the key, of course, but also charcoal, powder, soap, chalk, candles, rouge and a razor blade.
Sitting up against the cell door, in order that the turnkeys might not see him through the grated hole, Pyke worked through the night, using all his candles. By the time he heard the first cock crow, he had found a way of using the small key to unlock both the leg-irons and the handcuffs.
It rained for most of the day, the kind of relentless downpour that seemed to penetrate the tarred walls and dampen the inside of the cell and its few contents: a hemp mat and a horse rug. Pyke had wrapped himself up in the rug and settled himself on the mat, but had still been unable to sleep. Trying to ignore the cold and the stench of decaying animal matter, discarded outside the prison walls by market traders, he stared at the window and listened to the patter of raindrops peppering the outside of the building.
While the rest of the condemned prisoners spent their free time in the more welcoming environment of the press rooms, a narrow area replete with tables, benches and a fire, Pyke opted to remain in his cell, anxious that no one should look too carefully at his leg-irons and handcuffs.
He found himself thinking about Mary Johnson and Gerald McKeown — how grateful they had been when he had offered to put them up in a lodging house — and he imagined what torture they might have suffered as someone dragged them to a wild spot on Hounslow Heath, and strangled them. He also thought about Lizzie and whether she had known what was happening to her.
It was already dark by the time the Reverend Arthur Foote arrived, with Godfrey. Godfrey seemed nervous — both of them had been drinking and he stumbled as he entered the cell — but Pyke assumed that Foote was either too inebriated or excited by the prospect of eliciting a dramatic eleventh-hour confession from Pyke, which he could then ‘sell’ to Godfrey, thereby making a significant sum of money, to realise what was about to happen.
Pyke greeted them and said he was sorry that he could not offer them anything to drink. Foote produced a flask of what Pyke presumed was gin and said he had brought his own supplies. He took a swig, without offering it to either Godfrey or Pyke. He was wearing a long black cassock under a black robe, a white undershirt, a dog collar and a pair of black shoes, and was carrying a wide-brimmed hat.
Godfrey pulled the cell door closed and through the grated hole told the turnkeys that they would knock when they were ready to leave.
‘So you’ve decided to confess, boy? Excellent, excellent. God loves repenting sinners as much as the rest of his flock. More, even.’ Even in the candlelight, Pyke could see Foote’s blackened teeth as he smiled. ‘I like ’em too but for different reasons. Isn’t that right, Godfrey? Those little sheets you publish can be quite profitable, I’ve heard, especially when the confession’s been so eagerly awaited.’ He peered down at Pyke through the gloom. ‘You’re looking queer, boy. Your skin is all mottled and blotchy.’
This was the effect of the rouge and charcoal. Pyke hadn’t expected Foote to notice. It meant he didn’t have much time.
‘Your hair, it’s shorter and greyer, too.’ Foote appeared confused. ‘And didn’t you once have sideburns?’
Pyke had hacked them off with the razor, along with some of his hair, and had brushed it with flecks of chalk.
‘Very queer indeed.’ Foote’s frown deepened. ‘So how do you want to do this, boy?’
Pyke waited until Godfrey had positioned himself in front of the grated hole in the cell door.
‘How about you sit next to me on the mat here and I’ll begin my confession.’
‘Sit on the floor?’ Foote seemed unsure. ‘I suppose, given the lack of amenities, I might be able to countenance such a plan. You say next to you, eh? I like that.’ Grinning, Foote lifted up his cassock and planted himself awkwardly on the part of the mat Pyke had prepared for him.
Freeing himself from the handcuffs, Pyke struck Foote once, as hard as he could, with the full force of his clenched fist, and once Foote had collapsed on to him he jammed both thumbs firmly into the Ordinary’s neck and pushed until he heard a gurgling sound.
For the turnkeys’ sake, he proffered a few garbled sentiments about inner demons and breaking the Sabbath. Meanwhile, he went to work on Foote’s body, stripping him of his hat and shoes, his dog collar and finally his cassock and undershirt. He dressed Foote in his own clothes and, in turn, put on the Ordinary’s attire. The shoes were too small for his feet but he just about managed to squeeze into them. He laid Foote out on the hemp mat, his back facing the door, as though he were asleep, and secured the leg-irons and handcuffs in the appropriate places. He had a drink from Foote’s flask and then pulled the black robe around his shoulders.
‘Is Arthur going to live?’ Godfrey whispered, looking down at Foote’s unmoving body. His hands were trembling.
Pyke shrugged.
‘Is he going to live, Pyke?’
‘He’ll live. Probably.’ Pyke picked up the Ordinary’s hat.
‘Are the turnkeys outside the ones I’ve paid?’
Godfrey nodded. ‘Two of them are, anyhow. There are three or four of ’em out there.’
This wasn’t something Pyke had planned for, but he would have to take his chances and hope the two turnkeys earned their money and distracted the other two.
‘Just take my arm and walk at a nice easy pace. Take my lead. Don’t rush, whatever you do. Anyone tries to talk to us, we keep going. Tell ’em I’m drunk and can barely speak. I’ll just mumble. I’ll make it appear that if you weren’t supporting me, I’d fall down. People here know Foote. It won’t seem strange.’
Godfrey stared down at Foote’s unmoving form and whispered, ‘Christ, Pyke, did you have to hurt Arthur as badly as that?’
Pyke ignored him and pulled the hat down as far over his face as it would go. The dog collar felt tight and scratchy around his neck. He gathered up the items Godfrey had smuggled into the cell, so
as not to implicate the turnkeys when the escape was discovered.
‘Ready?’
Godfrey still seemed shaken but knocked on the door and said they were ready to leave. One of the turnkeys unbolted the door and pushed it open. The man peered into the gloomy cell and saw what he assumed to be Pyke lying on the floor. He asked whether Pyke had ‘confessed his sins before God’. Godfrey answered in the affirmative and said the prisoner wanted to be left alone. He added that the confession had also exhausted Reverend Foote and winked. ‘He needs his victuals.’ The man laughed.
Godfrey led Pyke into the corridor. Two men were sitting around an overturned wooden cask playing cards. Neither of them even bothered to look up. The turnkey who had spoken to them had one final look in the cell before closing the door and sliding the heavy iron bolts into place.
‘Be careful on the stairs. The stone gets mighty slippery when it rains.’
Godfrey said they would and led Pyke along the corridor towards the staircase. The man followed them, jangling some keys. He told them that unless he unlocked the condemned block’s main door, they would be spending the night there. Pyke allowed his heartbeat to settle and took his uncle’s lead. He tried to relax and put himself in the mind of a drunk. Mumbling something, he made a point of shuffling along rather than walking; he also swayed from side to side, trying not to appear too rigid, and just grunted when the guard asked him whether he was all right. The staircase between the floors was dark and narrow and Pyke walked down the steps at an appropriately modest pace, holding on to the stone walls as he did so. When they reached the bottom, the turnkey pushed in front of them and as he did so said, ‘Well then, sirs, I’ll bid you both goodnight,’ and unlocked the main door and waited for them to step outside into the rain.
Pyke held on to his hat to stop it blowing off his head. As they walked through the press yard, a confined area about ten feet wide and seventy feet long, bordered on either side by a high wall, Pyke whispered to Godfrey that he was doing well. ‘Just keep your calm, we’re almost there.’ Pyke knew how much his uncle was risking to assist him; knew that Godfrey disliked physical exertion of any kind; knew how hard it must be for him.
Godfrey exhaled loudly. ‘Easy for you to say, Pyke.’
Pyke knew, of course that they were not almost there; he knew that the most dangerous part of the escape still lay ahead of them — walking out through the prison’s guarded and well-lit main entrance without arousing suspicion — but chose not to say anything, because he could feel his uncle trembling.
It took them a minute or so to shuffle across the press yard and perhaps another minute to pass through the male felons’ quadrangle and the arcade under the chapel and approach the gatekeeper’s house via a series of poorly lit passages. No one had stopped them or even asked them a question. Seeing the bedraggled figure of the Ordinary stumble through the prison must have seemed the most natural sight in the world.
By the time they reached the keeper’s house, they had been ushered through three sets of locked doors by a succession of incurious turnkeys.
The keeper’s house was little more than a dark passageway that housed a series of small rooms which belonged to him and which linked the prison’s main door with a stone-floored entrance hall.
They had to pass through two sets of locked doors, but since there was no one attending the first door, Godfrey had to call out for assistance. A small, feral man with an unkempt beard appeared from one of the adjoining rooms and said, ‘Ah, Reverend Foote, I was hoping it might be you, sir. The governor wanted a word about the condemned’s sermon tomorrow. Told me to tell you to wait ’ere while I fetch ’im.’
Pyke mumbled something nonsensical and Godfrey barked, ‘Perhaps it could wait until tomorrow morning. You can see for yourself that Reverend Foote is maybe not in the best state of mind to assist the governor.’ Pyke, whose face was turned down towards his feet so that the keeper could see only the top of his hat, belched. Godfrey added, ‘He just needs a good night’s sleep.’
The keeper, who was standing the other side of the iron bars, shrugged and produced a set of keys from his jacket pocket. ‘I don’t suppose it would matter, though the governor was insistent that I fetched ’im when you was ready to leave, sir.’ He inserted one of the keys into the lock, turned it and pulled open the first of two reinforced doors that blocked their path to the outside world.
As they shuffled past the keeper, Pyke heard him whisper, ‘Good luck, Mr Pyke.’ To Pyke’s horror, Godfrey acknowledged the remark and said, ‘Thanks,’ as the keeper stepped back through the rectangular gap in the iron bars, swung the door closed and locked it from the other side.
Pyke heard the governor before he saw him. ‘Gentlemen. I’m so pleased I managed to catch up with you before you disappeared.’ Ahead of them, the main prison entrance was still locked. There was nowhere left to go. ‘Please step away from the prisoner, Mr Bond.’ Turning around for the first time, Pyke saw that the governor was surrounded by a group of turnkeys. The keeper was grinning. This had been Pyke’s last opportunity to gain his freedom and his plan lay in tatters. His despair was palpable and the governor seemed to sense it. ‘What a shame.’ He strutted towards them, like a prize cockerel. ‘To think you came so close. .’
That evening, they removed the two other prisoners awaiting execution from the top floor of the condemned block to cells on the first floor and turned it into a fortress. No visitors were permitted to enter the block. Turnkeys guarded the staircase. Shackled by leg-irons and handcuffs and gagged by cloth, Pyke had been thrown into a different cell. A turnkey sat with Pyke inside the cell. Additional turnkeys guarded the cell from the outside. The governor made regular visits throughout the night and the following day, Sunday, to make certain that his keepers remained vigilant; through the grated hole, he informed Pyke that Foote’s throat had been so badly damaged by the assault he might never speak again. He explained that Godfrey had been charged with assisting an escape attempt and would be spending considerable time in prison. He said the two turnkeys whom Pyke had bought off had been dismissed and also charged with aiding and abetting. He told Pyke, with some glee, that one of the turnkeys had been overheard in a nearby tavern boasting about his role in Pyke’s escape bid and the money he was to receive. He reminded Pyke he would die the following morning, adding that such was the interest in Pyke’s execution — an interest that had been further stoked by Pyke’s ‘cowardly’ escape bid — crowds had already started to gather in the street outside Debtors’ Door.
‘If the hangman doesn’t get you,’ the governor said, almost drooling, ‘then the angry mob will.’
Inside the cell Pyke stared at the tarred wall and listened to the lowing of cattle as they were driven into their stalls and pens.
The bells tolled. Outside, beyond the walls of the prison, he heard them baying for his blood; working people who had been gathered since early in the morning drinking, laughing, shouting, singing and, above all, waiting for the greatest show on earth to begin. The scaffold outside Debtors’ Door would now be finished, a single noose hanging from the wooden beam. Across the street, the King of Denmark would be crawling with moneyed flesh. Viewing spots on roofs and up lamp-posts would be taken. The procession of clergymen, sheriffs, visitors and, of course, Pyke began to make its way from the press room down a flight of stone steps into an underground passage.
He was walking down the aisle of St Paul’s Cathedral with a younger woman dressed in white on his arm. Above him the grand dome was full of chirruping blackbirds.
Dead Man’s Walk, they called it. His own father was reading from the scriptures. Emily was next to him. Then it was Foote who was reading, but just his disembodied head. Damnation and forgiveness. Pyke could still taste the sweetness of the wine on his parched lips.
They were walking up some steps and Pyke found himself in a small hall. They waited momentarily. Ahead of them lay Debtors’ Door, and beyond that he could hear the crowd. He could smell them: their excitem
ent, their fear, their hatred of him. Closing his eyes, he saw his own father fall, arms raised, under their stamping boots. He heard his father scream; heard the screams of animals being slaughtered.
Does anyone deserve to die? Do I deserve to die?
When he stepped out of the gloom of the prison into the foggy sunshine, followed by the Ordinary, the clergymen, the under-sheriffs and the visitors, he might have been forgiven for mistaking the squalid din of human noise that greeted him for approval, but almost at once the mood turned ugly: the gallows were pelted with food. The dignitaries held back and waited for the marshals to bring the mob to order. On the gallows, Pyke watched the hangman tug on the noose, to check it was properly attached to the beam. He was ushered towards the beam by Foote, who made a point of neither touching him nor looking at him. Foote waited for the crowd to settle before he turned to address Pyke. His vein-knotted hands shook ever so slightly while he read from the Bible. Standing on the gallows next to him was Sir Richard Fox.
‘You have another moment between this and death, and as a condemned man I implore you in God’s name to tell the truth.’ Fox was staring at him. ‘Have you got anything to repent?’
Edmonton guffawed. He ran his index finger across his bulbous throat.
Pyke said nothing. He felt detached even from himself. He tasted laudanum at the back of his throat. Folk in the crowd gathered below him, a faceless mass of people that stretched as far as he could see up Giltspur Street and along Old Bailey. The hangman was carrying a cloth sack. Pyke looked up and saw himself in the crowd: a scared, orphaned boy. He heard his own youthful sobs. The hangman pushed him towards the beam and put the sack over his head. He arranged the noose around his neck.
In his fitful dreams, he heard himself ask: What kind of life have you led when no one mourns?
‘Hush,’ one of the turnkeys said.
The ‘new’ Ordinary — Arthur Foote’s replacement, a stern-looking man who seemed genuinely enthused by the prospect of Pyke’s death — clapped his hands. Standing in his pulpit, dressed in ceremonial robes, he surveyed the chapel and its occupants with what appeared to be contempt.
The Last Days of Newgate pm-1 Page 16
