The Newgate Jig

by Ann Featherstone

  The Newgate Jig

  Ann Featherstone

  For Holly,

  the best of friends

  Prologue: Going to See a Man Hanged

  There is nothing more dreadful, surely, than seeing one's own father hung.

  All the horrors of this world, the wars and famines, plagues and pestilences, cannot compare with the sight of one's father upon the scaffold and the rope around his neck. It arouses the most extraordinary sensations - of awe, at the enormity of the event, and despair at one's utter helplessness in the face of it. One might be forgiven, at the very moment the hangman pulls the bolt, for going quite mad, tearing at one's hair and crying through the streets. Oh, yes indeed, quite mad.

  Thus muses aloud, to no one in particular, an elegant gentleman, glass in hand (though the hour is still early), comfortably established in the upstairs open window of a tavern. There is much to see, such variety of humanity in the gathering crowd below: the blind beggar and his attempts to escape the thieving attentions of a bully, the brightly gowned young woman and her companion debating whether to purchase a 'Last Confession' from a street-seller, and a thin, pale-faced boy, perhaps nine or ten years old, whose clothes were once good ones (a serviceable jacket and trousers, a shirt and neckerchief), but which are now worn and shabby, in animated conversation with an older man. Leaning out of the window, the elegant gentleman can catch it all if he so desires, for the boy's voice rises and falls like birdsong above the din.

  'You should come away now, Barney, before it begins. This is no place for you,' the man is saying with warmth, taking the boy's arm and turning him about. 'Look. That crowd which is coming and going and looking as though it has daily business in any shop or counting house, is here for only one reason. That crowd intends to be amused, and you should not be part of it.'

  'I'm not amused,' says Barney defensively, shaking himself free. 'I've not come to laugh.'

  'But you'll be standing cheek and shoulder with those who have,' returns the other, 'with the followers of the Drop, and those who take pleasure in the misery of their fellows.'

  At this, the boy winces and works his mouth around as if he is about to retaliate, and rubs his red eyes vigorously with his two fists until the tears, which are threatening to spring forth in a flood, retreat.

  'I know all about them,' he says, finally, 'and Pa did too.'

  'Yes, and that is why he is here, and why you would do well not to be! Your father was foolish. He should have known better.'

  'Someone told lies about him!' cries Barney. 'Pa said it was all lies.'

  'Aye, maybe it was, but it has still marched him to the gallows!'

  Once again, the boy is moved to reply, and again rubs his eyes until dirt and tears are smeared across his cheeks.

  'Pa has a friend who will not betray him. A clever fellow.' He swallows hard. 'Pa said he wrote a letter and gave it to him and he would send it to the Queen and the Lord Mayor of London.'

  Like he is repeating a prayer so often uttered that the words have become only sounds, his voice trails away.

  'He has it,' says the other, quietly. 'He has the letter. But go now, while you can.'

  Barney shakes his head, turns about and joins the army of humanity as it tramps on, whilst the older man debates whether to follow him, watches him out of sight and then, hunching his shoulders against the cold, posts himself through the next tavern door.

  Although the hour is still early, the crowd is growing by the minute around the platform, which crouches dark and square and ready against the grey stone of Newgate. All is grey. Especially the sky which, like a sodden rag, wrings out of itself a dirty mist, soaking the crowds which flood towards the prison walls. Wrapped tight against the early morning cold, they are still cheerful, calling to each other across the foggy streets and pressing into the square. Since before the murky dawn, the taverns and hotels, butchers' shops and coffee houses have already had their full quota of paying spectators: every window and doorway that offers a view of the square is occupied. Now, anxious not to miss a moment's pleasure, they have climbed trees and posts and walls. A slight young man, with a shock of orange hair like a human pipe-cleaner, has shinned up a drainpipe onto the roof of a private house and, despite the best efforts of the owner to get him down, is perched with his back against the chimney-stack, perished with cold but determined not to miss a trick.

  Barney sees all of this. And nothing. Allowing himself to be swept along by the crowd, he plunges into the mass of bodies, determined to get close to the front. Square shoulders rise up in front of him like a bastion, however, and though he wriggles and squirms through a forest of legs, and endures hard cuffs and elbows and kicks, he has eventually to be content with being wedged between a tall man in city-black (perhaps an undertaker's assistant) and a chimney-sweep, also in dusky attire, just on his way to work. Thankfully, neither is inclined to conversation and both are so studiously determined to keep their places that, in so doing, they allow Barney to keep his. And they are in stark contrast to the wild carnival crowd pressing around him, hallooing and cheering and so merry that the pie man and the gingerbread-seller hardly need to call out their 'Here's all 'ot!' or 'Nuts and dolls, my maids!'

  But this is no country fair, and even Toby Rackstraw, up from the country to try the humours of the city, could not mistake the roars of this crowd for good-natured festivity. No, this is something quite other. Here is a congregation gathered to worship not some whey-faced saint, but the noose and the gallows, and as the human tide fills the square and laps the streets around, there rises from it a murmur of voices like a catechism, telling the moments as the hour hands of neighbouring church clocks move on.

  There is activity around the scaffold. Policemen push back the crowd and patrol the perimeter, keeping their eyes peeled for pickpockets and ignoring the taunts of the boys who, five deep, form the first line of spectators. The rumble of carriages (for the gates of the prison are close by) signal the arrival of officials, and the crowd lurches forward to catch a glimpse. A ripple of information - 'It's the sheriff!' 'It's the judge!' 'Not the clergyman, for he will have been attending him for the past hour!' - is passed from one to another.

  Past seven o'clock now, the bells ringing out the moments and cheering the spirits of the crowd which, despite the heavy rain, is still in a holiday mood and surges to and fro, ripples of laughter rising and falling. The boy is sensible of the mighty crush behind him and glances anxiously over his shoulder, but his stalwart companions (who have been silent for almost two hours, the chimney-sweep chewing slowly upon a piece of bacon fat and only once taking a long draught from a stone bottle in his bag) stand firm.

  At last, the clock strikes eight, and the boy's unblinking gaze is trained upon the door.

  Such a little door.

  When it opens, such a change comes over the holiday crowd! Jocularity trembles, good humour shrinks, and there rises an ugly murmur of satisfaction as the platform fills, until the last, much-anticipated figure appears, when a terrible silence falls. He is small and slight and, staggering slightly, is supported by one of his attendants to whom he turns and thanks, only realizing at the last moment that the gentleman who steadies him so gently, and looks for all the world like a linen-draper, will shortly assist him into the next world. With a hand under his elbow, the linen-draper directs him to the great chain dripping black from the beam and, from that singular position, the loneliest place in all the world, the man turns to face the crowd. He does not see any single faces, but his gaze ranges across the expectant mass all turned and fixed upon him. With a gasp, the boy raises himself up on his toes and sets his face, like a beacon, towards the figure, as if trying to arrest his look. But the man is stubborn and will not see him, and the boy mutters
something beneath his breath, at which the undertaker's assistant glances sharply and seems inclined to speak.

  'I will serve him out!' Barney whispers, and then with increasing noise and urgency, as the tears spring to his eyes, 'I will serve him out! I will serve him out! I will serve him out!'

  The linen-draper is poised with the hood, the clergyman is done for the day. Even the rain has stopped. Suddenly the man on the scaffold hears the boy's cry rising above the humming silence, turns his head madly back and forth, searching the crowd, and even trying to stumble forward, though the linen-draper prevents him. The boy continues to call, and the chimney-sweep and the undertaker's assistant, though a little discomfited, say nothing. But someone must. The congregation is hungry for the spectacle, and from deep within the throng a voice roars, 'Get on with it!', and another, 'Murderer!', and finally, 'Stretch his neck!' In an instant, that general appeal is taken up, whilst on the scaffold the man unpicks the crowd, frowning in his effort to find one face in ten thousand until, like a moment of revelation, it is there. The man's ashen face tightens and the boy, desperate with misery, still cries, 'I will serve him out! I will serve him out!'

  Sturdy leather straps have been produced, the linen-draper securing the man as quickly as a knot in a reel of cotton.

  The man struggles.

  'No, Barney, no! Let it be,' he cries, his face broken by grief and fear, and if anyone cared to listen, they would have heard him cry, 'My son! Barney! My son!'

  But this crowd does not hear. And besides, this crowd needs to have its parties attired in black or white, needs to be partisan, so that, finding it does not know who, or even what, to support, it begins instead to bay, at which the linen-draper, with one swift action, pulls the hood over the man's head and in two steps reaches the post and draws the bolts. The crowd roars with one voice, but the boy, as if he is trying to ensure that his voice is the last sound the man hears, soars above theirs, over and over.

  'Pa! Pa! Pa!'

  Really, it is remarkable how quickly the streets empty and everything returns to normal almost immediately the rope ceases twitching. Crowds simply melt away down the dripping streets. With a clatter of slates, the slight young man releases his grip upon the chimney pot, slithers down the roof and the drainpipe, winds his muffler about his neck with all the nonchalance of a circus acrobat, and joins the departing throng. Now windows are closed, doors fastened against the wicked weather, and the line of carriages (for the wealthy love nothing better than 'a good hanging') disappears into the mist, which has dropped again like transformation scenery. And alone on that stage is the boy. His companions, having enquired after his well-being (for they are decent enough men and will tell their wives how they stood next to the boy "oose father was 'ung this morning' and how he cried out) and pressed a sixpence each into his cold hands, have gone to their work. He is rooted to the stones, oblivious to the biting wind which tugs at his short coat and paints his nose and hands the same scarlet colour as his eyes. His tears have dried into pale veins upon his cheeks, his lips are dry and chapped. But still he stands.

  The scaffold, growing blacker with the pouring rain, still bears evidence of its unseen guest, for the chain moves slowly back and forth, shuddering imperceptibly with the weight of the man suspended just out of sight. There is no activity about the square now, just a handful of constables still patrolling the perimeter, ensuring that the incumbent hangs undisturbed for his statutory hour, and keeping an eye upon the boy whose solitary vigil they have all remarked upon and, being kindly men, have debated amongst themselves whether to summon Mr Corns from the miserable recesses of the Homeless Institute and beg him to remove the boy before he freezes to death.

  Moments divide moments. The boy is as conscious of the space of time between the spits of rain as he is of eternity, and unconcerned with both. He shifts a foot, slowly and stiffly, for the first time in an hour and as he moves, so does another, quite the opposite in size and bearing. From the shelter of a doorway at the other side of the square emerges a veritable grampus of a man, cheeks as pink as a pair of pippins, and wearing a smile, despite the bitterness of the wind and rain. Pulling his long, pale Benjamin about him and turning up its collar, he tacks, like a boat in a choppy sea, across the cobbles towards the boy, weaving right and left until, at last, he comes alongside the lad and grasps his shoulder in a pudgy hand.

  Barney turns, looks, but there is not a flicker of recognition in his face. Conversely, the fat man is all knowledge, all familiarity.

  'So sorry - ah - your loss.' His voice is surprisingly high, like a child's, and when he smiles, he reveals teeth which are so small, so insignificant, as to hardly have broken through the gums. A smear of whiteness only.

  It is a surprising face, but Barney barely registers it. Only when the man, still firmly grasping his shoulder, puts his mouth to the boy's ear and whispers for some moments does he respond, and then it is as if he has received an electric shock, for he jumps out of the man's grip and backs away. Producing a shilling, pinched between his fat fingers, the grampus advances upon the boy and, in a sudden lurch, makes to grab his arm. But the boy is quicker, and staggers out of his reach, putting two yards between himself and the grampus before he stops and then, with a little cry, turns and runs.

  Bob Chapman and his Sagacious Canines

  If you passed me in the street, I would lay ten to one you wouldn't know me, though I might have appeared before you hundreds of times. My face would be, like that of the Queen's footman, one often seen but barely remarked upon. You might, if you had more leisure to give my features a regular eyeballing, say, 'Hello, here's a face I have seen before!' or There's a fellow I seem to know!' and never come to a firm conclusion.

  But spy me in the very same street with my two dogs at my heels, and you would sing a different tune. And with a full chorus. You would certainly recognize us then, and feel emboldened to greet us with, 'Hello, here are Brutus and Nero, and their man, Bob Chapman,' and believe yourself to be on terms of such familiarity with my companions as to scratch them behind the ear and demand they roll on their backs or oblige you with a paw. You might even notice me and want to shake my paw! But if you thought I ever felt put out or resentful of my four-legged companions when all and sundry stop to greet them and ignore me, you would be quite on the distaff side, for they are the finest pair of chums a man could wish for, and if I live to be a hundred, I will never discover their like again. Of course, they are hard-working fellows and earn their keep thrice over every week, and they are as dear to me as if they were my own children. Brutus, you should know, stands as high as my knee, an English Retriever, golden in colour, with the mildest eyes and the most gentle and amiable disposition. I am certain he would rather sleep than breathe! But put him to his work, on the stage or in the circus ring, and he will stay at it until the deserts flood. His speciality is to pick up an egg in his mouth - it is a trick people like to see - and place it, without a crack or break, in a basket of others. Kittens and day-old chicks he carries as if he were their mother, and little children may ride upon his back.

  But Nero now, he is as black as a Moor's head, a Newfoundland breed (but not pure-bred), and as valuable for his looks as he is for his tricks. I have been offered fifty pounds for him more than once, but will I part with him? Not I. And if you have seen him at his work, opening gate latches and ringing bells and carrying lanterns onto the stage, you will know why. Not only is he handsome, but clever also. The quickest dog for learning tricks I have ever known. Give him but a little encouragement, a morsel of liver no bigger than your thumbnail, and he will have a new trick in his head inside a week. And so proud is he of his cleverness, that he will make sure never to forget it! Nero is a good companion too, steady and sure, and careful of Brutus, who he minds as if he was a brother.

  Yes, I am indeed a fortunate man to have two such noble and affectionate creatures as my companions, and I think this every morning as we walk from our lodgings to Garraway's establishment, where we e
at our breakfast. For you should know that I am not an adventurous man. I like a life that is calm and well ordered. Excitement is a trouble to me. I do not relish change, and like to see the same faces about me and walk the same streets and look into the same shop windows and see the same goods for sale. Some might think me dull, but I have my own reasons for preferring a simple, regular life and, though I work in the exhibition business (which might appear to go against this preference, being all the time before the public), it is still my nature to be quiet and ordered. Nevertheless, quietness will not put food upon the table. Nor will a wet nose and shining coat secure a bed, and although we have been together, Brutus, Nero and I, for these last five years, we have not always been as comfortable as we are now and have had some troubles which caused me distress. Indeed, even now, when rent day rounds the corner, I am driven to consult my pocket-book and savings and do some arithmetic, and make out those sums over and over again. Only the other day, Mr Abrahams commented upon my studiousness, with a blowing of his cheeks and a thorough tidying of his nose. I am much obliged to him and not a little in awe, for he is an astute gentleman and my employer, the owner of the East London Aquarium and Museum, with many years of exhibiting to his credit. So when he gave me a second look and said, 'Now then, Bob!' I immediately felt anxiety rising in my breast.

  'I know what you are about to ask me, as if I could read your mind,' said he. 'And, if I could, I would give you the answer you want to hear.' Then he shook his head and looked mournful. 'But you know the exhibition business as I do. Fair weather one week, foul the next. If the needle points to wet and windy on a Saturday, I can do no more than let you go, otherwise I would be a fool to myself and unworthy of my customers' high esteem.'

  I am pleased to say that, up to now, that needle has been steady on 'Fair', but such is the strange temperament of patrons of the exhibition business, that I can appreciate his caution. For what will attract and amuse them one week, and have every human being within ten miles clamouring at the Aquarium door, might the next be sneered at as a regular non-goer. I have seen it happen countless times. Why, only last year, Madame Leonie, the lion-faced lady, could do no wrong for six weeks, and felt confident enough to be looking out for better rooms and hiring a dressmaker when, one morning, I found her packing up her bags and wiping a tear from her hairy cheek. Without warning, her show was empty, the public were suddenly against her, and there was ugly talk abroad of smashing up her stand and slashing her paintings. I am glad to report that, when last heard of, she was doing well in a Cardiff waxwork show, but at the time it was upsetting, and even Mr Abrahams, with all his wisdom, could not explain it. 'Ah, you see, Bob,' he said, as sad as a mourner, 'how fickle is our business! Here we are, comfortable one day and the next - pphff!! We are all at the mercy of the people.'