Featherstone - The Newgate Jig

The Newgate Jig

Ann Featherstone

ForHolly,

thebest of friends

Prologue: Going to See a Man Hanged

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

Allthe 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 ropearound his neck. It arouses the most extraordinary sensations - of awe, at theenormity of the event, and despair at one's utter helplessness in the face ofit. One might be forgiven, at the very moment the hangman pulls the bolt, forgoing quite mad, tearing at one's hair and crying through the streets. Oh, yesindeed, quite mad.

Thusmuses aloud, to no one in particular, an elegant gentleman, glass in hand(though the hour is still early), comfortably established in the upstairs openwindow of a tavern. There is much to see, such variety of humanity in thegathering crowd below: the blind beggar and his attempts to escape thethieving attentions of a bully, the brightly gowned young woman and hercompanion debating whether to purchase a 'Last Confession' from astreet-seller, and a thin, pale-faced boy, perhaps nine or ten years old, whoseclothes were once good ones (a serviceable jacket and trousers, a shirt andneckerchief), but which are now worn and shabby, in animated conversationwith an older man. Leaning out of the window, the elegant gentleman can catchit all if he so desires, for the boy's voice rises and falls like birdsongabove the din.

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

'I'm not amused,' saysBarney defensively, shaking himself free. ' I've not come tolaugh.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once again, the boy ismoved to reply, and again rubs his eyes until dirt and tears are smeared acrosshis cheeks.

'Pa has a friend whowill not betray him. A clever fellow.' He swallows hard. 'Pa said he wrote aletter and gave it to him and he would send it to the Queen and the Lord Mayorof London.'

Like he is repeating aprayer so often uttered that the words have become only sounds, his voicetrails away.

'He has it,' says theother, 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 olderman debates whether to follow him, watches him out of sight and then, hunchinghis shoulders against the cold, posts himself through the next tavern door.

Although the hour isstill early, the crowd is growing by the minute around the platform, whichcrouches dark and square and ready against the grey stone of Newgate. All isgrey. Especially the sky which, like a sodden rag, wrings out of itself a dirtymist, soaking the crowds which flood towards the prison walls. Wrapped tightagainst the early morning cold, they are still cheerful, calling to each otheracross the foggy streets and pressing into the square. Since before the murkydawn, the taverns and hotels, butchers' shops and coffee houses have alreadyhad their full quota of paying spectators: every window and doorway that offersa 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 shockof orange hair like a human pipe-cleaner, has shinned up a drainpipe onto theroof of a private house and, despite the best efforts of the owner to get himdown, is perched with his back against the chimney-stack, perished with coldbut determined not to miss a trick.

Barney sees all of this.And nothing. Allowing himself to be swept along by the crowd, he plunges intothe mass of bodies, determined to get close to the front. Square shoulders riseup in front of him like a bastion, however, and though he wriggles and squirmsthrough a forest of legs, and endures hard cuffs and elbows and kicks, he haseventually 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 andboth are so studiously determined to keep their places that, in so doing, theyallow Barney to keep his. And they are in stark contrast to the wild carnivalcrowd pressing around him, hallooing and cheering and so merry that the pie manand the gingerbread-seller hardly need to call out their 'Here's all 'ot!' or'Nuts and dolls, my maids!'

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

There is activityaround the scaffold. Policemen push back the crowd and patrol the perimeter,keeping their eyes peeled for pickpockets and ignoring the taunts of the boyswho, 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, andthe crowd lurches forward to catch a glimpse. A ripple of information - 'It'sthe sheriff!' 'It's the judge!' 'Not the clergyman, for he will have beenattending him for the past hour!' - is passed from one to another.

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

Atlast, the clock strikes eight, and the boy's unblinking gaze is trained upon thedoor.

Such a little door.

Whenit opens, such a change comes over the holiday crowd! Jocularity trembles, goodhumour shrinks, and there rises an ugly murmur of satisfaction as the platformfills, until the last, much-anticipated figure appears, when a terrible silencefalls. He is small and slight and, staggering slightly, is supported by one ofhis attendants to whom he turns and thanks, only realizing at the last momentthat the gentleman who steadies him so gently, and looks for all the world likea linen-draper, will shortly assist him into the next world. With a hand underhis elbow, the linen-draper directs him to the great chain dripping black fromthe beam and, from that singular position, the loneliest place in all theworld, the man turns to face the crowd. He does not see any single faces, buthis gaze ranges across the expectant mass all turned and fixed upon him. With agasp, 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 stubbornand will not see him, and the boy mutters something beneath his breath, atwhich the undertaker's assistant glances sharply and seems inclined to speak.