Sinistrari

Chapter 2-3

The Governor in the lead, the procession made its way down to the condemned cell. Dennison and Jenkins were waiting outside the cell; they would not enter until called for by Botting, the Under Sheriff. The Chief Officer, William Brunskill, together with William Calcraft and Bartholomew Binns, the warders assigned to conduct Sinistrari to the gallows shed were already in the cell as Billington, Botting, and Doctor Rose entered.

The time was 11.56.

The Prison Chaplain, the Reverend John Thrift, joined them in the cell; normally he would spend the final hour with a condemned prisoner, praying with him. Taking his confession if necessary but every time he had entered the death cell, Sinistrari had abused him and refused his ministry. Even so, Thrift could not allow a man to go to his death without his presence; convinced that at the very end Sinistrari would call for him and make his final peace with God.

Sinistrari sat at his table, immaculately dressed as usual, sipping delicately at the last of a bottle of claret that had been sent to his cell to accompany his last supper. A half-smoked Havana cigar wreathed blue smoke into the dank air. He looked up and glared malevolently at the chaplain.

‘I told you priest, I want no prattling prayer over me. Save your worthless piety for the nuns and parish orphans. I spit on you and piss on your Bible. Get out now and take my curse with you.’

‘For God’s man,’ snapped Billington, ‘He’s a man of the cloth, show some decorum.’

‘Decorum?’ Sinistrari sneered, ‘You propose to suspend me by the neck from a length of rope and you talk to me of decorum. You’re a buffoon, sir.’

‘What? What?’ blustered Billington, his face turning ever more flushed, ‘I am the Governor here By God, sir, show some me respect else I’ll have you flogged, just see if I don’t.’

‘Before or after you hang me? As I say, sir, you are a buffoon.’

Botting coughed discreetly. ‘Perhaps, we ought to proceed?’

‘At least someone here shows some sense,’ Sinistrari said, getting to his feet. He took another pull from the cigar, blowing out the smoke into the face of the Governor who spluttered with indignation, smoke inhalation and wounded dignity all at the same time. ‘Now, if we can get on with this farce as soon as possible, I do have other matters to attend to.’

He stood up straight and faced the Under Sheriff, gesturing for him to proceed with a short impatient jerk of his head. Botting gestured to Dennison, ‘Your prisoner, sir.’

Dennison and Jenkins entered the cell and moved swiftly over to Sinistrari ‘Come wi’ me, sir, if you would. Follow my instructions and everything will go just fine and dandy. This way sir,’ Dennison said, taking his arm. Jenkins and the other guards took up station alongside, ready to subdue the prisoner if he turned violent.

John Thrift, the chaplain hurried forward to lead the procession to the gallows as usual but Sinistrari snarled at him, ‘Get back, prattle merchant, I told you, no canting priest, so get out of my way.’ Chastened, blushing deeply with embarrassment at his own incompetence and indecisiveness, the Chaplain fell back as the hangmen led Sinistrari across the damp dark yard to the execution shed, orange reflections from his glowing cigar casting an eerie processional glint across the rain-slicked stonework of the walls.

‘Rot in hell, Sinistrari,’ an anonymous voice shouted from a darkened cell window above. Footsteps echoed like muffled drumbeats, a slow drum of death.

As they approached the execution shed Sinistrari took on last pull on his cigar, sighed with a deep satisfaction and handed the remainder to one of the guards. ‘Thank you for your good attention, Mister Calcraft,’ he said and walked swiftly on, as if anxious to conclude a matter of some particular importance before going on elsewhere for more personal diversions.

Dennison led Sinistrari up the steps into the hanging shed escorted by Binns and Calcraft. Calcraft hastily trod out the remnants of Sinistrari’s cigar, coughing sharply as he took one last deep puff. John Thrift, the Chaplain, nervously rang a finger around his twice-about clerical collar and hovered by the door of the hanging chamber like a white robed ghost, unsure what to do. Unwilling to send a soul to perdition unshriven he wanted to offer his prayers but was deeply hesitant to risk the wrath of Sinistrari once again. In the end, he silently mouthed prayers to himself, mumbling into his Bible as he did so.

The Governor, Under Sheriff and Medical Officer lined themselves up along the walls of the chamber as Dennison expertly pinioned Sinistrari’s upper arms about his chest with a leather strap and bound his hands to the front. He then placed the condemned man on chalk marks over the centre of the trap doors. ‘Just keep on looking over my shoulder,’ he instructed and placed the white hood over Sinistrari’s head and swiftly looped the noose into place and tightened it – making sure that the brass ring of the noose was squarely placed under the angle Sinistrari’s left jaw and held in place by the leather washer. Meanwhile Jenkins pinioned Sinistrari’s legs just below the knees.

The warders, Binns and Calcraft, stood either side of Sinistrari on planks laid across the trap in case the condemned man needed support; it was not uncommon for those about to die to feel faint and the warders were placed either side to offer support if needed. Ropes hung down from the gallows beam for them to hold on to as the trap sprung open. However, Sinistrari stood tall and straight, contemptuously shrugging off the warder’s hands.

Barely twenty seconds after entering the scaffold house Dennison was ready and took his place by the drop lever as Billington angrily beckoned Thrift further into the cell, officially, no execution could take place without the presence of a Chaplain and the now hooded Sinistrari was unable to see him.

‘Anything to say, Sinistrari? Any final words?’ Billington asked.

‘Not at the moment but thank you for askin. No doubt something apposite will occur to me later and we can discuss it then at greater length.’

At that, Billington gave Dennison the nod. The hangman threw the lever that slid the drawbar across so that the ends of the supporting hinges fell away. The trap doors swung open, Sinistrari plummeted down into the pit, and then the rope jerked taut, zinging like the angry plucked string of a double bass. The heavy oak doors of the trap slammed into the restraining catches and the ponderous timbered crash of the impact echoed like the thunderclap of doom but high above the booming echoes, a sharp c***k like the cracking of a whip or the snapping of sun dried twig beneath the feet in the stillness of dawn was heard as Sinistrari’s neck broke. The rope swung from side to side under the weight of the body, spinning slowly like a mason’s plumb bob. A collective sigh of pent up breath hissed around the walls of the scaffold house like escaping steam. The rope creaked rhythmically against the crossbeam, squeaking loudly in the stillness of the chamber.

After a minute or two of silence Doctor Pasha Rose picked up his bag and followed Dennison and Jenkins down the steps into the hanging pit, their footsteps rebounding from the brickwork in harsh echoing crackles that scraped on Chaplain Thrift’s ears like sharply spoken accusations of failure as he flustered about near the door of the execution chamber. He had allowed a man to go to his death unrepentant, damned to perdition for all eternity. He hurried into the scaffold and quickly made the sign of the cross over the open scaffold, muttering prayers as he did so.

Dennison grasped Sinistrari’s legs to stop the swinging of the body as Rose hooked his stethoscope into his ears, climbed onto a step stool that Jenkins placed for him by the body and then carefully checked for any signs of life in the hanging man.

‘The prisoner is dead,’ he called up after a long drawn minute. ‘All signs of life are extinct and death was almost certainly instantaneous. The prisoner Edward James Sinistrari is pronounced dead as of …’ He consulted his pocket watch, ‘12.07AM on Monday, 2nd June 1888. The cause of death will be confirmed by autopsy and my report will be made available for the inquest tomorrow.’

‘A fair hanging, Dennison,’ Billington declared, ‘Very fair indeed. My official report will reflect that.’

‘Thank you sir, ’e’ went well, went as a gentleman should.’

‘But you should have made more allowance in the drop, Dennison, to take into account the prisoner’s height; you could have easily botched it again, left him choking in the wind. Bear that in mind in future. My report, of course, will also mention that fact.’

‘Yes sir, of course sir, thank you, sir. Bastard,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘Gentlemen, I think that this calls for a drink. Botting? Rose?’ Billington asked, wondering whether he would still have time afterwards to visit Madam Martine’s as usual. The hanging had aroused him and he was eager to have his buttocks paddled, preferably by Suzette, a French farm girl built like a Percheron mare who really knew how to lay it on and who would then ride him like a horse before bringing him to a juddering c****x. He surreptitiously squeezed his blossoming erection before leading the way back to his office and the brandy bottle. Naturally, Dennison and Jenkins were not included in Billington’s invitation and after locking the scaffold pit the two men made their way down to the warder’s rest room and took a glass or two of rum with Binns and Calcraft and some of the other off duty warders in celebration of Sinistrari’s execution.

IT WAS TWO HOURS LATER WHEN THE HANGMEN RE-ENTERED THE PIT, ready to take Sinistrari down from the gallows and prepare his corpse for post mortem by Doctor Pasha Rose. After they had stripped him, they would wheel his body on a trolley into the mortuary that was next door to the execution chamber. Then their duties were finished and they could go back to the warder’s rest room and take another glass of rum. Or two.

JENKINS TURNED THE KNURLED KNOB OF THE VALVE AND LIT THE GAS GLOBES. In the deathly silence of the hanging pit the soft hiss of the flaring gas seemed extra loud in the hangmen’s’ ears, neither man was fanciful, the brutality of their trade saw to that, but the sound of the hissing gas seemed menacing somehow, almost as if there were some fell serpent in the room with them, waiting to pounce. The light from the gas lamps only served to harden the shadows in the corner of the room and both men looked around nervously, anxious to get the task done and get on their way. The menace within the hanging pit was palpable and the hangmen busied themselves to their tasks, anxious to be away.

Jenkins hurriedly brought the medical trolley through from the mortuary next door, ready to transport Sinistrari’s corpse back there for post mortem. One of the rear wheels of the trolley wobbled and squeaked, grating further on Jenkins’ stretched nerves.

The easiest way to strip a hanged man is whilst he is still hanging from the gallows and so after removing the pinioning straps Jenkins took off Sinistrari shoes and socks as Dennison eased the costly worsted frockcoat and white silk waistcoat away from his torso, clucking his tongue in frustrated anger at the loss of the money he would have made from the sale. And as for the hanging rope, that was another waste in Dennison’s eyes, if not sold, a good rope could be used for a dozen hangings or more.

‘Fancy bit of stuff this, Jenks, I mean, look at the quality o’ this bend,2 and ’is shirt, finest China silk, I reckons, none of this Macclesfield stuff for us lordship here. We should ’a’ made a few bob out of this clobber and no mistake,’ Dennison said, fingering the quality of the cloth. Jenkins had not been party to the sale of the effects to Fred Cavey and Dennison saw no reason to enlighten him now.