The Rise Of An English Lawbreaker

Chapter 3

The crowd cheered as the condemned man stood on the platform, with the scaffold behind him and Thomas Turlis, the hangman, at his side. The prisoner wore flowers in his hair, and a Church of England priest intoned a solemn chapter from the Bible in an attempt to salvage his soul.

“Die game!” Somebody shouted, and the crowd took up the chant.

“Die game!” They chorused. “Die game!”

The prisoner, resplendent in a frock coat with brass buttons on top of tight buff breeches, a red waistcoat, and a white silk shirt, raised his hands for silence.

The noise subsided, save for a constant whispering and the raucous shouts of broadsheet and ale sellers. A squad of pickpockets sidled through the crowd, extracting silk handkerchiefs and purses from the unwary. Around the scaffold, half a company of scarlet-coated soldiers of the 7th Fusiliers held their Brown Bess muskets in sweaty hands. The redcoats wished the executioner would hurry up and hang the prisoner so they could find an alehouse and forget the misery of their lot.

“My friends!” the condemned man shouted. “Our lords and masters expect me to say how sorry I am for the life I chose and blame drink and wayward women for my downfall.”

A few in the crowd nodded sagely, while most looked confused. One woman with a low-cut dress and ribbons in her hair pushed to the front and stood breast-to-breast with a swarthy corporal. She looked up at the prisoner and blew him a kiss. The prisoner glanced down, mouthed, “I love you, Kate,” and continued with his speech.

“I am not going to say that!” The prisoner shouted, and the crowd cheered, with some throwing their hats in the air and others stamping their feet. “Drink all you can, w***e all you like, rob the wealthy and live until you die!”

The crowd roared their appreciation at the condemned man’s words, lifted tankards and bottles and toasted his memory.

“As you know!” the prisoner shouted above the crowd, “Thomas Turlis here has the right to take my clothes when he has hanged me, to sell or wear as he pleases. Well, here’s what I think of the hangman’s noose!” Quickly shrugging off his coat, he threw it to the crowd before Turlis could interfere and was removing his shirt when the hangman called up two soldiers to subdue him.

Below the platform, a dozen people leapt to claim the prisoner’s clothing. Kate was first screaming abuse at two men who tried to rip the coat from her hands. The corporal watched for a moment, then quietly kicked out at one of the men, sending him sprawling on the ground. Two more women joined in, screaming obscenities, and fighting with fists, nails, and boots.

Above them, the hangman and the two soldiers had prevented the condemned man from removing any more of his clothes.

“Goodnight,” the prisoner shouted, “and God or the devil be with you all.” He kicked the lever, the trap door opened beneath his feet, and he dangled there, kicking, choking, and dancing his final obscene jig as he slowly strangled. Kate had a last glance at the coat and jumped on the hanging man, increasing his weight so he passed quicker and suffered less. She heard the horrible sounds of her man dying, felt his body convulse and clung to him until the body ceased twitching. Only then did she release her hold.

The crowd were silent, with a gaggle of women rushing forward. They fought each other to take the corpse’s hand and press it to their face or breast, for superstition told them that the touch of a hanged man’s hand cured them of any skin diseases they may have.

Kate stepped back. She had done her duty and could leave her old lover to whatever fate the hangman chose. The coat she had fought for was long gone, but one of the brass buttons lay trampled in the mud. Lifting the button, Kate placed it inside her pocket and walked southeast. She did not look back where her man swung slowly with his head to one side and his tongue protruding. He was the past, the future might never happen, and only the present mattered.

The wagon lurched down the road, with the driver hunched on the driving seat, gripping the reins tightly in her hands. At her side, Smith pulled his countryman’s smock over his shoulders and adjusted the broad-brimmed hat, so it shadowed most of his features.

“That’s the toll coming up now,” the driver spoke around a thick wad of tobacco that she chewed. She ejected a stream of brown tobacco juice from her mouth. “Bloody Lord Fitzwarren, slowing honest travellers.”

“Be as pleasant as you can,” Smith said. “Pay what he demands without any complaints.”

“If you say so.” Hettie, the driver, did not hide her disgust. “It’s not like you to give in so easily, Mr Smith. People will say that you’re getting soft.”

“People can say what they like,” Smith said.

The toll house was octagonal, with windows at each angle to enable the toll keeper to view the road. Lord Fitzwarren’s men had chopped down any trees for two hundred yards around the toll house to ensure nobody could approach without being seen.

The toll bar stretched across the highway, studded with spikes and with a metal curtain that brushed the ground. Across the road, the bar fitted into a slot in a newly built brick wall that extended to a deep ditch.

“There’s no way around it,” Hettie said. “It’s either pay the toll, turn back, or chance the highwaymen at the Birch Ford road.”

“Lord Fitzwarren is making sure,” Smith said. “Pull up a few yards short of the toll bar, Hettie. I want to see if the toll keeper comes out.”

Pulling his hat further over his face, Smith watched as the toll house door opened, and the toll keeper stepped outside.

Here’s a man to watch, Smith thought.

Here’s a man to watch, A few inches above average height, the keeper carried himself like a prizefighter, with a straight back and a spring in his step. Smith saw the tight-fitting jacket over a barrel chest, with a tell-tale bulge on the left side.

This toll keeper carries a pistol.

This toll keeper carries a pistol.“Come closer,” the toll keeper ordered as Smith studied him, noting the steady eyes and muscular shoulders of a fighting man.

“Do as he says,” Smith ordered, and Hettie flicked the reins. The horse ambled forward until its nose touched the toll bar.

“It’s a shilling for the cart and another for the load,” the toll keeper said.

“That’s robbery,” Hettie replied.

Smith kept his head down as the toll keeper eyed him up and down.

“Pay it or leave,” the toll keeper said. “There is another road to Appleby if you don’t mind the highwaymen.”

“We’ll pay,” Smith said and produced his pocketbook. He counted out the two shillings and saw a shadowy figure behind the toll house window. A single candle in a brass holder reflected from high cheekbones and something long and metal. The barrel of a musket, perhaps?

The toll keeper checked the slow procession of copper and silver coins that Smith dropped into his ready palm. When he was satisfied with the amount, he stepped back, and Smith settled into the hard seat, watching through the corner of his eyes.

“You can go,” the toll keeper lifted a hand, and the man in the toll house raised the bar.

Hettie cracked her reins across the horse’s rump with a surly nod, and the cart lurched forward onto a much smoother road. Smith shifted in his seat, watching the keeper and the toll house.

I see two men in there, plus the keeper. The toll keeper looks like a prizefighter, and at least one of the men inside has a weapon. Lord Fitzwarren has his turnpike secure.

I see two men in there, plus the keeper. The toll keeper looks like a prizefighter, and at least one of the men inside has a weapon. Lord Fitzwarren has his turnpike secure.They rolled on for two miles, with the countryside a mixture of well-tended fields, small farms, and patches of woodland. Smith heard the drumbeat of hooves first and rested a hand on the butt of his pistol.

“Watch for highwaymen.”

“I will.” Hettie kicked open the box under her driving seat.

A group of horsemen galloped from the left, laughing and shouting at each other. Some were in shirt sleeves, others in short jackets, and one wore a bright green riding cloak that flowed from his shoulders. They leapt over a farm gate, rode across a newly ploughed field, and crossed the road fifty yards in front of the cart. Smith watched them, knowing they were Lord Fitzwarren and his friends.

“They seem a carefree bunch,” Hettie said.

“Carefree or careless,” Smith said as the riders galloped away laughing, with their horses’ hooves raising clods of earth from the field.

“Lord Fitzwarren keeps his land well,” Hettie said grudgingly as she nodded to the hedge-bordered fields.

“He does,” Smith agreed. “Here’s another toll gate ahead.” He raised his voice in a halloo to attract the toll keeper.

Hettie pulled the cart to a halt. “We’ve already paid,” she said as the toll bar remained resolutely down.

“That toll was to enter his Lordship’s road. Now you must pay to leave.” The toll keeper was short, squat and square-built, with a pockmarked face and an easy grin.

“Is that legal?” Hettie asked.

“Ask the local magistrate.” The toll keeper’s grin broadened. “His name is Lord Fitzwarren.”

Smith pushed his hat further back on his head. He noted the strength of the toll bar, built to the same pattern as the one they previously encountered. “Pay the man,” he ordered Hettie, handing over his pocketbook.

The toll keeper accepted the money, checked each coin, and lifted the toll bar.

“Push through,” Smith said. He glanced over his shoulder, where the toll keeper watched them drive away as he lowered the bar. “Two overpriced toll gates and two groups of unpleasant keepers. I’ll have to do something about that.”

Hettie produced a stubby clay pipe and stuffed tobacco into the bowl. “You’d be going against a lord of the land, vested interest and the law,” she said.

“I know,” Smith agreed. He looked ahead as Hettie drove into a wide area of grassland and scattered trees, with cattle roaming free. “Where are we now?”

“Appleby Common,” Hettie said. “It stretches from here to Appleby. It’s one of the last areas of free, unenclosed land in this part of Kent. The people of Appleby and the surrounding village have the right to pasture and gather firewood here.” She opened a small box under her seat and pulled out a pistol. “Highwaymen also use it.”

Smith nodded and loosened the pistol under his belt. “Now we have brandy to deliver to five public houses and three inns, highwaymen or no highwaymen.”