Two male warders took Esther Breadspear’s arms, and bound them behind her back, using leather pinions. She submitted docilely enough, but she was barely able to stand – whether from terror or the opium draught, I have no idea – and they had to hold her up.
The chaplain was wearing plain black vestments, and he carried the Book of Common Prayer. Behind him was Mr Glaister, and two male warders, and there were three other gentlemen. One was clearly a doctor for he had a medical bag, and I heard later that another was from the newspapers, since it is customary for an official notice to appear in the newspapers of an execution, and that must be written from an actual witness’s account. The other, I believe, was some official who was present in order to make a report of the proceedings. As they began to walk forward, I hesitated, not knowing quite what was expected of me at this stage. I did not want to interrupt the grim solemnity of the occasion, so I stepped quietly into line behind them.
Mr Glaister unlocked a door and a dull grey light filtered in. Esther seemed to flinch, whether from being faced with light after so many weeks in the windowless cell, or simply from fear, I could not tell.
The courtyard outside was stone-paved and rather ill-kept. Weeds grew through cracks in the stones. The execution block was some ten or twelve yards away – the short walk. The door of what Mr Glaister had called the execution shed was already open, and I could not help thinking that the word ‘shed’ was inappropriate, for it is a stone-built place, the stonework carved and weathered. Above the door were two of those carved stone faces – blow-cheeked cherubs with sculptured curls. I suppose they had originally been designed as benign – as serene, happy faces. But time had worn them, distorting their features. The lips of one had broken away, so that it appeared to be screaming silently through a lipless mouth, while the other one’s eyes had chipped, making it seem as if the eyes had been partly removed. As we walked towards the open door, I could not help staring at these two faces – the screaming and the blind – and thinking that the twisted faces of two children were the last things Esther Breadspear should see as she walked to her execution.
The chaplain was intoning the words of the funeral service as we went – and no matter the crime, it must be a terrible thing to hear your own funeral service read.
At the words ‘Ashes to ashes and dust to dust’, Esther looked up and saw the stone creatures, and that was when she swooned in earnest. She had to be lifted and carried the rest of the way, and between them, the warders got her through the door. And there inside, waiting for her, was the sturdy figure of the hangman, his hands gloved – black and thick, exactly as I had imagined. His eyes displayed no emotion, although I suppose he has had to school himself not to do so. His assistant – a runty-looking youth – stood nearby.
The hangman – I dislike referring to him in such terms, but I never heard his name, and in fact would rather not know it – held a white canvas hood, rather like a large sugar bag. As he stepped forward I saw that immediately behind him was the outline of the trapdoor in the floor, with a massive lever rising up from it. I have always prided myself on my phlegmatic nature, but my heart began to beat uncomfortably fast, and when I glanced at Mr Porringer I saw he was the colour of a tallow candle.
A white line was painted on the trapdoor, and the warders carried Esther across and positioned her exactly on it. She was still barely able to stand, and someone murmured something about a chair. But as the hangman pulled the hood over her head, she seemed to straighten up, as if accepting what was to come, and squaring her shoulders to meet it. Moving quickly and smoothly, the hangman slid the thick rope over her head and adjusted it around her neck, paying particular attention to the placing of the massive knot.
The first chime of nine o’clock sounded, and Mr Glaister, standing next to me, said, very softly, ‘It will be over by the last chime of nine.’