They Hanged My Saintly Billy

I sincerely trust that I have given sufficient reasons to postpone the hour of death, and that the 14th inst.—a day which will witness the nation's common celebration of joy with our brave allies, the French, in the baptism of the future Napoleon IV—may not bathe in tears

¹ The Prince Imperial. Killed by the Zulus in 1879, while serving with the British cavalry.

of bitterness, sorrow, and resentment all the numerous relatives and friends of the unfortunate William Palmer.

May I seek as early an answer as is compatible with the consideration of this sincere plea?

I am, Sir, your most obedient servant, John Smith

John Smith had his answer on the next evening:

Whitehall, June 12, 1856

Sir,

Secretary Sir George Grey has received and considered your letters of the 10th and 11th inst., in behalf of William Palmer. He directs me to inform you that he can see nothing in any of the points that you have pressed upon his attention which would justify him in interfering with the due course of law in this case.

I am, Sir, your obedient servant, H. Waddington

By the same post he received a letter from Dr Palmer himself:

Stafford, June 11th, 1856

My dear John,

The governor has been kind enough to allow me to write to you, as I am anxious to see you, and shall be glad if you will come as soon as you can. Thank God, I am very well in health and spirits. Write to me immediately.

I am, my dear John, yours ever, here and hereafter,

William Palmer

Chapter XXIV

THE EXECUTION

MR JOHN SMITH, since he could not catch the express that evening, took train to Wolverhampton, and went thence by fly, reaching Stafford Gaol at about eleven o'clock. Dr Palmer had just parted from his brothers, among them Joseph (now somewhat paralytic), and his sister Sarah, in an affecting farewell. When Mr Smith told him that Sir George Grey had refused a last-minute stay of execution, his face suddenly paled, his mouth twitched, and he did not recover his usual florid looks for some little while.

Major Fulford, the Governor, was present at this interview. Because Dr Palmer had waited up to a late hour until Smith came, the prison officers supposed he had something important to tell him; but when the Governor informed the Doctor that whatever private disclosure he might make, on family matters, to Mr Smith would be kept secret, he simply thanked Mr Smith for his great exertions and the prison officers for their kindness—and reaffirmed that Cook had not died from strychnine.

The Governor then expressed a hope that Dr Palmer was not quibbling with the question, and urged him to say plainly whether or not he had committed murder.

Dr Palmer answered: 'Lord Campbell summed up for poisoning by strychnine, and I never gave Cook any of that.'

'How the deed was done,' retorted the Governor, 'is of scant importance. Pray give me a plain yes or no to my question!'

'I have nothing more to add,' said he. 'I am quite easy in my conscience, and happy in my mind.'

Immediately after leaving the Gaol, Smith wrote to a friend as follows:

My interview ended in Palmer's making me pledge myself that Cook's body should be exhumed, and asserting that he was never poisoned by strychnine. Palmer—God help him!—remained as cool as though any ordinary question had been discussed. Then he presented me with a book, inscribed in a fair hand: 'The gift of Wm Palmer, June 13, 1856/ It is titled The Sinner's Friend, and the prelude, underscored by him, runs thus:

' Oh! where for refuge should I flee, If Jesus had not died for me?'

Early in the morning of Saturday, June 14th, Dr Palmer retired to rest, and slept two hours and a half, when he was visited again by the Rev. Mr Goodacre, the Prison Chaplain. Between five and six o'clock he took his breakfast, a plain cup of tea, and made his gallows toilet with unwavering serenity. Breakfast over, the Chaplain entered the cell, to offer Dr Palmer the intimate consolations of religion, and found him still calm and resigned. Shortly afterwards, the Sheriff and other officials appeared. When about to leave his cell for ever, Dr Palmer said in reply to the High Sheriff that he denied the justice of his sentence, and that he was a murdered man. These were almost the last words he uttered.

The doomed prisoner walked, in the company of the Sheriff, to the press-room, where he met Smith, the hangman, and submitted to the final preparations no less quietly than if he had been under the hands of a valet dressing for a dinner party. At about seven o'clock, a turnkey brought him another cup of tea, which he drank with enjoyment, and when asked: 'How do you feel?', replied: 'Thank you, I am quite comfortable.' Among the foolish stories current is one that at ten minutes to eight he was offered a glass of champagne, to prepare him for his ordeal, and that when it was brought he blew off the bubbles, remarking: 'They always give me indigestion a few hours later, if I drink in a hurry.'

The intense interest in the hanging had been manifested a day beforehand by the numbers pouring into Stafford from every direction. The town assumed more the appearance of some anticipated festivity than of the fearful spectacle so soon to take place. The streets, despite torrents of rain which fell during nearly the whole of Friday, were thronged. The public houses did a roaring trade, and in many of them jocund songs and merry dances were kept up all night with untiring energy by holiday-makers who had travelled far to feast their eyes on Dr Palmer's death-struggles. One favourite resort was the house where the hangman had located himself, everyone being anxious to catch a ghmpse of the man who was to be Dr Palmer's executioner.

In the immediate vicinity of the Gaol, raised platforms were erected on every available spot which afforded a sight of the gallows. Twenty-three of them crowded the Gaol and County Road; and the charge of admission to some of the front seats was as high as a guinea for each person. Half-a-guinea seemed to be the ordinary rate, but places at the back were obtainable for less money. In the County Road, the roof of one house had been boarded over, to afford a vantage point from which the execution could be witnessed. In other instances, householders let the produce of their well-kept gardens be trodden underfoot, for the price of standing room. As early as ten o'clock on Friday night, scores of people had taken up positions on the platforms, expressing a resolve to stay there until they saw Palmer hanged; drenching rain, however, soon compelled them to seek shelter in adjoining inns. During the night, the streets were tolerably empty, except for visitors arriving by the midnight mail trains, north and south; but as soon as the grey dawn scattered the darkness, all Stafford burst into renewed life and activity. The public houses gradually disgorged their occupants, and a continuous stream of vehicles, from the four-in-hand to the overladen pony-cart, poured into the town—a traffic augmented by droves of pedestrians. Long before five o'clock, every street leading to the Gaol was choked. By eight o'clock, it was estimated that some twenty thousand strangers had arrived in Stafford. Bands of colliers from the neighbouring pits formed in the midst of the crowd and seemed so bent on forcing their way nearer to the scaffold that the great preparations which the magistrates and Police made to preserve order and avoid accidents, were fully justified.

Barriers had been erected at intervals in the streets to lessen the pressure of the crowd, and detachments of the County Constabulary, to the number of one hundred and sixty, under the command of Captain Hatton, the Chief Constable, were stationed at all salient points. One hundred and fifty specially sworn constables assisted them.

Since scarcely one-half of the assembly could get a view of the scaffold, the rest struggled with all their might to improve their positions. The setting up of the scaffold, at about four o'clock in the morning, was taken as a proof that the execution would not be deferred; which further encouraged those who were unfavourably placed to press close and, if possible, hear the dying speech which it was hoped Dr Palmer would deliver.

As the hour of eight approached, the excitement of the mob grew more intense, yet there was no disturbance that warranted Police interference.

About eighty thousand tracts suitable to the occasion, and a number of Bibles, were distributed by Mr Radcliffe, a religious gentleman from Liverpool, and his helpers, among the immense crowd. In several dissenting chapels continuous services on behalf of the unhappy culprit had been held all night, and numberless preachers exercised their calling from the platforms when daylight appeared.

Contrary to the usual custom in small country towns, the scaffold, a huge affair, somewhat resembling an agricultural machine and hung with black cloth, was not built upon the top of the prison, but brought out in front, so as to bar the road. Smith, the man selected to execute the sentence of the law, was once a nailer—a great, coarse fellow, standing five feet ten inches —but left his original vocation soon after he became hangman in the year 1840, and now pursues the precarious trade of a higgler. Smith hanged Moore for the murder of the Ash Flats, four years ago; and once ran a race against time, almost naked, through Wednesbury town, being sent to gaol immediately on accomplishing this feat. The rope destined for Dr Palmer's neck was twisted by a ropemaker named Coates, who is also a porter at the Stafford railway station. All the railwaymen lent a hand in this task, and Coates, having an eye to the main chance, made thirty yards, cut the surplus length up into small pieces of two or three inches, and hawked them through the streets of Stafford, at a shilling the inch.

When Mr Wright, the philanthropist, visited Dr Palmer a few days before, the rumour went around that he had elicited a confession. But a warder whom we questioned at the time shook his head: 'Well, Sir, I haven't much to wager, but I'll bet every stick and stump I possess that Dr Palmer doesn't confess after all. Why, he ate half-a-pound of steak last night for his tea, and complained of the milk not being good! I shall never forget the scowl he gave us when we took away his brush and tortoise-shell pocket comb. We thought, you know, he might hurt himself with the comb. He went into such a passion! "Send for the barber," he said, "send for the damned barber! I'll have every bit of my hair cut off." And he did, too. He looks so different, you can't imagine— sharp, like. He's given away locks to all his family, for what good those may do them. . . . Yes, Mr "Wright may be a very pious man, but I cannot believe that Dr Palmer said so much as he is supposed to have done. You mark my words, Sir—and I've seen a deal of him—he'll die hardened, and a coward.'

In the event, the warder's prediction proved to be wrong. Dr Palmer's bearing in this supreme ordeal amazed all who witnessed it. Just before eight o'clock, when the Prison bell tolled and the procession was formed which conducted him from his cell to the scaffold, he tripped jauntily along between his guards. Though, contrary to usage, he wore prison dress, this was not meant as an indignity; it happened that the clothes in which he was tried were left behind in London, and no others had been since supplied. Despite the considerable distance he must traverse, Dr Palmer maintained his bold front to the last, stepped lightly up the stairs leading to the gallows, took his place on the drop, and cast a single look at the vast multitude below, not without emotion, but without anything like bravado.

A deafening roar greeted him: of curses, shouts, hootings, shrieks, groans, and execrations from nearly thirty thousand throats. The miners and colliers, maddened by drink and enthusiasm, clamoured: 'Murderer!', 'Poisoner!' He joined in a brief prayer with the Chaplain, then turned and, while the crowd suddenly stood silent, awaiting the speech which, in fact, he did not make, had the rope put round his neck and the long cap drawn over his face. Finally he shook hands with the hangman and said in a low voice: 'God bless you!' As he spoke, the bolt was shot, the drop fell; and after a slight convulsion of his limbs, Dr Palmer hung lifeless from the gallows. The disappointed colliers roared again: 'Cheat!', 'Twister!', not having had their money's worth.

Presently the corpse was cut down and carried inside the Gaol, where Mr Bridges, the phrenologist of Liverpool, took a cast of the head which is, in his opinion, decidedly a criminal one. Then, according to the sentence, Dr Palmer's body was buried naked in quicklime within the Prison precincts.

Rugeley had earned so infamous a reputation because of Dr Palmer, not only in these islands, but on the Continent, that there was serious talk at the Town Hall of changing its name. The Mayor even approached the Prime Minister, through Mr Alderman Sidney, M.P., and demanded an Act of Parliament to this end. The Prime Minister, having recently come to power at a time of immense national anxiety, felt the request to be frivolous; yet he replied obligingly enough: 'By all means, gentlemen; so long as you name your town after me.' They were out of the room before they realized what a joke he had played on them. It would hardly have suited their book to re-name Rugeley ‘Palmers-ton’. So 'Rugeley' it remains.

Here let us conclude our history with an interesting anecdote. An artist of our acquaintance, employed by Messrs Ward & Lock, Publishers, to make sketches of Rugeley for a Life of Wm Palmer, was busily at work the other day on the canal bank beside The Yard, when he became aware of a spirited elderly lady, dressed in the fashion, bearing down on him, a gay parasol held over her French bonnet. In politeness he asked her to inspect his sketch.

'That's well done,' she said. 'I can see you're no slouch of an artist. By the bye, I'm Dr Palmer's mother, and not ashamed of it, neither. Yes, they hanged my saintly Billy! He was a bit of a scamp right enough, but a good son to me; the best of the brood, except Sarah, and no murderer. Yonder merry child riding on the swing is his son, my little grandson Willie, and I shall see he doesn't lack for money, poor creature! When the time comes, I'll send him abroad with Sarah, and have his name changed. Sarah promised Billy, that; she always loved Billy. Yes, the pretty nursemaid in charge of Willie is Eliza Tharm all right; she's a brave, good-natured girl, and I shan't forget her in my will.'

Our artist had the hardiness to ask Mrs Palmer whether she knew what her son had meant when he said:' I did not poison him by strychnine.'

'Why, that's plain,' she answered. 'It would have gone against his conscience to say "I didn't poison Cook"; he had got his own back on Cook—do you see?—for that ill-natured lark of George Bate's insurance, by giving the joker a drug to make him feel sick and sorry. It was tartar emetic, which contains antimony. Billy told Shee of it, which was why Shee believed in his innocence. He didn't make it a fatal dose, of course; but the devil of it was, Professor Taylor had pronounced, at first, that Cook died of antimony. That turned tartar emetic into a poison, which it never

¹ Old Mrs Palmer survived for another five years, outliving Jeremiah Smith by three. I cannot discover what happened to Sarah Palmer, who is not buried in the family vault at Rugeley. Little Willie inherited the Brookes curse from his mother: he committed suicide in 1925.

was reckoned before; so Billy couldn't own up to his lark. He thought himself safe when Taylor changed his mind and spoke of strychnine; but he had disposed of what he bought from Hawkins's to that misshaped dwarf Dyke in London, for his nobbling business, and it was not to be got back. Worse still, Cook must go and die of some unknown disease, like a fool! The trouble is, I understand, that if one accidentally causes the death of a man while engaged in a felony—and so Billy was—the Law reckons it to be murder. Billy feared the tartar emetic might have caused the convulsions. That's what was on his mind, my poor, dear rascal! Will Saunders, who's a fine fellow, would have sworn that Billy intended to use the strychnine on those hounds which were running his mares; but Captain Hatton—damn his eyes!—made Will "safe", as they say.

'I've had a great many unkind letters from all and sundry. For the most part, they speak of my affair with that cowardly rogue Jerry Smith. But I've finished it, once and for all. He can sink or swim as he pleases.

'There's been kind letters, too, and some strange ones, and the strangest of all came from a lady who signs herself "Jane Smirke" —Jane Widnall, as was. She knew my Billy at Liverpool and Haywood, and feels guilty for leading him astray. He was a very good boy, she says, and now if she can be of any service to me in my affliction, etc. . . .

'But that letter I could not answer; my heart was too full; besides, she gave me no address. . .'