A Place Called Freedom - Ken Follett [77]
The hangman whipped the horses.
Lizzie heard herself scream: “No!”
The cart jerked and moved off.
The hangman lashed the horses again and they struggled to a trot. The cart was drawn from under the condemned people and, one by one, they fell to the extent of the ropes: first the drunk, already half dead; then the two Irishmen; then the weeping boy; and at last the woman, whose prayer was cut off in midsentence.
Lizzie stared at the five bodies dangling from the ropes, and she was filled with loathing for herself and the crowd around her.
They were not all dead. The boy, mercifully, seemed to have broken his neck instantly, as did the two Irishmen; but the drunk was still moving, and the woman, whose blindfold had slipped, stared out of open, terrified eyes as she slowly choked.
Lizzie buried her face in Jay’s shoulder.
She would have been glad to leave, but she forced herself to stay. She had wanted to see this and now she should stick it out until the end.
She opened her eyes again.
The drunk had expired, but the woman’s face worked in agony. The rowdy onlookers had fallen silent, stilled by the horror in front of them. Several minutes went by.
At last her eyes closed.
The sheriff stepped up to cut down the bodies, and that was when the trouble started.
The Irish group surged forward, trying to get past the guards to the scaffold. The constables fought back, and the javelin men joined in, stabbing at the Irish. Blood began to flow.
“I was afraid of this,” Jay said. “They want to keep their friends’ bodies out of the hands of the surgeons. Let’s get clear as fast as we can.”
Many around them had the same idea, but those at the back were trying to get closer and see what was happening. As some surged one way and some the other, fistfights broke out. Jay tried to force a way through. Lizzie stuck close to him. They found themselves up against an unbroken wave of people going the other way. Everyone was shouting or screaming. They were forced back toward the gallows. The scaffold was now swarming with Irish, some of whom were beating off the guards and dodging the lunges of the javelin men while others tried to cut down the bodies of their friends.
For no apparent reason the crush around Lizzie and Jay eased suddenly. She turned around and saw a gap between two big, rough-looking men. “Jay, come on!” she shouted, and darted between them. She turned to make sure Jay was behind her. Then the gap closed. Jay stepped forward to push his way through, but one of the men raised a hand threateningly. Jay flinched and stepped back, momentarily afraid. The hesitation was fatal: he was cut off from her. She saw his blond head above the crowd and fought to get back to him but she was stopped by a wall of people. “Jay!” she screamed. “Jay!” He shouted back but the crowd forced them farther apart. He was pushed in the direction of Tyburn Street while the crowd took her the opposite way, toward the park. A moment later he was lost from sight.
She was on her own. She gritted her teeth and turned her back on the scaffold. She faced a solid pack of people. She tried to push herself between a small man and a big-bosomed matron. “Keep your hands to yourself, young man,” the woman said. Lizzie persisted in pushing and managed to squeeze through. She repeated the process. She trod on the toes of a sour-faced man and he punched her in the ribs. She gasped with pain and pressed on.
She saw a familiar face and recognized Mack McAsh. He, too, was fighting his way through the crowd. “Mack!” she yelled gratefully. He was with the red-haired woman who had been at his side in Grosvenor Square. “Over here!” Lizzie cried. “Help me!” He saw her and recognized her. Then a tall man’s elbow jabbed her eye and for a few moments she could hardly see. When her vision returned to normal Mack