The Last Days of Newgate - Andrew Pepper [73]
In his fitful dreams, he heard himself ask: What kind of life have you led when no one mourns?
‘Hush,’ one of the turnkeys said.
The ‘new’ Ordinary - Arthur Foote’s replacement, a stern-looking man who seemed genuinely enthused by the prospect of Pyke’s death - clapped his hands. Standing in his pulpit, dressed in ceremonial robes, he surveyed the chapel and its occupants with what appeared to be contempt.
‘Let us sing to the praise and glory of God,’ he said.
Everyone except Pyke stood.
The sheriffs and under-sheriffs in their gold chains and fur collars and their footmen sat on one side of the chapel. In the pews in the middle the general mass of the prison population took their seats. The schoolmaster and juvenile prisoners were arranged around the communion table opposite the pulpit. Pyke himself sat alone in a large dock-like construction in the centre of the chapel. It had been painted black. Pyke had been allowed to take his seat only once everyone else had taken their places. Shackled and gagged, he kept his head up and met no one’s stare.
‘This service is for the dead,’ the Ordinary bellowed from the pulpit, once the hymn had been sung. ‘The condemned man who is about to suffer the gravest penalty of the law will read from the prayer book and sing the lamentation of a wretched sinner.’
An elderly clerk shuffled across to the black pew and removed Pyke’s gag. Pyke stared down at the prayer book opened in front of him. He closed his eyes. The Ordinary reiterated his demand; Pyke looked down at the words in front of him. When it was clear that Pyke would not do as he was asked, the Ordinary began his sermon and a hushed silence fell over the dour chapel. He painted a grim picture of Hell, insisting that the time for forgiveness had passed and judgement would soon be upon Pyke. He described the brutality of Pyke’s crimes and reminded the congregation that Pyke had attacked a venerable man of the cloth.
Pyke looked around at the unfamiliar faces gathered in the galleries and pews around him.
It was six o’clock on Sunday evening. He would hang in a little more than twelve hours.
Pyke asked for food and porter but even as he did so it struck him as an odd tradition: eating in order to prepare for one’s death. He was not hungry, nor did he want to dull his senses with alcohol.
The victuals arrived about an hour after he had been returned to his cell: stewed mutton with carrots and barley and a jug of porter. Food and drink were also brought for the turnkey in his cell. Pyke picked at the food for a while with his cuffed hands but did not eat anything. Instead he watched, without interest, as the young man scooped the mutton from the bowl in front of him and shovelled it into his mouth, gravy dripping down both sides of his chin. Outside the cell the mood seemed almost festive. Everyone, it appeared, was looking forward to the hanging. Pyke listened as the turnkeys talked excitedly about the vantage points they were going to occupy in relation to the scaffold. One of the turnkeys said there were already thirty thousand people gathered in the streets outside the prison. Another reckoned there would be close to a hundred thousand by the following morning.
The young turnkey had an unnaturally thin face, as though his head had somehow been deformed in childbirth. He had tried to compensate for this deformity by growing an excess of facial hair, which meant that scraps of food and drops of porter gathered in his beard.
Pyke heard footsteps, hard-soled shoes clicking against the stone floor. They came to a stop outside his cell. He listened to voices and heard a jangling of keys. From outside, one of the turnkeys inserted a key into the lock, twisted it, slid the iron bolts back and pulled open the heavy wooden door. Candlelight illuminated the gloomy cell. Pyke looked up. Another turnkey issued an instruction, telling whoever it was out there that they would be searched on the way in and the way out as well. ‘Governor’s orders.’ The turnkey added, ‘Remember what we