Paul Lawrence - The Sweet Smell of Decay

We took our winter flowers and pinned them to our shirts, like gentlemen. The cart made good time up the road towards Tyburn, with the rain giving way to a steady drizzle. The crowds that there were shouted and cursed, but the guard that walked with us almost outnumbered them. It was a quiet journey compared to some I’d witnessed, and by the time we arrived we had barely enough cabbages to open a shop. I’d seen men have to be carried to the scaffold barely conscious from the batterings they’d taken on the cart. We should have counted ourselves fortunate, I suppose, yet I felt a sudden wistful grief that somehow London was full of people that had woken up that morning, looked out of the window and said to themselves ‘Ah — Harry Lytle is to be executed this day. Ne’er mind — it’s raining — let’s to the Crowne instead.’ What would I have given to be in the Crowne that morning?

We talked all the way, a good way to take your mind off what was to come. His name was Roger North and he was condemned for robbing men on the road to Epsom. He was a tobyman, in other words, and I had never met a tobyman before. It wasn’t such a glamorous life he described, even without the unhappy ending. He had been betrayed by a colleague of his that had objected to his flowery tales of brave words and valiant deeds. They had contested a lady’s hand in a tavern one night, and North had won. Next morning he’d awoken with empty arms and a sword at his eye.

As we got closer to Tyburn, so the crowds began to swell and thicken. By the time we reached the foot of the hill they were five or six deep on either side of us. Now the guards had to earn their money, pushing and prodding with their long pikes to keep the road free. I found myself scanning the throng, seeking familiar faces, people that I knew. Not a fruitful way to pass the time, I knew; yet I could not help it. Quite suddenly the prospect of death felt real. It was at this time that Joyce’s companions had lost their composure, so I recalled Dowling relating. The drink was all drunk, and it was time for repose. Roger North watched me carefully for sign of panic, I knew. He himself remained composed, though the veins on his face now looked very green against his marble-white skin.

At the scaffold the crowds were thick, swarming and buzzing. Galleries had been erected on either side and not a seat was to be had. I looked around for just one familiar face but saw none. Ugly faces, drunk and lairy. I ducked to avoid an orange. North was hit on the back of the head by a hard, young apple. He gritted his teeth and looked angry. All the faces I looked into were bleary and hard, impatient for the show to begin. No respect for death, I felt, and it was my death — surely it deserved some respect? I felt more like a player on the stage than a man about to reconcile himself with the Lord, unhappily aware of an expectation to perform — or be damned.

We stopped. I stood up and never had I felt so tall. The crowd were all looking at me. I scanned the galleries. Men sat forward with their elbows on their knees staring intently. Women sat too, heads stretched back over their shoulders to talk to their neighbours. They were out there and I was here, with Roger North, exposed and afraid. Stepping down off the cart was a relief. The soldier that helped me step down cast me a quick glance, assessing my state of mind with expert eye, no doubt. It was so damn noisy! No longer could we see above the heads of the vast gathering. It was like a tunnel opened up before us walled with people. We were pulled forwards by our chains, desperate to stay on our feet and not slide over in the slippery brown mud. No man wanted to die with wet brown filth on the seat of his pants. The scaffold waited for us ahead. It looked so small from here. The horses danced next to it, skittish and nervous, ready to hold us beneath the gallows. A wall of people barred any attempt to flee.

The tall man in the brown leather apron stood above us, waiting. The heat, the smell of sweat, vomit and ale, the obscenities and blasphemies that I could hear, despite trying not to listen, pressed down on me. North was ahead of me, yet the spell of our companionship was broken. I could see the fear in his eyes, the tears on his cheeks. I felt my own bladder weaken, felt the crap in my bowels begin to churn. It was too noisy to exchange words of comfort. We were in the pit of Hell, burning in the flames of man’s hatred. Words were no use here.

‘Hold fast!’ a voice shouted from somewhere up in front, from somewhere past the horses.

‘Hold fast!’ it shouted again, this time louder. It sounded like someone was in trouble. I waited for a scream. The guards slowed, mumbling and impatient, pikes held aloft.

‘Hold fast!’ A body appeared in front between the scaffold and us. ‘I have a document signed by King Charles himself! Harry Lytle is to be trialled anew!’

Trialled anew? Trialled anew? Trialled anew! God have mercy on my soul! I felt like singing, yet would the guards oblige? I felt a sudden fear that they would dismiss this man with his document signed by King Charles and insist on carrying out their task. Could they read? I stood with my feet dug firmly into the mud, determined not to take a single further step towards the gallows while the chief of the guards took the paper and read it, then ran his fingers across the seal. He read slowly, I watched his eyes move from side to side, letter by letter, word by word. He mouthed the words as he read them, his face a picture of anxious puzzlement. Then he turned to his colleagues and shrugged. My chest was squeezed so tight it felt like I was being crushed beneath a great stone.

‘Back to Newgate for this one.’ The guard pointed at me. ‘Onward-ho for the other.’

Back to Newgate! My very own Garden of Eden! I looked for Roger North up ahead. I caught a quick glimpse of his face, mouth wide open and tongue lolling, his eyes frantically scanning the sky for some angel of salvation. He walked with his shoulders slumped forwards and his trousers were soiled. He had shat his trousers and was panting like a dog.

I never saw Roger North alive again. Though his head sat above Nonsuch for about six months.

I was back in the same courtroom the very next day. This time none came to see me at all before the day started, so I resigned myself to another session of ritual public humiliation. I wondered what witnesses would be called today? They might as well collect the heads of Giles, Hewitt and Keeling, attach them to the end of sticks and have Shrewsbury perform a puppet show. Yet I was not entirely pessimistic. There must be some reason for initiating the rigmarole one more time.

I resolved beforetimes not to mess about with the jury unless there sat a genuine lunatic. On second thoughts perhaps I would be better off with a jury selected from Bedlam. That was a thought indeed!

I asked one of the guards who were to be the judge and prosecutor as we travelled. The judge, I was told, was one Nicholas Earl of Newcastle, a scholarly sort of fellow by reputation. The prosecutor on the other hand, was none other than the Attorney General, the same that had told me that I should be dead by now. He should be glad to see me then.

We resumed our old familiar seats. I couldn’t tell this set of the jurors from the last, so ignored them. They would do as they were told, no doubt, so there was little point in concerning myself. I was more interested in observing the Attorney General. He came in on his own in advance of the judge and settled himself quickly. I received a brief glance, but no more. Gone were the flummery and flammery, the posturing and theatre. Sitting with his arms folded, he looked like a man denied his favourite pudding.