Bernard Cornwell - Gallows Thief

'Praise Him!' the Ordinary interjected.

'And it is neither seemly nor civilised of us to hurry men to that condign fate,' Lord Alexander finished.

The Keeper looked astonished. 'You would surely not abolish the punishment of hanging, my lord?'

'Hang a man,' Lord Alexander said, 'and you deny him the chance of repentance. You deny him the chance of being pricked, day and night, by his conscience. It should be sufficient, I would have thought, to simply transport all felons to Australia. I am reliably informed it is a living hell.'

'They will suffer from their consciences in the real hell,' Cotton put in.

'So they will, sir,' Lord Alexander said, 'so they will, but I would rather a man came to repentance in this world, for he surely has no chance of salvation in the next. By execution we deny men their chance of God's grace.'

'It's a novel argument,' Cotton allowed, though dubiously.

Lord Christopher had been listening to this conversation with a harried look and now blurted out an intervention. 'Are you,' he stared at the Ordinary, 'related to Henry Cotton?'

The conversation died momentarily, killed by Lord Christopher's sudden change of tack. 'To whom, my lord?' the Ordinary enquired.

'Henry Cotton,' Lord Christopher said. He seemed to be in the grip of some very powerful emotion, as if he found being inside Newgate Prison almost unbearable. He was pale, there was sweat on his brow, and his hands were trembling. 'He was G-Greek reader at Christ Church,' he explained, 'and is now the sub librarian at the Bodleian.'

The Ordinary took a step away from Lord Christopher, who looked as if he was about to be ill. 'I had thought, my lord,' the Ordinary said, 'to be connected instead with the Viscount Combermere. Distantly.'

'Henry Cotton is a g-good fellow,' Lord Christopher said, 'a very good fellow. A sound scholar.'

'He's a pedant,' Lord Alexander growled. 'Related to Combermere, are you, Sir Stapleton Cotton as was? He almost lost his right arm at the battle of Salamanca and what a tragic loss that would have been.'

'Oh indeed,' the Ordinary agreed piously.

'You are not usually tender about soldiers,' Lord Christopher observed to his friend.

'Combermere can be a very astute batsman,' Lord Alexander said, 'especially against twisting balls. Do you play cricket, Cotton?'

'No, my lord.'

'It's good for the wind,' Lord Alexander declared mysteriously, then turned to offer a lordly inspection of the Association Room, staring up at the ceiling beams, rapping one of the tables, then peering at the cooking pots and cauldrons stacked by the embers of the fire. 'I see our felons live in some comfort,' he remarked, then frowned at his friend. 'Are you quite well, Kit?'

'Oh yes, indeed, yes,' Lord Christopher said hastily, but he looked anything but well. There were beads of sweat on his brow and his skin was paler than usual. He took off his spectacles and polished them with a handkerchief. 'It is just that the apprehension of seeing a man launched into eternity is conducive to reflection,' he explained, 'very conducive. It is not an experience to be taken lightly.'

'I should think not indeed,' Lord Alexander said, then turned an imperious eye on the other breakfast guests who seemed to be looking forward to the morning's events with an unholy glee. Three of them, standing close to the door, laughed at a jest and Lord Alexander scowled at them. 'Poor Corday,' he said.

'Why do you pity the man, my lord?' the Reverend Cotton asked.

'It seems likely he is innocent,' Lord Alexander said, 'but it seems proof of that innocence has not been found.'

'If he was innocent, my lord,' the Ordinary observed with a patronising smile, 'then I am confident that the Lord God would have revealed that to us.'

'You're saying you have never hanged an innocent man or woman?' Lord Alexander demanded.

'God would not allow it,' the Reverend Cotton averred.

'Then God had better get his boots on this morning,' Lord Alexander said, then turned as a barred door at the other end of the room opened with a sudden and harsh squeal. For a heartbeat no one appeared in the doorway and it seemed as though all the guests held their breath, but then, to an audible gasp, a short and burly man carrying a stout leather bag stumped into sight. The man was red-faced and dressed in brown gaiters, black breeches and a black coat that was buttoned too tightly over his protuberant belly. He respectfully pulled off a shabby brown hat when he saw the waiting gentry, but he offered no greeting and no one in the Association Room acknowledged his arrival.

'That's the man Botting,' the Ordinary whispered.

'Ponderous sort of name for a hangman,' Lord Alexander observed in a tactlessly loud voice. 'Ketch, now, that's a proper hangman's name. But Botting? Sounds like a disease of cattle.'

Botting shot a hostile glance at the tall, red-haired Lord Alexander who was quite unmoved by the animosity, though Lord Christopher recoiled a step, perhaps in horror at the hangman's beef-like face that was disfigured by warts, wens and scars and subject to involuntary grimaces every few seconds. Botting gave the other guests a sardonic look, then heaved a bench aside so he could drop his leather bag onto a table. He unbuckled the bag and, conscious of being watched, brought out four coils of thin white cord. He placed the coils on the table and then took from the bag two heavy ropes, each with a noose at one end and a spliced eye at the other. He placed the two ropes on the table, added two white cotton bags, then stepped smartly back a pace. 'Good morning, sir,' he said to the Keeper.

'Oh, Botting!' The Keeper's surprised tone suggested he had only just noticed the hangman's presence. 'And a very good morning to you, too.'

'And a nice one it is, sir,' Botting said. 'Hardly a cloud up aloft, hardly one. Still just the two clients today, sir?'

'Just the two, Botting.'

'There's a fair crowd for them,' Botting said, 'not over large, but fair enough.'

'Good, good,' the Keeper said vaguely.

'Botting!' Lord Alexander intervened, pacing forward with his crippled foot clumping heavily on the scarred floorboards. 'Tell me, Botting, is it true that you hang members of the aristocracy with a silken rope?' Botting looked astonished at being addressed by one of the Keeper's guests, and even more by such an extraordinary figure as the Reverend Lord Alexander Pleydell with his shock of red hair, hawklike nose and gangly figure. 'Well?' Lord Alexander demanded peremptorily. 'Is it so? I have heard it is, but on matters concerning hanging then you, surely, are the fons et origo of reliable information. Would you not concur?'

'A silken rope, sir?' Botting asked weakly.

'My lord,' the Ordinary corrected him.

'My lord! Ha!' Botting said, recovering his equanimity and amused at the thought that perhaps Lord Alexander was contemplating being executed. 'I hates to disappoint you, my lord,' he said, 'but I wouldn't know where to lay hands on a silken rope. Not a silken one. Now this,' Botting caressed one of the nooses on the table, 'is the best Bridport hemp, my lord, fine as you could discover anywhere, and I can always lay hands on quality Bridport hemp. But silk? That's a horse of a different colour, my lord, and I wouldn't even know where to look. No, my lord. If ever I has the high privilege of hanging a nobleman I'll be doing it with Bridport hemp, same as I would for anyone else.'

'And quite right too, my good man.' Lord Alexander beamed approval at the hangman's levelling instincts. 'Well done! Thank you.'

'You will forgive me, my lord?' The Keeper gestured that Lord Alexander should step away from the wide central aisle between the tables.

'I'm in the way?' Lord Alexander sounded surprised.

'Only momentarily, my lord,' the Keeper said, and just then Lord Alexander heard the clank of irons and the shuffle of feet. The other guests drew themselves up and made their faces solemn. Lord Christopher Carne took a step back, his face even paler than before, then turned to face the door that led from the Press Yard.