The Making Of A Gentleman. Ruth Axtell Morren

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СКАЧАТЬ glimpse of her would remind them of the verse she’d shared with them at the end, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.

      “Last confessions of dying man! Tuppence. Get the true and final confessions of Jonah Quinn!” A man wending a horse with difficulty through the crowd waved a sheaf of printed broadsides, their ink no doubt still damp.

      How she hated these executions, where a person’s life was made a mockery and the proceedings a theatrical farce. She focused on the empty platform once again. The prisoner wouldn’t be brought forth until half past seven. She knew the schedule well.

      Lord, break his will. Soften his heart. Don’t let him depart with that hardness of heart that prevents him from receiving Your mercy.

      The prayer had become a litany to her since last night.

      A prayer for Jonah Quinn, a man accused of forgery, one of the dozens of capital offenses codified in the “Bloody Code.” It had been a shock to most sitting at the January Sessions that his sentence had not been respited. Nowadays, all but a few of the capital crimes were commuted to transportation. The Recorder of London, principal presiding judge at the Old Bailey, had stared hard under his dark brows so at odds with the white curling wig flowing over his shoulders at the accused as he pronounced the age-old words “hanged by the neck until dead.”

      The prisoner had remained as unmoving as the granite blocks before Florence now. He’d already stated his last words just prior to the judge’s verdict. “God curse you all for hanging an innocent man!”

      Florence had seen more than one man go to the gallows defiant, but many more were glad for the message of hope to take with them when all that was left to them was to face their Maker. She was reminded of the two criminals crucified alongside Jesus, the one unrepentant, the other humble and penitent before the Son of God.

      Eyes closed, Florence shut her mind to the growing noise of the crowd as she took up her prayer once more. Only the Lord could break through to a man’s heart.

      “Quinn is an innocent man!” someone in the crowd yelled. A chorus of assent followed.

      The shouts from the crowd intensified. The windows in the houses opposite the Old Bailey began filling up with the well-to-do. Many had paid several pounds to secure a seat above the crowd. Florence had heard rumors that even certain members of the House of Lords who had taken an interest in the case were in attendance, but she had no interest in scanning the windows behind her. Today, only one soul concerned her.

      “Hats off! Hats off!” The shout of voices around her alerted her that the prisoner was being escorted out and those in the crowd didn’t want their view impeded.

      The Debtor’s door opened and the sheriff came out, holding the prisoner by the arm. The condemned man took one look at the crowd. Instead of being intimidated by the sea of faces, he seemed to grow more defiant. His broad chest swelled out, and his bearded chin thrust forward before the sheriff jerked his arm.

      They climbed the short flight of steps onto the gallows. The hangman followed behind them. The ordinary—or prison chaplain—brought up the rear.

      It was the first time Florence was seeing Jonah Quinn in the light of day, the small iron grille of his cell door having afforded her few details of his face in the dark condemned man’s cell.

      Now, a white nightcap covered his shaggy black hair. His thick black beard was due no doubt to the six weeks he’d sat in his solitary cell since his sentencing. Weeks of deprivation in prison had not eroded his formidable build. The breadth of his shoulders reminded her of a prizefighter she’d once seen. As was customary, his wrists were bound in front of him and another rope was tied around his torso at his elbows, pinning his arms to his sides. The shackles had been removed from his ankles in the prison yard. The sheriff and the black-gowned ordinary looked puny beside him.

      “A poor man gets no justice!” a second voice shouted from somewhere in the crowd. Others took up the chant, and soon there was a clamor of protests from the street. The guard beside Florence shifted his pike from one hand to the other, muttering curses under this breath.

      The ordinary turned to the prisoner and indicated he could kneel to pray, but the prisoner shook his head, looking as unyielding as he had sounded at his trial. Lord, save him!

      The sheriff signaled to the hangman, who took a step forward and pulled the nightcap down over the prisoner’s face. Then he placed the noose around his neck.

      A second passed, then at the sheriff’s nod, the hangman stepped back and reached for the lever.

      At that moment, a man plowed into Florence, throwing her against the wooden barrier and knocking the breath from her.

      “For Jonah and for all the poor whose land has been stolen from ’em!” A sudden barrage of shouts came from all sides as men jumped the barrier and surged onto the platform like rats.

      Time seemed to slow as Florence watched. Before the hangman could release the trapdoor beneath the prisoner’s feet, a rough-looking man jumped him from behind and wrestled him to the ground. Others swarmed around the prisoner and cut him free.

      The soldiers rallied, but the erupting mob blocked their attempts to reach the platform.

      “Down with the king! Give us bread! Liberty for the people!”

      Florence clung to the wooden barrier, terrified she would be crushed by the mob pressing against her.

      The prisoner leaped from the platform and in one fluid motion jumped the barricade and landed beside Florence.

      The guard raised his pike.

      Florence stared at its sharp point, poised above her. The next instant, an arm grabbed her from behind and a cold blade of steel pushed against her neck.

      “Anyone comes near and I’ll slit ’er throat.”

      She didn’t dare breathe. The guard’s eyes flickered to hers. That second’s hesitation saved her life. The pike was ripped from his arms by the mob.

      Behind her, the crowd parted and the prisoner made his escape, dragging her along with him like a piece of flotsam, the press of bodies closing around them like the incoming tide.

      “This way!” shouted a man.

      They slipped down a narrow side alley, then along a wider road she recognized as Seacoal Lane. They came out onto Fleet Market, an area packed with vendors. Shouts and commotion followed them as stalls were overturned in their wake.

      Quinn veered off the main thoroughfare, his hand clenching her arm in an unyielding grip. Through a covered courtyard and past derelict buildings, the area became grimmer and dirtier. They were going to the rookery of Saffron Hill north of Holborn. God help her.

      “Come along!” the man—their guide—barked at them. Quinn yanked her forward and she stumbled in the pockmarked path. Here the roads were nothing but muddy tracks and the brick buildings full of boarded-up windows and decay. The stench of human waste was overwhelming.

      Their guide seemed to know the area well. The two men leaped across the puddles and ditches while her smaller boots sank and skidded over the slimy ground. Quinn held her fast, giving her no option but to struggle to keep up.

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