Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (31 page)

Wonderful. The final joke. I pray to God for deliverance and he sends me a drunk.

“Randall,” I cry out to him. “You must talk to Amy! I'm afraid she is going to—”

“To hell with . . . 
hic!
Amy, to hell with ever'thin',” he says, slurring his words. “Here. Put this on.”

I see that what he holds in his hand is an article of clothing.

“The Ladies Aid Society sent this. Finished it thish afternoon. Thought you should be . . . hanged . . . in something modest. Ha. You. Modest.” He probably took it from the Ladies Aid Society as they were bringing it to the jail. They must have been quite shocked.

He flings the dress across the cell and it lands on the floor, out of my reach.

“Here! Out with you now,” shouts Sheriff Williams. “Let the girl have some peace and dignity in her last hours!” Deputies Cole and Asquith manage to get Randall by the arms and are dragging him out when a sudden hush falls upon the jail.

A small, stooped man has entered the corridor. He is a hunchback, and he wears a leather hood over his upper face, into which two eyeholes have been cut. The hood comes down to cover his nose, and beneath it there is a bristly brown beard.

It is the Hangman.

Randall stops struggling and Amy stands up in horror. My own legs turn to jelly, and I start trembling.
Oh, God, help me!

“Get everybody out,” rasps the Hangman in a whispery voice. “I must take my final measurements.” He sees the dress and bends over to pick it up. He runs the garment through his hands, as if feeling for knives or anything else that might be concealed therein. He has yet to look upon me directly.

Sheriff Williams takes Amy by the arm and leads her out of the cell, saying, “Come, Miss, it is time to go. Quiet, now.” He nods to the pair of deputies, and they drag Randall down the corridor and Amy follows them out.

I am left alone in the cell with the Hangman.

Apparently satisfied that the dress contains no weapons, he turns and hands it to me.

“Put it on, girl. Cover yourself.”

It is then that I look through the slits in the mask and into the cold, dead eyes of the man who will take me out in the morning and hang me from the gallows tree . . .

The Journal of Amy Trevelyne, continued . . .

The day of November 10, 1809

The day Jacky Faber was hanged

 

This will be the last of my chronicles concerning the life and death of my dearest friend, Jacky Faber. There will be no more of her, nor of me, either.

On the morning of that awful day, I awoke from a fitful slumber, and for a moment, my mind was confused.
Where am I? What is happening? Why am I here, wrapped in my cloak, lying on these rough boards?

But then the awful realization of the horror that was to come this day swept over me. I did not think I would have fallen asleep last night, but I did. I awoke in this wagon with the sun in my eyes, in the shadow of that horrid gallows and next to the coffin that was soon to receive the dead body of Jacky Faber. I sat up, looked about, and realized it was a shout from the huge crowd that had gathered to witness the execution that had awakened me. I looked around me in amazement. People were all about, held back from the foot of the gallows by a rope strung on makeshift poles around it and guarded every few yards by the Sheriff's men. Aside from them, we in our wagon—our hearse, rather—were the only ones allowed in the enclosure.

People had come in from far around, families even, on horseback and by buckboard and even some in coaches, vying for the best viewing spots. They spread blankets and set up picnics. Boys and girls frolicked about, playing tag as if this were a country fair and not the horror that it was. Peddlers were selling miniature nooses as souvenirs of the event. I gagged and lurched to the side and threw up what little I had in my stomach.

How could I have even slept? My only memory of last evening was the drunken Randall forcing me to drink something to calm my hysteria after both of us had been forcefully ejected from the cell in which she was held. I shook the cobwebs from my brain and looked wildly about me. I saw Randall next to me, sitting on the coffin, his head down and his hair hanging in his face. Plainly, he was still filthy drunk, his shirt stained brown with whiskey and vomit. He swayed back and forth, a bottle clutched in his hand. I twisted around and saw George Swindow, our head stable man, sitting up forward on the driver's seat, the reins of two horses in his hands. Jim Tanner sat beside him, slumped over, his shoulders shaking.

“We have done all we can, Sister. I had hoped you would have slept through it, but it will all be over soon,” saidRandall softly, his eyes bleary with the drink. “All over.”

Aghast, I looked up at the gallows, and there stood the masked Hangman, the end of the rope in his hands, the noose dangling over the trap upon which she will soon stand. Sickened again, I realized what was going to be done. They will bring her out, kill her, and then when the Marshall pronounces her dead, George will back the wagon under the gallows, the coffin will be opened, the rope slacked, and her body lowered into it. Then we will go back to Dovecote and bury her and that will be that. Efficient, so damned, damned efficient.

Then, with another sickening lurch to both my reeling mind and my belly, I realized what the shout from the crowd that awakened me had meant. They were bringing her out.

Twisting about again, I looked to the jailhouse door. Coming forward was a party of six: two guards, the Sheriff, the Marshall, the Matron, and in the midst of them, my dearest friend, Jacky, looking pitifully thin and small, dressed in black, with her hair pinned up under a white mobcap. Ah, yes, so as not to interfere with the work of the noose, my oh-so-orderly-and-analytical mind surmised, even at that dreadful moment.

She walked steadily enough, her head up, yes, steady enough, till she looked up at the gallows, and then a look of complete horror came over her features and she stumbled and had to be supported by the Sheriff.

“There, now, Miss. Steady on,” I heard the Sheriff say, not unkindly.

She nodded and composed herself as best she could. I could see that she was weeping but could not lift her hands to wipe the tears from her eyes, for her hands were bound before her and fastened to a rope around her waist. After a moment, she continued on her journey to the gallows.

The Sheriff allowed her to pause as she came up next to Randall and me, and looking upon each of us, she simply said, “You'll visit me sometimes up on Daisy Hill, won't you? I will be there in spirit, if not in life.”

I was unable to speak and could only look into her eyes one last time. Randall could only nod and hang his head.

She looked at the coffin, and at a nudge from theMarshall, she turned her gaze away and walked to the gallows stairs, hesitated, took a deep breath, and started to climb. Only Jacky and the Marshall joined the Hangman on the platform, while the rest remained below, with the Preacher at the foot of the stairs, giving her his final blessing.

There was a great roar from the crowd as she reached the top and turned to gaze out over them. As she did so, a look came over her features . . . head up as if balancing a book, eyes hooded, teeth apart and lips together. It was the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls Look, and I wished I could have been able to put it on my own face, but I could not.

The crowd grew suddenly quiet as the Hangman now took firm control of her, guiding her feet to the very center of the trap. Reaching out for the noose, he brought it over her head to fall about her thin neck. It lay there for a moment like some grim parody of a necklace before he then drew it snug, placing the huge, coiled knot under her left ear. The Marshall stood off to the side, his hand on the lever.

“You should not watch this, Sister,” said Randall. “Turn around. I'll tell you when it's over.”

But I could not . . . I could only sit speechless and watch in horror.

The Marshall stepped forward and read from a paper held in his hand, his voice booming out over the crowd. “By order of the Government of the United States of America, you, Jacky Mary Faber, have been sentenced to death by hanging for the crimes of treason and sedition. Do you have any last words before the sentence is carried out?”

“I do, Sir,” she said, lifting her chin from the rope that lay about her neck. “You are killing an innocent girl here today, and I hope you remember that, those of you who condemned me falsely, as well as those of you who have come here to enjoy this cruel spectacle. I fear not any judgment that may be placed on me in the next world, for I have never done any real wrong to others. Maybe it is to a better place I am going, I don't know, but as I look out and see that many of you have brought your children to watch this murder, I know it has to be a better place than this.” She took a deep breath and said, “That's all. Get on with it.”

The Hangman pulled a piece of cloth from his pocket, which I knew to be the hood he would place over her head so the more sensitive in the crowd would be spared the sight of her contorted features as she was slowly strangled to death. The crowd remained silent, expectant, hushed.

“Wait!” came a cry from the edge of the throng. “Hold on!”

It was a man on horseback, followed by two others, and all eyes turned to him as he charged through the assembled people. As he grew closer, I could see that he wore the uniform of a British Naval Officer. Oh, great hope! Maybe it is her reprieve. Maybe it is James Fletcher with the proof of her innocence, maybe, maybe . . . 
Oh, please, God!

“Hangman, slack your rope a while,” said the Marshall. “We'll see what he has to say.” The rope was slacked and it fell over her back. She let out her breath, and her legs began to tremble. She looked over at the approaching officer, and I could see that she recognized him. She shook her head and again looked straight ahead into eternity, all hopes for earthly deliverance gone.

What? Surely there is still hope,
I thought as the man pulled his horse up next to the restraining rope barrier and dismounted, handing the reins to a boy standing by. But then all hope was most cruelly dashed.

“Do you bring reprieve from the Governor, Sir? Do you bring proof of her innocence? What do you bring?” demanded the Marshall.

The officer dismounted and smiled up at the condemned. “I bring nothing, Sir,” he said, taking out a long cigar and placing it between his teeth. He grinned. “My name is Lieutenant Harry Flashby, His Majesty's Royal Navy, Intelligence Branch. I bring nothing but a burning desire to see this bitch hang, for she cost me two weeks in the mosquito-­infested interior of this country, a month inNewgate Prison, and many other indignities to both my career and my person. String her up.

“Remember those alligators, Jacky dear, hmmmm? I certainly do. And too bad poor Blifill isn't here to enjoy this, hey?”

“Executioner, carry on,” said the Marshall, turning away, and the Hangman again tightened the noose about her neck.

“I'm glad to see that you colonials have not yet adopted the long drop in the way of hangings as has our enlightened Britain,” said Flashby, plainly enjoying the effect of his discourse upon those standing next to him. “A snapped neck is much too quick and no fun at all to watch, don't you think? It will be a pleasure to watch her kick. I say, can't a man get a drink around here? I intend to enjoy this thoroughly.”

A man with a large jug on his shoulder and little tin cups dangling from his belt answered his call. He filled one of them and handed it to Flashby, saying, “Here ya go, Gov'nor. That'll be two bits.”

“Ah, thank you, my good man.” He took a sip. “Ah, yes, excellent whiskey. You Yankees could show those damned Scots something about making whiskey. Let's have a bumper for each of my men,” he said, flipping the man a coin. His two fellow officers dismounted and, smiling, took up their cups.

My stomach bucked and I thought I would be sick again, but I had nothing left, nothing but the sourness in my stomach to throw up.

“Stiff upper lip, there, girl,” said Flashby to the condemned, his drink in hand, his cigar lit. “Let's take one in the neck for old Mother England now, shall we? Duty and all, you know.” His friends chuckled in appreciation of his wit.

Jacky took her eyes off the horizon and looked down at him. “I'll see you in hell, Flashby,” she said in an even tone. “Count on it.” Then she looked back off again.

“Probably, my dear, but you're guaranteed to beat me there. Be sure to save me a spot by the fire. Perhaps in the flames of hell, we'll have that little romp that has so long been denied me . . . fornicating amongst the flames, hey? Sounds festive. Hello, what's this?” He turned and looked back over his shoulder.

Again there was a tumult from the edge of the crowd, but this time it was accompanied by raucous and derisive laughter. I looked and beheld the sight of an obviously drunken man riding a sway-backed old mule and swinging a rusty old sword over his head, plowing through the crowd. It was, I saw, Gulliver MacFarland, ragged and drunk, with his fiddle case bouncing on his back.

“Let her go, goddamn it! Can't you see I'm here to make things right? Out of my way!” he shouted, coming relentlessly on and on.

“Good God!” exclaimed the Sheriff. “Get back there, you! Stand off! Men, arrest that man!”

“Gully! Stop!” exclaimed Jacky, shaking her head vehemently at her would-be rescuer. “Stop! It ain't gonna do no good!”

The crowd parted in front of the demented man, everyone scurrying out of his way as he approached the rope barrier. Everyone, that is, except the vile Lieutenant Flashby, who stood there alone, with his men backing him.

“Go away, fool,” said Flashby contemptuosly as Gully and his mule pulled up in front of him.

“I will not! I am Gulliver MacFarland, the Hero of Culloden Moor, and I will yield to no damned Englishman! You will stand aside, you rotten bastard! You're the one who made this happen!”