Howard caught his meaning and was — to Hervey’s surprise — not wholly in accord. ‘There are many who believe his former service was not taken in mitigation, and that he was ill-used.’
‘What service?’ asked Hervey, now intrigued.
‘He had, it seems, served bravely for some years in the navy, and they’d discharged him without arrears of pay or prize-money. According to the
‘What a devil of a business then,’ Hervey conceded. ‘The court hangs a man for mutiny who has proved his loyalty under more trying conditions.’
‘I tell you, Hervey,’ said Howard, lowering his voice and glancing to left and right, ‘it makes a fellow ashamed the way these men are treated by a supposedly grateful nation. There are men with stripes on their arm cleaning out gutters for a few pence — Waterloo stripes, too. I can scarce look them in the eye.’
As they came to Snow Hill they found the streets blocked by posts and chains, allowing only those on foot to pass, and in Skinner Street itself the pavements were railed off with sturdy wooden planks. A large press of people seemed set to topple the barriers at any moment, but somehow they were holding, the crowd brooding rather than clamorous — though there was no doubting the sympathy for the gallant tar about to be hanged. And the crowd was, indeed, a thorough mix of people, of both good appearance and bad, for to the clerking classes and the respectable poor of Hackney were added the sweepings of St Giles’s — the rookery of rookeries. The special constables from each of the City wards were here in force, though Hervey thought them hardly sufficient to deal with a crowd turned ugly. In Whisken Street there were firemen on alert, ready to assist with subduing disorder if need be. In the yard of Newgate prison were threescore militiamen, and in the streets adjacent to the route of Cashman’s procession were yeomanry cavalry, while in a nearby courtyard, out of sight, a half-troop of regular cavalry stood as the force of last resort.
‘There are rumours.’ Howard’s voice was hushed. ‘Plans to rescue him as he arrives, to bustle him away to Broad Street. There are so many Irish there he’d never be found.’
‘You didn’t mention he was Irish.’
‘No, I didn’t. That confounds things too, does it not?’
Hervey sighed again.
A great roar went up from the crowd, followed by booing and cries of ‘Shame!’ as workmen drawing the wheeled gibbet arrived from Newgate. The special constables looked about anxiously, tapping their staves nervously on a shoulder or hand. ‘I don’t fancy they might do aught but save themselves if this crowd makes ugly,’ said Hervey.
‘It will be the cavalry that has to deal with it. And they’ll get no thanks, no matter how bloodlessly they manage,’ Howard agreed.
‘I hate the business with magistrates. I had enough of it in Ireland. The sooner there’s a proper constabulary the better.’
‘My dear friend, I could not agree with you more. Our guardsmen are never so disquiet than when they’re deployed for the civil power. A company of Grenadiers who stood fast throughout at Waterloo were close to insolence when they were turned out during the Corn Law bill.’
They pushed a little further up the street in the press of people still arriving, making for the scaffolding which the Newgate men had trundled to the front of Beckwith’s shop.
Howard stopped. ‘Look here, Hervey,’ he frowned. ‘I’ve never seen a man hanged before, and I don’t think I care to.’
‘I’ve seen it not a great many times myself,’ Hervey assured him, ‘and though each time the man had committed the foulest murder I could take no satisfaction in it.’
Howard shook his head.
‘Let’s away, then,’ said Hervey, putting a hand to Howard’s shoulder.
The press was too great for any quick escape, however, so they decided to work their way along past Beckwith’s shop, its windows stoutly boarded, and out towards the wider Essex Road beyond. But this they found not easy either, for many of the onlookers were resentful of what they presumed was an attempt to get closer to the gibbet. After a full half-hour they had advanced scarcely fifty yards.
Suddenly there was a roar from the crowd behind them as the carriages carrying the sheriffs rounded the corner, and then the cart bearing Cashman himself. Hervey climbed onto a window ledge to see what was the cause. ‘I think it’s our man,’ he said, unable to balance there for more than a few seconds. ‘And he’s dressed in his sailor’s best.’
Cashman was, indeed, a sight offensive to every right instinct. He stood proud and erect, with not a sign of fear. He had on his blue jacket and white trousers, and a black silk handkerchief tied smartly about his neck, bareheaded as if mustered on deck for divine service. He was calling to the crowd, now muted by the appearance of their hero. ‘This is not for cowardice,’ Hervey heard him call defiantly. ‘I have done nothing against my king and country, but fought for them!’
The crowd roared its approval, putting to flight the roosting pigeons on St Botolph’s spire two streets away.
‘I always fought for my king and country, and this is my end.’
The noise grew louder, and the constables had the greatest trouble keeping a way clear for the procession.
‘Huzza, my boys, I’ll die like a man!’ shouted Cashman as he reached Beckwith’s shop. ‘If I was at my quarters I would not be killed in the smoke; I’d be in the fire!’
The crowd was now as angry as ever Hervey had seen men away from the battlefield. The constables had to make free with their staves to get the sheriffs and clergy to the scaffold.
‘Hurrah, my hearties in the cause!’
Hervey wondered for a moment in
‘Success! Cheer up!’ The gallant tar scaled the scaffold ladder as surely as if he had been climbing to the yards, waving aside the minister who was attempting words of comfort and inviting him to repent. ‘Don’t bother me. It’s no use. I want no mercy but from God.’
Hervey and Howard were now but twenty yards from the scaffold and could see everything perfectly.
‘This fellow’s a cool customer,’ Howard whispered. ‘Is it gin or rum speaking, do you think?’
‘He treads the boards. But he does it bravely, for sure,’ replied Hervey, shaking his head in doubt.
The hangman put the rope around Cashman’s neck. The crowd gasped and then groaned. Then he tried to put a nightcap over Cashman’s head — but the sailor would have none of it. ‘No thank you, Mr Ketch. I’ll see till the last!’
Here was courage indeed, thought Hervey. He had seen bravado turn to nothing when the moment came.
But Cashman’s resentment seemed to get the better of him, and he began a tirade against Beckwith himself, whom he supposed was cowering behind the boarded windows of his shop. ‘I’ll be with you there!’ he shouted. ‘My unquiet spirit’ll walk your floors!’
‘Oh God,’ sighed Howard. The hangman had come down the steps and was standing by the lever which would trip the hatch beneath Cashman’s feet. ‘I cannot see this, deserving or no.’
Hervey was about to turn away too when Cashman called out again. ‘I am the last of seven of them that fought for my king and country. My father was killed too in the service. I could not get my own, and that has brought me here!’
‘This is too much,’ Howard muttered. ‘And I who have never heard a shot fired in anger am stood gawking.’
‘Come then,’ said Hervey, turning.
But Cashman called for the crowd to give him three cheers, making them both turn back once more. And then, in the language the sailor knew best, he called to the hangman to ‘let go the jib-boom’.
Suddenly his words were choked off. His body swung crazily in mid-air. He struggled only briefly, but it silenced the crowd. When his writhing was no more, several of the onlookers muttered, ‘God rest his soul.’ Some
