nearly thirty people were crushed to death in the melee at that illustrious execution, not a soul did he spy trampled in today’s mayhem. Undeniably, the entire spectacle was a disappointment. Only a pickpocket and sheep thief were hanged. ’Twas hardly bloody worth the bother.
Dual disappointment for Reed was that both were men. He had heard that the legendary Maggie “Snags” was to swing. Miss Snags (affectionately named thus by reason of her teeth, which she filed sharper than a shiv) had a propensity to use them somewhat gleefully upon those who crossed her. She was but a malmsey-nosed dishclout, but it would have been diverting to watch some petticoats dance about.
Hence, the single consolation of amusement was that the pickpocket was a portly man, his weight causing his decapitation. Reed cheered along with the crowd.
A speculation visited Reed briefly as to whether he might have access to either of the bodies once they had been thrown upon the tumbrel. He dismissed the idea by reason of there being too many constables about. Pity, for it was an undisputed truth that nothing had more power of luck than the right hand of a hanged man.
Here in front of him twirled two such amulets. The men guarding the bodies watched Reed as conscientiously as Reed eyed the corpses, thus convincing him they had already made monetary arrangement for adoption of the hands. In his -disappointment, Reed looked up from the scuffling, cursing mob to the higher climbs of the inns surrounding the square. In those windows, he could discern the faces of the rich who watched the spectacle in unbesmirched self-righteousness from their rented seats.
He looked up, but did not tarry with his gaze, for if the moneyed class did not want to admit to more than a casual interest in such a lowborn exhibition, he knew them safer of their purses. Even Reed kept a close eye out for pickpockets; an assembly such as this was a fountain of fortune for the light-fingered. His own private little joke, he pretended a lack of vigilance in the hopes of luring an unsuspecting thief, happy for the opportunity to pound anyone. Either he looked too unprosperous or much too barbarous (possibly a combination of both), for no one bit. A few fights had broken out and Reed could not even break through the barrier of bodies to join the brawl.
* * *
That night upon Dyot Street, he gazed upon the throng of people and recollected why they were there. The execution was a reminder of his recent incarceration and was he of any sort of introspective persuasion, he might have understood his unusually intemperate turn. The gin turned a little sour in his stomach as he contemplated Newgate and vowed never to be taken there again. He was not so deep in thought as not to hear the coarse whistle of a young boy, who spieled, “What d’ye want, gem’men? D’ye like the dogs? We got ’em ’ere, gemmen. We got ’em ’ere.”
Reed bethought the notion of entering the shabby wooden building. Betimes he was partial to watching terriers take on rats. A particularly ruthless bitch brought him a gold coin once. But he did not keep it long. As it happened, that had led to his imprisonment. Had he not wagered and lost it, if that joker had not angered him by winning it, he would not have had to throttle him. Was it his fault the bloke bled out? He did not throttle him all that hard, even kept his knife put away, he did. But the bloody constables took a sorry look at it. Blamed him. Took him in, locked him up. Had he not had the gumption to garrotte that guard, he would be picking oakum or on the Newgate treadmill still. Or, perhaps, would have fed the crowd more sport with one more noose filled.
Hence, no, he did not favour wagering upon the dogs.
But his misdirection did find sight of a familiar barmaid heading out for home. Frumpy and cheap, she had been his major source of quim since his “parole.” He came up behind her, slapped her backside, and slung his arm over her
Dual disappointment for Reed was that both were men. He had heard that the legendary Maggie “Snags” was to swing. Miss Snags (affectionately named thus by reason of her teeth, which she filed sharper than a shiv) had a propensity to use them somewhat gleefully upon those who crossed her. She was but a malmsey-nosed dishclout, but it would have been diverting to watch some petticoats dance about.
Hence, the single consolation of amusement was that the pickpocket was a portly man, his weight causing his decapitation. Reed cheered along with the crowd.
A speculation visited Reed briefly as to whether he might have access to either of the bodies once they had been thrown upon the tumbrel. He dismissed the idea by reason of there being too many constables about. Pity, for it was an undisputed truth that nothing had more power of luck than the right hand of a hanged man.
Here in front of him twirled two such amulets. The men guarding the bodies watched Reed as conscientiously as Reed eyed the corpses, thus convincing him they had already made monetary arrangement for adoption of the hands. In his -disappointment, Reed looked up from the scuffling, cursing mob to the higher climbs of the inns surrounding the square. In those windows, he could discern the faces of the rich who watched the spectacle in unbesmirched self-righteousness from their rented seats.
He looked up, but did not tarry with his gaze, for if the moneyed class did not want to admit to more than a casual interest in such a lowborn exhibition, he knew them safer of their purses. Even Reed kept a close eye out for pickpockets; an assembly such as this was a fountain of fortune for the light-fingered. His own private little joke, he pretended a lack of vigilance in the hopes of luring an unsuspecting thief, happy for the opportunity to pound anyone. Either he looked too unprosperous or much too barbarous (possibly a combination of both), for no one bit. A few fights had broken out and Reed could not even break through the barrier of bodies to join the brawl.
* * *
That night upon Dyot Street, he gazed upon the throng of people and recollected why they were there. The execution was a reminder of his recent incarceration and was he of any sort of introspective persuasion, he might have understood his unusually intemperate turn. The gin turned a little sour in his stomach as he contemplated Newgate and vowed never to be taken there again. He was not so deep in thought as not to hear the coarse whistle of a young boy, who spieled, “What d’ye want, gem’men? D’ye like the dogs? We got ’em ’ere, gemmen. We got ’em ’ere.”
Reed bethought the notion of entering the shabby wooden building. Betimes he was partial to watching terriers take on rats. A particularly ruthless bitch brought him a gold coin once. But he did not keep it long. As it happened, that had led to his imprisonment. Had he not wagered and lost it, if that joker had not angered him by winning it, he would not have had to throttle him. Was it his fault the bloke bled out? He did not throttle him all that hard, even kept his knife put away, he did. But the bloody constables took a sorry look at it. Blamed him. Took him in, locked him up. Had he not had the gumption to garrotte that guard, he would be picking oakum or on the Newgate treadmill still. Or, perhaps, would have fed the crowd more sport with one more noose filled.
Hence, no, he did not favour wagering upon the dogs.
But his misdirection did find sight of a familiar barmaid heading out for home. Frumpy and cheap, she had been his major source of quim since his “parole.” He came up behind her, slapped her backside, and slung his arm over her
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