On This Day in 1901 – Marcel Faugeron at Newgate Prison, Henry Pierrepoint’s First Hanging.


 

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Henry Pierrepoint.

Hangings weren’t unusual at London’s Newgate Prison. In Fact, in 1901 a British prisoner was hanged every few weeks on average. The execution of French Army deserter and murderer Maurice Faugeron, however, was a singular event in British penal history. It was the first time the name Pierrepoint drew attention

Not Albert, nor Albert’s uncle Thomas, but Albert’s father Henry. Henry would assist then-chief executioner James Billington at 8am when Faugeron paid his debt to society. A few years later Thomas joined the elite yet shadowy world of England’s executioners. Many years later Thomas, Albert joined what he called his ‘craft,’ but Henry would be the first. Faugeron would be the very first of what the Pierrepoints came to call their ‘customers.’ From 1901 until 1956 there would be hundreds more.

Between 1901 and 1956 these three men would officiate at 836 executions over 55 years. Murderers, traitors, Nazis, serial killers, spies and mass-murderers would meet their end at the hands of the Pierrepoint clan and Marcel Faugeron, though he didn’t know it, would be the first of their number.

Faugeron had been convicted of murdering watch-maker Hermann Jung, a member of the Swiss Benevolent Society and known to have lent money to Faugeron. It was also claimed that many of Jung’s associates were anarchists and subversives and that Faugeron was one of them. Faugeron himself claimed self-defence, alleging that Jung had threatened him and tried to force him to assault Colonial Secretary Joseph Chamberlain.

Jung’s wife identified Faugeron at his trial. Having first heard the two men arguing she then saw Faugeron, who she’d met several times, fleeing the scene of the crime. It was also Matilda Jung who found her husband dead, stabbed several times. Brought before Mr. Justice Bigham, Faugeron was swiftly convicted and condemned. Donning his Black Cap, Bigham recited the death sentence in French for the non-English-speaking Faugeron.

Bigham, as was the custom, finished reciting the death sentence with the words: “And may the Lord have mercy upon your soul.”

Faugeron responded defiantly in his native tongue:

“I hope so. If that is what Justice is in this country I hope I shall have better Justice in the next world!”

His defiance did him no good. The authorities had little time for murderers, especially those suspected of having the wrong political leanings. As was entirely expected, Faugeron’s appeal was denied and the Home Secretary didn’t issue him a reprieve. Lodged in the condemned cell at Newgate Prison, Faugeron awaited 8am on November 19, 1901. Chief executioner James Billington would push the lever, Henry Pierrepoint would inaugurate the now-infamous family tradition.

Henry had always had a dark interest in executions and was keen to become an executioner. At A time when most people were born, lived, worked and died without ever leaving their hometown, the chance to travel the country was incredibly attractive. His travel expenses would be covered and so would his accommodation. The chance to supplement his income with semi-regular fees also proved too much for him to resist.

Arriving at Newgate the day before, Billington and Pierrepoint prepared and tested the gallows. The rope held a sandbag filled with sand weighing the same as Faugeron. It was left to hang overnight to remove any stretch. The drop was precisely calculated for Faugeron’s weight and build. Drop him the right distance and his neck would break instantly. Drop him too far and he’d be decapitated. Drop him too short and he could strangle for up thirty minutes before finally dying. Nothing was to be left to chance. Everything had to go perfectly. It couldn’t have eased Pierrepoint’s nerves, let alone Faugeron’s.

Though it was Henry’s first execution Newgate wasn’t unfamiliar to him, having completed his training there earlier that year. As senior hangman Billington would occupy Newgate’s ‘Hangman’s Room.’ With the initials of previous hangmen, some long dead, carved into the wooden wall timbers, Billington was comfortable. Pierrepoint, who as a mere assistant slept in the second condemned cell next door to Faugeron, had a far more uncomfortable time.

The door between Faugeron’s cell and Pierrepoint’s had a spyhole and, peering through it, Pierrepoint saw something very unsettling. The neighbouring Church of St. Sepulchre’s clock chimed every hour on the hour. Several times Pierrepoint looked silently through the spyhole into the neighbouring cell. With every hour Faugeron, chain-smoking through his last night, gestured to the two warders on condemned cell duty.

As the clock chimed the hour Faugeron pointed skywards, counting up to eight with his fingers. Despite not speaking English his meaning was perfectly clear to his guards and, unknown to him, his debutant executioner watching silently only feet away. At Newgate executions were always carried out at eight in the morning. Marcel Faugeron knew it and so did Henry Pierrepoint. It would be a first for both of them. Billington, a highly experienced executioner, probably slept better than both of them.

At 7am the final preparations began. Faugeron was given a hearty breakfast and allowed a final walk outdoors in the November dawn. While Faugeron was distracted Billington and Pierrepoint reset the trapdoors and prepared the rope, ensuring that the drop would be exact when Billington pushed the lever. The end, when it came, was precise, swift and clinical, but not brutal.

Just before eight the execution team assembled outside the condemned cell. Billington, Pierrepoint, Prison Governor Millman, Newgate’s resident doctor Dr, Scott, the Under-sheriff of London Kymaston Metcalfe and several warders watched Millman, awaiting the sound of St. Sepulchre’s clock and Millman’s silent signal. As the clock began to chime the cell door was opened.

Faugeron, nervous but entirely in control, had his arms strapped behind his back. Escorted by two warders, one on each side, he began his brief final walk to the execution shed. As he reached the shed its doors swung open, revealing for the first time where he was to die. Placed on the exact centre of the trapdoors, Faugeron’s last sight was of Billington drawing the white hood (traditionally called the ‘cap’) over his head. His last sensations were of Pierrepoint bobbing down behind him and drawing a leather strap around his legs and feeling Billington’s noose drawing snugly around his neck. The second Billington saw all was ready he immediately pushed the lever.

Marcel Faugeron was dead.

Dr. Scott immediately felt for a pulse. Not Faugeron’s, but Pierrepoint’s. He listened for a few seconds then, satisfied that Pierrepoint’s nerves weren’t too rattled, said simply:

“You’ll do.”

It was almost Newgate’s last hanging. Already slated for demolition, Newgate’s gallows doors dropped for the last time on May 6, 1902, after which the gallows beam was removed and re-installed at Pentonville. It later hanged Doctor Crippen and numerous others. Woolfe was the last of 1169 people to be executed at Newgate.

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John Ellis.

Pierrepoint was, by his own admission, remarkably unruffled now that the job was safely done. The first of his 105 executions had gone according to plan. He’d been nervous during Faugeron’s final hours, but that was yesterday. Until the execution of Frederick Foreman at Chelmsford Prison on July 14, 1910 Henry Pierrepoint would officiate at 105 hangings, but at Chelmsford his career ended after a brawl with assistant (and later chief) executioner John Ellis. For arriving drunk and assaulting Ellis the Prison Commissioners removed him from the official List. Ellis, later to become chief executioner himself, earned Henry’s lasting enmity as a result. When Ellis took his own life in 1931 Henry’s son Albert recalled him saying:

“He should have done it years ago. It was impossible to work with him!”

Before his removal Henry brought brother Thomas into what the Pierrepoints called their ‘craft.’ Tom would be involved in 296 executions. His first was assisting Henry when they hanged Harold Walters at Wakefield Prison on April 10, 1906, his last that of John Caldwell who he hanged for murdering retired Detective Sergeant James Straiton at Barlinnie Prison on August 10, 1946.

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Uncle Tom and ‘Our Albert.’

The most famous Pierrepoint was Albert. Albert debuted at Mountjoy Prison in Dublin on December 23, 1932, assisting his Uncle Tom in hanging murderer Patrick McDermott. Albert and his Uncle Tom would perform hundreds of hangings together. McDermott would be the first of Albert’s 435 executions ending with Norman Green on July 27, 1955. Albert hanged some of the 20th century’s most notorious criminals including over 200 Nazi war criminals, ‘Acid Bath Murderer’ John George Haigh, John Christie of 10 RIllington Place, Ruth Ellis (britain’s last woman to hang) and Michael Manning (Ireland’s last execution). He resigned early in 1956 in a dispute over fees.

Henry’s first boss James Billington died shortly after executing Faugeron. His final execution involved hanging a personal friend, Irishman Patrick McKenna at Strangeways Prison on December 3, 1901. It was only Henry’s second execution, but also his first time pushing the lever. This time Billington would be assisting him. Already seriously ill with bronchitis, Billington managed to do the job but, as he was leaving, he remarked to Pierrepoint;

“I wish I’d never have come.”

James Bilington died on December 13, only 10 days later.

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On This Day in 1953 – Louisa Merrifield, the Blackpool Poisoner.


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Louisa Merrifield, Blackpool’s boastful poisoner.

It’s a fact that, for all their ruthlessness and guile, murderers can and do make the most idiotic mistakes. Louisa Merrifield was certainly one of them. Born in 1906, Merrifield was a liar, a fraudster, a cheat and ultimately a murderer. Today in 1953 her criminal career ended abruptly at the end of Albert Pierrepoint’s rope. She was the third-to-last woman to hang in Britain and the fourth to die at Strangeways, a prison with a long history of executions.

Her crime, the murder of her employer in 1953, was a squalid affair. She’d worked for some time (and numerous different employers) as a domestic help and housekeeper when she went to work for Sarah Louise Ricketts. Ricketts was a cantankerous, quarrelsome pensioner who happened to own her own home, a bungalow worth £3-4000. That was a considerable sum for the time. Given wartime bomb damage and post-war austerity, it was also a relative rarity. Louisa (and possibly her husband Alfred) took a homicidally-keen interest.

Merrifield was a braggart, habitual liar and social climber. Always boastful and arrogant despite her lowly station, she was also highly dishonest. When she was hired she’d been in over 20 similar jobs since 1950 and frequently been fired or quit over her poor attitude and alleged pilfering. She’d also served time for ration book fraud. Not liked or trusted by her many previous employers, it didn’t take long before her latest (and last) started sharing their opinion. Mrs Ricketts didn’t last much longer, either.

On March 12 Merrifield took the job. Within a week or two her employer was complaining bitterly. According to Ricketts (herself not much of a people person) the Merrifields weren’t feeding her enough, were spending a lot of her money on alcohol and were generally bad company.

Louisa in particular was already laying plans to be far worse than bad company. She was already boasting that Mrs Ricketts had died and left the Merrifields her home even while Ricketts herself was in perfectly good health. This wasn’t smart and, in time, would do as much as anything to put her at the end of a rope.

On April 9 events took a sinister turn. Merrifield asked her employer’s doctor, Doctor Yule, to certify that Ricketts was competent to make a new will. Not unusual in itself, Ricketts habitually changed her will depending on which beneficiary had annoyed her lately, but it came back to haunt Merrifield at her trial. Dr Yule would later clarify his own position:

‘She said the reason why she wanted me to go was that the old lady might die at any minute with a stroke or a disease and she wanted to keep herself all right with the relatives.’

On April 13 one of Yule’s partners, a Doctor Wood, was irked to be called out by Merrifield who claimed Ricketts was seriously ill. Being called out in the dead of night only to diagnose mild bronchitis annoyed Wood no end. As he later testified at Merrifield’s trial:

‘I remonstrated with Mrs. Merrifield for calling me out, as I thought, under false pretences.’

This was circumstantial, but did a great deal to imply that Merrifield was already playing to the gallery, trying to prove her employer was already on her last legs. The timing also proved highly suspicious as, the very next day, Ricketts mysteriously died.

Still playing to the gallery, Merrifield asked the local Salvation Army band to stand outside the house playing ‘Abide with Me.’

Suspicions were almost immediate. Merrifield, despite having called a doctor to a seemingly-slightly ill patient one day, now had a body on her hands the next. This time, equally suspect, she decided not to call him out. When asked about this abrupt change of heart she responded by saying there wasn’t much point in summoning a doctor for a patient who was obviously dying.

Merrifield’s final blunder was her demand for a quick cremation and that Ricketts’ family not know of her sudden death. According to funeral director George Henry Jackson Merrifield didn’t want Ricketts’:

‘Two daughters to know she was dead or have anything to do with the funeral.’

Aside from contradicting what she’d already told Doctor Yule, this looked suspicious in and of itself. A post-mortem was ordered and the funeral delayed. Ricketss hadn’t died of a stroke or a disease, she’d been poisoned with phosphorous-based rat poison sold under the name ‘Rodine.’ By a curious coincidence, Louisa Merrifield had also recently bought a can of Rodine, signing her own name in the pharmacist’s Poisons register in order to do so. Both Louisa and Alfred Merrifield were arrested and charged with murder.

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Rodine, then made using highly toxic yellow phosphorous,

Police soon discovered her purchase of a poison similar to that found in the victim. They also noticed that the can itself had vanished which was strange. Rat poison is normally something people keep in a cupboard or locked away, using a little at a time. They don’t usually buy a whole tin and then discard it almost immediately. Considering the other evidence it wasn’t finding the Rodine that was so incriminating.

It was highly incriminating that they hadn’t…

Merrifield’s boasts about her inheritance, coming as they did while the deceased was alive and in relative good health, sank her at her trial. Arrested in mid-April, Louisa and Alfred Merrifield’s trial began on July 20 with Mr Justice Glyn-Jones presiding.

Three doctors testified against her, as did several acquaintances regarding her boasts of an inheritance. One of her many previous employers, Mrs. Lowe, had received a letter stating:

‘I got a nice job nursing an old lady and she left me a lovely little bungalow and thank God for it.’

It was dated two weeks before Ricketts had actually died. Acquaintance Jessie Brewer also gave evidence. Relating one particular conversation she recounted Merrifield saying:

‘We are landed. We went to live with an old lady and she died and she’s left me a bungalow worth £4000.’

Remembering that they’d had this illuminating little chat three days before Ricketts actually died, it had been Brewer who first alerted police. Added to the proof of Merrifield buying rat poison similar to that found in the victim’s body and that poison having mysteriously disappeared, it was never a hard job for the jury. After only six hours deliberation they rendered their verdict;

Guilty, with no recommendation for mercy.

The evidence against her was overwhelming. Alfred was discharged for lack of evidence, Louisa wasn’t. Convicted of murder by poison, Mr Justice Glyn-Jones could only pass a mandatory sentence of death. Before that he had some harsh words for Louisa Merrifield, describing her crime as:

‘As wicked and cruel a murder as I ever heard tell of.’

With that he donned the Black Cap, a square of cloth traditionally a gesture of mourning for the soon-to-be-deceased and recited the traditional sentence:

‘Louisa Merrifield, you shall be taken from this place to a lawful prison and suffer death by hanging…’

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Albert Pierrepoint, King of the swingers.

She was shipped to Strangeways Prison in Manchester to await the outcome of her appeal, which failed. Chief public hangman Albert Pierrepoint received a letter asking him to officiate. So did one of Pierrepoint’s assistants, Robert Leslie Stewart. Her final chance of avoiding her date with the hangman remained with Home Secretary David Maxwell Fyfe who could intercede up to the last moment. In her case he was never going to. It’s said that, unlike for virtually any other kind of murderer, the Home Office had an unwritten rule regarding condemned poisoners;

They were never to be reprieved.

Even if the jury had recommended mercy it would probably have made little difference. Juries could recommend mercy in capital cases, but plenty of prisoners with recommendations, Derek Bentley for instance, still died. Conversely, there were many reprieves granted to prisoners jurors would have wanted hanged. It’s highly likely that the option to recommend mercy was simply there to make jurors feel better about sending a prisoner to the condemned cells.

The trial judge’s private report would have carried far more weight. Made after a conviction and comprising the judge’s opinion of the trial and particularly the prisoner’s conduct, it would have been important to any Home Sceretary weighing up a possible reprieve. Given the judge’s opinion of Merrifield’s crime it’s unlikely, even without the unwritten rule, that she stood any chance of mercy.

The Condemned Cell or ‘execution suite’ at Strangeways was by now almost standard for every hanging jail. The cell itself consisted of two standard cells renovated to provide a larger single room. The lights were always on when it was occupied and an eight-person team of ‘Capital Charge Officers’ were permanently on duty guarding her 24 hours a day.

These were volunteers brought in from other prisons. Working in two-warder teams they took eight-hour shifts, night and day, week after week. There weren’t as many weeks as you might think. Justice moved rather faster in the hanging era, only three clear Sundays were permitted between sentencing and execution and some prisoners died within 18 days of sentencing. They seldom lasted longer.

When the time came two more warders, warders Merrifield had never met before, took over. It was felt unreasonable to expect warders to spend days and weeks getting to know a prisoner only to take part in their execution. Britain’s chief public executioner Albert Pierrepoint had never met her either, nor had his assistant Robert Leslie Stewart. Their acquaintance was, as usual, shatteringly brief. As the clock started chiming at 8am they went into her cell. By the time it’s last chime Louisa Merrifield was already dead. By lunchtime she would be buried, as per tradition and the law, in an unmarked grave within the prison walls.

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John Ellis, One of Pierrepoint’s predecessors, Ellis came to an unhappy end himself.

Some say she still remains there. They claim to have seen her ghost haunting Strangeways, still walking around the area in which she spent her last weeks. If so, she’s in appropriate company. According to some former prison staff and inmates another former visitor is sometime seen floating around near the old condemned cell. Apparently it’s former chief public executioner John Ellis who resigned in 1923, taking his own life some years later.

Crime does make for strange bedfellows, after all.

As for her husband Alfred, he did well out of Mrs Ricketts’ murder and his wife’s execution. Having been discharged without a trial he could (and did) inherit a half-share of the bungalow in which he lived for some years. When he wasn’t there Alfred was a regular at Blackpool’s beachfront side-shows talking about the case. He died in 1962 aged 80.

On This Day in 1977 – Hamida Djandoubi, last man to face a French guillotine.


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The dawn on September 11, 1977 dawned damp and grey for the citizens of Marseilles, especially those residing in Les Baumettes Prison. All the inmates (and some of the staff) were were in a dark mood as they contemplated the rising of the dawn and the falling of executioner Marcel Chevalier’s blade. Inmates of ‘Death Alley’ were equally subdued. If they were relieved at that day not being theirs they were too tactful to show it.

For Hamida Djandoubi, however, this was his day. Nobody involved yet knew it, but it would be the last time, both in France and Western Europe, that a prisoner would embrace the infamous ‘Widow’ and lie between the ‘Timbers of Justice.’ It would be the last time Chevalier, descended from a long line of executioners, would perform the grim office of ‘The Executioner of High Works.’

Capital punishment had been under debate in France for many years. The guillotine itself had been both a political and humanitarian statement. Egalitarian in principle, it became the only method of execution for French civilians regardless of rank and social class. No more did peasants swing limp on the rope while the axe and sword were reserved for their social betters. No longer would people be burned, broken on the wheel or hung, drawn and quartered. When Charles-Henri Sanson debuted his new device, beheading highway robber Nicolas-Jacques Pelletier on April 25, 1792, everybody was to get a quicker and cleaner death.

Djandoubi would be the last.

By 1977 death sentences were rare and executions even rarer. Much of the French public and its politicians had turned against the death penalty. When Chevalier inherited the job from his uncle Andre Obrecht in 1975 he worked only a few times, although he his son was at Djandoubi’s execution to assist and watch should he succeed his father. Judicial death in France had long been a family affair, after all.

Executioners, disparagingly nicknamed ‘les bourreaux’ by their countrymen, occupied a contradictory place in french society. Until the execution of German serial killer Eugen Weidmann in June, 1939 the French public hadn’t minded turning out in their thousands to watch these men work, but had always despised and shunned them at the same time.

Schools refused to accept their children. In the days of regional executioners they were forced to live just outside whichever town or village they lived in. Even bakers would keep the executioner’s bread separate so their other customers would know their bread wasn’t tainted, an old French folk tale said that anything touched by the executioner was also touched by the Devil himself. Even churches refused to marry them, except into the families of other executioners. By the time Chevalier became last to perform his office all French executioners could be traced to only a handful of families, not always illustrious ones at that.

8053966631_4749cd2e3eAfter Weidmann executions would always be performed in private within prison walls. Hamida Djandoubi’s date with ‘bourreaux’ Marcel Chevalier would be poorly-attended by official order.

Not that people called him a ‘bourreaux’ much any more. In 1870 the term had been outlawed and calling anybody a ‘bourreaux’ became a crime. The same changes also mandated that only one chief executioner would be required and he was required by law to reside in Paris. Overnight the regional executioners lost their jobs, although some did continue as assistant executioners or ‘valets.’ Now that ‘Monsieurs de (insert town here) were largely out of work there was only one chief and he bore a sinister nickname;

‘Monsieur de Paris,’ the ‘Man from Paris.’

It became a phrase dreaded in French prisons, especially in the cells forming ‘Death Alley.’ For a long time prisoners didn’t know their execution date until the official party came to take them from their cells. Until 5am every morning, by which time executions for the day would have been performed, every condemned prisoner dreaded the sound of a guard saying to a colleague ‘Monsieur de Paris est arrivee.’

‘The Man from Paris has arrived.’

Who would it be, they wondered? Whose cell would be unlocked? Who would be taken away never to return, perhaps kicking and screaming on their final walk? Until 5am they didn’t know but, for at least one of them and maybe more, the time between four a five in the morning was when they’d find out.

Would the keys rattle in their cell door..?

With no chance of a commutation or stay, Djandoubi knew his time was almost up. At around half-past four it was his turn to hear those keys rattle like a skeleton’s bones. He was told what time it was and why he had official visitors. Led away from Death Alley for the last time he was accompanied by his lawyer and ready for the final acts of his personal drama.

Djandoubi, a French-Tunisian by birth and pimp by profession, had tortured and murdered his sometime girlfriend Elizabeth Bousquet. She’d refused his increasingly insistent efforts to become one his working girls and, his harassment getting worse, had reported him to police and he’d spent 11 months in prison. He avenged himself on her after his release in Spring 1973.

After abducting her and torturing her with lit cigarettes, on July 3, 1974 he’d taken her to the outskirts of Marseilles, strangled her and dumped her body. It was a brutal, squalid and utterly unnecessary murder that drew no pity from judges, jurors or anyone able to stop his execution.

Before he could die the traditional French bureaucracy had to be observed. Paperwork had to be completed paroling the prisoner into the (very temporary) custody of Chevalier and his assistants. French law dictated that no convict could be guillotined, so Djandoubi had to be freed in order to be killed. With that taken care of the ‘toilette du condamne’ could begin.

‘Le toilette’ was rather more practical. Djandoubi, wearing the traditional red sweater of the condemned, had his hands and feet tethered with string. He could walk, but not run or struggle. His neck was bared, the sweater cut with scissors and eased down around his arms to avoid jamming the blade. He was offered a last cigarette and a glass of spirits. Now all was ready and, for Djandobui and the guillotine itself, all was finished.

The end came quickly. Standing before a door leading into the prison yard Djandoubi was held by two of Chevalier’s valets and marched quickly to his fate. He was laid face-down on ‘le bascule,’ a sliding wooden board. When the blade fell its impact would cause Djandoubi’s body to ounce from the bascule into the traditional wicker coffin beside it. A nod to the days when executions were regarded as public entertainment, the French nicknamed it the ‘family picnic basket.’ As the bascule slid him into position ‘le lunette,’ the traditional wooden collar, was quickly slipped down over the back of his neck. With everything ready Chevalier wasted no further time. One last look ensured nobody was at risk from the falling blade and Chevalier pushed a button. No photograph exists, but this image of Weidmann’s execution is very similar to what Djandoubi faced.

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The blade fell. Hamida Djandoubi was dead.

So was the death penalty. France finally abolished capital punishment in 1981 after a vote in the National Assembly. The guillotine became a museum piece (albeit an embarrassing exhibit seldom displayed in public) and Chevalier, last of ‘les bourreaux,’ was out of work. Between Djandoubi’s execution and final abolition every death sentence was respited,  the authorities seeing no point in further executions.

As Djandoubi’s body, spirit and head simultaneously parted company, centuries of tradition were died with him. Like Djandoubi and many thousands of others, ‘les bourreaux,’ the death penalty and the  ‘National Razor’ were no more.

Today, they are seldom missed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Executed executioners; the biters bit.


Executioners are seen as a strange breed. Usually tolerated, sometimes celebrated, frequently feared and often despised, the man (for it usually is) who drops the blade, swings the axe, pushes the lever or throws the switch remains a breed apart. With their particular profession you might think that, death being touted as a deterrent, they’d be most deterred by the thought of facing their own particular brand of punishment.

They haven’t, not by a long shot.

A surprising number, having dispensed the ultimate penalty, have later suffered it themselves. It’s said that it’s better to give than to receive but, despite their experienced eye for such matters, some of them didn’t get the memo.

We’ll start with Brazil, now a non-death penalty country. Brazilian executioners were often slaves. They were given no choice of whether they wielded the axe or rope. Three of them didn’t get to choose whether to receive the axe or rope, either. In 1828 Joao Pablo de Sousa faced his own form of justice, he wasn’t alone. Ten years later ‘Francisco’ met the same end. In 1850 it was the turn of ‘Ananias.’

The trend wasn’t confined to Brazil and neither started nor ended there. Sweden saw two executioners feel the kiss of their own axe. Jorg Volmar went to the block in 1541 while the appropriately-named ‘Styf’ became exactly that in 1854. Ireland’s Dick Bauf, a hangman of considerable experience, found himself ‘scragged’ for theft in Dublin in 1702.

Germany too lost at least one executioner, Frederick Stigler in 1590. Stigler, an assistant executioner himself, found himself facing his boss Franz Schmidt. This particular job saw Stigler, one of Schmidt’s more prominent assistants, taking far too prominent a role for his liking. One mighty swing of Schmidt’s sword solved the problem. Stigler became less prominent by about twelve inches.

The United States adopted hanging, shooting, lethal gas, electrocution and lethal injection, a veritable smorgasbord of slaughter. In 1905, Ohio State Penitentiary inmate, the appropriately-named Charles Justice, helped his captirs refine their new electric chair. Noticing that the leather straps originally used caused additional burning and that a prisoner’s skin often came away when the straps were removed, Justice proposed replacing them with metal clamps (think of the chair used in ‘The Green Mile’).

Ohio continued using the metal clamps until its last electrocution, that of Donald Reinbolt in 1963. Justice, however, wasn’t around to see his creations in action. Paroled for his assistance (other inmates might have killed him otherwise), he returned to prison in 1911 convicted of murder. His clamps worked as effectively on their inventor as on some 300 other inmates.

Montana’s Henry Plummer also came to the end of his own rope. Plummer, a lawman in the Montana town of Bannick, was also its principal criminal. While carrying a gun and wearing a badge, Plummer also ran the local villains. The ‘Innocents,’ a motley crew of killers and thieves terrorising the area, hid in plain sight behind his tin star. He even installed a town gallows, such was his outward devotion to upholding the laws he so conspicuously ignored.

Eventually, he ignored them a little too conspicuously and locals, finally fed up with his depredations, lynched him. Plummer was denied the dubious distinction of dying on his own gallows, his lynch mob preferring to simply put a rope round his neck and haul him off the ground until he died.

California’s Alfred Wells was an inmate at the notorious San Quentin in 1938 when he was assigned to help install California’s latest wrinkle in supposedly painless, humane execution. Ordered to help install the two-seater gas chamber known as the ‘little green room,’ ‘time machine,’ ‘Big Sleep’ and ‘coughing box,’ Wells finished his grim task. Once he’d finished he declared he hoped it was the closest he’d ever get.

It wasn’t. In 1942 Wells returned to San Quentin, this time to Death Row for a violent crime spree including a couple of murders. On December 3, 1942 he came closer to the gas chamber than he’d intended…

Returning from the gas chamber to the gallows, several of Britain’s executioners have faced the rope or the block. Whether top of the drops of top of the chops, at least six met their end on their own scaffolds. In 1538 the singularly unpleasant ‘Cratwell’ found himself wearing a hempen necktie. Amputee executioner ‘Stump Leg’ found himself entertaining the Tyburn crowd with a nifty ‘Paddington frisk’ in 1556. Scotland’s Alexander Cockburn faced his replacement, a man traditionally nicknamed the ‘Doomster’ by Scottish gallows fans, in 1681.

Perhaps England’s most notorious executioner was ‘Jack Ketch,’ so reviled for his barbaric incompetence that he was fired in 1585 and replaced by assistant Pascha Rose. At least he was until 1686 when Rose, convicted of sheep-stealing, became gallows fruit himself. In the absence of anyone else, the clumsy Ketch found himself back on one end of the rope while Rose danced merrily at the other.His name became synonymous with all British executioners and his infamy has long outlived him.

In 1718 John Price, once reprieved on condition he become a hangman, blotted his copybook with another capital crime and swung from the Triple Tree. In 1785 it was the turn of Thomas Woodham. His execution was the last time an English hangman performed the Tyburn jig.

From top of the drops to top of the chops, we’ll pay a brief visit to La Belle France by way of its dreaded Penal Administration in French Guiana. In 1418, executioner Capeluche was both a brute and a cleaver of heads. He was however, competent enough to have trained his own replacement. That same replacement graduated with honours when Capeluche’s own head had to roll.

A century later it was the turn of Florent Bazard. Having bungled one job too many, much to the disgust and fury of the crowd, they conveyed their displeasure by publicly lynching Bazard near his own scaffold. In 1625 Simon Grandjean met a similar fate, although he dangled beside his wife who was acting as his assistant. Last in France’s trail of terror came Jacques Joseph Durand. Remember the argument that capital punishment is a deterrent to potential murderers? it didn’t seem to deter Durand, guillotined in 1819 for murder.

The executioners in Guiana were volunteers. They were also convicts. Not surprisingly, they were the most hated men in the Penal Administration. Guards and inmates alike hated them for having turned on their fellow prisoners in return for extra privileges. Bad enough that they’d flouted society’s laws and rules, even worse that they then turned on their own kind as well. Being splashed repeatedly with the blood of fellow prisoners,however, doesn’t seem to have tempered their criminal instincts much.

Isidore Hespel (known as ‘the Jackal’) cared not for their scorn. He didn’t care much for the deterrent effect of his own guillotine, either. Sent to Guiana for murder and having killed twice there even before becoming ‘Monsieur de Guiane,’ Hespel’s assistant also graduated with honours when Hespel committed one extra-judicial killing too many in 1921.

Georges Bonfils didn’t fare any better. Having graduated to ‘Monsieur de Guiana’ in 1930 Bonfils too would be shaved by the ‘National Razor. He would be the last of Devil’s Island’s executioners to be executed, although at least two others were murdered by fellow prisoners.

Ironically Albert Pierrepoint, veteran of over 450 executions, was candid about what he called his ‘craft.’ Ending his 1974 memoir ‘Executioner; Pterrepoint’ with open opposition to capital punishment, Pierrepoint was explicit about its alleged deterrent effect:

‘All the men and women whom I have faced at that final moment convince me that, in what I have done, I have not prevented a single murder.’