Rebecca and The Bloody Codes

[Praefectus Praetorio]

Another of @montycrusto 's fine works
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[montycrusto]

Another of @montycrusto 's fine works​

​

You’re too kind does this drawing count as “cartography”?

 

[Praefectus Praetorio]

Bowl Inn in St Giles was well known as the last stop for the condemned riding on a wagon to Tyburn. Patrons at the bar would offer to buy a drink for them, known as a "St Giles Bowl". Some accepted and climbed down (or fell off) to receive the proffered drink. Others declined and stayed on the wagon. From this came the dual expressions, “On the Wagon” and “Fall off the Wagon” for abstinence and indulgence of alcohol.

Apropos to our story, there is reported to have been a like custom obtained anciently at York. There it gave rise to the saying, “The saddler of Bawtry was hanged for leaving his liquor.” The story there held that the condemned did not stop, as was usual with other criminals, to drink his bowl of ale. Had he done so, his reprieve, which was on its way, would have arrived in time enough to have saved his life. Timing can be everything.

Information from Bygone Punishments, by William Andrews
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/29117/29117-h/29117-h.htm). A massive tome detailed the barbaric punishments of Old England.

 

[connoisseurs]

Once again a terrible cliffhanger. But the more I think about the possible variations of Rebeccas fate, the more I come to the conclusion that you, PrPr, are a real Master of the sinisterness (here on CF it is meant as a compliment).
Either Rebeccas brother and cousin are able to save her life - what will the future be like for her? Always in danger that the mighty might come for her, bringing the terror back. Going back home to a life in famine and poverty? Finding a husband with her branding, her scars and her experiences (and no, Rebecca wouldn´t be able to lie about that)? No happily even after...
Or Rebecca will be hanged (the right past tense?). Then her next of kin will see her futile fight against the rope and they will have to tell the parents the whole sad story. Even at that time no bagatelle.
So I come to the conclusion that Barb is absolutely right when she says:

Wow! No one paints a scene ... setting, action, detailing, atmosphere, dialogue in dialect, living characters ... quite like our PrPr. Bravo! Very well done, indeed!

 

[Praefectus Praetorio]

A timeline to help the reader follow this short, moralistic tale. I hope it all enlightens our members to the importance of following the law and avoiding just punishment.

Time Line (all 1723)

May 17 Rebecca’s 18th Birthday
May 30 Rebecca Leaves Dartford
May 31 Rebecca Arrives in London, goes to Seven Dials
June 1 Rebecca Steals and is Arrested
June 2 Rebecca's Trial, Execution set for June 17, Committed to Ramsey
June 3 Rebecca Attends Ridotto and Lose her Maidenhead
June 4 Recovery Day
June 5 Owners make Offer of Pardon
June 15 Review of Ten Days since Offer
June 16 No Pardon, Re-affirmed sentence, Whipping and Branding
June 17 Whipped at Cart's Tail and Hanging

 

[Harsh Martinet]

Milady is made ready to be whipped at the cart's tail.

 

[Praefectus Praetorio]

Sir Elliott quotes John Wilmot, second Earl of Rochester and Baron of Adderbury in England, Viscount Athlone in Ireland (died 1680) He was the cynosure of the libertine wits of Restoration England. He was anathematized as evil incarnate and simultaneously adored for his seraphic presence, beauty, and wit. Andrew Marvell stated: "The Earle of Rochester was the only man in England that had the true veine of Satyre." Voltaire wrote in his Lettres philosophiques (1734), "Tout le monde connoit de réputation le Comte de Rochester," and then added that the gossip writers have pictured Rochester as a man of pleasure, but he would like to make known the genius, the great poet.

Wilmot was inducted, posthumously, into the Hellfire Club, in 1719.

A heart-warming poem for we old farts.
Young Woman to her Ancient Lover

I know it long, but the complete poem of which Sir Elliott only quotes the first two lines. Pornography, love, humour, philosophy. It is a verse worthy to post on CF.

The Imperfect Enjoyment

Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,
I filled with love, and she all over charms;
Both equally inspired with eager fire,
Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.
With arms, legs, lips close clinging to embrace,
She clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face.
Her nimble tongue, love’s lesser lightning, played
Within my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed
Swift orders that I should prepare to throw
The all-dissolving thunderbolt below.
My fluttering soul, sprung with the pointed kiss,
Hangs hovering o’er her balmy brinks of bliss.
But whilst her busy hand would guide that part
Which should convey my soul up to her heart,
In liquid raptures I dissolve all o’er,
Melt into sperm, and spend at every pore.
A touch from any part of her had done ’t:
Her hand, her foot, her very look's a cunt.
Smiling, she chides in a kind murmuring noise,
And from her body wipes the clammy joys,
When, with a thousand kisses wandering o’er
My panting bosom, “Is there then no more?”
She cries. “All this to love and rapture’s due;
Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?”
But I, the most forlorn, lost man alive,
To show my wished obedience vainly strive:
I sigh, alas! and kiss, but cannot swive.
Eager desires confound my first intent,
Succeeding shame does more success prevent,
And rage at last confirms me impotent.
Ev’n her fair hand, which might bid heat return
To frozen age, and make cold hermits burn,
Applied to my dear cinder, warms no more
Than fire to ashes could past flames restore.
Trembling, confused, despairing, limber, dry,
A wishing, weak, unmoving lump I lie.
This dart of love, whose piercing point, oft tried,
With virgin blood ten thousand maids has dyed,
Which nature still directed with such art
That it through every cunt reached every heart—
Stiffly resolved, ’twould carelessly invade
Woman or man, nor ought its fury stayed:
Where’er it pierced, a cunt it found or made—
Now languid lies in this unhappy hour,
Shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower.
Thou treacherous, base deserter of my flame,
False to my passion, fatal to my fame,
Through what mistaken magic dost thou prove
So true to lewdness, so untrue to love?
What oyster-cinder-beggar-common whore
Didst thou e’er fail in all thy life before?
When vice, disease, and scandal lead the way,
With what officious haste doest thou obey!
Like a rude, roaring hector in the streets
Who scuffles, cuffs, and justles all he meets,
But if his king or country claim his aid,
The rakehell villain shrinks and hides his head;
Ev’n so thy brutal valor is displayed,
Breaks every stew, does each small whore invade,
But when great Love the onset does command,
Base recreant to thy prince, thou dar’st not stand.
Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most,
Through all the town a common fucking post,
On whom each whore relieves her tingling cunt
As hogs on gates do rub themselves and grunt,
Mayst thou to ravenous chancres be a prey,
Or in consuming weepings waste away;
May strangury and stone thy days attend;
May’st thou never piss, who didst refuse to spend
When all my joys did on false thee depend.
And may ten thousand abler pricks agree
To do the wronged Corinna right for thee.

 

[Praefectus Praetorio]

Section from John Rocque's 1746 Map of London. Tyburn is in the upper left with Hyde Park stretching south to Hyde Park Corner. Note, Tyburn is surrounded by open fields with just one building, a tavern. And a tiny representation of Tyburn Tree.
Coming in from the right (East) is Tiburn Road, the route from St. Giles.

Enlargement of Tyburn

 

[Praefectus Praetorio]

Chapter 48 The Hanging Tree

William, Tommy, and Howard emerged from the watchhouse and hurried down Broad Street past the Almshouse, onto High Street and then turned west on Oxford Street. The one and a half miles to Tyburn would be an eternity. Would they be in time? And, all three wondered without saying it aloud, what could they do when they got there?


Sir Elliott looked around pleased at the crowd. His full bleachers meant over a hundred pounds in the Club’s purse. And his agents were keeping busy selling penny treats to the ordinaries in the square. Some overflow stretched south into the outskirts of Hyde Park.

Sir Francis liked the profits to be made here for the Club, but was chiefly gratified by the large turnout signifying support for his firm administration of justice.

Sir Elliott greeted an extremely fat man in collar and black cassock coming to sit in a reserved space next to Page. “Thank you for being here, Reverend Father. Your presence will dignify and sanctify this exercise in justice.”

“Glad to serve the Lord in my Holy Office,” replied the priest. “I do thank you for the ‘confessional’ you allowed me with red-headed wench the other day. It was heavenly!”

“Very pleased to give succor to the clergy. Have you met Sir Francis?”

“No, please introduce me.”

“Sir Francis, this is the Reverend Clement Pity. Reverend, this is Justice Sir Francis Page.”

A commotion to the East made all look down Tyburn Road. Several persons on an oxcart were coming into sight.



Rebecca stood in the cart, supported by Breaker and Spite; the pain from the damage of the multiple whipping and the still burning in her breasts racked her mind. She was astonished at the size of the crowd. Hundreds and hundreds of people, all there to watch her die! Angry female faces appeared in the crowd and taunted her as a whore of the devil. The men seemed mesmerized by her red hair and fair skin and fine figure, almost totally exposed. Ahead she saw a strange structure, a triangle of wooden beams, horizontal, resting on three tall uprights. There was a ladder on one side for climbing up and a man already there, standing confidently on the beams, grinning at the approaching wagon.


The three companions ran into ever increasing traffic on the road as they left St. Giles. The crowd heading toward the crossroads was large and boisterous. William, Howard, and especially Tommy were big men, and they pushed their way ahead. Even so, the going was painfully slow. They had to get to Tyburn soon!


“Good day to you, Jacob Stretch, Lord of the Manor of Tyburn,” said Breaker, greeting the man on the scaffold.

“Good Day to you Allen Breaker, Lord of the Ramsey Manor,” laughed the hangman in return. “I see you’ve got a sweet and lovely piece of business for me.”

“Indeed, I do. Sir Elliott requested special that you give her a gentle goodnight.”

“It be my specialty! Just bring that cart under this beam here, it’s got the smoothest path beneath. Be like skating on ice.” instructed Stretch as he lowered a rope with a noose on the end.

Breaker directed the driver to bring the cart directly under the hangman and stop with the hanging rope at the front of the cart-box. He had Spite and Fair remove the back railings and get down, leaving him alone with Rebecca in the cart. He slipped the noose over her head as the girl cried and pleaded.

“Please, Mr. Breaker, please! I never done that all wrong! I’s a good girl. I don’ts want to die! Please, oh please! Give me another chance! I already hurts de baddest. Yan all done me in vell. Ain’t that enough. Please, let me live!”

Breaker ignored her and tightened the noose while lifting her lovely red hair out to fall on her shoulders.


Just then, the noon Bells could be heard from the newly built church of St. George’s Hanover Square. Time for the hanging.

One of the guards shot a pistol in the air for quiet and the priest struggled to bring his considerable bulk to a standing position.

“Rebecca Godwyn, a whore as your filthy nakedness attests, facing man’s judgement, you are about to meet the far harsher judgement of God. Do you confess your sin and guilt?”

“I’s innocent! Please, No. Let me go! I’s afraid to die!”

The crowd always expected confession and dignity. A “good death” was admired. Rebecca’s wild pleading was frowned upon. Those around her hurled insults and obscenities. The girl looked hopelessly around at a sea of faces filled with lust and hate.

“An unrepentant soul like you should truly fear death. May you go to the Devil.” Said the Reverend Pity. “Proceed with the hanging.”


The men struggling to get to Tyburn were encouraged as they caught sight of the gallows no more than one hundred yards ahead. They might not be too late!

As the pushed closer, they saw the cart pulling up under the gallows. If only!

From behind, they heard church Bells ring out. Then a shot ahead. Mr. Todd, said “That’s the call for confession, they’s be hanging her in a moment!”

All three pushed ahead, using all their strength to throw aside anyone in their way.



Lord of the Manor of Tyburn - term for the public hangman.
Baddest – in the early 18th century, usage was just changing from baddest as the superlative of bad to the newer form, worst.

 

[Barbaria1]

Reverend Clement Pity.

Giggle snort!

 

[Praefectus Praetorio]

For much of its history, public executions took place at Tyburn, with prisoners processed from Newgate Prison in the City, via St Giles in the Fields and Oxford Street.

The first recorded execution took place at a site next to the stream (the place took its name from the Tyburn Brook, a tributary of the River Westbourne. The name Tyburn, from Teo Bourne meaning 'boundary stream') in 1196. William Fitz Osbert, populist leader who played a major role in an 1196 popular revolt in London, was cornered in the church of St Mary le Bow. He was dragged naked behind a horse to Tyburn, where he was hanged.

The "Tree" or "Triple Tree" was a novel form of gallows, consisting of a horizontal wooden triangle supported by three legs (an arrangement known as a "three-legged mare" or "three-legged stool"). Several felons could thus be hanged at once, and so the gallows were used for mass executions, such as on 23 June 1649 when 24 prisoners—23 men and one woman—were hanged simultaneously, having been conveyed there in eight carts.

Convicts would be transported to the site in an open ox-cart from Newgate Prison. They were expected to put on a good show, wearing their finest clothes and going to their deaths with insouciance. The crowd would cheer a "good dying", but would jeer any displays of weakness on the part of the condemned.
A 17th Century depiction of the "Tree"

Note the cart with the condemned underneath the "Tree" and the cart behind with coffins. A very efficient early assembly line!
A scene from a movie (I don't know the source)

The modern plaque near marble arch.

 

[montycrusto]

I’ve stood on that plaque many a time; most recently just before embarking with a million others on an anti-brexit march to Parliament Square ...fat lot of good that did

 

[Eulalia]

Coming in from the right (East) is Tiburn Road,

then turned west on Oxford Street

Didn't Tyburn Road become Oxford Street?

in 1196. William Fitz Osbert, populist leader who played a major role in an 1196 popular revolt in London, was cornered in the church of St Mary le Bow. He was dragged naked behind a horse to Tyburn, where he was hanged.

They had the right approach to dealing with 'populist leaders' back in them days!

 

[Praefectus Praetorio]

Didn't Tyburn Road become Oxford Street?

The maps of the time that I have found are contradictory. Some show the route leaving St. Giles as Tiburn Road, others as Oxford Street. John Rocque's 1746 map (23 years later) shows it as Oxford half way and changing to Tiburn. I compromised by having them leave High Street onto Oxford and then soon be on Tiburn.

Sorry for the confusion. Somethings are beyond my research abilities.

and all maps spell it Tiburn and the crossroads Tyburn!

 

[Eulalia]

A quick look at Wiki tells me Tyburn Road became Oxford Road 'during the 18th century', then Oxford Street.

 

[Barbaria1]

They had the right approach to dealing with 'populist leaders' back in them days!

I can think of a couple that I'd like to see dealt with.

 

[thehangingtree]

A quick look at Wiki tells me Tyburn Road became Oxford Road 'during the 18th century', then Oxford Street.

Are you looking for it, Eul???

 

[Harsh Martinet]

I can think of a couple that I'd like to see dealt with.

Amen to that Barb.

 

[Praefectus Praetorio]

I can think of a couple that I'd like to see dealt with.

Are you chuntering again, Barbara? There are parts of the Bloody Codes against that!

Chunter - grumble or complain, Kentish.

 

[Harsh Martinet]

Are you chuntering again, Barbara? There are parts of the Bloody Codes against that!

Chunter - grumble or complain, Kentish.

Is one who chunters a chunt?