Memoirs of the Sheepscombe Gibbet

A Story by Ron

Story taken from a real local fable about the Parish Gallows. It is probably true. The narrator? The gibbet itself. It speaks with a western accent.

I hoped that after my hundred years of oak tree growth I would be felled and see service in the King's Navy! Now that's respect for you. Certainly! Big Samuel, next to me, was a massive oak and the cutters took him off for naval timbers. They looked at me askance. I knew I was a strong tree but I missed something of the smooth quality required for the navy. In 1670 respect for us oaks was limitless. I knew, even as I was cut and trimmed, that something special must be in store for me.

Well I be dammed if Lord Custance of Sheepscome didn't come to me with his carter. Bringing too the Sheepscome Magistrate. "There" said His Lordship pointing at me. "That timber there. He's our new gibbet." Well gibbet is an English word, alternative for gallows.

"Gibbet" I pondered. "Would a Gibbet be respected?"

Soon I was lifted on the cart . Off to Sheepscombe I was hauled. Lord Custance knew fine wood!

What, did I hear you say "How do oak trees know these things? Well don't you know us trees look and whisper all the time? Did you never hear us rustle in a breeze or howl in a gale? That's just trees talking. How come you didn't know that?

Anyway, Sheepscombe is near Stroud in England. Now Sheepscombe parish would become my Parish. I would be the new Sheepscome Gibbet! Now gibbets are put right on the parish boundary. Spot on it! This is so the souls of the dead felons do not fall in the jurisdiction of any parish church. The souls of the condemned must never see St. Peter unlock the gates of heaven. Just to be sure, they are buried in unconsecrated Godless ground.

It was old Alfie Sawyer a Sheepscombe carpenter who made me fit to serve. He cut me to size, jointed me and smoothed me. Wonderful craftsman he was too. Well, you couldn't get a blade of grass between my upright and cross timber. I felt strong. Nearly fifteen feet tall, straight as a diem and ready for work.

Have I mentioned respect? The villagers walked two miles to view me when Alfie sank me in the ground. I had a grand vista too. Mounted at Barrow Hill next to the flint road, right twixt the two parish ends. The common folk stared, jaws dropped. Some took off their hats. Children dared each other to touch me but not one did. This was respect, fear and dread too I'm suspecting. Only the birds and dogs treated me as normal. I was very glad of that.

Sheepscombe was humane! No cast iron gibbet cages hear. Have you heard of them? After the hanging the corpse would be left rotting away and the crows and magpies gorged. All this was, lessons for travellers and the superstitious parishioners.

Lord Custance and the Rector Woodforde demanded judicial alacrity. The nearest prison was in Gloucester. Too far to be of use for the Sheepscombe folk. So once a felon was apprended for serious crime he could be tried the same day. Often tried at The Woolpack Public House. Possibly sentenced to hang! At between 5 and 6pm he'd reach the gibbet, hooded and tied. Some criminals would be given gin or beer to ease his fear before being offered for my services.

There he would hang alone till dawn. The hangman would return and take the corpse to the parish end pits. Then get paid one shilling for a burial. Now, that's good money considering he got paid five shillings for the hanging. Yes, humane we certainly was.

No they weren't barbaric people. Most petty crime was dealt with by the stocks, a fine or Church penalty. For example if a man beat his wife he might have to hedge and ditch the church yard. Stealing, murder and near murder was another matter. Being fair, if a poor widow took firewood or a rabbit out the woods without permission she might just be made to repent at Sunday church.

Steal some thing valuable, worse still, steal from the Lord, the Church or your employer, chances are you'd dance on air with me.

I was very nervous at my first public duty! Would I do well? Would I be respected? The hangman then was Augustus Crow. A cow man who drank too much. A bungler he was. Very bad with the noose if he were drunk. He'd snapped two heads right off. And one of them was a woman.

My first hanging was a Gypsy called Guist. Guist killed the miller for a bag of flour. The gypsy fought like a villain. Took four Sheepscombe militia to hold him. No hood either, nor any gin to ease his passing. Crow had done a good knot, thank the Lord. When the cart pulled off leaving Guist suspened I swear he danced to Satan's fiddle for a full ten minutes before he stilled! My first and one of the worst, I do concede.

Later on came Aaron Steed the hangman and it is Aaron's story that peturbed me. He was a fine noose man, sexton, and rope measurer. Aaron was the blacksmith and too a widower. The farmers loved the man, honest and hard working as he was. He had one lad who worked in Sheepscombe. Aaron lived just down the hill in his mud and beam cottage. His forge glowed bright and dim red at night. I would often watch it flaring up and down times when all others were a bed.

Aaron, living close to me, would just walk up the hill as the felon and the death cart arrived. One of the County Dragoons would ride over and let him know on day when there were to be a hanging. I suppose he had disposed of 20 lives over the years with never a hitch. He had a gentle touch for a blacksmith. It would take less than three minutes to complete the job and send the convicts to the Devil.

One bleak winter there came a night when a hanging was to be done. There was sheet ice on the roads. By six in the evening there was no sign of the poor soul whose time had come. Aaron's forge became brighter as darkness came. Cold clouds were overhead and chilly mists swirled about. I can tell you it became as black as pitch. Later I heard the cart grinding up the road. Odd sparks cast from the horse's hoofs showed the unfortunate's progress. The horseman was Archie Potts and he called "Whoa" right under my cross member, inch perfect. Good driver was Archie! But there was no Aaron to be seen.

They had taken the prisoner to the ale house and tarried too long! I could smell the beer on the him. Even the curate was fuddled. How the militia escort laughed! Seemingly the landlord had asked for drinks payment and one the miliia pointed at the poor wretch responding "He'll pay on the way back." This much to the mirth of all. Some of these militia men deserve to swing.

The thief to be hung was a slim lad. I'd say about 14 years old. Poor crearure was quietly sobbing, his head hooded and bowed. The curate began drunken versing. At last just in the nick of time Aaraon's appeared holding rope. Aaron was puffing he must have ran up from his cottage. He soon despatched the lad. In a minute the cart had slid off, body swung. Busy Aaron ran back to work. His forge soon puffed away again.

Next morning at cockcrow Aaron Steed marched up the hill whistling. His mattock and spade rifled over his shoulder. He would carry the lad and his tools two hundred yards to the Parish Pits. Aaron's mighty arms lifted up the lad and he undid the noose and hood.

Well. his head jerked skywards. Poor man brayed in dread. He held his own son. The blacksmith hugged the corpse to his heart. He swayed onwards towards the cottage front. Pausing lifted the body to the heavens and bellowed. Like a stag trapped in a snare.

The same afternoon the Magistate attended to pay Aaron his dues. There he founf Aaron swinging gently by his neck from a vast ceiling joists In the garden was an new filled grave. Resting in it his much loved son.

Nearby he'd left an iron, blacksmithed, cross the lads intended head marker. They covered them together in the earth that very day. No one used the Smithy's house again.

The dampness did get my oaken base after fifty years service of active killing. I fell down eventually and that was no way to treat a veteran. Happily though now I am properly retired. I live on as a beam, over a gentleman's fire place. Now two pretty daughters play music next to me and yes! I dare say, the family shares their lives with me. Horse brasses adorn me. That's very nice too.

The gentleman found me lying by the flint road. Just by the abandoned Smithy's. About a mile away. I could tell them a tale or two!