The final part of a short series on the execution of justice – and of the condemned – in old Glasgow.
John Murdoch had been the assistant to both Young and McArthur, as well as others, for thirty years when he became the ‘go-to guy’ for towns needing someone ‘topped.’ A baker to trade, he performed his official duties on a piecework basis but he was around 70 years old when Young died. Rheumatism had stricken his legs and he could walk only with the aid of a stick. Newspapers commented on the sight of him tottering up the steps to the platform and in 1849 one reporter opined that it was perhaps time that he gave up the work altogether. But old Murdoch grimly hung on – the £30-£40 fee for a topping was not something he was eager to do without – and at the age of 84 he almost botched what was to be his last service for Glasgow.
On 2 October, 1851, Archibald Hare, a man said to be of ‘repulsive and dogged aspect’, was sentenced to death for the stabbing of a man in Blantyre. Murdoch may well have been in the courtroom to hear the verdict, for it was his habit to attend the Circuit Court whenever a capital case was to be heard. Hare, who legend states was the nephew of ‘bodysnatcher’ William Hare (but legend is wrong), was to die on 24 October. The hangman laboriously hauled himself up the gallows steps and fixed the rope around Hare’s neck. In addition to being repulsive and dogged, Hare was a very slight man and when he was turned off he merely twisted on the end of the rope, trying desperately to free his bound hands in order to clutch at the hemp biting into his throat. Murdoch had to speed the man’s end by grabbing hold of his legs and swinging on them until the struggles eased and finally ceased. The authorities concluded that this particular Finisher was too old to continue and allowed him a pension out of the public purse. He died, aged 89, in Bothwell.
Glasgow then hired hangmen from other parts of Britain to, as Tam Young used to say, ‘get their business done.’
Over thirty years earlier, though, it would have been Tam who did the honours at the first quadruple hanging in Glasgow – during which two of the men facing their doom publicly displayed their affection for each other.
Robert McKinlay, (also known as Rough Rob), William Buchanan, Robert Guthrie, (alias R. Hunter Guthrie), and Alexander Forbes were led to the scaffold on the Green on 8 November, 1819. They had each been found guilty of various counts of housebreaking. McKinlay and Buchanan had been audacious enough to break into Bothwell Castle, near Hamilton, and make off with a gold watch, a silver snuff box, a silver spoon, a silver candlestick, a silver bread toaster ‘and several articles of wearing apparel.’ They had forced open a window and crept around the castle while the owner, the Right Honourable Lord Douglas, slept.
Glasgow-born McKinlay was a 23-year-old former cotton spinner who had, a broadsheet said, ‘long given up the sober pursuits of industry’ to set about ‘gaining a livelihood by fraud and theft’ through the ‘more dangerous way of living by preying on the property of the public.’ At the time of his arrest he was also wanted for a variety of other burglaries. He had earlier broken out of Greenock Jail and had avoided recapture by going to sea for eight months. He was caught on this occasion ‘in the Green asleep’ with some of the stolen items on him and ‘his Lordship’s neckcloth about his neck.’ He was destined to have something less pleasant around his throat. He had perhaps been fingered by his accomplice arrested earlier.
Buchanan was only 18-years-old and was also a cotton spinner to trade but was of a ‘very unsettled disposition, and much addicted to pilfering’, a state of mind which had already seen him do a twelvemonth in the Bridewell.
Lord Douglas appeared to be a very forgiving man for he had done what he could to have the men’s lives saved, but had failed.
Guthrie, a Paisley weaver, and Forbes, from Glasgow, had been found guilty of a housebreaking in Kilmarnock, during which they had taken a silver watch, five shirts, two pairs of shoes, cloth, food and cakes. A police officer spotted them near Barrhead two days later and with the aid of a ploughman managed to arrest them, finding some of the stolen articles on them.
When condemned to death, Guthrie stated that he thought the sentence ‘very hard.’ The 25-year-old was by trade a Wright but was a known criminal who had also previously tried to break jail, in his case the prison at Ayr, while 18-year-old Forbes was of ‘honest industrious parents’ but had ‘given himself up to idleness and drunkenness.’ He, too, had escaped from prison, having busted out of Paisley. He continued with his life of crime, almost being caught in the Gallowgate once, until he was arrested. Again unsuccessful efforts were made to have their sentence commuted. In the eyes of the law they were all menaces that had to be eradicated.
All four were described by a broadsheet of the day as ‘good-looking young men.’ The writer went on to say, ‘Never did the inhabitants of Glasgow, and the surrounding countryside, witness a more awesome and disturbing spectacle.’
Another broadsheet commented, ‘The melancholy scene we have this day witnessed must have the effect of touching with anguish the heart of every friend of humanity – every lover of our species; four young men (a sight never before witnessed in Glasgow) suffering ignominiously, shamelessly, and ingloriously on the scaffold, for breaking the laws of their country, whom, had the ability they evidently possessed, been directed aright, might have been an honour to themselves, a happiness to their families, and made them useful members of society.’
This writer hoped that the ‘heartrending spectacle’ the public witnessed would make anyone tempted to follow in their footsteps by ‘preying on the property of the public’ to think twice. What they thought of McKinlay kissing Buchanan farewell as the nooses were draped around their necks can only be surmised. Obviously, there was something more between the two than just friendship. The two young men continued to hold hands, made difficult by their being bound, until Guthrie gave the signal to the hangman. The four men ‘struggled very much’ before they were finally still.
The following year saw yet another quadruple execution. On a Sunday in December 1819 a gang invaded the home of Dr Robert Watt in Crossmyloof, a well-known doctor who had died seven months before. His widow, her young children and servants were in the mansion at the time and the men, their faces blackened, proceeded to ransack every cupboard and drawer before making off with all the cash and silver plate they could find. One held a loaded pistol to the head of the widow while another wrenched the rings from her fingers.
Four men by the name of Grant, Crosbie, O’Connor and McColgin was arrested the following October and tried in Glasgow in November. When condemned to death, lawyer and social campaigner Peter McKenzie noted, all ‘broke out into a loud volley of curses and swearing, and actually attempted to kick some of the witnesses and officers of justice near to them.’ At just after 3pm on Wednesday 8 November they were turned off together by Tam Young. According to one report the four men struggled dreadfully before they died and their bodies hung for 40 minutes before being cut down.
McKenzie went on to detail the tragic life of Mrs Young after the event. She lost much of her fortune through bankruptcy and all but one of her children died before her. Only the youngest girl survived but tragedy hit her, too – just before she was due to marry a distinguished surgeon he died of Typhus Fever.
The following year, Young officiated at a triple execution. On 24 October, Michael Macintyre, William Paterson and Wardrope Dyer were brought from the prison, marched across the road and onto the scaffold. Macintyre and Paterson had been found guilty of breaking into a house and stealing ‘various articles of wearing apparel.’ McIntyre was a 20-year-old Irishman whose parents had ‘endeavoured to gain a livelihood by hawking earthernware through this country.’
Their son was left to his own devices and tried to make a living by selling gingerbread in the streets but also during this time ‘became acquainted with idle and dissolute company’. He soon drifted into crime and was ‘well known to the keeper of the Bridewell.’ He enlisted in the army but his larcenous nature led him to be found ‘several times guilty of plundering his comrades’ so he was punished – no doubt by flogging – and then drummed out of the regiment. He obviously did not learn from the experience for he was arrested fairly soon after returning to Glasgow.
His accomplice William Paterson, born in Manchester of Scottish parentage, came to Glasgow when his father died in the East Indies. His upbringing was such that he very early on ‘fell a prey to every species of vice with which every large city abounds.’
Dyer was a native Glaswegian, having been born to reputable parents in the Drygate. He became a weaver but ‘got acquainted with women of very questionable characters, took up with gamblers, boxers and bullies who were always the first to point out the object of plunder, and ever ready to partake of the booty, but too wary to share in the danger.’ Dyer, though, was all too willing to take the risks and that brought him to the platform in October, 1821, where he would die facing the monument. He was only 22 years of age. In the jail, before they were led out, he had been moved by the preaching of the minister but McIntyre and Paterson were made of sterner stuff and warned other prisoners within earshot that if they ever wished to avoid hanging, then plead guilty. After the execution, it was revealed that Dyer had pointed out the haunts of ‘questionable characters’ and the eye of the Glasgow Police was upon them.
The final declarations of the accused on the platform were generally of a religious nature, leading to a warning against drink, keeping bad company and fornication. Paisley weaver turned housebreaker David Wylie, on 12 November 1823, warned the crowds to beware of gangs of thieves. He urged onlookers to avoid ‘bad company, especially resetters, who haunt young men in their houses; who give their meat and drink to the pilferer which they prompt then to take in a clandestine manner; little money is given to the depredators; and what is gained by these destroyers of youth who sell the property of honest people, is spent in debauchery, drunkenness and everything which degrades human nature.’ He considered ‘bad women and Sabbath breaking’ two of the worst evils, in addition to the one for which he was convicted.
Wylie died, aged 17.
However, perhaps the strangest of all declarations on the scaffold came in 1853, when Hans Smith McFarlane and Helen Blackwood were executed for murder. They had lured ships carpenter Alexander Boyd to a house in the New Vennel. There they drugged him with a mixture of whisky and snuff, robbed him and then threw his body from a window. They denied the charge but the principal witnesses against them were two brothers named Shillingshaw, both less than 12 years of age, who had been sleeping under a bed in the same house and watched the whole scene. The boys had been kept in prison since the murder because they had nowhere else to go. At the trial in Edinburgh, a third person, Ann Marshall, was found guilty along with McFarlane and Blackwood but her sentence was commuted to transportation. There was no such mercy for McFarlane and Blackwood, for they were to hang. ‘We have not got justice,’ remarked the woman. ‘There is a higher judge for us. We are innocent.’
On being returned to Glasgow, McFarlane and Blackwood were lodged in Duke Street Prison. There McFarlane asked the governor if he would be allowed to marry his co-accused. The request was turned down – but McFarlane had his mind set on making an honest woman of her, figuratively speaking at least. On the day of their death, 11 August, they were both moved to the South Prison before being led out to the scaffold. A crowd estimated to be 40,000 strong rippled far into the Green and before them McFarlane shouted, ‘Helen Blackwood, before God and in the presence of these witnesses, I take you to be my wife. Do you consent?’
The stunned ocean of faces waited to hear the woman’s response. ‘I do,’ she said.
‘Then before these witnesses I declare you to be what you have always been to me, a true and faithful wife, and you die an honest woman.’
The officiating clergyman intoned Amen, the bolt was drawn and the newly-weds plunged into the gaping maw beneath them. T.M. Tod remarked in his ‘Scots Black Kalandar’, ‘This marriage, we understand, was not recorded in the Registrar General’s book.’
McFarlane and Blackwood insisted their innocence to the last, as did weaver Andrew Stewart who was condemned for a street assault. Although he admitted he had struck the victim, he insisted that he had not participated in the subsequent robbery. Lawyer Peter McKenzie tended to believe him and labelled the case a miscarriage of justice.
The victim was Italian Filipo Testi, who McKenzie wrote was a ‘mild, fine-looking young man, who scarcely understood the Scots language.’ He earned a living as a street trader, selling ornaments and little works of art from a board which he carried about Glasgow on his head. Belfast-born Andrew Stewart was a weaver who lived in Bridgeton with his parents and had never been in trouble with the law. One Saturday in August, 1826 (McKenzie says it was May, but he was writing from memory long after the events) he came to Glasgow to be paid by his employer. With money in his pocket, he tarried too long, visiting the Theatre Royal and lingering in the Boat Tavern in the Saltmarket with some friends. As he made his way home via the Gallowgate, he encountered Filipo Testi in East Nile Street. The Italian had lost his way and in his faltering English asked Stewart directions. The 25-year-old weaver, his mind befuddled with drink, did not understand him and began to believe that Testi was making a fool of him. Testi tried again but still could not make himself understood. Then he put his hand on Stewart’s shoulder. Stewart shrugged him off. Testi became more excited in his questions, desperate to make himself understood. Finally, Stewart took offence and punched him. If he had been sober, perhaps he would have been more patient. But he was not and Testi fell to the ground. A policeman standing nearby saw the punch and ‘sprang his rattles’, panicking Stewart who ran off down Charlotte Street and onto the Green, leaping over an iron gate that police had earlier locked to prevent anyone from getting into the park at night. The officer had followed, leaving Testi stunned on the ground, but lost him in the dark.
According to the prosecution, Testi was already being stalked by ‘a gang of ruffians’ who had been told by a woman that he had money on his person. These ‘street blackguards’ then materialised from the darkness and pounced on the man while he lay prone in the street. They robbed him of his gold repeater watch, chain, his gloves, his tobacco and ‘five or six segars’. They also relieved him of two one-pound notes, a guinea note and 10 to 12 shillings in silver. The gang was seen rifling his pockets but anyone who attempted to prevent them was threatened. They did not stop until other officers arrived, alerted by their colleague’s rattle. The gang, like Stewart, bolted for the Green where they argued over the division of the spoils.
Stewart, meanwhile, made it home where he told his mother what had happened. Two days later they came for him while he was eating breakfast. The officer who had chased him identified him and charged him with assault and street robbery. Police also arrested George Buckley and James Dickson, on whom they found Testi’s wallet. The Crown case was that Stewart had acted along with Buckley, Dickson and others to attack and rob Testi. The young weaver insisted he had never seen the men before. He told the police his story. Yes, he had struck the blow but it was in anger not as part of a street robbery. He had not meant to hurt the man. He repeated it to lawyers. He told anyone who would listen. He was not believed.
The jury, by a majority, condemned Stewart for assault and robbery but acquitted Buckley on a Not Proven verdict. The young man had been identified by witnesses, while Buckley – a known crook – had not. One witness prevaricated so much that he was jailed for two months for contempt, to be fed nothing but bread and water. Dickson, however, was found guilty of robbery – he had, after all, been found with part of the booty. He was to be transported for life but Stewart was to die. The judge said that street robbery was an atrocity and that it was ‘necessary to make a terrible example, especially in the case of the poor foreigner.’
‘So it is,’ replied Stewart, ‘but I am not guilty in the way imputed to me.’
The case excited sympathy among the liberal minds of Glasgow and it was hoped that a reprieve would be forthcoming. On the day set for the execution, 1 November, supporters turned up early at the post office in Nelson Street in order to catch the London Mail coach. They hoped that a letter would reach them from the Home Secretary saving the young weaver’s life. No letter was sent. Andrew Stewart walked up the scaffold steps followed by the tall frame of Tam Young. The young man’s mother stood by steps and cried out, ‘My son! My son! My innocent son! May the God of Heaven receive you into his everlasting arms.’
Another Irishman died that day. Edward Kelly had had been convicted with another man, whose sentence of death was respited, of robbery in the Bridgegate. The victim, James Fleming, had picked up a prostitute and while in her company she had learned that he had a sum of money about his person. When he left, she alerted some of her ‘abandoned colleagues’ who set about him in the street, dragged him into a close and robbed him of over £100. Kelly, 21-years-old and ‘never bred to any regular business,’ and his co-accused were arrested while they were splitting the loot. A third man got away with around £40 of the haul and was never caught.
Public executions continued on the Saltmarket until 1865, when multiple murderer Dr Edward William Pritchard had his date with the noose. Hanging continued for almost a century but it moved indoors – to Duke Street and Barlinnie prisons – away from the eyes of the horrified, or entertained, public.