Happy Christmas!

 

The last man to be hanged in Shropshire: a true story

On the morning of October 8th, 1960, a horrific sight was found in a house on Westland Road, a respectable street in Shrewsbury. The owner of the house, Adeline Mary Smith, a widow aged 62, had been battered to death.

   A neighbour, George Riley, was arrested for the murder, and that evening he signed a confession at the police station. In it he stated that he had come home very drunk in the early hours of the morning and realising he had no money he decided to rob Mrs Smith. She woke, and he killed her with a blow. 

  Riley was an apprentice butcher, aged 21. He came from a respectable family, his father being a Cadet Corps instructor at Shrewsbury school; but he and his brothers had a bad reputation around the town, getting into fights and being banned from dancehalls. At his trial he attempted to withdraw the confession, but he was nonetheless convicted of murder and sentenced to death. Many local people,including the lady who first told me this story, believed George Riley was innocent. It was pointed out that, although there was a great deal of blood at the scene of the murder, none was found on Riley's person or on his clothing. Furthermore, nothing had been stolen; Mrs Smith's purse and money being found untouched in a drawer. Questions were asked in Parliament by opponenets of the death penalty, but the Home Secretary, R. A. Butler, said that he was "satisfied that there was no miscarriage of justice and no need for an inquiry". But if Riley was innocent, why did he confess? Was he coerced into it by the police, who might have been prejudiced against him by his violent reputation? Or could he have been trying to shield someone; perhaps his brothers? 

  George Riley was hanged in Shrewsbury prison at 8 a.m. on February 9th 1961. There was a noisy demonstration by his supporters outside the prison. The case has remained controversial in Shropshire ever since.

   Shrewsbury prison today is a museum. The bust above the gateway is that of John Howard, the great prison reformer.

 

"They hang us now in Shrewsbury jail:

 The whistles blow folorn,

 And trains all night groan on the rail

 To men that die at morn."

 

(A. E. Housman: "A Shropshire Lad")

A potential story!

 One of the leading gangsters in New York in the Prohibition era was neither Sicilian nor Jewish, but was born in England. His name was Owen Madden, and he came to New York as a child, to live with his aunt in a notorious slum  on the West Side of Manhatten, known as "Hell's Kitchen". He joined the local street gang, the Gophers, and rose to be their leader. He was known as "Owney the killer".

   In the 1920s he made a fortune in bootlegging and the "numbers"  gambling racket; he owned the elite Cotton Club in Harlem, and was nicknamed "the duke of the west side". But in the early 1930s he retired to Hot Springs, Arkansas, where he founded a hotel and casino that played host to many of his fellow-gangsters, including Lucky Luciano when on the run from the authorities.

Madden remained there until he died peacefully in the 1960s; long enough to have met the young Bill Clinton as he was growing up in the state. Clinton's mother certainly encountered Madden, since she once had to prepare him for surgery, and recalled that the old bullets in his body lit up the x-ray screen "like stars in a planetarium!"

Although there is no reason to believe that Clinton himself ever met Madden, wouldn't an imaginary meeting make a splendid story, as the aged gangster imparts to the future president his advice on how to become a success in life!      

The great prize-fight: a discarded episode from my historical novel

 I received a message from Sir Anthony Pardington, telling me of a great prize-fight soon to be held at Harley Green, a village a few miles to the north-east of Brackenridge hill. He had invited all the local gentry to the event, and had himself put up a purse of twenty guineas for the winner. He suggested that I might ride over to meet him at the fight, and then continue onwards to stay a few days at one of his houses, which was not far away. Chancing to meet Sir James Wilbrahim, I mentioned said in jest that he should be pleased that I was visiting a place sharing its name with our last Tory prime minister. “But he betrayed us in the end.” was his response. So, on a fine bright morning, I set forth on Alexander for my first experience of prize-fighting.

  

   The fight took place in a ring (for such it was called, though it was square in shape) that was marked out with ropes in a field. A disorderly crowd pressed on this arena, while a group of gentlemen watched from a nearby mound, and it was there that I met Sir Anthony. The two prizefighters, I learned, were Chesney Harris, who came from our county, and Tom Maguire, who was billed as “The Irish Champion”, though I was told he actually hailed from Cronley, a coal-mining town some fifteen miles away. Many of his supporters had walked to Harley Green that morning to cheer for their hero.

  The gladiators stood in opposite corners, conferring with their seconds and occasionally turning to glare fiercely at each other. Both were stripped to the waist. Their faces bore the scars of earlier battles. Both fighters took the same stance: leaning back slightly with the chin tucked in, the left arm extended, the right held back in defence. A young gentleman I did not know, who had been appointed referee, called them to the centre of the ring and the great contest began.

   I was not familiar with the sport, but Sir Anthony, who was viewing the proceedings with much excitement, explained the rules: kicking the opponent was not permitted, neither were punches delivered below the belt; and when a man was down, his seconds had half a minute to get him back on his feet and to the mark. It made me think of what I had been told concerning the Pankration in the ancient Olympic Games, in which anything was permitted with the exception of eye-gouging.

   Maguire was short and stocky, and looked very strong; Harris was taller, with long legs and arms. I was soon able to see how these qualities dictated the different tactics of the two men; for Maguire strove to close in and grapple, whereas Harris sought to keep him at a distance by delivering blows to the head and chest.

  The fight continued for seemed like many hours, and I quickly lost count of the number of rounds as the two men pummelled each other almost to a standstill. Both were bloodied and bruised on the face and chest and neither looked fit to continue: even remaining upright on their feet appeared difficult. Their rival teams of supporters, far from being satiated with so much blood, became more and more animated.

   Then Maguire attempted to seize his opponent’s wrist and draw him in close, but Harris jumped backwards, causing Maguire to lose his balance and stumble so that he had to place his right hand on the ground to support himself. As he went down, Harris felled him with a savage blow to the head. Seconds rushed on with buckets of water, but Maguire was unable to rise beyond a crawl on hands and knees, and the young referee proclaimed Harris the winner.

  The part of the crowd where Maguire’s partisans were congregated erupted in fury, crying foul, since Maguire had already fallen, and demanding that Harris should be disqualified and their man should be awarded the victory. Curses and abuse filled the air, and the Cronley men were shaking their sticks in a most threatening manner.  Regardless of the result, there were many ruffians present who wanted yet more blood. The young referee precipitately fled from the arena and sought refuge with us. Fear was on his face as he gabbled that he had been persuaded to fulfil the position against his better judgement, and that he was resolved never to attend prizefights again. By my side Sir Anthony was obviously worried. He was a magistrate, but what could he do in the face of a hostile mob?

   Suddenly a Herculean figure vaulted the ropes into the ring. The crowd fell silent as he cast off his hat, wig and coat and strode towards the contestants in his shirt. He advanced on Harris, who was shorter by a head and, shouting so that all could hear, challenged him to fight, at any time or place of the latter’s choosing, for a purse of two hundred guineas: more if his opponent’s backers were prepared to put up the money! The crowd forgot for a moment their differences as they watched this new development.

   “Who the devil is that?” Sir Anthony asked.

   “His name is George Davies,” I replied, “I met him in London. He is a friend of Lord Staines”.

   “Well, it is easy to see why Staines should idolise him. Do you think he really would fight Harris?”

   “He might. He is mad enough for anything.”

   “He is a brave fellow in any case,” said Sir Anthony, “and with more intelligence than some might give him credit for. See how he has caused the mob to forget their quarrels and look at him instead!

   “Now it is incumbent on us to support him”, he added. To my astonishment, he bellowed, at the top of his voice, “A hundred guineas on Davies to win!” There were cheers.

   “And a hundred of mine on Harris!” I shouted, taking the hint. Davies turned round and bowed to the crowd.

  Following our lead more bets were shouted from different parts. Gradually the crowd, discussing the prospective combat among themselves, began to disperse, and Sir Anthony thought it was now safe for us to withdraw. We were followed by the other gentlemen, with the young referee relieved to accompany us. We afterwards heard that the Cronley miners ransacked a nearby inn and, very drunk, left a trail of wreckage on their march home.

    The fame of the memorable contest soon spread even to London. Not long after, I heard a hawker of ballads singing of it in the street, and I was curious enough to buy it from her. It began well enough: 

   “Chesney Harris and Tom Maguire

     Both champions they

     Fought till dusk on Harley green

     For a purse of gold one day”

And then proceeded to a description of the contest, which, though dramatic enough, did not appear to have been composed by someone who actually watched it. Further interest was added by telling how that the vicar of the parish, portrayed as a jolly sporting clergyman, had offered the victor the hand in marriage of an orphan girl under his care, together with a dowry; and how Harris took her and then discovered she was the long-lost heiress to a great fortune. I fear, however, that this romantic tale was the purest fiction.

   George Davies’s challenge was not mentioned at all by the balladeer, which led me to conclude that not only had this unnamed hack not been present, but that he had not even spoken to those who were there. Such neglect was only too common among the laureates of St. Giles.

   But did Davies ever fight Harris? If so, I never hear mention of it. I did not see him again for more than a year, by which time more pressing events had intervened.

 

Pagan Philosophy; appropriate to current events

  Over the endless plain of the frontier

The courageous Don Cossacks once rode

Free as birds in the boundless sky

And fish in the mighty rivers

Bowing to no master, but knowing

That to preserve their freedom

They must fight.

 

Silly people in the cities

Talk of dying for a cause

But a serious man knows

That for your cause to triumph

You must kill.

 

 In the end we shall all die

What matters is how we die

And what better way to die

Than in defence of your home

Surrounded by the bodies of your enemies?

 

 

The only immortality that is certain

Is when your children’s children

Tell stories of your valiant deeds.

 

The endless plains of the frontier

Once inspired Tolstoy, and Babel, and Sholokhov

And now they inspire

Vladimir Putin –

A serious man..

The Turnpike: a discarded episode from my historical novel

When it was time for me to leave, Sir Anthony suggested that I travel home by the new turnpike road, and detailed a servant to guide me on my way. Alfred Redman was the youth’s name, and it suited him well, for his hair was indeed of a fiery shade. He rode a pony alongside my horse. We fell into conversation, which quickly showed that he was worldly-wise, never at a loss for words and entirely fearless in his manner. He would never have suited a master who expected silence and deference from servants, but as it was, his chaffing passed the time pleasantly.

  Before long he was able to tell me that we were approaching the start of the new turnpike. But before the tollbooth came into view, there came on the breeze a smell of burning and the noise of shouting and huzzah-ing from many throats. Alf quickly pulled my horse and his pony under the shadow of some trees as a man, covered in dirt and bleeding from a head wound, came running for his life down the road. He dived into the bushes and disappeared from sight, and not a moment too soon, for his pursuers now appeared round the corner. Instead of searching for him, they saw us, and advanced in our direction.   “What’s your name, and what are you doing here?” one of them asked.

      They were the most extraordinary bunch. Though they were obviously men, they were all dressed as women, apart from the boots protruding beneath the long skirts, and many had their faces blackened. They were armed with sticks, though two carried axes and one a blunderbuss of antiquated pattern, and were clearly in no mood to be trifled with. They could see from my clothing and my horse that I was a gentleman and they regarded me with considerable suspicion.

  I was wondering whether to answer them quietly and politely, giving them my name and explaining that I was a stranger in the district and desirous only of returning to my home near Brereton, or whether I should defy them, stress my status as a Member of Parliament and threaten them with the law. I could explain that I was in favour of turnpikes, and had voted for more than one Turnpike Bill during my brief time in the House. The roads north and west from Brereton, towards the Dee and the Mersey, were notoriously bad, and in winter impassable to wheeled vehicles of any kind, and I could argue that trade and commerce could never flourish until this was remedied. However, these men in women’s dress did not look susceptible to reasoned argument of this kind, and some of them fingered their weapons in a threatening manner.

  While I hesitated, young Alf took control of the situation.

   “Let me handle this, sir!” he whispered, and proceeded to embark on a most ridiculous farrago of lies and nonsense, explaining that I was the unfortunate brother of a tenant farmer, who chose to dress like a gentleman (he implied that I might be somewhat feeble-minded), but was quite harmless and hated all turnpikes and enclosures, and that his master had ordered him to show me the way home, fearing that I might get lost, and that if they asked politely I would not fail to pay them. He then whispered to me, “Just keep smiling, sir, and pay them the toll”.

   They held a brief consultation before the one with the blunderbuss, who appeared to be their leader, and a man of some intelligence and education, addressed me with the accompaniment of much ludicrous bowing and deference, which caused laughter from his followers “Then sir, my lord, you may proceed, for we have no quarrel with you. But first, let us show to you our determination to achieve justice for our cause!”

   Round the corner we came to the entry to the turnpike. The gate had been chopped to pieces and was now burning on a bonfire, and beside it the newly-built toll-keeper’s cottage had had all its windows smashed. A painted board, which carried the sums to be paid for using the turnpike, was also burning. I guessed that the man I had seen fleeing away had been the toll-keeper, who could have counted himself fortunate to have escaped with his life.

   “Now you have seen what we have done”, the spokesman told me, speaking in the manner of an inferior actor. “Know that we are Mother Goose’s Maidens, and that we fight for rights and justice for all Englishmen against tyranny. For how can it be just that that we should be charged tolls to travel upon this road, which our forefathers used for uncounted ages? So we have destroyed the tollgate, and the road is again free for all to use. And now, sir, my lord, you may go and tell the world what you have seen: but before you go, you might wish that we should drink your honour’s health?”

   Keeping my face fixed in a grin of idiocy, I gave him a few shillings. They then gave me a cheer, and I was allowed to pass on my way. I reflected that it was fortunate that my name had not been revealed.

   After we had left the turnpike, Redman left me to return to Sir Anthony’s house. But in parting, he informed me that, should I ever be in need of a servant who, he assured me, could turn his hand to any task with the utmost efficiency, then he, should he happen to be freed from the household of Sir Anthony Pardington, would be happy to place himself at my service.

   The rest of my journey home continued without incident. I would continue to support the building of more turnpikes, but reflected that I had not fully considered their effect on the local people.