Memoirs of the Sheepscombe Gibbet

A Story by Ron

Story taken from a real local fable about the Parish Gallows, from the perspective of the gibbet itself.

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I did hope that after my hundred years of oak tree growth I would be felled and see service in the Royal Navy! Now that's respect for you! Certainly! Big Samuel next to me 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 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 Stephen Custance of Sheepscome didn't come to me with his carter and 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. You didn't know that?"

Anyway, Sheepscombe is near Stroud in England. Yes that's me,English oak! Sheepscombe parish would be my Parish. I would be the Sheepscome Gibbet! Yet, you know dear reader, gibbets are put right on the parish boundary. Spot on it! Why? So the souls of the dead felons do not fall in the jurisdiction of any parish church. No Sir! The souls of the condemned must never see St. Peter unlock the gates of heaven, Indeed, just to be sure, they are even buried in unconsecrated ground at the border.

It was old Alfie Sawyer a Sheepscombe carpenter who made me fit to fight:- cut me to size, jointed me and smoothed me. Wonderful craftsman he was too. Well, you could not get a blade of grass between my upright and cross member. I felt strong, fifteen feet tall, straight as a die, ready for work.

Have I mentioned respect? The villagers walked two milesto view me as soon as 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. 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, lessons to travellers and the superstitious parishioners.

Lord Custance and the Rector Woodford demanded judicial alacrity. The nearest prison was in Gloucester, too far to be of use. So once a felon was apprended for serious crime he would be tried the same day at The Woolpack Public House and perhaps sentenced to hang. At between 5 and 6pm he'd reach the gibbet. Hooded, tied, given gin or beer to ease his fear before being extended to me. There he would hang alone till dawn. The hangman would return and take the corpse to the parish end pits get paid one shilling for a burial. Now, that's good money considering he got paid five shillings for the hanging! Yes, humane!

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 be forced to publically repent in church. Steal some thing valuable, worse from the Lord, 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 goodness. 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 widower. The farmers loved the man ; honest and hard working as he was. He'd one lad who worked in Sheepscome. 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, 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 and it would take less than three minutes to complete and send the convicts to their ends.

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 passed overhead and chilly mists swirled about. I can tell you it became as black as pitch. Laterly I heard the cart grinding up the road. Odd sparks cast from the horse's hoofs showed the unfortunate's progress close and there. The horseman was Archie Potts and he called "Whoa" right under my cross member, inch perfect. Good driver was Archie! 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 in the nick of time Aaraon's hands appeared holding rope. Aaron was puffing he must have ran up from his cottage. He soon despatched the lad. In minutes the cart had slid off and Aaron's forge puffed away again.

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

His head jerked up skywards, and brayed in dread. He held his own son. The blacksmith, sobbing steam, hugged the corpse to his heart. He swayed onwards towards the cottage front. Pausing lifted the body to the heavens and bellowed, staglike, held in a snare.

The same day the Magistate attended to pay Aaron his sorrowfully earned dues. Aaron swung gently by his neck from rustic ceiling joists. In the garden was an open grave resting in it lay his son. Nearby an iron, blacksmithed cross, intended headstone. They covered them together in the earth. No one used the Smithy's house again.

The dampness did get my oaken base after fifty years of being an active killing tree. I was taken down and retired as a beam over a gentleman's fire place. Daughters play music and the family shares their lives with me. Why ,horse brasses adorn me. They found these at the abandoned Smithy's a mile away. I could tell them a tale or two!