Hangman: The True Story of Canada's First Official Executioner

By Julie Burtinshaw

Is delivering a swift death really a higher calling? Or is it just government-sanctioned murder?

John Radclive hates being called Hangman. He is no murderous thug; he is a highly trained executioner who relies on science to bring God’s mercy to condemned criminals. As Canada's first official executioner, he revels in the salary, status and perks that come with the job. In his off hours, he enjoys masquerading as Thomas Ratley, steward at Toronto's prestigious Sunnyside Rowing Club where he secretly sneers at the hypocrisy of the Canadian elite. But dispensing mercy presumes that the condemned are guilty. The more convicted felons he meets, the more Radclive begins to question the Canadian justice system and his role within it—perhaps he is a hangman after all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tidewater Press
• Release date: Sep 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781990160158

Book preview

Cover: Hangman - the true story of Canada's first official executioner, by Julie Burtinshaw. The bold word 'Hangman' is placed vertically, with a noose hanging from the letter G; the background is an old newspaper article about John Radclive.

Contents

Author’s Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Acknowledgments

About the Author

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Landmarks

Cover

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Author's Note

Start of Content

Acknowledgments

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Hangman

The true story of Canada’s first official executioner

Julie Burtinshaw

logo: Tidewater Press

TIDEWATER

PRESS

Copyright © 2022 Julie Burtinshaw

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, audio recording, or otherwise— without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by Tidewater Press

New Westminster, BC, Canada

tidewaterpress.ca

978-1-990160-14-1 (print)

978-1-990160-15-8 (e-book)

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: Hangman : the true story of Canada’s first official executioner / Julie Burtinshaw.

Names: Burtinshaw, Julie, author.

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20220407460 | Canadiana (ebook) 20220407541 | ISBN 9781990160141

(softcover) | ISBN 9781990160158 (HTML)

Subjects: LCSH: Radclive, John. | LCSH: Executions and executioners—Canada—Biography. | LCSH:

Executions and executioners—Canada—History. | LCGFT: Biographies.

Classification: LCC HV8699.C2 B87 2022 | DDC 364.66092—dc23

We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts

Canada Council for the Arts logo

This book is for my writer’s group. The people I write with, talk with, share with, laugh with, and cry with.

We don’t live in the world. We live in the stories we tell about the world.

Author’s Note

This is a true story. All of the names, dates, places and events are as accurate as I can make them, based on primary sources that include newspapers, census records, city directories, government records and books in print at the time. Where the historical record is absent or contradictory, I have used the interpretation that seemed to me most likely. Accounts of public events, including hangings, meetings and speeches, are drawn from contemporaneous newspaper accounts. These have been left as they appear in the original, without reference to modern spelling or usage.

I have tried to represent the views of the times as accurately as possible. As is the case with most historical writing, this has occasionally forced me to use terminology I find offensive. I apologize to anyone who is disturbed by this language but believe that not acknowledging that such attitudes were prevalent is the greater harm.

Chapter One

1881

On a grey, wet day in early July 1881, John Radcliff stood in the arched doorway of the Crown and Column, a solid three-story building that was the favoured watering hole for Devonport’s dock workers and stonemasons. He paused while his eyesight adjusted to the dim light before stepping inside and slipping off his rain-soaked jacket. With luck, it would dry while he ate and enjoyed a pint or two.

Come on in, John. There’s a table close to the fireplace with your name on it. Sit down.

John nodded gratefully toward Bill Radmore, the pub’s landlord. You’ll join me for a drink?

Radmore swept the room with his eyes before pulling two pints and stepping out from behind the long wooden bar. Aye, he said. He stooped to avoid bumping his head on one of the beams in the low, dark-timbered ceiling. Bill was a giant of a man, as strong and as agile as any of the longshoremen John worked with on the Devonport waterfront and just as tough. He wasn’t afraid of much, except for his wife, Marie, a pixyish woman whose daintiness belied her ability to sling beer, replace casks and discipline even the most obstreperous patron.

May you be in heaven a half an hour before the devil knows you are dead, Bill said as he squeezed himself into a worn seat opposite John. Since moving to the parish of Stoke Damerel in Devonport in January, John had heard most of the Irish toasts the landlord favoured but not this one. He smiled.

I’ll bet this weather makes you miss your navy days, sailing in the tropics. Bill, born and raised in Devonport, always enjoyed hearing about John’s life at sea. I’d have liked to travel the world a bit, before settling in with a wife, a family and a business.

John didn’t know how to talk about his seafaring days. He’d only joined the Royal Navy to escape the factories of Manchester and preferred not to dwell on those years. Being in the tropics doesn’t protect you from rain, he said as he sipped his beer. He told Bill about the time his ship encountered a typhoon off the coast of Japan, a safe enough topic. We were supposed to protect our trading ships from our enemies and we ended up colliding with one of our own Merchant Navy.

Bill chuckled appreciatively. Was that the same ship that was grounded in the Suez Canal?

John nodded. "Twice. HMS Audacious, one of the flagships of the China Station. That old girl had little luck."

Still, you must have been ready for some adventure after, what was it? Two years of training?

"Yes. Just sailing up and down the Hamoaze on the Implacable." John sipped his ale.

As a young lad, I dreamed of being a naval officer, battling pirates on the high seas. Bill’s eyes took on a dreamy look. It’s the ladies who took my fancy. That Ching Shih. A beauty, I hear—slender, with long, silky hair. She had eighty thousand pirates under her command when she was still in her twenties. I’d have surrendered myself to her and volunteered to become her slave. And what about Anne Bonny? Is there anything more enticing than a cutthroat lady pirate with flaming red hair? Her and the lovely Mary Read, the pair of them the scourges of the Caribbean. Bill leaned across the table and lowered his voice. You’ll never guess what happened to them in the end.

John humoured him. Why don’t you tell me, then?

Captured. But smart enough to avoid hanging. Bill chuckled. Both claimed to be with child.

Ah, so what befell them in the end?

Even the cruelest of men doesn’t have the heart to string up a pregnant lass. Both escaped execution. We know Mary Read died of fever, but Anne Bonny’s fate remains a mystery.

John rested his chin in the palm of his hand, rubbing the side of his nose, thoughtfully.

By the time I joined, there weren’t so many pirates. We encountered some, though none were beautiful, savage and buxom. John was anxious to change the subject. Myself, I wanted to be a man of the cloth. You can wipe that expression off your face. I won’t have you laughing at me.

Bill guffawed. You, a vicar!

I saw the life they lived, and I thought it a good one. The parish ran our factory school, and the clergymen were respected by all. They taught us to read and write and to know the difference between good and evil. It seemed a good way to make a living. Better than the foundry. John sipped his beer. Yes, I had—have—ambitions, but my mam told me priests don’t come from our class of people. A couple of years working in the foundry made the navy seem the best way to avoid the life my father led, so as soon as I turned fifteen, I signed on for a ten-year stint. My mother cried her eyes out.

Bill quaffed the last of his beer and glanced at the bar. Customers. He wiped his lips with his sleeve and stood. You’ll be wanting your dinner soon?

No rush. They both knew he had nothing to go home to. He’d fallen into a pattern of working long hours and eating at the Crown before dropping into bed exhausted every night. When Sarah arrived, this would change, and none too soon.

Ten minutes later, Bill circled back to John’s table, expertly balancing an overladen tray in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He dropped the paper on the table. "Yesterday’s Daily Telegraph for you, my friend," he said.

Thank you, John said. You know what I always say. A literate man . . .

 . . . is a successful man, Bill finished for him. Yes, I know. He took the tray to another table across the room.

John lost himself in a complicated news story about a con artist, who tried to convince police he’d been the victim of a brutal attack and robbery while on his way from London to Brighton. When he stumbled off the train bloody and bruised, the station master noticed a gold watch chain peeping out of the injured man’s shoe and became immediately suspicious. Percy Lefroy Mapleton’s first-class compartment showed signs of a violent assault, but a second man was no where to be found. The police suspected something fishy, but with no hard evidence they had to let him go, sending him back to London, where he disembarked, quickly disappearing into the crowd. In the meantime, a search of the train tracks led to the discovery of the body of a well-dressed elderly man identified as Issac Gold. He’d been stabbed and thrown off the train, minus his money and his gold watch and chain. The manhunt for the killer began.

An almost perfect crime, John thought, fascinated by the detailed sketch of the wanted man, the first he’d ever seen in a newspaper. Beneath it was a precise description:

Age 22, middle height, very thin, sickly appearance, scratches on throat, wounds on head, probably clean shaved, low felt hat, black coat, teeth much discoloured . . . He is very round shouldered, and his thin overcoat hangs in awkward folds about his spare figure. His forehead and chin are both receding. He has a slight moustache, and very small dark whiskers. His jawbones are prominent, his cheeks sunken and sallow, and his teeth fully exposed when laughing. His upper lip is thin and drawn inwards. His eyes are grey and large. His gait is singular; he is inclined to slouch and when not carrying a bag, his left hand is usually in his pocket. He generally carries a crutch stick.

Marie’s commanding voice interrupted John’s reading. He closed the paper and turned to greet her with a smile.

Always reading, but spare me a minute for a chat. When does your family arrive? she said, as she placed a plate, laden with potatoes and mutton, swimming in gravy, down in front of him.

Soon enough. You’ll get to meet her and Little Sarah, too.

I look forward to it, although not perhaps as much as you.

John nodded, his cheeks reddening., Even after two years of marriage, Sarah filled most of his waking thoughts. It had been a wrench to leave her and their daughter in Wales with Sarah’s parents. But now that he’d been officially discharged and had a home and a job, they’d be joining him on the South Coast. He missed them both, more than he was willing to admit.

I’m sure you two will get on. She grew up around the docks, just like you. When her father introduced us, she was only sixteen, but she had the confidence of ten longshoremen. And beautiful to boot. I could hardly stutter out a how-do-you-do.

Well, you seem to have got over that, Marie observed.

You’re right. I married her as soon as I realized she’d have me. And Little Sarah is as beautiful as her mother, the same grey-green eyes and curly black hair. John looked at Marie, who was smiling down at him, her arms crossed over her chest. Sorry. I can get a little carried away when I talk about my girls. And, to be honest, a little nervous, too.

Marie looked at him sympathetically. You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m sure they miss you as much as you miss them.

It’s not that, John admitted. My Sarah is a wonder but she can be . . . I’m not sure what word I’m looking for. She aspires for better things. I intend to make a good life for my family and I don’t want to let her down.

Well, my experience is that it’s a struggle to move beyond your station and even more of a struggle to stay there should you arrive. Marie stared at him, her blue eyes piercing. An ambitious wife does not always a happy family make. She uncrossed her arms, and her parting words to John were, Take my advice and be happy for what you have, not what you want.

---

John had been wrong to worry about Sarah. She approved of the home he’d found on James Street. After being crammed into the house in Pembroke Dock with her parents and siblings, it was a luxury to have a small home of their own. She cooed over their baby but did not spoil her, and John admired her sensibilities. At night, when she bathed Little Sarah and prepared her for bed, John liked nothing better than to relax in his chair with his eyes closed and listen to her singing Welsh lullabies to their daughter, grateful for the refit of the Audacious that had brought him to the naval yard at Pembroke.

In moments like these, he wondered if his parents had ever loved each other as he and Sarah did. John, his namesake, was a gruff man, who smelled of molten metal and smoke from the iron foundry. His mother, Elizabeth, four years her husband’s senior, suffered the aches and pains of a woman who had spent most of her life bent over a sewing machine, along with all the sorrow of a mother who had lost a child. Thomas had been three when he went to heaven. John, a newborn in 1856, had no memory of his older brother and had spent his youth trying to ease his mother’s sadness, making up for the fact his father either wouldn’t or couldn’t.

I won’t be like them, he’d promised Sarah on the night of their wedding.

She’d touched his cheek gently. I hope not, she’d said shyly. Because I want to have lots of children and a lovely house with fresh flowers and pretty crystal glasses to drink out of.

And you’ll have no need to take in washing ever again, John added, then paused. I hope I can give you what you want.

Sarah laughed, and it sounded like raindrops on a calm sea. You will, she said. All that I want and more. Our children will be clever, and we will move in the best society and you will smoke a cob pipe and read the paper by the fire with a tumbler of whisky and the dog at your feet.

This kind of talk made John anxious. He wanted the same things she did but didn’t know how to achieve them. Ten years in the navy hadn’t qualified him for much beyond loading and unloading ships.

---

As he’d promised, with his wife and baby settled comfortably in Devonport, John spent less time at the Crown, though he continued to drop into the pub after work for a chat, a beer and a chance to read the newspapers. On a wintry night at the end of November, he settled into his usual spot to find the papers full of the hanging of Percy Lefroy Mapleton.

Just as the clock was striking half-past eight this morning the little wicket gate of the lodge of Lewes gaol was opened by a warden for the purpose of admitting some dozen and a half gentlemen, who till then had lingered in the garden which belongs to the prison.

. . . we came to the yard—the one for which we were particularly bound—a large irregular space, bounded on one side by the prison, and on three others by high walls, and containing at one end a row of celery trenches carefully banked up. At the end . . . were two objects which forced themselves upon the view. In the right-hand corner, as we looked upon them, rose a couple of thick black posts, with a huge cross piece, from which dangled a staple and a long, thick rope; in the other, about 10 yards distance, an open grave.

John continued reading with some reluctance. He had more than a passing familiarity with hanging, although not on land. After studying the next paragraphs closely, he turned to Bill.

Can I borrow this so I can read the story to Sarah?

Bill easily agreed. Just don’t tell Marie. She doesn’t like it when patrons take the paper home with them.

John waited until Little Sarah was tucked in, before telling Sarah he had something he wished to read to her.

Does it have to do with the Lefroy execution?

It does indeed, he said. Listen to this. He cleared his throat, shook out the newspaper and read.

As we filed into the yard, I noticed we were being one by one saluted by a somewhat diminutive man clothed in brown cloth, and bearing in his arms a quantity of leather straps. There was nothing apparently in common between the grave and the gallows and the man, and for the moment I imagined that the individual who raised his hat and greeted each arrival with a good morning, gentlemen, was a groom who had chanced to pass through the place, bearing a horse’s bridle and headgear, and who was anxious to be civil. But to my horror, the man in the brown coat proved to be no stranger wandering about in the manner I had pictured, but the designer of the horrible structure on the right, and the official most closely connected with that and the open grave. William Marwood it was who thus bade us welcome, and the straps on his arms were nothing less than his tackle.

I find it surprising, said John, looking up, that he makes no effort to disguise his identity. He carries no shame in his work. He returned his attention to the newspaper.

I confess to a shudder as I looked upon the girdle and arm pieces that had done duty on so many a struggling wretch, and half expected that the man who carried them would have attempted to hide them. But no such thing! To him they were implements of high merit, and together with the gallows formed what he now confidentially informed his hearers was an excellent arrangement. It was evident he held more than a little pride for both the gallows and the tackle. He was even ready to explain with much volubility the awful instruments of his craft.

That rope that you see there, quoth he, as he gazed admiringly at the crossbar of black wood, is two and a half inches round. I’ve hung nine with it, and it’s the same I used yesterday. Nor does he manifest the quaver of a muscle as he went on to point to certain peculiarities of design in his machinery of death. Had he been exhibiting a cooking apparatus, a patent incubator, or a corn mill, he could not have been more complacent or more calm. It’s the running noose, you see, said he, with a thimble that fits under the chin.

My goodness, Sarah interjected, I think him more a gentleman–scientist than a hangman by this description.

Exactly my thoughts. He proceeded to read a detailed description of the gallows that continued for so long it left Sarah yawning.

I should have skipped that bit, he said, but listen closely now. This part is interesting. He cleared his throat and continued.

To Marwood, the whole thing evidently seemed a triumph of art; and as he moved hither and thither, explaining the superiorities of his design, he evidently expected that his handiwork would meet approval.

Either the reporter has taken great liberties with his depiction of the hangman, or this Marwood is a power unto himself, Sarah laughed. Did he really say ‘a triumph of art’?

I think Marwood must be quite an exceptional gentleman, John said. Listen to the reporter’s description of the hanging.

At last, however, all was ready, and Marwood, grasping the hand of his victim, stepped back; there was another awkward pause, apparently for the purpose of allowing the clergyman to finish the sacred invocation in which he was engaged; and then, the lever being pulled back, the trap doors opened, and Lefroy falls with a terrible thud into the cavern below. Down 10ft, as was presently shown by the measurement of a tape line, he had dropped, the whole weight of his body falling upon the neck, which, receiving such a strain, was instantly broken so completely that the body never gave so much as one convulsive shudder, but, turning half round, hung swaying in the cold morning air, enveloped by a haze of steam rising from the corpse, and showing, by the visible disconnection of the vertebrae and by the open hands, how sudden death had been.

Marwood can only be proud of his compassion under such circumstances, John observed. And apparently others are of the same opinion.

The preliminaries to the hideous spectacle had been painful in the extreme, to spectators and sufferer alike. But I think the actual death was as merciful as it could well be, if the agony of the two or three minutes from the leaving of the condemned cell to the fall of the scaffold be