The Dolocher Read online

  Chapter 4

  There must have been at least two hundred people at Gallows Green, the scaffold where Thomas Olocher was to be hanged, the following morning. This scaffold had been arranged solely for his execution, and there was none other scheduled for the drop that morning, which was an unusual practice. The weather was fine, though chilly, with a strong, low sun that blinded those who caught its glare or any reflection off metal or glass. It had been raining overnight again, and the wet and filth-covered cobbles threw the glare further still, like an expanding, golden river in the street.

  As is always the way, there was much hubbub in the crowd, as people chattered about the crimes of Olocher and his trial. Though it was a nervous excitement that thrilled through each private individual. The lust for death by justice loses a lot of its sheen and romanticism when faced with the actual hanging itself—the rickety scaffold, the thick rope, the hooded killer and the priest, those who must oversee the hanging. It was truly, morbidly sickening, but even those who were veterans of this queasiness could not bring themselves to stay away from such a momentous meting out of justice as that for Thomas Olocher.

  It was only ten in the morning, but there was a whisky-cabin atmosphere spreading throughout the crowd, a kind of drunkenness that fed on the fears and trepidations of the people gathered there. The noise of voices continued to rise and rise and was punctured here and there by the cacophony of street sellers trying to hawk anything imaginable and the shouts of those who shooed away the beggars or pickpockets who were always present for large gatherings.

  As the time for the spectacle grew closer, the crowd grew larger, and at the appointed hour, there were close to five hundred packed into the streets surrounding the gallows. Mullins had arrived late and made his way through the crowds until he found some faces that he knew, Cleaves among them. They nodded to him but continued with their conversation. Mullins looked around at the crowd until he heard something that piqued his interest.

  “What’s this about pigs?” he asked the men.

  “There were hundreds of pigs screaming and stomping the gates of the prison last night!” one of them said.

  “It wasn’t hundreds!” Cleaves contradicted him.

  “I heard something unnatural last night, alright,” Mullins said, “but I had no clue what it was.”

  “Well, now you know. But it’s still a mystery as to what they were up to,” Cleaves said.

  “Maybe the Pinking Dindies sent them to try to break old Olocher out,” Mullins joked, and the men all laughed.

  “Jokes aside, though, there are still rumours that they may try to spring him from here today,” Cleaves said.

  “I see a few men over by the weavers there that fit the bill perfectly,” Mullins said, and they all looked over to where he nodded.

  There were ten men who conversed in a close circle, all very well dressed and carrying swords as part of their attire. They were all very well groomed as well and were taller than average, and though not fat in the slightest, they had the healthy bulk of the well-fed upper classes. It was, of course, possible that they were some of the gang known as the Pinking Dindies, but few amongst the lower classes knew any of these people by name. It was said that they were a law unto themselves and did what they liked when they liked. Mullins tried to see the ends of their scabbards—it was said that they would cut an inch or so from their scabbards and use the bare ends of the blades to stab and poke people with while they extricated their belongings—but they were concealed within cloaks and greatcoats. It was said they worked in groups of four to six, and they were never caught in the act or brought to justice later on. The worst of it in most people’s eyes was that they were all educated and well-to-do men who had no need to be stealing.

  “They may be Dindies,” Mullins said finally, “but their faces have been seen by all and sundry here now, so I doubt if there is anything to go down that they will play any part of it.”

  “So we have to wait for some masked warriors before we can get excited,” Cleaves said.

  “Who knows, maybe the Liberty Boys or the Ormonde Boys will save him to use in their next street fight,” Mullins joked again. As he said this, he became aware of a solitary soldier making his way through the crowd. As his eyes followed this man, others joined him so that the majority of the crowd was watching the man by the time he got to the scaffold and handed an official some paper.

  The face of the official—no one actually seemed to know who he was—had up to now been beaming with what many took for pride at the fact that he was in charge of such a momentous execution; it dropped and grew sullen as he read the paper. He looked at the soldier but said nothing; it was a look that asked if what was written were really the case. The soldier, understanding this, nodded that it was. The official turned and said something to the hangman and the priest, who seemed surprised by what he said. The priest shook his head and blessed himself, and the hangman just stood there as though he were contemplating what to do next. The official nodded to the men who had erected the scaffold, and they began to gather around it in the unmistakable fashion of preparing for it to be disassembled.

  A loud level of conversation then emerged from the back of the crowd, and those closer to the front wondered if this was the entry of the condemned. Everyone seemed confused as to what was happening. And then the word went up—“Reprieved!”—and it spread from mouth to mouth in surprise, anger, shock, confusion, fear, and disappointment.

  Almost as soon as this was uttered, the crowd began to move as one. They passed the burial ground at Merrion Row, the north side of the green off Beaux’s Walk, and then through Reparee Fields before coming through Hell and finally to Cornmarket and the gates of the Black Dog. When they got there, though it was only a ten-minute walk, their anger at his release was at boiling point, and almost everyone among them was willing to do mortal harm to Olocher should he cross their path.

  There was a military cordon set up around the gates, and the crowd was forced to stop a distance away, but not so far that they could not see the gates.

  “Where is he?” people cried out. “If you can’t supply justice, give him to us, and we’ll supply it ourselves!”

  “Where is that monster?”

  “Let us at him!” and suddenly there was a wave of silence that went from front to back of the crowd.

  “What’s happenin’?” Cleaves asked the taller Mullins from where they stood, about thirty men deep. Mullins could see no reason for the silence, and he looked at the gates of the prison for a few moments before he noticed that there were some soldiers loading something onto a cart just outside.

  “He got a blade in somehow and killed himself last night,” one of the soldiers said to clarify that this was indeed the dead body of Thomas Olocher that was being carried away from the prison.

  “He’s dead!” went up a cry. “Done himself in!” said another, and once again the news rippled back through the crowd, and once again the emotions and confusions came sprawling forward.

  “Can’t you fuckers even babysit for one night without messing it up!” someone called out at the soldiers.

  “Less of that talk,” the soldier said back. The crowd was showing signs of becoming restless, and the soldiers knew it; they had seen it many times before.

  The cart began to move off, and the crowd surged forward after it.

  “Where are they taking him?” they demanded. The soldiers pushed back, and the prison guards were called into duty to help them. An officer at the gates shouted into the crowd in a loud, authoritative voice:

  “You are required to disperse at once lest I have to call for troops to disperse you!” But the anger was too much instilled in the blood of the people now, and they surged forward and broke through the ranks of the soldiers, the prison guards having given up and stepped out of the way almost immediately. Brick, who had been at the gates while Olocher was being taken out, ran back inside and had the gates shut quickly.

  The officer called ou
t for help, but he was quickly silenced with the weight of blows against him, and his soldiers too were quickly overrun. The cart had tried to pick up speed when the driver saw what was happening behind him, but the slick conditions of the road gave the wheels no traction, and he was quickly engulfed by the crowd and pulled from his cart, which was then overturned. Olocher’s body, wrapped in a white sheet, spilled into the sewer runs at the kerbside.

  “Best place for him,” someone cried, and a mighty cheer went up.

  The body was pulled up by four men, who disappeared down an alleyway as the new soldiers arrived and began to fire into the crowds. People scattered in every direction, and there were wails of pain as people fell to the ground and were trampled by others escaping the hot flashes of the muskets. Cleaves grabbed Mullins and ran towards the river, his intention to get to the other side and lie low over there for a time.

  They were not far from Cornmarket when it was clear that the soldiers were not in pursuit, at least not in the direction they were running. They had probably just wanted to regain control of the area outside of the prison gates. Cleaves noticed this, and he grabbed onto Mullins’s arm.

  “Stop, stop, they’re not coming this way.”

  Mullins stopped and looked behind.

  “No point going over to the northside when we can just go home and lie low there,” Cleaves said.

  They were in Swan Alley now, so they continued on to Merchant’s Quay and followed the Liffey west to Usher’s Quay before turning up Dog and Duck Yard, where Mullins lived. They stopped at his door and looked around. There were people scuttling about everywhere and back into their own homes, but there was no sign of the soldiers anywhere.

  “You should come in and stay the night,” Mullins said to Cleaves.

  “Sure, I’m only a few streets away,” Cleaves said. “I’ll be fine.” He was making to move away when Mullins grabbed his arm.

  “Seriously, Cleaves, you should come in. Those English bastards will be looking for blood tonight.” Cleaves didn’t say anything; he looked like he was mulling it over. “You have to go right through them to get home,” Mullins said to sway him some more. Cleaves nodded at this but still looked like he was weighing up his chances of getting home unharmed. “Come on, I have a coddle on and enough whisky to see us through the night.” This was the final sway needed, and they both entered through the doorway.