Authors: Emma Donoghue
A lanky boy climbed onto the cart for a moment. Mary stared back at him, waiting for the insult. But he blew a loud kiss, and thrust a paper into her lap. Before the breeze could lift it, she gripped it in her bound hands. The inky words were still wet.
The Confession and last Dying-Words of Mary Saunders.
Confusion seized her. Who was this guilty namesake? Then she understood, and almost laughed out loud. It was her, a heroine in print. This was her free copy. Some scribbling hack had made it all up, every word of it.
Mary's father, it seemed from the
Confession and last Dying-Words,
was a Herefordshire labourer who'd earned his living by the sweat of his brow, until he died of grief upon hearing of her arrest. She also had a sister near Bristol to whom she'd recently written,
Alas! honest Poverty is better than Riches iniquitously obtained. I now bid you adieu for ever in this world
! The fictional Mary Saunders rode in true sorrow to answer for her sins before God wearing a light camlet gown, a silk handkerchief, and a black bonnet.
Mary shut her eyes for a moment and saw this other self, pristine and penitent, riding into the noonday sun. What was it she'd told Daffy, that day on the Kymin?
Books are full of lies.
The paper shook in the breeze. Mary looked about her on the cart for somewhere to put it, and only then remembered that she wouldn't have a chance to read itâor indeed anythingâagain. She opened her hands and let it flutter away. It brushed the red cheek of a small boy sitting on his father's hip, and then it was lost to view.
What did it matter what was written or not written on some smeared broadsheet, she told herself, when soon enough everyone would forget the details? Strangers might remember a trip to Monmouth to see a girl hang, but who would spare a thought, in time
to come, for the whos and hows and whys? Children might remember the taste of the oranges, and the greedy breathings in and out of the crowd, but nothing else. Not her name.
The thought made Mary bite her lip with distress. Namelessness. Oblivion. Unless her obscure and brutal story survived in some form, what proof was there that she had ever lived at all?
Mr. Jones was standing not three lengths from her, like a spider glued to his web. She flinched. His hands held tight to his crutches. There was a stain on his black coat: egg, or broth?
Vinegar might shift it, Mary, or a rub of salt.
Her mistress's voice. Mary's pulse was suspended for a second.
The master's eyes rested not on her but on the cart. He didn't shout out, this time. It was as if he couldn't see her, wouldn't see her, until he saw her dead.
He had hoisted his daughter onto his shoulders for a better view, Mary saw. This was one lesson the child wouldn't be taught in school. Mary looked away, for fear of meeting Hetta's eyes.
Do you really have no mother?
the child had asked her, in her first week in the house on Inch Lane, her pupils full of astonished sympathy.
Afterwards, Mary supposed, the father and daughter would walk home hand in hand, and Mr. Jones would never let the name of Mary Saunders be said in his house again. From now on, thought Mary, the child would assume this was the way of the world. She'd always expect the people she loved to kill each other.
It was Hetta's eyes, more than anything else, that made the salt tears start to fall. They rushed down Mary's face, blinding her.
The crowd swayed round Mr. Jones like waves against a rock; the people of Monmouth were tired of waiting for the spectacle to begin. Mary stared blurrily down at her filthy shift. Would they burn it too, she wondered, or sell it scrap by scrap for souvenirs? She knew it was a petty matter, but she would have given anything to be hanged in black satin. How vanity endured to the end! Clothes being no protection, she told herself, folks might as well cast them off and go naked across the world.
Terror squeezed her like a rag.
Halfway down her stays, Mary's bound hands found the ribbon. Faded to the colour of beetroot, Doll's red ribbon. She wound it round her numb fingers, tight enough to hurt. Nothing could have scared Doll, not even a gallows.
Chin high, me old muck-mate.
All at once she remembered the way out. If you were about to hang and you had no friend in the world to haul on your feet, then there was only one way to escape a slow strangulation:
jump.
She remembered the Metyard woman at Tyburn, who'd cheated the crowd; that stony face, that leap into space. How innocent Mary had been in those days; she'd thought the people who committed murder were a different species. She'd assumed that they hated the people they killed, if they were capable of emotion at all. She would never have guessed that such things could happen as easily as sickness, or weather, or love.
Her thighs tensed like branches in a high wind now. She had to bide her time; she mustn't show her intentions. She had to wait till she knew the end of the rope was knotted to the scaffold. Till the hangman pulled the white bag over her face, and climbed down from the cart, and slapped the horse's rump. That would be her cue to jump. If she tried too early, she'd make a mess of it, and they'd haul her back into the cart.
Mary's heart was smashing against her ribs with fear and excitement. She felt the rope around her neck begin to move; her head whipped round, but the hangman was only unwinding the coils, heaving the end over the scaffold, like any sailor about to make for open sea. He pulled the knot tight around the wood. A scattering of applause.
He came up to the cart, then, the little white bag in his hand. He swung himself up like a child playing on a fence. 'Forgive me,' he muttered formally to Mary.
Her last chance for a touch of human skin. She obeyed her impulse and kissed the man on one bristly cheek, below the mask. His skin was warm. He jerked a little, but didn't shudder or wipe it off. He lifted the white bag, and dropped it over her head.
The light was blotted out. The cart shook as he jumped down.
Sackcloth, coarse against Mary's nose; her temples itched. She'd never thought to take a last look at the world. She should have stared up at the sky while it was still there. A little light filtered through the floury cloth. Mary gathered all her forces and waited to hear the hangman slap the horse's rump. What if the noise of the crowd drowned the little sound out? What if the next thing she knew was the slow mauling of the rope, lugging her by the throat into the air? Terror, now, knocking on her ribs like a debt collector who wouldn't wait any longer.
In times of trouble remember your namesake, Mary.
That voice in her head, mild as milk. The girl could almost believe it was Mrs. Jones. She could almost feel her mistress's soft hand in hers.
Let the Queen of Scots be a lesson to you to keep your head high.
She would. She'd jump higher than the spire of St. Mary's Church.
Come along now, girl.
The townsfolk would cover their faces and gasp, to see her swing like a dark angel.
It's time, my dear.
Soon she would be rid of the whole business; soon she'd have left this messy and cumbersome self behind.
Mary. This way.
The hangman's whistle, almost merry. The cry of a child, tugged out of the way.
Mary?
That sound of the hangman's hand on his horse's rump, so intimate, so familiar.
Coming, mistress,
she said in her head.
Mary staggered to her feet on the jolting cart as the noose tightened its kiss on her neck. She leaped into space, high, higher than she'd ever been in her life. She came down with a clean snap, and the crowd scattered like birds from the swing of her feet.
S
LAMMERKIN
IS
a fiction, inspired by the surviving facts of the real Mary Saunders's life, which are disputed and few. She was a servant in the employment of one Mrs. Jones inâor just outsideâthe town of Monmouth, which at the time was in England but now is in Wales. On 13 September 1763 she killed Mrs. Jones with a cleaver. She was held in Monmouth Gaol until the Assizes on 7 March 1764, when she was convicted of murder. On 21 March 1764, at the age of sixteen or seventeen, she was either hanged, or burned, or both.
Some other real people make brief appearances in this novel: Mrs. Farrel, who squeezed a fortune out of her twenty lodging houses in St. Giles; the Metyards, a mother and daughter who killed their apprentice Nanny Nailor and were executed by Thomas Turlis on 19 July 1762; James Boswell and Samuel Johnson; the prostitutes Alice Gibbs, Elizabeth Parker, and Ann Pullen (alias Rawlinson) who was charged with stealing her mistress's clothes in January 1763; at the Magdalen Hospital, Matron Elizabeth Butler, and the Reverend William Dodds, who went on to be hanged in 1777 for forging Lord Chesterfield's name.
Doll Higgins is an invention, but several women were found starved and frozen to death in London in the terrible winter of 1762-63. The character of Abi is inspired by the case of an anonymous woman who was enslaved in Angola and brought to Barbados, then Bristol, and whose genitals were displayed in a fold-out engraving in a book published by Dr. James Parsons.
What little contemporary commentary there was about the murder of Mrs. Jones suggested various motives.
The Gentleman's Magazine
claimed that Mary Saunders had planned the crime carefully in order to get hold of her mistress's savings. But, according to a broadsheet,
The Confession and last Dying-Words of Mary Saunders,
the girl did it because she longed for 'fine clothes.'