Scoundrel’s Alley Presents: The Scholarly Scoundrel on A Continuing Series of Thoughts Pertinent to Historical Scoundrels Everywhere.

N.B. This article was written as a story. While the happenings described here are not a true account of any known event, it is based upon the Bellman of St. Sepulchre and his duty to the condemned prisoners of Newgate Prison through the 17th and 18th Century. -E.P.S.

Two Sticks and Apple,
Ring ye Bells at Whitechapple,
Old Father Bald Pate,
Ring ye Bells Aldgate,
Maids in White Aprons,
Ring ye Bells a St. Catherines,
Oranges and Lemons,
Ring ye bells at St. Clements,
When will you pay me,
Ring ye Bells at ye Old Bailey,
When I am Rich,
Ring ye Bells at Fleetditch,
When will that be,
Ring ye Bells at Stepney,
When I am Old,
Ring ye Bells at Pauls.
-Oranges and Lemons c. 1744

He lay awake, unable to sleep on his final night on this earthly coil. The cold seeped through the thin clothing he wore-just his shirt, breeches and shoes. The rest of his clothing-indeed the rest of his life’s possessions he had long ago sold to the bailiff for a bit of bread and meat. And now the cold, cutting like a knife right though the moldy straw in which he lay, was the only barrier between him and the stone floor. The noises of the night he listened to with an intensity that only one soon to be executed could ever know. The rustling of rats and mice looking for the few crumbs that might have fallen. The shuffle of the guards slowly making their nightly rounds. The low drip, drip, drip of water somewhere off in the distant. The groans of the prisoners around him-some softly whispering for their mothers or their lovers, some deeply groaning as they cried in their sleep, crying to whatever god they hoped would take pity on them. His mind drifted to happier days-if indeed they could be called happier days. But still, his memories chose to place them in that way, reminding him of a time when he and his wife were just so happy to have welcomed their young son, their firstborn and-unbeknownst to them their only child. Those were the memories he tried desperately to cling to, but pushing in on them was the agonizing memory of standing outside the apothecary, the bitter winter wind biting into his exposed flesh as he stared longingly at the bottle of medicine he had tried to buy with the few coins he had-not nearly enough. He had tried so desperately to explain to the clark how he needed the medicine-his son and wife, just a few months ago so happy and gay, now lay gasping and coughing in the grips of the terrible disease that threatened their very lives. Perhaps if he had known that at the very moment he grasped the rock in his hand that his wife breathed her last, or maybe as he reached through the broken window to grab that precious medicine that his son, his only child, was at that moment giving the throaty rattle that proceeds death he would have stopped what he was doing. That instead his usual good sense would have prevailed and he would have turned away and faced his despair head on, alone but free. Instead he was found the next day by two thief takers. They had been stopped by the shopkeeper earlier and were told what had taken place the previous night. With a description from the clark, they easily found him the next morning at the small hovel he had called ‘home’. He gave no fight, instead still clutching the bottle he had traded his freedom for, kneeling over the still, cold forms of his wife and son. No longer weeping for his emotions had long ago burned themselves out and were just as dead as the two lying before him. His trial at the Old Baily was swift, and his execution date set. And still, he found no spark of life, no reason to live within his breast. And now, his last night. 7 weeks he had been kept in the lowest of the cells at Newgate Prison, waiting for the next ‘execution day’ to arrive. The darkness was almost complete, the nauseating smell of sweat, mold, bodily functions and-most of all, fear-he had long ago learned to ignore. The sounds tho, try as he might, he could not still the noises around him. Especially the bells, for they sounded out the hour from the towers of St. Sepulchre, the church on the other side of the walls. Hourly they sounded out their mournful peals, calling out as if they marked the approaching footsteps of death himself. Tonight tho, as he counted out the strokes-one, two, three, four-a soft glow began to appear from the tunnel at the far end of the condemned cell block-five, six-the tunnel that led to the church-seven-a dim form began to take shape out of the darkness-eight, nine-a shape that slowly formed into a man as it approached-ten, eleven-and stopped at his cell-twelve. Slowly the man raised his hand in which held a large bell, and as that bell too began to toll, the man began to slowly speak…’All you that in the condemned hole do lie, prepare you, for tomorrow you shall die…’ The Bellman of St. Sepulchre had arrived. Immediately his mind rushed him back to his childhood. It was the night before an ‘Execution Day’, the first one he could remember. His was not a wealthy home, just a home. And now he was lying on his rag filled mattress, listening to his parents talking in the next room about the following day. He wasn’t sure what an ‘execution day’ was, but he was gathering that it was something very important and at the same time exciting and fun. He could never remember a time that his father did not go to work or his mother not take in her sewing. And he had never been on a whole day trip into the town. But that is exactly what they told him at supper that evening was going to happen. His father explained to him that ‘bad men’ were going to pay the price for their sins and crimes, and that the government encouraged everyone that could to attend them for the ‘…betterment of society and a more lawful existence’ or something like that. He was more interested in hearing his older siblings talk about what else was going to be happening. They talked about Punch puppet shows, the street food, the music and jugglers. They spoke of the many different games they saw, and how some were even illegal but somehow no-one seemed to care. Of the book sellers and the preachers calling out about the ‘condemned who are about to die, repent and fair warning to all who see and hear’ and other such things. His mother talked of taking them to see the church known as ‘St. Sepulchre’ or, as his father gently corrected her ‘The Church of the Holy Sepulchre Without Newgate’. At this his brother said something about the strange old man called the ‘Bellman of St. Sepulchre’ who was said to attend to the prisoners about to die. And at that thought his mind jerked him back to the present, just as the figure before him intoned the next line…’Watch all, and pray, the hour is drawing near, that you before Almighty God will appear.’ And just as quickly he was back in his memories. Finally, the night was over and the day was here! This was going to be some day, it seemed! Among others being executed was going to be the highwayman known as ‘Sixteen String Jack’. He wondered about the ‘sixteen strings’ but was too engrossed with listening to the talk about him to ask. But from what he could hear from the street preachers calling out about the sins of this man, his real name was John Rann and was called ‘Sixteen String Jack’ for his penchant for wearing sixteen strings of different colors to tie up his knee breeches. From what he could gather over all of the noise, ‘Sixteen String Jack’ had been at his vagaries a long time, and had been captured for highway robbery, all dismissed for lack of evidence or a failure of the witnesses to identify him. But this last one, he was apprehended for robbing a chaplain. But not just any chaplain, but the personal chaplain of Princess Amelia of Brentford. Whom ever that was, but she must have been important, to hear everyone talk about it. He wanted to stay and watch the shows-there was a man doing magical tricks, another had a monkey that was dancing, and the smells-oh, those grand smells of the food being sold from stalls quickly erected, from baskets, from wheelbarrows, even right from braziers smoking hot- was making him so hungry. Gingerbreads, fat smoking sausages, sweet treats-but his mother, ever one to teach, insisted that they first go into that great building before him, the building where even now the bells-12 of them! rang out from the towers. This was his first time being in such a grand place.

His mother quickly began to talk of this amazing building. She said it was on the site of an old Saxon church, whoever Saxon was. But he was too polite to interrupt his mother to ask. She told him about it being dedicated to King Edmund-he knew who THAT was-and how the soldiers going off to the Holy Land would stop here to dedicate themselves to the freeing of Jerusalem-wherever that was. And that is why it was named ‘St. Edmund and the Holy Sepulchre’. Something about a ‘Holy Seplchre’ church in Jerusalem. He made a note to himself to ask later where Jerusalem was, it seemed important. Maybe his father could take him there some afternoon. His mother continued on her lessons tho, explaining how it had been burnt-all but one outer wall-in the Great Fire that was still on everyones memories, tho it had happened one a hundred years ago, that its name was changed to ‘The Church of the Holy Sepulchre Without Newgate’, being that it was originally built outside of the city walls, opposite of Newgate Prison. He knew where that was, they passed it on the way to the church. It was dark, forboding and smelled even from a distance. He didn’t think he had smelled anything so bad. As if the smells assailed him again he was abruptly jerked from his revelry, the smells now just as real and pungent as had been his daily companions for six weeks now. And once again he stared at the face in the shadowy coil, and the voice of the Bellman continued the intonation. ‘Examine well yourselves, in times repent, that you not to eternal flames be sent, and when St. Sepulchre’s bell tomorrow tolls, the Lord above have mercy on your souls’. With great relief once again his mind took him back. Now, his mother was showing him where people were buried inside of the church-what a silly notion, but he supposed they needed to do something with the bodies. His brother the night before had talked of ‘ghouls’ called ‘resurerctionists’ who dug up bodies and sold them away, but his brother was always trying to scare him so he took no thought of them. But his mother did point out a couple of graves he found interesting-Admiral John Smith, who was so instrumental in starting Jamestown and the colony of Virginia-he knew where that was, everyone was talking about the ‘rebellion’ that was going on-and she showed him where the ashes of John Rogers was kept. He didn’t know who that was, but his mother went on to say he used to be the Vicar at St. Sepuchre, but got in trouble by printing the first English Bible and was burned at the stake by Mary I. Why she was so mad that Rogers printed a Bible his mother didn’t explain, so he just put it aside.Finally, they found themselves at the entrance to a tunnel. An old man sat there with a bell-a big bell, almost as big as he was. He couldn’t imagine anyone carrying that thing around, let alone ringing it. The man seemed friendly enough, tho, enough that he felt emboldened to ask if he would ring the bell so that they could all hear what it sounded like. ‘No, son.’ the old man replied. ‘This is a bell you do not want to hear. It is a bell that rings only at midnight-and only outside of the cell of one about to die. If you ever hear this bell, look to your own eternal soul.’ A shiver ran up his spine, and he almost bolted right then. The old man, sensing he had frightened the boy, gave a gentle smile and began to talk in a soothing voice, telling him about the bell. It was bequeathed for the sum of £50 in 1605 by Robert Dow, a member of the Worshipful Company of Merchant Taylors, he himself who once considered taking the cloth. It was to be rung at midnight outside of the cells of the condemned prisoners 12 times, and a call for them to see to their souls and to ask forgiveness of God. He went on to tell the boy that he found it at once a horrible task, but if even one of those poor souls would repent and seek forgiveness, he felt that he had done his duty to God and mankind. After the bell had been rung, he himself would return to await the morning, and as the carts carrying the ones to be executed passed by, they stopped at the entrance to the church. Some to drink a toast, some to seek absolution, some for no reason other than it was expected of them. There, he handed them a nosegay for tradition sake, and his work then was done until the next execution day. He pointed out a tunnel near where they stood and explained that that was the tunnel he went through roughly every six weeks at midnight. It led directly into the condemned cells in the bowels of Newgate Prison. And, for the last time his mind was brought back to the present, and he was staring into the eyes of the Bellman of St. Sepulchre.They were eyes that expressed pity, sympathy and a yearning to bring solace and peace. And in those eyes he finally-finally realized he WAS at peace. His sin had been forgiven-tho what sin was there in trying so desperately to save the lives of two innocents. For he realized that at the moment he broke the window to get the life-saving medicine that he was willingly giving up his own life so that the others could live, even tho he was too late. He reached his hands through the bars and grasped the old man’s hands that in turn grasped the bell, and simply said ‘Thank you’. The old man nodded, and stepped away. To begin the journey back through the darkness, through the tunnel and back to the living. The next day he awoke-that he was able to sleep initially surprised him, until he realized that it was with a sense of calmness and peace and-yes-excitement that he greeted the day. For today was more than just the day of his death. And with that thought he walked in chains with the other condemned prisoners and got on the carts outside of the prison. When they stopped but a short distance away at the steps of St. Sepulchre, he waited patiently for the Bellman to walk down the line of prisoners, some shouting horrible epitaphs towards the man, some smiling and laughing, some just staring, already dead to the world. And when the old man reached him, he took the nosegay that was offered and placed it in the buttonhole of his shirt and grasped the old mans hand. No words were spoken, because the look he gave the old man was enough. A look that was one the old man longed to see in all of them-a look of peace, of the acceptance of grace of salvation. The old man gave a gentle smile, nodded in understanding and turned to the next prisoner. It was three miles to Tyburn Tree, where the execution was to take place, and he looked with anticipation as each mile passed, the bells of St. Sepulchre slowly fading from sound. For just like last night, when the Bellman of St. Sepulchre had finished his duty and turned to walk back into the darkness of the tunnel on his way back to light and the living, he knew now that at the end of his own journey and the passing through that dark tunnel was not the end of his life, but the beginning of the living reunion with his Savior, his wife and their son.

-‘Scoundrel’s Alley’ is the collaboration of Faire Wynds Entertainments and Parson John Living History. The ‘Scholarly Scoundrel’ is Eric Paul Scites (1962-2023)