On the Head of a Pin (34 page)

Martha, who made more noise than all the boys put together, and thank the Lord for it, Lewis thought, for it had saved her life. His chest pained him from the idea of it. How close she had been.

“I rode hard to get away from those cries,” Simms said. “I rode far. And then, when I could no longer hear them, when they could no longer rail against me, I began to feel better.” He looked at Lewis squarely for the first time. “In fact, I began to feel fine, better than I had in many months. I had taken steps to end my wickedness, and I could look forward to leaving my sin behind. I didn't know then that more would be necessary, that the blood call would come again, and again I would be compelled to answer it. Then, after a time, it got so that I didn't need to hear the call. I didn't need the scent of death to spur me on. I had only to ride into a clearing or up to a cabin and there would be Esther — ‘a proud look, a lying tongue, a heart that deviseth wicked imaginations
.
' And again I would slay her. I killed time and time again and still she would rise up from hell reborn and I would be compelled to send her back. You can see why I was forced to do it, can't you, Lewis? ‘For can a man take fire in his bosom and his clothes not be burned?'”

Lewis had to shake his head to clear his thoughts, for Simms's voice was mesmerizing in its monotony. When he spoke, it was harshly, as a weapon against the strange seduction of the peddler's account. “All this because you couldn't leave your sister alone.”

Simms face twisted in disgust. “It was she who wouldn't leave me, Lewis. If she had been other than what she is, none of this would have happened.”

“No,” Lewis said. “I'm sorry, that is not reason enough, Isaac. There were two of you in this. It would only have taken one to stop it.”

“You just don't understand, do you?” Simms's words came out in an angry hiss. “You still don't see what she is. How she used me. How she would torment me. I had no control over it. I couldn't stop her.”

“Because you didn't want to.”

Surprisingly, Lewis suddenly felt a crushing pity for the man — about to answer to his Maker and still unable to admit accountability for his sin.

“You were so stupid.” Simms said with contempt. “You should have known it was me. Who else would want to murder her so many times? I'd watch you afterward, to see if you knew, and sometimes I thought you did, but still it took you so long to fit all the pieces together, didn't it? You could have stopped me if you'd been quicker. You could have, but you wouldn't.”

And then, suddenly, suspicion crossed his face. He looked at Lewis narrowly. “Were you in it together, you and Esther? Did you conspire with her? Did you want her, too? She used you, too, didn't she? She'd make me kill her and then you'd raise her from the dead so I'd have to kill again.”

“Yes, I was stupid,” Lewis said. “And yes, it took me far too long to find you. But, believe me, if I had known sooner, I'd have stopped you. I'd have stopped you whatever way I could. As much as your first sin is great, your second is the greater because it carries no real remorse. You'd do well to think on that, Isaac, in the little time you have left.”

“Go. Leave me. Take your infernal sanctimony and get out.” Simms turned again to the window.

“There's something very important I need to say before they come and take you,” Lewis said. “I'm not leaving until I say it. Listen to me. Look at me.” He drew on every ounce of authority he had within him to command the man to turn around. “Look at me!”

Simms looked around, his face stony.

“I forgive you, Isaac. Not for the sake of your soul, but for mine.”

VI

H
e had not thought it possible to cram more people into the yard around the scaffold, but it seemed to Lewis that there were hundreds more than there had been when he went into the jail. The platform was surprisingly low, for they had not built a drop. There would be no sudden plunge as the trapdoor opened — no instant, merciful breaking of the neck — just a slow steady hauling on the rope until the feet were off the floor, and an agonizing, interminable strangulation.

The crowd was growing impatient waiting for their entertainment to begin. They had not long to wait, for Lewis had only just pushed his way toward the front of the crowd when the sheriff appeared, drawing raucous cries and hoots of approval. As befitted such a solemn occasion, he was dressed in formal clothing and carried a sword. A minister followed, presumably, Lewis thought, one from the Church of England, as would be appropriate for Simms, having been raised in that church. Then came the hangman dressed in convict clothing, a mask over his face to protect his identity. He needn't have bothered with this disguise. Everyone seemed to know who he was and several called out his name in greeting. The man checked the knot on the noose, and two constables escorted Simms to the platform, his arms tied behind his back, his head hanging, his face in shadow. The shouting from the crowd grew frenzied as he was marched over to stand beneath the rope.

The sheriff read the charges against him and noted that he had been found guilty and duly condemned to die “with no order of reprieve having been received by this office.” He turned to Simms. “Have you anything to say?”

“Yes,” Simms replied, and the roar from the crowd was deafening. This was what they had hoped for: words from the prisoner confessing his guilt, protesting his innocence, explaining his actions. This was why they had massed in the yard — to take note of the murderer's last words — then to watch him die.

Lewis pushed forward another step and caught Simms's eye. Isaac the peddler was there. He had returned to being the congenial companion of the trail, the traveller who heard everything, the man who was always welcomed for the news he brought and the goods he carried. It was not to the minister provided by the authorities that Simms looked now, but to Lewis, the entire time he spoke.

He cleared his throat a little. “I am ready to go to God,” he said, “although I am not sure that God wants me. I confess freely and fully to the crime for which I am about to be hanged.”

A cheer from the crowd.

“I confess freely to my other crimes as well, and they have been many.”

There was a sudden hush. This was more than anyone had expected, and Lewis could hear the murmurs behind him.

“Not only did I commit the murder for which I stood trial, and for which I will die today, but I also killed four other times, purely for my own gratification.”

There were screams now, and Lewis was aware that people were shoving at his back, trying to get closer so as to hear every heinous word. He stood his ground and held Simms's eyes.

“I committed these other murders in other places, and was never found out nor brought to trial for them. I am truly sorry, and I can only hope that I will be forgiven for it.”

He choked a little as he said this, but he held Lewis's gaze.

“I die on account of one sin, but I am punished for them all. Oh, Father, be with me now and forevermore …”

At this, his words became indistinct, and the hangman moved forward to cover his face and place the noose around his neck. He tied Simms's legs together and checked the bonds that held his hands. Suddenly, the yard was silent, as if the crowd was collectively holding their breath in anticipation. The rope wound its way through a pulley at the top of the scaffold and there was a faint rasping sound as the wheel turned. Simms's feet began to rise, kicking and bucking as his body fought against the constricting pull.

The crowd cheered and Lewis watched only long enough to make sure that the hangman had done his job well. He had; the noose held and Simms struggled for only a few minutes before his body became still and hung limp from the rope. It was done.

It took Lewis a long time to make his way out of the yard. Several of the women had fainted, and the knots of people around their fallen bodies obstructed the flow of traffic. No one seemed to be in any hurry to leave. They were prepared to make a day of it, and now baskets were being opened and cloths unfolded for picnic lunches. He finally made the gate and collected his horse, happy to leave the throng to their grisly holiday.

Spicer had not been able to get any closer than the gate, but had seen enough to make him sober and thoughtful as they rode along, neither speaking of what they had just witnessed. They had scheduled appointments that Lewis knew they should hasten to meet, but he felt a sudden reluctance to carry on, to spend the rest of the day with the petty and picayune transgressions that would be trotted out for him to exclaim over and chastise. At this moment they hardly seemed worth the effort.

What he wanted more than anything was to sit with Betsy for a time. He didn't want to talk about the day's events, or about Simms, although he knew that at some point he would share with her what he had learned about Sarah's death. He wanted only a cup of tea and the comfort of his wife — to hear her sensible comments on everyday affairs. To hear Minta's tinkling laugh and the steady beat of Seth's hard-working hammer. To sit with his feet on a stool and watch Martha and Henry play in the yard.

He reined in his horse and turned to Spicer. “Why don't you go ahead and take those meetings?” he said. “I'll catch up with you later.”

Spicer's face lit up. “All by myself? Really?”

“Really. I think I'll call it a day.”

And with that he turned his horse toward home.

acknowledgements

A
lthough this is a work of fiction, the roots of the story lie in historical fact, and I am greatly indebted to Reverend Thaddeus Lewis, who recounted, albeit briefly, the tale of the girl in Demorestville in his autobiography published in 1865. As well, I borrowed several other incidents from the colourful life of this faithful Methodist circuit rider. But the sentiments and philosophies expressed in the book belong, of course, to the fictional Thaddeus Lewis and not to the historical figure.

A number of sources were invaluable in providing background to the story, most particularly:
Petticoats in the Pulpit: The Story of Early Nineteenth Century Methodist Women Preachers in Upper Canada
by Elizabeth Gilliam Muir (United Church Publishing House, 1991) for insight into the lot of women preachers and their subsequent demise;
My Neighbour's Keeper
by David R. Taylor (1994), which described early law enforcement in Upper Canada; the excerpts provided to me in 1992 from Reverend K.J. Crawford's monumental work on the history of Methodism in Canada;
The Firebrand: William Lyon Mackenzie and the Rebellion in Upper Canada
by William Kilbourn (reprinted in a new edition by Dundurn Press, 2008); and the incredible array of publications, websites, pamphlets, and history books produced by both small volunteer historical societies and individual history buffs across eastern Ontario.

On a personal level, I would like to express my gratitude to Evelyn Beaumont, direct descendant of the real-life Thaddeus Lewis, who supported the use of both his book and his name in a fictionalized fashion; the Quinte Branch of the Ontario Genealogical Society for their enthusiastic encouragement; readers of my other works who have continued nagging me for another book; J.D. Carpenter for his generous sharing of the secret handshake; Beth Bruder at Dundurn for championing the manuscript and Allison Hirst for editing it; and, as always, my husband, Rob, who steadfastly supports the obsession.

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