He had given the signal. The prayers were ended, the magistrates in their places, the crowd pressed close before the scaffold; in Edinburgh, on this thirtieth day of December, 1818, nothing remained but to spring the trap. It resisted for nearly a minute. When at last it gave way, Robert Johnston’s feet still rested upon the timber. The rope drew tight; the wood held fast. Between the two, a man struggled before the eyes of a city assembled to see him die.
Johnston was twenty-four years of age when he implicated himself in the robbery of a tallow-chandler’s shop. Born in Edinburgh of poor parents, he had worked as a carter and, according to Camden Pelham’s chronicle, had hitherto led an irreproachable life. Two other men had been apprehended and convicted alongside him. For them, the penalty had been commuted to transportation for life. For him, it remained capital. Three offenders at the close of an assize, two departures for exile, a single place reserved upon the scaffold: the chronicle records this disparity without offering its cause.
In the Lawnmarket, the customary platform had been erected, fitted with its drop. Towards twenty minutes to three, Johnston had stepped forth from his place of confinement, attended by two magistrates, the Reverend Mr. Tait, and the officers appointed to conduct the proceedings. The coffin lay in waiting. Pelham depicts a prisoner of remarkable composure when the moment came to give the signal. The prayers had preceded this act: Johnston himself was to signify that his hour was come. Thereafter, the mechanics of the stage and the executioner’s office were to take their course. None of these preparations had averted the error that now left the condemned man’s toes in contact with the planking. The crowd could see that he had not fallen clear; those charged with the execution saw it plainly as well.
One or two men set to work beneath the gallows with axes, endeavoring to hew away the timber that still supported Johnston’s feet. Their blows failed to clear the necessary space. Above them, the condemned man continued to writhe; around them, the clamor mounted. The execution had ceased to be that orderly succession of acts the officers were commissioned to perform. It had ground to a halt upon a flaw of construction, and every attempt at remedy merely prolonged the spectacle.
Near the platform, a police officer struck a man who was pressing forward. The fellow cried murder. Pelham relates that bystanders, unaware of the cry’s origin, believed it to come from the condemned man himself. The shout ran through their ranks and transformed the temper of the assembly. Hands seized upon loose stones from the causeway. The missiles struck the guard surrounding the scaffold; magistrates and constables were compelled to fall back. This retreat opened, between the multitude and Johnston, an avenue that had not existed moments before.
A cry arose that he be cut down: he was still alive. A gentleman of respectable appearance mounted the platform and severed the cord. Johnston fell upon his side. He had hung suspended for some five minutes. Others scrambled onto the boards, loosed the cords from his neck and arms, tore away the cap that covered his head, and loosened his garments. Then, raising him up, they bore him off towards the High Street. He for whom a coffin had stood prepared was departing the place alive, carried upon the shoulders of those who had come to witness his doom.
Behind them, another portion of the mob broke the coffin into fragments and strove to tear down the gibbet, which withstood their efforts. Several officers were beaten; the executioner, falling into the hands of the rioters for a time, was severely handled. In the same thoroughfare, men succored one sufferer while striking down others. Johnston’s deliverance possessed neither recognized leader nor assured defense: those who bore him away had snatched the prisoner from the scaffold, but they had not dispersed the forces that might reclaim him.
The police rallied in greater numbers and overtook the concourse at the head of Advocates’ Close. They seized Johnston anew. Before the watch-house, he lay for some time stretched in the middle of the street, half-stripped of his clothing. Officers at length laid hold of him and dragged him some twenty paces within. The tide had reversed once more: after the arms that had borne him from the halter came those that haled him back into the custody of the law.
A surgeon attended him. For upwards of half an hour, Johnston remained within the watch-house; he was bled in both arms and at the temple. The chronicle attributes the return of signs of life to these ministrations. The prisoner uttered not a word. Outside, a detachment of soldiers marched down from the Castle under the direction of a magistrate and took up their ground. The military deployed about the watch-house and the place of execution. The crowd still lingered, but the wynds through which they had carried Johnston were now held by armed force.
He was conducted back to the scaffold. Men supported him upright upon a table while the rope was once more adjusted about his neck. His garments fell loose and were hastily arranged. He swayed, sustained both by the noose and by his footing upon the boards. The first time, the floor had arrested his fall; on this occasion, a table stood beneath him, ready to be withdrawn.
When it was pulled away, one of Johnston’s hands slipped free of its cords. His fingers caught convulsively in the halter. The outcry broke out afresh. A chair had to be fetched; the executioner mounted it, tore the hand from the rope, and descended. The face had remained uncovered. At last it was concealed beneath a cloth, while shouts of murder mingled with cries of shame. A few minutes more, and Johnston ceased to struggle.
The military kept the ground until the body was removed. Evening drew on; the crowd dispersed. They had seen the law’s sentence miscarry, had snatched a living man from the gallows, and had seen him returned into the hands of those appointed to finish the work. Of the carter, the record preserves few words and almost nothing of the trial. Of those who severed the cord, it retains not so much as their names. There remains only that passage through the streets of Edinburgh: a handful of men bearing Johnston towards the High Street, certain of at least one truth, for they had shouted it aloud before setting him free—he was still alive.