In the course of recent
executions, few have shown as much panache, flamboyancy, and concern for detail
as Daniel Owen Gaff. Displaying an aptitude for performance on the grand scale,
Gaff’s previous executions, so widely publicized and praised, are known to
all. His exquisite chivalry when leading the craven adulteress Mme. Lascivia La
Crepe to the chopping block, his cultivated scorn when disemboweling Ernst
Fugue, the notorious Cannibal of Hamburg— these moments epitomized Gaff’s
grace in the limelight. Indeed, who can forget his perfectly timed clowning with
the matches during the auto-de-fé of the foppish Emanuel Bruschetta, the
Milanese ducal bastard who so ineptly attempted to set his half-brother aflame
two Christmases ago? These deaths will be famous for years to come because of
Gaff’s deft handling of character, situation, and pace. Despite the rabid
crowds, the journalistic throngs, and the overwhelming uproar that occasioned
these executions, Gaff’s hand seemed all the steadier and his poise all the
more radiant. In short, he was a master artist in absolute control of his craft.
Gaff’s most recent execution,
however, is startling in its contrast to his previous accomplishments.
Renouncing the royal, the wealthy, and the sensational, Gaff instead focused on
the rather mundane strangler, Henry Farley. Lower middle class, an apothecary by
trade in the rural hamlet of Wattlesburg-On-Brackfall, Farley was hung this
Saturday last for the murder of his devoted wife, Kate. Farley, apparently gone
temporarily mad on absinthe, choked his wife of ten years during shop hours
after she asked innocently enough if they would need any more cocaine that day.
The crime, committed flagrantly in front of two witnesses, a certain Mrs.
Hagglesbottom and the Widow Egge, caused little stir outside the community, and
how Gaff became concerned with the Farley case is unknown. Judge Simeon Lash
reported that it was Gaff who contacted him, not vice-versa, and that he, Lash,
considered it an honor and a pleasure to let the esteemed executioner conduct
the ceremonies.
Arriving in Wattlesburg, I couldn’t
help but wonder why Gaff had chosen such an innocuous setting for his
performance. Perhaps there was more to the Farley murder than met the eye, but
one glance at the villagers gathered in their Sunday best—Saturday worst in
any civilized city—revealed little. Gaff has always been idiosyncratic to be
sure, declining this time as during all others to be interviewed, keeping his
personal life at arm’s length from his art. His paramours seem to be selected
as much for their closed-mouth reticence as for their beauty, and the actual
location of his home is still in doubt, though rumored to be in Cornwall and
sumptuous at that. As for Farley, the strangler was absolutely unexceptional, of
middling stature with straw hair, a stubby nose and small hands. Inquiring
discreetly, I learned little of interest regarding the Farleys’ marriage
except for the consistently noted fact that they remained childless after ten
years. Whether the wife was barren or the apothecary infertile from his own
wares I really couldn’t conjecture, nor did the villagers offer any more
information, seeming to regard the entire affair, including my presence, as an
affliction upon the community.
If the venue disappointed,
lacking any baited bears, howling mobs or costumed children, Gaff certainly didn’t.
Dressed in his usual ornate raiment—it’s easy to forget the man
single-handedly created the much copied haute couture of hangman everywhere—Gaff
more than made up for the desultory surroundings. With his billowing silk shirt,
glittering silver skull studs, polished dragoon boots, fawn trousers, and a
black scarf disguising the upper features, Gaff offered a typically striking
profile though the villagers seemed entirely ignorant of the magnitude of his
presence.
Bereft of proper gibbets, the
hanging took place from a large oak tree located just outside town, on a hill
named, with the usual rural creativity, Gallows’ Hill. The true spectacle of
Gaff’s presence could be seen clearly during the slow procession from the
Green to the hill. Leading the forlorn Farley upon a bay mare, the noose already
dangling around his neck, Gaff ‘s design began to clarify itself. The silence
of the villagers, the suitably cadaverous visage of Judge Lash, the crows
picking at the chopped corn in the field, the cats following behind the
hedgerows pretending to hunt, all these images, so stark in their nature,
trailed in the wake of the glamorous Gaff, and I began to suspect I was in store
for his greatest execution yet. Placed in the backwaters of the known world,
before an audience of the uninitiated, God Almighty, and myself, Gaff seemed on
the verge of unveiling the beautiful concept that, whether it be the pathetic
Farley, the ghastly Fugue, or the lovely La Crepe, all were equal and alike in
the dignity of death, provided of course there was the perfect executioner.
Unfortunately, the denouement
didn’t live up to expectation. By venturing into uncharted territory, Gaff
left himself at the mercy of the unpredictable, and Farley’s death degenerated
completely into a spectacle both anti-climactic and gruesome. With the strangler
slumped on the mare, the noose cinched from a thick limb overhead, everything
seemed to be perfect, but for the first time in his career, Gaff slipped. Using
a crop handed to him by the Judge, Gaff slashed the mare’s flank, but the drop
wasn’t steep enough. Friendless, with neither kith nor kin, Farley was
abandoned to twitch, writhe, and choke, soiling himself in the process. Gaff’s
reaction was as out of place as the sordidness of the lynching. Perhaps
succumbing to the squalid atmosphere that he himself had fashioned, Gaff leapt
up and lent his weight to the flailing Farley. The idea of Gaff being forced to
tender a service so below his rank was compounded by the livid enjoyment that
Gaff displayed as he yanked and clawed at Farley’s legs, screaming with
laughter the whole time. Even during the tomfoolery of his capers at the
Bruschetta execution, never did Gaff strike such a pedantic pose, and it was a
shame to observe the almost intentional loss of composure. To fully inform you,
Dear Reader, of the complete extent of Gaff’s failure, all I can say is that I
could not bear to remain and watch what had to be the terrible let-down of
Farley’s actual death. If Gaff took his customary bows afterward, I did not
witness it.
In the week since the botched
(there is no other word) execution, I have attempted to ascertain some sort of
method to Gaff’s performance but meaning has defied me. If meant to be a
farce, it wasn’t funny, while if the intention was a didactic lesson in the
horror of crime and punishment, it wasn’t edifying. If it was supposed to be
an example of the inherent savagery of the profession, it wasn’t convincing,
and the events seemed far too contrived to be a foray into the bleak realm of
realism. Everything about the Farley execution seems to point at something gone
completely awry. The only saving grace of the debacle is that it occurred so far
away from the unforgiving public. Even now, I have heard that Gaff has been
requested to attend to a Flemish Jew accused of blood libel, and it would be the
perfect opportunity for Gaff to revert to form. I can only hope, as I’m sure
all of you do as well, that the next time Daniel Owen Gaff makes an appearance,
it will be on a stage appropriate to his still-considerable talent, and in a
manner befitting his previously untarnished reputation.
