One of the worst cases I ever had to deal with was that of Alfred Sowrey, hanged at Lancaster Castle on August 1st, 1887, for shooting the girl to whom he was engaged to be married, at Preston. He was impenitent, violent, and half-dead with fear by the day of execution. At the time of his trial he glared about in such a mad way that those who stood near the dock feared for their personal safety. During the time between sentence and execution he became seriously ill through sheer terror, and it was thought that he could not possibly live to the day appointed for his execution. The efforts of the gaol chaplain to bring Sowrey to a calmer and more reasonable state of mind seemed utterly unavailing, the prisoner was too terrified to take much notice of anything that was said to him. On the morning of the execution he took his breakfast as usual, but rejected the chaplain's ministrations. From the cell to the scaffold he had to be partly pushed and partly carried by two warders, in whose strong arms he struggled violently. His groans and cries could be heard all over the prison. His teeth chattered, and his face was alternately livid and deathly white. Every inch of ground over which the procession passed was violently contested by the criminal, who had to be bodily carried up the steps and placed on the drop. As he saw the beam above him a wilder paroxysm of fear seemed to seize the miserable youth, and four warders were required to hold him in position. Even with this assistance I had the greatest possible difficulty in pinioning his legs, and while doing so I received a nasty kick which took a piece of bone out of my shin, and has left a mark visible even to-day. After the completion of the pinioning process he still resisted the placing of the noose, throwing his head violently from side to side, and he continued his struggles until the drop fell. During the whole of this terrible scene the chaplain, who had taken much interest in his ungrateful charge, and who had done everything he could for Sowrey, continued reading the beautiful prayers for the dying; but Sowrey paid no heed.
My first execution in 1888 was that of Dr. Philip Henry Eustace Cross, who poisoned his wife by slow degrees, administering doses almost daily for a long time. Dr. Cross was a retired army surgeon, of good family. His medical experience gave him a great advantage in the commission of his crime, and he was evidently convinced that there was not the slightest fear of discovery. After conviction he protested his innocence until he received the message to the effect that there would be no reprieve but that the law must take its course. He then relapsed into a mournful condition, and turned his attention entirely to the Bible. The last few days before his execution he was greatly prostrated, and on his last night of life he did not retire to bed until twelve o'clock. His sleep was restless and fitful. In the morning, however, he was resolute. He told his attendants that he did not fear death, for he had met it face to face more than once on the battlefield. He died unmoved, without a word.