A marriage made in hell
On the fateful day of her execution, Sarah Polgrain of Ludgvan stood tall upon the scaffold of Bodmin Gaol, looking out into the crowd below with wild eyes. A strong breeze rushed through the courtyard, whispering against the window bars and tugging at the hangman’s noose. It taunted Sarah, laughing at the truth that she alone knew - that she was not to blame. That Yorkshire Jack, her lover, her accomplice, had placed the arsenic in her hand. That she had not wanted to kill her husband, but Jack had insisted and that was that.
Now, she was to hang for it. Sarah’s fists clenched tighter at the unfairness of it all. Red-hot tears pricked at her eyes, but she refused to let them fall, even as the sea of people before her grew restless. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She would not show remorse. All around her, the sky darkened, casting her in the shadow of the building that loomed behind her. The air hung heavy with a chill that cut to the bone, slicing through the August heat with deadly precision. The moment was near, and the world knew it.
So, too, did the pair of eyes that blinked back at her from deep within the crowd. Jack pulled his overcoat tighter around him as their gazes met, his palms slick against the fabric. She had seen him. Of course she had. She had always been observant, Jack thought. Bile rose in his throat.
In the distance, a prison warden crossed the scaffold towards Sarah. Jack could not make out what she whispered as the man pushed her forwards, but when her arm extended out into the crowd, ice seeped through his veins. Around him, people drew away, clearing a path for the guard that made his way towards him. Before Jack had time to think, he was pulled forwards. The loud echo of his steps on the granite cobbles became dull thuds as he climbed the wooden stairs of the scaffold. To his horror, he was led over to Sarah, who buried her face in the rough burlap of his coat. In her grip, his hands turned white.
“I wanted to see you,” she said, with a smile that did not reach her eyes. Jack forced himself to nod, still focused on the warden stood watching. “Oh, Jack.” A single tear spilt down her face. He wiped it away with his thumb, murmuring reassurances into her ear. “We were supposed to be together for eternity,” she mourned, her voice laced with bitterness.
“And we will be, Sarah. We will be.” They were empty words, he knew, but he found them slipping out nonetheless.
“Is that a promise?” she asked. Something flickered in her eyes, something dark that Jack did not recognise. As the wind picked up around them, tendrils of Sarah’s hair pulled loose from her cap, drawn into a wild and tumultuous dance. Jack’s heart began to beat louder in his chest, drowning out the voices in his head that urged him against everything to run.
“...of course,” he choked. The warden’s hand clamped over Sarah’s shoulder, tearing her from Jack’s grasp towards the noose. Jack watched as the rope was placed over her head, and the crowd drew a breath in anticipation.
Sarah Polgrain dropped to her death.
Yorkshire Jack was never the same. Haunted by his promise, he found himself growing more and more haggard and pale with every year that passed. Visions of Sarah followed him into sleep, her final expression burnt into his mind like a curse. With every step he took, he glanced behind him, terrified that Sarah would return to claim him, for he knew deep down that she would.
In a desperate attempt to flee the terror, Jack jumped aboard the nearest ship, the Lanark, which was bound for the Mediterranean. If he could get far away enough from Cornwall, from Bodmin, from Ludgvan - from all of it - he might stand a chance. It was a laughable idea, he knew, but with every passing month on deck without sign of her, his shoulders relaxed more and more, and the nightmares started to wane. Soon, they had faded entirely. Under the scorching sun, the vice that had gripped at his chest since that day loosened, and before long, it was as if Sarah Polgrain and her wicked smile had never existed. Somewhere deep inside, the tiniest flicker of hope began to blossom.
As they neared Land’s End on the ship’s return, Jack smiled, basking in the August heat. A gentle breeze tickled his burnt face, blowing strands of muddy hair into his eyes, damp from the saltwater spray that billowed over the railings. Fragments of light danced in the droplets, and up above, gulls cried out, swooping and diving between the sails. Finally, thought Jack, he was free.
Then, slowly, a storm began to creep in. The waves around him stretched into mountains, and the wind - which had been gentle - whipped up into a violent frenzy, gnashing at his jacket which billowed behind him. His heart sank to the pit of his stomach.
“No,” he murmured. An ice-cold chill crashed over him, snatching the breath from his lungs. Suddenly, the boat listed, throwing Jack against the rail with a terrible crack. Ribs burning, he clawed his way up, digging his nails into the cold metal. He stared into the darkened distance, squinting against the rain that now lashed at him, plastering his hair to his face.
There, upon the water, was Sarah, and with her, the Devil himself. Jack cried out - but no sound came. The scream choked in his throat. She was real. Sarah Polgrain was real, and had at last come to collect on his promise. A cruel smile twisted her lips as she held out a bottle of arsenic towards him, laughing at the truth that they both knew - that he was to blame. That he had driven her to murder, and after, to her death. Jack’s knees buckled, slamming into the deck. Seized by a monstrous wave, the ship pitched, sending him plummeting into the waters below. Saltwater drowned his shouts as Sarah dragged him down into the depths of Hell, the bitter taste of poison flooding his mouth.
Trapped in the pool of searing flames, a single thought flashed through Yorkshire Jack’s mind: he had been a fool to hope. There was no escaping Sarah Polgrain. After all, she was not one to let go of something so easily.