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Blog 54 1830 Penenden Heath Maidstone - Three Swing Riot Hangings

Writer: Sarah Warren
Sarah Warren
Oct 30
31 min read

The last men hanged on Penenden Heath


In the 1780s, workers were hired at annual fairs, or ‘mops’, to serve for the whole year. During that period, the worker received payment in kind and in cash from his employer, worked at his side, and shared meals at the employer's table. As time passed, the gulf between farmer and employee widened. Workers were hired on stricter cash-only contracts, which ran for increasingly shorter periods. First, monthly terms became the norm. Later, farmers offered contracts for as little as a week.

Between 1750 and 1850, farm labourers lost their land, saw their contracts change, and faced a sharp deterioration in their economic situation. (Swing Riots, n.d.) By 1830, they had retained very little of their former status except the right to parish relief under the Old Poor Law system.

Additionally, an influx of Irish farm labourers in 1829, who came to seek agricultural work, reduced employment opportunities for other farming communities, so Irish labourers found themselves threatened.


On 4 Jul 1802 at St Michael's Church, Harbledown, Kent, 23-year-old agricultural labourer Thomas Packman from Boughton, Kent, married 18-year-old Lydia Woodland from Ospringe, Kent. They lived in Blean, Kent, after their marriage.

Lydia was already pregnant with their first child, George, who was born the following March. Their next child, James, was born in February 1805 but survived only one year, dying on 29 April 1806. Their next son was born in April 1807 and was named James Woodland; then William Henry was born in 1809, followed by Henry in 1812. They then had two daughters, Emily Jane in 1814 and Lydia in 1817. They then had two more boys, John in 1819 and Robert in 1822, and finally their last child, another daughter, Eliza, born in 1824. Life would have been tough with 9 children, especially during the struggles of farm work. But they all survived, and the children grew up within the Blean community.

In those times, Boys would work on the farms from the age of eight or nine; girls would go into domestic service to bring in money for the household.

On 17 November 1822, they watched their eldest son George, age 19, marry 24-year-old Hannah Wraight at her local church in Herne Hill, Kent, and they remained in Herne Hill, which was close to Blean. They could visit each other regularly.

On 13 September 1825, their second-eldest son, James Woodland, then 18, decided to join the Royal Navy, so with a tearful goodbye, he left home.

This left 16-year-old William Henry as the eldest at home, a mischievous child his younger brother, 13-year-old Henry, looked up to. They were described as dark-haired boys with good looks.

They worked as farm labourers in the fields during the weekdays, but the night, and especially at weekends, was their time. They knew the fields and woods around the villages of Boughton, Hernhill & Dunkirk like the backs of their hands, and The Blean, as the area was known, was both their playground and their hunting ground. William & Henry had little schooling, but they more than made up for their lack of reading and writing with low cunning and skilful deceit. With complete disregard for the law, they became notorious in the locality as poachers and smugglers, often braving the fury of the elements in pursuit of their targets. Their skill was such that squirrels, hares, pheasants, and partridges often failed to escape their grasp. They killed and ate some creatures, but traded those they caught alive. Many locals knew that the brothers dealt in contraband goods, but they kept it quiet so the trade could flourish. They also knew the signs to look out for that the brothers had something to sell – a short pole with a bottle reversed on the end, or sometimes a small red flag.


The village areas mentioned in this blog were within a triangle between Canterbury, Faversham and Whitstable, routes used by smugglers and surrounded by farmland. The villages were tight-knit communities, with a village inn that filled with men who had finished their graft in the fields for the day. As the boys got older, they also took up drinking and gambling their ill-gotten gains at the Red Lion Halfway House, situated at 74 Honey Hill on the road to Canterbury that ran through Blean village.

Towards the end of October 1830, widespread uproar broke out in the countryside in the southern counties. Thousands of farm labourers, who saw their jobs and wages at risk because of the introduction of modern farm machinery such as threshing machines, began to protest, and these machines increasingly became targets of attack. Resentment toward the farmers and the pitiful wages they paid made arson commonplace. They demanded higher wages and an end to the use of the threshing machine, which destroyed their winter employment. They reinforced their demands with rick-burning, the destruction of threshing machines and cattle-maiming, among other things.

These crimes became so frequent in Kent, and indeed many other parts of the country, that the Crown's judiciary was determined to make examples, and it wouldn't take the degree of guilt into account once a court secured a conviction.

These protests developed into riots in some parts of the countryside, and the problem became so dire that a Special Commission was eventually set up to ensure any guilty parties could be traced and punished. The events became known as the Swing Riots, named after a mythical leader, Captain Swing.


In the village of Blean, on Sunday 21 November 1830, it was dark and cold outside, but the Red Lion inn was packed with villagers, all enjoying the free beer that was available that evening. Kent had experienced significant outbreaks of cholera and typhoid fever. Children suffered the most, and free beer was provided because, earlier in the day, many of the villagers were at the old parish church of St Cosmus & St Damian, shedding tears as they laid to rest little John Judges, aged eleven. Only three short weeks previously, his seven-year-old sister Caroline had been buried in the same grave. The community came together to mourn with the family, some no doubt just for the free beer in hard times, and among the villagers at the inn that night were William and Henry Packman, now aged 21 and 19 and George Bishop.

George was a 17-year-old well-built, intelligent lad, born in the nearby village of Harbledown, Kent. He worked as a surveyor’s assistant. He lived just a short distance from the Red Lion at Honey Hill, with his widowed father, Jenkins Thomas Bishop, and the housekeeper, Phillis Wanstall.

Earlier that evening, George and the Packman brothers crossed a field belonging to a local farmer, William Wraight, discussing burning Perrin’s wood stack. They had discussed it two weeks earlier but put it off; this time, George was decisive. “We’ll do it tonight,” he said, as the three lads entered the Red Lion for their free beer.

William didn’t wait long to grow impatient. “Go and get your father’s tinderbox,” he said to George, “and let’s get this done.” The three of them headed for the door. “You off home now?” asked a red-haired youth, James Elliott, who stood near the doorway. “They are coming home along with me,” Bishop answered. A straight-laced villager, Sarah Goodwin, and her two farmhand brothers, John and Nicholls, gave them disparaging looks as they left.

The three boys felt the cold air as they left the inn's warmth, and with adrenaline coursing through their veins, they ran toward Bishop’s house. “You wait here while I get a tinderbox and matches,” said George, as he disappeared into the house. A minute later, he reappeared, agitated that his father and the housekeeper had given him questioning looks as he left.

The three lads knew where they were heading and ran in the darkness until they climbed the stile into Farmer Wraight’s field. A large barn stood in the far corner. “Go and get some handfuls of straw,” William whispered to Henry, “we’ll need it to fire Perrin’s wood.” George, overcome by a sudden inspirational thought, turned to the others and exclaimed, “We don’t need to go any further; let us set this alight instead!” With no one around to observe them, the three crept forward and lay down behind a straw stack that stood two or three feet from the barn. George looped his fingers round the firesteel and expertly struck it with a flint, sending sparks onto the charcloth in the tinderbox. Soon, he had enough embers for William first to light a piece of brown paper he held in his left hand, and with that, he lit some straw he clutched in his right. Carefully carrying it round to the other side of the stack nearest to the barn, he placed it underneath. Knowing the wind would eventually carry the flames toward the barn, all three ran into the nearby Blean Wood, where they lay down to watch. After a few moments, they saw flames burst out from the stack, and they knew that the barn would soon be ablaze too. For a few minutes, the three young men watched what they had begun, as the fire reached the barn and started to consume it. At this point, they ran back to the road and, on reaching Wraight’s farmhouse, began yelling “Fire! Fire!” at the top of their voices.

The noise alerted other villagers, and soon a group of a dozen men, including William Goldsack, his brother Stephen Goldsack, Thomas Henright, and James Keen, headed toward the fire with pails in hand to give what assistance they could. William Packman then banged on the door of Edward Bedwell’s house, shouting that Mr Wraight’s barn was on fire and asking if he could borrow a pail. George Bishop went with the Packmans and, for more than an hour, worked tirelessly, throwing water onto the flames. But it was all in vain. By three o’clock in the morning, the barn had been destroyed, along with everything inside it.

The police authorities quickly reacted, investigated, and interviewed the villagers.


At daylight, William and Henry were out ploughing in the field when they were apprehended and transported by cart to Maidstone Gaol nearly thirty miles away. The same day, George Bishop was also arrested and taken to join them there. The next three weeks would be a whole new experience for them, more than they could imagine.

Maidstone had been a thriving market town. It had a weekly Thursday market, four annual fairs, Sunday fairs and a monthly cattle market. After its new town hall was built in the 1760s, it had replaced Canterbury as Kent’s most important town. The County Sessions House was built in 1820, around the same time as the new gaol, where the Packman brothers and George Bishop waited for their trial.

In the beginning, the two brothers relaxed, slept well, and enjoyed some of the ‘benefits’ that the prison had to offer – a warm cell, a bed, a bath, clothes and three meals a day; meanwhile Bishop was contemplating his next move, and how he might avoid the serious consequences of his actions.


On Sundays, they attended divine service with the other prisoners in the prison chapel, which occupied the whole top floor of the prison’s roundhouse. Accessed by a circular iron staircase, the chapel was designed so inmates could see the prison chaplain without seeing the other prisoners. Although Rev Winter’s lengthy discourse that Sabbath day made no impression on the brothers, he continued to visit them daily during their final week. Despite his best efforts, they continued to “display a most painful indifference”.


The trial was set for Wednesday 22nd December 1830, at the Winter Special Assizes in Maidstone, before JP Sir John Bernard Bosanquet (1773-1847), who was called to the bar in 1800. Owing to family influence (his father was a former Governor of the Bank of England), his career at the bar soon became very successful. After becoming a Serjeant-at-Law in 1814, he conducted numerous bank prosecutions over the next thirteen years. He became King’s Serjeant in 1827 and was knighted in 1830.

Public interest in the trial was enormous, and the newspapers reported that the courtroom was crowded; most appeared to be agricultural labourers.

The Marquis of Camden, several noblemen and magistrates of the county were on the bench. Mr Gurney, Mr Adolphus and Mr Pollock appeared on behalf of the prosecution, and Mr Clarkson and Mr Bodkin defended the prisoners.

The prisoners were charged with having maliciously and feloniously set fire to a barn, a stack of wheat straw, and some agricultural implements, the property of William Wraight.

When the court clerk read the names of the jury, Mr Clarkson objected to any farmers being sworn in because of their bias in these cases; subsequently, four of the Jurors were withdrawn, and others took their place.

Mr Gurney began the proceedings by outlining the case to the jury. He expressed his deep regret that the outrages with which the prisoners are charged should have occurred in a county “distinguished for the open and manly character of its peasantry”. He then stated that the principal evidence supporting the charge would come from an accomplice named Bishop.


Examined by Mr Pollock, William Wraight was the first to take the stand:

“I live at Honey Hill, and have premises in the Blean. I had a barn there November last, which was burned down on the 21st November last, and contained at the time 12 tons of bean straw, two tons of hay, two ploughs and other property, amounting in all to £300.” (Note: equivalent to approximately £9,000 today)


George Bishop who had turned King's evidence against the brothers, was examined by Mr Gurney.

He gave his full account of the night of the fire, telling how he and the two Packman brothers were involved. This was the opportunity he had spent his days in Maidstone gaol thinking about, and by turning King’s evidence, he hoped to have his sentence reduced. He knew he had to perform well before the judge, and he did not hold back when implicating William and Henry, telling the court that he had supplied the tinderbox but had given it to William, and that he and Henry had started the fire.

When cross-examined by Mr Clarkson, Bishop said he had no quarrel with Mr Wraight, although he admitted being at Wraight’s barn a fortnight before the fire and knew what it contained when he helped set it on fire. During a gaol visit, Bishop told his father he had started the fire that Sunday night, but he mentioned the Packman brothers for the first time only during his father’s visit.

“I told my father that I had done it on the previous Monday, but it was not until the Friday that I said anything about the prisoners”

“I have not heard of any money or reward for discovering the fires. A gentleman in the gaol first told me of it. When I gave the first answer, I did not exactly know the question put to me. The gentleman said the rewards were very great, some hundreds, I believe, and that it would be paid to anyone who told about fires. It was after this I said that the prisoners were with me at the fire.”


During the morning, several more witnesses were called to give their evidence.

Mr Adolphus examined Sarah Goodwin:

“I live in Blean and am a single woman. I know Mr Wraight’s barn, and was there the night it was burned. I saw the prisoners and Bishop in Mr Wraight’s field, romping and playing together on the morning of the night when the fire broke out. I afterwards saw them at the Red Lion. My two brothers, Elliott, Simms, and others were there also. About half past eleven I heard of the fire. I ran to the barn with my uncle, and on the way we met the prisoners and Bishop. They were coming from the barn and shouted “fire” as soon as they saw us. The barn was entirely down when we got to it. The prisoners engaged in throwing water on the fire.”


Mr Gurney examined James Elliott:

“I live in Blean and remember the fire at Mr Wraight’s barn. I was at the Red Lion on the Sunday it took place, and left about 10 o’clock that night. I saw the prisoners leave. I followed them and saw them take the road towards Canterbury. I called out, “Hello! Are you going home?” They said they were going home for some gun caps. Bishop went with the prisoners, and I saw no more about them.”


Mr Adolphus examined William Goldsack:

“I am a labouring man, and remember when this fire took place. I saw the prisoners, Bishop, and four or five other persons talking together on Sunday night about 10 o’clock at the Red Lion. The two prisoners asked me to go with them, but I refused, and they then ran away from me with Bishop toward the latter's house. When I got home, I heard a fire alarm and went to where it was. I had been there nearly half an hour before the prisoners, and Bishop came to the spot. One of the prisoners said, “God bless me, there’s a fire; I saw it when we were at the top of the hill.” I said, “You did not see it from the top of Honey Hill because I was behind you.” No other hill could have given them a view of it. William Packman said they were on the hill near Bedwell’s stable. The stable is nearly half a mile from the barn. I saw both prisoners with pails helping to put out the fire. When I left Mr Wraight’s about two o’clock in the morning, they were still there.”


Mr Gurney examined James Keen:

“Before the prisoners were taken into custody, I said to the prisoners, Sure, it was not you who set the barn on fire, to which one of them answered, No, I am sure it was not. I accompanied Henry Packman to the Magistrate's office, and told him that it would not be a bad thing for one to split to hang the other two, to which he replied, I be damned if I do.“

When cross-examined by Mr Clarkson, Keen stated that he heard one of the prisoners say he had seen the fire from Honey Hill, and said to them, “You are telling different stories, and if you don’t give a better account, you’ll be taken up in the morning.”


Mr Pollock examined Edward Bedwell:

“The prisoner, William Packman, came to my house at one o’clock on Monday morning and called “Fire”, adding that Mr Wraight’s barn was on fire. I went to the spot and asked William where he first saw the fire. He said everything was right when he passed the barn, but when he was crossing Mr Anderson’s field, he saw the flames break out. The field is about 50 rods from the barn. The next morning, Henry Packman went along with me to plough, and when he was taken into custody, he was asked where he was when he saw the fire. He answered, “Just beside Mr Goldsack’s brother’s wagon lodge.” In reply to Mr Clarkson, Bedwell confirmed that the wagon lodge was near Anderson’s field.


Mr Gurney examined Jenkins Thomas Bishop:

“I live at Honey Hill, and am the father of George Bishop. On the night of the fire, he came home about 10 o’clock, and went out again. After he was gone, I searched for the tinderbox, but could not find it. I heard the fire alarm about a quarter of an hour after my son went out. I ran to the fire, and about half an hour after, the prisoners and my son came to the spot. The next day my son confessed to me with respect to himself, and he also implicated the two prisoners in the transaction.”


The last witness examined by Mr Gurney was Phillis Wanstall (Mr Bishop’s housekeeper):

“Mr Bishop usually keeps his tinderbox in the kitchen, but on the night of the fire, I took it upstairs. George came in on that night and stayed about two minutes. After he was gone, his father desired me to search for the tinderbox. I did so but could not find it. He expressed some suspicion that his son was about to make bad use of it.”

With the case closed for the Prosecution, William and Henry Packman put in a written defence, which the Clerk of the Court read out. They strongly denied the crime charged against them and gave a long explanation of their role in the matter. They alleged that the witness, Bishop, had never mentioned their names in connection with the fire until after a reward had been offered for the discovery of the offenders. They “earnestly implored the mercy of the Court”.


No witnesses were called on behalf of the brothers, either to fact or character, so at 2 o’clock, the judge began his summing up and reminded the jury to “weigh well all the circumstances of the case.” He found the most inexplicable aspect of the case was that neither Bishop, who by his own admission was one of the perpetrators of “this abominable offence”, nor the Packman brothers, if they were really guilty, appeared not to have had the slightest motive for the crime.


The Jury retired for about twenty minutes, and on their return the foreman announced their verdict:

“We find the prisoners Guilty of the crime, but as we consider Bishop to have been the principal in the crime, we find him not entitled to the reward, and we strongly recommend the two prisoners to mercy”.

The grounds for clemency for the two brothers included ‘inconsiderate frolic, not committed maliciously’ and ‘being led astray by others’.

Judge Bosanquet did not observe in reply, and ordered the prisoners to stand down and be removed to gaol. They would be sentenced later.


The newspapers reported that throughout the trial, the prisoners “preserved the greatest self-command, and heard the verdict without betraying any visible emotion”.

In Blean, there was considerable sympathy for the brothers' plight.


Henry Fielding, the vicar of St Cosmus & St Damian, organised a mercy petition, signed by a dozen or so local tradespeople on behalf of the villagers. But in these difficult days, when attitudes against arson and vandalism had hardened considerably, would this be enough?

Just two days after the trial, William and Henry Packman were called up to hear their sentence.

With them was a third man, John Dyke, who had been convicted of a similar crime and was also awaiting sentence.


Dyke was 30 years old but looked much older. He was orphaned as a child, so he ended up in an orphanage. He lived a life of petty crime until he joined the army as a private in the 53rd Regiment of Foot.

At 22, he married 20-year-old Judith Clogger of Headcorn, Kent, at Holy Cross Church in Bearsted, Kent, and they moved to Thurnham, where they had two children: William, born in April 1823, and George, born in May 1825, but George died the following year in February.

He later became a sergeant with the recruiting service, but quickly got tired of it and deserted. He was captured, but managed to escape and became a fugitive for some years. Using the alias ‘John Field’, he lived in constant fear and dread of being caught again.

Dyke was convicted for burning a barn at Bearsted. The day before this particular fire, Dyke had been recognised in Thurnham, where he once lived, and was reported to the Maidstone police. Following the Bearsted fire, Dyke was arrested by Supt. Faucit, of Maidstone Police, who had found him “enjoying his pipe in a low public house in the town.” When discovered, “his face changed colour, and he trembled exceedingly”.


Calmly standing in the dock, flanked by two prison guards, the brothers watched in silence as Justice Bosanquet entered the courtroom and took his seat. The tension was almost palpable as the judge placed the black cap on his head and addressed the prisoners standing before him:

“Henry Packman and William Packman, you have been convicted, after a full and satisfactory investigation, of setting fire to a barn belonging to the farmer, Mr Wraight. And you, John Dyke, have also been convicted of a similar crime.

It is now my painful duty to impose the awful consequences of your crimes. The offence of arson, of which you stand convicted, although unfortunately not unknown to courts of justice, is yet essentially different from your offence, because it is usually the case to trace the crime of arson to a private feeling of ill-will existing between the accused and the prosecutor. But it is most remarkable that in both your cases, no such motive has been discovered; and therefore whatever has been the cause, or whoever the parties may be, by whom these offences have been instigated, and whatever object such parties could have in view, God and your own consciences can best determine.

But to whatever cause may be attributed the commission of these offences, and whoever may be the wicked promoters of them – and that they have been spreading throughout the country with the effect of a contagion is but too true – it is fortunate, I say that, under God’s providence, the strong arm of the law is sufficient to arrest evil. Nothing but that power can effect the slightest good, and to show any lenity towards you would be doing injustice to the public at large. Whatever, therefore, may be my own feeling with respect to you, Henry and William Packman, and whatever I may think of your accomplice Bishop, who appeared to the jury to be more guilty than you, there is still enough in both your cases to call for the law's last sentence. It is one of the securities against crime, that the fidelity of an accomplice cannot be depended on, and it has therefore this good tendency, that it makes the discovery of crime more frequent, and honest people more secure.”

Sentence of death by hanging was then passed, and the prison guards led the three condemned men from the dock and back to their prison cells.


Newspapers reported that the execution of the three men would take place on Christmas Eve, on Penenden Heath, where immense crowds were expected to attend. The ultimate fate of the Packmans, who are mere lads, excited a strong feeling in their favour, owing principally to their youth, and also to the circumstances of their having been found guilty through the evidence of an accomplice, who was in fact the promoter of the act for which they are to suffer, yet was acquitted of the crime.

In other times they would likely have received a mitigated sentence, possibly to transportation for life. Still, in 1830, with the rural workers of the arable south and east of England rising in the so-called ‘Swing’ riots, the guilty were to be shown no mercy. It was with this in mind that the two brothers were condemned to death, but the judge passing sentence appeared to feel the struggle between necessity and compassion. It is known that both Bosanquet and Gurney, for the prosecution, were deeply affected by this case - a feeling shared by the whole Court.


Back in prison after their sentencing on the Wednesday, the Packmans looked upon their impending fate with some indifference. William remarked, “I don’t mind dying; I want to get out of this prison. I would rather be hanged than remain here for any length of time.”

The following day, they were informed of the actual time and place of their execution, but the boys again showed little concern.

Unable to read or write, the brothers enlisted John Dyke to pen a final letter to the friends they would be leaving behind. Dyke wrote:

Maidstone Condemned Cells

Thursday Evening

Dear Friends,

We, your unfortunate Sons, who, in a few hours, shall be no more in the world, therefore hope that our unhappy fate will be a warning to all, and tell our brothers and sisters to keep their church, to keep God’s commandments, and all that is right, and they will go to Heaven; and we, your Brothers, hope to meet all of you there, though we shall not see you any more in this world; but we have made our peace with GOD, and we forgive everyone. Remember us both to Robert (he was the youngest sibling, aged 8), and tell him we hope he will lead a good life, take a warning from us, not keep bad company, and not get drawn in as we have been drawn in. Tell Mr W. not to cast any affliction upon himself concerning that night the fire was; we freely forgive him.

By William and Henry Packman’s desire, I, John Dyke, felt it my duty to write those few lines for two poor unfortunate men, now in the same sad situation as myself; therefore I hope and trust in the Almighty for forgiveness. And I, John Dyke, have been sworn freely against; I therefore hope and trust that our untimely end will be a warning to all young men, wishing all of them to keep good company, to keep good hours, for my being out early in the morning, giving the alarm of fire, has brought this on me, though I have reason to be out at night all hours, on account of being a deserter; and going to the place where I was so well known, it would not do for me to go in the daytime on that account; and on Christmas day, those that swore false against me will, at dinner, be eating my body and drinking my blood, as we are mingled with the dead. I hope this will be a warning to all of you, and think how our minds do feel meeting that awful hour when we shall be tied up to receive that which the whole of you will, and must, receive sooner or later, but I hope not in the same way that we three unfortunate men are going to receive it. You may put this in the newspaper, if you please.

George Packman, I hope you will read these few lines to those whose names are in here, all of them, and hope they will take a warning by your past conduct.

We remember and thank the Gentlemen that tried to do us good, and tell them we are extremely obliged to them for so doing, and think this is the last we can say this side of the grave. I hope you’ll tell all the boys about our place to leave off gambling on a Sunday and breaking the Sabbath, and tell them as a warning to keep their church and be steady.

We bid you all goodbye, and God bless you all, and we hope that GOD will forgive us our sins, and take us to yonder Heavenly throne."

JOHN DYKE alias JOHN FIELD, aged 30 years.

“We have nothing more to say at present.” From your two unfortunate Sons

WM & HY PACKMAN.


The following day was the execution, Friday 24th December. Christmas Day for the Packmans must have been sombre, filled with tears and, no doubt, words from the vicar at the local church during service.

Rev Winter arrived early at the prison and visited the three prisoners in their cell. He performed divine service and read scriptures, but he didn’t administer the Sacrament. John Dyke spoke for all three of them when he said to the Chaplain, “We feel that we are not in the proper frame of mind to receive it.”

As 11 o’clock approached, the Under Sheriff arrived at the gaol, and the prisoners were told they could have only twenty more minutes. William Packman turned to his brother and remarked, “The only consolation I have is that our friends have brought a horse and cart to carry away our bodies, and that we will be decently buried.” The Chaplain rebuked him: “What would become of your body is of minor importance compared with the infinitely more weighty concerns of the soul.”

As Rev Winter left the cell, another man entered, the executioner, 30-year-old William Calcraft.

Calcraft was once a bootmaker by trade, and supplemented his income by attending public hangings and selling beer and pies to the watching crowds. He was at the execution of a London Merchant and Quaker, Joseph Hunton,

in February 1829 (A man who, after two trials, was convicted of forgery in December 1828. He was thus executed for what would later be called a white-collar crime, and on 16 August 1832 an Act of Parliament was passed to abolish the use of the death penalty for cases of forgery, when he met the hangman John Foxen.

Foxen had just been taken ill, and as Calcraft served him a tankard of beer, Foxen told him of his plight and that he now wouldn’t be able to travel to Lincoln in two days to carry out a hanging there. Calcraft agreed to carry out this execution for him, and when Foxen died a few days later, Calcraft was appointed as his successor. He was sworn in as the official Executioner for London & Middlesex, a post he held for more than forty years, during which time he carried out an estimated 450 executions. He carried out all 35 of Maidstone Prison’s executions between 1830 and 1872.


Calcraft proceeded to bind each of the prisoners’ wrists with a cord, with a second cord passed round the body and arms at the elbows – this would enable them to pray on the gallows.

Once suitably tied, the prison bell tolled, and the prisoners were led from the cell and into the prison yard where a horse-drawn wagon, with driver, awaited. The weather was bitterly cold, and snow was due.

Outside the gaol, hundreds had gathered to see the prisoners begin their uncomfortable final ride.

A guard with a blunderbuss was positioned at each of the four corners of the wagon to guard the prisoners, who were each sitting on their coffins, while six javelin men on foot surrounded it.

Ahead of the wagon, the Governor of the Gaol and the Sheriff’s officers rode on horseback, and carried black wands. The Under Sheriff, Mr W Scudamore Esq. sat alongside Rev Winter in a post chaise, and the sombre procession left the gaol.

Rumours of a rescue attempt had been heard that morning, so a troop of Scots Greys escorted it.


The place of execution was Penenden Heath, about a mile away – its very name taken from the Old English pinian meaning ‘to punish’. It had served as an execution site since Anglo-Saxon times, with many witch trials held there through the centuries, with the guilty burnt at the stake.

The gallows had been set up in readiness, and three halter-style nooses hung from the wooden structure, which Calcraft had prepared earlier that morning. These consisted of a loop worked into one end of a piece of hemp rope, with the other end passed through it, and secured to the cross-beam of the gallows. Each was positioned over a wooden platform with a trapdoor.

On the Heath that day, a huge, noisy crowd of around 5,000 awaited, eagerly anticipating the day’s event. Street vendors turned up to ply their wares, while pickpockets moved about freely among the unsuspecting. Many came to jeer and mock, while others felt compassion. Then, slowly, heads turned as the procession approached the execution site.

The wagon drew up close to the gallows, and the crowd surged forward, eager to get the best view.


Rev Winter climbed onto the wagon and began to recite the Lord’s Prayer, with the prisoners joining in “with loud, audible voices” but with a demeanour that “betrayed an entire insensibility to their situation.” The Chaplain leant forward to John Dyke, saying, “Now you have come to the worst, and there is no chance of escape, do tell the truth.” He answered, “I am innocent.”

Dyke was then led to the scaffold where Calcraft placed the rope around his neck.

Henry Packman gazed up at the gallows and, in a voice heard by all, exclaimed, “That looks an awful thing!”


A small group of people then approached the wagon in which the brothers sat. Some of the Packman family had come to say goodbye. Their father, 51-year-old Thomas, was there with their older brothers George and James, who had got leave from the Navy to attend, along with sister Emily, who had just turned sixteen. She was described as 'having the beautiful good looks of a gypsy princess', and clung to brother George for support, whilst amid “paroxysms of grief”. She gazed at her doomed siblings through tears of love and despair. Each, in turn, tenderly embraced William and Henry, and earnestly cried out for Divine mercy to be upon them. The family's grief seemed to have little effect on the brothers.

William seemed unconcerned as he said to his father Thomas, “Don’t take on so, father,” whilst Henry asked, “Where have you left poor mother?” Lydia Packman remained at home in Blean, with her four youngest children, unable to cope with the final moments of her sons' deaths and had visited the prison with the younger children to say their goodbyes; their mother wept bitterly at her wretched sons. At the same time, they tried to comfort her, saying it would all be over soon.

The relatives were then led away: first Henry walked firmly onto the platform, followed by William, but his steps faltered. Calcraft adjusted the halters around the necks of all three men.

The Chaplain repeated, in a low tone, to Dyke, “Now you have come to the worst, and there is no chance of escape; do tell the truth.” He answered, “I am innocent


Dyke was then allowed to address the crowd, and he read from a paper:

“To the congregation at large, I will now state a few lines to plead my innocence. Hewitt and his wife have both sworn falsely against me, which I am now going to suffer for. I think they know more about it than I do myself; they both said Stokes’ barn would soon be in flames. I told them Stokes’ barn was on fire, that I saw a man there, and if it was not soon put out he would soon see it in flames. Mrs Hewitt swore I had been to Boughton, and after that I went to Storrington, and Cobb gave me a supper; he gave me a dinner, for I left the house at twelve o’clock at noon. I have been at Maidstone gaol three times, all three of the powers, Military, Naval and Civil, and three times a deserter; but twice out of the three times I was in gaol, ‘twas for desertion.

Yesterday two letters came about my having had concerns with a fire, but I very soon cleared up that point in my innocence. I would clear up my point more if the Judge would let me ask those persons I sent for before my sentence was passed. They wouldn’t give me the liberty of doing that, but I hope God will forgive me. I forgive everyone, and I hope and trust that you will take warning from my unhappy fate. I can state everything very clearly in my innocence, but they will not hear what I say since I have been doomed to die. I wrote the particulars and the truth and gave it to a gentleman, and he called them quibbles!! If truth is quibbles, and false swearing truth, to be taken, you all must mind what you say. It is not worth saying any more in writing. I say it with my lips, and you may pen it down if you please. The advice, mind the ninth commandment.”


Henry Packman then spoke out, and in a confident voice which belied the gravity of his predicament, related his own version of the events of that fateful November night:

“Well, I hope you’ll all take warning by our fate. We have been innocently led into it. He [meaning the accomplice Bishop] came to us and asked us if we had a mind to have a fire. We said we didn’t know, and he said, "If you’ll go along with me, you’ll need not do anything." Well, we put it off till the next Sunday. I went to a funeral, and when I came back I saw Bishop, and he said, “Are you in a mind to have a fire? I don’t want you to do anything.” They gave away beer at the parish funeral, and we stopped at the public house till near ten o’clock. When we left the house, Bishop went home and fetched a tinder box and matches. He then went to get some straw to set Perrin’s stack alight. He says, “Let us set the barn afire. I don’t want you to do anything.” With that, he pulled out the tinder box and said, “Are you ready?” I said, “I won’t go to fire the stack.” He said, "Very well," and told my brother to strike a light. He then gave the box to Bishop, and we all ran away. Before we had gone 12 rods, the barn was in flames. We lay down under a hedge, and then ran into the wood. I said, “How sorry I am!” and my brother said so too. Bishop said, “Hurrah! Who says we can’t have a fire too, as well as them at Blean?” We then went to the fire to help. Next morning we were all taken up and went to gaol. I saw Bishop in the week, through the window. I told him we had agreed to tell the same story, and that we would not split. He said the same. That was on Thursday. Bishop’s father came to see him afterwards and told him that if he did not split, he would. Bishop then split against us. He gave evidence against us for the sake of ten hundred pounds; five hundred from the county. I would rather be hanged than split on Bishop. Good bye to you all.”

Calcraft placed hoods on all three men, and Henry said to William, “Brother, let us shake hands before we die.” This they did, and as they embraced, all three men called out, “Goodbye.” William suddenly lifted his hood above his eyes, and when Calcraft told him to pull it back down, he refused at first, saying that he “wished to see the people”. He eventually complied; the bolt was released, and the trapdoor fell. Within a minute, all three hung lifeless.

It was widely reported that “the two brothers seemed to suffer little, but Dyke struggled a lot.”


They had all been convicted of arson, arising out of the unhappy state of Kent. Dyke had invariably protested his innocence since his conviction; the other did not deny having set fire to Mr Wraight’s stack and barn, but said that their accomplice had urged them to it, for the sake of the reward of £1000. They paid little attention to their religious duties, and, in consequence, the Sacrament was not administered to any of the three on the morning of the execution.

In accordance with legal requirement, the bodies remained in position for one hour, as on that bitterly cold morning, the snow began to fall heavily. The onlookers started to drift away, and with few left to see, the bodies were released to their friends and family.

This was the last public execution to be carried out on Penenden Heath. After this, they were held outside the main gate of Maidstone Prison until 1868, when the punishments became private affairs inside the gaol.


The bodies of William and Henry Packman had to be taken 30 miles back to Blean. The journey became extremely difficult, as the settling snow slowed the cart’s progress. They made it back to Blean the day after Boxing Day, and on 28 December 1830, the Packman family finally buried William and Henry in the churchyard at St Cosmus & St Damian. Rev Fielding entered both their names in the burial register, adding “Executed on Penenden Heath for arson”.


Dyke was taken back to Bearsted, just two miles away, for burial in Holy Cross churchyard later that day. At midnight, friends assembled to chant a psalm over his grave, and fire a gunshot. The soldier was no longer a fugitive.

In Holy Cross churchyard in Bearsted, the stump of a Canadian cypress tree is known as the Mourning Tree. It marked the burial place of John Dyke. The stump has 1996 carved on it, the year the tree was felled. Close to it is a tablet inscribed:

Turned out some years later, on his deathbed, Hewitt, the man who testified it was Dyk, and who was also buried in the same churchyard, confessed to the crime for which Dyke hanged for.


Nearly 2,000 protesters were tried in 1830–1831. 252 were sentenced to death (though only 19 were actually hanged), 644 were imprisoned, and 481 were transported to penal colonies in Australia.

Not all rioters were farm workers; the list of those punished included rural artisans, shoemakers, carpenters, wheelwrights, blacksmiths, and cobblers.

One of those hanged was reported to have been charged only because he had knocked the hat off the head of a member of the Baring banking family.

Many of the transported protesters had their sentences remitted in 1835.


Life After

The farmers eventually agreed to raise wages, and some landlords reduced the tithes and rents. However, many farmers reneged on the agreements, and the unrest increased.

People advocated political reform as the only solution to the unrest, including the radical politician and writer William Cobbett. The authorities received requests to prosecute him for speeches he made in defence of the rural labourer. Still, he was eventually charged with seditious libel for his articles in the Political Register. He wrote an article, 'The Rural War', about the Swing Riots. He blamed those in society who lived off unearned income at the expense of hard-working agricultural labourers; he proposed parliamentary reform as a solution.

During his trial in July 1831 at the Guildhall, he subpoenaed six cabinet members, including the prime minister.

Cobbett defended himself by going on the attack. He tried to ask the government ministers awkward questions supporting his case, but the Lord Chief Justice disallowed them. However, he disproved the prosecution's case, and, to the government's embarrassment, he was acquitted.

Eventually, the government passed the Great Reform Act 1832. The legislation granted the right to vote to a broader segment of the male population by standardising property qualifications, extending the franchise to small landowners, tenant farmers, shopkeepers, and all householders who paid a yearly rental of £10 or more.

The Act was the first of several reforms that over the course of a century transformed the British political system from one based on privilege and corruption to one based on universal suffrage and the secret ballot. In domestic elections before the Great Reform Act 1832, only about three per cent of the English population could vote, and elections were often corrupt. Most constituencies dated back to the Middle Ages, so newly industrial northern England had virtually no representation. Those who could vote were mainly the large landowners and wealthy commoners.

The Great Reform Act 1832 was followed by the Poor Law Amendment Act 1834, which ended "outdoor relief" in cash or kind and set up a chain of unwholesome workhouses across the country, which people experiencing poverty had to enter if they wanted help.


The Packman family

By 1841, Thomas and Lydia had moved to Rough Common, Harbledown, closer to Canterbury. They may have found it difficult to stay in Blean after. Then, by 1851, they were living in Ryde Street, St Dunstan, Canterbury. Thomas died in 1859, aged 80, from old age at home in Ryde Street. Lydia was aged 77 and remained at Ryde Street, then by 1871 went to live with her youngest daughter Eliza, who had married in 1855 to John Joslin, a Bricklayer from Canterbury, and she died aged 91.

The children all married and had children; some named them after their brothers.


Bishop Family

Jenkins Thomas married his housekeeper, Phillis Wanstall, on 30 May 1831 in Blean, after she became widowed in January. They had moved to Harbledown, and Jenkins died in March 1855, aged 55. Phillis moved in with her youngest married daughter Amy and died in 1875, aged 90.

George Bishop is more difficult to find, as his father's brother also had a son named George around the same time, and the DOB on the census isn't always correct; they can also change where they were born, so I don't have any confirmed data on him. There is a record of a Private soldier. His brothers were seamen, so that he might have joined the army. He may have moved away if the villagers turned against him for what he did to the brothers. This will remain a mystery for this blog, but I hope he learnt a lesson and regretted what he was responsible for.


Sources

 
 
 

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