"The truth is that torture is as British as cricket or crumpets", argues a book at pains (ha!) to disabuse readers of the notion that the practice was banned by Magna Carta*. Yet in other ways it's an endearingly naive account: the opening line offers the definition "Torture is the practice of inflicting severe pain on people, either to punish them or persuade them to say or do something", apparently unaware that there have always been plenty of people for whom inflicting severe pain is its own reward. Still, there is a useful distinction to be drawn, in that back in the day, differences between English** and Continental law, the latter of which required either eyewitnesses or confession, meant there was more call for interrogatory torture there, whereas here it was generally a matter of punishment. Contrary to the default image of a mediaeval dungeon, there was only one rack in Britain – 'the Duke of Exeter's daughter' – and that only in use for about a century. And the Privy Council were obliged to witness what torture they authorised - would that the same stomach were obliged for politicians who allow 'enhanced interrogation techniques' nowadays.
The line between torture and execution is necessarily hazy in places, but while the deliberately gorier demises do belong here, I'm not so sure about the amount of space devoted to more borderline cases, in particular the execution which is torturous simply through being botched - though it is interesting that Jack Ketch became the Hoover or Biro of executioners despite seemingly being a bit of a bungler. Still, the difficulty of a firm border was partly down to the way in which even for a prescribed punishment the degree of cruelty could vary hugely, depending not only on the skill of the hangman but on luck or the mood of the crowd - who were often sated by the first cruelties, thereafter tending to sympathy with the condemned, which was very much not the desired impact. Webb is not the world's finest prose stylist – he has the amateur's telltale love of exclamation marks! – but this does work fabulously well when he describes one particularly gruesome death as being thought, even at that more bloodthirsty time, "a bit much". My other favourite quote here, incidentally, was from Pepys, on one of the regicides being hanged, drawn and quartered - "he looking as cheerful as any man could do in that situation".
(A passage which, worryingly, I encountered in two different books within 24 hours, because it turned out I was reading this during the week of the anniversary of the regicide-icide)
Still, there's all manner of interesting information and consideration here, such as the way in which many punishments which seem ridiculous could in fact be horrific and crippling - consider the scold's bridle, ducking stool, riding the horse – on top of which you have the way the indignity can compound the suffering. Or consider the detail in which Matthew Hopkins, the Witchfinder General, offered as proof of one victim's guilt the impossibility of any human mind conceiving of the name 'Pyewacket'; I found this oddly reminiscent of those numpties who insist that Lovecraft or Hubbard must have been in contact with genuine inhuman intelligences, because how else could they have thought this crazy stuff up?
Some of the grimmest sections of the book are inevitably those which cover Britain's colonies - in particular the West Indies, where some slaveowners seem to have used torture pretty much for shits (literally) and giggles. It's telling that even in a history of torture, this is the one place where the author advises readers that they may wish to skip the next bit. Elsewhere, though, he does slightly overplay his hand. It's indubitably true that Britain, like other colonisers since time immemorial, used divide-and-rule tactics in conquered territories, and towards the end of Empire in particular preferred to let the locals do the torturing for the sake of clean hands and deniability. But when this lapses into the implication that the animosity between Greek and Turkish Cypriots was solely the fault of perfidious Albion's machinations...well. Stranger still, the sections on authorised atrocities carried out well within living memory segue into a portrait of the current state of affairs, distinguished by an entire and touching faith that police brutality is now entirely extinct, and that Britain would definitely never deport anyone to anywhere they might suffer torture. Would that we could all be so confident.
*A confusion stemming from 1215 also being the year that the Pope ordered the end of clerical participation in trial by ordeal, and later fostered by Edward Coke's late-career turn against torture and consequent search for legal precedent.
**Scotland, on the other hand, was well up for a spot of torture, whether that be inventive ad hoc methods of execution, or crushing a seven-year-old's fingers to get her mother's confession. I'm 1/8th Scottish, which I reckon is just enough for me to get away with jokes about that discrepancy, but I reckon I can let you do your own punchlines.
And yes, the Stuarts being the Stuarts, of course this discrepancy bred early modern extraordinary rendition.
(Netgalley ARC)