But after this the long days in prison for Clyde. Except for a weekly visit from his mother, who, once she wasentered upon her work, found it difficult to see him more often than that--traveling as she did in the next twomonths between Albany and Buffalo and even New York City--but without the success she had at first hoped for.
For in the matter of her appeal to the churches and the public--as most wearily (and in secret if not to Clyde)-andafter three weeks of more or less regional and purely sectarian trying, she was compelled to report theChristians at least were very indifferent--not as Christian as they should be. For as all, but more particularly theministers of the region, since they most guardedly and reservedly represented their congregations in everyinstance, unanimously saw it, here was a notorious and, of course, most unsavory trial which had resulted in aconviction with which the more conservative element of the country--if one could judge by the papers at least,were in agreement.
Besides who was this woman--as well as her son? An exhorter-- a secret preacher--one, who in defiance of all thetenets and processes of organized and historic, as well as hieratic, religious powers and forms (theologicalseminaries, organized churches and their affiliations and product--all carefully and advisedly and legitimatelybecause historically and dogmatically interpreting the word of God) choosing to walk forth and withoutordination after any fashion conduct an unauthorized and hence nondescript mission. Besides if she hadremained at home, as a good mother should, and devoted herself to her son, as well as to her other children--theircare and education--would this--have happened
And not only that--but according to Clyde's own testimony in this trial, had he not been guilty of adultery withthis girl--whether he had slain her or not? A sin almost equal to murder in many minds. Had he not confessed it
And was an appeal for a convicted adulterer--if not murderer (who could tell as to that?) to be made in a church
No,--no Christian church was the place to debate, and for a charge, the merits of this case, however much eachChristian of each and every church might sympathize with Mrs. Griffiths personally--or resent any legal injusticethat might have been done her son. No, no. It was not morally advisable. It might even tend to implant in theminds of the young some of the details of the crime.
Besides, because of what the newspapers had said of her coming east to aid her son and the picture that sheherself presented in her homely garb, it was assumed by most ministers that she was one of those erratic persons,not a constituent of any definite sect, or schooled theology, who tended by her very appearance to cast contempton true and pure religion.
And in consequence, each in turn--not hardening his heart exactly--but thinking twice--and deciding no--theremust be some better way-- less troublesome to Christians,--a public hall, perhaps, to which Christians, if properlyappealed to through the press, might well repair. And so Mrs. Griffiths, in all but one instance, rejected in thatfashion and told to go elsewhere--while in regard to the Catholics--instinctively--because of prejudice--as well asa certain dull wisdom not inconsistent with the facts--she failed even to so much as think of them. The mercies ofChrist as interpreted by the holder of the sacred keys of St. Peter, as she knew, were not for those who failed toacknowledge the authority of the Vicar of Christ.
And therefore after many days spent in futile knockings here and there she was at last compelled--and in no littledepression, to appeal to a Jew who controlled the principal moving picture theater of Utica--a sinful theater. Andfrom him, this she secured free for a morning address on the merits of her son's case--"A mother's appeal for herson," it was entitled--which netted her, at twenty-five cents per person--the amazing sum of two hundred dollars.
At first this sum, small as it was, so heartened her that she was now convinced that soon--whatever the attitude ofthe orthodox Christians--she would earn enough for Clyde's appeal. It might take time--but she would.
Nevertheless, as she soon discovered, there were other factors to be considered--carfare, her own personalexpenses in Utica and elsewhere, to say nothing of certain very necessary sums to be sent to Denver to herhusband, who had little or nothing to go on at present, and who, because of this very great tragedy in the family,had been made ill--so ill indeed that the letters from Frank and Julia were becoming very disturbing. It waspossible that he might not get well at all. Some help was necessary there.
And in consequence, in addition to paying her own expenses here, Mrs. Griffiths was literally compelled todeduct other reducing sums from this, her present and only source of income. It was terrible--considering Clyde'spredicament--but nevertheless must she not sustain herself in every way in order to win to victory? She could notreasonably abandon her husband in order to aid Clyde alone.
Yet in the face of this--as time went on, the audiences growing smaller and smaller until at last they constitutedlittle more than a handful--and barely paying her expenses--although through this process none-the-less shefinally managed to put aside--over and above all her expenses--eleven hundred dollars.
Yet, also, just at this time, and in a moment of extreme anxiety, Frank and Julia wiring her that if she desired tosee Asa again she had better come home at once. He was exceedingly low and not expected to live. Whereupon,played upon by these several difficulties and there being no single thing other than to visit him once or twice a week--as her engagements permitted--which she could do for Clyde, she now hastily conferred with Belknap andJephson, setting forth her extreme difficulties.
And these, seeing that eleven hundred dollars of all she had thus far collected was to be turned over to them,now, in a burst of humanity, advised her to return to her husband. Decidedly Clyde would do well enough for thepresent seeing that there was an entire year--or at least ten months before it was necessary to file the record andthe briefs in the case. In addition another year assuredly must elapse before a decision could be reached. And nodoubt before that time the additional part of the appeal fee could be raised. Or, if not--well, then--anyhow (seeinghow worn and distrait she was at this time) she need not worry. Messrs. Belknap and Jephson would see to it thather son's interests were properly protected. They would file an appeal and make an argument--and do whateverelse was necessary to insure her son a fair hearing at the proper time.
And with that great burden off her mind--and two last visits to Clyde in which she assured him of herdetermination to return as speedily as possible--once Asa was restored to strength again and she could see herway to financing such a return--she now departed only to find that, once she was in Denver once more, it was notso easy to restore him by any means.
And in the meantime Clyde was left to cogitate on and make the best of a world that at its best was a kind ofinferno of mental ills--above which--as above Dante's might have been written--"abandon hope--ye who enterhere."The somberness of it. Its slow and yet searing psychic force! The obvious terror and depression--constant andunshakeable of those who, in spite of all their courage or their fears, their bravado or their real indifference (therewere even those) were still compelled to think and wait. For, now, in connection with this coldest and bitterestform of prison life he was in constant psychic, if not physical contact, with twenty other convicted characters ofvarying temperaments and nationalities, each one of whom, like himself, had responded to some heat or lust ormisery of his nature or his circumstances. And with murder, a mental as well as physical explosion, as the finaloutcome or concluding episode which, being detected, and after what horrors and wearinesses of mental as wellas legal contest and failure, such as fairly paralleled his own, now found themselves islanded--immured--in oneor another of these twenty-two iron cages and awaiting--awaiting what
How well they knew. And how well he knew. And here with what loud public rages and despairs or prayers--attimes. At others--what curses--foal or coarse jests--or tales addressed to all--or ribald laughter--or sighings andgroanings in these later hours when the straining spirit having struggled to silence, there was supposedly rest forthe body and the spirit.
In an exercise court, beyond the farthermost end of the long corridor, twice daily, for a few minutes each time,between the hours of ten and five--the various inmates in groups of five or six were led forth--to breathe, to walk,to practice calisthenics--or run and leap as they chose. But always under the watchful eyes of sufficient guards tomaster them in case they attempted rebellion in any form. And to this it was, beginning with the second day, thatClyde himself was led, now with one set of men and now with another. But with the feeling at first strong in himthat he could not share in any of these public activities which, nevertheless, these others--and in spite of theirimpending doom--seemed willing enough to indulge in.
The two dark-eyed sinister-looking Italians, one of whom had slain a girl because she would not marry him; theother who had robbed and then slain and attempted to burn the body of his father-in-law in order to get moneyfor himself and his wife! And big Larry Donahue--square-headed, square-shouldered--big of feet and hands, anoverseas soldier, who, being ejected from a job as night watchman in a Brooklyn factory, had lain for theforeman who had discharged him--and then killed him on an open common somewhere at night, but without theskill to keep from losing a service medal which had eventually served to betray and identify him. Clyde hadlearned all this from the strangely indifferent and non-committal, yet seemingly friendly guards, who were overthese cells by night and by day--two and two, turn about--who relieved each other every eight hours. And policeofficer Riordan of Rochester, who had killed his wife because she was determined to leave him--and now,himself, was to die. And Thomas Mowrer, the young "farmer" or farm hand, as he really was, whom Clyde onhis first night had heard moaning--a man who had killed his employer with a pitchfork--and was soon to dienow--as Clyde heard, and who walked and walked, keeping close to the wall--his head down, his hands behindhis back--a rude, strong, loutish man of about thirty, who looked more beaten and betrayed than as though he hadbeen able to torture or destroy another. Clyde wondered about him--his real guilt.
Again Miller Nicholson, a lawyer of Buffalo of perhaps forty years of age who was tall and slim and decidedlysuperior looking--a refined, intellectual type, one you would have said was no murderer--any more than Clyde-tolook at, who, none-the-less was convicted of poisoning an old man of great wealth and afterwards attemptingto convert his fortune to his own use. Yet decidedly with nothing in his look or manner, as Clyde felt, at least,which marked him as one so evil--a polite and courteous man, who, noting Clyde on the very first morning of hisarrival here, approached and said: "Scared?" But in the most gentle and solicitous tone, as Clyde could hear andfeel, even though he stood blank and icy-- afraid almost to move--or think. Yet in this mood--and because he feltso truly done for, replying: "Yes, I guess I am." But once it was out, wondering why he had said it (so weak aconfession) and afterwards something in the man heartening him, wishing that he had not.
Your name's Griffiths, isn't it?""Yes.""Well, my name's Nicholson. Don't be frightened. You'll get used to it." He achieved a cheerful, if wan smile.
But his eyes--they did not seem like that--no smile there.
I don't suppose I'm so scared either," replied Clyde, trying to modify his first, quick and unintended confession.
Well, that's good. Be game. We all have to be here--or the whole place would go crazy. Better breathe a little.
Or walk fast. It'll do you good."He moved away a few paces and began exercising his arms while Clyde stood there, saying--almost loudly--soshaken was he still: "We all have to be or the whole place would go crazy." That was true, as he could see andfeel after that first night. Crazy, indeed. Tortured to death, maybe, by being compelled to witness these terribleand completely destroying--and for each--impending tragedies. But how long would he have to endure this? Howlong would he
In the course of a day or two, again he found this death house was not quite like that either--not all terror--on the surface at least. It was in reality--and in spite of impending death in every instance, a place of taunt and jibe andjest--even games, athletics, the stage--all forms of human contest of skill--or the arguments on every conceivabletopic from death and women to lack of it, as far at least as the general low intelligence of the group permitted.
For the most part, as soon as breakfast was over--among those who were not called upon to join the first groupfor exercise, there were checkers or cards, two games that were played--not with a single set of checkers or adeck of cards between groups released from their cells, but by one of the ever present keepers providing twochallenging prisoners (if it were checkers) with one checker-board but no checkers. They were not needed.
Thereafter the opening move was called by one. "I move from G 2 to E 1"--each square being numbered--eachside lettered. The moves checked with a pencil.
Thereafter the second party--having recorded this move on his own board and having studied the effect of it onhis own general position, would call: "I move from E 7 to F 5." If more of those present decided to join in this-eitheron one side or the other, additional boards and pencils were passed to each signifying his desire. ThenShorty Bristol, desiring to aid "Dutch" Swighort, three cells down, might call: "I wouldn't do that, Dutch. Wait aminute, there's a better move than that." And so on with taunts, oaths, laughter, arguments, according to thevarying fortunes and difficulties of the game. And so, too, with cards. These were played with each man lockedin his cell, yet quite as successfully.
But Clyde did not care for cards--or for these jibing and coarse hours of conversation. There was for him--andwith the exception of the speech of one--Nicholson--alone, too much ribald and even brutal talk which he couldnot appreciate. But he was drawn to Nicholson. He was beginning to think after a time--a few days--that thislawyer--his presence and companionship during the exercise hour--whenever they chanced to be in the same set-couldhelp him to endure this. He was the most intelligent and respectable man here. The others were all sodifferent--taciturn at times--and for the most part so sinister, crude or remote.
But then and that not more than a week after his coming here--and when, because of his interest in Nicholson, hewas beginning to feel slightly sustained at least--the execution of Pasquale Cutrone, of Brooklyn, an Italian,convicted of the slaying of his brother for attempting to seduce his wife. He had one of the cells nearest thetransverse passage, so Clyde learned after arriving, and had in part lost his mind from worrying. At any rate hewas invariably left in his cell when the others--in groups of six--were taken for exercise. But the horror of hisemaciated face, as Clyde passed and occasionally looked in--a face divided into three grim panels by two guttersor prison lines of misery that led from the eyes to the corners of the mouth.
Beginning with his, Clyde's arrival, as he learned, Pasquale had begun to pray night and day. For already, beforethat, he had been notified of the approximate date of his death which was to be within the week. And after that hewas given to crawling up and down his cell on his hands and knees, kissing the floor, licking the feet of a brassChrist on a cross that had been given him. Also he was repeatedly visited by an Italian brother and sister freshfrom Italy and for whose benefit at certain hours, he was removed to the old death house. But as all nowwhispered, Pasquale was mentally beyond any help that might lie in brothers or sisters.
All night long and all day long, when they were not present, he did this crawling to and fro and praying, andthose who were awake and trying to read to pass the time, were compelled to listen to his mumbled prayers, theclick of the beads of a rosary on which he was numbering numberless Our Fathers and Hail Marys.
And though there were voices which occasionally said: "Oh, for Christ's sake--if he would only sleep a little"-stillon, on. And the tap of his forehead on the floor--in prayer, until at last the fatal day preceding the one onwhich he was to die, when Pasquale was taken from his cell here and escorted to another in the old death housebeyond and where, before the following morning, as Clyde later learned, last farewells, if any, were to be said.
Also he was to be allowed a few hours in which to prepare his soul for his maker.
But throughout that night what a strange condition was this that settled upon all who were of this fatal room. Fewate any supper as the departing trays showed. There was silence--and after that mumbled prayers on the part ofsome--not so greatly removed by time from Pasquale's fate, as they knew. One Italian, sentenced for the murderof a bank watchman, became hysterical, screamed, dashed the chair and table of his cell against the bars of hisdoor, tore the sheets of his bed to shreds and even sought to strangle himself before eventually he wasoverpowered and removed to a cell in a different part of the building to be observed as to his sanity.
As for the others, throughout this excitement, one could hear them walking and mumbling or calling to theguards to do something. And as for Clyde, never having experienced or imagined such a scene, he was literallyshivering with fear and horror. All through the last night of this man's life he lay on his pallet, chasing phantoms.
So this was what death was like here; men cried, prayed, they lost their minds--yet the deadly process was in noway halted, for all their terror. Instead, at ten o'clock and in order to quiet all those who were left, a cold lunchwas brought in and offered--but with none eating save the Chinaman over the way.
And then at four the following morning--the keepers in charge of the deadly work coming silently along the mainpassage and drawing the heavy green curtains with which the cells were equipped so that none might see the fatalprocession which was yet to return along the transverse passage from the old death house to the execution room.
And yet with Clyde and all the others waking and sitting up at the sound.
It was here, the execution! The hour of death was at hand. This was the signal. In their separate cells, many ofthose who through fear or contrition, or because of innate religious convictions, had been recalled to some formof shielding or comforting faith, were upon their knees praying. Among the rest were others who merely walkedor muttered. And still others who screamed from time to time in an incontrollable fever of terror.
As for Clyde he was numb and dumb. Almost thoughtless. They were going to kill that man in that other room inthere. That chair--that chair that he had so greatly feared this long while was in there--was so close now. Yet histime as Jephson and his mother had told him was so long and distant as yet--if ever--ever it was to be--if ever-ever-But now other sounds. Certain walkings to and fro. A cell door clanking somewhere. Then plainly the doorleading from the old death house into this room opening--for there was a voice--several voices indistinct as yet.
Then another voice a little clearer as if some one praying. That tell-tale shuffling of feet as a procession movedacross and through that passage. "Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy.""Mary, Mother of Grace, Mary, Mother of Mercy, St. Michael, pray for me; my good Angel, pray for me.""Holy Mary, pray for me; St. Joseph, pray for me. St. Ambrose, pray for me; all ye saints and angels, pray for me.""St. Michael, pray for me; my good Angel, pray for me."It was the voice of the priest accompanying the doomed man and reciting a litany. Yet he was no longer in hisright mind they said. And yet was not that his voice mumbling too? It was. Clyde could tell. He had heard it toomuch recently. And now that other door would be opened. He would be looking through it--this condemnedman--so soon to be dead--at it--seeing it--that cap-- those straps. Oh, he knew all about those by now though theyshould never come to be put upon him, maybe.
Good-by, Cutrone!" It was a hoarse, shaky voice from some near-by cell--Clyde could not tell which. "Go to abetter world than this." And then other voices: "Goodby, Cutrone. God keep you--even though you can't talkEnglish."The procession had passed. That door was shut. He was in there now. They were strapping him in, no doubt.
Asking him what more he had to say--he who was no longer quite right in his mind. Now the straps must befastened on, surely. The cap pulled down. In a moment, a moment, surely-And then, although Clyde did not know or notice at the moment--a sudden dimming of the lights in this room--aswell as over the prison--an idiotic or thoughtless result of having one electric system to supply the death voltageand the incandescence of this and all other rooms. And instantly a voice calling
There she goes. That's one. Well, it's all over with him."And a second voice: "Yes, he's topped off, poor devil."And then after the lapse of a minute perhaps, a second dimming lasting for thirty seconds--and finally a thirddimming.
There--sure--that's the end now.""Yes. He knows what's on the other side now."Thereafter silence--a deadly hush with later some murmured prayers here and there. But with Clyde cold andwith a kind of shaking ague. He dared not think--let alone cry. So that's how it was. They drew the curtains. Andthen--and then. He was gone now. Those three dimmings of the lights. Sure, those were the flashes. And after allthose nights at prayer. Those moanings! Those beatings of his head! And only a minute ago he had been alive-walkingby there. But now dead. And some day he--he!--how could he be sure that he would not? How could he
He shook and shook, lying on his couch, face down. The keepers came and ran up the curtains--as sure andsecure in their lives apparently as though there was no death in the world. And afterwards he could hear themtalking--not to him so much--he had proved too reticent thus far--but to some of the others.
Poor Pasquale. This whole business of the death penalty was all wrong. The warden thought so. So did they. He was working to have it abolished.
But that man! His prayers! And now he was gone. His cell over there was empty and another man would be putin it--to go too, later. Some one--many--like Cutrone, like himself--had been in this one--on this pallet. He satup--moved to the chair. But he--they--had sat on that--too. He stood up--only to sink down on the pallet again.
God! God! God! God!" he now exclaimed to himself--but not aloud--and yet not unlike that other man who hadso terrorized him on the night of his arrival here and who was still here. But he would go too. And all of theseothers--and himself maybe--unless-- unless.
He had seen his first man die.