Public opinion had been triumphantly vindicated. The insanity plea had
broken down, and Albert Prior was sentenced to be hanged by the neck
until he was dead, and might the Lord have mercy on his soul. Everybody
agreed that it was a righteous verdict, but now that he was sentenced
they added, "Poor fellow!"
Albert Prior was a young man who had had more of his own way than was
good for him. His own family--father, mother, brother, and sisters--had
given way to him so much, that he appeared to think the world at large
should do the same. The world differed with him. Unfortunately, the
first to oppose his violent will was a woman--a girl almost. She would
have nothing to do with him, and told him so. He stormed, of course,
but did not look upon her opposition as serious. No girl in her senses
could continue to refuse a young man with his prospects in life. But
when he heard that she had become engaged to young Bowen, the telegraph
operator, Prior's rage passed all bounds. He determined to frighten
Bowen out of the place, and called at the telegraph office for that
laudable purpose; but Bowen was the night operator, and was absent. The
day man, with a smile, not knowing what he did, said Bowen would likely
be found at the Parker Place, where Miss Johnson lived with her aunt,
her parents being dead.
Prior ground his teeth and departed. He found Miss Johnson at home, but
alone. There was a stormy scene, ending with the tragedy. He fired four
times at her, keeping the other two bullets for himself. But he was a
coward and a cur at heart, and when it came to the point of putting the
two bullets in himself he quailed, and thought it best to escape. Then
electricity did him its first dis-service. It sent his description far
and wide, capturing him twenty-five miles from his home. He was taken
back to the county town where he lived, and lodged in gaol.
Public opinion, ever right and all-powerful, now asserted itself. The
outward and visible sign of its action was an ominous gathering of
dark-browed citizens outside the gaol. There were determined mutterings
among the crowd rather than outspoken anger, but the mob was the more
dangerous on that account. One man in its midst thrust his closed hand
towards the sky, and from his fist dangled a rope. A cry like the
growling of a pack of wolves went up as the mob saw the rope, and they
clamoured at the gates of the gaol. "Lynch him! Gaoler, give up the
keys!" was the cry.
The agitated sheriff knew his duty, but he hesitated to perform it.
Technically, this was a mob--a mob of outlaws; but in reality it was
composed of his fellow-townsmen, his neighbours, his friends--justly
indignant at the commission of an atrocious crime. He might order them
to be fired upon, and the order perhaps would be obeyed. One, two, a
dozen might be killed, and technically again they would have deserved
their fate; yet all that perfectly legal slaughter would be--for what?
To save, for a time only, the worthless life of a wretch who rightly
merited any doom the future might have in store for him. So the sheriff
wrung his hands, bewailed the fact that such a crisis should have
arisen during his term of office, and did nothing; while the clamours
of the mob grew so loud that the trembling prisoner in his cell heard
it, and broke out into a cold sweat when he quickly realised what it
meant. He was to have a dose of justice in the raw.
"What shall I do?" asked the gaoler. "Give up the keys?"
"I don't know what to do," cried the sheriff, despairingly. "Would
there be any use in speaking to them, do you think?"
"Not the slightest."
"I ought to call on them to disperse, and if they refused I suppose I
should have them fired on."
"That is the law," answered the gaoler, grimly.
"What would you do if you were in my place?" appealed the sheriff. It
was evident the stern Roman Father was not elected by popular vote in
_that_ county.
"Me?" said the gaoler. "Oh, I'd give 'em the keys, and let 'em hang
him. It'll save you the trouble. If you have 'em fired on, you're sure
to kill the very men who are at this moment urging 'em to go home.
There's always an innocent man in a mob, and he's the one to get hurt
every time."
"Well then, Perkins, you give them the keys; but for Heaven's sake
don't say I told you. They'll be sorry for this to-morrow. You know I'm
elected, but you're appointed, so you don't need to mind what people
say."
"That's all right," said the gaoler, "I'll stand the brunt."
But the keys were not given up. The clamour had ceased. A young man
with pale face and red eyes stood on the top of the stone wall that
surrounded the gaol. He held up his hand and there was instant silence.
They all recognised him as Bowen, the night operator, to whom
_she_ had been engaged.
"Gentlemen," he cried--and his clear voice reached the outskirts of the
crowd--"don't do it. Don't put an everlasting stain on the fair name of
our town. No one has ever been lynched in this county and none in this
State, so far as I know. Don't let us begin it. If I thought the
miserable scoundrel inside would escape--if I thought his money would
buy him off--I'd be the man to lead you to batter down those doors and
hang him on the nearest tree--and you know it." There were cheers at
this. "But he won't escape. His money can't buy him off. He will be
hanged by the law. Don't think it's mercy I'm preaching; it's
vengeance!" Bowen shook his clenched fist at the gaol. "That wretch
there has been in hell ever since he heard your shouts. He'll be in
hell, for he's a dastard, until the time his trembling legs carry him
to the scaffold. I want him to _stay_ in this hell till he drops
through into the other, if there is one. I want him to suffer some of
the misery he has caused. Lynching is over in a moment. I want that
murderer to die by the slow merciless cruelty of the law."
Even the worst in the crowd shuddered as they heard these words and
realised as they looked at Bowen's face, almost inhuman in its rage,
that his thirst for revenge made their own seem almost innocent. The
speech broke up the crowd. The man with the rope threw it over into the
gaol-yard, shouting to the sheriff, "Take care of it, old man, you'll
need it."
The crowd dispersed, and the sheriff, overtaking Bowen, brought his
hand down affectionately on his shoulder.
"Bowen, my boy," he said, "you're a brick. I'm everlastingly obliged to
you. You got me out of an awful hole. If you ever get into a tight
place, Bowen, come to me, and if money or influence will help you, you
can have all I've got of either."
"Thanks," said Bowen, shortly. He was not in a mood for
congratulations.
And so it came about, just as Bowen knew it would, that all the money
and influence of the Prior family could not help the murderer, and he
was sentenced to be hanged on September 21, at 6 A.M. And thus public
opinion was satisfied.
But the moment the sentence was announced, and the fate of the young
man settled, a curious change began to be noticed in public opinion. It
seemed to have veered round. There was much sympathy for the family of
course. Then there came to be much sympathy for the criminal himself.
People quoted the phrase about the worst use a man can be put to.
Ladies sent flowers to the condemned man's cell. After all, hanging
him, poor fellow, would not bring Miss Johnson back to life. However,
few spoke of Miss Johnson, she was forgotten by all but one man, who
ground his teeth when he realised the instability of public opinion.
Petitions were got up, headed by the local clergy. Women begged for
signatures, and got them. Every man and woman signed them. All except
one; and even he was urged to sign by a tearful lady, who asked him to
remember that vengeance was the Lord's.
"But the Lord has his instruments," said Bowen, grimly; "and I swear to
you, madam, that if you succeed in getting that murderer reprieved, I
will be the instrument of the Lord's vengeance."
"Oh, don't say that," pleaded the lady. "Your signature would have
_such_ an effect. You were noble once and saved him from lynching;
be noble again and save him from the gallows."
"I shall certainly not sign. It is, if you will pardon me, an insult to
ask me. If you reprieve him you will make a murderer of me, for I will
kill him when he comes out, if it is twenty years from now. You talk of
lynching; it is such work as you are doing that makes lynching
possible. The people seem all with you now, more shame to them, but the
next murder that is committed will be followed by a lynching just
because you are successful to-day."
The lady left Bowen with a sigh, depressed because of the depravity of
human nature; as indeed she had every right to be.
The Prior family was a rich and influential one. The person who is
alive has many to help; the one in the grave has few to cry for
justice. Petitions calling for mercy poured in on the governor from all
parts of the State. The good man, whose eye was entirely on his own re-
election, did not know what to do. If any one could have shown him
mathematically that this action or the other would gain or lose him
exactly so many votes, his course would have been clear, but his own
advisers were uncertain about the matter. A mistake in a little thing
like this might easily lose him the election. Sometimes it was rumoured
that the governor was going to commute the sentence to imprisonment for
life; then the rumour was contradicted.
People claimed, apparently with justice, that surely imprisonment for
life was a sufficient punishment for a young man; but every one knew in
his own heart that the commutation was only the beginning of the fight,
and that a future governor would have sufficient pressure brought to
bear upon him to let the young man go.
Up to September 20 the governor made no sign. When Bowen went to his
duties on the night of the 20th he met the sheriff.
"Has any reprieve arrived yet?" asked Bowen. The sheriff shook his head
sadly. He had never yet hanged a man, and did not wish to begin.
"No," said the sheriff. "And from what I heard this afternoon none is
likely to arrive. The governor has made up his mind at last that the
law must take its course."
"I'm glad of that," said Bowen.
"Well, I'm not."
After nine o'clock messages almost ceased coming in, and Bowen sat
reading the evening paper. Suddenly there came a call for the office,
and the operator answered. As the message came over the wire, Bowen
wrote it down mechanically from the clicking instrument, not
understanding its purport; but when he read it, he jumped to his feet,
with an oath. He looked wildly around the room, then realised with a
sigh of relief that he was alone, except for the messenger boy who sat
dozing in a corner, with his cap over his eyes. He took up the telegram
again, and read it with set teeth.
"_Sheriff of Brenting County, Brentingville_.
"Do not proceed further with execution of Prior. Sentence commuted.
Documents sent off by to-night's mail registered. Answer that you
understand this message.
"JOHN DAY, _Governor_."
[Illustration: "DO NOT PROCEED FURTHER WITH EXECUTION"]
Bowen walked up and down the room with knitted brow. He was in no doubt
as to what he would do, but he wanted to think over it. The telegraph
instrument called to him and he turned to it, giving the answering
click. The message was to himself from the operator at the capital, and
it told him he was to forward the sheriff's telegram without delay, and
report to the office at the capital--a man's life depended on it, the
message concluded. Bowen answered that the telegram to the sheriff
would be immediately sent.