Bridgeburg and a slow train that set down a tired, distrait woman at
its depot after midnight on the eighth of December. Bitter cold and
bright stars. A lone depot assistant who on inquiry directed her to the
Bridgeburg Central House--straight up the street which now faced her,
then two blocks to her left after she reached the second street. The
sleepy night clerk of the Central House providing her instantly with a
room and, once he knew who she was, directing her to the county jail.
But she deciding after due rumination that now was not the hour. He
might be sleeping. She would go to bed and rise early in the morning.
She had sent him various telegrams. He knew that she was coming.
But as early as seven in the morning, rising, and by eight appearing
at the jail, letters, telegrams and credentials in hand. And the jail
officials, after examining the letters she carried and being convinced
of her identity, notifying Clyde of her presence. And he, depressed and
forlorn, on hearing this news, welcoming the thought of her as much
as at first he had dreaded her coming. For now things were different.
All the long grim story had been told. And because of the plausible
explanation which Jephson had provided him, he could face her perhaps
and say without a quaver that it was true--that he had not plotted to
kill Roberta--that he had not willingly left her to die in the water.
And then hurrying down to the visitor's room, where, by the courtesy of
Slack, he was permitted to talk with his mother alone.
On seeing her rise at his entrance, and hurrying to her, his troubled
intricate soul not a little dubious, yet confident also that it was to
find sanctuary, sympathy, help, perhaps--and that without criticism--in
her heart. And exclaiming with difficulty, as a lump thickened in
his throat: "Gee, Ma! I'm glad you've come." But she too moved for
words--her condemned boy in her arms--merely drawing his head to her
shoulder and then looking up. The Lord God had vouchsafed her this
much. Why not more? The ultimate freedom of her son--or if not that, at
least a new trial--a fair consideration of the evidence in his favor
which had not been had yet, of course. And so they stood for several
moments.
Then news of home, the reason for her presence, her duty as a
correspondent to interview him--later to appear with him in court
at the hour of his sentence--a situation over which Clyde winced.
Yet now, as he heard from her, his future was likely to depend on
her efforts alone. The Lycurgus Griffiths, for reasons of their own,
had decided not to aid him further. But she--if she were but able to
face the world with a sound claim--might still aid him. Had not the
Lord aided her thus far? Yet to face the world and the Lord with her
just plea she must know from him--now--the truth as to whether he had
intentionally or unintentionally struck Roberta--whether intentionally
or unintentionally he had left her to die. She had read the evidence
and his letters and had noted all the defects in his testimony. But
were those things as contended by Mason true or false?
Clyde, now as always overawed and thrown back on himself by that
uncompromising and shameless honesty which he had never been able quite
to comprehend in her, announced, with all the firmness that he could
muster--yet with a secret quavering chill in his heart--that he had
sworn to the truth. He had not done those things with which he had
been charged. He had not. But, alas, as she now said to herself, on
observing him, what was that about his eyes--a faint flicker perhaps.
He was not so sure--as self-convinced and definite as she had hoped--as
she had prayed he would be. No, no, there was something in his manner,
his words, as he spoke,--a faint recessive intonation, a sense of
something troubled, dubious, perhaps, which quite froze her now.
He was not positive enough. And so he might have plotted, in part
at least, as she had feared at first, when she had first heard of
this--might have even struck her on that lone, secret lake!--who could
tell? (the searing, destroying power of such a thought as that). And
that in the face of all his testimony to the contrary.
But "Jehovah, jirah, Thou wilt not require of a mother, in her own
and her son's darkest hour, that she doubt him,--make sure his death
through her own lack of faith? Oh, no--Thou wilt not. O Lamb of God,
Thou wilt not!" She turned; she bruised under her heel the scaly head
of this dark suspicion--as terrifying to her as his guilt was to
him. "O Absalom, my Absalom! Come, come, we will not entertain such
a thought. God himself would not urge it upon a mother." Was he not
here--her son--before her, declaring firmly that he had not done this
thing. She must believe--she would believe him utterly. She would--and
did--whatever fiend of doubt might still remain locked in the lowest
dungeon of her miserable heart. Come, come, the public should know how
she felt. She and her son would find a way. He must believe and pray.
Did he have a Bible? Did he read it? And Clyde having been long since
provided with a Bible by a prison worker, assured her that he had and
did read it.
But now she must go first to see his lawyers, next to file her
dispatch, after which she would return. But once out on the street
being immediately set upon by several reporters and eagerly questioned
as to the meaning of her presence here. Did she believe in her son's
innocence? Did she or did she not think that he had had a fair trial?
Why had she not come on before? And Mrs. Griffiths, in her direct and
earnest and motherly way, taking them into her confidence and telling
how as well as why she came to be here, also why she had not come
before.
But now that she was here she hoped to stay. The Lord would provide
the means for the salvation of her son, of whose innocence she was
convinced. Would they not ask God to help her? Would they not pray for
her success? And with the several reporters not a little moved and
impressed, assuring her that they would, of course, and thereafter
describing her to the world at large as she was--middle-aged, homely,
religious, determined, sincere and earnest and with a moving faith in
the innocence of her boy.
But the Griffiths of Lycurgus, on hearing this, resenting her coming as
one more blow. And Clyde, in his cell, on reading of it later, somewhat
shocked by the gross publicity now attending everything in connection
with him, yet, because of his mother's presence, resigned and after a
time almost happy. Whatever her faults or defects, after all she was
his mother, wasn't she? And she had come to his aid. Let the public
think what it would. Was he not in the shadow of death and she at least
had not deserted him. And with this, her suddenly manifested skill in
connecting herself in this way with a Denver paper, to praise her for.
She had never done anything like this before. And who knew but that
possibly, and even in the face of her dire poverty now, she might still
be able to solve this matter of a new trial for him and so save his
life? Who knew? And yet how much and how indifferently he had sinned
against her! Oh, how much. And still here she was--his mother still
anxious and tortured and yet loving and seeking to save his life by
writing up his own conviction for a western paper. No longer did the
shabby coat and the outlandish hat and the broad, immobile face and
somewhat stolid and crude gestures seem the racking and disturbing
things they had so little time since. She was his mother and she loved
him, and believed him and was struggling to save him.
On the other hand Belknap and Jephson on first encountering her were by
no means so much impressed. For some reason they had not anticipated so
crude and unlettered and yet convinced a figure. The wide, flat shoes.
The queer hat. The old brown coat. Yet somehow, after a few moments,
arrested by her earnestness and faith and love for her son and her
fixed, inquiring, and humanly clean and pure blue eyes in which dwelt
immaterial conviction and sacrifice with no shadow of turning.
Did they personally think her son innocent? She must know that first.
Or did they secretly believe that he was guilty? She had been so
tortured by all the contradictory evidence. God had laid a heavy cross
upon her and hers. Nevertheless, Blessed be His name! And both, seeing
and feeling her great concern, were quick to assure her that they were
convinced of Clyde's innocence. If he were executed for this alleged
crime it would be a travesty on justice.
Yet both, now that they saw her, troubled as to the source of any
further funds, her method of getting here, which she now explained,
indicating that she had nothing. And an appeal sure to cost not less
than two thousand. And Mrs. Griffiths, after an hour in their presence,
in which they made clear to her the basic cost of an appeal--covering
briefs to be prepared, arguments, trips to be made--asserting
repeatedly that she did not quite see how she was to do. Then suddenly,
and to them somewhat inconsequentially, yet movingly and dramatically,
exclaiming: "The Lord will not desert me. I know it. He has declared
himself unto me. It was His voice there in Denver that directed me to
that paper. And now that I am here, I will trust Him and He will guide
me."
But Belknap and Jephson merely looking at one another in unconvinced
and pagan astonishment. Such faith! An exhorter! An Evangelist, no
less! Yet to Jephson, here was an idea! There was the religious element
to be reckoned with everywhere--strong in its agreement with just
such faith. Assuming the Griffiths of Lycurgus to remain obdurate and
unmoved--why then--why then--and now that she was here--there were the
churches and the religious people generally. Might it not be possible,
with such a temperament and such faith as this, to appeal to the very
element that had hitherto most condemned Clyde and made his conviction
a certainty, for funds wherewith to carry this case to the court of
appeals? This lorn mother. Her faith in her boy.
Presto!
A lecture, at so much for admission, and in which, hard-pressed as
she was and could show, she would set forth the righteousness of her
boy's claim--seek to obtain the sympathy of the prejudiced public and
incidentally two thousand dollars or more with which this appeal could
be conducted.
And now Jephson, turning to her and laying the matter before her and
offering to prepare a lecture or notes--a condensation of his various
arguments--in fact, an entire lecture which she could re-arrange and
present as she chose--all the data which was the ultimate, basic truth
in regard to her son. And she, her brown cheeks flushing and her eyes
brightening, agreeing she would do it. She would try. She could do no
less than try. Verily, verily, was not this the Voice and Hand of God
in the darkest hour of her tribulation?
On the following morning Clyde was arraigned for sentence, with Mrs.
Griffiths given a seat near him and seeking, paper and pencil in hand,
to make notes of, for her, an unutterable scene, while a large crowd
surveyed her. His own mother! And acting as a reporter! Something
absurd, grotesque, insensitive, even ludicrous, about such a family
and such a scene. And to think the Griffiths of Lycurgus should be so
immediately related to them.
Yet Clyde sustained and heartened by her presence. For had she not
returned to the jail the previous afternoon with her plan? And as soon
as this was over--whatever the sentence might be--she would begin with
her work.
And so, and that almost in spite of himself, in his darkest hour,
standing up before Justice Oberwaltzer and listening first to a brief
recital of his charge and trial (which was pronounced by Oberwaltzer
to have been fair and impartial), then to the customary: "Have you
any cause which shows why the judgment of death should not now be
pronounced against you according to law?"--to which and to the
astonishment of his mother and the auditors (if not Jephson, who had
advised and urged him so to do), Clyde now in a clear and firm voice
replied:
"I am innocent of the crime as charged in the indictment. I never
killed Roberta Alden and therefore I think this sentence should not be
passed."
And then staring straight before him conscious only of the look of
admiration and love turned on him by his mother. For had not her son
now declared himself, here at this fatal moment, before all these
people? And his word here, if not in that jail, would be true, would it
not? Then her son was not guilty. He was not. He was not. Praised be
the name of the Lord in the highest. And deciding to make a great point
of this in her dispatch--so as to get it in all the papers, and in her
lecture afterwards.
However, Oberwaltzer, without the faintest sign of surprise or
perturbation, now continued: "Is there anything else you care to say?"
"No," replied Clyde, after a moment's hesitation.
"Clyde Griffiths," then concluded Oberwaltzer, "the judgment of the
Court is that you, Clyde Griffiths, for the murder in the first degree
of one, Roberta Alden, whereof you are convicted, be, and you are
hereby sentenced to the punishment of death; and it is ordered that,
within ten days after this day's session of Court, the Sheriff of this
county of Cataraqui deliver you, together with the warrant of this
Court, to the Agent and Warden of the State Prison of the State of New
York at Auburn, where you shall be kept in solitary confinement until
the week beginning Monday the 28th day of January, 19--, and, upon
some day within the week so appointed, the said Agent and Warden of
the State Prison of the State of New York at Auburn is commended to do
execution upon you, Clyde Griffiths, in the mode and manner prescribed
by the laws of the State of New York."
* * * * *
And that done, a smile from Mrs. Griffiths to her boy and an answering
smile from Clyde to her. For since he had announced that he was not
guilty--_here_--her spirit had risen in the face of this sentence. He
was really innocent,--he must be, since he had declared it here. And
Clyde because of her smile saying to himself, his mother believed in
him now. She had not been swayed by all the evidence against him. And
this faith, mistaken or not, was now so sustaining--so needed. What he
had just said was true as he now saw it. He had not struck Roberta.
That _was_ true. And therefore he was not guilty. Yet Kraut and Slack
were once more seizing him and escorting him to the cell.
Immediately thereafter his mother seating herself at a press table
proceeded to explain to contiguous press representatives now curiously
gathering about her: "You mustn't think too badly of me, you gentlemen
of the papers. I don't know much about this but it is the only way I
could think of to be with my boy. I couldn't have come otherwise." And
then one lanky correspondent stepping up to say: "Don't worry, mother.
Is there any way I can help you? Want me to straighten out what you
want to say? I'll be glad to." And then sitting down beside her and
proceeding to help her arrange her impressions in the form in which he
assumed her Denver paper might like them. And others as well offering
to do anything they could--and all greatly moved.
Two days later, the proper commitment papers having been prepared and
his mother notified of the change but not permitted to accompany him,
Clyde was removed to Auburn, the western penitentiary of the State of
New York, where in the "death house" or "Murderers' Row," as it was
called--as gloomy and torturesome an inferno as one could imagine any
human compelled to endure--a combination of some twenty-two cells on
two separate levels--he was to be restrained until ordered retried or
executed.
Yet as he traveled from Bridgeburg to this place, impressive crowds
at every station--young and old--men, women and children--all seeking
a glimpse of the astonishingly youthly slayer. And girls and women,
under the guise of kindly interest, but which, at best, spelled little
more than a desire to achieve a facile intimacy with this daring and
romantic, if unfortunate figure, throwing him a flower here and there
and calling to him gayly and loudly as the train moved out from one
station or another:
"Hello, Clyde! Hope to see you soon again. Don't stay too long down
there." "If you take an appeal, you're sure to be acquitted. We hope
so, anyhow."
And with Clyde not a little astonished and later even heartened by this
seemingly favorable discrepancy between the attitude of the crowds in
Bridgeburg and this sudden, morbid, feverish and even hectic curiosity
here, bowing and smiling and even waving with his hand. Yet thinking,
none the less, "I am on the way to the death house and they can be so
friendly. It is a wonder they dare." And with Kraut and Sissell, his
guards, because of the distinction and notoriety of being both his
captors and jailors, as well also because of these unusual attentions
from passengers on the train and individuals in these throngs without
being themselves flattered and ennobled.
But after this one brief colorful flight in the open since his arrest,
past these waiting throngs and over winter sun-lit fields and hills of
snow that reminded him of Lycurgus, Sondra, Roberta, and all that he
had so kaleidoscopically and fatally known in the twenty months just
past, the gray and restraining walls of Auburn itself--with, once he
was presented to a clerk in the warden's office and his name and crime
entered in the books--himself assigned to two assistants, who saw to
it that he was given a prison bath and hair cut--all the wavy, black
hair he so much admired cut away--a prison-striped uniform and hideous
cap of the same material, prison underwear and heavy gray felt shoes
to quiet the restless prison tread in which in time he might indulge,
together with the number, 77221.
And so accoutered, immediately transferred to the death house proper,
where in a cell on the ground floor he was now locked--a squarish
light clean space, eight by ten feet in size and fitted with sanitary
plumbing as well as a cot bed, a table, a chair and a small rack for
books. And here then, while he barely sensed that there were other
cells about him--ranging up and down a wide hall--he first stood--and
then seated himself--now no longer buoyed by the more intimate and
sociable life of the jail at Bridgeburg--or those strange throngs and
scenes that had punctuated his trip here.
The hectic tensity and misery of these hours! That sentence to die;
that trip with all those people calling to him; that cutting of his
hair downstairs in that prison barber shop--and by a convict; the
suit and underwear that was now his and that he now had on. There was
no mirror here--or anywhere,--but no matter--he could feel how he
looked. This baggy coat and trousers and this striped cap. He threw it
hopelessly to the floor. For but an hour before he had been clothed in
a decent suit and shirt and tie and shoes, and his appearance had been
neat and pleasing as he himself had thought as he left Bridgeburg. But
now--how must he look? And to-morrow his mother would be coming--and
later Jephson or Belknap, maybe. God!
But worse--there, in that cell directly opposite him, a sallow and
emaciated and sinister-looking Chinaman in a suit exactly like his
own, who had come to the bars of his door and was looking at him out
of inscrutable slant eyes, but as immediately turning and scratching
himself--vermin, maybe, as Clyde immediately feared. There had been
bedbugs at Bridgeburg.
A Chinese murderer. For was not this the death house? But as good as
himself here. And with a garb like his own. Thank God visitors were
probably not many. He had heard from his mother that scarcely any
were allowed--that only she and Belknap and Jephson and any minister
he chose might come once a week. But now these hard, white-painted
walls brightly lighted by wide unobstructed skylights by day as he
could see--by incandescent lamps in the hall without at night--yet
all so different from Bridgeburg,--so much more bright or harsh
illuminatively. For there, the jail being old, the walls were a
gray-brown, and not very clean--the cells larger, the furnishings more
numerous--a table with a cloth on it at times, books, papers, a chess-
and checker-board--whereas here--here was nothing, these hard narrow
walls--the iron bars rising to a heavy solid ceiling above--and that
very, very heavy iron door which yet--like the one at Bridgeburg, had a
small hole through which food would be passed, of course.
But just then a voice from somewhere:
"Hey! we got a new one wid us, fellers! Ground tier, second cell,
east." And then a second voice: "You don't say. Wot's he like?" And a
third: "Wot's yer name, new man? Don't be scared. You ain't no worse
off than the rest of us." And then the first voice, answering number
two: "Kinda tall and skinny. A kid. Looks a little like mamma's boy,
but not bad at dat. Hey, you! Tell us your name!"
And Clyde, amazed and dumb and pondering. For how was one to take such
an introduction as this? What to say--what to do? Should he be friendly
with these men? Yet, his instinct for tact prompting him even here to
reply, most courteously and promptly: "Clyde Griffiths." And one of
the first voices continuing: "Oh, sure! We know who you are. Welcome,
Griffiths. We ain't as bad as we sound. We been readin' a lot about
you, up dere in Bridgeburg. We thought you'd be along pretty soon now."
And another voice: "You don't want to be too down. It ain't so worse
here. At least de place is all right--a roof over your head, as dey
say." And then a laugh from somewhere.
But Clyde, too horrified and sickened for words, was sadly gazing at
the walls and door, then over at the Chinaman, who, silent at his
door, was once more gazing at him. Horrible! Horrible! And they talked
to each other like that, and to a stranger among them so familiarly.
No thought for his wretchedness, his strangeness, his timidity--the
horror he must be suffering. But why should a murderer seem timid to
any one, perhaps, or miserable? Worst of all they had been speculating
_here_ as to how long it would be before he would be along which meant
that everything, concerning him was known here. Would they nag--or
bully--or make trouble for one unless one did just as they wished? If
Sondra, or any one of all the people he had known, should see or even
dream of him as he was here now ... God!--And his own mother was coming
to-morrow.
And then an hour later, now evening, a tall, cadaverous guard in a more
pleasing uniform, putting an iron tray with food on it through that
hole in the door. Food! And for him here. And that sallow, rickety
Chinaman over the way taking his. Whom had he murdered? How? And then
the savage scraping of iron trays in the various cells! Sounds that
reminded him more of hungry animals being fed than men. And some of
these men were actually talking as they ate and scraped. It sickened
him.
"Gee! It's a wonder them guys in the mush gallery couldn't think of
somepin else besides cold beans and fried potatoes and coffee."
"The coffee to-night ... oh, boy!... Now in the jail at
Buffalo--though...."
"Oh, cut it out," came from another corner. "We've heard enough about
the jail at Buffalo and your swell chow. You don't show any afternoon
tea appetite around here, I notice."
"Just the same," continued the first voice, "as I look back on't now,
it musta been pretty good. Dat's a way it seems, anyhow, now."
"Oh, Rafferty, do let up," called still another.
And then, presumably "Rafferty" once more, who said: "Now, I'll just
take a little siesta after dis--and den I'll call me chauffeur and go
for a little spin. De air to-night must be fine."
Then from still another hoarse voice: "Oh, you with your sick
imagination. Say, I'd give me life for a smoker. And den a good game of
cards."
"Do they play cards here?" thought Clyde.
"I suppose since Rosenstein was defeated for mayor here he won't play."
"Won't he, though?" This presumably from Rosenstein.
To Clyde's left, in the cell next to him, a voice, to a passing guard,
low and yet distinctly audible: "Psst! Any word from Albany yet?"
"No word, Herman."
"And no letter, I suppose."
"No letter."
The voice was very strained, very tense, very miserable, and after
this, silence.
A moment later, from another cell farther off, a voice from the
lowest hell to which a soul can descend--complete and unutterable
despair--"Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"
And then from the tier above another voice: "Oh, Jesus! Is that farmer
going to begin again? I can't stand it. Guard! Guard! Can't you get
some dope for that guy?"
Once more the voice from the lowest: "Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my
God!"
Clyde was up, his fingers clinched. His nerves were as taut as cords
about to snap. A murderer! And about to die, perhaps. Or grieving over
some terrible thing like his own fate. Moaning--as he in spirit at
least had so often moaned there in Bridgeburg. Crying like that! God!
And there must be others!
And day after day and night after night more of this, no doubt, until,
maybe--who could tell--unless. But, oh, no! Oh, no! Not himself--not
that--not his day. Oh, no. A whole year must elapse before that could
possibly happen--or so Jephson had said. Maybe two. But, at that--! ...
in two years!!! He found himself stricken with an ague because of the
thought that even in so brief a time as two years....
That other room! It was in here somewhere too. This room was connected
with it. He knew that. There was a door. It led to that chair. _That
chair._
And then the voice again, as before, "Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"
He sank to his couch and covered his ears with his hands.