Waiting for an Execution

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 810, 2 November 1929, Page 20

Waiting for an Execution

Wife’s Poignant Document

igitlfbE hadn't been married y VMfij very long. i suppose [/j£L that is the hardest part ffj of all, the realisation that we had known so little of each other’s love. Our marriage ended with the harsh jar of that evening when the police came. They challenged my husband. 1 can’t remember what we *were doing at the time; everything became blurred; I can only remember the police standing there, saying something, lots of things, but out ot the chaos the one word which jarred into my very soul —“Murder I stared from them to my husband. He was white. I knew he hadn’t done this thing. I felt that I myself had become anofher person, someone looking on at a play, not acting in it, watching. I kept telling myself it would be all right. It was horrible. Dazed . All through those preliminary proceedings I was dazed. I was still somebody else, watching myself doing things, but never really there, never quite understanding. Neighbours cheered me; some, of course, believed me to be guilty, too; they avoided me. staring with sullen eyes, that I could feel rather than see. People divided suddenly info two channels; those who were tremendously kind, others who were horribly cruel.

I went to see my husband. X saw him in a little room in the prison, but we were not able to talk alone. A warder listened to everything we said. He was very kind about it, and I think he was sorry for us, but the fact of his being there was hurtful. We assured each other it would be all right. We lived on hope. I ached for the trial. They would prove him innocent! The joy of that acquittal would repay me for all this torture, this agony of mind which I was undergoing. I lived for that alone.

The trial has become blurred, too. Always I was impressed by the tremendous fairness of it. Nothing was hurried, everyone was allowed to have his say. The judge was courteous, one felt he was determined against making up his mind beforehand. Somehow, looking at him, one knew he would be scrupulously fair. I was content to let the matter rest in his hands, but I was frightened. The Trial I had never been in a court of justice before. I sat there listening to every shred of evidence. I thought my husband could easily disprove the accusation. I saw instead that it wa3 going to be terribly difficult. Small events became mountainous, little happenings colossal. I sat on and on. I hardly dared look at him; every now and then he would smile across to me. He was so brave; I think the tremendous bravery of him hurt me more than anything else. On the last day I felt dreadful. Somebody had once told me that always at murder cases on the last day the hangman is present. He is somewhere in court. I felt a ghastly fear enmeshing me, and 1 sat there looking from face to face. Which was he? I cannot tell you what I suffered, sitting. watching, waiting. When the jury retired, a policeman came to me; he suggested that I had better await the verdict outside. They took me out; they were very good to me; they gave mo a cup of tea. I could not possibly drink it! Could you have swallowed it had your husband been awaiting the verdict? Condemned to Death They told me when the jury returned. Ten minutes later the missionary broke it to me. He had been found guilty and was condemned to death. I don’t remember much more. I fainted. When I came to, I was in one of the smaller rooms below the courts; a woman was tending me. She was very kind, and asked me If I would like to see my husband before he was taken away. They- let me see him for just a moment. He was splendid.

“Be brave,” he saitl, and smiled. I think that smile hurt more than anything else.

I wonder if anyone can imagine my frantic state of mind? I went home, he went to the condemned cell. i could imagine him there, never left night nor day: seeing each sunset as one less, each sunrise as one nearer that sunrise when he would step out to die. Only his need of me kept me sane.

The governor of the prison sent for me, and told me that I could see him. We met in a long room. He was separated from me my bars. I ap. pealed to the warders to let me kiss him just once, but they refused. They told me men had had poison smuggled in to them that way r . and it was not allowed. I protested that they could search me (they had. in point of fact, looked in my bag before I went to see him), but they still were adamant. Poor fellows! I dare say they wanted to help me, but dared not. Orders are orders. New Hope My husband was confident for his appeal; his bravery infected me. I became confident, too; new hope sprang up within me. For a whole fortnight I lived on that hope; someone would find, out the truth; some element of pity woqld creep into the world, they would not kill my husband. Alas, that hope was only to be wrecked. I wanted to run to the Home Secretary myself: I was desperate, I did not know what to do. . . a When next I visited my husband I was struck by the calmness of his manner. He told me the chaplain and the governor had been so good to him. they had made him see things in a new light. He urged me to be serene, to face the inevitable bravely, and to forgive hint for the trouble he had brought upon me. I cannot describe the agony of those visits. The horror with which I watched day die, and knew how few more days he had to live. Three days before the end, my mother came to me. Her eyes were red with grief. “You’ll be needing to get some black,” she said. I screamed then. I screamed dreadfully. I didn’t understand until that moment exactly all widowhood entailed. Black, for a healthy man, not yet dead. Doomed to die. That was it. Oh, it was ghastly! They bought black for me. Mercifully they put it aside, s 6 that I did not see it, but I knew on that dreadful afternoon of the day before the execution that it lay ready for me. It was a bright day. That seemed all the more cruel. I hated the sun for shining, and the flowers for being in bloom. We found the prison bathed in a warm sunshine; we went in by a side entrance to avoid any busybodies there might be about. The chaplain very kindly received me.

“Your husband is very brave,” lie told me, “and 1 hope that you will be brave, too. I fear the sentence was a just one, and he is taking his punishment like a man.” “Such a dreadful punishment!” I moaned.

"I know. Try to help him bear it." All the time, I felt the Imminence of the executioner. I knew he was there, in the prison. I knew the gallows were ready, tested for my husband’s, weight. I thought of the famous case when the bolt refused to act! I prayed, I prayed with all my strength that some miracle might happen. The Last Time When the chaplain left me, my husband was brought in. He looked much older, he seemed much thinner, graver, but he was obviously at peace. I asked if we could not see each other alone? Our last time on earth, it was horrible! Alas, it was impossible. I tried to remain calm, but it was hopeless. I, not he, broke dowr. I shall never forget the agony when they told me that the time was up. Surely they could let me stay? They told me “No.” They took him away. He went like a man dazed, and 1 believe I fainted. I could bear no more. An hour later, X left the prison. A little crowd had gathered. A Press photographer snapped as we went past. I could not see through my tears, my grief was terrible. That night was torture. Sleep was impossible. The hours swam mercilessly round. At one moment I was tormented thinking of him in that grim condemned cell from which the morning would bring release; I felt myself in his anguish. At another, I was remembering the sweet intimacies of our marriage. Yet again, I was sitting in the court—watching the evidence piled up against him, waiting for sentence —all torture, terrible agonising torture. With the dawn, I fell asleep. I had hoped to be at least with him in spirit when the fatal hour struck. By the strange irony of fate, I was still sleeping peacefully. He died. The law found him guilty. The world adjudges him to have been cruel, a villain, a rogue, everything that is vile. I knew him for a kind husband, a great comrade. But then I still believe in him, have faith in him through a sorrow worse than hell itself. lam just a murderer's wife.