Abroad with Mark Twain and Eugene Field/The Man Who Didn't Get Used to Hanging
THE MAN WHO DIDN'T GET USED TO HANGING
At the Eccentric Club somebody said: "Man gets used to everything except hanging," when Mark interrupted him: "Hold," he drawled. "When I was last in London" (this was in 1907) "one of the 'Savages' related a yarn to me which flatly contradicts your commonplace idea.
"The incident happened in the good old hanging days, when all London, Glasgow, Brighton, or Edinburgh, etc., turned out before breakfast to see some poor devil dance on air. Henry VIII had two hundred thousand 'sturdy beggars' put to death, besides his several wives; I don't remember now the London average per week or day, but while hanging continued a public amusement it had long ceased being a 'first-page story' as far as the metropolitan dailies were concerned.
"Indeed, the papers disdained to send their 'own correspondents' or reporters to such small-fry events as the taking of a man's or, perchance, a woman's life in public, and entrusted that part of the daily grind to a 'flimsy man,' who sent duplicate copies to all the papers, morning and evening. The 'flimsy man,' of course, got so used to the dope and to the eternal sameness of the thing, he could dictate a first-rate hanging yarn without leaving his office, or using the phone—beg pardon, there were no phones in those days.
"Well, one Monday morning, at sunrise, a certain 'Knight of the Road' was to die by a tight cravat in a town less than fifty miles from London, and the 'flimsy man' thought it would hardly pay to go up (or down) and impersonate the eyewitness. Besides, he knew the governor of the jail personally; his Lordship was an obliging man and would gladly assist at a fake.
"So Mr. Flimsy wrote out his story and held it 'for release.'
"In the meantime, the doomed man went through the usual rigmarole: prayers, whiskey, breakfast, more whiskey—march to the gallows. He found an audience of prize-fight size awaiting him. The prison yard was black with people, all the surrounding roofs, trees and telegraph poles were alive with spectators, and many poor chaps who had stood all night in line for their betters, now sold standing room at a premium.
"Officialdom, too, was well represented: the governor of the jail, his aides and assistants, the chief of police in their Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, and lots of bobbies" (cops) "—every mother's son and daughter eager for the hanging, and secretly hoping that no reprieve would spoil the day's fun, for somehow the story had got abroad that the Home Secretary had almost decided to commute the death sentence of this particular party.
"Meanwhile, preparations proceeded at an encouraging rate: there was the procession headed by the gentlemanly hangman, swinging a rope; then bobbies, jailers, trusties. The doomed man walked rather jauntily at the side of the parson, who was mumbling prayers and looking benign.
"Presently the procession stood under the gallows, all necks craned, and a hush fell upon the expectant crowd as the hangman's assistant pulled the linen cap down over his victim's face. As he got busy adjusting the noose, shouts of 'reprieve!' 'reprieve!' went up. The hangman looked at the governor and the governor turned towards the gate, which had opened to admit a small messenger boy from the telegraph office.
"The boy was waving a yellow envelope over his head, and the governor signalled to the hangman to wait.
"At the same time the telegraph boy was hoisted over the shoulders of the crowd until he reached the place where the governor stood. As the governor received and opened the dispatch, there were more hoarse cries of 'reprieve!' and they were not cries of relief or triumph either. Sure, the crowd thought itself cheated. The men and women and children (for there were plenty of children, as usual) thought that they had bet on a horse that didn't run—a dead horse that wasn't dead enough, so to speak!
"But, presto! another change. The governor, having glanced at the message, made a wry face, then crumpled the paper up in his hand and threw it on the ground, while he motioned the hangman to proceed.
"The wire was from the aforementioned fakir and it read: 'Please wire (prepaid) whether hanging has come off according to program—Jack.' But that's neither here nor there. The point is that the man about to be put to the worst use one can possibly put a living person to, was allowed to think for several minutes that the Home Secretary had commuted his sentence of death, that he, the doomed one, was going to live after all. I am told they actually stripped the cap off his face, so he could breathe freely.
"Had that chap got used to hanging, or the hanging idea, by the time when the cord was once more drawn tight? Did he think with the French wag (or was it an Englishman?) 'hang me, your Highness? No, that would be the death of me.'
"So in our case; no, a thousand times no, for in the interval the poor soul had got used to living once more, and a thousand-and-one murderous thoughts were in his heart while he was being swung off into eternity."