Read Ebook: The Rise and Fall of Anarchy in America From its Incipient Stage to the First Bomb Thrown in Chicago by McLean George N

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"I'll tell you," he continued, "in five or six years from now the people will see the error of hanging us, if they do not see it sooner."

With this Spies, who had been lying on his back with his hands above his head, removed them and turned on his side with his face to the wall.

The anarchist editor then lay down on the bed, and with his white face upturned, talked continuously with Deputy Hartke about mutual acquaintances and things and events of days gone by. He never referred to to-morrow, and seemed desirous of keeping the thoughts of his approaching execution as far as possible from his mind.

Engel grew a little more serious as the night wore on, and when he came to be more familiar with the death watch he talked with them about the cause for which he was about to die. He protested his innocence over and over again, and told the story of the Haymarket riot, and all he knew of it.

The Rev. Mr. Bolton called on Engel as he did on the others, but with the same unsatisfactory result. The wretched Engel dwelt with bitter emphasis upon the fact that it was the informer Waller, who afterward swore his life away, that first informed him of the massacre. "I was drinking beer and playing cards with my neighbors when Waller called and taunted me with not being down in the Haymarket fight," said Engel, as a big lump seemed to rise in his throat, "and he afterward swore my life away, but I die for a just cause." Engel slept none until about 1 o'clock, but at that hour, just as the death watch was being removed, he turned round in his couch and dropped into a light slumber.

FISCHER AND PARSONS.

BOTH REFUSE SPIRITUAL COMFORT AND PARSONS SINGS "ANNIE LAURIE."

Fischer's last night was quietly spent. He talked but little, but was restless. His death watch, Deputies Healy and Shomberg, said though he did not sleep much, he appeared to take the terrible ordeal put upon him with great composure--almost indifference. He, too, coldly repulsed Dr. Bolton's proffered spiritual aid. Though his sleepless eyes stared vacantly at the wall of his cell, he talked but little. No sign of nervousness or fear could be traced on the hard, clear-cut features. He was evidently prepared to meet his fate unflinchingly and to die boldly. "Annie Laurie," sung in a fairly good tenor voice, broke the the silence. It was approaching 12 o'clock. A dread silence overhung all. All along the anarchists' corridor not a sound was to be heard. The absence of any noise might be likened to the stillness of the grave. Criminals were asleep. The indications were that the anarchists were asleep too.

But hardly so. Parsons was awake, and the spirit of his wakeful hours urged him to sing "Annie Laurie." Soldiers in a foreign clime have shed tears at the strains of this song. It is a passport to the emotions the world wide. And almost within the shadow of the gallows tree, when life was to be registered by hours, Parsons' striking up this song seemed certainly suggestive of the fate he felt to be close at hand. There was in his tone a lonesome melancholy as he sung the first stanza, then on the second one his voice wavered and finally broke. He was cast down. The memory of his wife and little ones seemed to rise before him, a sob, full of pathetic despair served as a period to his further recitation. Once stopped singing, Parsons was in tears. He cried within the quietness of his cell, not through fear of his approaching death, so far as his demeanor indicated. Rather it was due to recollection busy with scenes of the man's early life. His boyhood came back to him as he sung that old song. He could not do else than break down.

When Dr. Bolton called upon Parsons he was received with the same courtesy which has always distinguished that erudite anarchist. The condemned man, however, did not seem to take kindly to the proffered ministrations of the clergyman.

"You are welcome, Dr. Bolton," he said; "pray, what can I do for you?"

The reverend visitor explained his mission, and the old cynical expression stole over Parsons' face. "Preachers are all Pharisees," he sneered, "and you know what Jesus Christ's opinion of the Pharisees was. He called them a generation of vipers, and likened them to whited sepulchers. I don't desire to have anything to do with either."

Dr. Bolton remonstrated a little, and finally Parsons appeared to be relenting somewhat.

"Well, well," he said, "I will say that while I do not absolutely refuse your kind attentions, I will impress on you the fact that I did not want you."

A desultory conversation ensued, and the missionary, on leaving, told Parsons that he would pray earnestly for him during the night.

The anarchist's hard gray eye grew moist, and he murmured hoarsely: "Thank you," but added: "Don't forget, though, I didn't send for you."

SINGING THE MARSEILLAISE.

PARSONS TALKS FREELY TO THE DEATH WATCH AND SINGS FOR THEM.

Parsons slept little but kept heart marvelously well. He chatted with the guards on the death watch and furnished them each with his autograph in this form:

Nov. 11, 1887."

With Bailiffs Rooney and Jones he calmly discussed the outlook, touched without emotion upon his pending death, and dwelt with satisfaction upon his assurance of his wife's ability to maintain herself. When told by the guards that Spies was deeply affected by the parting with his wife and complained that of all the incidents of the unnerving time, it most deeply moved him; that Fischer, though reckless of himself, bemoaned the destitution of his young and feeble wife, Parsons feebly expressed his sympathy for his companions and rejoiced that he left behind a lion-hearted wife, and children too young to keenly feel bereavement. Then he commented upon social conditions both here and abroad.

"I will sing you a song," he said about 1 o'clock, "a song born as a battle-cry in France, and now accepted as the hymn of revolution the world over."

In a low voice he then sang a paraphrased translation of "La Marseillaise," which the guards commended as both inspiring and well performed.

TELEGRAMS TO PARSONS.

A COUPLE OF CHEERING MISSIVES RECEIVED THIS MORNING.

Following are copies of the two dispatches received by A. R. Parsons a short time before his execution this morning:

JOSEPHINE TILTON."

C. R. DAVIS."

To the sender of the first telegram Parsons desired that his red-silk handkerchief be sent.

PARSONS LAST LETTER.

A COPY OF THE DOCUMENT SENT TO A NEW YORK PAPER.

A. R. PARSONS.

DESCRIPTION OF THE EXECUTION. THREATENING LETTERS. PITYING JUSTICE. OUTRAGED LAW VINDICATED. MERCY TO THE GUILTY IS CRUELTY TO THE INNOCENT. THE UNCHANGED EVERLASTING WILL GIVE TO EACH MAN HIS RIGHT. ABUSE OF FREE SPEECH. THE MILLS OF GOD GRIND SLOW BUT EXCEEDING FINE. CAPTAIN BLACK AT THE ANARCHISTS' FUNERAL.

August Spies, Adolph Fischer, George Engel, and A. R. Parsons, the four anarchists who were tried a year ago, and found guilty of the murder of Mathias A. Degan in the Haymarket square on May 4, 1886, were to-day hanged in the Cook county jail and paid the penalty of their crime with their lives. The drop fell at 11:53 and the four men died with words of defiance and scorn upon their lips. Parsons' last word was actually strangled in his throat by the hangman's noose. Seldom, if ever, have four men died more gamely and defiantly than the four who were strangled to-day.

When the word passed around, about 11 o'clock, that the final hour had indeed arrived, men's faces grew pale and the hum of excitement passed through the crowd. They were quickly marshaled and marched down in a line to the gallows corridor.

At 10:55 fully two hundred and fifty newspaper men, local politicians, and others, among them the twelve jurors to view the bodies after execution, had passed through the dark passage under the gallows and began seating themselves. The bailiff said a few words to the journalists, begging them to make no rush when the drop fell, but to wait decently and in order.

Parsons was given a cup of coffee a few minutes before the march to the scaffold was begun.

The rattling of chairs, tables and benches continued for several minutes, but by 10:05 there began to fall a hush, and conversation among the crowd sank almost to a whisper. The bare, whitewashed walls formed a painful contrast with the dark-brown gallows, with its four noosed ropes hanging ominously near the floor.

It was exactly 11:50 o'clock when Chief Bailiff Cahill entered the corridor and stood beneath the gallows. He requested in solemn tones that the gentlemen present would remove their hats. Instantly every head was bared. Then the tramp, tramp of many footsteps was heard resounding from the central corridor, and the crowd in front of the gallows knew that the condemned men had begun the march of death. The slow, steady march sounded nearer and nearer. The anarchists were within a few feet of the scaffold. There was a pause. The condemned men were about to mount the stairway leading to the last platform from which they would ever speak. Step by step, steadily they mounted the stairway, and again there was another slight pause. Every eye was bent upon the metallic angle around which the four wretched victims were expected to make their appearance. A moment later their curiosity was rewarded. With steady, unfaltering step a white-robed figure stepped out from behind the protecting metallic screen and stood upon the drop. It was August Spies. It was evident that his hands were firmly bound behind him underneath his snowy shroud.

He walked with a firm, almost stately tread across the platform and took his stand under the left-hand noose at the corner of the scaffold farthest from the side at which he had entered. Very pale was the expressive face, and a solemn, far-away light shone in his blue eyes. His tawny hair was brushed back in the usual crisp waves from the big white forehead. Nothing could be imagined more melancholy, and at the same time dignified, than the expression which sat upon the face of August Spies at that moment. The chin was covered with a freshly budding beard and partially concealed the expression of the firmly-cut mouth. The lines were a little hardly drawn around the corners, however, and bespoke great internal tension. He stood directly behind the still noose, which reached down almost to his breast, and, having first cast a momentary glance upward at the rope, let his eyes fall upon the 200 faces that were upturned toward him. Never a muscle did he move, however; no sign of flinching or fear could be discerned in the white face--white almost as the shroud which it surmounted.

Spies had scarcely taken his place when he was followed by Fischer. He, too, was clad in a long white shroud that was gathered in at the ankles. His tall figure towered several inches over that of Spies, and as he stationed himself behind his particular noose his face was very pale, but a faint smile rested upon his lips. Like Spies, the white robe set off to advantage the rather pleasing features of Fischer, and as the man stood there waiting for his last moment his pale face was as calm as if he were asleep. Next came George Engel. There was a ruddy glow upon the rugged countenance of the old anarchist, and when he ranged himself alongside Fischer he raised himself to his full height, while his burly form seemed to expand with the feelings that were within him. Last came Parsons. His face looked actually handsome, though it was very pale. When he stepped upon the gallows he turned partially sideways to the dangling noose and regarded it with a fixed, stony gaze--one of mingled surprise and curiosity. Then he straightened himself under the fourth noose, and, as he did so, he turned his big gray eyes upon the crowd below with such a look of awful reproach and sadness as could not fail to strike the innermost chord of the hardest heart there. It was a look never to be forgotten. There was an expression almost of inspiration on the white, calm face, and the great, stony eyes seemed to burn into men's hearts and ask: "What have I done?"

There they stood upon the scaffold, four white-robed figures, with set, stoical faces, to which it would seem no influence could bring a tremor of fear.

And now a bailiff approaches, and, seizing Parsons' robe, passed a leathern strap around his ankles. In a moment they were closely pinioned together. Engel's legs were next strapped together, and when the official approached Fischer, the latter straightened up his tall figure to its full height and placed his ankles close together to facilitate the operation. Spies was the last, but he was the first around whose neck the fatal cord was placed. One of the attendant bailiffs seized the noose in front of Spies and passed it deftly over the doomed man's head. It caught over his right ear, but Spies, with a shake of his head, cast it down around his neck, and then the bailiff tightened it till it touched the warm flesh, and carefully placed the noose beneath the left ear.

When the officer approached Fischer threw back his head and bared his long, muscular throat by the movement.

Fischer's neck was very long and the noose nestled snugly around it. When it was tightened around his windpipe Fischer turned around to Spies and laughingly whispered something in Spies' ear. But the latter either did not hear him or else was too much occupied with other thoughts to pay attention. Engel smiled down at the crowd, and then turning to Deputy Peters, who guarded him, he smiled gratefully toward him and whispered something to the officer that seemed to affect him. It looked at first as if Engel were about to salute his guard with a kiss, but he evidently satisfied himself with some word of peace. Parson's face never moved as the noose dropped over his head, but the same terrible, fixed look was on his face.

And now people were expecting that the speeches for which the four doomed ones craved twenty minutes each this morning would be delivered, but to every one's surprise the officer who had adjusted the noose proceeded to fit on the white cap without delay. It was first placed on Spies' head, completely hiding his head and face. Just before the cap was pulled over Fischer's head Deputy Spears turned his eyes up to meet those of the tall young anarchist. Fischer smiled down on his guard just as pleasantly as Engel did on his, and he seemed to be whispering some words of forgiveness, but it may have been otherwise, as not even the faintest echo reached the men in the corridor below. Engel and Parsons soon donned their white caps after this, and now the four men stood upon the scaffold clad from top to toe in pure white.

All was ready now for the signal to let the drop fall. In the little box at the back of the stage and fastened to the wall the invisible executioner stood with axe poised, ready to cut the cord that held them between earth and heaven. The men had not noticed this but they knew the end was near.

For an instant there was a dead silence, and then a mournful solemn voice sounded from behind the first right-hand mask, and cut the air like a wail of sorrow and warning. Spies was speaking from behind his shroud.

The words seemed to drop into the cold, silent air like pellets of fire. Here is what he said: "It is not meet that I should speak here, where my silence is more terrible than my utterances."

Then a deeper, stronger voice came out with a muffled, mysterious cadence from behind the white pall that hid the face of Fischer. He only spoke eight words: "This is the happiest moment of my life."

But the next voice that catches up the refrain is a different one. It is firm, but the melancholy wail was not in it. It was harsh, loud, exultant. Engel was cheering for anarchy. "Hurrah for anarchy! Hurrah!" were the last words and the last cheer of George Engel.

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