People's Pilot, Volume 5, Number 23, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 December 1895 — IN THE FACE OF DEATH [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

IN THE FACE OF DEATH

HARRY HAYWARD JESTS ON THE SCAFFOLD. Htt th« Slightest Evidence of Fear Shown by the Man Who Flottced th» C®ld Blooded Murder of Catherine Gins — Bis Last Words. Minneapolis, Minn., Dec. 11.—With a gambler’s phrase upon his lips and a cold smile upon his face, Harry Hayward, the murderer of Catherine Ging, faced the Eternal this morning. “Pull her tight; I’ll stand pat.” Those were the last words he uttered as the deputy, with blanched face and trembling hands, pulled the well-soaped noose as tightly as possible about the murderer’s neck as he could, in order that death might come tne more quickly and the more surely. ' It was 2:12 o’clock when Sheriff Holmberg pulled the lever and thus released the trap upon which Hayward stood. In just thirteen minutes County Physiciati Frank Burton declared that the swinging figure, in which not a movement or struggle had been observed, was that of a dead man. The coolest man at his own execution was Harry Hayward. Not a man of the little knot of privileged spectators who had kept a long vigil in the big, gray room but whose heart thumped more

loudly and importunately than that one which was so soon to cease its beating; not a face but turned more ghastly than his in the grewsome light. It was a scene never to be forgotten when atjast, after what had seemed endless hours of waiting, the death march appeared at the door. The one gas jet,had been turned off and the room was illumined only by a locomotive headlight suspended about four feet from the floor opposite the scaffold, .The huge cotie of light threw a, horrid, distorted shadow of the engine of death on the rough, whitewashed stone wall behind. A deputy had carefully chalked two circles where the f :et of the doomed man were to stand and had outlined the trap that there might be no mistake in the uncertain light. The chief deputy mounted the scaffold, where Warden Wolfe of the state penitentiary, ex-Sheriff William Brackett end Sheriff Chappell of St. Paul were already waiting, and directed that every hat be removed and that there be no smoking. The prisoner had been made ready in his cell-room, his black silk robe had been put on and the black cap adjusted. Suddenly the door was thrown wide open and the sound of an Inarticulate yell floated in fresh from the cell room, where the prisoner’s comrades were taking their farewell; then three hoarse cheers for Sheriff Holmberg, led by Hayward himself, and ending with “He’s all right!”

It was awful to hear such a demonstration led by a man on his way to meet death. As its echoes died away Harry Hayward entered the death chamber with the same easy stride that> marked his prdmenades when he was a swagger youth in society. “Good evening, gentlemen,” said h* in clear, even tones, as he bowed his way into the room, wearing his sombeif garb so jauntily that its was forgotten. As he made his way uj the scaffold he tripped on the unaccustomed gown. This amused him and he laughed althe first step. As he strode upon thf trap the deputies looked more likf frightened children hanging to a parem than officers of the law. Carefully plac ing his feet on the marked spots, h& drew his splendid figure to its greatest height and glanced about with a calm face, occasionally brightened by a smile of recognition as he descried some friend in the crowd. Upon being asked if he had anything to say, he replied in a careless, drawling tone: "Well, yes." He moistened his lips with his tongue. “Well, to you all,” he began, “there has been a good deal of curiosity and wonder at my action and some ol you think that I am a very devil”—with a peculiar drawling accent on the first syllable of that word —“and if you all knew my whole life you would think so all the more. I have dictated the full statement to-day on all my life te Mr. Edward Goodsell, Mr. J. T. Man nix and a stenographer—let’s see what’s the stenographer’s name?” Hayward peered down over the edgi of his scaffold as if expecting some ono to answer. “Where’s Uline?” he went on, somewhat disconnectedly. “Uline here? I promised to take his dog with me under my arm to mak£ him a record. It would be a good thing for the dog. Doyle, you told me to bow to you. Where are you? Aren’t you here? I can’t see you,” and the speaker peered about for the detective. “I’m here, Harry,” called out Doyle. “Well, then, good-evening, Mr. Doyle," said the prisoner, smiling graciously and bowing. Then, taking another tack, he called out, “Clemens, did you get that ticket?” A hat was shoved up into the cone at light ia assent. "Ah. that’s good, Man nix—let me see

bow,” and Hayward hesitated, with the smbarrassment of a man who has forgotten his speech. “Take your time,” said Sheriff Holmberg. “Let me see now. I certainly had something to say to Mannix, becaue* I have always entertained the kindest feelings for him. Joe, remind me of what it was; you know I have been having trouble with my memory lately.” “Say nothing more in that line,” came in low, distinct tones from Mannix. “You are about to meet your God and should express here your forgiveness for your brother as you did so nobly for me today and, with thoughts of your mother and father before you, should act as you have during the last forty-eight hours, meeting death manfully and forgiving all those toward whom you have borne any ill-will up to this time.” “Forgive him?” said Harry, as Mannix finished. “Well, I have freely forgiven him for any imaginary wrongs he thinks he has done me. He has done me no wrong. I have done him a great wrong. I forgive him freely. Father Cleary, Father Timothy and Father Christy have taken great interest in me and they have exerted themselves greatly about my spiritual welfare. 1 have the greatest respect for each of them. For John Day Smith, my lawyer, also. He is a good man and a Christian, as well as a lawyer, and I have promised him to say something here tonight which I should probably not have said of my own accord.” With an effort, Hayward turned his eyes upward and repeated, in a strident, meaningless voice, quite different from the conversational one he had been using: “Oh, God, for Christ's sake, forgive all my sins!” An empty mockery that, or the cry of a soul unused to prayer. Later events showed it to be probably the former — just to keep a promise. “On,” resumed Harry, dropping back to his former easy tone, “is Goodsell here?”

When told that Goodsell was absent he continued: “Well, Dr. Burton, I think I have something to say to you.” What it was will never be known, for the doctor stopped him with the suggestion that he had better not say anything. Hayward stood a moment in thought as if telling the names of those he wished to remember in his last words. Satisfied apparently that all had been done that he had intended, he half-turned his head and flung it back over his shoulders. “I guess that’s all. Now, Phil Megaarden, go ahead.” The straps were quickly adjusted. As the noose settled down over his head he said: “Let's see, where does the knot go—under the right ear? No, it’s the left, isn’t it? Please pull it tight. That’s good. Keep your courage up, gentlemen.” The prisoner’s face purpled slightly as the noose tightened and the visor of the black cap was turned down. It was Harry’s last glimpse of earth “Pull her tight; I’ll stand pat,” he said. Megaarden stepped back, raised his hand in the fatal signal, and like a shot the body dropped through the open trap. There was not a tremor or struggle and the spectators waited breathlessly while the doctor listened to the fluttering heart. Thirteen long minutes passed. Dr Burton stepped back and the spectators began to file out. A deputy loosened the strap that bound his hands. They fell inert at the side of the body. Harry Hayward was dead.

HARRY HAYWARD.