When at last it is drawing to a close, when the Governor has refused to interfere, the officials proceed in this manner: On Saturday the “fortunate one” on stepping from his bath is ordered into a new cell—the one next to the “little door” leading to the execution chamber. Here he receives everything new: new bedding, new clothes from head to foot, and then his knick-knacks, pipe, tobacco, boxes, books, and the packages of letters from home, ragged and blurred from reading and rereading; all have been very carefully searched. He receives something else, for this change in itself is his notice that one week from the following Monday he will be moved again. No questions are ever asked; he has seen it all before; but should he ask, the only reply will be, “I don’t know.”
From that moment a certain unwritten etiquette among us is never violated. His own way in everything, as far as we can possibly comprehend it, is our law. Does he ask for a song or story, his demand is acquiesced with at once. Will he play checkers? He may choose his opponent, and he will always win. We send him our oranges, the top layer from the box of cigars one has purchased. We do anything, everything we can to please him. Has there been a quarrel between him and another, it is completely forgotten. On his part, he must make the ghastly regulation jokes during the week. These are two in number, one with the keeper about the new suit of clothes: “I suppose you will be wearing this week after next.” Number two is with the barber: “Don’t forget to cut my hair short on top.” From now on the “death watch” (two keepers) sits in front of his cage every night. During this week occurs the greatest horror we are called upon to bear, i.e., to hear the last farewells of our companion to mother, wife, sister, or child. While listening to their cries we anticipate the agony in store for those we love. My heart bleeds when I remember what I have heard in the Death-Chamber. It is unspeakable. I cannot write of it.
Then comes the last night. Everything must be done very exactly now. Our code prescribes for everything; nothing must be omitted, no custom may be violated. The early evening passes as usual. Generally he asks for songs, perhaps he will sing one himself. That is as it may be. But at midnight the last rites among us of the Death-Chamber take place. The keeper comes to my cell carrying, perhaps, the little paper box my departing friend has kept his tobacco in so long; one that he made and decorated himself.
“Keep that to remember me by,” I hear from the direction of the little door.
“Thank you,” I reply.
“Good-by. I hope you have luck and get out,” is the next part of the ritual.
I must respond, “Thank you. Good-by, and God bless you.”
This is repeated with each one separately. He gives everything away, books, pipe, all. For six months he has been turning over in his mind just what treasure each of his companions shall receive when the last night comes. The responses never vary. They are now as they were ten years ago; they will be the same twenty years from now if that hell on earth is still in existence.
No one speaks to him or to any one else after that. He is reading and rereading each of those letters for the last time and destroying them. We hear him tearing them up one by one. “Swish, swish, swish.” Then it is quiet, very quiet in the Death-Chamber. I am not sleepy; the other fellows do not seem to be sleepy. They are reading. I sit up and write this; to-morrow I will write the other half.