George Ives was led to the scaffold in fifty-eight minutes from the time that his doom was fixed. A perfect Bable of voices saluted the movement. Every roof was covered, and cries of “Hang him!” “Don’t hang him!” “Banish him!” “I’ll shoot!” “—— their murdering souls!” “Let’s hang Long John!” were heard all around. The revolvers could be seen flashing in the moonlight. The guard stood like a rock. They had heard the muttered threats of a rescue from the crowd, and with grim firmness—the characteristic of the miners when they mean “business”—they stood ready to beat them back. Woe to the mob that should surge against that living bulwark. They would have fallen as grass before the scythe.
As the prisoner stepped on to the fatal platform, the noise ceased, and the stillness became painful. The rope was adjusted, and the usual request was made as to whether he had anything to say. With a firm voice he replied, “I am innocent of THIS crime; Aleck Carter killed the Dutchman.”
The strong emphasis on the word “this” convinced all around, that he meant his words to convey the impression that he was guilty of other crimes. Up to this moment he had always accused Long John of the murder.
Ives expressed a wish to see Long John, and the crowd of sympathizers yelled in approbation; but the request was denied, for an attempt at a rescue was expected.
All being ready, the word was given to the guard, “Men do your duty.” The click of the locks rang sharply, and the pieces flashed in the moonlight, as they came to the “Aim;” the box flew from under the murderer’s feet, with a crash, and George Ives swung in the night breeze, facing the pale moon that lighted up the scene of retributive justice.
As the vengeful click! click! of the locks sounded their note of deadly warning to the intended rescuers, the crowd stampeded in wild affright, rolling over one another in heaps, shrieking and howling with terror.
When the drop fell, the Judge, who was standing close beside Ives, called out, “His neck is broken; he is dead.” This announcement, and the certainty of its truth—for the prisoner never moved a limb—convinced the few resolute desperadoes who knew not fear, that the case was hopeless, and they retired with grinding teeth, and with muttered curses issuing from their lips.
It is astonishing what a wonderful effect is produced upon an angry mob by the magic sound referred to. Hostile demonstrations are succeeded by a mad panic; rescuers turn their undivided attention to their own corporal salvation; eyes that gleamed with anger, roll wildly with terror; the desire for slaughter gives way to the fear of death, and courage hands the craven fear his scepter of command. When a double-barrelled shot-gun is pointed at a traveller by a desperado, the feeling is equally intense; but its development is different. The organ of “acquisitiveness” is dormant; “combativeness” and “destructiveness” are inert; “caution” calls “benevolence” to do its duty; a very large lump rises into the way-farer’s throat; cold chills follow the downward course of the spine, and the value of money, as compared with that of bodily safety, instantly reaches the minimum point. Verily, “All that a man hath will he give for his life.” We have often smiled at the fiery indignation of the great untried, when listening to their account of what they would have done, if a couple of Road Agents ordered them to throw up their hands; but they failed to do anything towards convincing us that they would not have sent valor to the rear at the first onset, and appeared as the very living and breathing impersonations of discretion. We felt certain that were they “loaded to the guards” with the gold dust, they would come out of the scrape as poor as Lazarus, and as mild and insinuating in demeanor as a Boston mamma with six marriageable daughters.
At last the deed was done. The law abiding among the citizens breathed more freely and all felt that the worst man in the community was dead—that the neck of crime was broken, and that the reign of terror was ended.
The body of Ives was left hanging for an hour. At the expiration of this period of time, it was cut down, carried into a wheel-barrow shop, and laid out on a work bench. A guard was then placed over it till morning, when the friends of the murderer had him decently interred. He lies in his narrow bed, near his victim—the murdered Tbalt—to await his final doom, when they shall stand face to face at the grand tribunal, where every man shall be rewarded according to his deeds.