#condemned man

[multiedits]

ᴄᴏɴᴅᴇᴍɴᴇᴅ ᴍᴀɴ (ꜰʀᴀɴᴋᴇɴꜱᴛᴇɪɴ: ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄᴀʟ)

ɪᴄᴏɴꜱ ᴄᴏʟᴏʀꜱ: ᴅᴀʀᴋ ɢʀᴇᴇɴ

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“M’Cullough’s Life As Told By Himself,” Toronto Star. June 11, 1919. Page 04. --- Story of Boy Led Astray - Was in Jail at Age of Fifteen. --- Frank McCullough’s life story written by himself and delivered to his counsel, Mr. T. C. Robinette, K. C., describes his various activities since the left home at the age of 14 to the last days spent in the death cell at the Toronto Jail.

‘I am not a murderer,’ nor have I the instincts of one,’ says the condemned man.

The article reads as follows:

I was born in Otsego Co., New York, on a farm within five miles of Coopertown, named after the famous author of ‘The Last of the Mohicans.’

My parents were honest, God-fearing people of good old Yankee stock, and my proper name is LeRoy Ward Fay Swart. When I was a little over 11 years of age my father’s home was by some accident burned to the ground, so he sold the old farm and moved to Jersey City, N. J. , where he obtained work as a carpenter on the Pennsylvania Railroad. I have two sisters and a brother, all of whom are younger than myself, the oldest being at this time twenty-two. While we were in Jersey City, I attended public school until I was thirteen and then we moved over to Brooklyn, N. Y., where I continued my Public school education.

Read Lurid Tales I enjoy reading very much, and, as most young boys of that age, read what are termed dime movie novels a great deal, and when I was a few months over fourteen I became imbued with the glamor of the life of some of these fictious heroes, and ran away from my home.

Dupe of Tramps. I had about $10, the proceeds of a boyish stamp collection, and with it I purchased a ticket on one of the Hudson River boats to Albany, N.Y. Incidentally, my people made several efforts to find me, but I did not communicate with them for a year.

Well, in Albany they were erecting a new educational building at the time. I got work as a water boy and worked for seven months or more. I quit there and went to the railway yards and beat my way to Erie, Pa., where I was taken in charge by a couple of real tramps, and they in a few weeks initiated me to the duties of a ‘look-out’ while they performed various burglaries and robberies.

In Trouble at 15. I was with them about four months, and was arrested one night in Kansas City, Mo., for investigation, and I admitted being implicated in these crimes. It was the first time in my life I had been in trouble, and I was just one month over fifteen years of age. But, nevertheless, I was sentenced by Judge Latshaw to ten years in the penitentiary at Jefferson City, Mo.

I had no lawyers or friends. The other two men promptly vanished. I was in such a state of mind I did not know what to do. There was only three days interval between my arrest and my sentence. Had I had a lawyer, I would have been sent to the Reform School at Moodville.

Wrote to Mother. Well, after I had recovered what little sense I had, I wrote a letter to my dear mother and told her that I was going on an exploring and prospecting trip with some men and that she would not hear from me again for some years. I was taken to the pen, and did not write again for over ten years. After that time I had begun to have a glimmering of more mature sense, so I sat down and wrote the whole thing to her, and their efforts were successful in getting my sentence reduced to five years. I was released on the 15th day of October, 1914, and my number was 12,222.

In U.S. Army. Being ashamed to go home then, I went to Joplin, Mo., and enlisted in the United States army. The Mexican trouble was raging at the time and I was shot in the right leg. I was in the army for two years and three months. After my discharge I came to Canada and received work at Banfield’s munition plant, with the intention of joining an overseas battalion, as that was before the United States had entered the war, and as I had studied hard during my incarceration, and having had previous field experience, I thought I might be able to pass for a commission in one of the Canadian units.

Here to Enlist. My leg, however, not being completely cured (the bone had been somewhat shattered), I was turned down for a time, and after working here a few weeks I happened on one of my fellow-prisoner from Missouri, and again I got into trouble.

Sent to Burwash. I was sent to Burwash for one year. The first week I was there I gave my word to the superintendent in charge that I would run away, and was made a trusty (without any guard) and finally after nine months, was paroled. I came back to Toronto and went to work for Barker’s Bread Bakery, as a driver, as the hours were shorter and more pay was given. Then, again, I ran across the man of whom I spoke before, and another young man from Ottawa, and I fell once more into the crooked path.

Never Carried Weapon. But I never carried a revolver or other dangerous weapons in my life except when I was in the army, and I have never broken my word, and I will endeavor to tell the facts regarding this terrible tragedy the best that I know how.

I went up to Ottawa to visit the man Johnson, and while there we burglarized a store and shipped the goods to Toronto. We arrived here ourselves on Sunday morning. Johnson went to a friend’s house to stay, while I went to my room. We met that afternoon and Johnson showed me a revolver that he had purchased from his friend. I remonstrated with him about it in his friend’s hearing, but to no avail. We parted company then until the next day when we met as usual and going to the livery stable of Mr. Cross we hired a rig and took some of these stolen goods around to the store and sold them.

The Shooting. The next day we did the same and one of the proprietors of the store notified the police, and when we returned the horse and wagon, Detective Frank Williams was waiting for us.

Mr. Cross took the rig down to his stables and we returned with the detective. He had come between us grasped us by the shoulders. We turned with him and went to the little back office of Cross’s. Johnson went through the door first, then Williams, then myself. He was turned sideways so as not to let go of us. The office was dark and as soon as Williams was inside Johnson pulled the revolver and fired. Williams let loose at me and attempted to grapple with Johnson and he fired once more.

Tried to Stop Pal. I cried, ‘quit that, you fool,’ and jumped at him and grabbed his arm with one hand, the right, and the gun with the left, just as he fired once for the bullet going into the roof, and the fire burning my left hand. He let go the gun and went through the next office, though the front door and away.

Questions Evidence. In the meantime Williams had pulled his ‘billy’ and jumped on me. We wrestled a little while and that is when Cross came to the door. The whole thing had only taken a matter of seconds till then, and Cross was mistaken at my trial, as the evidence at the inquest, how own evidence, will show, for he had taken the rig to the back of his wagon shed, a distance of perhaps 200 feet from us, and was unhitching the horse when the first shot was fired, and all three were practically simultaneous as the evidence shows.

Had Forgotten Gun. I was trying my darndest to ward off the blows, and Cross was choking me. In fact, I had forgotten all about the darned gun when it went off, I swear, by accident, and God knows, it is the truth if no one else does. Whereup Cross shifted one of his armed around my right arm by the elbow to order to hold the gun, I suppose. Anyway, Williams hit me on right over my left eye, and I must have the pulled the trigger again, but I do not remember. All I do know is I felt myself falling but he only stunned me for a moment, I guess, for I staggered to my feet and attempted to run, but was tripped by someone before I had gone 40 steps, and, well - that is all, excepting, God forgive me, and God rest Frank Williams’ soul.

Not a Murderer. ‘I am not a murderer, nor have I the instincts of one, thank God, although I am convicted as one, and if I have to die on the gallows, my conscience is clear as to that, and I will die as a man, I hope. I do not fear death myself, thanks to the best Christian man I ever met, the Rev. Bertram Nelles, of this city. God bless him.’

Carried No Weapon. ‘All I will say in regard to my escape from here is this. In the circumstances who would not have done the same? If the thing had required violence I would not have gone, and during my brief freedom I had two opportunities to get firearms, but would not take them. In fact, would not even carry a penknife, and if by any chance God sees fit to have mercy on me, and I am granted commutation of sentence, my word is given to NEVER do any wrong again.

‘I will close this epistle now. God help my poor old mother, brothers and sisters. My father is dead, may he rest easy. And God have mercy on me. His Will Be Done.’ (Signed). FRANK McCULLOUGH

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“I CALLED on him for the first time on Friday the 15th of November. He appeared very cheerful, but his ways soon convinced me he was doing all in his power to excite himself into happy feelings to drown the thought of his impending execution.

Upon testing him a little as to the ground of the hope he expressed concerning the life to come, I soon found it to be his thorough repentance, his comparative freedom from evil desires, his great love to God, &c. He thought surely he had made his peace with God since he had so many good things to show.

His lips talked about Jesus and His love very nicely. He repeated some of God's precious promises, but evidently his heart was so intensely occupied with self, that he could grasp no meaning in those promises.

His earnest face, however, and the thoughtful attention he paid to what I said to him, attracted me at once. I remembered how, four years before, I was in the same state — occupied with my humility, my repentance, my faith, my love — and while putting on a cheerful face to make myself believe I possessed that happiness which I had often heard belonged to a man at peace with God, what bitterness and anguish lay in the depth of my soul. I remembered the day when, at the climax of misery, someone had pointed me to the third chapter of Romans, how it had opened Heaven to me — the unutterable deliverance it put me into — and I burned to have him get in the same place.

I told him nothing he could do could save him; neither his repentance, nor his love, nor looking to the work of the Spirit in him, could give him peace with God. "You are lost," I said: "you are dead in trespasses and sins — condemned already— and you might as well think that weeping and promising to do better could put away the sentence pronounced against you the other day as to think your repentance, or your promises, or anything from you, can move the curse of God's eternal law which now hangs over you, as well as over every soul of man who is not saved.'

I told him the only thing which could meet a "lost" man's need was salvation — a "dead" man needed life and a "condemned" man needed mercy.

I declared to him he was grievously mistaken if he thought he had made his peace with God. He could never do that. “What, then, must I do?" said he, in a half-stunned way. “Read there," said l, and my finger pointed to Colossians 1. 20: "And having made peace through the blood of His cross .  . ." I pointed again to Galatians iii.13, and said, "read again here!" "Christ hath redeemed us from the curse of the law, being made a curse for us . . ."

I then besought him to read, thoughtfully and prayer-fully, the third, fourth, and fifth chapters of Romans, and commending him to the Lord, who alone, I knew, could open his blinded eyes, I left him in his lonely cell.” - P. J. Loizeaux, The Last Twenty-One Days of the Convict Daniel Mann; Sentenced to Death, On the 10th of November, 1870, Executed on the 14th of Dec. Following. - Being a Simple Narrative of the Author’s interview with him.  Kingston: Printed by William Lightfoot, Wellington Street. p. 3-5

[englischdeutschubersetzung]

condemned man Übersetzung condemned man Deutsch

condemned man auf Deutsch übersetzen, Bedeutung für condemned man, Was ist condemned man. condemned man Deutsch übersetzen #condemned man

[englischdeutschubersetzung]

condemned man Übersetzung condemned man Deutsch

condemned man auf Deutsch übersetzen, Bedeutung für condemned man, Was ist condemned man. condemned man Deutsch übersetzen #condemned man

[draftrough]

The Physiologicals of a Condemned Man

The inevitable approaches and my stomach shrinks back in fear.  Twisting itself into a knot and packing itself into my bowels, its all I can do to not sneeze and lose control of my ever-loving innards. 

My brain races with ways out.  Is the door locked? Yes. Checked it a hundred times. The windows? Barred.  All of them.  No chance for escape.  I’ve thrown my body against all the exits. Nothing.  Of course it doesn’t help that I don’t have much meat on my bones.

A puddle collected in the corner. I won’t say what it contains. But I can say that I feel synonymous with it.  Peering in, my eyes find the face of a bedraggled, haggard, ragged-looking dude with not too much left in the Cheek Department.  Except the Bones.  He has excellent and most prominent Cheek Bones, and while we’re on the subject, look at that jutting CollarBone! This is a man with Osteo’s on Display.

Yellowing skin strapped tight against the frame of a fucked up mind and body.  There isn’t too much left for me here.  Physically speaking, I’m reduced to the bare minimum.  Heart doesn’t beat any more, it races. Lungs don’t breathe so much as pant.  Liver stopped working a long time ago and in a dire conspiracy with my Kidneys has turned my piss green and my skin yellow.

Ahh the bliss of Technicolor.  Every one knows that whites and lean meats go well, except my eyes, who have opted for the rouger of the two to accompany my Spartan frame.  In place of the Spartan warrior who used to stand in my shoes, I have been reduced to the most meager of terms, much as the Sparta we used to glorify has fallen prey to Hollywood’s spoiled brats and the oversimplification of a culture of hardened warriors.

Pain will be my ultimate enemy, although in place of the typical aches and pains that accompany my walks and wavers, I have been electrified by the fear of the future.  The unbearably short one it seems.  My door gets ever closer to opening, my walls shrink around me, just as my skin has against my quivering heart (which I can watch shrivel against the coldness of the cell by the way.  It is quite the odd sensation to see your most intimate of organs be reduced to a waxy, withering ball of fear).

Footsteps. It won’t be long now.  Farewell sweet walls, Good-bye barred windows, Au revoir tepid tainted pool of a mirror.  This is my final Goodnight Moon as I too prepare the world after life.  I imagine it is like getting ready to sleep when you cant. My life has been robbed of me and as the final insult to my human form it is still going to be ripped out of my hands without so much of a flinch from the executioner.  I heard the call in the street. I am number 4 of 6.  By the time the crowd gets to me, they will already be shelled by the callowness of humanity and my head hitting the basket will be nothing but a separation between numbers 3 and 5. Both more interesting looking than I.

My only hope is a face in the crowd. Her face. I’m sure she won’t be there. But maybe, just maybe, I’ll get to take the last good image of this world into the next.