by M. G. Meaney
The Last Hanging
A Will Haviland-Abigail Carhart Mystery
M.G. Meaney
Copyright © 2021 Michael G. Meaney
All rights reserved
.
To Karen
Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
Acknowledgements
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
The hangman waited.
Theodore Hopfner wept.
The terror had finally crumpled the past weeks' makeshift resolve.
The 22-year-old sat on his iron cot in the Westchester County Jail cell and plunged his face into his hands. He wore a black execution suit. It was 7 a.m. on Wednesday, June 13, 1883. He was to die for the murder of Zife Jenks, a peddler hacked to death and robbed four months earlier. Hopfner, a braggart, ne'er-do-well immigrant carpenter's son, had insisted from the beginning, and maintained now, that he had not killed Jenks. He had found the body, he said, and had taken some clothes from the peddler's pack. The dead man would not miss them, he had joked. No one believed him. Hadn't the rector of the Episcopal church himself, the Reverend Willet Haviland, seen the gruesome remains by the side of the road, whipped his horse to a gallop despite a blinding snowstorm and brought Hopfner to earth not 300 yards from the killing as the young man stumbled toward the woods to hide? No, no one believed him then.
And now it did not matter.
Hopfner had been awakened at 4:30. He had spent most of the night lying on his back, staring through the black iron bars of his cell window. At what? wondered the two jailors seated outside. There were no stars, just fog and mist.
"Well, I suppose I have got to come to it," he had said, as much to himself as to the jailor, while making his bed. He washed up in a tin bowl, lathered his face and was shaved by a barber — the jailors watched him keenly as the razor was applied. Then, he put on the new black suit provided by the jail. His face was drawn, his blue eyes sunken beneath prominent brows, his thin mouth curled in a habitual smirk. His shock of thin blond hair resisted combing.
The jail's chief cook, William Gedney, had arrived with a steak, stewed potatoes and coffee. Hopfner sat at the small wooden table in his cell and took two forkfuls of potato, then lay down the fork. He was not hungry. He poured a quarter-cup of coffee, black, sipped it, then, as if willing himself, gulped down the rest.
Shortly before 6, a doctor had examined him and offered him some opiates.
"I'm not sick, doc, though I'll soon be dead," he had joked, waving off the drugs. Hammering from the gallows in the courtyard froze his hand, however. He glanced toward the light. Shouts reached him, shouts of workmen, shouts of carpenters finishing their job. ''I believe I'll take those after all, doc."
Then, the Reverend J.M. Tilford of the Rye Harbor Lutheran Church arrived with Hopfner's parents, Thomas and Hannah. Hopfner was from Rye Harbor, though he was not given to attending church.
''The Lord is merciful to all who seek His mercy," the minister counseled. ''He forgives those who seek his forgiveness. Man cannot justify himself, but with the Lord our God all is possible. Pray with me, Theodore."
Hopfner sat on the cot with the minister. His parents took two wooden chairs provided by the jailors. Unresistingly, Hopfner prayed the ''Our Father."
When the minister had left, Hannah Hopfner moved to the cot and took the young man's callused, nail-bitten hands into her reddened, fleshy ones and read his face, as she had so often — when he was a colicky baby, a toddler burned by the stove, a schoolboy with a chipped tooth, a teen-ager humiliated by mocking girls, a young man proudly displaying a chair he had built under his carpenter father's eye, and, yes, when he was a prisoner. He had fired a pistol at the feet of a stallion a neighbor's boy was breaking. The horse reared and tossed the boy, shattering his right arm; Hopfner had served a month in jail for breach of the peace. His mother, herself meticulous and worrisome, had found in Theodore her opposite — high-spirited, impetuous, reckless even, and, unfortunately, heedless as well — strong-willed without the good sense that would make it a virtue. Born in Germany, she and her husband saw themselves as foreigners in America dependent on the good graces of their hosts. So, they worked hard, asked for nothing and lived quietly — except for Theodore. He had been born in the United States and considered himself entitled to every adventure the great land offered, this despite his father's frequent recourse to the strap.
Today, Hannah Hopfner read fear in Theodore`s blanched face and darting, reddened eyes, fear such as never before, closer to fright.
"I'm scared, Mama. Oh, please help.me. Save me. I don't want to die," he keened. He collapsed into her lap, sobbing convulsively. She, too, burst into tears, rent by her powerlessness to help her child, to make everything all right, as she had when he was a boy. His tears inched down the backs of her hands. She stroked his hair and rocked him as she had many a colicky night years ago, though it seemed not so many now.
Thomas Hopfner sat, straight-backed, bowler in lap, forbidding himself tears. He could never forgive his son for staining the family name, disgracing it in this new land. He had spoiled it not only for his older sister and her children but perhaps for other families in Germany who wanted to come to America. How would the Americans allow any more over if this was how they behaved? Hadn't Congress just voted to keep out the Chinese? Theodore had been in trouble his whole life, and see now what final heartache he was bequeathing his poor mother. No, he would not weep for such a son.
The prisoner grew quieter after a time, crying himself out, under the sedation of the opiates. He raised his head. ''Father, I did some bad things, I know, but not this. I did not kill the peddler. They say I did, but I didn't. You must believe me."
The father stood and extended his hand.
The son's eyes pleaded.
''Good-bye, son. Be brave."
''Oh my God," the mother cried as her husband coaxed her from the young man's grasp.
Hopfner looked blearily after them, lurched to his feet but toppled back onto the cot, left to support his head himself and to cry, alone, as now four jailors assembled in the hallway outside.
In the prison yard the hangman darted about in a final inspection.
As they stood in the crowd massed before the gallows, Robert Van Amringe — the portly, florid, mustachioed mayor of Paulding, the village on New York's Long Island Sound where the peddler had been killed — was telling Reverend Haviland, "You have endeared yourself greatly to everyone in Paulding by your role in bringing Hopfner to justice. You have been with us only a short time, but I must say, my dear rector, with that one stroke you have earned a place in our hearts. Admittedly, the poor peddler Jenks was but a foreigner
and not from Paulding, but for him to be killed in our village and the killer escape would have overturned the village's peace and order. Had his killer been running loose ..." The consequences of this were too much even for the mayor — a noted orator locally — to encapsulate in words.
''I understand you completely, and I am glad that I could help protect the village and further justice," Haviland said, as his office required, though he barely suppressed a proud grin.
At this point, Hopfner's parents passed by, he supporting her with his right arm around her waist. She glanced up and noticed Haviland. At 6 foot 1, the clergyman stood apart in any crowd. Hannah Hopfner stopped and faced him. The plump, brown-haired mother's face was blotched and dampened by weeping. More tears welled in her eyes.
"You do this," she wailed. "You kill my boy, my baby. Does this make you happy? Is God happy?"
Clusters of spectators ceased conversing and looked at Haviland. He listened serenely to the trembling woman four feet away pointing at him and crying out accusations as her husband looked down sheepishly at the bowler in his hand.
Mrs. Hopfner,' Haviland began softly in his most professional tone of empathy, "I ..."
"Save your words," she shot back. "It's words condemned my poor Theodore, lies. He did not kill the peddler. You don't believe this." She scanned some of the crowd. ''What you believe, it does not matter. He did not kill, but he suffers for it, we suffer for it, for your justice." She collapsed onto her husband, who clasped her around the waist again and cradled her head against his shoulder. They staggered across the cobblestones to a dozen relatives and friends gathered inconspicuously at the far side.
"Justice sometimes has no mercy, it seems, Reverend."
Haviland and the mayor turned to find Abigail Carhart smiling at them teasingly, her usual approach to any formalities the village of Paulding took seriously. Her childhood sweetheart had been killed outside Petersburg during the final months of the Civil War 18 years earlier, just six months after they had been married. Her father had died two years later, leaving her and her mother, Sarah, to run the family's women's clothing store on Main Street.
Some said the two deaths had drained her of tender emotions and transformed her into a mockingbird. She took nothing seriously and poked fun at everything. Tall, slender, her long black hair nested in soft coils pinned atop her head and framing her face in ringlets, she was considered the village's most fashionable woman still at age 37. But she had mocked would-be suitors since she was 19. Men kept pursuing her, though, captivated by her wit, purring voice and lively features – large green eyes, high cheekbones, rosy complexion, prim nose but sensuous lips, long eyelashes, perfect teeth. And by her customary expression: a bright smile anticipating her date would say something entertaining or amusing the next moment. In the end, she preferred to trade witticisms, not professions of love.
When he had stepped aside to let her between himself and the mayor, Haviland was unable to pass up a chance to expound.
''It is not the justice but the act of injustice that causes the pain, Mrs. Carhart. The pain we must regret, but we cannot regret the justice."
"Well put," the mayor said, ''but Abigail, do you think it wise for you to witness this spectacle? It will be harsh."
"If the wretched boy's mother can bear it, why not someone who knows her son as a mere name in the newspaper? More villagers are here than at the last fair, it seems, so should I not be here also? How would I keep current with my customers' gossip? Besides, I have my parasol if the machinations should make me faint." She opened the white lace parasol and hid behind it a moment. Then her face peered out above it, mischievously arched brows, her mouth dissolving into a grin. Her dress — long, light blue cotton with long bodice, pleated skirt and frills at neck and sleeves — seemed more appropriate for a fair than an execution. "Still,'' she said, "I should congratulate you, Reverend, on capturing the murderer and saving the village much disquiet. You are the hero of the day."
Reverend Haviland chose to take the comment as sincere. "I did no more than anyone else would have," he said. But he was relieved and happy for his initial popularity in this calling, so unlike the circumstances in his previous position. He took it as a sign that he would be in harmony with this congregation as much as he had been out of harmony with his prior one. In this case, the right thing turned out to be in harmony with the village's needs. He would not this time be worn down by conflict. In fact, he seemed physically to be flourishing at age 40. He had put some weight back onto his spare frame and a drawn look had all but disappeared. He was looking again like the ruddy, cleanshaven, idealistic upstate grocer's son who entered the seminary after serving in the Civil War. The war had left him with a faded scar on the right cheek and a slight limp. Beneath barely tamed curly light brown hair, his searching deep blue eyes, and gently rounded eyebrows, the right one always raised like a question mark, lent him a customary expression of youthful inquisitiveness and empathy. His silken cello of a baritone quietly dominated a room, even without his height.
He caught Abigail appraising the black tweed jacket he wore over his clerical gray, a habit of hers. He held out his ash walking stick.
"Would you like to give me a price on this as well, Mrs. Carhart? Or do you restrict yourself to clothing," he teased.
"Clothing — and character," she quipped.
He had never married. He had begun to enjoy Abigail's irreverent sparring more and more, however.
As he, the mayor and Abigail talked about village matters, the crowd went silent. The prison door had opened. A man in a gray suit was walking toward the hangman, who was conversing with a constable on the gallows, just off to the left of the rope. When the functionary, a jailor, approached, he turned casually. The jailor spoke a few words. The hangman nodded, picked up a gray sack and followed across the platform, down its side steps and 20 paces across the courtyard. The black, barred door swung open and they entered.
''It will be just a few minutes now," the mayor observed.
A stir came from the back of the crowd. Zife Jenks' widow, Elena, and some family were being escorted from the gate through the crowd to a place off to the right of the mayor, Haviland and Abigail — the opposite side from the Hopfners.
"I must have a word with her," Haviland announced. "If you will excuse me?" He bowed to his companions and walked over.
Mrs. Jenks appeared ill at ease in this strange place far from the Polish immigrant pushcart street bustle of the Lower East Side. She smoothed her coarse plain black cotton dress by habit as he approached. Light brown hairs strayed from the bun atop her head. Her face, though thin and worn, bore traces of beauty — high cheekbones, dark, reticent eyes, wispy eyebrows, small pursed mouth, fine nose. The widow sewed clothes at home to support her four fatherless children, and no doubt depended on help from relatives. Now, she stiffened to attention.
"It will do nothing to right that which has been done you, Mrs. Jenks," Haviland said after reintroducing himself for the first time since the trial — she had attended — ''but the killer will not be free to harm anyone else."
He had unconsciously spoken slower than normal, but she seemed abashed at the glib rush of still-foreign words from the elegantly dressed preacher — she had understood him only partially — but she replied: ''We must see him punished, no matter. You helped. That is good. All of us, we thank you."
She nodded stiffly but did not extend a hand. She looked at him solemnly, as if a barrier forbade touching. The other women and the bearded, coarsely dressed workingmen with her just watched him impassively. None moved. After a few awkward moments Haviland bowed, muttered, "Well, good luck, then," and made his way back toward the center of the crowd, limping slightly. Villagers greeted him along the way, congratulating him on the arrest and in short order the execution of the miscreant. His spirits were high when he rejoined the mayor and Abigail.
More than 300 spectators thronged the small courtyard and 150 others were gathered outsid
e the jail`s stockade fence, looking in from atop horse-drawn wagons, buggies and carriages clustered by the fence. Every species of vehicle had been commandeered to transport villagers from Paulding the five miles to White Plains, the county seat. Some farmers had sold places in their picnic wagons for the trip. Reporters from the Paulding Gazette weekly and the Weekly Reporter and The Dispatch of White Plains were joined by their counterparts from The Herald, The Tribune, The Post and The Times in New York City 30 miles to the south. Paulding's entire force of six constables was in attendance; constables from neighboring Mamaroneck stood in for them back home. Even the village's major industry, the Disbrow " Purdy Nut and Bolt Works, had closed down for the morning, but current owner Thaddeus Acker had remained at the factory, though as the village's dominant employer and one of its foremost citizens he could have had a ticket.
Reverend Haviland had by now regained his place and had taken in the crowd. He examined the gallows. The rope hung from a 14-foot-high rectangular frame and extended back over pulleys and down the left side to a great weight. The weight was anchored in place by another rope. The grim machinery under roiling gray clouds called up the scene at Calvary.
But the Savior was innocent, condemned wrongly, Haviland told himself. That's not the case here. Justice is being done, clearly. Or was it clear? An unwanted thought crept in: What if I was wrong, if we all were wrong? What if we rushed to judgement, didn't ask enough questions? What if Theodore Hopfner is innocent, as he insists?
He shuddered, then shook his head to drive out the thought.
Inside Hopfner's cell, Westchester County Sheriff Stephen Horton was asking, "Theodore Hopfner, do you confess to the murder of Zife Jenks on the eighth of February in the year of Our Lord eighteen hundred and eighty-three?"
The prisoner, who had moved to a chair by his small table, looked at him a moment, pondering whether someone might yet believe that he did not kill Zife Jenks. He sat up straight, raised an arm in Horton's direction and opened his mouth. But he uttered no sound. The arm drifted back to his lap. He closed his mouth, eschewing comment. His eyes lingered one last moment on Horton's face, sifting still for an ally among the stony-visaged authorities that had guarded him since the guilty verdict six weeks ago in the courthouse across the way. Then, Hopfner's sunken blue eyes emptied of life, of hope. Aimlessly now they scanned Horton, his black cap, the brass buttons on his double-breasted uniform, his black leather shoes, then the eight pairs of black leather shoes worn by the jailors lined up outside the cell. The eyes meandered to the bow-tie and starched white collar and black bag of a doctor standing off to the side, and the business-like demeanor and gray sack of the man who had just arrived.