Tom’s father hired a carpenter to construct the gallows near the
southern wall of the prison, the only place where the ceiling was
sufficiently high. The location was ten feet from Nichols’s cell, and
the condemned man—who maintained his innocence and still
hoped for a reprieve from the governor—could hear the planks
being sawed and nailed, sawed and nailed, the pace quickening.
Tom’s father was determined to make the killing mercifully swift,
and once the apparatus was completed, he repeatedly tested it with
sacks of sand.
The governor rejected Nichols’s final appeal, saying, “Let the law
take its course.” Tom’s father broke the news to Nichols, who was
in his cell, deep in prayer. Nichols tried to stay calm, but his hands
began to tremble. He said that he’d like to be clean-shaven and
wear a fine black suit for his appointment with death, and Tom’s
father promised to honor his wishes.
On the day of the execution, Tom, who was twelve years old,
stood on a tier inside the jail. No one shooed him away, not even
his father, and he could see Nichols, who was dressed in his new
suit, being led by Tom’s father to the scaffolding, time measured
in each step and breath. As Tom listened, a preacher read Nichols’s
final statement: “Sheriff White has been very accommodating to
me indeed. I feel prepared to meet death. My soul is at peace with
all mankind.” Then the preacher offered his own holy words. “Ed
Nichols is to swing into eternity,” he said. “Sheriff Death is on his
black steed, is but a short distance away, coming to arrest the soul
of this man to meet the trial at the higher bar where God himself
is supreme ruler, Jesus, his son the attorney, and the Holy Ghost
the prosecutor.”
When the preacher finished, Tom heard a familiar voice. It was
his father, reading the death warrant. The noose was fitted around
Nichols’s neck, and a black hood placed over his head. Tom could