The Mathews journal. (Mathews C.H. [Court House]) 1903-1937, 1912-01-04
BANKER MORSE
SLOWLY DYING
Spirit and Health Broken By
Three Days In Dungeon On
Bread and Water-His
Right Side Is
ParalyZed.

Thomas +. Logan has the following
special dispatch in this mornings
Post:
ATLANTA. GA Special The
truth about Charles w. Morse is that
he is dying. Medical aid cannot save
MIN. Whether he remains at the hos
pital at Fort Mcpherson or goes back
10 the dungeon, where he was cast
because OF some minor infraction of
the rules, or is pardoned by the Pres
ident, his life cannot be saved.
The only question that exists in the
minds of the strict disciplinarians
who are giving him medical attention
is the length OF time that he will live
conflicting reports, due to a remark
able skepticism, may have gone to
the President with reference to
Morse's physical condition.
Experts Admit His Condition.
technical reasons may have been
given in support of a theory that he
solute truth of the matter, however,
Is that Morse is dying. He is dying
by inches before the eyes of the
nurses and doctors who are watching
him. They know il and admitted it
to me tonight.
There is no desire to create SYM
pathy for Morse. There is no inten-
ton to make any statement that is
based on hearsay or idle gossip. Every
fact presented herewith has been
Veriheo carefully. The personal doc
tor and the lawyers for Morse told
wildly what they know of his condi-
ton, but their views were not taken
as final.
Facts Carefully Verified.
The facts herewith presented are
based wholly upon The statements of
the army officials, army SURGEONS and
army nurses who have been detailed
by the Government to watch and treat
Morse. If they had any bias it would
be on the side of stringent measures.
1 went further, and visited Morse
myself. If the carefully weighed
statements of the colonel in command
of Fort Mcpherson and the surgeon
in charge of the hospital had not fur
nished sufficient evidence Of the grave
condition of the famous banker, the
emaciated form that lay inert on the
white cot would have told it's own
story.
Prisoner Very Weak.
The face on the pillow was as white
as the pillow itself. Deep burrows
lined the paid forehead. There were
circles so heavy about the eyes that
the whole effect seemed dsathlike, A
whispered warning was given that
Morse was very weak, and that moth
ing should be said to excite him. The
large hospital ward, with a score of
white-robed cots lined on both sides.
echoed with the footsteps Of the Wis.,
itors-
Morse raised a weak left hand
greeting. His whole right side is par
alyzed. His lips drew apart in a
skeleton-like smile. There was no
pleasure in the smile. 1t was a joyless
grimace that seemed TO mock at peace
and happiness. 1t was but the ghost
OF Morse's powerful past.
Doesn't Want 10 Die i'm Jail.
"Oh, guess I'm dying" said Morse.
in droning voice. in response to a
question that was asked. L don l
mind that so much: / am not COM
planning. But l wish TO God some
one would tell the President that J
am not a felon. l am not a feion. ]
have paid every debt, have drained
myself to pay them. 1 don't care if
1 die, but l am not n felon. And j
don't want TO die in Jail"
The sentry that was on guard peered
over the screen that hemmed Morse
in. 1t was the sentry's duty to take
that peering look over the screen every
hour. He knew the man on the other
side hadn't the strength to crawl
across the floor, he knew that when
they tried TO weigh the prisoner they
mad TO lift him on the scales, and on
one occasion when they took that risk
that Morse all but tainted. The sentry,
like everybody else at the hospital
knew that Morse, in two years, had
dropped from a healthy man weigh
ing 1874 pounds to a bag Of bones
Weighing 149.
Sends Thanks to Friends.
Il want to thank all my friends for
what they have tried TO do for me-"
murmured Morse weakly. turning his
face away from the sentry, whose
presence tolled off the hours and night
To him like slow SANDS ticking off the
hours in a glass. Every time the SEN
tinel peered over the screen, Morse
knew another hour OF his fast-ebbing
life had gone.
The hospital surgeon, Major David
Baker, did not have to ask me not to
disturb the patient further. 1t was
plain to any one that the wan, weak
creature on the cot was face to face
with death. Doctors may Juggle with
the terms of the disease. They may
lay their wagers against death. They
may say that Morse may-yes may
live one year, or two. They would
have a better chance TO win if they
took the other end of the bet-that
Morse will not live three months.
Goodbye" said Morse as the visitor
turned away. Goodbye" he repeated
and it sounded like the last farewell
"a gasp from the border of the grave.
There is no attempt to eXaggerate
the seriousness of Morse's aff1iction. Ii
IS what would have happened to any
man of fifty-hve, who. ripped from a
busy, militant life, to be placed on
trial for technical offense of which
he honestly believed, and still believes,
himself innocent, had finally been
thrown into a prison for fifteen years
when the maximum of his alleged Of
Tense really was but ten.
Thrown Into a Dungeon.
Perhaps Morse might have stood
the change TO prison life had it not
been made so unduly harsh at the
Federal prison here. The fame of
the man reacted upon him. He was
not treated like a poor man, but
worse than poor man. Once, when
he wanted to aid a poor devil who
was going out of Jail to face the