Within Prison Walls
by Thomas Mott Osborne · English · Gutenberg #33255 · 454,537 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Within Prison Walls
Author: Thomas Mott Osborne
Release date: July 25, 2010 [eBook #33255]
Language: English
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WITHIN PRISON WALLS
WITHIN PRISON WALLS
_BEING A NARRATIVE OF PERSONAL
EXPERIENCE DURING A WEEK OF
VOLUNTARY CONFINEMENT IN THE
STATE PRISON AT AUBURN, NEW YORK_
BY THOMAS MOTT OSBORNE
(THOMAS BROWN, AUBURN No. 33,333X)
NEW YORK AND LONDON
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1928
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America
THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS DEDICATED TO
OUR BROTHERS IN GRAY
AND ESPECIALLY TO THOSE WHO, DURING
MY SHORT STAY AMONG THEM IN AUBURN
PRISON, WON MY LASTING GRATITUDE
AND AFFECTION BY THEIR COURTESY,
SYMPATHY, AND UNDERSTANDING
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. WHY I WENT TO PRISON 1
II. SUNDAY'S JOURNAL 11
III. MONDAY MORNING 24
IV. MONDAY AFTERNOON 41
V. THE FIRST NIGHT 59
VI. TUESDAY MORNING 70
VII. TUESDAY AFTERNOON AND EVENING 88
VIII. WEDNESDAY MORNING AND AFTERNOON 108
IX. WEDNESDAY EVENING 125
X. THURSDAY 138
XI. FRIDAY 164
XII. SATURDAY 189
XIII. A NIGHT IN HELL 207
XIV. SUNDAY--THE END 253
XV. CUI BONO? 280
CHAPTER THE LAST.--THE BEGINNING 314
WITHIN PRISON WALLS
CHAPTER I
WHY I WENT TO PRISON
Many years back, in my early boyhood, I was taken through Auburn Prison.
It has always been the main object of interest in our town, and I was a
small sized unit in a party of sightseers. No incident of childhood made a
more vivid impression upon me. The dark, scowling faces bent over their
tasks; the hideous striped clothing, which carried with it an
unexplainable sense of shame; the ugly close cropped heads and shaven
faces; the horrible sinuous lines of outcast humanity crawling along in
the dreadful lockstep; the whole thing aroused such terror in my
imagination that I never recovered from the painful impression. All the
nightmares and evil dreams of my childhood centered about the figure of an
escaped convict. He chased me along dark streets, where I was unable to
run fast or cry aloud; he peeked through windows at me as I lay in bed,
even after the shades had been pinned close to escape his evil eye; as I
ascended a flight of stairs in dreamland and looked back, he would come
creeping through an open door, holding a long knife in his hand, while my
mother all unconscious of danger sat reading under the shaded library
lamp; he was a visitor frequent enough to make night hideous for a time,
and it was many long years before he took a departure which I trust is
final.
After this early experience I carefully avoided the Prison. Its gray stone
walls frowned from across the street every time I departed or arrived on a
New York Central train, but I made no effort to go again inside. In fact I
persistently refused to join my friends whenever they made a visit there;
once had been quite enough.
So it was not until many years afterward that I again passed within prison
walls. Then my official connection with the Junior Republic and its
successful training of wild and mischievous boys brought me in touch with
the Prison System. I had been interested in the Elmira Reformatory and had
visited Mr. Brockway, the superintendent of that institution. I became
acquainted, quite by chance, with a certain prisoner in Sing Sing, and
through him interested in other prisoners, there and in Auburn. In due
time, I began to appreciate the importance of the general Prison Problem
and the difficulties of its solution. Also I felt that my experience in
the Junior Republic had given me a possible clew to that solution.
Thus I was drawn to the prison almost in spite of myself; and, becoming
more and more interested, I felt that there was great need of some one's
making a study at first hand--some one sympathetic but not sentimental--of
the thoughts and habits of the men whom the state holds in confinement. It
is easy to read a textbook on civil government and then fancy we know
exactly how the administration of a state is conducted; but the actual
facts of practical politics are often miles asunder from the textbook
theory. In the same way "the Criminal" has been extensively studied, and
deductions as to his instincts, habits and character drawn from the
measurements of his ears and nose; but I wanted to get acquainted with the
man himself, the man behind the statistics.
So the idea of some day entering prison and actually living the life of a
convict first occurred to me more than three years ago. Talking with a
friend, after his release from prison, concerning his own experience and
the need of changes in the System, I brought forward the idea that it was
impossible for those of us on the outside to deal in full sympathy and
understanding with the man within the walls until we had come in close
personal contact with him, and had had something like a physical
experience of similar conditions. We discussed how the thing could be done
in case the circumstances ever came about so that it would become
desirable for me to do it. He agreed as to the general proposition; but
nevertheless shook his head somewhat doubtfully. "There is no question but
that you'd learn a lot," he said; then added, "but I think you'd find it
rather a tough experience." He made the suggestion that if ever the plan
were carried out autumn would be the best season, as the cells would be
least uncomfortable at that time of year.
Time passed, and while I continued to have an interest in the Prison
Problem, the interest was a passive rather than an active one. Then on a
red-letter day in the summer of 1912, being confined to the house by a
slight illness, I read Donald Lowrie's book, "My Life in Prison." That
vivid picture of prison conditions, written so simply yet with such power
and such complete and evident sincerity, stirred me to the depths. It made
me feel that I had no right any longer to be silent or indifferent; I must
do my share to remove the foulest blot upon our social system.
Thereafter when called upon to speak in public, I usually made Prison
Reform the subject of my talk, advancing certain ideas gathered from my
experience with the boys of the Junior Republic, endeavoring not only to
crystalize my own views as to the prisons but to get others to turn their
thoughts in the same direction.
Finally came an appointment by Governor Sulzer to a State Commission on
Prison Reform, suggested to the Governor by Judge Riley, the new
Superintendent of Prisons. My position as chairman of the Commission made
it seem desirable, if not necessary, to inform myself to the utmost as to
the inner conditions of the prisons and the needs of the inmates. I do not
mean that it was necessary to reinvestigate the material aspect of the
prisons--it is known already that the conditions at Sing Sing are
barbaric, and those at Auburn medieval--but that it was desirable to get
all possible light regarding the actual effect of the System as a whole,
or specific parts of it, upon the prisoners.
I began to feel, therefore, that the time had come to carry out the plan
which had been so long in the background of my mind. I discussed it long
and earnestly with a certain dear friend, who gave me needed
encouragement; the Superintendent of Prisons and the Warden at Auburn
approved; and, last but not least, an intelligent convict in whom I
confided thought it a decidedly good idea. None of us, to be sure,
realized the way in which the thing was actually to work out. It became a
much more vital and far-reaching experiment than we had any of us expected
or could have dared to hope. We were not prepared for the way in which the
imaginations of many people, both in and out of prison, were to be
touched and stimulated.
Originally I had intended to enter the prison in disguise. In that way I
thought one could learn the most, as one would stand a much better chance
of seeing the System in its normal working order. Upon mature reflection,
however, this idea was given up. The Warden felt strongly that there would
be danger of the best possible disguise being penetrated where so many
pairs of sharp eyes were on the watch; and I agreed with him that in such
event I could not avoid being set down as a spy by both officers and
prisoners, and my real object fatally misunderstood. The little additional
knowledge I might secure by being unknown would not pay for the danger of
complete failure. In this conclusion the intelligent convict joined, for
he had pointed out from the first that, while there were certain obvious
disadvantages in being known, yet there were also certain advantages great
enough to more than counterbalance. He said that if I could spare two
months for the visit it would be better to come disguised, but that it
would certainly take as long as that to get into the game. "You know we're
awful suspicious," he added, by way of explanation; "and we don't open up
to any new fellow until we know he's on the level." He maintained
therefore that, having only a week, I had much better make no secret of
it, but come in my own person. His view was confirmed by the event. I not
only learned far more than if I had been unknown, but I so gained the
confidence of the prisoners that many of them have become my devoted and
valued friends.
The account in the following chapters of my week in Auburn Prison is taken
from the pages of a journal I kept during my confinement. In that I jotted
down, day by day, every incident no matter how trivial it seemed at the
time; so that I possess a very complete record of my week in prison.
As I have transcribed the pages of the diary I have lived over again every
moment of that remarkably vivid experience, finding that almost every act,
every word, every detail, is fairly burned into my memory. I have scarcely
needed the pages of the journal, nor the long account of our week together
which my working partner in the basket shop, Jack Murphy, wrote out at my
request.
I shall not attempt to draw up any bill of indictment against the Prison
System, or to suggest specific improvements, either in general principles
or administrative details; I shall simply set down the facts and my
feelings as accurately as I can.
One final word by way of introduction. Many newspapers, presumably
reflecting the impressions of a considerable number of individuals, have
expressed the idea that nothing of value could possibly have been obtained
because I was not a real convict; although the same newspapers would
probably be the first to discredit any statements a real convict might
make. Foreseeing such criticism, I had tried to forestall it in the
remarks I addressed to the prisoners the day before my experiment began;
and if some of my editorial critics had taken the trouble to read their
own press dispatches, they might have been saved some distress of mind. No
one could have understood better than I did at the outset, that it is
impossible to place yourself exactly in the shoes of a man who has been
sentenced to prison for an actual crime; I did not expect to do so. No
one, so far as I know, has ever yet succeeded in putting himself precisely
in the place of another in any given set of circumstances; yet that does
not keep us from constantly studying and analyzing the human problem. It
still remains true that "The proper study of mankind is man." In this
particular instance, perhaps some things of value were obtained for the
very reason that I was not a criminal. Possibly I could judge of some
matters with a juster appreciation than could any man suffering
involuntary imprisonment. It did, in fact, surprise me very much that
anyone could succeed to so great an extent in putting himself in the place
and in sharing so many of the sensations of an actual prisoner. Time and
again I heard from others the expression of thoughts and feelings which I
recognized as those which had swept over me; and I found that, partly by
force of imagination and environment and partly by the actual physical
conditions of confinement, one could really come into astonishingly close
sympathy and understanding with the prisoner. The truth of this can, I
believe, be seen in my narrative and has been demonstrated many times
since my release.
Of course all this would not have been possible had not the attitude of
both officers and inmates been just what it was. As I look back, it seems
to me that all hands played their parts to perfection. The strict orders
of the Warden that I was to receive no favors whatever and must be treated
exactly like any ordinary inmate, were literally carried out--except in
the two or three unimportant instances noted in my journal. But far more
remarkable was the attitude of the prisoners. An outsider would never have
detected a look or an action to indicate that there was any difference
between "Tom Brown" and any other inmate of the institution. Of course it
could not be absolutely the same; it was not possible for me to escape
being an object of interest; and I often felt around me a sort of
suppressed excitement; although, as I glanced again at the stolid gray
automatons, among whom I marched or sat at mess, I would think it must be
only my imagination--a reflex of my own excitement. Still I would catch an
occasional smile, a wink, a lifting of an eyebrow, the ghost of a nod--to
show that those silent figures were not really indifferent to my presence
among them. And as I went to my cell for the night, there might be a
momentary pause by a gray-clothed figure at the door, and a low whisper,
"How does it go, Tom?" All such things, however, might well have been in
the case of any new convict who had figured in the public prints and had
thus become an object of common interest.
After all possible deductions have been made, the fact remains that my
experiment met conditions at the prison which, thanks to officers and
inmates, led to a large measure of gratifying success. It is hard to see
how, from any point of view, the experience could have been improved upon;
it is hard to see how I could possibly have learned more in a week than I
did. If it were to be done over again, there is nothing whatever that I
would change. It has been not only a novel and most interesting
experience, it has been a wonderful revelation. I have come out of prison
with a new conception of the inherent nobility of human nature, a new
belief in the power of men to respond to the right conditions and the
right appeal. I have come out with a new sense of human brotherhood, a new
faith in God.
CHAPTER II
SUNDAY'S JOURNAL
September 28, 1913. 9.30 P. M.
All is ready for my great adventure. Indeed the first steps have been
taken. This morning I went down to the Prison to speak at the chapel
exercises as planned; but arrived early, about nine o'clock, at Warden
Rattigan's request, in order to inform the Chaplain as to what I am
proposing to do. He seemed very much surprised and pleased. The Warden
also explained the matter to the Principal Keeper; but I shall not attempt
to venture a guess at his feelings, for I was not present. I can imagine,
however, that the official view may not be one altogether in sympathy with
my experiment. The official mind, as a rule, prefers to have things viewed
strictly from the "congregation side"; it does not approve of interlopers
behind the scenes; which is not, perhaps, altogether unnatural.
When the prisoners are all assembled, the Chaplain leads the way and we
walk down the aisle of the chapel or assembly room--the latter name seems
more appropriate, as there is very little there to suggest religion.
Ascending the platform, we are greeted by a cordial round of applause; the
men have apparently not forgotten my talk to them in the yard last July,
when I explained what our Prison Reform Commission hopes to accomplish,
and asked their assistance.
I take my seat upon the platform and, while awaiting my turn to speak,
endeavor to listen to the service. Before me sit rows and rows of men in
gray trousers and faded shirts, upward of 1,300--not a full house, for a
considerable number are out in the road-building camps. Gray
predominates--not only in the gray clothes but in the heads and faces.
There are a few bright spots of youth and manly vigor, and some black
negro heads, but the general impression is gray; gray, and faded, and
prematurely old. It is a sad audience, to which a sinister aspect is given
by the sight of the guards--silent, alert, blue-clothed figures, youthful
for the most part, seated with watchful eyes and weapons handy, each in a
raised chair near his own particular company.
But, although a sad audience to look upon, it is, as I have found on
previous occasions, a most wonderfully sensitive and responsive audience
to address. Each point of the discourse is caught with extraordinary
quickness; every slight attempt at humor is seized upon with pathetic
avidity. The speaker soon finds himself stimulated and carried along, as
by a strange and powerful force he has never felt before. It is an
exciting and exhilarating experience to talk to a prison audience; but one
must take good care not to be a bore, nor to try any cheap oratorical
tricks; for it is not only a keen and critical audience, it is a merciless
one.
This morning I am not at all afraid of boring the hearers; but I do wonder
whether they will fully take in my meaning; and how those who do
understand will like the idea of my coming among them; and if some of them
understand and sympathize, will it be a few only, or a majority; and if a
majority, how large; and will the minority resent it sufficiently to be
disagreeable?
These are some of the questions which go buzzing through my mind as I sit
trying in vain to listen to the singing of the prison choir and the
Scripture lesson which the Chaplain is reading. Finally I am called upon
to speak; and as I advance to the front of the stage another round of
applause comes from the audience. It has rather a startling effect upon
one, for applause in the prison chapel has always somewhat the character
of an explosion--an explosion of pent-up feelings denied any ordinary
freedom of expression. Hand-clapping is the only form permitted, and it
sounds like the snapping of firecrackers.
I advance to the front of the stage and stumble through the first words of
explanation as to the reasons for having my speech carefully written
out--in order to avoid any possible misunderstanding afterward as to what
I really have said. Then I clear my throat and read the address which
follows.
The Superintendent of Prisons and Warden Rattigan have kindly given
me permission to carry out a plan which has been in my mind for some
time; and to carry it out successfully I need your cooperation--both
officials and prisoners.
As most of you doubtless know, I am chairman of the Commission on
Prison Reform appointed by Governor Sulzer to examine into the Prison
System of New York State, determine what changes would be desirable
and formulate legislation necessary to bring about such changes. The
members of the Commission since their appointment have been quietly
at work informing themselves as to the manner in which the present
System works out, its effect upon prisoners, the measure of its
success as a means of reducing crime throughout the state.
It must be evident that any such examination, seriously undertaken,
is an extremely complex and difficult matter. Not only are
trustworthy statistics absolutely lacking by which to determine the
more obvious facts, but statistics are manifestly impossible to
secure regarding the deepest and most important parts of the
problem--for instance, as to the psychological effect on the
prisoners themselves of the Prison System, both as a whole and as to
certain specific rules and regulations.
For much of the most important work of the Commission, therefore, we
must fall back on such experience of life and knowledge of human
nature as its members may possess. And it is with a desire to extend
my own knowledge and experience in the service of the Commission that
I ask your help in carrying out the plan to which I have referred.
When a man wishes to understand as fully as possible the temper and
character of the people of a foreign country--England or France, Germany,
India, China--he can consult a great deal of printed matter; but he will
not be satisfied until he has made a personal visit to the country itself.
For instance, I have but the merest smattering of the French language, and
I have been privileged to know socially but very few Frenchmen, yet my
visits to France have given me an infinitely better idea of the country
and people than I could ever have received from books. The actual sights
and sounds of a country seem to provide the foundation for a far better
understanding of its history, a more thorough appreciation of all that can
be read and heard of it thereafter.
If this sympathy and understanding, coming from a vivid personal
experience, is desirable in the case of a foreign country, it is even more
necessary in the case of a group of men set apart by society, such as this
community of the prison; for in your case the conditions under which you
live are more unnatural and less easy for most people to grasp than those
of a foreign country. Moreover, most of the books that have been written
about you by so-called penologists and other "experts" are written, so far
as I can determine, from such an outside standpoint and with so little
intelligent sympathy and vital understanding that I am inclined to the
belief that very few of them are of any particular value. Indeed many are
positively harmful; for they are based upon the false and cruel assumption
that the prisoner is not a human being like the rest of us, but a strange
sort of animal called a "criminal"--wholly different in his instincts,
feelings and actions from the rest of mankind.
I am curious to find out, therefore, whether I am right; whether our
Prison System is as unintelligent as I think it is; whether it flies in
the face of all common sense and all human nature, as I think it does;
whether, guided by sympathy and experience, we cannot find something far
better to take its place, as I believe we can.
So by permission of the authorities and with your help, I am coming here
to learn what I can at first hand. I have put myself on trial in the court
of conscience and a verdict has been rendered of "guilty"--guilty of
having lived for many years of my life indifferent to and ignorant of what
was going on behind these walls. For this crime I have sentenced myself to
a short term at hard labor in Auburn Prison (with commutation, of course,
for good behavior). I expect to begin serving my sentence this week. I am
coming here to live your life; to be housed, clothed, fed, treated in all
respects like one of you. I want to see for myself exactly what your life
is like, not as viewed from the outside looking in, but from the inside
looking out.
Of course I am not so foolish as to think that I can see it from exactly
your point of view. Manifestly a man cannot be a real prisoner when he may
at any moment let down the bars and walk out; and spending a few hours or
days in a cell is quite a different thing from a weary round of weeks,
months, years. Nor is prison a mere matter of clothes, they cannot make a
convict any more than they can make a gentleman. I realize perfectly that
my point of view cannot be yours; but neither when I go to Paris is my
point of view that of a Frenchman. Just as an American may perhaps
understand some things about Paris which are not so clear to the average
Frenchman, so perhaps a short residence among you here may enable me to
judge some things about the Prison System more accurately than those who
live too close to the problem to see it in its true perspective.
A word to the officials. My plan will not altogether succeed unless I am
treated exactly like these other men. I ask you, therefore, to aid me by
making no discrimination in my favor. Relax your regular discipline not a
jot because I am here. Give me the same guidance as these others--but no
more. If I offend against the rules, deal out to me the same punishment--I
shall expect it.
Here again I do not deceive myself; I realize perfectly that I shall not
see the Prison System in quite its normal running order. Things can
hardly, with the best intentions, keep going exactly the same while I am
here. Long ago when I was a very young school commissioner I found out
that neither teachers nor scholars can behave quite naturally when a
member of the school board is present. But let me assure you that I come
not on any errand of official investigation. I come in no sense as a spy
upon officers or inmates; I come not to discover anything; I come solely
to test, so far as I can, the effect of the system upon the mind of the
prisoner. I shall study myself, rather than you; or rather, I shall study
you through myself.
Perhaps many of you will think, as many outside the walls will think, that
at best this action is quixotic--another "fool's errand, by one of the
fools." I shall not argue the matter further. I believe that I fully
realize the shortcomings which will attend the experience, yet still I
shall undertake it. For somehow, deep down, I have the feeling that after
I have really lived among you, marched in your lines, shared your food,
gone to the same cells at night, and in the morning looked out at the
pieces of God's sunlight through the same iron bars--that then, and not
until then, can I feel the knowledge which will break down the barriers
between my soul and the souls of my brothers.
A final word to you all. When I come among you do your best to forget who
I am. Think of me only as a new and quite uninteresting arrival. Think of
me not as a member of the Prison Reform Commission, nor as the fellow
townsman of you officers, but as plain Tom Brown or Jones or Robinson,
sent by the courts for some breach of the law and who is no more to you
for the present than any other Tom, Dick or Harry. Some day in the future,
after I have done my time, perhaps my experience may be of service to you
and to the State, but of that we will talk later. In the meantime, help me
to learn the truth.
I have already attempted to describe my state of mind at the commencement
of this talk. As I went on, there came the feeling that, keen as they
usually are, the men were having some difficulty in grasping my full
meaning; were in doubt whether I really did intend to carry out in all
sincerity the plan of actually living their life. But as they began to
comprehend the full significance of the idea, their applause increased in
volume and heartiness.[1]
I have spoken of the sensitive quickness of the prison audience; I
experienced an instance. When the next to the last paragraph of my address
was first written, I used the words, "and in the morning looked out at
God's sunlight through the same iron bars." Then there had come into my
mind the picture made by the grated window, and I added three words so as
to read, "looked out at the pieces of God's sunlight." As I spoke those
words a burst of hearty laughter at the touch of irony came so quickly
that I had to wait before finishing the clause; at the close of the
sentence, with its note of brotherhood, all laughter ceased at once; and
the loudest applause of the morning showed me that what I had said had
struck just the right note, and that the help I wanted from the prisoners
would not be lacking.
After my address I leave the Prison and proceed to my office where I am
interviewed by representatives of the press. This is a disagreeable duty
which I had up to this last moment hoped to escape; for even after giving
up the notion of disguise I had still cherished the idea that it was
possible, with the aid of the Warden, to keep my adventure from being made
public until it was all over. But in our talk this morning the Warden very
quickly convinced me that secrecy is impossible.
"Can't you give instructions to all the officers to say nothing about it
outside?" I ask.
"Certainly I can," is the Warden's reply; "and you know as well as I just
how much good it would do. Here are a hundred officers; they might have
the best intentions, but each one would have to confide it to his wife,
and she to her dearest friend; and it would be all over town in less than
two hours. You must remember that this is a very interesting performance,
and you can't keep it quiet. I'll try it if you say so, but my belief is
that it would be a mistake. You might better see to it that it gets into
the newspapers in the shape you want, rather than let it leak out and be
misrepresented, intentionally or otherwise."
The Warden has the old newspaper man's instinct, and reluctantly I have to
admit that his view is correct. So without more ado I turn my attention to
aiding the press to get what there is, and if possible get it straight.
Fortunately the local representative of many important papers is more than
usually careful and intelligent. I hand him a copy of my address of this
morning and he gets to work. If we cannot have secrecy then let us have
all the publicity we can. After all, the newspapers may interest people in
my adventure, and thus stimulate an interest in Prison Reform. I am
willing to waive my personal preferences if by so doing I can help forward
the cause; especially as the satisfaction of my personal preferences is
manifestly impossible.
After this I give attention to my private affairs which are arranged for
the coming week. Strict orders are issued that no attempt be made to reach
me with personal matters of any sort, except in a case of the most extreme
importance. I am to be as completely shut off from the world, from my
family and friends, as any regular prisoner. So when it comes to this
point I begin to feel rather serious. I am aware of a certain sinking at
the heart, doubtless a form of fear; the unknown always has terrors.
The plan determined upon with the Warden is that I shall be placed with
the Idle Company for the first day or two--those poor fellows whom I have
often seen in the prison yard during the past summer, taking their
melancholy exercise by marching aimlessly up and down, and occasionally
resting by sitting on their buckets; then along about the third day to go
to one of the shops--which one to be determined later. But the Warden told
me this afternoon that upon mentioning this plan to one of the officials
he had protested. "I shouldn't like to have Mr. Osborne put with that Idle
Company. They're the toughest bunch of fellows in the Prison."
"That's just what he wants," was the Warden's reply.
It is true, I do want to make acquaintance with the worst as well as the
best; but I can't help feeling just a trifle uneasy at the prospect of
close relations with the toughest bunch in the Prison; to say nothing of
my query as to just how the toughest bunch in the Prison is going to meet
me. What will they be like at close range? And, if they do not look with
favor upon my action, in what way will their resentment be shown? These
questions keep rising to the surface. At the same time, I begin to be
aware of an ache in one of my teeth where a filling came out some time
ago. Luckily I did not say on just what day my term would begin, although
of course I've had to-morrow in mind right along. If my toothache gets
worse, I can wait over another day and have it attended to. Perhaps, on
the whole it would be best to wait over another day. On the other hand, I
have an idea that the toothache is nothing but plain cowardice.
As we sit down to dinner, I attempt to be jocular with my youngest. "Well,
Golfer," I remark; "this is my last good meal. To-morrow your father goes
to prison for a week!"
"Hm!" responds the interesting youth, "it'll do you good."
I recover myself with some difficulty. "Now what in thunder do you mean by
that?"
"Oh, you won't be so fat when you come out."
I'm inclined to think he's right, but it is evident that I need expect no
sentimental sympathy from my own family.
Here I close my journal for to-night. I feel decidedly solemn. I wonder
how I shall be feeling at this time to-morrow night.
"To-morrow! Why, to-morrow I may be
Myself with yesterday's sev'n thousand years."
CHAPTER III
MONDAY MORNING
Cell 15, second tier, north, north wing, Auburn Prison. September 29.
It is noon hour; somewhere about 12:45 I should think.
I am a prisoner, locked, double locked. By no human possibility, by
no act of my own, can I throw open the iron grating which shuts me
from the world into this small stone vault. I am a voluntary
prisoner, it is true; nevertheless even a voluntary prisoner can't
unlock the door of his cell--that must be done by someone from
outside. I am perfectly conscious of a horrible feeling of
constraint--of confinement. It recalls an agonized moment of my
childhood when I accidentally locked myself into a closet.
My cell is exactly four feet wide by seven and a half feet long,
measuring by my own feet, and about seven and a half feet high.[2]
The iron bed is hooked to the wall and folds up against it; the
mattress and blankets hang over it. The entire furniture consists of
one stool, a shelf or table which drops down against the wall when
not held up by hooks, an iron basin filled with water for washing
purposes, a covered iron bucket for other purposes, a tin cup for
drinking water which was filled shortly before noon by the convict
orderly, and an old broom which stands in the corner. A small wooden
locker with three shelves is fastened up in the farther left-hand
corner. The pillow hangs in the opposite right-hand corner over the
edge of the bed.
This is a cell in one of the oldest parts of the prison. It has a
concrete floor and plastered walls and ceiling, and looks clean. From
my grated door, being on the second tier, I can see diagonally out of
four heavily barred windows in the outer wall, looking across about
ten feet, over the open space which drops to the stone corridor
below, and rises to the highest galleries. Through the two lower
windows I catch glimpses of the ground, through the two upper, of
leaves and branches and the sky. The daylight in the cell is enough
at the present moment to read and write by, but none too good.
Outside it is a very bright, sunny day. If it were a dark day I could
not see much without a light. The electric bulb hangs from a hook in
the center of the rounded ceiling and my head nearly touches it.
So much for my present surroundings; now let me begin the story of
the day.
Upon arising this morning at home, the toothache, although I could still
feel it grumbling, had so modified that I became convinced that it was
largely imagination. As it has since disappeared it must have been
entirely imagination. There seems to be no excuse whatever for not going
ahead.
Having noticed yesterday that, although the prisoners are allowed to wear
their hair as they please, their faces are all smooth shaven, I begin the
day by the sacrifice of my mustache. I shave, dress, and eat as much
breakfast as I can--which is not very much.
At nine o'clock I am at the railway station to say good-bye to the Warden,
who has been called to Albany on business. After the train leaves at 9:30
I go to my office, where there are some last matters to attend to, bid
farewell to the few friends who are about, and at ten o'clock present
myself at the prison entrance.
The polite guard at the gate unlocks it, I enter, and the first barrier
between me and the world shuts behind me. I mount the steps to the main
building, and turn into the Warden's office. I am dressed in old clothes,
appropriate for the occasion, and have no valuables or money about my
person.
In the Warden's office a few last details are arranged with Grant, the
Prison Superintendent of Industries, who is acting for the Warden; and my
name and certain details of my family history and career of crime are
taken down by the Warden's clerk on a slip of paper, which is handed over
to a good-looking, well-groomed young officer, to whom I am given in
charge.
On Saturday, when writing out yesterday's address, it occurred to me that
it might be useful to take an alias. Such a notion doubtless seems a
trifle foolish at first thought; considering that there is no secret of my
identity, but I reasoned that if officers and prisoners always had my own
name in mind or on tongue every time they looked at or addressed me, it
would really make it more difficult to be accepted on the basis of an
ordinary inmate. I decided, therefore, to take a name which would have no
association whatever with the chairman of the Prison Reform Commission,
yet would be somewhat in character. So on the records I am entered as
Thomas Brown, No. 33,333x.
The young officer in his neat blue uniform, carrying his loaded stick,
says briefly, "Step this way, Brown." I am hazily aware of being a
momentary object of interest to the men in the back office; a heavy iron
door is unlocked at the head of a flight of iron stairs; and as the door
clangs behind me and I hear the key turn in the lock, I begin to realize
that I am a prisoner. I have made a bargain with myself to stay here a
week, and I cannot leave sooner without serious loss of self-respect.
The taciturn young officer takes me downstairs and across the yard. I am
conscious of many pairs of eyes looking out from windows and doors, and
the few prisoners scattered about the yard singly or in groups stare with
interest. My guide accompanies me to one of the buildings about halfway
down on the left, which proves to be the tailor shop. Here in a corner of
the shop, without any screens and in full view of all passers in and out,
are three porcelain-lined iron bathtubs side by side, looking very white
and clean. I am directed to take off my clothes, which I do, and then
ordered to get into one of the tubs, in which a negro prisoner has drawn a
warm bath. I obey and make use of the soap, and later of the towel which
the attendant hands me. After I am dry I am given my prison clothes--a
suit of underwear, a pair of socks, a cotton shirt with narrow blue and
white stripes, and a suit of rough gray cloth. There is also a pair of
very thick and heavy shoes. All the clothes are new. My coat fastens down
the front with five light metal buttons, on which are the words State
Prison in raised letters. The seven smaller buttons of the waistcoat are
similar. My uniform is not exactly a first-class fit, but good enough for
the purpose. A cap, rough gray to match the suit, together with a stiff
new gray towel and a cake of white soap, completes my outfit. I am ordered
to remove my wedding ring, but the officer explains that I am to be
allowed to retain it. This is the first exception made in my case.
The rest of my belongings are bundled up and disappear from sight. All
that is left of my former self is what can't very well be eradicated. So
far as is humanly possible, I am precisely like the other 1,329 gray
figures which to-day inhabit this abnormal world within the walls.
We return to the administration building and I am taken to the office of
the Principal Keeper, where are propounded to me a series of questions,
the answers to which are duly entered on the records: name, age,
occupation, married or single, Protestant or Catholic, parents living or
dead, any children, character of my crime, is this my first term, have I
ever gone under any other name, temperate or intemperate, and so forth and
so on. Some of these questions have already been answered at the front
office, and the officer holds the paper in his hand; but I answer them
again, suppressing such facts as I do not wish to have a matter of
record.[3]
After my history has been duly taken, I am handed a copy of the rules of
the prison; and the Principal Keeper facing me across a small desk makes a
neat little speech, giving friendly advice as to my conduct while in the
institution. It is excellent advice, as far as it goes, and for it I
thank him respectfully.
Then clearing his throat he says slowly and ponderously, "Brown, after you
have had your medical examination, you will be put to work in the
basket-shop, under Captain Lamb. He will give you full instructions
concerning your place in his company and your work."
It is on the tip of my tongue to say, "But it was all arranged with the
Warden that I should be put first with the Idle Company." Fortunately,
however, I catch myself just in time. It is not for a convict to offer
objections or to argue with the P. K. So I utter another brief but
respectful, "Thank you, sir," and feel a certain relief at the
postponement of my acquaintance with the "toughest bunch of fellows in the
Prison." The Warden returns to-morrow, and an exchange can then be made if
it is thought advisable; in the meantime it is my business to do exactly
what I am told.
From the Principal Keeper's office I am taken next door to the Chaplain.
Here my reception is in marked contrast to the previous official
frigidities. I fear that this is partially due to the Chaplain's failure
quite to realize that it is only Thomas Brown, a stranger and a new
arrival, whom he takes so warmly by the hand. My evident embarrassment
evidently embarrasses him, for I am beginning to enter so much into the
spirit of the place that I almost feel as if I had been detected in an
attempt to conceal my identity. The Chaplain turns me over to a convict
stenographer who plies me with another series of questions, and I give my
statistics for a third time. I can only hope that my answers to these
various sets of questions are fairly uniform, or else that they will not
be compared too closely.
The Chaplain and his assistant (a very nice-looking prisoner named
Dickinson, whose acquaintance I made yesterday) inquire as to what books I
should like to read, and I am shown a typewritten list from which to
choose. I am hardly in a mental state to do so, but manage to make a
selection. Unfortunately nothing I want seems available; but Dickinson
promises to get one of the books later, and in the meantime I am presented
with a Bible. Then I am taken upstairs and left with the Doctor.
The Doctor puts me through another series of questions, the fourth; many
of them duplicates of the others. Then he starts on a careful physical
examination which he does not finish as it is getting too near dinner
time. The officer returns for me, and laden with my complete prison
baggage--one towel, a cake of soap and a Bible--I am conducted to the
north wing, up a short flight of iron stairs and along a narrow wooden
gallery with an iron bar for a rail, to my cell on the second tier, Number
15. It has already been described. I remain here while the officer goes
to get the small handbag left at the Warden's office, containing a few
things which I am to be allowed to have in my cell--writing paper,
toothbrush, towels, sponges, toilet paper, and a razor. Most of the men
are shaved twice a week by convict barbers in the different shops, and not
even the barbers are allowed razors in their cells. As a new man I ought
not to be allowed any of these luxuries, but this is exception number two.
The officer first returns with the wrong bag, but soon after with the
right one, and I am then locked in until dinner time. Soon my keeper turns
up, Captain Lamb, the head of the basket-shop. He introduces himself and
then gives me instructions as to my immediate conduct; explains the
marching signals, the seating at meals, _et cetera_. In obedience to his
instructions, I take off my cap and coat to leave them in the cell; and
when he soon passes along the gallery outside, unlocking the cells by
pressing down the levers, I push open the grated door and follow close
behind him. At the foot of the iron stairs he allots me a place toward the
end of the line; and at the word of command we first shuffle and then
march in double file along the stone corridors, and in single file into
the mess-hall. As we enter, the Principal Keeper stands at the door. I had
been warned to place my right hand on my left breast, by way of salute;
but the prisoner behind me, fearing I have forgotten, gives me a friendly
poke, and I assume the proper attitude of respect. Our line swings around
to the right and marches past row after row of men in gray, all facing in
the same direction and bending silently over their food.
Well beyond the center of the room I have a place at the end of a long
wooden shelf which forms the table. At a sharp rap of the Keeper's
iron-shod stick on the floor, we pull out our stools, and stand again
erect; a second rap, we seat ourselves and immediately fall to, as our
dinner has been waiting for us. I am pleased and rather surprised to find
it, if not hot, at least sufficiently warm. Our bill of fare includes a
cup of something presumably meant for coffee; a bowl of a thick liquid (I
could not decide whether it was soup or gravy, so I waited to see what the
others did with it; some used it for one, some for the other; but it
turned out to be very palatable bean soup); a slice or two of very good
ham; excellent boiled potatoes; two or three pickles I did not try; and
two large thick slices of bread. It was not a bad meal, and had I been
hungry I should have done more justice to it.
One of the rules the Captain mentioned is that no bread must be left on
the table; so, noticing what the other men do, I watch for the passing of
the waiter with a large pail of bread, from which he gives an extra slice
to those who want it, and shy my second slice into his pail as he goes
by. Of course no conversation is allowed at meals; and anything less
appetizing than the rows of gray shoulders and backs of heads in front of
one I cannot imagine. The watching keepers, standing sternly and silently
by, certainly do not add to the hilarity of the occasion. I am reminded of
what my convict friend once said to me, "You know we don't really eat
here; we just stoke up."
During the beginning of our meal other companies are continually arriving
and taking their places in front of us; and during the latter part others
are departing from behind us, accompanied by a curious noise which sounds
like the rattling of castanets. I soon make out that it is the disposal of
the spoons, forks, and knives. I have been cautioned by the Captain that
upon leaving the table the three implements must be held in full view; in
my left hand if I march on that side, otherwise in my right. These
implements are jealously watched so that a prisoner shall not carry them
to his cell and turn them into means of attack, escape, or
self-destruction.
At the end of the meal the officer's stick again strikes the stone
pavement sharply; we rise, shove our stools back under the table shelf,
then fall in line behind another departing company, each man holding aloft
his knife, fork, and spoon which he drops into the proper receptacles near
the door where a watchful officer keeps careful tally. We march back
along the stone corridors, break ranks at the foot of the iron stairs,
traverse the narrow gallery, and are soon in our cells where we are locked
in; and I begin to write this journal.
It is curious what a resentful feeling overtakes one as that iron grated
door swings to and is double locked. I can perfectly imagine a high-strung
man battering himself against it from sheer nervousness.
Captain Lamb has just been to the door of my cell again. He begins with a
reprimand. "Brown, I noticed you turning around at dinner; that is not
allowed. I will let it pass this time, but don't let it happen again. The
rule is always, 'Eyes front.'"
"Thank you, sir."
The Captain then gives instructions regarding my next moves. It seems that
I am soon to put on coat and cap and march to the shop, taking my bucket
if I desire to empty it. The Captain explains that he will first pass
along the gallery, unlocking the levers; then almost immediately return,
pushing them down, and that when he pushes down my lever I must be ready
to press heavily against the door so as to get it open quickly; then
follow after the others, and take my place in line. He also gives
instructions as to my conduct in the shop. "I call all my men by their
first names, so I shall call you Thomas. I allow my company to have some
talk in the shop. It is not strictly according to rule; but my men have
the reputation of being a little hard to manage, and I find they get along
better if I give them some leeway. So you may converse about your work;
but you must be careful not to talk loud or create any disorder, and you
must shut up at once in case another officer or a visitor comes into the
shop. Also you must not leave your place of work without permission."
I again thank the Captain, and say that I will try to mind my own business
and not make any more trouble than I can help. He smiles rather a grim
smile, and replies dryly that he doesn't think there will be any trouble,
and goes away. My time for writing must be nearly up for the present.
Yes! I hear a clicking, beginning at the far-distant end of the gallery
around the corner to my left. It draws rapidly nearer and I can hear the
key turning in the locks. I have put on my coat and cap. The Captain
unlocks my lever and passes along the gallery to the right. He will soon
be back, so this writing must be put away in the locker; then I can stand
ready and waiting at the door. It would be as well not to expose myself to
another reprimand.
* * * * *
There is of course another side to the foregoing story, and that is the
advent of Thomas Brown as viewed, not by himself, but by his new
companions--the regular inmates of the prison. What did the convicts think
of it all?
As it happens, two of them were moved to record their impressions, and
their accounts have come to my hands in a roundabout way. I can not do
better than supplement my own story by extracts from these papers. I do
not know the writers, I do not even know their names, and the stories were
written entirely without hint or solicitation from me. It is natural that
I should think them interesting; I hope that others may find them so.
Here is A's account:
On Monday, a little after 10 A. M., a man passed through the front gate,
and without any ceremony was registered on the book of entries as Tom
Brown and recorded as No. 33,333x. After a brief examination he was
conducted to the tailor-shop where the cutaway was changed for a suit of
prison gray.
The funds of Mr. Brown being at low ebb, the state graciously presented
him with a towel, a pair of working shoes, and a red bandanna
handkerchief.[4]
With these meager possessions Tom again emerged into the large yard; and
the old adage, "What a difference just a few clothes make," became very
evident, for in every appearance he looked just like the brotherhood he
was about to join.
When a new man enters, a general whisper is always heard throughout the
various shops. "Well, here's a new boarder!" This was applied to him as he
passed through the yard accompanied by Captain D.
We all knew who Tom was, but on the Sunday previous when he outlined his
intentions a silent compact had been made--to consider him as an ordinary
inmate; and the promise was fulfilled to the letter. What our thoughts
were--is an entirely different story.
B's account is somewhat more racy and intimate, and contains some very
characteristic touches:
A few comments in the cell house on the day of Tom Brown's arrival at
Auburn Prison to start his self-imposed bit.
"Hello, Bill! There he goes. And say, he just walks with the confidence of
an old timer! Well, old pals, you will have to take your hats off to him
as a game one, all right!"
By this time all the keepers in the cell house looking through the
windows. But not with that same old smile they usually carry. Someone sung
in a low tone that old time melody,
"O what has changed them?"
and the gang had to take to cover; a look from some of the sore keepers
made it plain we better move.
While he was down getting dolled up in his new suit of gray, someone asked
where the P. K. was; and Jack replied, "Why, he just passed me over in the
alley; and say, fellows, he has got so thin I didn't know him; I guess
you'll find him over in the jail office hiding behind a broom."
Someone gave us the wire that Tom was coming up the yard again, and we
made a bee line for a rubber. Sure enough there is Tom, coming up the line
in his new college makeup and a prison towel in his hand. All the boys
stood quiet and watched. In fact nine out of ten had a lump in his throat
too big to swallow. I must confess I got a cold chill that ran down my
back, and it jumped from limb to limb like a cobblestone. Well, after we
all came to, "our brave Tom" was locked in his cell, 15-2-N.N.W.; and then
the stoolpigeons was put to work to watch who went to speak with him.
These extracts, which are given verbatim, throw interesting sidelights
upon the attitude and state of mind of the prisoners--their extreme
sensitiveness, their instant response to kindness, real or fancied, their
relations to their keepers, their ready cheerfulness and sense of humor.
As one can see, there was arising among them at the very outset something
quite unexpected--a deep sense of gratitude for what they persisted in
thinking a great sacrifice on my part; an eager answer to the sympathy
from the outer world which my coming among them typified. The lump in the
throat at the first sight of Tom Brown clad as a convict is significant of
many things. The fact that they all greatly exaggerated my personal
discomfort and in so many ways gave me credit where none was due, is only
an evidence of their hunger for the human relationship, for that sympathy
from our fellowmen which we all crave so intensely, and from which
convicts are very far from exempt. There is no need to comment further
upon these interesting extracts.
It is a real pity that we can not have as well the views of the third
party in the affair--the keepers. Frank comment from them would be also
most valuable. I only hope that the one who, on a certain occasion,
invited and came very near receiving, personal violence by ejaculating,
"Damn fool!" behind my back, represented an exception. Unquestionably,
however, he did voice a considerable amount of official sentiment within
the prison, as well as much unofficial sentiment outside. That was so
natural as to be inevitable. There are always those who will misunderstand
one's motives and actions, no matter how plain the explanation may be.
CHAPTER IV
MONDAY AFTERNOON
Later in the day; about 5:30, I think; I have no watch and nowhere
does there seem to be a clock in sight, so I am necessarily rather
vague as to the exact time.
I am again double locked in my cell, this time for the
night--fourteen mortal hours.
For me there is plenty to do--to write, to read, to think about; but
how about those who do not care for reading, who write with
difficulty, or who can neither read nor write? Then again, I look
forward to only six nights in this stone vault; but how about those
who must look forward to an endless series of nights, month after
month, year after year, five, ten, fifteen, twenty years, life?
My God! How do they ever stand it?
Until nine o'clock, when the lights will go out, I am my own master;
my own master in a world of four feet by seven and a half, in which I
am the only inhabitant. Other human beings are living all about--on
either side, at the back, above, below; yet separated by double thick
stone walls from every other living creature in this great community,
I am absolutely solitary. I have never felt so curiously, desperately
lonely. The loneliness in the midst of crowds is proverbial; but the
loneliness in the midst of a crowd of invisible human beings--not
one of whom do you even hear--that has in it an element of heavily
weighted horror which is quite indescribable. It can only be felt.
The curious sensation of nervous resentment, noticed this noon, is
upon me in greater force to-night. If I were to just let myself go, I
believe I should soon be beating my fists on the iron grated door of
my cage and yelling. Of course I shall do nothing so foolish, but I
feel the impulse distinctly. I wonder how I shall stand a week of
this. I must certainly keep my nerves under better control, at
present they are quivering at the slightest sound.
This has certainly been one of the most interesting days of my life, and
the afternoon more interesting than the morning. I wish I could describe
it adequately.
The interval between dinner and the march to the shop is occupied chiefly
by writing this journal; but I also have a pleasant call from the
Chaplain's assistant, Dickinson. He does not bring me the book I selected
this morning, but in its place another book and some magazines, for none
of which do I care. What I do care about is the pleasant chat we have. Not
many words have been exchanged before he drops the books he is engaged in
distributing along the cells and dashes off; soon returning with
photographs of his wife and three charming children. He himself is a
clean-cut, fine-looking fellow, with honest blue eyes and a good face--not
a single trace of the "Criminal" about him. He tells me some of the
details of his story, and it is a sad one. But his imprisonment is now
over; he expects to go out on Saturday. Some time ago he was granted his
parole on condition of obtaining a job, and that he has now secured. He
says this prison experience has been a "good lesson" to him. I have no
doubt it has, nor that his hopes will be fulfilled; but the pity of it!
Why should not a man like this, guilty of only a lesser crime, guiltless
of criminal intent, be allowed to go on parole under suspended sentence,
and not have to come to prison at all? Why should not he and his wife and
children have been spared these long years of separation, this bitter
degrading experience, this almost irreparable stain upon his name?
At about half past one o'clock the cells are unlocked, as I have already
described. The Captain returns, pressing down the levers; I push open my
door, place my tin cup on a small shelf at the left on leaving the cell
and follow the other men rapidly along the narrow gallery and down a short
flight of narrow, slippery iron stairs, coming to a halt at the door
opening into the yard. Here the Captain places me third in line on the
left, for we march in double file. I am flattered by the promotion, but
possibly the man in front of me feels differently about it. I hope he'll
bear no grudge; but, if he had turned about and landed me one between the
eyes that last time I trod on his heel, it would not have been surprising.
The shoes presented me by the state of New York are so stiff and clumsy
that I find it quite a task to manage my feet; it is difficult to steer
them properly; and of course this marching in close order is something
quite new to me.
First at half speed--then at a good round pace--we march out of the north
wing, wheel to the right on reaching the center walk, swing down the
length of the yard; then turn to the left, pass through the building where
the buckets are emptied and washed, and halt where they are placed to dry
and be disinfected. After a pause here of only a moment we march on again
to the basket-shop.
Just as we reach there and break ranks, the young officer who served as
guide this morning presents himself; and in silence I am conducted back up
the yard and again to the Doctor's office, where my very thorough medical
examination is completed.
After the Doctor is through with me I go to the hallway outside his office
where a number of other prisoners are awaiting their turns. As my officer
has not come back, and does not do so for some time, there is an
opportunity to practice what is apparently the most necessary virtue of
prison life--patience. I take my place along the wall with the other
convicts and watch for a chance to open a whispered conversation. From
where I stand I can look up a short flight of steps into the front room of
the hospital, where there are a number of men moving about; among them one
of the city undertakers. Then I remember having heard at the front office,
as I came in this morning, of the sudden death of a young prisoner last
night from pneumonia. Four convicts come up the stairs, bringing a large,
ominous looking, oblong receptacle, which they take to a door on my left.
It does not look quite like a coffin, but there is little doubt as to its
purpose. As the door is opened, I glance in; and there, covered with a
white sheet, is all that remains of the poor lad--the disgraced and
discarded human tenement of one divine spark of life.
A death in prison. Tears fill my eyes as I turn away thinking of that
lonely, friendless deathbed; thinking that perhaps some loving mother or
young wife in the world outside, bearing bravely her own share of shame
and punishment, has been struggling to keep body and soul together until
her prisoner could come back home; perhaps at this very moment wondering
why she has not received from him the last monthly letter. And now----
Can the world hold any tragedy more terrible than this?
A young negro prisoner standing by, who has also looked into the chamber
of death, breathes a low sigh and whispers, "God! That's where I wish I
was!"
The convict next him, a broad-shouldered young chap, who whispers to me
that he comes from Brooklyn and gets out in January, goes in to ask some
special favor of the Doctor. He gives me on the side a most humorous and
quite indescribable wink and grin as his request is granted. His attitude
suggests that he has "slipped one over" on somebody. He mounts the steps
to the hospital and the young negro takes his turn with the Doctor as the
coffin, heavy now with its mournful load, is brought out from the room on
the left. At the same moment the officer returns to my rescue; and I
follow him downstairs and out into the fresh air and the sunlight.
Comedy and tragedy seem to jostle each other in prison even as in the
world outside. But the comedy itself is tragic; while the tragedy lies
beyond the realm of tears--in the gray twilight region of a suffering too
deep for speech, where sympathy seems helpless.
* * * * *
As I now sit writing in my cell, from out the darkness, loneliness, and
stillness about me comes the sweet voice of a violin. Someone is playing
the melody of Mendelssohn's Spring Song, and playing well. I wonder if he
knows that I am near him, and is trying to send me his message of good
will. One peculiarity of this place is that sounds reach the heavily
recessed door of a cell mainly by reflection from the outer wall, and my
ear is not sufficiently trained to know from what direction the sounds
come. The invisible violinist, wherever he is, has an unusually good tone
and plays with genuine feeling. Unfortunately he has not played many bars
before more instruments join in--jewsharps, harmonicas, and other things.
It is an extraordinary jumble of sounds--a wild pandemonium after the
deadly quiet of a few moments ago. A train blowing off steam at the New
York Central station, immediately opposite our front windows, is also
contributing its quota of noise.
The gallery boy has just passed along, filled my tin cup with water for
the night, and exchanged a few words. He says that for twenty minutes each
evening, from six-forty to seven, each man may "do what he likes" in his
cell. A cornet is the latest addition to the noise. The whole episode
impresses me as being such a mingling of the pathetic and the humorous
that I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Consider the conditions which
make twenty minutes of such a performance a boon to man!
The gallery boy evinces a desire to strike up friendly relations; he
brings me a box of matches in case I want to smoke, and offers to do
anything for me he can. I am not a smoker, but I don't like to decline his
good offices; so I stow away the matches for future reference.
* * * * *
Let me resume the thread of my story.
The officer takes me from the Doctor's office to the room where the
Bertillon measurements are taken. Here there is a fifth set of questions
to answer. I have not the slightest possible objection to giving all the
statistics the state officials want; my time is theirs, and there is no
possible hurry. I may as well get rid of a few hours, more or less, of my
"bit" in this way as in any other; so I shall not register any kick even
if I am called upon to supply fifty sets of statistics instead of only
five.
The orders of the Bertillon clerk are given perfunctorily, with the air of
one who is greatly bored by the whole performance. Naturally it is not so
novel to him as to me. I remove my coat and put on, as they are handed to
me by the assistant, a white linen shirt-bosom, a very dirty collar of the
requisite size, and a black coat and necktie. Then I am
photographed--front view and profile. The use of the peculiar apparel is,
presumably, either to make the photograph clearer, or to have all
"subjects" taken under similar conditions and looking somewhat as they do
when out of prison and in ordinary clothes.
Then my finger tips, on both hands, are carefully rolled one by one in
India ink, and impressions of them taken on cards--twice separately, and
twice all five at once. This seems to bore the clerk more than the
photographing.
Then a series of measurements from top to toe is taken, and every possible
means of identification noted and registered: color of hair and eyes;
shape of head; characteristics of eyes, nose, mouth; the scar received at
football thirty-four years ago, which I supposed was successfully
concealed by my right eyebrow; the minute check on the left ear from a
forgotten frostbite; the almost imperceptible bit of smooth skin on the
back of my right hand, where a small lump was once removed by electricity;
no blemish or defect is over-looked--until I begin to feel like a sort of
monstrosity. I derive some satisfaction, however, from the fact that my
business-like inquisitor is quite at a loss to account for six peculiar
scars upon my upper left arm, familiar to Harvard men of my generation. It
is some satisfaction to know that my Alma Mater has not sent many of her
sons to take a post-graduate course in this institution.
So complete and searching have been the examination and record for
identification that I have a sort of discouraged feeling about the future.
It occurs to me that I may be cramped in a choice of further activities;
and that my chance of ever gaining a good living by honest burglary has
been considerably reduced, if not destroyed. I communicate this rather
frivolous sentiment to the clerk who receives it grimly, and is more bored
than ever. I feel properly snubbed and rebuked.
Evidently a prisoner should speak only when spoken to, and certainly
should not venture to joke with an official. I shall take warning and not
offend again.
I wonder how my measurements differ from those of the average criminal,
and how much of a rough-neck my photograph will make me look.
At last all preliminaries are completed; and now I am free to consider
myself a full-fledged convict.
The young officer who up to now has been my guide and philosopher, if not
exactly a friend, conducts me down the yard once again, duly delivers me
over to Captain Lamb at the basket-shop, and takes his final departure.
The Captain leads me at once to a rough wooden table, about thirty feet in
front of the raised platform on which he sits. Here stands a good-sized,
broad-shouldered, black-haired fellow, working with his back to us as we
approach. He pauses as we stop before his table.
"Jack," says the Captain, "this is Thomas Brown. Thomas, this is John
Murphy, who will be your working partner."
"Glad to meet you, Mr. Brown," says a pleasant voice.
Looking toward my partner and his outstretched hand, I decide to venture
another joke. "Captain," I remark, advancing my hand cautiously, "this
may be all right; but it's only fair to warn you that if this gentleman is
any relative of the Boss of Tammany Hall there may be trouble."
A pair of honest gray eyes light up with a smile as the owner says, "No,
Mr. Brown, I'm no relation; and what's more I haven't any use for him."
Upon this we shake hands cordially. "Excuse me, Captain," I remark to that
officer, "but you see I want to be careful and not run into difficulties
of any kind."
The Captain smiles gravely in his turn, and introduces me to another of
the prisoners who has approached at a sign from the officer. He is a
slightly built, pleasantly smiling young man who is to be my boss in the
shop, Harley Stuhlmiller. By him I am to be initiated into the art of
making basket bottoms; and Murphy is to have me as his partner or
apprentice, and see that I make no mistakes in following the boss's
instructions.
So I take off my cap and coat and start to work. I do not find it very
difficult; for, curiously enough, over forty years ago I learned something
of the art of weaving baskets. When I was a young lad my family spent a
summer at a place on the New England seacoast. On the beach was the tent
of an old Indian, who made and sold baskets; and, having much time on my
hands, I persuaded the old fellow to teach me basket-making. One
certainly never knows when an odd bit of knowledge or information may come
handy; here am I making use of something learned two generations and more
ago, and never practiced since.
I spend a really pleasant afternoon learning my job and chatting under my
breath with the two men--my boss and my partner. They give me some wise
advice as to my conduct, some information as to prison ways, and
compliment me upon the quickness with which I pick up the basket work. I
explain about the previous experience and tell them not to give me too
much taffy. They assure me that what I have done in the short time I have
been working is really very good. The expected task for a man and his
partner is five bottoms a day, and I accomplish one and a half for a part
of the afternoon. Stuhlmiller calls this to the attention of John, the
citizen instructor, and he smilingly grunts approval, but suggests certain
improvements in my manner of work. Thus, so far as the shop is concerned,
I seem to be a success. The convicts about me pay very little attention to
the newcomer, but I catch an occasional smile and nod of encouragement.
Along in the afternoon, about four o'clock I should judge, work begins to
slack up; and several of the prisoners who have finished their allotted
tasks are walking back and forth. Each one confines himself to such a very
short distance, that I inquire of Murphy the reason; and he tells me that
the boundaries of each man's walk are the posts of the building on either
side of his bench or table. This gives a very restricted area for
exercise, but, as it is the only chance for exercise at all, the men make
the most of it.
At about half past four my partner proposes that we knock off work and
clean up. By this time there is a general cessation of labor about the
shop, and most of the men are sweeping up around their tables and benches.
Murphy produces a broom, and informs me that when two men work together it
is customary to take turns in cleaning up after work-hours. So at this
hint I take the broom and soon have the work done. Then we wash up; my
partner sharing with me his soap and towel. I put on my coat and cap and
await further developments.
Murphy, after replacing the soap and towel in his locker, comes around to
my side of our workbench or table. "Say, Brown," he remarks, "I hope you
won't think me imposing on you in any way, but while we work together I
intend to treat you as if I had never seen or known of you before."
"Thank you, Murphy," I reply, pleased at his frankness, "that is exactly
the way I want to be treated."
Certainly nothing could be better than the attitude of the two men with
whom my work has brought me in contact. There has been not the slightest
tinge of self-consciousness; no trace of servility or currying favor,
absolutely nothing except Murphy's frank explanation to make me feel that
they are not treating me exactly as I asked them yesterday to do--as a new
man and one of themselves.
After we have sat around patiently and wearily for a considerable time,
the hour for return to the cell-house arrives. The Captain gives the
signal to fall in. "Good night, Brown!" "Good night, Murphy!" and I take
my place in the line. The Captain counts us with care while we stand
rigidly before him. Then the cripples, invalids and poor old broken-down
men start ahead of the main body to hobble wearily back to their cells.
Meanwhile we able-bodied men of the company march over to the stands where
the buckets are drying, pause for an instant, then swing up through the
yard, with a tramp, tramp, tramp, that is quite exhilarating after an
afternoon's work in the shop.
We march straight up the yard and into the basement door of the main
building where, just within the entrance, are placed some tables laden
with slices of bread. Following the example of the other men, I grab a
slice--some take two slices, there is apparently no restriction as to
amount--and then climb the slippery iron stairs in my heavy shoes. As we
go along the gallery the man just behind me whispers, "Well, Tom, how do
you like it?"
I turn and whisper laughingly, "All right, no kick coming," and turn into
my cell.
On the iron shelf outside stands my tin cup filled with a hot black
liquid--whether tea or coffee I don't know. What I do know is that the
odor is vicious. I hesitate about taking it into the cell.
The gallery boy arriving says, "Brown, I didn't know whether you wanted
tea or water, so I gave you tea."
"Thank you," I rejoin, "but I think I'll take water." So he brings back my
tin cup filled with a liquid which if mild is comparatively harmless, and
at least does not smell to heaven. I enter my cell, which is shut and
locked.
After a light breakfast, a lighter dinner, and the afternoon's work, I
feel ravenously hungry--so hungry that the bread and water actually taste
rather good, even if the bread is sour. To my surprise I make away with
the whole slice, dipping each mouthful into the water and eating as I
write; for I have at once taken up this journal to chronicle the events of
the afternoon while they are still in mind.
I wonder what those greedy children at home will have for dinner to-night.
Or whether they will think of this poor, hungry prisoner, eating his
lonely bread and water. This morning my eldest remarked cheerfully, "Well,
of course we can telephone you any time." How little does he realize the
reality.
We used to laugh when in "Pinafore" they sang:
"He'll hear no tone
Of the maiden he loves so well;
No telephone
Communicates with his cell."
I reminded the young man of those lines this morning.
No, I fear there are few of us who reflect very much upon what is remote
from our direct line of vision. But there will be at least one of us who
will do considerable reflecting--after this experience.
I certainly do feel hungry!
* * * * *
As a supplement to the foregoing, our friends, A and B, have some further
interesting passages:
A: About the first thing an apprentice learns here is the military step;
so a few of us watched the company to which Tom was assigned as they
passed through the yard from the mess-hall to the shop. As Tom marched by,
it became evident from his brisk step that he either learned it at a
military academy or had served time in another "institution."[5]
The routine of prison life, which possesses its good, bad and indifferent
parts, can hardly be described here. Suffice to say Tom adhered to it for
an entire week.
This is what B has to say:
Tom Brown's bed was brought upon the third gallery, cell 55, N.W.; and
then in less than fifteen minutes it was changed again, taken down to cell
15, N.N.W. Well, this made the gallery man on the third feel a little
blue, for he thought he would like to have Tom on his gallery; and we
began to kid him regarding his tough luck.
Well, to make this long story short, the gallery men had their own
troubles. Every second man wanted us to drop a note in Tom Brown's cell.
But the stools watched; and me, for one, would take no chance. If he got
all the notes that was meant for him he would have no room for his bed in
his cell.
Well, when he left the cell house that day, after dinner, when he got in
line with the rest of the cons he marched down the yard like a major. And
make out the cons didn't feel good! And make out the keepers didn't feel
blue!
The keepers wouldn't look at Tom when he was looking their way; but after
he passed, yog--yog--what a rubbering he got!
So this was the way of the cell house for one whole week; and, believe me,
it was some week, indeed.
They tell me when he got in the shop Jack Murphy handed him a broom. You
know Jack can be funny when he wants to be. Now the question in mind is,
"Did Jack give him that broom to clean out the shop, or did he mean the
whole place needed a cleaning out?" Well, I guess Jack, himself, will have
to slip us that answer.
CHAPTER V
THE FIRST NIGHT
Still Monday, but later in the evening. The hour is about--but why
attempt to specify the exact time? In this place there seems to be no
time--only eternity.
Having finished in my journal the account of this afternoon's
occurrences, I shall continue to chronicle the events of this evening
as long as the light holds out, or as long as there is anything to
write about. So I begin where I left off in the last chapter, just
after being locked in for the night, as I sat writing and eating my
evening meal of bread and water.
I receive a call from Captain Lamb after he has carefully counted all his
men and locked us in for the night. As he turned the key in my lock, I was
instructed to stand up with both hands on the door and rattle it
violently, to show that it was firmly secured. The Captain is very
pleasant, and grows quite confidential, telling about his experiences in
the regular army in the Philippines. He also explains something of his
ideas in regard to handling convicts. Before going away he says that, if I
should be taken sick in the night, I must rattle the door and the officer
on guard will come and take me to the hospital if necessary.
He goes away and I begin to have that feeling of lonesome desolation I
have already attempted to describe. There are some noises; but they are
the noises of tramping feet above, below, of clanging bars and grating
locks, then of stealthy footfalls and distant doors. Of the many
companions who are living all about me I can see no sight--hear no sound.
If my cell were big enough, I should walk round and round as I have seen
the caged animals do in menageries. As it is, if I get up from writing, I
can only hang at my grated door, looking aimlessly out. It grows dark and
ever darker in the corridor outside; there are few sounds now. Inside my
cell the electric bulb gives barely light enough to read by. It is
horribly lonesome.
Looking up from writing, I give a start at the sight of a white face and
the figure of a man just outside the grated door. Peering out through the
bars, so that I can get the light on his face, I recognize the Chaplain.
He puts two fingers through the door, the nearest possible approach to a
handshake, and I feel really grateful for a kindly touch and the sound of
a friendly voice. I am conscious of an almost insane desire to talk, to
pour forth words, as if the bars of my cell were damming back the powers
of speech.
The Chaplain is anxious to know how I am getting along, and cheers me by
saying that all the men are greatly interested and pleased. "They
understand what you are trying to do for them, and appreciate it," he
says. Then he tells of one prisoner he has just left in his cell on one of
the upper tiers, whom he found reading Schopenhauer. "He said he did not
know you, has nothing at all to ask of you, and will probably never see
you to speak to; but your action in coming here has somehow made him feel
that the pessimistic view he has had of the world must be wrong."
After some further talk, the Chaplain says "Good night," and goes away. I
sincerely hope that he is right in his belief; that the men do care; that,
besides gaining the information I came here for, my visit may be of some
interest and comfort to these poor fellows. Murphy said to me to-day,
"Say, you've got the boys all right." If he and the Chaplain are correct,
I may get from my experience much more than I expected.
I have already told how, not very long after the Chaplain leaves me and as
I sit writing, the lovely sound of a violin floats into the cell. Then
come the sounds of many other instruments, and the noise of the train at
the railway station, over the wall and across the street. I have also
described the ensuing pandemonium. After twenty minutes of these evidences
of the human life existing all around, the noise ceases as suddenly as it
began, and there comes a silence more profound than that which preceded
the musical explosion. Only an occasional cough, the sound of a stealthy
footfall, the jar of some iron door or the clank of distant bolt or bar.
Yet I am conscious of one curious sound which I am unable to place or
explain. It is like a very delicate clicking upon iron and is almost
continuous. I wonder whether it is the tapping of prisoners' messages from
cell to cell, of which I have heard. It would be convenient to know the
telegraphic code, so as to take part in any such conversation. I listen
with interest to the clicking, but it seems not to change its direction
and to have but little regularity. I wonder what it is.
The night officer has just stopped for a moment at the grating of my cell.
I ask him the time. Seven-twenty. Good Lord! I thought it must be nearly
nine. I am usually very good at guessing time, but in this place I am
utterly unable to make any accurate calculation. Just for the experience,
I'm going to stop writing and lock up my writing materials, to see how it
feels to have nothing to do.
I take down my paper and pencil again to record a most thrilling
discovery. I have found--a pocket in my prison coat! All day I have
worried at the absence of one; now I find it--left, on the inside. Imagine
the state of mind when such a thing really produces almost a feeling of
nervous excitement.
I simply must keep on writing out of sheer desperation. I have tried to
use up some minutes by rearranging my clothes, pulling up my socks, and
tightening my belt; I have not yet investigated the workings of my bed, as
I wish to leave that for a later excitement.
From the distance I catch the single stroke of the City Hall bell, which
marks eight o'clock. Another hour yet before the lights go out; and then
ten hours more before I can leave this cell!
How in the world do they bear it--the men who look forward to long years
of imprisonment? My working partner, Murphy, has a life term. For what, I
wonder? He seems like such a good fellow; and the Chaplain has just spoken
of him most highly.
What a mystery it all is! And what a commentary on our civilization that
we can do nothing better with such men than to throw away their lives and
ruin them, body and soul. The old ones arouse one's pity; but the young
men--many of those in chapel yesterday were mere boys.
God! What a miserable, shameful waste of human life--of human energy! Must
we not find some way in which the good there is in these broken lives can
be repaired and made useful to society?
At last a bell, the first signal for the night. I think it is twenty
minutes before nine. As the kindly gallery boy has brought me a glass
tumbler, I brush my teeth with a minimum of inconvenience, wash my face,
and then investigate the workings of the bed. It is loosely fastened to
two iron hooks in the wall, on the inside; and the outside rests on two
legs which dangle in the air vaguely, and will probably let me down in the
night if they do not rest firmly on the floor to begin with. After
manipulating the bed successfully, I let down the mattress on top of it
and arrange the blankets as well as possible.
About a quarter of an hour more before lights out. It is all very well to
look forward to that landmark, but what after that? What of the ten-hour
night ahead of me? And this is only the first night of six. Suppose it
were the first night of six thousand.
I hastily take a sheet of paper, mark off a space for each day and each
night I expect to be here, and scratch off Monday. One-twelfth of my
penance gone at any rate. I don't count Sunday, because that will be only
half a day; or I will write in Sunday at the bottom, as a sort of separate
affair. I hang this rough calendar upon the wall; and then it suddenly
occurs to me that it is exactly what I have always read of prisoners
doing.
Oh! Will these lights never go out!
I shall put away this writing, and just wait.
Merciful God! How do they ever stand it?
Tuesday morning: after breakfast.
The first night is over. They all say it is the worst. It could hardly be
called a success--considered as a period of rest and refreshment; at least
it did not "knit up the raveled sleeve of care" to any very great extent.
At nine o'clock the lights at last went out. I was already in bed and
waiting, but I was not at all prepared for the shock I received. While
there is light in the cell, the bars of the door look gray against the
darkness outside--and that is bad enough; but when the lights go out,
there is just enough brightness from the corridor below to change the door
into a grating of most terrible, unearthly blackness. The bars are so
black that they seem to close in upon you--to come nearer and nearer,
until they press upon your very forehead. It is of no use to shut your
eyes for you know they are still there; you can feel the blackness of
those iron bars across your closed eyelids; they seem to sear themselves
into your very soul. It is the most terrible sensation I ever experienced.
I understand now the prison pallor; I understand the sensitiveness of this
prison audience; I understand the high nervous tension which makes
anything possible. How does any man remain sane, I wonder, caged in this
stone grave day after day, night after night?
And always there come the sound of keys turning and the grating of iron
hinges and bolts and bars. And as if the double-locked levers were not
enough, I noticed for the first time last night a triple lock. A long iron
bar drops down in front of all the cells on the tier; and against that
iron bar rest the ends of iron brackets projecting from the iron doors. So
that by merely unlocking and pressing down the levers you cannot be set
free; the long bar must be raised at the end of the gallery, where it is
fastened by another lock and special key. This discovery seems to put the
crowning touch to that desperate sensation of confinement. I already hate
the levers; I doubly hate the lock and big key; but no words can express
my detestation of that iron bar.
However, just before ten o'clock I did manage to lose consciousness; I
recall the time by the sounds of the nine-fifty New York Central train.
Even in the midst of my discomfort I had to smile at the plight of one who
has to tell time by trains on the Auburn branch of the New York Central.
I do not know how much I slept through the night, but I was greatly
disturbed by the frequent and pathetic coughing, sighing, and groaning
from other cells. It was only too evident that many others were sleeping
no better than I. Possibly the delicate attentions of the night keeper
going his rounds and flashing his electric bull's-eye through the bars
straight in our faces, may have had something to do with it. Certainly
that custom is hardly conducive to unbroken slumbers. Apparently, it is
considered necessary to do this in order to prevent suicides. One poor
fellow had tried to make away with himself on the previous night; such
attempts are not uncommon, I'm told.
Again--what a commentary!
As I had not yet quite reached the point of self-destruction, the
flashlight was distinctly annoying; it seemed always to come just after I
had succeeded in dropping off to sleep.
And ever, as I started awake again, the blackness of those horrible bars
against the faintly lighted corridor!
At last, through one of the upper windows in the outer wall, I detect the
faint gray light of the coming dawn. Each time I open my eyes and sit up
in bed the small piece of sky to be seen through the grated door of my
cell seems a shade less dark; and at last I begin to feel that, after all,
perhaps God has not forsaken the world. As the sky grows still brighter,
I can distinguish the green of the trees outside; and within, the
blackness and the shadows gradually fade away, and the terrible oppression
of the night gives place to the confidence of a new day. I listen with a
relief that is almost pleasure to the familiar sounds of the six-o'clock
factory whistles; and the faithful old bell which has rung for fifty years
at the Osborne Works, and which I think I should recognize if I were to
hear it in Central Africa.
I partially dress, and then fold up my bed and arrange the mattress and
blankets over it, so as to get more room for further evolutions. The night
ache in my head is rather bad at first, but cold water on my face and the
back of my neck revives me greatly; and by the time my toilet is completed
and I am ready for the fray, I feel more nearly like myself. Before I am
fully dressed and ready, the lights are switched on, about six-thirty, I
judge; and soon the sounds of keys and iron hinges and bars and bolts are
heard again; and the noise of shuffling feet in the corridor below tells
that the day's routine has begun.[6]
The first night has been worse than I expected; and I dare say it will be
the worst of all, unless I find the punishment cells----However, I am not
yet quite certain that I shall try those.
Sufficient unto the day is the evil of the night before. I must throw off
the shadows and get a fresh hold. After all, in some ways it might have
been worse: the air in my cell was good; I had more blankets than I
needed; my bed was not very uncomfortable; and there were no vermin. This
last was really what I dreaded most. My cell is clean and well ventilated;
surely those are blessings which ought to counterbalance much else.
So I start the new day with courage and undiminished interest in my great
experiment.
* * * * *
One of my fellow prisoners, whose comment I quoted in Chapter II, makes
the following statement about the condition of the cells at Auburn. "The
cells on the second and basement tiers smell fairly well; but in summer
the stench from some of the cells is terrible." Due, of course, to long
use, no sewage, and no proper system of ventilation. In most of the cells
the small square hole which opens into some crude sort of ventilating flue
has long ago been plugged to prevent the inroads of vermin.
I seem to have been very fortunate in having a cell where discomfort was
reduced to a minimum.
The condition of some of the cells I have seen in Sing Sing Prison is
unspeakably bad. They are close, dark, damp, foul. To call them unfit for
human habitation is to give them undeserved dignity; they are unfit for
pigs.
CHAPTER VI
TUESDAY MORNING
In my cell, after dinner; Tuesday, September 30.
At about seven o'clock this morning the long iron bar, which locks the
whole tier, is raised; and the Captain pauses a moment at my cell.
"Good morning, Thomas, how did you get through the night?"
"I didn't sleep very well, sir."
"They seldom do the first night. How are you feeling now?"
"Well, fairly good third rate, thank you, sir."
He leaves me; but soon returns along the gallery, unlocking the levers as
he comes. Immediately after him walks his trusty, one of the gallery boys,
pressing down the levers and letting us out of the stone caves where we
have spent the long night. I breathe a sigh of relief and satisfaction as
I swing open the iron grating and come out upon the comparative freedom of
the gallery.
Each man grasps with his left hand the handle of his heavy iron bucket
filled with the slops and sewage of the night. I do the same; and steady
my steps by running my right hand along the iron rail as I hurry down the
gallery after the others. It is a long journey to the farther stairs, but
it is made cheerful by the smiles on the upturned faces of the prisoners
in the corridor below. When I have taken my place in line at the foot of
the iron stairs, I find further satisfaction in the nods and winks of
encouragement from the men gathered about the doorway, at whom I glance as
much as I can without turning my head. I rest my heavy bucket on the
ground while waiting for the company to complete its formation, taking
meanwhile deep breaths of the refreshing morning air. It is another
beautiful, sunny autumn day as we look out into the yard.
A sharp rap of the Captain's stick on the stone pavement, and we stand at
attention, the handle of each man's bucket in his right hand. Two more
quick raps, and we "short-step" out of the building and then "full-step"
down the yard. Our route is the same as that of yesterday afternoon. We
meet many other companies returning. We march down to the extreme
southwest corner of the prison inclosure where is the small brick
building which serves as a sewage disposal plant. It seems to be very well
arranged for its purpose. As we reach there our ranks divide, entering by
two doors, and we march through almost at full speed. I watch my comrades
and do exactly as they do; remove the bucket cover upon entering the
building; empty the contents into a large circular stone basin, or hopper,
into which a stream of water is constantly pouring; pass on quickly to a
second basin and fill my bucket at its stream of water; rinse the bucket
as I walk along and discharge the contents into a third stone basin with
its third stream of running water. It must be confessed that there is a
minimum of smell and nastiness; but what a medieval system! The sewage of
1,400 men simply dumped into the river, which flows just outside the
walls, and carried along to poison all the towns and villages downstream.
After thus emptying and rinsing the buckets we leave them to be
disinfected, aired and dried, upon some wooden racks where each company
has its allotted place. Then we march back up the yard, meeting many other
companies laden with their buckets on the way down. The march back is very
pleasant and I wish it were longer, as exercise in the fresh air and
sunlight seems to soothe the tired nerves. By the time we are back at the
north wing I am feeling in good condition and ravenously hungry.
Arrived at the cell I have another call from Captain Lamb. I have found
him very pleasant and intelligent; and his men, so far as I can yet judge,
seem to like him. He has some excellent ideas, and tells me that he would
like to give his company setting-up exercises as he once did; but he
abandoned them as he received no encouragement; on the contrary it was
considered that they were subversive of discipline. This awful fetich,
discipline. We most of us do so love it--for others.
Why does it not occur to somebody in authority that the first and best
means of getting real discipline, in the sense of good conduct, is to give
these men exercise? Here they live, standing or sitting listlessly at
their work all day, and shut in their narrow cells fourteen hours at
night, with no chance to work off their superfluous energies and keep
themselves in proper physical condition. The result in very many cases
must be steady degeneration, not only of body, but of mind and soul as
well.
The Captain tells me that before breakfast I should clean out my cell; so
after he leaves me I carry out his instructions with the assistance of the
old broom in the corner. I sweep the dust out of the cell into a corner of
the entrance; and the lever locks me back into the cell as I shut the door
after the job is completed.
This has not been long done before the clicking of the levers begins
again in the distance. Every time we march to meals the clicking begins
around the corner to my left and we march to the right; every time we go
to the shop the clicking begins on my right and we march to the left. I am
beginning to catch on to these various complications. Also to learn the
etiquette of dress. When we go to breakfast we wear coats but no caps; to
the shop, both caps and coats; to dinner, neither. Waistcoats seem to
depend upon the taste and fancy of the wearer. I have worn mine, so far,
only in the evening--for warmth.
Marching to breakfast I find myself by the side of a young fellow who is
conspicuous among the prisoners by the use of a blue shirt with collar and
necktie. He is tall and good-looking, with an air of refinement which is
appealing.
I make no breaks upon the march. I shuffle my feet along the stone
corridor like the rest, as we move slowly forward; letting other companies
who have the right of way go in ahead of us. Then when our turn comes we
march more rapidly, changing to single file as we near the mess-room. As
the Captain has directed me, I fall in behind my blue-shirted companion
and have my right hand on my left breast in ample time to salute the P. K.
who, as at yesterday's dinner, stands at the entrance to the mess-hall.
Arrived at my place, which is now in the center of one of the long
shelves or tables, I find waiting for me a large dish of oatmeal porridge,
a bowl one-third full of the thinnest of skimmed milk, two thick slices of
bread, and a cup of the dark fluid we had yesterday and which is supposed
to be coffee, but which I learn is called "bootleg" by the
prisoners--presumably because old boots is the only conceivable source of
its taste and smell. Judging by the samples I've had, the hypothesis does
not seem untenable. The taste is quite as bad as the smell, as it is drunk
without milk or sugar, and there is no escape from drinking some of it, as
it is the only liquid on the table. The bread is known as "punk"--a name
not so strikingly appropriate as the other.
I can see no excuse for bad coffee; for good coffee can be made in large
quantities, as some railroad refreshment rooms can testify. Tea is a
different matter. I do not believe that good tea can be made except in
small quantities. If I were to suggest to the prison authorities, it would
be cocoa instead of tea, and coffee should be drinkable at least.
George, one of the gallery boys, has presented me this morning with a
small package of sugar wrapped in newspaper; but, before I have a chance
of deciding whether it is safe to transfer it from my pocket to the
oatmeal, my friend in the blue shirt, seated on my left, slides a small
yellow envelope toward me. I turn my eyes and head sufficiently to see
him. He is staring straight ahead of him, and without moving his lips or a
muscle of his face gives a low whisper, "Sugar." I turn back my head and
in a voice as low as I can manage and with my lips moving as little as
possible mutter, "Thank you." I have had my first introduction to the
motionless language of the prisoners.
The sugar makes the oatmeal palatable, and I breakfast very well on that
and the bread soaked in what milk I have left over from the porridge. I
had forgotten the rule about no bread being left on the table until my new
friend reminds me of it by pointing to my two slices and then to the
approaching waiter. I promptly toss one of my slices into that
functionary's bucket as he passes by, and go on with my breakfast. I feel
guilty in taking my neighbor's sugar, when I have some of my own in my
pocket, but reflect that mine can be saved for another occasion and shared
with him. I find myself wondering if the sugar I'm eating has been
honestly come by. Not that I suspect my blue-shirted friend of doing
anything wrong; but I am quite sure that in my present condition of mind I
should enjoy it better if I knew it had been stolen. I feel as though I
would gladly annex almost anything from the state of New York that I could
lay my hands on, provided I could do so without too much risk of getting
caught. I hope it will be considered that I am not now condoning
dishonesty; I am merely trying to explain a state of mind.
The silent meal finished, we return to our cells, where I now have a call
from my friend in the blue shirt. It seems that he is a trusty of the "box
office"; and has charge of the orders for groceries and their
distribution, and his name is Roger Landry. Each convict is allowed to
spend three dollars a month in groceries, tobacco and other luxuries--that
is if he is fortunate enough to have that amount of money to his credit.
As his wages, at one cent and a half a day--the regular rate--could only
amount to thirty-seven and a half cents a month, it is obvious that a
prisoner must have some outside resources to allow him to spend three
dollars. So the prisoners who are better off outside the prison have the
luxuries when they get inside; and the poor fellow who has nothing can get
nothing. It seems to be a rather literal rendering of the Scripture, "To
him who hath shall be given." Certainly from him who hath not is taken
away about everything possible--his liberty, his capacity to earn money,
his family, friends, and incidentally his self-respect.
The way in which a man's family and friends are taken away seems
superlatively cruel. A prisoner gets no wages for his work except his
board, lodging, clothes, and the ridiculous cent and a half a day. In the
meantime his wife and children may be starving on the streets outside; he
is powerless to help them, and can write only one letter a month. In other
words, as a prisoner once said to me bitterly, "At just the time we need
our friends the most, they are taken away from us. We must write our one
letter a month to a wife, a mother, or some member of the family having
special claim. Our friends do not hear from us; they think we are hard and
do not care--we are criminals; so they drop us and we are forgotten."[7]
All this Landry explains or suggests; and as we grow confidential he tells
me quite frankly of his own troubles and how he comes to be here; the
mistakes he had made, his keen desire and strong intention to do better
when he goes out and to make good. "My father has stuck by me," he says;
"and now I intend to stick by him."
After about half an hour spent in the cells, from eight to eight-thirty,
we are off to work. Again the keys are turned in the locks, again the
clicking of the levers, again the hurried march along the gallery, again
my heavy shoes clump down the iron stairs, again we form in the sunny
doorway, again we march down the yard to the basket shop.
As we break ranks my partner, Murphy, comes forward with a cheerful smile.
"Well, Mr. Brown, how do you feel to-day?"
"Fine," I respond briefly, and we step to our working table.
"How did you sleep?"
"Not very well; I kept waking up all night."
"Well, don't worry. It's always like that the first night; you'll sleep
better to-night."
And with this comforting assurance we hang up our coats and caps and start
to work.
The convict instructor, Stuhlmiller, comes to our table. "Well, Brown, how
did you like bucket duty?"
"Oh, I've had to do worse things than that," I reply. "I don't know that I
should select that particular job from preference; but somebody has to do
the cleaning up. That's the reason I was once mayor of Auburn."
The other two are greatly amused at this view of official position; and so
we start pleasantly with our basket-making.
Before the morning has far advanced the Captain comes over to me and in a
low voice asks would I like to be sent out with a gang to help move some
coal. I haven't the least idea what is involved, but I'm keen for
anything. I am here to learn all I can. So I answer briefly, "Sure," and
he returns to his desk. Presently I hear the name of Brown called out with
those of Murphy and eight others. Murphy says, "Come on, Brown, we'll get
some fresh air!" I start at once for the door, but Murphy pulls me back;
we have to be lined up, counted, ten of us, and duly delivered to another
officer who takes us in charge.
There are two heavy cars of coal, it seems, to be moved up grade to the
coal pile; and as the prison possesses no dummy or yard engine, this has
to be done by hand labor. It seems singularly unintelligent to have things
so arranged; but for the present it is all the better for me, as it serves
well for exercise. A block and tackle is rigged up and we have repeated
tugs of war, during which I get my hands very grimy and receive a number
of friendly admonitions not to work too hard. There is also the offer on
the part of a pleasant young negro to lend his leather mittens.
"Thank you," I say, "but I think you need them more than I do." (It was
stupid of me not to give him the satisfaction of doing this slight
service.)
The men on the coal gang, in view of their heavy and disagreeable work,
are allowed to talk, it seems; and they certainly make good use of this
privilege. There were several negroes among the lot, and they kept us all
in roars of laughter. In fact it was as cheery and jolly a lot of fellows
as one could find, joking about their work, and about their breakfast, and
joshing each other in the best of tempers. While we were waiting to get
things arranged for the second car, one of the men who works in our shop
good naturedly disposed of much of his week's allowance of chewing tobacco
to the crowd.
During all these proceedings I stick pretty close to Murphy, both that I
may make no mistakes, and because I am already getting to have a great
liking for my sturdy partner. Yesterday I was on my guard with him and I
think he was quietly sizing me up; but to-day there is an absence of
restraint and a pleasant feeling of comradeship growing up between us,
which is not lessened by the discovery that we both like fresh air and
exercise. Poor fellow! he gets little enough of either. The forty minutes
spent in the vigorous tugs of war with the coal cars start an agreeable
glow of health and spirits in both of us.
After the coal job is finished I am for going back at once to the shop,
which is close at hand, but Murphy halts me again. "Hold on, Brown, we
can't go back just yet." It seems that we must again line up and be
counted; then we are escorted by the officer temporarily in charge of us
back into the shop, where we are once more counted before we return to our
regular places.
In order to make up for lost time Murphy and I work steadily on our basket
bottoms; he suggesting that we each watch the other's work, to see whether
we are keeping the sides even. A mistake is easier to notice across the
table than in your own work closer at hand. My fault seems to be to pull
the withes too tight, making the sides somewhat concave; while Murphy has
just the opposite fault--he makes his sides too convex. So I watch his
work and he watches mine, and all things go on very agreeably.
At one stage in the morning's proceedings I forget where I am, for the
moment, and begin to whistle; but a swift and warning look from Murphy
startles me into silence.
"Look out," he warns me, "whistling's not allowed. You'll get punished if
you ain't careful."
"Is a whistling prisoner worse than a whistling girl?" I ask; but I see
that my partner is not acquainted with the proverb, so I repeat it to him:
"Whistling girls, like crowing hens,
Always come to some bad ends."
He is much amused at this sentiment, despite its imperfect rhyme, and asks
me to repeat it so that he can learn it.
As we are working busily away, I perceive a sudden commotion over at the
western end of the shop. One of the poor old prisoners, those mournful
wrecks of humanity of which our company has its full share, has fainted,
and lies cold and white on the stone floor. It is pleasant to see how
tenderly those about him go to his help, raise the poor old fellow, seat
him in one of the rough chairs--the best the shop affords--and bathe his
forehead with cold water. It is also pleasant to hear the words of
sympathy which are passed along from one to another.
In due time a litter is brought; the pitiful fragment of humanity is
placed gently upon it, and is carried out of the shop into which he will
probably never return. The look on his face is one not easy to forget, in
its white stare of patient suffering. It seemed to typify long years of
stolid endurance until the worn-out old frame had simply crumbled under
the accumulated load.
There may be another lonely deathbed in the hospital to-night. No wife or
child, no friend of any sort to smooth the pillow or to close the eyes.
Alas, the pity of it!
But the sight is evidently no new one to my comrades. A few minutes only
and the shadow has passed. There is even apparent an air of anxiety lest
we dwell too much on the mournful episode. It will not do to think of
death here; anything--anything but that!
It must be at about half-past eleven that a certain air of restlessness
pervading the shop shows that dinner time is approaching. Murphy goes for
his soap and towel. "Come on, Brown, and wash up."
"I'm sorry, I forgot and left my soap and towel in my cell."
"Well, never mind, come and use mine."
So, raising my hand for the Captain's permission to leave my place, I join
Murphy at the sink, and again we use his soap and towel in common. My
partner's treatment of me is certainly very satisfactory; there is just
enough of an air of protection suitable for a man who knows the ropes to
show toward his partner who does not, combined with an open-hearted
deference to an older man of wider experience that somehow is
extraordinarily pleasant.
Before going back to the cell-house we march first to the place where we
left the buckets this morning before breakfast. Each man secures his own
bucket, which is marked with the number of his cell; then we go swinging
up the yard, break ranks at the side door of the north wing, up the
stairs, traverse the long gallery, and so to my cell around the corner.
It begins to have a certain homelike association; but I do dislike having
to close the grated door and lock myself in every time.
The gallery boy has been most attentive. I find a rack for my towels and a
mirror added to the cell equipment; also he has promised me a better
electric light bulb. There are two gallery boys, I find; one is George,
the other is Joe. George is Captain Lamb's trusty, and serves in the shop
as well as the gallery. He has been the one who has added my new
furnishings. Joe I see only when I am in my cell; and I do not know where
he works. He brings me water and has been most genial.
There seems to be about half an hour at noon between the shop and the
mess-hall. As soon as I am back in my cell I remove my cap and coat and
"slick up" for dinner. Then I chat with any of the trusties that happen to
drift along to my cell. One of them brings me a book which a prisoner on
our gallery is sending to me. It is Victor Hugo's "Ninety-Three." Opening
it I find a note. The writer begins by saying that he had found the book
interesting and hoped I would, and then adds, "Some of the guards laughed
at you when you passed this morning. I know it is a hard proposition you
are up against; but say, stick it out! I only wish I could help you, and
I am voicing the sentiments of all the boys who work in the school."
Generous in him to run the risk of punishment in order to send me this
word of encouragement.
We march to dinner in the same order as at breakfast, and I find myself
again next to the blue-shirted Landry. I like his looks and his
personality. It is curious how one can get an effect of that, even under
the rigid and unnatural demeanor which the discipline engenders. There is
a dapper little chap who leads the right line of our company to whose back
I have taken a great liking; some day I hope to get acquainted with his
face.
Our dinner is mutton stew, which is really good. I had been told at the
shop in the morning what the bill of fare would be; for as one week's
dietary is exactly the same as all other weeks, you can calculate with
accuracy upon every meal. I eat my dinner with peculiar relish after our
morning struggle with the coal car.
Arrived back at the cell, Joe, the other gallery boy, stops to chat, after
he has dispensed water along the tier. "Say, Brown," he begins, "do you
know after the talk you give us up in chapel on Sunday there was some of
us didn't believe you really meant to come down and live with us. Then
they thought if you did come you'd manage to get up to the Warden's
quarters for supper and a bed. But, say, when the boys see you marchin'
down with your bucket this mornin'--they knew you meant business!"
Then the youngster puts his face up close to the bars, squints through
them admiringly, looks me all up and down from head to foot, and breaks
out with: "Gee! You're a dead game sport!"
On the whole I think that's by far the finest compliment I ever had in my
life.
CHAPTER VII
TUESDAY AFTERNOON AND EVENING
In my cell, Tuesday evening, September 30.
Laying aside my journal this noon, I don my coat and cap and stand ready
at the cell door. The Captain passes by, unlocking the levers; then
repasses, pushing them down, and I am ready to fall in line as usual; but
one of the gray figures stops suddenly and whispers to me, "Your cup!
You've forgotten your cup!" So I create a momentary halt and confusion in
the gallery as I dash back into the cell to get my tin cup and out again,
leaving it on the shelf at the entrance. We traverse the gallery, descend
the iron stairs, line up at the door, march first slowly then rapidly down
the yard, through the sewage disposal building to the bucket stands; and
so to the basket-shop again.
"Well, Brown, how did you enjoy your dinner, good?" This question is my
partner's afternoon greeting.
"Good! I should say it was! I'd like to tackle another car of coal this
afternoon to give me such an appetite. No, on second thoughts, not this
afternoon--to-morrow morning. I don't think I'd better get up much of an
appetite with nothing but bread and water ahead of me."
Murphy laughs. "Well, we've got two bottoms each to do this afternoon, to
make up for our exercise this morning; so we must hustle up and get 'em
done."
So we both start basket-making; he joking at my efforts to keep up with
him, and I, in a futile attempt to do so, "working like a race-horse," as
he expresses it. With pleasant chat the time passes quickly. The
strangeness of my situation is beginning to wear away; and the men are
getting over their aloofness as they see that, in Joe's words, I mean
business; and also see how well I get along with my partner and my boss.
The latter, the smiling Stuhlmiller, drops round to our table frequently;
makes valuable and friendly criticism and suggestion as to my work, by
which I try to profit; and incidentally tells many things which both
directly and indirectly throw valuable light upon the life here. As a
workman I must pay my tribute of admiration to Stuhlmiller; his small,
delicate hands with strong, pliable fingers are made for craftsmanship. It
gives positive delight to see him take hold of the weaving, to show me or
someone else how it should be done. There are the elements of the real
artist of some sort in that chap. What a pity to have these rare qualities
wasted in prison!
In the course of the afternoon a party of visitors is shown through the
shop by the Warden in person. It is only this evening that I have learned
all the facts of this incident, as I was so busy working that I never
noticed the party at all; although they walked by, only a few feet away,
passing directly between me and the keeper. This is the story as I get it
first hand, from the Warden himself.
It seems that some newspaper men from New York were in town to-day and
were most anxious to see Tom Brown at work. The strict order that
everything at the prison was to go on exactly as usual forbade their
interviewing me, or even having me pointed out; but there was nothing to
prevent their being shown over the prison in the ordinary way. The Warden,
who had returned from Albany, thinking he would like to take the
opportunity of himself seeing his "new boarder" at work, offered to
conduct them. So down through the yard they all came and in due course
reached the basket-shop.
"This is the place where Tom Brown is working," remarked the Warden; "but,
gentlemen, please remember you are not to speak to him or even seem to
give him special notice."
So they entered the shop and leisurely made their way through; the Warden
exchanging a word or two with the Captain as he went by, and all of them
looking curiously at the various basket-makers within sight.
After they had passed out of the shop at the farther end, one of the
visitors said,
"But, Warden, I didn't see him."
"Neither did we," chimed in the rest.
"Well, gentlemen," laughed the Warden, "this is certainly one on me; for I
looked everywhere and I couldn't find him myself."
It was true; the whole party had passed within twenty feet of me, and not
one of them--not even my intimate friend--had recognized me.
"But I'm very sure he's there," continued the Warden; "at any rate I can
verify it at my office."
So they returned to the main building and found out, sure enough, that
Thomas Brown was duly registered in the basket-shop.
Two of the visitors insisted upon returning; they had known me very well
by sight and were sure they could find me out. So back they came to the
shop, and this time I noticed them.
"I wonder who those guys are, rubbering around?" is my remark to Murphy,
speaking in the vernacular, as we are working away. I was taking good
care not to stare hard at them in my turn.
"They're not looking at you, anyhow," is Murphy's report. I steal another
glance and catch an intent, searching look from one of the visitors. I am
just finishing off a basket bottom and have on eyeglasses of unusual
shape--rather too fine for Tom Brown. I fear that the visitor may have
spotted these. However, I return his stare insolently, with as much of the
air of an old timer as I can muster on the spur of the moment. At the same
instant I whisper some joke over to Murphy that makes him smile; and the
guy moves on, staring at others of my shopmates in their turn.
"I guess he was after me, all right," I remark to my partner, "and I'm
afraid these infernal specs may have given me away."
As a matter of fact the two visitors returned from the basket-shop again
disappointed. One of them thought he had seen Tom Brown, but wasn't quite
sure. My identity seems to be sufficiently merged--so far as outsiders are
concerned.
Toward the close of the afternoon my talk with my partner becomes more
serious. In spite of the rules, newspapers seem to circulate here and are
precious in proportion to their rarity. Some one hands a paper to Murphy,
who passes it over to me; and I, after glancing over it, hand it back to
him to be returned. The editor of this particular sheet, in commenting
upon my adventure, expressed doubt as to the possibility of "the amateur
convict" being able to get hold of the real life of the prison. This view
makes me smile, under the circumstances, and I ask Murphy what he thinks
about it. His reply is that there is no doubt of my being able to get all
I want, and getting it straight.
"Well, I want to know all there is," I lightly rejoin, "and I'm thinking
of breaking the rules in some way before I get out of here, so as to be
sent down to the punishment cells."
A look of genuine concern comes over my partner's face, and his voice
sinks to an awestruck whisper. "Do you mean the jail?" he asks.
"Yes," I answer; "I want to learn everything possible about this place, so
I think I may as well spend at least one night in jail."
"Well, you'd better be careful." My partner speaks slowly and
impressively. There can be no doubt of his sincerity; a glance at his
earnest, troubled face settles that. "I went down to that place once," he
continues; "and I want to tell you--after eight hours of it I just caved
right in! I told them that they could do anything they liked with me."
"Was it so very bad?" I ask.
"Well, my advice to you is to give it a wide berth," is his evasive
answer. Then there is silence between us for a moment, and when he begins
again it is evident that his thoughts have turned into a still more
serious channel. "Yes, you can learn a great deal, but let me tell you
this, Brown: no one can realize what this place really is like,
until--until--well, until there is someone he cares about who is sick and
he can't get away." There is a tremor in his voice. Poor fellow! The
Chaplain told me last night that Murphy had recently lost his mother and
felt her death very deeply.
This talk occurs at the end of the day's work when we are waiting for the
Captain's signal of return, and Murphy is sitting on the edge of the table
talking quietly, turning his head away from the Captain and toward me as I
stand on my regular side of the table.
I place a hand on my partner's broad shoulder. "Yes," I say, "it must
indeed be terrible in such a case."
"Oh, nobody can know how bad it is," he goes on, my evident sympathy
opening up the depths. "My mother was sick in the hospital, very sick, and
I knew that she was going to die; and I--and I couldn't get to her. Oh
God! if they could only have let me go! I'd have come back! I'd have come
back. Honest I would. And now--and now----"
"Yes," I say, "I understand. And I know myself what it means. It's
something we never get over--in prison or out."
For a moment I fear that he is going to break down; but he is strong and
schooled in self-repression, and quickly regains control of himself. To
give him time I tell him something of my own experience; and he grasps my
hand fervently. Whatever may come out of my prison experiment, I have made
at least one warm friend in Jack Murphy. The barriers are down between us
two at least. Death, for all its cruelty, is after all the one great
unifying force; it forges the one great bond of human brotherhood.
As I have said, this last talk takes place toward the end of the
afternoon. Before it occurred Jack had said, "Now it's my turn to sweep up
to-night." And he proceeded to do it, while I took a bit of exercise,
walking up and down the short space permitted by the rules--about ten
steps each way across and back.
The order comes to fall in. "Well, good night, Brown!" "Good night, Jack!"
and off we go; first back to the bucket stands, for the benefit of those
who did their housecleaning this afternoon instead of this morning. Then
we march up through the yard to the main building, where, with the others,
I snatch my slice of bread, mount the iron stairs, traverse the gallery,
and lock myself in my cell for the night.
Captain Lamb comes to bid me good-bye. He is off on his vacation to-morrow
and his place is to be filled temporarily by one of the night officers. I
am sorry to have him go as I have taken a liking to him and wanted to
discuss with him further his views on the Prison Problem. However, I shall
be interested to find out how we get along with his successor.
The armchair, which George has secured for me in place of the stool, is
unfortunately much too large for the cell. When my shelf table is hooked
up there is not room enough for the chair to be placed anywhere
conveniently. When I sit back in it my head bumps against the locker; and
how I'm going to manage when the bed is let down I don't know. The chair
is not my only acquisition; when I came in to-night I found three tempting
apples on the shelf above my door. I suspect my friend in the blue shirt,
who asked me this noon if I didn't want an apple, as his Captain had given
him some. I shall save them for to-morrow, although I find my bread and
water rather tasteless and unsatisfactory to-night.
The evening wears along. I do not know now just what time it is, but
somewhere between seven and eight. We have had the twenty minutes of
music, beginning again with the sweet strains of the Mendelssohn Spring
Song, into which the other instruments rudely break. My unknown musician
plays other good selections, all with equal skill and feeling, so far as I
can tell through the din. At the present moment everything is quiet along
the corridors, except the inexplicable clicking or tapping I heard last
evening and wondered whether it was telegraphic in character. One of the
night officers, who has just paid me a friendly call and chatted at some
length, tells me that it is caused by the endeavors of the men in the
cells to strike sparks with flint and steel--owing to their monthly supply
of matches having given out. As the monthly supply of each man is only one
box, I am not surprised at the number of clicks that I hear. A cigarette
smoker might easily use up one box in a day--let alone a month.[8]
It is very curious the difference between last evening and this in my
feelings. Then I was so excited that each noise got on my nerves. To-night
I am quiet; and I think sleep will come more easily and stay longer.
Perhaps I can even slumber through the visits of the watchman with his
electric bull's-eye.
At this point I was interrupted by the Warden and Grant, who have just
paid me a long call. As I feel even more possessed with the desire to talk
than I did last night, I could hardly bear to let them go. They came up to
the entrance of my cell very quietly so as not to attract attention, and I
was taken almost by surprise when I heard their voices. I had rather
expected a visit from the Warden this evening, but knew nothing for
certain.
"Well, how are you coming on?" is the first question.
"Fine!"
"How are you feeling?"
"First rate!"
"How do you like your job?"
"Couldn't ask anything better."
"How do the men treat you?"
"As fine a lot of fellows as I was ever thrown with."
The Warden and Grant stifle their laughter.
"Well," I remark, "I suppose it does sound rather funny, but I mean it. I
wouldn't ask for any better treatment than I'm getting. The men are
certainly acting like gentlemen. They are doing just what I asked of
them--treating me exactly like one of themselves; and as for my partner,
Murphy, we're the very best of friends. He's a fine fellow. But look
here," I continue, "I'm making no kick, and I'm perfectly satisfied where
I am; but what was the reason for the change of plan? Why didn't the P. K.
put me where we had decided? When shall I be placed with that tough
bunch?"
This time my two visitors cannot control their amusement; they laugh
loudly.
"Why," says the Warden, as soon as he can catch his breath, "you are with
the tough bunch!"
"Oh, come off! you know what I mean, the Idle Company that I was to be
placed with for the first day or two."
"You're with the Idle Company," explains the Warden; "only they're not
idle any longer, they've been put to work. It is the same one where we
planned for you to begin."
I was never more surprised; but in order to turn the joke on them I assume
the toughest manner at my disposal and say, "Gee! Did you think I wasn't
wise? I was only kiddin' youse guys! But take this from me--straight. If
we're the toughest bunch in this stir the other guys must be skypilots,
all right!"
"Well, he seems to be getting some of the lingo down pretty fine," is
Grant's quiet comment; and then we turn seriously to the events of the
day, to my health and other matters. The Warden describes his visit to the
shop with the newspaper men, and the failure of all concerned, including
himself, to recognize me.
I tell him that it is quite evident that the prison atmosphere has been
successful in disguising my individuality, at least so far as appearance
is concerned. Then, after some more serious talk, we reach an agreement of
opinion that I am probably getting as much experience as possible where I
am now working; and so it would be better to continue in the basket-shop
for the present. The Warden makes me a promise to come again to-morrow
evening, and they take their departure. I wish they'd come back, I haven't
talked half enough.
The Warden told me that one of the convicts who works in his household
quarters locks in (to use the prison expression denoting temporary
residence) next to me--Number 14 on this tier; and that he had felt rather
hurt that I did not answer his taps. It seems that after finishing his
evening's work he gets back to his cell at ten o'clock, and that he tapped
me a greeting last night. That was just about the time I fell asleep. I
remember getting the impression in a vague way of some noises on the
gallery near by, just as I was dropping off; that must have been the night
officer letting him into his cell. To-night I shall stay awake and answer
his message.
So the company I am in is the one I have been dreading, is it? "The
toughest bunch of fellows in the prison"--Murphy and Stuhlmiller and
"Blackie," the good-natured fellow who gave away his tobacco and brings us
the material for our baskets; and the other pleasant men whose
acquaintance I have been making these last two days in the shop. It is
incredible, inconceivable. What can be the explanation of it all?
Is it possible that I am being made the victim of a clever system of
deception? This is naturally my first thought. I can well imagine that
Jack Murphy enjoys the novel sensation of having as his partner a man who
is for the moment an object of peculiar interest to this community, that
is simply human nature. No doubt Harley Stuhlmiller enjoys giving
directions to the member of a state commission, that again is human
nature. But that these men could assume virtues which they have not, and
carry out a wholesale system of deceit--that is not possible. I have been
on my guard every moment I have been here, and I have observed some few
attempts to get into my good graces, with a possible expectation of
future benefits; but on the other hand there has been a remarkable and
most successful effort to carry out my request--to treat me as plain Tom
Brown.
No, that explanation doesn't explain; the truth must lie in another
direction. And here is my idea. I am not seeing the worse side of these
men because there is no occasion for them to show me their worse side; but
I have no intention of overlooking or denying that side. They wouldn't be
in prison if they did not have it. But, although they may form the
toughest bunch in prison, they evidently have their better side also, and
is that not just as real as the worse side? And is it not the better side
that is the more important for us to consider? Important--whether we
approach the matter from the side of philanthropy or from that of
political economy. In either case we must consider it important that men
should not leave prison in such condition, mental, moral or physical, that
they will almost certainly commit more crimes and be returned to prison.
To which side, the better or the worse, does the Prison System now appeal?
Which does it encourage and develop? These are pretty vital questions.
At any rate it seems to me to have been great good luck that I was placed
in the basket-shop where I should associate with just these men; for if
these fellows are really among the more difficult cases in the prison,
then I think----
Wednesday morning, October 1.
At that interesting moment, while still writing my journal, the lights
suddenly went out on me; so I am finishing this next morning. The Warden
and Grant arrived soon after eight and must have stayed longer than I
thought; and somehow I seem to have missed the warning bell. I had not
begun to prepare for bed, when suddenly I was left in darkness. I had to
get my writing materials into the locker and make my evening toilet the
best way I could, with the help of the dim light from the corridor coming
through the grated door. There was one good thing about it, however; I was
too busy for a while to notice the blackness of the bars which had given
me such a shock the night before. It did not take so very long to make my
preparations, for the state of New York allows its boarders neither night
shirts nor pajamas. We have to sleep in the underclothes in which we have
worked all day. An arrangement which strikes one as being almost more
medieval than the sewage disposal system.
On Monday night, according to Jack Murphy, the men in my corridor all
waited to hear if I had the usual difficulties with my bed; and as some
other fellow's bed went down with him during the evening they thought they
had the laugh on me. This Tuesday night they certainly had. That infernal
armchair could not be placed where it did not catch the edge of the bed
when I let it down, so as to leave one leg dangling loose, as only one
could touch the floor at a time. In the course of my struggles with the
bed, the whole miserable contrivance came off the hooks and fell down with
a metallic rattle and bang that could be heard all over the corridor. Then
came snickers from various distances, and my frantic effort to straighten
things out only made more noise than ever. Bursts of smothered laughter
came through the bars; and I laughed, myself, until I was almost in
hysterics. Finally I got the bed hitched on to the back hooks, folded it
up against the wall and started all over again. I began by putting the
chair on its back as far away from the bed as possible, which wasn't very
far, and this time I just managed to get the legs of the bed to the floor.
After that it was short work to get ready for the night.
I have not yet described my bed covering. I have one double and one single
blanket and a thin blanket sheet--no cotton or linen of any sort. I do not
need, in this weather, more than one of the three blankets; but if I were
to be here long I know I should like some cotton bedclothes and pillow
cases. These can be secured, apparently, only by buying them, and many
prisoners have not the money to buy them. It seems as if the State should
furnish them to all prisoners; certainly the present arrangement leaves
much to be desired from a sanitary point of view.
Having thus at last got into bed, I found myself not so sleepy as when I
started; moreover, now that I was in bed, that black grating began again
to have its nervous effect upon me. If I thought it would be any better I
should turn, facing the other way; but that would bring my head so close
to the grating that anyone from outside could poke me with his fingers.
Moreover, it wouldn't help matters, for as long as I know that grating is
there I might as well look at it; I should certainly feel it even worse if
I turned my back.
I heard the nine-fifty train drawing into the station. I wondered who, if
any, of my friends were boarding the train for New York. How often have I
done so without ever thinking of the poor fellows over here, lying
restless in their cells and marking the time by the arrival and departure
of trains. After a suitable interval I heard the train draw away. Then I
knew that in a few moments my neighbor from the Warden's rooms would be
down.
Soon I heard the opening and closing of a distant door, then stealthy
footfalls along the corridor, the faint sound of a lock, and I saw the
long iron bar slowly and noiselessly raise itself from the top of the cell
opening. Then more stealthy footfalls, the sound of the great key turning
in a lock close at hand, the click of a lever, and a few faint sounds
through the wall at my right. Then the lever clicked again as the door
closed, the key turned in the lock, soft footfalls died away along the
gallery, the long bar dropped down, and all was so quiet for a moment that
it seemed as if the very building were holding its breath.
Then through the wall I heard the very faintest possible sound:
tap-ta-tap-tap; tap-ta-tap-tap. Then silence. It was so faint that if I
had not been waiting for some sound I might not have heard it at all.
Tap-ta-tap-tap. It said quite plainly, "How do you do?" I stretched out my
left hand to the wall on my right and with my ring gave an answering
signal: Tap-tap; tap-tap; tap-tap; which was the nearest I could come to,
"All right; all right." Then I waited to see if I was answered; and sure
enough in a few seconds the answer came.
After some moments, during which I presume my unseen friend was preparing
for bed, I heard again a different sound; rap-rap, rap-rap, rap-rap. It
said as plain as possible, "Good-night, good-night." So I returned it in
the same way. Then turning over in my narrow bed I fell asleep, and
although my sleep was neither deep nor continuous it was much better than
the night before.
CHAPTER VIII
WEDNESDAY MORNING AND AFTERNOON
In my cell, Wednesday evening, October 2.
Looking out of the upper windows in the outer wall, from the door of my
cell, I can see that the morning is cloudy and threatening. It is also
warmer; up to now it has been clear and cool.
I feel in good condition after a very fair night, and rise soon after
hearing the six o'clock westbound train and the factory whistles. This
gives me ample time to wash, dress, and get completely ready for the day.
The new acting Captain starts in this morning--Captain Kane. He is a
handsome, neat and soldierly appearing officer, with cold blue eyes and a
forceful quiet manner. Promptly on time he unlocks the levers, and George,
the trusty, follows close after, pushing them down. Around the corner
there is a slight delay, as the long bar on that tier seems to be
somewhat out of order and will not rise far enough to allow the doors of
the cells to swing open. I'm glad I'm not in one of those cells or I
should be afraid of being shut in for the day. The Captain soon gets the
bar raised, however, and the usual routine happens; walking along the
gallery with our heavy buckets, descending the iron stairs, waiting in the
passage at the door of the north wing, and marching down the yard to the
sewage disposal building. Then the rapid cleaning of the buckets, leaving
them to be aired and disinfected at the stands; and the march back to our
cells. It is, as I supposed, a gray, cloudy day, with rain likely to come.
If it does, there is no change of clothing whatever in my cell, and no way
of getting one that I know of; so I hope it will not rain. But what do
these poor fellows do after marching through the yard in a real drenching
shower? Work until they're dry, I suppose, if they get wet on the way to
the shop; or go to bed in their cells if they get wet on the way back.
This holds out to me a cheerful prospect of wet clothes all day and
fourteen hours in bed in case it rains hard; for the distance from the
cell block to the basket-shop would be a long walk in the rain.
What an admirable system! Excellently calculated, I should imagine, to
produce the largest possible crop of pneumonia in the shortest possible
space of time.
Upon my return to the cell I do my morning sweeping. I do not know where
all the dust comes from, as no one else uses the cell, and I can't see
where I collect any; but dusty it is every morning.
Then I have a call from Dickinson, the Chaplain's assistant. The poor
fellow has a letter from the man who had promised him work, saying that
the factory is running slack and there is no knowing how soon his job will
be ready for him. He had counted on Saturday being his day of release, his
wife was coming to meet him, and all his plans were made for a joyful
family reunion. Now it must all go by the board. It is a heart-breaking
disappointment, but he bears up bravely.
As it happens I may be able to help him. At any rate I promise to write a
letter to his proposed employer. The poor fellow grasps at this slight
comfort and expresses his gratitude most fervently. Then I turn my
attention to breakfast.
Wednesday's breakfast consists of hash, with the usual accompaniments of
boot-leg and punk. I was told in the shop yesterday what to expect. The
smell of the mess-room is beginning to be unpleasant, perhaps owing to the
change in temperature. If so, what it must be on a moist warm day in
summer, or on a wet day in winter when the steam is turned on, I hate to
think.
The hash is not so good as yesterday's porridge. Moreover it is rendered
distinctly less appetizing by the amount of bone and gristle which I find
chopped up in it. I hope I am not unduly fastidious in such matters, and
an occasional inedible morsel I should not criticize; but an average of
two or three pieces of bone and gristle to a mouthful seems to me
excessive.
Back in my cell I write my promised letter on behalf of Dickinson; but the
minutes before shop time pass so quickly that when the lever is pressed
down I am not ready, and so have to make a grab for my coat and cap and
fall in toward the end of the line on the gallery. During the halt at the
door, however, I regain my place--third in line on the left. The rain has
come, but, fortunately, it is little more than a mist. It gives me a
chance, however, to venture a mild pleasantry. When the Captain is out of
hearing I whisper, with as English an accent as possible, "Oh, dear me!
Where did I leave my umber-rella?" a remark which causes unseemly snickers
from those within hearing. The joke is quite in character, as those I hear
turn largely on the various hardships and privations of prison life;
although the one huge, massive, gigantic joke, which is always fresh and
pointed, is the current rate of payment for a prisoner's work--one cent
and a half a day. Before this monumental and gorgeous piece of humor all
other jokes seem flat and pointless.
On the march down the yard to the shop we pass the Warden. He lets us go
by without any sign of recognition, which gives me another chance to get a
laugh from my comrades. I whisper, "So that is the way my old friends
treat me!" Apparently the prisoners can appreciate a joke better than an
official; I am still a bit resentful at the way that excessively bored
Bertillon clerk received my attempt at humor.
Arrived at the shop I go directly to my bench, and turning around am
greeted by the cheery face of my partner. He comes up behind me, for he
marches somewhere in the rear. "Well, Brown, how did you get by last
night?"
"Better, thank you, Jack!"
"Well, of course you will find it hard for the first week or two, but
after that you will be O. K." By which it will be seen that my partner
likes a joke as well as the next man. Then as we hang up our caps and
coats and get ready for work he continues, "A new man always does find it
hard to sleep when he is thinking of a wife or mother or someone else at
home; but as soon as the mist clears away he begins to see and think more
clearly."
I am about to answer when a warning whisper, "Look out! Here comes the
screw!" tells me that our new Captain is approaching.
"How many bottoms do you two men make a day?" asks that officer.
I look at Murphy and he promptly answers, "Five."
"Then continue making five for a day's work, just as you were doing under
your regular officer," says the Captain; and moves on to the next pair of
men. Our new officer evidently does not propose to have the work slack off
during his management of the shop.
My other shopmates have greeted me warmly, and presently I have pleasant
conversations with some of them. To-day for the first time the ice is
thoroughly broken, and I am quite made one of them. It happens in this
way.
As we are working away, Jack and I, trying to accomplish our morning's
task with very stiff material to work with, the P. K. shows up. He has
come, I suppose, to see how the new Captain is getting on with the
toughest bunch of fellows in the prison. After he has conversed awhile
with the Captain he walks slowly over to where we are working and remarks,
apparently addressing the world in general, "Don't you feel the draught
from that door?"
As he has not spoken to anyone in particular, I look at Jack and wait for
him or somebody else to answer; but Jack is bending over his work and no
one seems inclined to say anything.
"Thank you, sir," I begin politely; "as far as I am concerned I don't mind
it, for I like fresh air. It doesn't trouble me any."
"Well now," says the portly and dignified dispenser of law and order, "I
don't want you men to catch cold. I think you'd better have that door shut
and perhaps the windows farther open. I'll just speak to the Captain about
it. You mustn't work in a draught if you feel it too much."
As the P. K. steps back to the Captain I glance over at Murphy and catch
an answering gleam in his eye. "It's all right, Jack," I remark, in a
cautious undertone, "I'm wise."
He grins. "Well, did you ever see anything so raw as that?"
I chuckle, and glance sarcastically over toward our highly respected
officers. Jack continues, "Does he think he can put that over on us?"
"Not this time," is my reply; and when the Captain, upon the P. K.'s
departure, comes over to shut the door I tell him that if he doesn't mind
we should prefer to have it left open, to which suggestion he kindly
yields. It is a large double door and gives light as well as fresh air to
all our part of the shop.
This little episode has not gone unnoticed by the rest of the men; I
almost instantly feel that I have risen several pegs in the esteem of my
comrades. Several of them who have hitherto held aloof come over for an
introduction to Tom Brown. If I am on the side of the convicts against the
officers, in short if I am "ag'in the government," I must be all right. I
am perfectly conscious of the barriers giving way. Of course the game I
am playing has its dangers, but I believe it is the wise one. If I am
really to gain these men's confidence, I must be on the convicts' side and
act the part completely. I must look at matters from the convicts' point
of view; and scorn of all forms of hypocrisy and double dealing on the
part of those in authority as well as good faith with your pals seems to
be the platform upon which all the best men stand. And these are mighty
fine qualities outside prison; why then are they not equally fine inside?
Are not truth and courage and devotion to be welcomed wherever found? And
are not falsehood and hypocrisy always hateful? A certain man who is
serving time here, although innocent of the crime for which he was sent,
because he could not escape conviction without implicating two of his
friends is a type. "But then," he once explained to me, "you see, I had
done a good many things for which I had not served time. And our code of
ethics is based upon the rule that you must never squeal on a pal." It was
the same man who, when he once started to complain of the injustice of
some term he had served and I had said, "Yes, but you must consider the
other side of it," broke into a smile and answered:
"You are entirely right. I've calculated that I still owe the state of New
York two or three hundred years."
But all that is another story.
Before the morning is over George, the trusty, comes along saying: "Shave,
Jack?" "Yes." "Shave, Brown?" "No, thank you."
So my partner goes under George's hands for his semiweekly barbering, and
in due time reappears, looking his best. If anyone should ask me how good
is Jack's best, I should have to answer that I have not the least idea. By
this time I am becoming so attached to my open-hearted, whole-souled
partner that I can only look at him with the eyes of affectionate and
indiscriminating friendship.
While Jack is getting shaved I work on steadily, chatting with
Stuhlmiller, "Blackie," whose name I find is Laflam, and Jack Bell, who
marches second in line on the right, and who has a pleasant voice and
seems like an exceptionally intelligent fellow.
We return to the cell house at the usual time; and fortunately the rain
has ceased, so I do not have the experience of a wet day--an experience I
am quite willing to forego.
At dinner we have pork and beans, the beans not at all bad. We also have
tea instead of coffee. I can make out but very little difference in these
two beverages. I should say they must both be prepared in some such
apparatus as is described by the boy in "Mugby Junction": "A metallic
object that's at times the tea-urn and at times the soup-tureen, according
to the nature of the last twang imparted to its contents which are the
same groundwork."
After dinner I have a long talk with Roger Landry. He grows confidential,
telling much about himself--completing the story, part of which he gave me
yesterday. It interests me greatly. And it is just this vital human
element that is making my experiment so much more absorbing than I had
expected.
At the usual time we march back to the shop, where I have two new
experiences.
The first is a glimpse of the school. I am working away steadily with Jack
when an officer suddenly appears at my elbow. "Is this Thomas Brown?"
"Yes, sir."
"The Professor wants to see you at the school."
Meekly putting on my cap and coat, I follow the keeper out of the shop. At
least I prepare to follow--I wait for him to lead the way, but he motions
me to go ahead of him. Then I realize that an officer escorting a convict
always walks just behind, where he can keep a watchful eye on every move
of his charge.
The school is only a few steps away, in fact in the second story of the
very building of which our shop occupies the ground floor. I ascend the
stairs, and passing through a hall find myself in the principal's office.
Here I am told to wait until the Professor is at leisure. I wait a long
time. When he arrives he gives me a single sheet of paper, and tells me to
write a composition on the subject of My Education.
I sit down and quickly fill two pages with a succinct account of my stay
at different institutions of learning, ending with my graduation from the
university. Then I simply add that, while this has been the end of my
schooling, I hope my education is still going on.
The Professor having left the room again while I am writing, I have
another considerable wait. The school appears to be much larger and more
important than when I saw it last, some years ago. I should like to see
more of it. After a while the Professor returns and reads over my paper.
His only comment is one regarding my university degree. The Chaplain has
already told me that there are twenty college graduates confined in prison
here, but I am pleased to have the Professor add the information that I am
the only Harvard graduate in the institution. I repress the inevitable
impulse to say, "I suppose the others come from Yale," and simply express
gratification at what the Professor has told me. I have already decided to
reserve all jokes for my comrades.
"That is all, Brown."
"Thank you, sir."
I cannot even be trusted to go down one flight of stairs and walk not more
than thirty steps to the door of the basket-shop; so another wait is
necessary until the keeper who brought me up is ready to take me back. He
in time reappears and returns me, like a large and animated package, to
Captain Kane. I appear to have satisfied the authorities with my mental
equipment.
My second new experience to-day is the bath. The order to fall in comes
soon after my return from the school. We are lined up and counted--35 of
us--each man with his towel, soap and bundle of clean clothes. My fresh
apparel appeared yesterday in the shop and George kindly took care of it
for me until to-day. We march in due order to a large bathhouse where are
rows of shower baths with small anterooms for dressing, arranged about
three sides of a large, oblong room with a raised promenade for the
officers down the middle. I am for plunging at once into my section,
heedless of the careful instructions Jack has given me, but one of my
companions stops me, and I wait like the others with my back to the door
until we have all been counted and placed. Then the word is given, and I
enter. Here is a very small space where I undress, handing the shirt,
socks, and underclothes I take off to an attendant who sticks his hand
under the door to get them. Then I enjoy a good warm shower for a few
moments, but cut it short, having been warned that I must not waste any
time. The drying and dressing are rather harder than the disrobing in such
confined quarters, but are successfully accomplished, and I am among the
first to emerge and take up my station outside, with my back to the door
again. The officer, who has been walking up and down his elevated perch,
keeping close watch of our heads while we bathed, counts us all carefully
when the space in front of every man's door is occupied. We then are
marched back to the shop, are again counted, and then disperse to our
work.
But the excitements of the day are not yet over. As Jack and I are working
hard to make up for lost time, I suddenly see over to the left, out of the
corner of my eye, a familiar figure. It is my nephew. He is followed by
another familiar figure and another and another. The Warden is showing
over the prison a party of visitors, among them several of my intimate
friends.
I fear that the remark with which I explode will not bear repetition.
"What's the matter?" says Jack, looking up from his work.
"Nothing," I reply, "it's only my nephew, confound him, and some other
rubbernecks. For Heaven's sake, Jack, work away as usual and don't attract
any attention if we can help it."
My eyeglasses are in my pocket; and fearing that my ring may catch the
light I hastily drop it also into another pocket. Then I put on my cap and
continue my work as naturally as possible, without looking up.
Certainly, so far as appearances go, the prison system is a success in my
case. In arithmetic, as I recall it, we used to seek for the greatest
common denominator and the least common multiple; but in prison the
apparent object is to find the least common denominator--the lowest common
plane upon which you can treat everyone alike, college graduate and Bowery
tough, sick and well, imbecility and intelligence, vice and virtue.
In appearance, as I started to say, I am apparently all that could be
desired. Just as happened yesterday, the Warden leads this party through
the shop; they are all looking specially for me; they have been spurred on
by the failure of the newspaper men yesterday and are one and all
determined to find me. Yet they one and all pass within twenty feet, look
straight in my direction--and go on their way without recognizing me. I
must have the marks of "the Criminal" unusually developed, or else
criminals must look a good deal like other folks--barring the uniform. If
I had the ordinary theories about prisons and prisoners it might seem
rather mortifying that, in spite of every effort, not one of these
intimate friends can spot me among the toughest bunch of fellows in the
prison.
Certainly something must be wrong somewhere.
This appears to be an afternoon of excitements. Down comes the P. K.
again, for what purpose I do not know. The afternoon is cloudy and it is
getting somewhat dark and gloomy in the shop. After the P. K. has spoken
to the Captain he comes over and tells us fellows that we can quit work if
we want to, as it is too dark to see well. He points to the north windows,
where a car of lumber on the track outside interferes somewhat with the
light in that part of the shop. After he is gone we continue working, as
we can see perfectly well; and Jack is still more scornful than he was
this morning. He expresses the opinion that this proceeding is even more
raw than the former one. "I should like to know how long it is since they
was so careful of our eyes, so awful anxious about our health!" is his
sarcastic comment.
My answering comment is this, "I dare say, Jack, it's all right; but, so
far as I am concerned, they can't come it over me that way."
"Well, I guess not!" is Jack's hearty response.
After we have washed up and just before we separate for the night my
partner comes up to me in his engaging way. "Say, would you mind if I
called you by your first name?"
"Mind! I should like it; and I wish you would." As a matter of fact I had
been intending to ask him to do so.
So now it is "Good night, Tom," "Good night, Jack!" when the time comes to
fall in.
As we turn into the yard, I see a group of men gathered about the entrance
of the main building. I suspect it to be the same party of rubbernecks the
Warden conducted through the shop this afternoon--including my friends.
They are evidently waiting for us to march by. As we draw nearer I find
that my suspicions are confirmed. I conclude that they failed to discover
me in the shop, and so are taking this means of gratifying their
curiosity. They are welcome to do so. I look as unconscious as possible;
go swinging by the group, eyes front; pick up a slice of bread and regain
my cell as usual.
It seems that this time two or three of them, recognizing my walk, spotted
me at last. I should think it was about time.
Soon after I am in the cell my friend Joe, the gallery boy, comes along
with the hot beverage called tea, which is a little later than usual
to-night. He halts at the door.
"Tea, Tommy?"
One of the prisoners has sent me a letter in which he addresses me as "old
pal."
I think there is no doubt that the barriers are down now.
CHAPTER IX
WEDNESDAY EVENING
In my cell, later Wednesday evening, October 2.
Upon arriving back here this afternoon, and before sitting down to my
usual supper of bread and water, I shave leisurely. In spite of the jar of
hot water which George has kindly brought to the cell before I am locked
in for the night, my toilet arrangements leave much to be desired. It is
true I have shaved at times under greater disadvantages. As, for instance,
in camp, when I have had to use the inside of my watch-cover for a mirror.
Here in prison I have at least a real mirror, such as it is.
My toilet completed, I make as much of a meal as I can of bread and water.
Then I take up my journal to chronicle the events of the day.
The twenty minutes of musical pandemonium come and go, the violinist as
usual being the first to begin. Perhaps he may be the fortunate possessor
of a watch. Then, also as usual, a silence follows, rendered all the more
profound by reason of the previous discord. The cell-house has settled
down for the night. Only a few muffled sounds make the stillness more
distinctly felt. Then----
Suddenly the unearthly quiet is shattered by a terrifying uproar.
It is too far away to hear at first anything with distinctness; it is all
a confused and hideous mass of shouting--a shouting first of a few, then
of more, then of many voices. I have never heard anything more
dreadful--in the full meaning of the word--full of dread. My heart is
thumping like a trip hammer, and the cold shivers run up and down my back.
I jump to the door of the cell, pressing my ear close against the cold
iron bars. Then I can distinguish a few words sounding against the
background of the confused outcry. "Stop that!" "Leave him alone!" "Damn
you, stop that!" Then some dull thuds; I even fancy that I hear something
like a groan, along with the continued confused and violent shouting.
What can it be?
While I am perfectly aware that I am not in the least likely to be harmed,
I am shivering with something close akin to a chill of actual terror. If
anyone near at hand were to give vent to a sudden yell, I feel as if I
might easily lose my self-control and shout and bang my door with the rest
of them.
The cries continue, accompanied with other noises that I cannot make out.
Then my attention is attracted by whispering down at one of the lower
windows in the outer wall of the corridor opposite my cell. It is so dark
outside that I can see nothing, not even the dim shapes of the whisperers;
but apparently there are two of them, and they are looking in and
commenting on the disturbance. Their sinister whispering is very
unpleasant. I wonder if they can see what is going on. I feel inclined to
call out and ask them, but I do not know who they are; and I do know that
such an act would be entirely against the rules and liable to provoke
severe punishment, and I am not yet ready to be sent to the jail.
The shouts die down. There are a few more vague and uncertain sounds--all
the more dreadful for being uncertain; somewhere an iron door clangs! then
stillness follows, like that of the grave.
It is useless--I can make nothing of it all; so I sit down again and try
to compose my mind to write, but the effort is not very successful.
Presently, just after the bell at the City Hall has given its eight
o'clock stroke, the Warden appears quietly at the opening of my cell.
"Something has happened," I begin breathlessly, "I don't know what it is,
but it ought to be looked into----"
I come to an abrupt stop, for I am suddenly aware of the figure of a man
standing in the shadow just behind the Warden.
"Who is that?" I ask, and he steps farther along the gallery, but not
where the light from the cell can strike him.
"Only the night officer," answers the Warden.
That is all very well; but why was the night officer lurking in the dark
behind the Warden? I decide to ask him a plain, direct question; for he
has already heard what is uppermost in my mind.
"Captain," I say, politely, "what was that noise I heard a short while
ago?"
The officer, pretending that he has not heard my question, turns to the
Warden with some perfectly irrelevant remark, and moves off, along the
gallery.
It strikes me as a curious proceeding.
"Warden," I begin again, after waiting until the man must be out of
hearing, "I heard shouting off in the corridor somewhere, not very long
ago; and I am afraid something bad has happened. Would it not be well to
find out about it?"
This the Warden promises to do, so I stifle my fears as best I can and
turn to the events of the day. I report progress; and we again debate
whether or not I had better make a change of occupation. Last evening we
decided that I should remain still another day in the basket-shop; for it
seemed as if I were getting as much out of my experience there as I could
anywhere. The Warden is inclined to agree with me that we have been
singularly fortunate so far, in the working out of our plans, and that it
might be a mistake to change. Jack Murphy, when I talked with him about it
to-day, said, "What good would it do you, to go and work in a shop where
you can't talk? You can learn everything there is to know about such a
shop by spending ten minutes there, any time." Then he added, with a
smile, "You know, Brown, we don't want to lose you here." I hope this last
is true, and I think it is; but, aside from that, his reasoning impresses
me as good.
So the Warden and I agree that I am to stay in the basket-shop at least
another day, and he leaves me to my thoughts and my fears.
I shall now put away this journal, and prepare my bed for the night. I
fear that my sleep will be haunted by echoes of those dreadful sounds.
* * * * *
It may be well to interrupt my journal here, and explain the noises of
Wednesday evening. As will be seen in Thursday's journal, I heard many of
the details the next day, but it was some time before I learned the whole
story. I have examined personally several eye-witnesses of the occurrences
and am convinced that the following statement is accurate.
There had lately been sent up from Sing Sing a young prisoner named
Lavinsky. He is physically a weak youth; pale, thin, and undersized. His
weight is about one hundred and twenty pounds; his age, twenty-one. On the
charge of being impertinent to the officer of his shop, he was sent down
to the jail, as the punishment cells are called, and kept there for five
days in the dark on bread and water. Then he was allowed to go back to
work. He did so, but was of course utterly unfit for work. The next day he
was ill and remained in his cell, which was on the fourth tier on the
south side of the north wing. This was on the opposite side of the
cell-block from where I locked in, and a considerable distance down toward
the western end of the wing; which accounts for my not hearing more
distinctly the sounds which aroused in me such feelings of terror.
The day that Lavinsky returned to work was Tuesday, my second day in
prison. On Wednesday he was afflicted with severe diarrhea all day, but
for some reason, in spite of his repeated requests, the doctor was not
summoned. The reason probably was that Lavinsky was in the state known in
prison as bughouse--that is to say, at least flighty if not temporarily
out of his mind. He himself, as I have subsequently found in talking with
him, has no very distinct recollection of the events of that Wednesday
evening. If not out of his mind, he was certainly not fully possessed of
it.
In the evening, after his failure to get the doctor, Lavinsky created
some disturbance by calling out remarks which violated the quiet of the
cell-block. I understand that the form this took was something of this
sort: "If you want to kill me, why don't you do it at once, and not
torture me to death?" He seemed to be possessed with the idea that his
life was in danger. I do not know in what condition he was when first
placed in jail, but I do know that the time he spent down in that
hellhole, five days, was quite sufficient to account for his mental
condition when he came out.
Now here was a young man, hardly more than a lad, in a sick and nervous
condition that had produced temporary derangement of mind. What course did
the System take in dealing with that suffering human being? Two keepers
opened his cell, made a rush for him, and knocked him down. One
eye-witness says that they black-jacked him, that is, rendered him
unconscious by striking him on the head with the instrument of that name.
During the brief scuffle in the cell the iron pail and the bucket were
overturned. Then, after being handcuffed, the unresisting if not
unconscious youth was flung out of his cell with such violence that, if it
had not been for a convict trusty who stood by, he would have slipped
under the rail of the gallery and fallen to the stone floor of the
corridor four stories below, and been either killed or crippled for life.
Then the two keepers, being reinforced by a third, dragged their victim
roughly downstairs, partly on his back, kicked and beat him on the way,
and carried him before the Principal Keeper, who promptly sent him down to
the jail again.
Let it be remembered that this poor fellow is a slight, undersized,
feeble specimen of humanity, whom one able-bodied man ought to have had
little trouble in handling--even if any use of force were necessary.
This scene of violence could not pass unnoticed; and the loud protests and
outcries of the prisoners whose cells were near by, as they heard and saw
the treatment accorded to their helpless comrade, were the sounds I heard
far away in my cell. One of the trusties who, having the freedom of the
corridors, was enabled to see most of the occurrence, so far forgot his
position as to venture the opinion that it was a "pretty raw deal." This
remark was overheard by an officer; and the trusty at once received the
warning that he had better keep his mouth shut and not talk about what
didn't concern him.
If it is realized that these officers have what almost amounts to the
power of life and death over the convicts, it can be understood that such
a warning was not one to be lightly disregarded.
Lavinsky, having been landed again in the jail, was kept there from
Wednesday evening until Saturday afternoon. What special care or attention
was given him during that time I am unable to state, but there is no
reason to suppose that any exception was made in his case. Like the other
denizens of the jail, he was fed only on bread and a very insufficient
quantity of water--three gills in twenty-four hours--and also experienced
the intolerable conditions of that vile place.
On Saturday afternoon, three days later, he was still down there, and
still bughouse. Then as there was a disturbing rumor among the officials
that I was planning to be sent to the jail, he was taken away about an
hour before my arrival. His cell was the very one which I occupied, after
it had been thoroughly cleaned.
He was removed from the jail to a special cell, where his case was taken
up personally by the Warden, and where the poor youth was at last put
under the care of the doctor, and received some humane and sensible
treatment. When I first saw him, some three weeks after my term had ended,
he had not become entirely rational, although he has since recovered
himself. As I have already said, he had at first no clear recollection of
the brutal treatment of which he had been the victim, nor in fact of
anything that occurred at the time. Perhaps it was all the better that
this was so.
An exceptionally intelligent convict, whose term expired soon after these
events, and who could have had no earthly object in misrepresenting the
matter, described to me after his release the episode in detail. He had
been an eye-witness of the entire occurrence, as he was standing on the
gallery where he could see everything that happened. He summed it up in
these exact words: "Mr. Osborn, it was one of the most brutal things that
I have ever seen, in all my experience in prison."
His story is fully corroborated by what I have learned, upon careful
inquiry from other men.
Doubtless some will say that the statements of convicts are not to be
believed. That touches upon one of the very worst features of the
situation. No discrimination is ever made. It is not admitted that, while
one convict may be a liar, another may be entirely truthful; that men
differ in prison exactly as in the world outside. It is held, quite as a
matter of course, that they are all liars, and an officer's word will be
taken against that of a convict or any number of convicts. The result is
that the officers feel themselves practically immune from any evil
consequences to them from their own acts of injustice or violence. What
follows from this is inevitable. Our prisons have often been the scenes of
intolerable brutality, for which it has been useless for the victims to
seek redress. They can only cower and endure in silence; or be driven into
insanity by a hopeless revolt against the System.
Not so very long ago one of the prisoners at Auburn, on a hot night in
summer, as an officer was shutting the windows in the corridor outside,
called out from his cell, "Oh, Captain, can't you let us have a little
more air?"
The officer promptly went to the tier of cells whence the voice came and
made a chalk-mark around the keyhole of one of the locks. When a man is
"round-chalked" he is not released when the rest of the prisoners are let
out of their cells, but reserved for punishment. In this case the officer
mistook the cell from which the voice had come, and round-chalked the
prisoner who was locked in next to the one who had dared to ask for more
air.
The next morning, finding that his neighbor was about to receive the
punishment intended for himself, the culprit promptly told the officer
that he was the guilty party, and if anyone was to be punished, he ought
to be. This honorable action was allowed no weight. He had some of his
hard-earned money taken away from him, three days of his commutation
cancelled, and the disc removed from his sleeve as a mark of disgrace; in
short, he was severely punished--as his innocent neighbor would have been,
had he not prevented it by taking the punishment upon himself.
The point is this: that no convict has any rights--not even the right to
be believed; not even the right to reasonably considerate treatment. He is
exposed without safeguard of any sort to whatever outrage an inconsiderate
or brutal keeper may choose to inflict upon him; and you cannot under the
present system guard against such inconsiderate and brutal treatment.
I should not like to be understood as asserting that all keepers are
brutal, or even a majority of them. I hope and believe that by far the
greater number of the officers serving in our prisons are naturally
honorable and kindly men, but so were the slave-owners before the Civil
War. And just as it was perfectly fair to judge of the right and wrong of
slavery not by any question of the fair treatment of the majority of
slaves, but by the hideous possibilities which frequently became no less
hideous facts, so we must recognize, in dealing with our Prison System,
that many really well-meaning men will operate a system in which the
brutality of an officer goes unpunished, often in a brutal manner.
The reason of this is not far to seek--a reason which also obtained in the
slave system. The most common and powerful impulse that drives an
ordinary, well-meaning man to brutality is fear. Raise the cry of "Fire"
in a crowded place, and many an excellent person will discard in the
frantic moment every vestige of civilization. The elemental brute will
emerge, and he will trample down women and children, will perform almost
any crime in the calendar in his mad rush for safety. The truth of this
has been demonstrated many times.
In prison, where each officer believes that his life is in constant
danger, the keeper tends to become callous, the sense of that danger
blunts his higher qualities. He comes to regard with mingled contempt and
fear those dumb, gray creatures over whom he has such irresponsible
power--creatures who can at any moment rise in revolt and give him the
death blow. And as they undoubtedly possess that power, he is always
fearful that they may use it, for are they not dangerous "criminals"? And
undoubtedly there is basis for his fear, for some of those men are
dangerous, rendered more so by the nerve-racking System.
I can conceive no more terribly disintegrating moral experience than that
of being a keeper over convicts. However much I pity the prisoners, I
think that spiritually their position is far preferable to that of their
guards. These latter are placed in an impossible position; for they are
not to blame for the System under which their finer qualities have so few
chances of being exercised.
But I have been betrayed into rather more of a discussion than I intended,
a discussion out of place in this chronicle of facts. I have inserted so
much by way of explanation both of what I have narrated in the foregoing
chapter and of what I shall have to tell in those that are to come.
Since the above was written I have run across a passage in a book on
English prisons which confirms so strikingly one of the statements just
expressed that room must be made for it. "The real atmosphere of
Dartmoor," says the author, Mr. Albert Paterson, writing of Dartmoor
Prison, "so far as the men responsible for its well-being and discipline
are concerned, is that of a handful of whites on the American frontier
among ten times their number of Apache Indians. 'We stand on a volcano,'
an officer said to the writer in a matter-of-fact tone. 'If our convicts
here had opportunity to combine and could trust one another, the place
would be wrecked in an hour.'"
Aside from the author's ridiculously belated simile of the American
frontier, we have here an accurate and forcible statement of the prison
keeper's constant nervous apprehension of danger and the necessity of
being prepared at any moment to sell his life as dearly as possible. And,
of course, this feeling of the keeper increases his severity and the
severity increases the danger, and so we have the vicious circle complete.
I am not now in any way disputing the necessity of a keeper being
constantly on his guard, I am not saying whether this view of things is
right or wrong, and when I use the word fear I do not mean cowardice--a
very different thing, for a brave man can feel fear. I am simply trying to
point out that in prison, as elsewhere, when men are dominated by fear,
brutality is the inevitable result.
CHAPTER X
THURSDAY
In my cell, Thursday evening, October 2.
This morning is cloudy and dark; it has been raining heavily during the
night, and the atmosphere is damp and oppressive. Oppressive too is the
feeling left by the unexplained occurrences of last evening.
My first visitor is Officer X, the man who wouldn't answer my question
last evening when he was standing back of the Warden and I asked him what
that noise was. This morning he is exceedingly bland and also, like the
weather, oppressive. He is so very anxious to know how I passed the night;
and I tell him. He then says that a thousand people have inquired of him
about me; and I remark that I'm glad my experiment is arousing so much
interest. He then says that several men have said to him that I must have
something special in mind, that I must be here for some ulterior purpose,
and they believe the result will be some dismissals among the officers; to
which I say that doubtless there are many people who, not having taken the
trouble to read my address in the chapel last Sunday, although it was
printed in the newspapers, are quite ready to believe anything except the
simple truth.
He then enters upon a long rigmarole, the gist of which is how necessary
it is for a man to do his duty; with which novel sentiment I express my
entire agreement. Then he adds that he has always been careful to do his
own duty; upon which I make the startling comment that it is in the long
run the best course to pursue. Then he casually turns the conversation
around to show how closely connected he is to various admirers of my
father and myself, and gracefully insinuates that he also shares these
feelings; to which I can answer nothing, as this sort of thing always
reduces me to embarrassed and wrathful silence. I hate to tell a man that
he's a fool, and I hate quite as much to have him take me for one.
As the officer stands there talking, it is borne in upon me that he not
only knows all about last night's disturbance, but that he was probably
concerned in it, and is now deliberately trying to switch me off the
track. He would not answer my question last night, and he avoids all
reference to the matter this morning, substituting for the explanation
which he knows I want, for he heard me speak to the Warden about it last
evening, all this stuff I have outlined. Instead of being frank and
telling the plain truth about last night's occurrence, he is trying to
flatter me and pull the wool over my eyes.
He walks away and the taste in my mouth is not pleasant.
Soon Captain Kane unlocks the levers, and George presses them down to
release us for a new day. I regret to say that I again create some
confusion on the gallery by being late; but, as there is trouble with the
lock on the tier around the corner, I catch up while the front of the line
is held back by the delay.
Marching down the yard, my interest is aroused by a long, whispered
conversation between Roger Landry at my side and Jack Bell who is
immediately in front of him. Neither is farther than a foot or so away,
yet my ears are not sensitive enough to catch a single word of what they
say; and when I glance toward Landry I am unable to detect the faintest
motion of his lips, although the talk is still going on.
Upon return from bucket duty I sweep out the cell, finding it for some
reason especially dirty. Soon after I have finished this task, I come into
possession, through a channel it is best not to specify, of an account of
last night's performance, including the names of most of the actors. I
judge that it is a bad business. This is the story as it comes to me.[9]
Three of the officers, among them X (just as I suspected), went into the
cell of a young prisoner on one of the upper tiers of the south side, hit
him over the head, handcuffed and dragged him downstairs very roughly. His
offense seems to have been that he is bughouse through confinement in the
jail. So in their enlightened wisdom they have sent him back there; to
cure him, I suppose, on the homeopathic principle, _similia similibus
curantur_.
Before the march to breakfast George kindly brings me another package of
sugar. It is evidently of distinct advantage, in more ways than one, to
stand well with the trusties; I wish I knew them all, but possibly some
may be afraid to show themselves at the door of my cell. I have a vague
feeling that it is being closely watched.
Breakfast to-day consists of some kind of porridge, with the usual
bootleg and punk. Thanks to George, I do not need the sugar which Landry
again offers me; and, having more than enough for my own portion of
porridge, I silently pass what I have left to my neighbor on the other
side, who receives it without daring to express any evidence of gratitude.
Arrived back in my cell, George stops to have a pleasant chat with me, and
tells me a little about himself and his experiences. Then, after the usual
operations attendant upon our release from the cells, we march down the
yard and arrive at the basket-shop, ready for the business of the day.
Murphy is on hand with his usual cheerful smile:
"Well, good morning, Tom."
"Good morning, Jack." And upon this more intimate footing we commence our
fourth day's work together.
As I left a bottom incomplete last evening, I begin work with vigor in
order to finish it; but unfortunately the rattan we are now using is so
stiff and rotten that it not only breaks constantly and is very hard on
the fingers, but makes good workmanship quite impossible. Finally we are
compelled to stop altogether, while the withes are taken and soaked in hot
water, instead of the cold water in which they have been lying over night.
Once in a while we have been getting soft and pliable withes that make
work easy and pleasant, but most of them have been very brittle and
difficult to handle.
While we are waiting for material, I hear the name of Brown called out;
and find that I am told off, along with Jack and a number of others, to
help pull up another car. This time it is lumber and not coal; the
identical lumber, in fact, that stood in front of the north windows and
caused the P. K. such anxiety about our eyesight yesterday afternoon.
The gang is duly counted and handed over to the officer charged with the
job; and soon we are enjoying the exercise of successive tugs of war with
the block and tackle, similar to those of Tuesday. It is not so hard a job
as that was, however, there being but one car and that a comparatively
light one; so Jack and I regret that our spell of exercise is not longer
and stronger. It is far better than nothing, however, and we return,
refreshed and invigorated, to our basket-work.
While we are waiting for working material, Jack approaches me cautiously,
leaning against the table with a very listless air, as if nothing were
further from his thoughts than a subject of serious import.
"Did you hear anything last night, Tom?" he asks, turning his face just
enough in my direction to reach me with his voice, which is subdued to
its lowest tone.
"Did I? I should think I did," is my low reply. "What can you tell me
about it?"
Jack repeats the story substantially as I have already heard it. The
affair happened in one of the upper tiers almost directly over him, but he
could see nothing of it, and he only heard the details through others. He
thinks it is a bad matter, and adds one new item of information. He says
that a certain trusty has threatened to go to the Warden about the case;
he told the P. K. to his face that he would do so, and the P. K.
threatened the trusty with retaliation if he did; but that the man feels
so outraged by the brutality he witnessed that he intends to do it in
spite of the P. K.[10]
I know this particular trusty and should be sorry to have him get the
ill-will of the P. K., or any of the prison authorities. So I decide to
try to take steps to prevent this. Convicts, as I have already hinted,
have underground means of communication of which the officials do not
always know.
The truth of this last statement was demonstrated in an interesting way
this morning. Strict orders were given by the Warden when I first came
here that there was to be no photographing. We cannot prevent publicity
about this affair of mine. But at least we can, and have, cut out the
moving pictures; and discouraged other attempts to exploit and emphasize
the personal side of it. It is not our fault if many of the newspapers
print ridiculous statements which are not founded upon fact.
I have, by the way, been seeing a number of newspapers, as the men in the
shop are all keenly interested and are anxious to share with me any "Tom
Brown dope" that comes their way. Every day half a dozen papers reach me
in roundabout ways. I always read them, taking care to lurk behind a post
or otherwise screen myself from the eye of the Screw. Captain Kane, like
Captain Lamb, evidently feels that it is well to temper discipline with
tact and discretion. He is firm in manner, quiet and self-contained,
allowing no liberties from anyone, but evidently bent upon doing his duty
and at the same time being kindly and fair in his treatment of the men.
What I started to say was that the order against photography was obeyed
until to-day. There is doubtless a good reason for this morning's
exception--I have to leave that for the Warden to explain; but while Jack
and I were talking, one of the convicts passing behind me said in an
undertone, "Look out, Brown! Camera inside."
In due course of time, Grant makes his appearance, showing around a
visitor who carries a kodak. He makes no attempt to exercise the machine
in our neighborhood, and is simply shown through like any other visitor.
Not long after he is gone the hour of noon approaches. We form in due
order, and, while awaiting the signal to start, for the first time I dare
to turn my head sufficiently to get a good look at the dapper young
prisoner who leads the right line of our company, the back of whose head
and manner of marching had so pleased me. And whom should I discover him
to be but my own boss, Harley Stuhlmiller. Here have I been three days
marching behind him ten times a day, and seeing him at frequent intervals
all day long in the shop; and now for the first time I am able to match
his face and the back of his head together. This gives a good idea of the
remoteness of man and man in this unnatural place.
We make our usual march down to the stands, where each man secures his
bucket, and then back up the length of the yard.
Sure enough--there he is. The camera fiend is standing with Grant and some
others just outside of the main door. Evidently he has not been told that
at noon we turn aside to the door leading into the north wing; it is only
at night that we march directly into the main building in order to secure
our bread for supper. The men quickly catch the humor of the situation,
and there is a deal of quiet enjoyment of the photographer's
disappointment. He hastens down toward us, but only succeeds in snapping
our rear ranks as we enter the building. Tom Brown has escaped him.
It is certainly wonderful how news gets about in this prison. From what
the Warden tells me this evening, it could not have been more than half an
hour after the man with his kodak entered the front gate before the
warning of his camera was received by me, over at the farther end of the
yard. The Marconi system hasn't very much advantage in speed over the
wireless telegraphy of the prison.
My first action upon getting back to the cell is to get my own telegraphic
system in working order, so as to get word to that trusty who has
threatened to go to the Warden about last night's occurrence. I want him
told not to attempt to go over the head of the P. K., but to leave the
whole matter to me. I send two messages through the secret channels and
then get ready for dinner.
That meal, when we reach the mess-hall, turns out to be corned beef,
potatoes, an excellent pickled beet, and the usual bread and coffee. I
eat with more relish than usual, and find the time allotted for the meal
altogether too short for a proper enjoyment of it. Or perhaps the word
enjoyment is a little too strong--let us say, for a proper disposal of it.
Upon returning to my cell I find a piece of paper folded up to its
smallest capacity lying on the floor. It is a note from one of my fellow
prisoners--a kite, to use the proper term. I have been receiving such
documents ever since I came. They reach me in all sorts of ways; all of
which ways are of course forbidden. Some of the notes are business-like,
some are rambling and incoherent, some are sad, some are humorous, all are
characteristic and good tempered. The majority contain requests to see the
writers, after I get through my bit. Some go into long accounts of
themselves and their experiences. One has written a good-sized pamphlet,
telling his life-story in considerable detail. All of them are filled with
a pathetic sense of gratitude toward Tom Brown, their new pal. They seem
to think that I am making an unheard-of sacrifice for their sakes.
It is curious how far away is the feeling of dread of this place that I
used to have; that I must confess to have had even when I decided to come
here. Exactly the same, I imagine, as one would feel about entering a den
of wild beasts, except that these were capable of being talked to and
reasoned with. I suppose I did have some little, a very little, notion of
personal danger, which now seems wholly absurd. I have at present a sense
of companionship and sympathy with these men, as warm and strong as I have
ever felt anywhere. It is accompanied, of course, by a great feeling of
pity for their mistakes, the bitterness of their expiation, and the
well-nigh hopeless difficulty under present conditions of regaining their
hold upon life.
After the regular period of rest in the cell after dinner, and my usual
calls from the trusties, we march back to the shop. The routine is always
the same. Again I hear the clicking far away to the left around the
corner. Whereupon I rise from my shelf-table, unhook and drop it down, put
away my writing materials in the locker, and don my coat and cap. Again
the Captain passes by, unlocking the levers as he goes. He quickly
finishes the remainder of the cells on this side of the tier, then
repasses, pressing down each lever just long enough to allow the grated
door to be pushed open by the prisoner waiting inside. Again I shove my
door open as quickly as possible and follow immediately after the Captain;
for all the men who belong in front of me in the line lock in farther
along the gallery. When we reach their cells I drop behind enough to give
them their proper places, and thus there is a minimum of disorder when we
have descended the flight of iron stairs to the door and are lining up in
double column for our march down the yard.
The marches too are always the same--day after day--with only slight
variations; as for instance the one after breakfast when, as it is
unnecessary to visit the sewage disposal building, we march directly to
the shop. But this afternoon it is the same as all afternoons; short-step
at first until all the company have reached the walk; then a rap of the
keeper's stick and full-step down the yard; swing around to the left;
through the sewage disposal building for the benefit of the few who bring
down their buckets in the afternoon; a momentary pause at the stands and
then away to the shop. As we go down the half dozen steps into the
building we break ranks and Jack Murphy comes up from his place, somewhere
in the rear, with his usual pleasant greeting.
"Well, Tom, how did you enjoy your dinner?"
"It was all right, only to-day I didn't have time enough to eat it."
"No, they cut us pretty short sometimes at dinner."
No incident of particular interest happens this afternoon. My fingers are
getting rather stiff and sore, working with the hard and brittle rattan
that they give us. It is discouraging to attempt good work with such
material, but we do the best we can. Stuhlmiller has taken the matter up
with John, the citizen instructor, whose last name I have not yet learned,
and with Captain Kane. They are thinking about repairing an old vat where
the withes can be properly heated and softened by steam. That is all
right, but it won't help my fingers much, as I shall be out of here long
before it is done.
About my going out there is a little joke. Every man wants to know how
long I'm going to stay here. I tell them I don't see how I can remain
beyond Sunday, as there is business I have to attend to in New York City
next week. Whereupon Jack winks his eye and, speaking to the questioner in
a loud whisper, says, "Oh, these new guys are always thinkin' they ain't
going to stay long. New trial, or pardon or something. He'll be here for
some time yet, so don't you worry. He's a little bug about going right
out, you know." A joke which has its non-humorous side; founded, as it
undoubtedly is, upon many a grim fact. As the Scotch saying runs, "A true
joke is no joke."
In the course of the afternoon, talking again of last night's occurrences
upon which no further light has come, I retail to Jack my visit from
Officer X this morning, and that gentleman's conversation. At the
conclusion Jack looks over to me with scorn on his honest face and blurts
out, "Say! I wonder what they take you for anyway!"
"For a damn fool, evidently; that is, some of them do," is my answer. "But
fortunately, Jack, they can't be all like that. Probably these officers
last night were afraid that I should hear the disturbance that young
fellow was making, and felt that they must hustle and get him out of the
way on that account. At least that's how I am inclined to figure it out."
"Well," says Jack, "some of them seem awful anxious to know all about you.
They come around to my cell every night and ask after my partner's health,
and want me to tell them about everythin' you say and do. But you can bet
I throw 'em off the track. Say," he continues, "I just wish you could have
seen one of the screws last night when he asked me how long you were goin'
to stay here, and I told him that from what I heard you say I judged it
wouldn't be much over two months. Gee! but you should have seen his face!
He was just horrified." And Jack laughs heartily at the recollection.
"Too bad to give the poor fellow a jolt like that. But after all, Jack,
the keepers act a good deal as most any of us would in their places."
This kindly view is not perhaps altogether sincere on my part; but I do
not wish to use my influence to stir up trouble between the keepers and
the prisoners. Without standing up for the keepers when they are
wrong--to do that would be to forfeit the confidence of my companions, I
shall do my best to make the men feel that resistance to authority is both
foolish and useless. Prisoners cannot expect to have things to their
liking; but neither can keepers expect their charges to be blind to
hypocrisy, or to acquiesce in brutality.
In the course of the afternoon I have a long and pleasant talk with Jack
Bell. A convenient post is just at my right, behind which Bell stands,
screened from the view of the Captain. I can talk low without turning my
head, and the officer cannot tell that I am not talking to Murphy. As
everything else is going on as usual and the men working near pay no
attention, not even looking at us, we are able to enjoy quite a prolonged
conversation. Finally, however, the Captain seems to suspect something and
steps down from his platform, but Bell glides off quietly and with an
admirable innocent air of business. The Captain returns to his seat,
apparently satisfied.
After Bell has dropped away, I have a long and interesting discussion with
my partner. For some years I have felt that the principles of
self-government, as developed at the Junior Republic, might probably be
the key to the solution of the prison problem; but as yet I have not been
able to see clearly just how to begin its application. There have seemed
to be almost insuperable difficulties. In this connection Jack makes a
suggestion which supplies a most important link in the chain.
In discussing the various aspects of prison life, the better and the
worse, the harder and the less hard, we reach the subject of the long and
dreary Sundays. Jack agrees with all those with whom I have talked that
the long stretch in the cells, from the conclusion of the chapel service,
between ten-thirty and eleven o'clock Sunday morning until seven o'clock
Monday morning--over twenty hours, is a fearful strain both physical and
mental upon the prisoners.
"Well, Jack," I say, "from what I have heard Superintendent Riley say, I
feel sure he would like to give the men some sort of exercise or
recreation on Sunday afternoons; but how could it be managed? You can't
ask the officers to give up their day off, and you don't think the men
could be trusted by themselves, do you?"
"Why not?" says Jack.
I look at him, inquiringly.
"Why, look here, Tom!" In his eagerness Jack comes around to my side of
our working table. "I know this place through and through. I know these
men; I've studied 'em for years. And I tell you that the big majority of
these fellows in here will be square with you if you give 'em a chance.
The trouble is, they don't treat us on the level. I could tell you
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