In my cell, Tuesday evening, September 30.
Layingaside 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 positivedelight 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 wastaking 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 itover 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 wideberth,” 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 knowmyself 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 unknownmusician 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 soundrather 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 wayof 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 possibleexpectation 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; forif 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 thanone 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.
In my cell, Wednesday evening, October 2.
Lookingout 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 baron 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’sporridge. 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 wepass 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 perfectlyconscious 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”: “Ametallic 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 thestairs, 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 offto 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 andprisoners 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 tome 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.
In my cell, later Wednesday evening, October 2.
Uponarriving 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 firstto 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 actualterror. 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 givenits 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 stiflemy 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 detailsthe 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 anhour 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 discremoved 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 trampledown 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 strikinglyone 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.