IV

Before the old thief died the old trusty had gone, and I had to take his

place. I did so only with great reluctance, and with many misgivings as

to my peace of mind and body.

I had noticed how the convicts nagged and harassed the old trusty with

insults and petty, malicious persecutions to revenge themselves for his

greed and his authoritative, arrogant manner towards them.

I realized that life might be made unbearable for me, and that I might

be forced to go downstairs to the cells before I had completed my cure.

When the old trusty received fruit he had sold it promptly to the

convicts for money. He asked five cents for an apple, ten cents for an

orange, so much for tobacco or for a pipe, another price for suspenders,

handkerchiefs, or whatever he might have to sell or barter.

After his release the Italian consumptive said that he had got only half

portions of his special food that had been sent in for him, as the

trusty cut the portions in half in order to sell the remainder to

others.

I unconsciously sensed that the only successful method of taming the

ferocious, revengeful natures of the convicts was by kindness and

patience; by treating them as friends in misfortune, and not as enemies

or inferiors.

When I received tobacco or fruit I divided it among the men who seldom

if ever had any visits or mail; the magazines were distributed among

them and later were carried downstairs from cell to cell, until the

whole prison had read them. To my intense surprise, English, German,

Italian--even "high brow" magazines like the _Mercure de France_ and _La

Revue_ were eagerly demanded and read by some of these strangely

intellectual convicts.

The men who had considered me an aristocrat, and nicknamed me "The

Count," soon began to discover that my sympathy was for their troubles,

their unhappiness, their helplessness, and not for the warden and the

keepers.

I was fully repaid for my attitude. I was made their confidant, their

confessor, the judge of their squabbles, a peacemaker and a go-between;

when trouble and punishment were in sight, when some particularly

unclean and revolting duty was to be performed, the convicts always

asked to relieve me of it; and it came to pass that after a while I

could devote most of my time to reading, and only attended to the less

manual work, such as acting as assistant to the doctor.

Among the patients there was a one-legged negro who was suffering from a

painful and unmentionable disease. His big lips, square jaw and scowling

countenance made him resemble a big, black bull-dog. Even the keepers

were in awe of him. In a fit of danger one day before the old trusty

left he very nearly smashed the old man's skull with his crutch.

The first morning that I was left in charge of the hospital I felt some

trepidation as to the outcome of my policy of kindness.

The test came quickly. During lunch the negro ordered me, in a loud,

angry voice, to bring him something. I went over to his bed and told him

gently I was surprised that he had forgotten his good manners; that he

had evidently made a mistake in thinking that I was either his keeper or

his valet; that we were both convicts, both in trouble, and should treat

each other like self-respecting men, helpfully and considerately.

He looked at me with a frown on his face, as he was not quite certain

whether I was deriding him; but soon the frown disappeared, and then I

said to him: "Now, Davis, what can I do for you?" He answered in a

gentle and friendly voice: "Excuse me, mister. I always been treated

like a dog. Will you please bring me a spoon?"

From that day on he was tamed; he became more talkative, and even

polite. During the long winter evenings he broke the morose silences to

tell us of his adventures, and to relate the story of his tragic and

terrible life.

He had lost his leg in a railroad accident; and then he had spent

several years in hospitals and more years in legal fights to try to

collect a few hundred dollars which were never paid. Then, jobless,

hungry, destitute, desperate, he had begun to steal. Always unlucky and

awkward, he was invariably caught, arrested, and sentenced to jail.

Twenty years of his life he had spent in jails and prisons all over the

country, and he had even had a taste of the horrible chain gangs of

Georgia. He described the punishments he had to undergo because of his

inability to work in prison shops; the weeks passed in the "coolers";

the beatings, the tortures he had undergone at the hands of savage,

ruthless wardens.

It was an awful, an almost incredible story! It seemed somehow

impossible that a human being could go through such an ordeal, such

harrowing brutalities, and come out alive and tell the story.

One day he said, "I ain't no good since my accident. Never had a chance

to learn a trade or be honest. If I don't come across to the 'bulls'

they send me back to the 'pen' for a year. I'm sick of this life. Next

time I'll do something that'll send me to Sing Sing for life. This dump

is rotten. I'd rather go up the river for two years than stay in here

for six months."

V

The orderly asks me to attend to the consumptive, as he hates to do it

himself. I have to bring him his food, I have to clean the cup which he

uses as a cuspidor, and be careful to wash it in a solution of carbolic

acid, and wash my hands each time afterwards.

The poor boy flies into uncontrollable fits of anger over trifles; then

his face becomes almost a livid green, and he seems to be foaming at the

mouth--little flecks of foam and saliva--like a vicious horned toad.

When in that state I usually speak to him in a low, monotonous voice,

hoping to quiet him; and after a while he becomes calmer, his features

relax, his body slowly unbends, and he finally slips under the bed

sheets, going to sleep as if the effort had completely exhausted him.

It used to remind me of the snake charmers in India, taming angry and

hissing cobras by the monotonous sound of a flute. Suddenly the hoods

would fold, the terrible fanged mouths close, and the snakes would wag

their heads slowly to and fro, with little red tongues playfully

wiggling in sign of delight until placed, harmless and hypnotized, in a

capacious basket.

I do not know if it was my arguments or my voice that attained the

object with my consumptive patient, but the result was evident after I

had talked to the poor boy for a few minutes.

In great excitement he confessed to me one morning that he had made up

his mind to commit suicide if his fine was not remitted, and he was not

released after his one year term. I told the Sister of Mercy of his

threat and she promised to see to it that the judge would remit the

fine. When the day of his release came, much to my relief, he was freed.

I have reached some interesting conclusions as a result of my

observations of the ways of the convicts and their attitudes towards one

another.

Life in a prison, under ignorant and often vicious wardens and keepers,

although seemingly leveling the men's standard to the most degrading and

contemptible measure allowed by law, does not eradicate the convict's

idea of class. A class, or perhaps it would be better to say a caste

system, exists here, as in all the jails all over the world, as well and

as subtly graded as social life in Manhattan, London, or Benares.

The Camorra, of Naples, originated in the jails of the old kingdom of

Naples during the rule of the Spaniards and Bourbons, being invented by

the convicts to protect themselves against the greed of the prison

authorities. Later it branched out and was organized outside. The same

holds true in America, in the sense that convicts in prison plot and

plan crimes before their release, and agree to continue their

acquaintance and work on the outside. Boys and young men serving their

first term are easy prey for older and wiser criminals.

Although the ideas of caste in prison are not the same, and are not

formulated according to religious, financial, intellectual or

aristocratic standards, nevertheless the principle is the same. In most

societies the leaders are people with "blood," money, or privileges of

some sort. In India the high caste Brahmin is born to his station, and

no amount of money or intellectual attainment can make one if he is not

born to it.

In prison the ethical standard is as simple as the cave dweller's, or as

that of savage tribes. Caste among convicts is a sop to their vanity, to

their outraged and primitive sense of justice; society made them

outcasts, and they retaliate by creating a society of outcasts wherein

they strive to become the leaders, the greatest, the bravest, the

cleverest among the Pariahs; and like the Pariahs they consider other

castes outside as lower than their own.

Convicts admire physical prowess and brute strength, fearlessness,

"nerve"; they look up to those who commit deeds of violence, such as

gang men, bandits, burglars; men who will take their chances at killing

or being killed rather than be arrested.

Next to these in the order of caste come the more intelligent but less

courageous types of crooks, such as confidence men, forgers, gamblers,

dishonest bankers, embezzlers, lawyers, politicians. They represent the

intellectual aristocracy of crime, to be approved of but not to be put

on the same plane as the former.

To the third caste, even less brave, less cunning, belong the sneak

thieves, the pickpockets, repeaters, bums; marking the border line on

its downward course with such types as wife beaters, wandering tramps,

bums, and dope fiends who steal only to satisfy their irresistible

cravings for drugs. Those individuals who live on white slavery,

professional degenerates, and their like, are ridiculed and nagged by

the upper castes; the effeminate "sissies" are also a constant butt for

the jests and abuse not only of convicts, but of keepers as well.

On the lowest rung of the social ladder stand the stool pigeons and the

detectives who are so unlucky as to be sent to prison. These latter are

hated, abominated, despised, by their fellow prisoners with all the

intensity, ferocity, and implacable hatred of which such men are

capable. It sometimes happens, in spite of the vigilance of the keepers,

that they are murdered in prison. In the minds of the other convicts

these stool pigeons and detectives are their most dangerous foes,

because of the intimate knowledge they possess of the technique of

crime, and because of the similarity of their ways of living.