ACCOMMODATED WITH A “ROOM LOWER DOWN.”
I NEVER saw a man stare with such pure unalloyed astonishment as the
Doctor did on this occasion. Not five minutes had elapsed since he had
had me locked up in the guard-house, and yet, there I was—free. He
stared at me for a moment as though I were an apparition from the dead,
then stammered:
“Why—why—is—is—this—John Smith?”
“So I am called,” I replied, coolly taking a seat on a bench.
He arose from his seat, stared for a moment, again, with contracted
brows and a puzzled expression of countenance, then said:
“I—I—thought you—were put—in No. 41!”
“So I was,” I calmly replied. And I deliberately took a newspaper from
my pocket and cast my eye over the late items.
“How—how—in the name of sense—did you get out?”
“O, that was easy,” I replied, carelessly, as I regarded the paper more
attentively.
“Sergeant Kinsley,” said the Doctor, calling to the insignificant little
sergeant who was standing at the other end of the porch, “come here.”
The sergeant approached.
“Didn’t you put Smith in the guard-house?”
“Yes sir,” returned Kinsley.
“Here he is,” said the Doctor, pointing to me. “How did he get out?”
Kinsley, who had not before observed my presence, started back, turned
pale, and said: “I—I—don’t know.”
“Go and see,” said the Doctor.
Glad to get out of my presence, Kinsley ran up stairs, and in a minute
or so returned, and reported what had been done.
Now, if the Doctor had possessed the heart of a human being he would
have suspended his persecutions, after that—in a word, would have “let
up” on me—but he seemed entirely impervious to good jokes, practical or
otherwise, and was more than ever determined to punish me.
“Sergeant,” said he, no doubt thinking _he_ was perpetrating a joke—but
_I_ couldn’t see it—“Smith wants a room _lower down_, he says. I think
we can accommodate him. _Put him in the cellar!_”
There was, in the basement, a dark apartment with an iron door—the same
room in which crazy Thomas had been confined—and that was the “room
lower down” assigned me on this melancholy occasion.
“Will you go?” said Kinsley, standing off at a respectful distance: “Or
will it be necessary to call the guard?”
“It will be necessary to call the guard,” I replied, folding up my
paper, arising and taking a hostile attitude.
“You might as well go with him quietly, Smith”—the Doctor began.
“No I won’t,” I interrupted. “Should I do so, it is not positively
certain that he would get back in a sound condition, and you might lose
a valuable servant, who is not scrupulous about turning his hand to any
sort of work.”
“Call the guard,” said the Doctor.
The guard was called.
I was put in the cellar.
Only a few dim rays of light found their way into my dismal prison, and
they came struggling through a small crevice in the double partition of
thick pine boards that divided the “cell” from the knapsack-room. On
this formidable partition I at once went to work, with extraordinary
_nonchalance_, with a small six-bladed knife I had in my pocket. I think
this course was much more laudable than that pursued by Mr. Thomas, when
confined in the same apartment, with a knife for a companion.
I worked diligently, cutting off one thin shaving after another, till
night came; by which time I had actually cut a hole in the thick
partition through which I could easily thrust my arm.
Next morning, after a miserable fragment of repose on an old mattress, I
arose early, and resumed my work. I had not been long at it when
Sergeant Kinsley came down with some provisions for me, consisting of
_bread and water_. I took the large tin cup of water from his hand,
dashed it in his face, slammed the iron door to, braced it with one of
my crutches, and went at my work again; while he, strangling, sputtering
and swearing in wild rage, locked the door, and rushed up stairs.
Cutting, splintering and shaving, I worked away, and by noon, I had made
an aperture in the wall through which one might have thrown a hat—that
wasn’t too wide in the brim.
By and by, I heard some one coming down the steps, and a light from the
door above shone down through the bars of the iron door. Some one
unlocked it and entered. It was one of the guards—one who had been
wounded in the service.
“I have brought you your dinner,” said he. “They only gave me some bread
and water for you, but I stole a nice piece of boiled beef from the
cook-house. Here it is.”
“Thank you,” I said, gladly accepting the repast. “What did Kinsley
say?”
“O, he’s as mad as a hornet! He said you threw the water in his face.”
“So I did.”
“Served him right,” said the guard, laughing. “He’s an overbearing young
puppy, who never heard a bullet whistle in his life. I knocked him down
one day, and he has been civil towards me ever since. Not very
comfortable down here, is it?”
“Not very.”
“Well, you’ll soon be out. I heard the Doctor say he would let you out
this evening. He told me not to tell you, and I said I wouldn’t. I
meant, I wouldn’t till I’d see you.”
I eat my dinner with a relish and, after he had gone, I worked away at
my new window—merely for pastime. I did not make it much larger that
afternoon, but I trimmed it up around the edges, and got it into some
shape, thinking it might do to put a pane of glass into, some day.
That evening I was released, and informed by the Doctor that my name
should go on the “Black List,” for the space of one week. The “black
list” was a list of the names of those who, for misdemeanor, were denied
passes for a certain time. And on this roll was the noble name of JOHN
SMITH, to be placed for seven days! I thought the Doctor would relent by
Monday morning, so I called on him at his office and said:
“Doctor, I should be most happy to visit the city to-day, and if you
will have the kindness to favor me with——”
“No, no, Smith,” he interrupted, in a decided tone; “You can have no
pass to-day.”
“But——”
“No use talking: you can have no pass to-day.”
I saw that he “meant it;” so I turned away for the time, and called
again the next morning.
“Doctor,” said I, with a beaming smile, “there is a friend of mine in
the city, whom I would like to see, and if——”
“You can have no pass to-day, Smith,” he interrupted: “nor till your
week is up. We have discovered how you cut the partition-wall when you
were in the cellar. What did you do that for?”
“To get out,” I replied.
“If I had known it,” said he, with some severity, “I would have kept you
in three days longer!”
“Then I am glad you didn’t know it,” said I.
“At least,” he rejoined, “you can have no pass till your week is up.
That will be on Saturday.”
I gave it up for that morning, but promptly returned and renewed my
importunities on Wednesday morning. I was refused, as before, and
peremptorily ordered not to solicit a pass again till Saturday. In
accordance (?) with this order, I promptly returned on Thursday morning,
and most earnestly requested the favor of a pass, stating that it was
indispensable that I should visit the city that day. The Doctor refused
again, and threatened to put me in the cellar again for three days, and
place my name on the “Black List” for two weeks, if I should “bore” him
for a pass again, sooner than Saturday.
Therefore, I concluded to go to the city anyhow. So I slipped out the
back way, threw my crutches over the fence, climbed over after them,
and, without being observed by the guard, made my way to the street-car
that stood awaiting its starting-time, and got aboard of it: thus I
clandestinely went into the city.
There, the first thing I did was to call on Doctor Levis, at his
residence. He was controlling surgeon of Haddington Hospital, and I
determined to make a “point.” I informed him that I had not been very
well treated at the hospital, talked nice to him, used the best language
of which I was master, introduced foreign words and phrases, made vague
allusions to law and history, touched on chemistry, gave him to
understand that the assistant surgeons at the hospital were the most
tyrannical fiends in existence, and that _I_ was the very paragon of all
human excellence; and, finally, requested him to do me the slight favor
of giving me a standing pass—that is, an order addressed to the
assistant-surgeons at the hospital, commanding them to allow the bearer,
John Smith, “who had friends in the city, with whom he might desire to
stay a night now and then,”—to pass in and out of the hospital, day or
night, for all time to come. This, Doctor Levis,—who, I must say, is a
perfect gentleman, and was beloved by all the wounded soldiers under his
charge—wrote, signed, and gave to me, without a word of objection; while
I poured out the overflowings of my grateful heart in the most profuse
thanks, and earnestly begged him, in case he should ever visit Western
Pennsylvania, where I then resided, to call on me by all means, assuring
him that he would be as welcome as a brother. The Doctor smiled, and,
with renewed thanks, I put on my cap, picked up my crutches, saluted him
_a la militaire_, bade him a cheerful “good morning,” and withdrew.