Boyde came up with the first batch of prisoners. The portentous shadow
of the Tombs prison, with its forbidding architecture, hung over the
whole scene.
My first sight of him was sitting among the rows of prisoners, waiting
to be called. He looked ill and broken, he made a pleading sign to me.
As a reporter I had the right to interview anybody and everybody, and
I made my way along the serried wooden benches. Lawler sat next him,
looking very pleased to have secured his prisoner, and a good story
into the bargain, without any trouble to himself; but when I tried to
shake hands with Boyde, I found to my horror that he was handcuffed.
“Say, boss, be sure and git me name spelled right, and tell the
reporters that _I_ effected the arrest,” was the first thing that
Lawler said, using the phrase the detectives always used.
By promising the man all he wanted and more besides, I managed to
get us all three into a corner where we could talk without everybody
else hearing; also I got the handcuffs taken off, for they were quite
unnecessary inside the building. The first thing Boyde said was to
beg for a drink; he had taken a lot the night before, his throat was
parched, his nerves were bad. At the moment this was quite impossible,
but I got one for him in the reporters’ room after his case had been
called. The second thing he said was to beg me to “keep it out of the
papers,” though this, of course, lay quite beyond my powers. Apart
from this he said very little except to repeat and repeat that he was
repentant, and to beg me to withdraw the charge, though this was now
impossible, the matter being out of my hands. Also, he wondered what
the sentence would be--he meant to plead guilty--and implored me to
leave out the forgery. He was very badly frightened.
That early morning hour in the stinking atmosphere of the over-heated
police court was too ghastly ever to be forgotten, but there were
particular moments when pain and pity, to say nothing of other
strangely mixed emotions, stabbed me with peculiar ferocity. When the
reporters flocked round him like vultures after prey was one of these;
another was when Boyde stood in front of the Tammany magistrate, Ryan
by name, and pleaded guilty. A mistake, though not actually wrong, had
crept into the charge sheet. In my excitement of the night before the
amount stolen had been entered as $32, and though this was the truth,
I had meant to make it only $25. I was unintentionally to blame for
this--it was now Grand Larceny instead of Petit Larceny. A magistrate
could only deal with the lesser offence, and Boyde therefore was held
for trial in General Sessions, instead of being sentenced then and
there. The look he gave me as Ryan spoke the words was like a knife. He
believed I had done this purposely. A third unforgettable moment was
when he was being roughly pushed downstairs on his way to a cell in the
Tombs: he looked back forlornly over his shoulder at me.
In the reporters’ room it was decided to print the “Boyde story.”
I knew all the men; Acton Davies was there for the _Evening Sun_,
specially sent down by McCloy. The reporters dragged and tore at me.
I realized what “interviewed” victims felt when they wished to hide
everything away inside themselves. Yet the facts had to be told; it was
best I should give them accurately, if as briefly, as leniently, as
possible. The sight of all those vultures (of whom, incidentally, I was
one) scribbling down busily the details of my intimate life with Boyde,
to be hawked later in the streets as news, was likewise a picture not
easily forgotten.
Before the ordeal was over, Lawler returned from the cell. He insisted,
with a wink at me, that he had made the arrest; the credit of the chase
he also claimed; he had, too, additional facts about Boyde’s past
criminal career of which I was quite ignorant, supplied by records at
headquarters. Lawler intended to get all the advertisement for himself
he could. I let his lying pass. On the whole it seemed best to let him
be responsible for the arrest; it made the story more commonplace, and,
luckily, so far, I had not described this scene.
An hour later I was talking with Boyde between the bars of his cell
in the Tombs prison, while, two hours later, every evening paper in
New York had a column or a column and a half about us printed on its
front page. There were scare headlines of atrocious sort. There were
posters, too, showing our names in big letters. News that day happened
to be scarce, and the Boyde story was “good stuff” apparently. The talk
with him in the cell was one of many; he was there six weeks before the
trial came on.
The papers finished him; the case was too notorious for him ever to
swindle again unless he changed his name. They scarified him, they left
out no detail, they hunted up a thousand new ones, he had “cut a wide
swath” (_sic_) all over New York State, as one of them printed. I had
not mentioned Pauline M---- or the pastor’s daughter, yet both were
included. To see my own name in print for the first time, the names of
my parents, and of half the peerage as well, was bad enough; to find
myself classed with bad company generally, with crooks and rogues, with
shady actresses, with criminals, was decidedly unpleasant. Paragraphs
my brother wrote to me appeared in London papers too. Copies of the
New York ones were sent to my father. “Too foxy for Algernon” was a
headline he read out to my brother in his library. Boyde had even
written to him, signing himself “your cousin,” to ask for money for
“your poor son,” but had received no reply. There is no need now to
mention names, but any distinguished connexion either of us possessed
appeared in the headlines or the article itself. “Nephew of an earl
held in $1,000 bail,” “Cousin of Lord X,” “Scion of British Aristocracy
a Sneak-thief,” were some of the descriptions. “Son of a duchess
in the Soup,” was another. The _Staatszeitung_ had a phrase which
threw a momentary light on an aspect of lower life in the city, when
Freytag, the German reporter who had taught me how to write a court
story, described me as “Sohn einer _sogennanten_ Herzogin.” He only
laughed when I spoke to him about it. “How should _I_ know,” he said
sceptically....
Boyde came up in due course before Recorder Smythe in general sessions,
the most severe and most dreaded of all the judges. He still wore
my thick suit, he wore also a pair of Harding Davis’s boots, and, I
believe, something else of Sothern’s. His sentence was two years in
the Penitentiary on Blackwell Island. A group of other people he had
swindled, including “Artist Palmer,” were in court; so was an assistant
of Ikey’s, with _all_ our pawned articles. Every single thing, whether
stolen goods or not, was returned to me. The doctor and Kay were also
there. Some of his letters are a human document:
_Tombs_,
December, 1892.
Oh, Blackwood, what black treachery I returned you for your many
kindnesses, base lying for all your straightforward dealing with
me! You freely forgave me what ninety-nine men out of every hundred
would, if not imprisoned me for, certainly never have forgiven me.
I returned evil for good, and you still bore with me. You said--I
shall never forget it, for it was when you found the stamp torn
off your letter--and even at that moment I had money in my pocket
belonging to you, just as I had when you shared your last 50 cent.
piece that night at Krisches, for I _must_ say this, though I could
tear myself to pieces when I think of it--You said, ‘B. how you
must _hate_ me!’
No, Blackwood, it seems a paradox, but I could not hate you if I
tried to. I don’t say this because I am in prison, or with any
desire to flatter. I am sincere in everything I say and it comes
from my heart. You have every reason to think from my former
actions that I am not sincere above reward, but I am.
Oh, the old, but nevertheless true remark, TOO LATE! It comes
home to me with striking and horrible vividness. Too Late! I
have forfeited the respect of every good and honest man, have
disgraced my English name and my family. But, let me go. Five
years of service will be the best thing for me. I can enlist under
another name and may perhaps get a commission in time. Give me the
chance of redeeming myself, please. If ever any man was sincerely
repentant for the past I am that man.
ARTHUR B.
Please excuse mistakes and alterations. I am so fearfully shaky.
_The Tombs City Prison,
Centre Street, N. Y._
Please read through before destroying it.
I have begged another sheet of paper and stamp in order to make one
final appeal.
Will you not come down again on receipt of this? Please do, for
God’s sake. No visitors are allowed on New Year’s Day, or on
Sunday. New Year’s Day! What a new year’s day for me! Let me
begin it afresh. I have a favour to ask you which I must ask you
verbally; I cannot put it on paper. It is getting dark; so once
more I ask you, I implore you, to have mercy on me for my mother’s
sake. For her sake spare
ARTHUR B.
Visiting hours 10-2. I am speaking the truth and nothing but the
truth when I say that I am sincerely sorry for all that I have done
and implore your pardon. This is not an insincere expression, but
one from my heart. Come down again, please, even to speak to me,
for you don’t know the mental agony I am suffering.
A. B.
_Tombs City Prison_,
New Year’s Day.
It was more than kind of you to come all the way down here and then
after all not be able to see me; not much loss to you, it is true,
but a bitter disappointment to me. Palmer came down and talked
_very_ kindly to me and instilled a little hope in me. But this is
a wretched New Year’s Day.
I was talking to an old convict this morning, a man who in his life
has been about sixteen years in jail, and he said that if he had
only been let off in the first instance with a few days in here, he
would have been a different man to-day, but after serving one term
he became reckless and has now become a notorious thief. As I said
to you, think of me after 20 years’ penal servitude.
Blackwood, won’t you and Palmer stay your hands once more? I will
leave the country, and if ever I should return you could always
have me arrested. I will never trouble you again. Let me make a
fresh start once more.
Should you decide not to press the charge you can go to the
District Attorney’s Office and inform them of the fact.
I once more _implore_ you and Palmer to have pity on me, and please
come and see me! May I wish you and Palmer a bright and happy New
Year, brighter and happier than the past one.
ARTHUR B.
Many thanks for the paper and envelopes. Bless you!
_The Tombs._
Very many thanks for your visit yesterday. It is the only pleasure
I have. I believe what you say is true--that I am reaping the
result of evil done in the past and that the only real way to atone
is to meet it squarely and accept my punishment without grumbling.
If Karma is true, it is just, and I shall get what I deserve, and
not an iota more.
I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for being so lenient to
me and even writing to the District Attorney on my behalf. I am
truly grateful, Blackwood. Please do not think I am not sorry for
what I have done, or that I am not really penitent, for I am indeed.
It was bitterly cold last night and I was awfully glad to have my
overcoat, and blessed you for sending it. I know you got it out of
pawn for me, and that is another kindness.
Again, for the last time probably, I thank you for your many acts
of kindness. I bitterly regret and earnestly repent for the manner
I treated you, returning evil for good, and I shall think much of
you when serving my time under a blazing sun or in my cramped and
chilly cell.
ARTHUR B.
_Tombs Prison._
I have just been to the Court House and pleaded guilty. My sentence
is remanded till Friday week. If I could only get that lawyer I
might get the sentence reduced a little. But Judge Smythe is a very
hard man. My small hopes were dashed away on hearing that you had
been subpœnaed to go before the Grand Jury this morning.
Now all hope is gone; only blank, blank despair; no hope, all is
dark. I wish I could die--much rather that than suffer this awful
remorse. Do you know I sometimes think I am going mad? When I come
out I shall be too old for the army, and what else can a felon,
a criminal, a convict do? Is crime the only refuge? Shall I sink
lower and lower? Will what small sense of decency and honour I have
left be utterly destroyed and made callous by propinquity with
other criminals?
What a frightful nightmare to conjure up! Nightmare? No, it is only
too true; it is stern, inexorable reality. Thank you for sending
the clothes. I had no change before. Bless you!
A. B.
_Tombs City Prison._
What follows I wish to write voluntarily. It is a Confession and
relieves me--
I certainly wish to convey to you the fact of my sincere and deep
sorrow for the shameful manner I treated you and abused your
confidence and kindness. I fear that one of my letters cannot
have reached you, as I am sure I wrote at length on this subject.
You mistake and misjudge me when you think it is only fear that
prompts me to write as I do. My eyes are opened to the enormity of
my past crimes, opened by thinking and seeing things in the proper
light. I have been alone with my thought for days now, and God
knows how many more days will pass over my head before I again face
the world. It will relieve me to give you a full confession of my
treachery, for I believe there is no real repentance without real
confession.
To begin with the editor. I never had a chance of the position at
Rockaway, although the editor once said casually that he would
try and find me some similar position. I lied to you all through
in that, for I wished you to think I had prospects of paying work
in view. When you used to come down with me to Franklin Street
(Harper’s) I waited about upstairs and looked at books, etc., and
then came down and concocted some lies about what I had said and
done. I once borrowed $15 from him (Richard Harding Davis, Editor
“Harper’s Weekly”) and said they were for you. My dealings with
Sothern were that he from time to time lent me money, some $50 in
all, and gave me a position at ten dollars a week. I told him when
borrowing that the money was for your doctor, and when borrowing
more I said you had wasted it in drink. I asked him to cash several
of the cheques I forged, but he would never do this. I was paid
up in full by the manager and also for the extra performances
of the “Disreputable Mr. Reagen.” I little thought when I was
playing Merivale’s part that I should act it true to life. With
Mr. Beattie I lied all through. He never had any money of mine or
knew my mother or ever heard from her. He never bailed me out, and
I never used to see him as I said I did. You and Palmer thought
that I spent some time in jail this summer, but I would rather not
say anything in writing about that. My dealings with Palmer were
that I borrowed money from him and said it was for you. I also
went to your banker acquaintance and borrowed twenty-five dollars
for a specialist, saying it was at your request. I did pawn the
overcoat you gave me to post to Kay, and that time you forgave me
for stealing your money I had in my pocket the proceeds of three
stories of yours I had given the _Sun_, and they had paid for. But,
even in the face of your forgiveness, I wanted this money so much
for my indulgences that I could not face the privation of handing
it over to you. I lied in the face of your kindness and generosity,
and when you even needed food I was going about drinking and
womanizing and spending freely. When my funds were exhausted I came
back to you, for I knew you would always forgive me. It is awful.
No wonder you want to see me go to prison. I am as wicked a man as
ever lived, I believe. I wonder what caused me to tell such lies.
Am I a natural born liar? It seems like it. You wrong me in one
thing--in thinking my sorrow is sham and prompted by fear and the
hope of getting off. I cannot find words to express my contrition.
Believe me, I would do anything in my power, and will do, when
my term is up, to make reparation. I submit to the inevitable. I
can imagine something now of what you must have suffered when I
left you alone without food or money those four days and nights.
I think, however, the worst thing I did was telling the pastor’s
daughter that you tried to prevent our meeting because you wished
me to marry one of your sisters, though I do not know, of course,
whether you have any even. That, and the taking the stamps off
your letters so that I could get beer, seem to weigh most heavily
with me now in my darkness and loneliness. I do not know what my
sentence will be--heavy, I suspect, unless I can get someone to
plead for me, and I have not a single solitary friend to do that.
I am utterly alone. I have been in this cell now twenty-one days,
and have a week more before sentence is given. It seems like six
months. No one can realize what prison is like till they have tried
it.
Believe me, I am deeply and truly sorry. I speak from my heart.
Think of me as kindly as you can when I am in the Penitentiary. I
hope I shall see you once more.
ARTHUR B.
I saw Boyde twice in my life afterwards; I heard, indirectly, from him
once: the prison chaplain wrote to ask for “his things” which, Boyde
told him, I “insisted upon keeping.” He never had any “things” at all
while I knew him; the letter was indignant and offensive. Boyde had
evidently “told a tale” to the chaplain.
The first time I saw him was some eighteen months after he had been
sent up, good behaviour evidently having shortened his term. I was
walking up Irving Place and saw him suddenly about fifty yards in front
of me. It was my own thick suit I recognized first, then its wearer. I
instinctively called out his name. He turned, looked at me, hurried on,
and went round the corner into 21st Street. Once round the corner, he
must have run like a hare, for when I entered the street too, he had
disappeared.
The second, and last, time I saw him was in London ten years later--at
a bookstall in Charing Cross station. He saw me, however, first, or
before I could come close enough to speak, and he melted away into the
crowd with swift and accomplished ease. I was near enough, though,
to note that he had grown his heavy moustache again, still wore his
eyeglass, and was smartly, even prosperously, dressed. He looked very
little older. From Lynwood Palmer, whom I met soon afterwards in
Piccadilly, I heard that my old employer, the Horse, had seen him at
Tattersalls not long before, and that he, Boyde, had come and begged
Palmer not to give him away as he was “after some Jews only”! Artist
Palmer took no action.