TUESDAY MORNING
In my cell, after dinner; Tuesday, September 30.
At about seven o'clock this morning the long iron bar, which locks the
whole tier, is raised; and the Captain pauses a moment at my cell.
"Good morning, Thomas, how did you get through the night?"
"I didn't sleep very well, sir."
"They seldom do the first night. How are you feeling now?"
"Well, fairly good third rate, thank you, sir."
He leaves me; but soon returns along the gallery, unlocking the levers as
he comes. Immediately after him walks his trusty, one of the gallery boys,
pressing down the levers and letting us out of the stone caves where we
have spent the long night. I breathe a sigh of relief and satisfaction as
I swing open the iron grating and come out upon the comparative freedom of
the gallery.
Each man grasps with his left hand the handle of his heavy iron bucket
filled with the slops and sewage of the night. I do the same; and steady
my steps by running my right hand along the iron rail as I hurry down the
gallery after the others. It is a long journey to the farther stairs, but
it is made cheerful by the smiles on the upturned faces of the prisoners
in the corridor below. When I have taken my place in line at the foot of
the iron stairs, I find further satisfaction in the nods and winks of
encouragement from the men gathered about the doorway, at whom I glance as
much as I can without turning my head. I rest my heavy bucket on the
ground while waiting for the company to complete its formation, taking
meanwhile deep breaths of the refreshing morning air. It is another
beautiful, sunny autumn day as we look out into the yard.
A sharp rap of the Captain's stick on the stone pavement, and we stand at
attention, the handle of each man's bucket in his right hand. Two more
quick raps, and we "short-step" out of the building and then "full-step"
down the yard. Our route is the same as that of yesterday afternoon. We
meet many other companies returning. We march down to the extreme
southwest corner of the prison inclosure where is the small brick
building which serves as a sewage disposal plant. It seems to be very well
arranged for its purpose. As we reach there our ranks divide, entering by
two doors, and we march through almost at full speed. I watch my comrades
and do exactly as they do; remove the bucket cover upon entering the
building; empty the contents into a large circular stone basin, or hopper,
into which a stream of water is constantly pouring; pass on quickly to a
second basin and fill my bucket at its stream of water; rinse the bucket
as I walk along and discharge the contents into a third stone basin with
its third stream of running water. It must be confessed that there is a
minimum of smell and nastiness; but what a medieval system! The sewage of
1,400 men simply dumped into the river, which flows just outside the
walls, and carried along to poison all the towns and villages downstream.
After thus emptying and rinsing the buckets we leave them to be
disinfected, aired and dried, upon some wooden racks where each company
has its allotted place. Then we march back up the yard, meeting many other
companies laden with their buckets on the way down. The march back is very
pleasant and I wish it were longer, as exercise in the fresh air and
sunlight seems to soothe the tired nerves. By the time we are back at the
north wing I am feeling in good condition and ravenously hungry.
Arrived at the cell I have another call from Captain Lamb. I have found
him very pleasant and intelligent; and his men, so far as I can yet judge,
seem to like him. He has some excellent ideas, and tells me that he would
like to give his company setting-up exercises as he once did; but he
abandoned them as he received no encouragement; on the contrary it was
considered that they were subversive of discipline. This awful fetich,
discipline. We most of us do so love it--for others.
Why does it not occur to somebody in authority that the first and best
means of getting real discipline, in the sense of good conduct, is to give
these men exercise? Here they live, standing or sitting listlessly at
their work all day, and shut in their narrow cells fourteen hours at
night, with no chance to work off their superfluous energies and keep
themselves in proper physical condition. The result in very many cases
must be steady degeneration, not only of body, but of mind and soul as
well.
The Captain tells me that before breakfast I should clean out my cell; so
after he leaves me I carry out his instructions with the assistance of the
old broom in the corner. I sweep the dust out of the cell into a corner of
the entrance; and the lever locks me back into the cell as I shut the door
after the job is completed.
This has not been long done before the clicking of the levers begins
again in the distance. Every time we march to meals the clicking begins
around the corner to my left and we march to the right; every time we go
to the shop the clicking begins on my right and we march to the left. I am
beginning to catch on to these various complications. Also to learn the
etiquette of dress. When we go to breakfast we wear coats but no caps; to
the shop, both caps and coats; to dinner, neither. Waistcoats seem to
depend upon the taste and fancy of the wearer. I have worn mine, so far,
only in the evening--for warmth.
Marching to breakfast I find myself by the side of a young fellow who is
conspicuous among the prisoners by the use of a blue shirt with collar and
necktie. He is tall and good-looking, with an air of refinement which is
appealing.
I make no breaks upon the march. I shuffle my feet along the stone
corridor like the rest, as we move slowly forward; letting other companies
who have the right of way go in ahead of us. Then when our turn comes we
march more rapidly, changing to single file as we near the mess-room. As
the Captain has directed me, I fall in behind my blue-shirted companion
and have my right hand on my left breast in ample time to salute the P. K.
who, as at yesterday's dinner, stands at the entrance to the mess-hall.
Arrived at my place, which is now in the center of one of the long
shelves or tables, I find waiting for me a large dish of oatmeal porridge,
a bowl one-third full of the thinnest of skimmed milk, two thick slices of
bread, and a cup of the dark fluid we had yesterday and which is supposed
to be coffee, but which I learn is called "bootleg" by the
prisoners--presumably because old boots is the only conceivable source of
its taste and smell. Judging by the samples I've had, the hypothesis does
not seem untenable. The taste is quite as bad as the smell, as it is drunk
without milk or sugar, and there is no escape from drinking some of it, as
it is the only liquid on the table. The bread is known as "punk"--a name
not so strikingly appropriate as the other.
I can see no excuse for bad coffee; for good coffee can be made in large
quantities, as some railroad refreshment rooms can testify. Tea is a
different matter. I do not believe that good tea can be made except in
small quantities. If I were to suggest to the prison authorities, it would
be cocoa instead of tea, and coffee should be drinkable at least.
George, one of the gallery boys, has presented me this morning with a
small package of sugar wrapped in newspaper; but, before I have a chance
of deciding whether it is safe to transfer it from my pocket to the
oatmeal, my friend in the blue shirt, seated on my left, slides a small
yellow envelope toward me. I turn my eyes and head sufficiently to see
him. He is staring straight ahead of him, and without moving his lips or a
muscle of his face gives a low whisper, "Sugar." I turn back my head and
in a voice as low as I can manage and with my lips moving as little as
possible mutter, "Thank you." I have had my first introduction to the
motionless language of the prisoners.
The sugar makes the oatmeal palatable, and I breakfast very well on that
and the bread soaked in what milk I have left over from the porridge. I
had forgotten the rule about no bread being left on the table until my new
friend reminds me of it by pointing to my two slices and then to the
approaching waiter. I promptly toss one of my slices into that
functionary's bucket as he passes by, and go on with my breakfast. I feel
guilty in taking my neighbor's sugar, when I have some of my own in my
pocket, but reflect that mine can be saved for another occasion and shared
with him. I find myself wondering if the sugar I'm eating has been
honestly come by. Not that I suspect my blue-shirted friend of doing
anything wrong; but I am quite sure that in my present condition of mind I
should enjoy it better if I knew it had been stolen. I feel as though I
would gladly annex almost anything from the state of New York that I could
lay my hands on, provided I could do so without too much risk of getting
caught. I hope it will be considered that I am not now condoning
dishonesty; I am merely trying to explain a state of mind.
The silent meal finished, we return to our cells, where I now have a call
from my friend in the blue shirt. It seems that he is a trusty of the "box
office"; and has charge of the orders for groceries and their
distribution, and his name is Roger Landry. Each convict is allowed to
spend three dollars a month in groceries, tobacco and other luxuries--that
is if he is fortunate enough to have that amount of money to his credit.
As his wages, at one cent and a half a day--the regular rate--could only
amount to thirty-seven and a half cents a month, it is obvious that a
prisoner must have some outside resources to allow him to spend three
dollars. So the prisoners who are better off outside the prison have the
luxuries when they get inside; and the poor fellow who has nothing can get
nothing. It seems to be a rather literal rendering of the Scripture, "To
him who hath shall be given." Certainly from him who hath not is taken
away about everything possible--his liberty, his capacity to earn money,
his family, friends, and incidentally his self-respect.
The way in which a man's family and friends are taken away seems
superlatively cruel. A prisoner gets no wages for his work except his
board, lodging, clothes, and the ridiculous cent and a half a day. In the
meantime his wife and children may be starving on the streets outside; he
is powerless to help them, and can write only one letter a month. In other
words, as a prisoner once said to me bitterly, "At just the time we need
our friends the most, they are taken away from us. We must write our one
letter a month to a wife, a mother, or some member of the family having
special claim. Our friends do not hear from us; they think we are hard and
do not care--we are criminals; so they drop us and we are forgotten."[7]
All this Landry explains or suggests; and as we grow confidential he tells
me quite frankly of his own troubles and how he comes to be here; the
mistakes he had made, his keen desire and strong intention to do better
when he goes out and to make good. "My father has stuck by me," he says;
"and now I intend to stick by him."
After about half an hour spent in the cells, from eight to eight-thirty,
we are off to work. Again the keys are turned in the locks, again the
clicking of the levers, again the hurried march along the gallery, again
my heavy shoes clump down the iron stairs, again we form in the sunny
doorway, again we march down the yard to the basket shop.
As we break ranks my partner, Murphy, comes forward with a cheerful smile.
"Well, Mr. Brown, how do you feel to-day?"
"Fine," I respond briefly, and we step to our working table.
"How did you sleep?"
"Not very well; I kept waking up all night."
"Well, don't worry. It's always like that the first night; you'll sleep
better to-night."
And with this comforting assurance we hang up our coats and caps and start
to work.
The convict instructor, Stuhlmiller, comes to our table. "Well, Brown, how
did you like bucket duty?"
"Oh, I've had to do worse things than that," I reply. "I don't know that I
should select that particular job from preference; but somebody has to do
the cleaning up. That's the reason I was once mayor of Auburn."
The other two are greatly amused at this view of official position; and so
we start pleasantly with our basket-making.
Before the morning has far advanced the Captain comes over to me and in a
low voice asks would I like to be sent out with a gang to help move some
coal. I haven't the least idea what is involved, but I'm keen for
anything. I am here to learn all I can. So I answer briefly, "Sure," and
he returns to his desk. Presently I hear the name of Brown called out with
those of Murphy and eight others. Murphy says, "Come on, Brown, we'll get
some fresh air!" I start at once for the door, but Murphy pulls me back;
we have to be lined up, counted, ten of us, and duly delivered to another
officer who takes us in charge.
There are two heavy cars of coal, it seems, to be moved up grade to the
coal pile; and as the prison possesses no dummy or yard engine, this has
to be done by hand labor. It seems singularly unintelligent to have things
so arranged; but for the present it is all the better for me, as it serves
well for exercise. A block and tackle is rigged up and we have repeated
tugs of war, during which I get my hands very grimy and receive a number
of friendly admonitions not to work too hard. There is also the offer on
the part of a pleasant young negro to lend his leather mittens.
"Thank you," I say, "but I think you need them more than I do." (It was
stupid of me not to give him the satisfaction of doing this slight
service.)
The men on the coal gang, in view of their heavy and disagreeable work,
are allowed to talk, it seems; and they certainly make good use of this
privilege. There were several negroes among the lot, and they kept us all
in roars of laughter. In fact it was as cheery and jolly a lot of fellows
as one could find, joking about their work, and about their breakfast, and
joshing each other in the best of tempers. While we were waiting to get
things arranged for the second car, one of the men who works in our shop
good naturedly disposed of much of his week's allowance of chewing tobacco
to the crowd.
During all these proceedings I stick pretty close to Murphy, both that I
may make no mistakes, and because I am already getting to have a great
liking for my sturdy partner. Yesterday I was on my guard with him and I
think he was quietly sizing me up; but to-day there is an absence of
restraint and a pleasant feeling of comradeship growing up between us,
which is not lessened by the discovery that we both like fresh air and
exercise. Poor fellow! he gets little enough of either. The forty minutes
spent in the vigorous tugs of war with the coal cars start an agreeable
glow of health and spirits in both of us.
After the coal job is finished I am for going back at once to the shop,
which is close at hand, but Murphy halts me again. "Hold on, Brown, we
can't go back just yet." It seems that we must again line up and be
counted; then we are escorted by the officer temporarily in charge of us
back into the shop, where we are once more counted before we return to our
regular places.
In order to make up for lost time Murphy and I work steadily on our basket
bottoms; he suggesting that we each watch the other's work, to see whether
we are keeping the sides even. A mistake is easier to notice across the
table than in your own work closer at hand. My fault seems to be to pull
the withes too tight, making the sides somewhat concave; while Murphy has
just the opposite fault--he makes his sides too convex. So I watch his
work and he watches mine, and all things go on very agreeably.
At one stage in the morning's proceedings I forget where I am, for the
moment, and begin to whistle; but a swift and warning look from Murphy
startles me into silence.
"Look out," he warns me, "whistling's not allowed. You'll get punished if
you ain't careful."
"Is a whistling prisoner worse than a whistling girl?" I ask; but I see
that my partner is not acquainted with the proverb, so I repeat it to him:
"Whistling girls, like crowing hens,
Always come to some bad ends."
He is much amused at this sentiment, despite its imperfect rhyme, and asks
me to repeat it so that he can learn it.
As we are working busily away, I perceive a sudden commotion over at the
western end of the shop. One of the poor old prisoners, those mournful
wrecks of humanity of which our company has its full share, has fainted,
and lies cold and white on the stone floor. It is pleasant to see how
tenderly those about him go to his help, raise the poor old fellow, seat
him in one of the rough chairs--the best the shop affords--and bathe his
forehead with cold water. It is also pleasant to hear the words of
sympathy which are passed along from one to another.
In due time a litter is brought; the pitiful fragment of humanity is
placed gently upon it, and is carried out of the shop into which he will
probably never return. The look on his face is one not easy to forget, in
its white stare of patient suffering. It seemed to typify long years of
stolid endurance until the worn-out old frame had simply crumbled under
the accumulated load.
There may be another lonely deathbed in the hospital to-night. No wife or
child, no friend of any sort to smooth the pillow or to close the eyes.
Alas, the pity of it!
But the sight is evidently no new one to my comrades. A few minutes only
and the shadow has passed. There is even apparent an air of anxiety lest
we dwell too much on the mournful episode. It will not do to think of
death here; anything--anything but that!
It must be at about half-past eleven that a certain air of restlessness
pervading the shop shows that dinner time is approaching. Murphy goes for
his soap and towel. "Come on, Brown, and wash up."
"I'm sorry, I forgot and left my soap and towel in my cell."
"Well, never mind, come and use mine."
So, raising my hand for the Captain's permission to leave my place, I join
Murphy at the sink, and again we use his soap and towel in common. My
partner's treatment of me is certainly very satisfactory; there is just
enough of an air of protection suitable for a man who knows the ropes to
show toward his partner who does not, combined with an open-hearted
deference to an older man of wider experience that somehow is
extraordinarily pleasant.
Before going back to the cell-house we march first to the place where we
left the buckets this morning before breakfast. Each man secures his own
bucket, which is marked with the number of his cell; then we go swinging
up the yard, break ranks at the side door of the north wing, up the
stairs, traverse the long gallery, and so to my cell around the corner.
It begins to have a certain homelike association; but I do dislike having
to close the grated door and lock myself in every time.
The gallery boy has been most attentive. I find a rack for my towels and a
mirror added to the cell equipment; also he has promised me a better
electric light bulb. There are two gallery boys, I find; one is George,
the other is Joe. George is Captain Lamb's trusty, and serves in the shop
as well as the gallery. He has been the one who has added my new
furnishings. Joe I see only when I am in my cell; and I do not know where
he works. He brings me water and has been most genial.
There seems to be about half an hour at noon between the shop and the
mess-hall. As soon as I am back in my cell I remove my cap and coat and
"slick up" for dinner. Then I chat with any of the trusties that happen to
drift along to my cell. One of them brings me a book which a prisoner on
our gallery is sending to me. It is Victor Hugo's "Ninety-Three." Opening
it I find a note. The writer begins by saying that he had found the book
interesting and hoped I would, and then adds, "Some of the guards laughed
at you when you passed this morning. I know it is a hard proposition you
are up against; but say, stick it out! I only wish I could help you, and
I am voicing the sentiments of all the boys who work in the school."
Generous in him to run the risk of punishment in order to send me this
word of encouragement.
We march to dinner in the same order as at breakfast, and I find myself
again next to the blue-shirted Landry. I like his looks and his
personality. It is curious how one can get an effect of that, even under
the rigid and unnatural demeanor which the discipline engenders. There is
a dapper little chap who leads the right line of our company to whose back
I have taken a great liking; some day I hope to get acquainted with his
face.
Our dinner is mutton stew, which is really good. I had been told at the
shop in the morning what the bill of fare would be; for as one week's
dietary is exactly the same as all other weeks, you can calculate with
accuracy upon every meal. I eat my dinner with peculiar relish after our
morning struggle with the coal car.
Arrived back at the cell, Joe, the other gallery boy, stops to chat, after
he has dispensed water along the tier. "Say, Brown," he begins, "do you
know after the talk you give us up in chapel on Sunday there was some of
us didn't believe you really meant to come down and live with us. Then
they thought if you did come you'd manage to get up to the Warden's
quarters for supper and a bed. But, say, when the boys see you marchin'
down with your bucket this mornin'--they knew you meant business!"
Then the youngster puts his face up close to the bars, squints through
them admiringly, looks me all up and down from head to foot, and breaks
out with: "Gee! You're a dead game sport!"
On the whole I think that's by far the finest compliment I ever had in my
life.