After Everest had been taken away the jail became a nightmare--as full of
horrors as a madman's dream. The mob howled around the walls until late in
the night. Inside, a lumber trust lawyer and his official assistants were
administering the "third degree" to the arrested loggers, to make them
"confess." One at a time the men were taken to the torture chamber, and so
terrible was the ordeal of this American Inquisition that some were almost
broken--body and soul. Loren Roberts had the light in his brain snuffed
out. Today he is a shuffling wreck. He is not interested in things any
more. He is always looking around with horror-wide eyes, talking of
"voices" and "wires" that no one but himself knows anything about. There
is no telling what they did to the boy, but he signed the "confession."
Its most incriminating statement must have contained too much truth for
the prosecution. It was never used in court.
When interviewed by Frank Walklin of the Seattle Union Record the loggers
told the story in their own way:
"I have heard tales of cruelty," said James McInerney, "but I believe what
we boys went through on those nights can never be equaled. I thought it
was my last night on earth and had reconciled myself to an early death of
some kind, perhaps hanging. I was taken out once by the mob, and a rope
was placed around my neck and thrown over a cross-bar or something.
"I waited for them to pull the rope. But they didn't. I heard voices in
the mob say, 'That's not him,' and then I was put back into the jail."
John Hill Lamb, another defendant, related how several times a gun was
poked through his cell window by some one who was aching to get a pot shot
at him. Being ever watchful he hid under his bunk and close to the wall
where the would-be murderer could not see him.
Britt Smith and Roy Becker told with bated breath about Everest as he lay
half-dead in the corridor, in plain sight of the prisoners in the cells on
both sides. The lights went out and Everest, unconscious and dying, was
taken out. The men inside could hear the shouts of the mob diminishing as
Everest was hurried to the Chehalis River bridge.
[Illustration: Bert Bland
Logger. American. (Brother of O.C. Bland.) One of the men who fired from
Seminary Hill. Bland has worked all his life in the woods. He joined the
Industrial Workers of the World during the great strike of 1917. Bert
Bland took to the hills after the shooting and was captured a week later
during the man hunt.]
None of the prisoners was permitted to sleep that night; the fear of death
was kept upon them constantly, the voices outside the cell windows telling
of more lynchings to come. "Every time I heard a footstep or the clanking
of keys," said Britt Smith, "I thought the mob was coming after more of
us. I didn't sleep, couldn't sleep; all I could do was strain my ears for
the mob I felt sure was coming." Ray Becker, listening at Britt's side,
said: "Yes, that was one hell of a night." And the strain of that night
seems to linger in their faces; probably it always will remain--the
expression of a memory that can never be blotted out.
When asked if they felt safer when the soldiers arrived to guard the
Centralia jail, there was a long pause, and finally the answer was "Yes."
"But you must remember," offered one, "that they took 'em out at Tulsa
from a supposedly guarded jail; and we couldn't know from where we were
what was going on outside."
"For ten days we had no blankets," said Mike Sheehan. "It was cold
weather, and we had to sleep uncovered on concrete floors. In those ten
days I had no more than three hours sleep."
"The mob and those who came after the mob wouldn't let us sleep. They
would come outside our windows and hurl curses at us, and tell each of us
it would be our turn next. They brought in Wesley Everest and laid him on
the corridor floor; he was bleeding from his ears and mouth and nose, was
curled in a heap and groaning. And men outside and inside kept up the din.
I tried to sleep; I was nearly mad; my temples kept pounding like
sledge-hammers. I don't know how a man can go through all that and
live--but we did."
All through the night the prisoners could hear the voices of the mob under
their cell windows. "Well, we fixed that guy Everest all right," some one
would say. "Now we'll get Roberts." Then the lights would snap off, there
would be a shuffling, curses, a groan and the clanking of a steel door.
All the while they were being urged to "come clean" with a statement that
would clear the lumber trust of the crime and throw the blame onto its
victims. McInerney's neck was scraped raw by the rope of the mob but he
repeatedly told them to "go to hell!" Morgan, the stool-pigeon, escaped
the torture by immediate acquiescence. Someone has since paid his fare To
parts unknown. His "statement" didn't damage the defense.
[Illustration: Ray Becker
Logger, American born. Twenty-five years of age. Studied four years for
the ministry before going to work in the woods. His father and brother are
both preachers. Becker joined the Industrial Workers of the World in 1917
and has always been a strong believer in the cause of the solidarity of
Labor. He has the zeal of a prophet and the courage of a lion. Defended
himself inside the hall with an Ivor Johnson, 38, until his ammunition was
exhausted. He surrendered to the authorities--not the mob.]