Dick Mallory himself was given the maximum sentence of fourteen years
for larceny under the habitual-criminal act; and he did not resent the
sentence in his own case because he found life in the penitentiary on
the whole as satisfactory as it had been on the outside; and when I met
him he had become deeply interested in the other prisoners. But he
resented the fact that the "habitual act" was applied without
discrimination to any one convicted of a second offence. He was doing
some study on his own account of the individual men called "habituals."
I never understood how Dick Mallory contrived to know as much about
individual convicts as he did know; but he was a keen observer and
quick-witted, and the guards and foremen often gave him bits of
information. He admitted, however, that his real knowledge of the men
under the "habitual act" was meagre, and asked me to make some personal
observations. To this end he gave me a list of some half-dozen men whom
I promised to interview, and in this way began my acquaintance with
Peter Belden, an acquaintance destined to continue many years after Dick
Mallory had passed beyond the reach of earthly courts.
Peter Belden was then a man something over thirty years of age, stunted
in growth, somewhat deaf, with his right arm paralyzed through some
accident in the prison shop. His hair, eyes, and complexion were much of
a color, but his good, strong features expressed intelligence. He wore
the convict stripes, which had the effect of blotting individuality
throughout the prison.
Notwithstanding these physical disadvantages, a criminal record and a
lifetime of unfavorable environment, some inherent force and manliness
in his nature made itself felt. He took it for granted that I would not
question his sincerity, neither did I. He said nothing of his own
hardships, made no appeal to my sympathy, but discussed the
habitual-criminal act quite impersonally and intelligently; assuming at
once the attitude of one ready to assist me in any effort for the
benefit of the criminal class to which he belonged.
But while he was talking about others I was thinking about him, and
when I inquired what I could do for him personally he asked me to obtain
the warden's permission to have a pencil and a writing-tablet in his
cell, as he liked to work at mathematical problems in his cell. This was
the only favor the man asked of me while he was in prison, and to this
day I do not know if he thought his fourteen-year sentence was unjust.
As he was quite friendless, and neither received nor wrote letters, he
was only too glad to correspond with me. I was surprised on receiving
his first letter to find his left-handed writing regular and clear, with
only an occasional slip in spelling or in correct English.
Always interested in the origin and in the formative influences which
had resulted in the criminal life of these men, I asked Belden to write
for me the story of his youth; and I give it from his own letters, now
before me, in his own words as far as possible:
"I have often thought that the opportunities of life have been pretty
hard with me, still I have tried always to make the best of it. I know
there are many who have fared worse than I, and in my pity towards them
I have managed to find the hard side of life easier than otherwise.
"I was born on an island off the coast of England. My father and mother
were of Irish descent, but we all spoke both English and French, and I
was in school for four years before I was twelve. My studies were French
and English, history, grammar and spelling; but I put everything aside
for arithmetic and other branches of mathematics: as long as I can
remember I had a greedy taste for figures; I earned my school expenses
by doing odd jobs for a farmer, for we were very poor. My father was a
hard drinker and there were fourteen of us in the family. There were
days when we did not have but a meal or two, and some days when we had
nothing at all to eat."
The boy's mother was ambitious for his education; she had relatives in
one of our western States, and when Peter was twelve years old he was
sent to this country with the understanding that he was to be kept in
school.
"But instead of going to school as I had expected I was knocked and
kicked about here and everywhere. My cousin would say, 'It's schoolin'
ye want is it? I'll give ye schoolin',' and her schoolin' was always
given with a club or a kick. 'Learnin' and educatin'? It's too much of
thim ye have already; go out and mind the cow.'"
The boy endured this life for several months, "dreading this cousin so
much that sometimes I'd stay out all night, sleeping in the near-by
woods." Then, in an hour of desperation, he decided to run away, and
after two or three temporary places where he worked for his board he
drifted into the lumber regions of Michigan. There his ambition for an
education was gratified in an unlooked-for and most curious fashion.
During the seventies various rumors of immoral houses in connection with
these lumber regions were afloat, and later measures were taken which
effectually dispersed the inmates. One of these houses was kept by a
college graduate from the East, who had been educated for the ministry
but had deflected from the straight and narrow path into the business of
counterfeiting; in consequence he spent five years in prison and
afterward sought refuge from his past in the wilds of Michigan.
Chance or fate led Peter Belden, a boy of thirteen, into the circle of
this man's dominion, where, strangely enough, the higher side of the
boy's nature found some chance of development. Peter was given
employment at this "Rossman's" as caretaker to the dogs and as
general-errand boy. The man, Rossman, studied the boy, and discovering
his passion for learning cemented a bond between them by the promise of
an equivalent to a course in college.
It seemed, indeed, like falling into the lap of good fortune for Peter
to be clothed and fed and given a room of his own "with college books on
the shelves" open to his use at any time; "and there was, besides, a
trunk full of books--all kinds of scientific books."
And here, to his heart's content, the boy revelled in the use of books.
Study was his recreation: and true to his word Rossman gave him daily
instruction, taking him through algebra, trigonometry, and the various
branches of higher mathematics, not omitting geography and history
and--_Bible Study_ every Sunday. Who can fathom the heights and depths,
the mysterious complexities of Rossman's nature? This is Peter's tribute
to the man:
"I was with him for three years; I always thought he was very kind, not
only to me but to all the girls in the house and to every one."
In this morally outlawed community Peter grew to be sixteen years old,
attracting to him by some magnetism in his own nature the best elements
in his unfavorable environment. And here the one romance in his life
occurred; on his part at least it seems to have been as idyllic as was
Paul's feeling for Virginia. The girl, young and pretty, was a voluntary
member of "Rossman's." She, too, had a history. Somewhat strictly reared
by her family, she had been placed in a convent school, where she found
the repression and restraint unbearable. In her reckless desire for
freedom, taking advantage of a chance to escape from the convent school,
she found refuge in the nearest city, and while there was induced to
join the Rossman group with no knowledge of the abyss into which she was
plunging. She was still a novice in this venture when she became
interested in Peter Belden, the young student. Together they worked at
problems in figures, their talk often wandering from the problems in
books to the problems of life, especially their own lives, until the day
came when Peter told her that he could not live without her.
Then the two young things laid their plans to leave that community, be
honestly married, and to work out the problem of life together.
However, this was not to be--for death claimed the wayward girl and
closed the brief chapter of romance in Belden's life. And the man, near
sixty years old now, still keeps this bit of springtime in his heart,
and "May"--so aptly named--through the distillation of time and the
alchemy of memory appears to him now an angel of light, the one love of
his life.
Other changes were now on the wing. "Rossman's" was no longer to be
tolerated, and the proprietor was obliged to disband his group and leave
that part of the country. It was then that the truly baleful influence
of Rossman asserted itself, blighting fatally the young life now bound
to him by ties of gratitude and habit, and even turning the development
of his mathematical gift into a curse. Forced to abandon the
disreputable business in which he had been engaged, Rossman opened a
gambling-house in Chicago, initiating Belden into all the ways that are
dark and all the artful dodges practised in these gambling-hells. Here
Belden's natural gift for calculation and combination of numbers,
reinforced by mathematical training, came into play. The fascination of
the game for its own sake has even crept into one of Belden's letters to
me, where several pages are devoted to proving how certain results can
be obtained by scientific manipulation of the cards. But again Rossman's
business fell under the ban of the law, and soon after, for some overt
act of dishonesty, Belden was sent to the penitentiary.
A year later an ex-convict with power of resistance weakened by the
rigidity of prison discipline, with no trade, the ten dollars given by
the State invested in cheap outer clothing to replace the suit,
recognizable at a glance by the police, which the State then bestowed
upon the ex-convict, Belden returned to Chicago. Friendless, penniless,
accustomed to live by his wits, Belden was soon "in trouble" again, was
speedily convicted under the habitual-criminal act and given the maximum
sentence of fourteen years. Three years of this sentence Belden served
after the beginning of our acquaintance. He had met with the accident
resulting in the paralysis of his arm, and his outlook was hopeless and
dreary. However, after the loss of the use of his right hand he
immediately set to work learning to write with his left hand, and this
he speedily accomplished. The tablet granted by the warden at my request
was soon covered with abstruse mathematical problems; differential
calculus was of course meaningless to the guards, but a continuous
supply of tablets was allowed as a safe outlet for a mind considered
"cracked" on the subject of figures. Owing to his infirmities Belden's
prison tasks were light; his devotion to Warden McClaughrey, who treated
him with kindness, kept him obedient to prison rules, while his obliging
disposition won the friendly regard of fellow prisoners. And so the time
drifted by until his final release. This time he left the prison clad in
a well-fitting second-hand suit sent by a friend. Dick Mallory, who was
then a free man, welcomed him in Chicago, saw him on board the train for
another city in which I had arranged for his entrance into a "home," and
with hearty good will speeded his departure from criminal ranks. This
was in the year 1893; from that day forward Peter Belden has lived an
honest life.
The inmates of the home, or the members of that family, as the sainted
woman who established and superintended the place considered these men,
were expected to contribute toward the expense of the home what it
actually cost to keep them. During the hard winters of 1894 and 1895
able-bodied men by thousands were vainly seeking work and awaiting
their turn in the breadline at the end of a fruitless day, while Peter
Belden, with his right arm useless, by seizing every chance to earn
small amounts, and by strictest self-denial, contrived to meet the bare
needs of his life. Once or twice for a few days he could not do this,
but the superintendent of the home tided him over these breaks; and I
knew from her that Belden was unflagging in his effort to make his
expenses. That this was far from easy is shown by the following extract
from a letter written in the winter of 1895:
"I am in pretty good health, thank you, but I have had a hard, hard
time. Do the very best I can I can't get ahead; yesterday I had to
borrow a dollar from the home. Still I am pegging away, day in and day
out, selling note paper. I have felt like giving up in despair many
times these last few months. A _something_, however, tells me to keep
on. You have kindly asked me if I needed clothing. Yes, thank you, I
need shoes and stockings and I haven't money to buy them. Now, dear
friend, don't spend any money in getting these things for me; I shall be
glad and thankful for anything that has been used before."
As financial prosperity gradually returned, making the ends meet became
easier to Belden. Among his round of note-paper customers he established
friendly relations and was able to enlarge his stock of salable
articles, and he won the confidence of two large concerns that gave him
goods on the instalment plan. At this time the superintendent of the
home wrote me:
"I am deeply interested in Peter Belden, for he has been a good, honest,
industrious man ever since he came to us. I want to tell you that your
kindly efforts are fully appreciated by him. He is earnestly working up
in a business way, and all who have anything to do with him as a man
have confidence in him."
Belden's interests, too, began to widen and his frequent letters to me
at this time are like moving pictures, giving glimpses of interiors of
various homes and of contact with all sorts of people--a sympathetic
Jewish woman, a brilliant Catholic bishop, a fake magnetic healer and
spiritualistic fraud. He even approached the celebrated Dean Hole at the
conclusion of a lecture in order to secure the dean's autograph, which
he sent me; and he had interesting experiences with various other
characters. He was frequently drawn into religious discussions, but
firmly held his ground that creeds or lack of creeds were nothing to him
so long as one was good and helpful to others. This simple belief was
consistent with his course of action. Pity dwelt ever in his heart, and
I do not believe that he ever slighted a chance to give the helping
hand. He did not forget the prisoners left behind in the penitentiary
where he had been confined, sending them magazines and letters, and
messages through me. In one of his letters I find this brief incident,
so characteristic of the man as I have known him:
"While I was canvassing to-day I saw a poor blind dog-- It was a very
pitiful sight. He would go here a little and there a little, moving
backward and forward. The poor thing did not know where he was, for he
was blind as could be, and not only blind but lame also. Something
struck me when I saw him; I said to myself, 'I am crippled but I might
be like this poor dog some day; who can tell? I certainly shall do what
I can for him.'
"I could not take him home with me but I did the next best thing, for I
took him from the pack of boys who began chasing him and gave him to a
woman who was looking out of a window evidently interested and
sympathetic; she promised to care for him."
In the hundreds of letters written me by Belden I do not find a line of
condemnation or even of harsh criticism of any one, although he shares
the prejudice common to men of his class against wealthy church-members.
Not that he was envious of their possessions, but, knowing too well the
cruelty and the moral danger of extreme poverty and ready to spend his
last dollar to relieve suffering, he simply could not conceive how it
was possible for a follower of Christ to accumulate wealth while
sweat-shops and child labor existed.
At this period of Belden's life his knowledge of mathematics afforded
him great pleasure, and it brought him into prominence in the newspaper
columns given to mathematical puzzles, where "Mr. Belden" was quoted as
final authority. Numerous were the newspaper clippings enclosed in his
letters to me, and I have before me an autograph note to Belden from the
query editor of a prominent paper, in which he says:
"Your solution of the problem is a most ingenious and mathematically
learned analysis of the question presented, and highly creditable to
your talent."
This recognition of superiority in the realm of his natural gift and
passion was precious indeed to Belden, but he was extremely sensitive in
regard to his past and avoided contact and acquaintance with those who
might be curious about it. And to be known as an inmate of the home was
to be known as an ex-convict.
This maimed, ex-convict life he must bear to the end: only outside of
that could he meet men as their equal; and so he guarded his incognito,
but not altogether successfully.
Once he made the experiment of going to a neighboring city and trying to
make some commercial use of his mathematics, but he could not gain his
starting-point. He had no credentials as teacher, and while he might
have been valuable as an expert accountant his disadvantages were too
great to be overcome.
More and more frequently as the years passed came allusions to loss of
time through illness. His faithful friend, the superintendent of the
home, had passed to her reward, and the home as Belden had known it was
a thing of the past.
Life was becoming a losing game, a problem too hard to be solved, when
tubercular tendencies of long standing developed and Belden became a
charge on some branch of the anti-tuberculosis movement, where he spent
a summer out of doors. Here he frankly faced the fact of the disease
that was developing, and characteristically read all the medical works
on the subject that the camp afforded, determined to make a good fight
against the enemy. He seemed to find a sort of comfort in bringing
himself into companionship with certain men of genius who had fought the
same foe; he mentions Robert Louis Stevenson, Chopin, and Keats, and,
more hopefully, others who were finally victorious over the disease.
With the approach of cold weather it was thought best to send Belden to
a warmer climate; arrangements were made accordingly, and he was given a
ticket to a far distant place where it was supposed he would have a
better chance of recovery. There for a time he rallied and grew
stronger, but only to face fresh hardships. He was physically incapable
of earning a living, and it was not long before he became a public
charge and was placed in an infirmary for old men; for more than fifty
years of poverty and struggle with fate had left the traces of a
lifetime on the worn-out body. But the "something" which he felt told
him to keep on through many hardships does not desert him now, and the
old spirit of determination to make the best of things holds out still.
His letters show much the same habit of observation as formerly; bits of
landscape gleam like pictures through some of his pages, and historical
associations in which I might be interested are gathered and reported.
His one most vital interest at present seems to be the production of
this book, as he firmly believes that no one else can "speak for the
prisoners" as the writer.
It seems that even Death itself, "who breaks all chains and sets all
captives free," cannot be kind to Peter Belden, and delays coming,
through wearisome days and more wearisome nights. But at last, when the
dark curtain of life is lifted, we can but trust that a happier fortune
awaits him in a happier country.