THE TWIN MOUNDS JAIL.
There had never been a murder in Fairview before, or the sight of a man
who had died a violent death, and when I looked out of the grated
windows a few hours after midday--for we both slept long and soundly
once we were in the hard and cheerless prison beds--I saw that the news
had spread rapidly, for the town was already full of people, curious to
look at the body and talk of the tragedy. A misty rain was falling, a
continuation of the storm of the night before, and a fog spread over the
town, and a crowd of people was collected in front of the jail, looking
curiously up at the windows, as though they were likely to catch a
glimpse of the culprit. When one of the number went up to the
court-house, his place in the mud and mire in front of the jail was
immediately taken by some one who came from the court-house, and I
supposed that the dead man was on exhibition there. I scanned the
upturned faces eagerly for looks of sympathy for Jo, for from my perch I
could look into them without being seen but I could only make out that
the people were no more than curious. Occasionally a knot of men
gathered about one of their number while he expressed an opinion, and
though I could not hear all that was said, I distinguished enough to
convince me that there was no regret that Clinton Bragg was dead.
Late in the afternoon I left the jail by the entrance used by the
sheriff’s family, without attracting attention, and went into the
court-house, where the body was on exhibition. The crowd then present
did not know my relation to Jo, with which circumstance I was pleased,
and I looked at the sight as any other idler would. He was lying in the
middle of the assembly room, on a wide plank, and I judged the coroner’s
jury had not yet assembled, for it was still in the condition in which
it was found.
The clothing was wet from lying out in the rain, and I was certain the
face retained the expression it wore when I had passed it in the woods,
for it was horrible to look at. A livid mark ran round the neck, showing
the prints of fingers; the tongue protruded from the mouth, and the eyes
started from their sockets, precisely as would have been the case had
Clinton Bragg been hanged, and altogether the sight was so horrible that
I wondered the people did not leave it in terror, as I did, and hurry
away, for the sight made me sick and faint. But the people continued to
arrive by every road, and hurry to the court-house, and then to the
jail, to look up curiously at the windows, and I was so anxious to avoid
them and their questions that, after a few minutes with Martin, I
hurried back to the jail, and was again admitted, where I found Jo still
lying about in his night-clothes, apparently very comfortable and
unconcerned. He had been asleep most of the day, lounging about in an
easy way precisely as I have since known men to do who spent a rainy
Sunday in their rooms. The fierce manner which had distinguished him the
night before was gone, and in its place was a sort of contentment that
was very surprising under the circumstances. He had but little to say,
making no inquiries, when I returned, as to where I had been, and, a
short time after the lamps were brought in for the night, he excused
himself, and lying down on his cot went to sleep, after pleasantly
wishing me good-night.
The main road leading toward the Fairview country ran past the outer
wall of the jail, a part of it being built on the street line, and for
hours I heard the wagons rattling past, filled with crowds of men
returning home, who were sitting close together and talking in low
tones. I turned down the light, and, climbing up to the single window
which looked that way, watched them, and tried to conjecture what the
verdict would be, but their curiosity was satisfied, and they were now
only intent on getting home and repeating the story to others, who would
in turn repeat it, and spread the news through the woods, over the
prairies, and into the valleys, where it would be talked of and wondered
at, and be voted the greatest wonder, and the greatest horror, that ever
had happened.
The coroner and a jury examined the body the next day, and when it was
learned that the only witness of the affray was very ill, it was agreed
to adjourn the inquest until a time when she was better, and Clinton
Bragg was buried in a grave which was at first thought to be temporary,
but it proved his final resting place, as the remains were never
disturbed.
At Jo’s earnest request--it was the rule anyway, I believe--the jailer
allowed none of the curious to see him, and after he was locked up I
slept there every night. Fortunately there were only a few petty
offenders in the jail, which gave us an entire room to ourselves, and
bringing in furniture and beds from the house, I made the place as
comfortable as possible. I covered the walls with pictures, and scarcely
a day passed that something was not left with me for the prisoner. The
sheriff being a kindly man, and an old friend of ours, he trusted me
fully, so that had I been disposed I could have easily released Jo, or
furnished him means of escape.
I have thought that the sheriff often looked at me in surprise that I
did not take advantage of the liberty given me, and get him away, and he
often went into the cell himself to talk cheerfully and hopefully. In
many of the packages sent me were fire-arms, drills, files, and chisels,
as well as little articles of comfort, and in almost every one notes
written in heavy hands saying that no harm should come to Jo, but we
handed these over to the officer in return for his kindness, who
good-naturedly guessed with us who sent them.
Jo seemed to be more contented than since the night he came to me with
the fatal letter, and spent his days in reading, and lounging about. I
thought of him as a man taking a long-contemplated rest from weary work,
and as one who thoroughly enjoyed his ease. Although there was always
something of sadness in his manner, he was more like himself than since
we were boys, and we spent our evenings so pleasantly together that I
often regretted that we could not have been as contented as we were
without the commission of so great a crime.
Before he went to prison he was unable to sleep at night, but now he
retired to his bed early, and slept soundly. Indeed, frequently he did
not waken until the middle of the day, as if he were making up for lost
time, and often spoke thankfully of the circumstance that he could enjoy
his rest again, as he did when a boy. His manner was so gentle that I
thought of him as one who had been purified by great suffering, and if I
had loved him before, in his misfortune and danger I loved him a
thousand times more. After he had gone to sleep at night, it was my
custom to toss about for a long while, thinking how we could avoid the
consequences of his crime, and, after a troubled night, get up early in
the morning to talk over and over again with those I had employed to
advise me, for Jo would not see them. They had the greatest hope, and
took unusual interest in the case, and I understood their policy would
be to delay a trial as long as possible, when opportunities for his
release would be plentiful enough. When they were finally forced to
trial, they could at least secure a jury that would fail to agree, and
as no one had seen the murder, they hoped to be able to establish that
Bragg had fallen out of his buggy in fright when Jo appeared before him,
thus permitting the wheels to run across his neck.
Damon Barker came to town on the second afternoon following the murder,
accompanied by Big Adam, who carried an immense club of green hickory
with a knot on the end, as though he expected a few friends would attack
the jail and release the prisoner, and during the grave interview
between his master and myself, he kept critically examining the club,
squinting along it to see if it were properly proportioned, or hefting
it from the little end. With a piece of chalk he marked out a rude
figure of a man on the wall, and after writing “Officer” over it in
great capital letters, he stood off, and measured the distance he would
have to stand from it in order to do effective service with his club.
After this point was settled, he calculated by experiment where a man of
the size of the figure could be injured most by striking, and having
decided that the head was the place, he made an X with the chalk at the
point selected, and practised until he could hit that spot every time.
He did this with so much seriousness, and we were all so serious that
day, that we paid little attention to him. When Barker inquired what
time he could see Jo, and I answered “To-night,” Big Adam said, in a
voice hoarser than usual, “The earlier the better, and let those who
stand in the way look out for their heads!” at the same time ominously
shaking his stick of hickory. When informed that there was to be no
rescue, he was very much disappointed and was silent the remainder of
the day.
Barker was never a man of words, and he expressed no opinion about the
matter, although he frequently said that at any time I needed him, I had
only to say the word, no matter what the service might be. If he was at
a loss to understand the difference between Jo’s case and his own, he
did not mention it, and held his peace. When he went to the prison to
see Jo in the evening, I thought his word of greeting was almost a sob,
as I remember him on the night he came to claim Agnes, but he soon
recovered himself, and we spent the evening quite pleasantly. Big Adam,
who accompanied us, spent his time in critically examining the bars at
the windows, and in testing their strength, and he apparently became
convinced that there was little hope in that direction, and that the
only thing to do was to storm it from the outside. During the evening he
wrote a note and asked me to deliver it to the sheriff, and after he
went away I looked at it. It began, “My opinion of the officer,”
followed by the largest number of blasphemous words I have ever seen
collected, though they had no reference to each other, every one being
complete in itself, as an expression of hate. There were also a great
many vile words mixed in with the blasphemous ones, and at the bottom he
signed his name in full, whereby I came into possession of the fact that
his full name was John Adam Casebolt.
At this time I cannot remember how long it was before Bragg’s father
came, but within an hour after his arrival he walked quietly into the
office, and, after waiting my pleasure, asked me to tell the story of
his son’s death. He was a distressed sort of a man, as though he had had
a great deal of trouble in his life, and I honestly tried to tell the
circumstances of the death without prejudice. Of Bragg’s systematic
persecution of Jo; of his aimless excursions past his house; of his
insolence and over-bearance, I spoke at considerable length, and
detailed numerous instances when I knew he had passed the mill at
midnight, though he had not been at the Shepherds’. I told him of his
son’s renewed attentions after the separation, though he had been the
cause of it, and I expressed the opinion that he had brought about the
marriage, not for love of Mateel, but for revenge on a man who had never
harmed him, for she was such a hopeless invalid that marriage with any
one was the merest farce.
He made no replies to anything I said, but occasionally asked a question
to make a point clearer, and when I had finished, he thanked me for my
trouble, and went out, walking past the jail on his way back to the
hotel, and I thought he peered curiously up at the windows, as if he
were anxious to see Jo.
I saw him a great deal after that, and knew that he was in consultation
with an attorney, but he talked to no one else. After remaining two or
three weeks, he quietly disappeared, and it was learned that he had
returned home, leaving his case in the hands of the public prosecutor.
When I told Jo of my strange visitor, he was much interested, and
referred to him as a “poor fellow,” saying it was too bad that he had
travelled so far on such a sad journey. He inquired carefully after his
personal appearance, his manners, etc., and I almost expected that he
would ask that he be invited to see him.
It was my custom to leave the prison at an early hour in the morning and
not return again until night, except to call cheerfully to Jo as I
passed that way, but I always spent my evenings with him, and greatly
enjoyed them because we were never disturbed.
When I came round to be admitted, Jo was always waiting for me, and one
evening, when he had been unusually thoughtful, he said to me:--
“You remember I told you once of the haunted cave where the people went,
and heard the sweetest strains of music, but which was soon broken into
by a hideous tumult. I often visit the place now in my dreams, or in my
fancy, and it has a new attraction: Some one is lost there, and there is
no hope of a rescue. This is such a lonely place that sometimes when I
lie here through the day waiting for you, I visit the place when I am
awake. I am very familiar with the rugged path which leads through the
dark ravine to its mouth, and when the day is bad I never fail to go.
Although it is horrible, there is a certain fascination about it I am
unable to resist.
“When last I visited it, I did not hear the music at all, but instead
some one crying, which was drowned by the usual tumult. When this had
subsided, I heard the same voice distinctly crying, ‘Help! help! I am
lost,’ which so excited me that I awoke. Since then, every time I fall
asleep I visit the cave, and after sitting a long while in silence,
suddenly I hear the same agonizing cry, ‘Help! help! I am lost.’ Then
come such pitiful sobs that I awake again. I have come to regard the man
lost in the cave as myself, and while waiting to hear him call I have
tried to invent a plan for his rescue, and wondered if you and Barker
would not help me. Perhaps this is a premonition of my future; it may be
that after I am dead, it will be my punishment to wander in a dark and
gloomy place, unable to die, but forever calling, ‘Help! help! I am
lost.’
“I have thought, too, that it is possible, when I am sick and tired from
wandering about and calling for help, always expecting that rescue is
near at hand, that suddenly a light so great as to dazzle my poor eyes
will appear; that I shall be permitted to see a beautiful place, with
running streams and shady paths under the trees, and that I shall
realize that it is the eternal city.
“As I look, Mateel and Bragg, attired in raiment befitting their new
condition, will appear, happy in their perfected love. My imprisonment
in that awful place will have unmanned me so much that I shall cry to
them, ‘Help! help! I am lost!’ but they will not be permitted to hear,
and when I stagger toward the blessed light, the figures will disappear,
and I shall fall on my face in the darkness.”
He always talked of the cave and the vision in such a mournful, hopeless
way, that it greatly affected me, but he would soon rally, and become
cheerful again, as though I had a right to expect that of him in return
for my attention. He talked in this strain a great deal, and seemed to
take more interest in it than in anything else, or it may have been a
fascination which he could not avoid. Every evening when I came in he
had a new experience with the cave or the vision to relate, and I
shudder yet when I remember his descriptions of the man who was always
wandering in the dark and awful place his fancy had created, and who was
always calling for help which never came.
Although he was as much a mystery to me as ever, I never looked at him
that I could not see his love for me. I did no more for him than anyone
would have done under the same circumstances, but he talked about it a
great deal, and expressed his gratitude that he had one friend in the
world, in spite of his disgrace and crime.
Very often I assured him of the pleasure it gave me to be of service to
him, and the keen regrets I felt that I could not do more, and at these
times he turned his head away, and I believed that tears were in his
eyes. I can never explain the sympathy and affection I felt for him
while he was in prison, for, knowing him as I did, I could not help
feeling that he was justified, and when I saw that he took no interest
in the plans I proposed for his escaping the consequences, hope died
within me, and I felt that when the time came, he would acknowledge his
guilt, and ask me as his last request to attend him on the scaffold.
Further than his remark that he would give his own life for the one he
had taken, he but barely mentioned the tragedy in any way, and seemed
only to be waiting to keep his oath.
Inasmuch as the coroner’s jury had not yet assembled to listen to
evidence in the case, the only witness being too ill to attend, I could
not conjecture what course he would adopt when called upon to express
himself, and I was afraid to ask him. He would not see the attorneys I
had selected to advise me, saying in excuse that he was not ready, or
that whatever I did represented him, so that I seemed to be the culprit
rather than Jo, for I worried more about it, and was oftener in despair.
Only once during his confinement did he refer to the causes leading to
the tragedy in the woods. I had been reading to him until far into the
night, with the light between us as we lay on the rough prison cots,
when he interrupted me by inquiring:--
“Are you quite sure that you fully forgive me for my desperate crime?”
“Yes, Jo.”
“I might have been a credit to you instead of a disgrace had I acted
differently,” he said, turning on his side to look at me. “When you were
reading just now I thought of the afternoon in Fairview when we went out
to the hayloft to talk of our future, after it was announced that I was
to go to Damon Barker’s to live, and I thought that while we have turned
out very much as we hoped we should, you were brave and patient in your
sorrow, while I was utterly cast down by mine and ruined. Do you forgive
me for that?”
“Yes, Jo; everything. I love you so much that I cannot think of your
faults.”
He turned on his back again, and remained quiet so long that I, too,
thought of the Sunday afternoon in Fairview, and of what he had said. Jo
was evidently thinking of the same thing, for at last he continued:--
“I remember of your mother saying to me once that she believed you and I
would grow up into brave and honorable men; men who would love their
wives and children instead of treating them as they were treated in
Fairview, and I feel very guilty now that I realize that she was
mistaken in her opinion of me. It would have been genuine bravery had I
conquered my horror of the letter, my hate for Clinton Bragg, and made
Mateel love me in spite of everything; but I did not know what the word
meant then, though I do now, and your mother probably meant something
like that. My boyhood was so wretched that I expected relief from
wretchedness when I was married, but perhaps I should have known that
unhappiness attends every condition in life, and that bravery and
nobility consists in forgiving and forgetting, together with gentleness
and capacity. My life has been one long mistake; I should think you
would find it hard to forgive that, after expecting so much of me.”
“No, Jo; not at all hard. If you are entitled to charity from me, I gave
it without knowing it, for I only think of you to regret that a man so
worthy has been so unfortunate. I never reproached you in my life.”
“Although I believe you forgive me fully,” he continued, “I cannot
forgive myself, though I confess my weakness, and say that I always did
the best I could. I conquered everything except shame over the contents
of the letter and hate at the sight of Bragg. These dragged me down as
discontent dragged John Westlock down; perhaps any man could be ruined
if attacked at the right place.”
Wiser men than you, Jo, are of that opinion, and I regarded it as the
most eloquent defence he had ever made. Those who believe in their own
strength have great charity for themselves and none at all for others,
but those of us who are more candid, and learned in the world’s affairs,
acknowledge our own weakness in admitting the weakness of others.
“I am satisfied now that I made a mistake in thinking of love as it
should be, not as it really is, and I unwisely built on that foundation,
but I blame no one for it; a man who is ignorant should submit to the
penalties without complaint. But I shall always think that I should have
been very contented had it turned out as I expected; I shall always
justify myself with the belief that had Mateel brought as much
enthusiasm into our marriage contract as I did, we should have been of
great use to each other. I hope you will not think hard of me if I say
that she had the experience which I should have had, while I had the
innocence and faith in marriage which a wife should possess.”
He had little to say after that, and tossed about uneasily in his bed
after I put out the light, which was unusual, for I had frequently
remarked with surprise that he slept well in the jail, and seemed
greatly refreshed by it. Perhaps he had never permitted himself to think
of his wife until that evening since he had struggled with Bragg in the
woods, and the indiscretion had brought on his old trouble, for if I
dozed off, and wakened again, I found him pacing up and down the floor,
as he had done so many nights in the house at the mill when he lived
alone in it. As I watched him I tried to compute the number of weary
miles he had travelled in this manner since the separation; up and down,
from the right to the left, carrying his aching and troubled head, which
refused him peace night and day; thinking, thinking, thinking; up and
down from the right to the left; so the long road was travelled, growing
more painful and difficult every day. I followed the road he had been
travelling to where it ended and encountered a jail, in which Jo
Erring’s hope and ambition, the pride and comfort of my boyhood, were
locked up, with my old friend, changed but little, pacing wearily up and
down to see that there was no escape. Oh, Jo, my dearest friend, is
there nothing I can do to lighten your sorrow? Must I watch you
travelling a road which grows more suggestive of the damp of graves with
every day’s journey without putting out a hand to help you? Will you
continue to put me off with no other reply than tears when I offer to
help you until we enter the churchyard together, and I come out alone?
Getting up from my bed, I joined him in the walk, putting my arm through
his, and as we paced up and down, encountering a cruel stone wall at
every turn, I bitterly accused myself that I had not been with him more
during his trouble, but when I mentioned it I knew that he believed I
had done all I could, though he did not speak a word, and I could not
see his face; I knew it, though I did not know why. Up and down, from
the right to the left; I thought half the night had passed before he
returned to his bed, and even then I was convinced that he ceased
walking more out of consideration for me than because he was tired. When
the first rays of morning light came straggling into the dismal place I
wakened again, but Jo was not in bed; he had climbed up to the grated
window, and was looking out in the direction of Fairview, motionless as
a statue. What was in his mind will never be known, but I have always
believed that it was a longing to see his wife and the house at the
mill. I fell into a light sleep again, and when it was broad daylight,
he was still looking longingly toward Fairview, the little world in
which his simple life had been passed; where he had created and
destroyed, and where he hoped to find rest at last in the shadow of the
old church.