HIDING THE EVIDENCE
I
It is New Year's eve. An air of pleasant anticipation fills the prison;
to-morrow's feast is the exciting subject of conversation. Roast beef
will be served for dinner, with a goodly loaf of currant bread, and two
cigars for dessert. Extra men have been drafted for the kitchen; they
flit from block to yard, looking busy and important, yet halting every
passer-by to whisper with secretive mien, "Don't say I told you. Sweet
potatoes to-morrow!" The younger inmates seem skeptical, and strive to
appear indifferent, the while they hover about the yard door, nostrils
expanded, sniffing the appetizing wafts from the kitchen. Here and there
an old-timer grumbles: we should have had sweet "murphies" for
Christmas. "'Too high-priced,' Sandy said," they sneer in ill humor. The
new arrivals grow uneasy; perhaps they are still too expensive? Some
study the market quotations on the delicacy. But the chief cook drops in
to visit "his" boy, and confides to the rangeman that the sweet potatoes
are a "sure thing," just arrived and counted. The happy news is
whispered about, with confident assurance, yet tinged with anxiety.
There is great rejoicing among the men. Only Sol, the lifer, is
querulous: he doesn't care a snap about the "extra feed"--stomach still
sour from the Christmas dinner--and, anyhow, it only makes the
week-a-day "grub" more disgusting.
The rules are somewhat relaxed. The hallmen converse freely; the yard
gangs lounge about and cluster in little groups, that separate at the
approach of a superior officer. Men from the bakery and kitchen run in
and out of the block, their pockets bulging suspiciously. "What are you
after?" the doorkeeper halts them. "Oh, just to my cell; forgot my
handkerchief." The guard answers the sly wink with an indulgent smile.
"All right; go ahead, but don't be long." If "Papa" Mitchell is about,
he thunders at the chief cook, his bosom swelling with packages: "Wotch
'er got there, eh? Big family of kids _you_ have, Jim. First thing you
know, you'll swipe the hinges off th' kitchen door." The envied bakery
and kitchen employees supply their friends with extra holiday tidbits,
and the solitaries dance in glee at the sight of the savory dainty, the
fresh brown bread generously dotted with sweet currants. It is the
prelude of the promised culinary symphony.
* * * * *
The evening is cheerful with mirth and jollity. The prisoners at first
converse in whispers, then become bolder, and talk louder through the
bars. As night approaches, the cell-house rings with unreserved hilarity
and animation,--light-hearted chaff mingled with coarse jests and droll
humor. A wag on the upper tier banters the passing guards, his quips and
sallies setting the adjoining cells in a roar, and inspiring imitation.
* * * * *
Slowly the babel of tongues subsides, as the gong sounds the order to
retire. Some one shouts to a distant friend, "Hey, Bill, are you there?
Ye-es? Stay there!" It grows quiet, when suddenly my neighbor on the
left sing-songs, "Fellers, who's goin' to sit up with me to greet New
Year's." A dozen voices yell their acceptance. "Little Frenchy," the
spirited grayhead on the top tier, vociferates shrilly, "Me, too, boys.
I'm viz you all right."
All is still in the cell-house, save for a wild Indian whoop now and
then by the vigil-keeping boys. The block breathes in heavy sleep; loud
snoring sounds from the gallery above. Only the irregular tread of the
felt-soled guards falls muffled in the silence.
* * * * *
The clock in the upper rotunda strikes the midnight hour. A siren on the
Ohio intones its deep-chested bass. Another joins it, then another.
Shrill factory whistles pierce the boom of cannon; the sweet chimes of a
nearby church ring in joyful melody between. Instantly the prison is
astir. Tin cans rattle against iron bars, doors shake in fury, beds and
chairs squeak and screech, pans slam on the floor, shoes crash against
the walls with a dull thud, and rebound noisily on the stone. Unearthly
yelling, shouting, and whistling rend the air; an inventive prisoner
beats a wild tatto with a tin pan on the table--a veritable Bedlam of
frenzy has broken loose in both wings. The prisoners are celebrating the
advent of the New Year.
* * * * *
The voices grow hoarse and feeble. The tin clanks languidly against the
iron, the grating of the doors sounds weaker. The men are exhausted with
the unwonted effort. The guards stumbled up the galleries, their forms
swaying unsteadily in the faint flicker of the gaslight. In maudlin
tones they command silence, and bid the men retire to bed. The younger,
more daring, challenge the order with husky howls and catcalls,--a
defiant shout, a groan, and all is quiet.
Daybreak wakes the turmoil and uproar. For twenty-four hours the
long-repressed animal spirits are rampant. No music or recreation honors
the New Year; the day is passed in the cell. The prisoners, securely
barred and locked, are permitted to vent their pain and sorrow, their
yearnings and hopes, in a Saturnalia of tumult.
II
The month of January brings sedulous activity. Shops and block are
overhauled, every nook and corner is scoured, and a special squad
detailed to whitewash the cells. The yearly clean-up not being due till
spring, I conclude from the unusual preparations that the expected visit
of the Board of Charities is approaching.
* * * * *
The prisoners are agog with the coming investigation. The solitaries and
prospective witnesses are on the _qui vive_, anxious lines on their
faces. Some manifest fear of the ill will of the Warden, as the probable
result of their testimony. I seek to encourage them by promising to
assume full responsibility, but several men withdraw their previous
consent. The safety of my data causes me grave concern, in view of the
increasing frequency of searches. Deliberation finally resolves itself
into the bold plan of secreting my most valuable material in the cell
set aside for the use of the officers. It is the first cell on the
range; it is never locked, and is ignored at searches because it is not
occupied by prisoners. The little bundle, protected with a piece of
oilskin procured from the dispensary, soon reposes in the depths of the
waste pipe. A stout cord secures it from being washed away by the rush
of water, when the privy is in use. I call Officer Mitchell's attention
to the dusty condition of the cell, and offer to sweep it every morning
and afternoon. He accedes in an offhand manner, and twice daily I
surreptitiously examine the tension of the water-soaked cord, renewing
the string repeatedly.
Other material and copies of my "exhibits" are deposited with several
trustworthy friends on the range. Everything is ready for the
investigation, and we confidently await the coming of the Board of
Charities.
III
The cell-house rejoices at the absence of Scot Woods. The Block Captain
of the morning has been "reduced to the ranks." The disgrace is
signalized by his appearance on the wall, pacing the narrow path in the
chilly winter blasts. The guards look upon the assignment as "punishment
duty" for incurring the displeasure of the Warden. The keepers smile at
the indiscreet Scot interfering with the self-granted privileges of
"Southside" Johnny, one of the Warden's favorites. The runner who
afforded me an opportunity to see Inspector Nevin, came out victorious
in the struggle with Woods. The latter was upbraided by Captain Wright
in the presence of Johnny, who is now officially authorized in his
perquisites. Sufficient time was allowed to elapse, to avoid comment,
whereupon the officer was withdrawn from the block.
I regret his absence. A severe disciplinarian, Woods was yet very
exceptional among the guards, in that he sought to discourage the spying
of prisoners on each other. He frowned upon the trusties, and strove to
treat the men impartially.
Mitchell has been changed to the morning shift to fill the vacancy made
by the transfer of Woods. The charge of the block in the afternoon
devolves upon Officer McIlvaine, a very corpulent man, with sharp,
steely eyes. He is considerably above the average warder in
intelligence, but extremely fond of Jasper, who now acts as his
assistant, the obese turnkey rarely leaving his seat at the front desk.
* * * * *
Changes of keepers, transfers from the shops to the two cell-houses are
frequent; the new guards are alert and active. Almost daily the Warden
visits the ranges, leaving in his wake more stringent discipline. Rarely
do I find a chance to pause at the cells; I keep in touch with the men
through the medium of notes. But one day, several fights breaking out in
the shops, the block officers are requisitioned to assist in placing the
combatants in the punishment cells. The front is deserted, and I improve
the opportunity to talk to the solitaries. Jasper, "Southside," and Bob
Runyon, the "politicians," also converse at the doors, Bob standing
suspiciously close to the bars. Suddenly Officer McIlvaine appears in
the yard door. His face is flushed, his eyes filling with wrath as they
fasten on the men at the cells.
"Hey, you fellows, get away from there!" he shouts. "Confound you all,
the 'Old Man' just gave me the deuce; too much talking in the block. I
won't stand for it, that's all," he adds petulantly.
Within half an hour I am haled before the Warden. He looks worried, deep
lines of anxiety about his mouth.
"You are reported for standing at the doors," he snarls at me. "What are
you always telling the men?"
"It's the first time the officer--"
"Nothing of the kind," he interrupts; "you're always talking to the
prisoners. They are in punishment, and you have no business with them."
"Why was _I_ picked out? Others talk, too."
"Ye-e-s?" he drawls sarcastically; then, turning to the keeper, he
says: "How is that, Officer? The man is charging you with neglect of
duty."
"I am not charging--"
"Silence! What have you to say, Mr. McIlvaine?"
The guard reddens with suppressed rage. "It isn't true, Captain," he
replies; "there was no one except Berkman."
"You hear what the officer says? You are always breaking the rules.
You're plotting; I know you,--pulling a dozen wires. You are inimical to
the management of the institution. But I will break your connections.
Officers, take him directly to the South Wing, you understand? He is not
to return to his cell. Have it searched at once, thoroughly. Lock him
up."
"Warden, what for?" I demand. "I have not done anything to lose my
position. Talking is not such a serious charge."
"Very serious, very serious. You're too dangerous on the range. I'll
spoil your infernal schemes by removing you from the North Block. You've
been there too long."
"I want to remain there."
"The more reason to take you away. That will do now."
"No, it won't," I burst out. "I'll stay where I am."
"Remove him, Mr. McIlvaine."
I am taken to the South Wing and locked up in a vacant cell, neglected
and ill-smelling. It is Number 2, Range M--the first gallery, facing the
yard; a "double" cell, somewhat larger than those of the North Block,
and containing a small window. The walls are damp and bare, save for the
cardboard of printed rules and the prison calendar. It is the 27th of
February, 1896, but the calendar is of last year, indicating that the
cell has not been occupied since the previous November. It contains the
usual furnishings: bedstead and soiled straw mattress, a small table and
a chair. It feels cold and dreary.
In thought I picture the guards ransacking my former cell. They will not
discover anything: my material is well hidden. The Warden evidently
suspects my plans: he fears my testimony before the investigation
committee. My removal is to sever my connections, and now it is
impossible for me to reach my data. I must return to the North Block;
otherwise all our plans are doomed to fail. I can't leave my friends on
the range in the lurch: some of them have already signified to the
Chaplain their desire to testify; their statements will remain
unsupported in the absence of my proofs. I must rejoin them. I have told
the Warden that I shall remain where I was, but he probably ignored it
as an empty boast.
I consider the situation, and resolve to "break up housekeeping." It is
the sole means of being transferred to the other cell-house. It will
involve the loss of the grade, and a trip to the dungeon; perhaps even a
fight with the keepers: the guards, fearing the broken furniture will be
used for defence, generally rush the prisoner with blackjacks. But my
return to the North Wing will be assured,--no man in stripes can remain
in the South Wing.
Alert for an approaching step, I untie my shoes, producing a scrap of
paper, a pencil, and a knife. I write a hurried note to "K," briefly
informing him of the new developments, and intimating that our data are
safe. Guardedly I attract the attention of the runner on the floor
beneath; it is Bill Say, through whom Carl occasionally communicates
with "G." The note rolled into a little ball, I shoot between the bars
to the waiting prisoner. Now everything is prepared.
It is near supper time; the men are coming back from work. It would be
advisable to wait till everybody is locked in, and the shop officers
depart home. There will then be only three guards on duty in the block.
But I am in a fever of indignation and anger. Furiously snatching up the
chair, I start "breaking up."