"AND BY ALL FORGOT. WE ROT AND ROT"
I
A year of solitary has wasted my strength, and left me feeble and
languid. My expectations of relief from complete isolation have been
disappointed. Existence is grim with despair, as day by day I feel my
vitality ebbing; the long nights are tortured with insomnia; my body is
racked with constant pains. All my heart is dark.
A glimmer of light breaks through the clouds, as the session of the
Pardon Board approaches. I clutch desperately at the faint hope of a
favorable decision. With feverish excitement I pore over the letters of
the Girl, breathing cheer and encouraging news. My application is
supported by numerous labor bodies, she writes. Comrade Harry Kelly has
been tireless in my behalf; the success of his efforts to arouse public
sympathy augurs well for the application. The United Labor League of
Pennsylvania, representing over a hundred thousand toilers, has passed a
resolution favoring my release. Together with other similar expressions,
individual and collective, it will be laid before the Pardon Board, and
it is confidently expected that the authorities will not ignore the
voice of organized labor. In a ferment of anxiety and hope I count the
days and hours, irritable with impatience and apprehension as I near
the fateful moment. Visions of liberty flutter before me, glorified by
the meeting with the Girl and my former companions, and I thrill with
the return to the world, as I restlessly pace the cell in the silence of
the night.
The thought of my prison friends obtrudes upon my visions. With the
tenderness born of common misery I think of their fate, resolving to
brighten their lives with little comforts and letters, that mean so much
to every prisoner. My first act in liberty shall be in memory of the men
grown close to me with the kinship of suffering, the unfortunates
endeared by awakened sympathy and understanding. For so many years I
have shared with them the sorrows and the few joys of penitentiary life,
I feel almost guilty to leave them. But henceforth their cause shall be
mine, a vital part of the larger, social cause. It will be my constant
endeavor to ameliorate their condition, and I shall strain every effort
for my little friend Felipe; I must secure his release. How happy the
boy will be to join me in liberty!... The flash of the dark lantern
dispels my fantasies, and again I walk the cell in vehement misgiving
and fervent hope of to-morrow's verdict.
At noon I am called to the Warden. He must have received word from the
Board,--I reflect on the way. The Captain lounges in the armchair, his
eyes glistening, his seamed face yellow and worried. With an effort I
control my impatience as he offers me a seat. He bids the guard depart,
and a wild hope trembles in me. He is not afraid,--perhaps good news!
"Sit down, Berkman," he speaks with unwonted affability. "I have just
received a message from Harrisburg. Your attorney requests me to inform
you that the Pardon Board has now reached your case. It is probably
under consideration at this moment."
I remain silent. The Warden scans me closely.
"You would return to New York, if released?" he inquires.
"Yes."
"What are your plans?"
"Well, I have not formed any yet."
"You would go back to your Anarchist friends?"
"Certainly."
"You have not changed your views?"
"By no means."
A turnkey enters. "Captain, on official business," he reports.
"Wait here a moment, Berkman," the Warden remarks, withdrawing. The
officer remains.
In a few minutes the Warden returns, motioning to the guard to leave.
"I have just been informed that the Board has refused you a hearing."
I feel the cold perspiration running down my back. The prison rumors of
the Warden's interference flash through my mind. The Board promised a
rehearing at the previous application,--why this refusal?
"Warden," I exclaim, "you objected to my pardon!"
"Such action lies with the Inspectors," he replies evasively. The
peculiar intonation strengthens my suspicions.
A feeling of hopelessness possesses me. I sense the Warden's gaze
fastened on me, and I strive to control my emotion.
"How much time have you yet?" he asks.
"Over eleven years."
"How long have you been locked up this time?"
"Sixteen months."
"There is a vacancy on your range. The assistant hallman is going home
to-morrow. You would like the position?" he eyes me curiously.
"Yes."
"I'll consider it."
I rise weakly, but he detains me: "By the way, Berkman, look at this."
He holds up a small wooden box, disclosing several casts of plaster of
paris. I wonder at the strange proceeding.
"You know what they are?" he inquires.
"Plaster casts, I think."
"Of what? For what purpose? Look at them well, now."
I glance indifferently at the molds bearing the clear impression of an
eagle.
"It's the cast of a silver dollar, I believe."
"I am glad you speak truthfully. I had no doubt you would know. I
examined your library record and found that you have drawn books on
metallurgy."
"Oh, you suspect me of this?" I flare up.
"No, not this time," he smiles in a suggestive manner. "You have drawn
practically every book from the library. I had a talk with the Chaplain,
and he is positive that you would not be guilty of counterfeiting,
because it would be robbing poor people."
"The reading of my letters must have familiarized the Chaplain with
Anarchist ideas."
"Yes, Mr. Milligan thinks highly of you. You might antagonize the
management, but he assures me you would not abet such a crime."
"I am glad to hear it."
"You would protect the Federal Government, then?"
"I don't understand you."
"You would protect the people from being cheated by counterfeit money?"
"The government and the people are not synonymous."
Flushing slightly, and frowning, he asks: "But you would protect the
poor?"
"Yes, certainly."
His face brightens. "Oh, quite so, quite so," he smiles reassuringly.
"These molds were found hidden in the North Block. No; not in a cell,
but in the hall. We suspect a certain man. It's Ed Sloane; he is located
two tiers above you. Now, Berkman, the management is very anxious to get
to the bottom of this matter. It's a crime against the people. You may
have heard Sloane speaking to his neighbors about this."
"No. I am sure you suspect an innocent person."
"How so?"
"Sloane is a very sick man. It's the last thing he'd think of."
"Well, we have certain reasons for suspecting him. If you should happen
to hear anything, just rap on the door and inform the officers you are
ill. They will be instructed to send for me at once."
"I can't do it, Warden."
"Why not?" he demands.
"I am not a spy."
"Why, certainly not, Berkman. I should not ask you to be. But you have
friends on the range, you may learn something. Well, think the matter
over," he adds, dismissing me.
Bitter disappointment at the action of the Board, indignation at the
Warden's suggestion, struggle within me as I reach my cell. The guard is
about to lock me in, when the Deputy Warden struts into the block.
"Officer, unlock him," he commands. "Berkman, the Captain says you are
to be assistant rangeman. Report to Mr. McIlvaine for a broom."
II
The unexpected relief strengthens the hope of liberty. Local methods are
of no avail, but now my opportunities for escape are more favorable.
Considerable changes have taken place during my solitary, and the first
necessity is to orient myself. Some of my confidants have been released;
others were transferred during the investigation period to the South
Wing, to disrupt my connections. New men are about the cell-house and I
miss many of my chums. The lower half of the bottom ranges A and K is
now exclusively occupied by the insane, their numbers greatly augmented.
Poor Wingie has disappeared. Grown violently insane, he was repeatedly
lodged in the dungeon, and finally sent to an asylum. There my
unfortunate friend had died after two months. His cell is now occupied
by "Irish Mike," a good-natured boy, turned imbecile by solitary. He
hops about on all fours, bleating: "baah, baah, see the goat. I'm the
goat, baah, baah." I shudder at the fate I have escaped, as I look at
the familiar faces that were so bright with intelligence and youth, now
staring at me from the "crank row," wild-eyed and corpse-like, their
minds shattered, their bodies wasted to a shadow. My heart bleeds as I
realize that Sid and Nick fail to recognize me, their memory a total
blank; and Patsy, the Pittsburgh bootblack, stands at the door,
motionless, his eyes glassy, lips frozen in an inane smile.
From cell to cell I pass the graveyard of the living dead, the silence
broken only by intermittent savage yells and the piteous bleating of
Mike. The whole day these men are locked in, deprived of exercise and
recreation, their rations reduced because of "delinquency." New
"bughouse cases" are continually added from the ranks of the prisoners
forced to remain idle and kept in solitary. The sight of the terrible
misery almost gives a touch of consolation to my grief over Johnny
Davis. My young friend had grown ill in the foul basket. He begged to be
taken to the hospital; but his condition did not warrant it, the
physician said. Moreover, he was "in punishment." Poor boy, how he must
have suffered! They found him dead on the floor of his cell.
* * * * *
My body renews its strength with the exercise and greater liberty of the
range. The subtle hope of the Warden to corrupt me has turned to my
advantage. I smile with scorn at his miserable estimate of human nature,
determined by a lifetime of corruption and hypocrisy. How saddening is
the shallowness of popular opinion! Warden Wright is hailed as a
progressive man, a deep student of criminology, who has introduced
modern methods in the treatment of prisoners. As an expression of
respect and appreciation, the National Prison Association has selected
Captain Wright as its delegate to the International Congress at
Brussels, which is to take place in 1900. And all the time the Warden is
designing new forms of torture, denying the pleadings of the idle men
for exercise, and exerting his utmost efforts to increase sickness and
insanity, in the attempt to force the repeal of the "convict labor" law.
The puerility of his judgment fills me with contempt: public sentiment
in regard to convict competition with outside labor has swept the State;
the efforts of the Warden, disastrous though they be to the inmates, are
doomed to failure. No less fatuous is the conceit of his boasted
experience of thirty years. The so confidently uttered suspicion of Ed
Sloane in regard to the counterfeiting charge, has proved mere
lip-wisdom. The real culprit is Bob Runyon, the trusty basking in the
Warden's special graces. His intimate friend, John Smith, the witness
and protege of Torrane, has confided to me the whole story, in a final
effort to "set himself straight." He even exhibited to me the coins made
by Runyon, together with the original molds, cast in the trusty's cell.
And poor Sloane, still under surveillance, is slowly dying of neglect,
the doctor charging him with eating soap to produce symptoms of illness.
III
The year passes in a variety of interests. The Girl and several
newly-won correspondents hold the thread of outside life. The Twin has
gradually withdrawn from our New York circles, and is now entirely
obscured on my horizon. But the Girl is staunch and devoted, and I
keenly anticipate her regular mail. She keeps me informed of events in
the international labor movement, news of which is almost entirely
lacking in the daily press. We discuss the revolutionary expressions of
the times, and I learn more about Pallas and Luccheni, whose acts of the
previous winter had thrown Europe into a ferment of agitation. I hunger
for news of the agitation against the tortures in Montjuich, the revival
of the Inquisition rousing in me the spirit of retribution and deep
compassion for my persecuted comrades in the Spanish bastille. Beneath
the suppressed tone of her letters, I read the Girl's suffering and
pain, and feel the heart pangs of her unuttered personal sorrows.
Presently I am apprised that some prominent persons interested in my
case are endeavoring to secure Carnegie's signature for a renewed
application to the Board of Pardons. The Girl conveys the information
guardedly; the absence of comment discovers to me the anguish of soul
the step has caused her. What terrible despair had given birth to the
suggestion, I wonder. If the project of the underground escape had been
put in operation, we should not have had to suffer such humiliation. Why
have my friends ignored the detailed plan I had submitted to them
through Carl? I am confident of its feasibility and success, if we can
muster the necessary skill and outlay. The animosity of the prison
authorities precludes the thought of legal release. The underground
route, very difficult and expensive though it be, is the sole hope. It
must be realized. My _sub rosa_ communications suspended during the
temporary absence of Mr. Schraube, I hint these thoughts in official
mail to the Girl, but refrain from objecting to the Carnegie idea.
Other matters of interest I learn from correspondence with friends in
Philadelphia and Pittsburgh. The frequent letters of Carl, still
reminiscent of his sojourn at Riverside, thrill with the joy of active
propaganda and of his success as public speaker. Voltairine de Cleyre
and Sarah Patton lend color to my existence by discursive epistles of
great charm and rebellious thought. Often I pause to wonder at the
miracle of my mail passing the censorial eyes. But the Chaplain is a
busy man; careful perusal of every letter would involve too great a
demand upon his time. The correspondence with Mattie I turn over to my
neighbor Pasquale, a young Italian serving sixteen years, who has
developed a violent passion for the pretty face on the photograph. The
roguish eyes and sweet lips exert but a passing impression upon me. My
thoughts turn to Johnny, my young friend in the convict grave. Deep snow
is on the ground; it must be cold beneath the sod. The white shroud is
pressing, pressing heavily upon the lone boy, like the suffocating night
of the basket cell. But in the spring little blades of green will
sprout, and perhaps a rosebud will timidly burst and flower, all white,
and perfume the air, and shed its autumn tears upon the convict grave of
Johnny.