THE TUNNEL
I
The adverse decision of the Board of Pardons terminates all hope of
release by legal means. Had the Board refused to commute my sentence
after hearing the argument, another attempt could be made later on. But
the refusal to grant a rehearing, the crafty stratagem to circumvent
even the presentation of my case, reveals the duplicity of the previous
promise and the guilty consciousness of the illegality of my multiplied
sentences. The authorities are determined that I should remain in the
prison, confident that it will prove my tomb. Realizing this fires my
defiance, and all the stubborn resistance of my being. There is no hope
of surviving my term. At best, even with the full benefit of the
commutation time--which will hardly be granted me, in view of the
attitude of the prison management--I still have over nine years to
serve. But existence is becoming increasingly more unbearable; long
confinement and the solitary have drained my vitality. To endure the
nine years is almost a physical impossibility. I must therefore
concentrate all my energy and efforts upon escape.
My position as rangeman is of utmost advantage. I have access to every
part of the cell-house, excepting the "crank row." The incident of
feeding the insane has put an embargo upon my communication with them, a
special hallboy having been assigned to care for the deranged. But
within my area on the range are the recent arrivals and the sane
solitaries; the division of my duties with the new man merely
facilitates my task, and affords me more leisure.
* * * * *
The longing for liberty constantly besets my mind, suggesting various
projects. The idea of escape daily strengthens into the determination
born of despair. It possesses me with an exclusive passion, shaping
every thought, molding every action. By degrees I curtail correspondence
with my prison chums, that I may devote the solitude of the evening to
the development of my plans. The underground tunnel masters my mind with
the boldness of its conception, its tremendous possibilities. But the
execution! Why do my friends regard the matter so indifferently? Their
tepidity irritates me. Often I lash myself into wild anger with Carl for
having failed to impress my comrades with the feasibility of the plan,
to fire them with the enthusiasm of activity. My _sub rosa_ route is
sporadic and uncertain. Repeatedly I have hinted to my friends the
bitter surprise I feel at their provoking indifference; but my
reproaches have been studiously ignored. I cannot believe that
conditions in the movement preclude the realization of my suggestion.
These things have been accomplished in Russia. Why not in America? The
attempt should be made, if only for its propagandistic effect. True, the
project will require considerable outlay, and the work of skilled and
trustworthy men. Have we no such in our ranks? In Parsons and Lum, this
country has produced her Zheliabovs; is the genius of America not equal
to a Hartman?[48] The tacit skepticism of my correspondents pain me, and
rouses my resentment. They evidently lack faith in the judgment of "one
who has been so long separated" from their world, from the interests and
struggles of the living. The consciousness of my helplessness without
aid from the outside gnaws at me, filling my days with bitterness. But I
will persevere: I will compel their attention and their activity; aye,
their enthusiasm!
[48] Hartman engineered the tunnel beneath the Moscow railway,
undermined in an unsuccessful attempt to kill Alexander
II., in 1880.
With utmost zeal I cultivate the acquaintance of Tony. The months of
frequent correspondence and occasional personal meetings have developed
a spirit of congeniality and good will. I exert my ingenuity to create
opportunities for stolen interviews and closer comradeship. Through the
aid of a friendly officer, I procure for Tony the privilege of assisting
his rangeman after shop hours, thus enabling him to communicate with me
to greater advantage. Gradually we become intimate, and I learn the
story of his life, rich in adventure and experience. An Alsatian, small
and wiry, Tony is a man of quick wit, with a considerable dash of the
Frenchman about him. He is intelligent and daring--the very man to carry
out my plan.
For days I debate in my mind the momentous question: shall I confide the
project to Tony? It would be placing myself in his power, jeopardizing
the sole hope of my life. Yet it is the only way; I must rely on my
intuition of the man's worth. My nights are sleepless, excruciating with
the agony of indecision. But my friend's sentence is nearing completion.
We shall need time for discussion and preparation, for thorough
consideration of every detail. At last I resolve to take the decisive
step, and next day I reveal the secret to Tony.
His manner allays apprehension. Serene and self-possessed, he listens
gravely to my plan, smiles with apparent satisfaction, and briefly
announces that it shall be done. Only the shining eyes of my reticent
comrade betray his elation at the bold scheme, and his joy in the
adventure. He is confident that the idea is feasible, suggesting the
careful elaboration of details, and the invention of a cipher to insure
greater safety for our correspondence. The precaution is necessary; it
will prove of inestimable value upon his release.
With great circumspection the cryptogram is prepared, based on a
discarded system of German shorthand, but somewhat altered, and further
involved by the use of words of our own coinage. The cipher, thus
perfected, will defy the skill of the most expert.
But developments within the prison necessitate changes in the project.
The building operations near the bathhouse destroy the serviceability of
the latter for my purpose. We consider several new routes, but soon
realize that lack of familiarity with the construction of the
penitentiary gas and sewer systems may defeat our success. There are no
means of procuring the necessary information: Tony is confined to the
shop, while I am never permitted out of the cell-house. In vain I strive
to solve the difficulty; weeks pass without bringing light.
My Providence comes unexpectedly, in the guise of a fight in the yard.
The combatants are locked up on my range. One of them proves to be
"Mac," an aged prisoner serving a third term. During his previous
confinement, he had filled the position of fireman, one of his duties
consisting in the weekly flushing of the sewers. He is thoroughly
familiar with the underground piping of the yard, but his reputation
among the inmates is tinged with the odor of sycophancy. He is, however,
the only means of solving my difficulty, and I diligently set myself to
gain his friendship. I lighten his solitary by numerous expressions of
my sympathy, often secretly supplying him with little extras procured
from my kitchen friends. The loquacious old man is glad of an
opportunity to converse, and I devote every propitious moment to
listening to his long-winded stories of the "great jobs" he had
accomplished in "his" time, the celebrated "guns" with whom he had
associated, the "great hauls" he had made and "blowed in with th'
fellers." I suffer his chatter patiently, encouraging the recital of his
prison experiences, and leading him on to dwell upon his last "bit." He
becomes reminiscent of his friends in Riverside, bewails the early
graves of some, others "gone bugs," and rejoices over his good chum
Patty McGraw managing to escape. The ever-interesting subject gives
"Mac" a new start, and he waxes enthusiastic over the ingenuity of
Patty, while I express surprise that he himself had never attempted to
take French leave. "What!" he bristles up, "think I'm such a dummy?" and
with great detail he discloses his plan, "'way in th' 80's" to swim
through the sewer. I scoff at his folly, "You must have been a chump,
Mac, to think it could be done," I remark. "I was, was I? What do you
know about the piping, eh? Now, let me tell you. Just wait," and,
snatching up his library slate, he draws a complete diagram of the
prison sewerage. In the extreme southwest corner of the yard he
indicates a blind underground alley.
"What's this?" I ask, in surprise.
"Nev'r knew _that_, did yer? It's a little tunn'l, connectin' th'
cellar with th' females, see? Not a dozen men in th' dump know 't; not
ev'n a good many screws. Passage ain't been used fer a long time."
In amazement I scan the diagram. I had noticed a little trap door at the
very point in the yard indicated in the drawing, and I had often
wondered what purpose it might serve. My heart dances with joy at the
happy solution of my difficulty. The "blind alley" will greatly
facilitate our work. It is within fifteen feet, or twenty at most, of
the southwestern wall. Its situation is very favorable: there are no
shops in the vicinity; the place is never visited by guards or
prisoners.
The happy discovery quickly matures the details of my plan: a house is
to be rented opposite the southern wall, on Sterling Street. Preferably
it is to be situated very near to the point where the wall adjoins the
cell-house building. Dug in a direct line across the street, and
underneath the south wall, the tunnel will connect with the "blind
alley." I shall manage the rest.
II
Slowly the autumn wanes. The crisp days of the Indian summer linger, as
if unwilling to depart. But I am impatient with anxiety, and long for
the winter. Another month, and Tony will be free. Time lags with tardy
step, but at last the weeks dwarf into days, and with joyful heart we
count the last hours.
To-morrow my friend will greet the sunshine. He will at once communicate
with my comrades, and urge the immediate realization of the great plan.
His self-confidence and faith will carry conviction, and stir them with
enthusiasm for the undertaking. A house is to be bought or rented
without loss of time, and the environs inspected. Perhaps operations
could not begin till spring; meanwhile funds are to be collected to
further the work. Unfortunately, the Girl, a splendid organizer, is
absent from the country. But my friends will carefully follow the
directions I have entrusted to Tony, and through him I shall keep in
touch with the developments. I have little opportunity for _sub rosa_
mail; by means of our cipher, however, we can correspond officially,
without risk of the censor's understanding, or even suspecting, the
innocent-looking flourishes scattered through the page.
With the trusted Tony my thoughts walk beyond the gates, and again and
again I rehearse every step in the project, and study every detail. My
mind dwells in the outside. In silent preoccupation I perform my duties
on the range. More rarely I converse with the prisoners: I must take
care to comply with the rules, and to retain my position. To lose it
would be disastrous to all my hopes of escape.
As I pass the vacant cell, in which I had spent the last year of my
solitary, the piteous chirping of a sparrow breaks in upon my thoughts.
The little visitor, almost frozen, hops on the bar above. My assistant
swings the duster to drive it away, but the sparrow hovers about the
door, and suddenly flutters to my shoulder. In surprise I pet the bird;
it seems quite tame. "Why, it's Dick!" the assistant exclaims. "Think of
him coming back!" my hands tremble as I examine the little bird. With
great joy I discover the faint marks of blue ink I had smeared under its
wings last summer, when the Warden had ordered my little companion
thrown out of the window. How wonderful that it should return and
recognize the old friend and the cell! Tenderly I warm and feed the
bird. What strange sights my little pet must have seen since he was
driven out into the world! what struggles and sorrows has he suffered!
The bright eyes look cheerily into mine, speaking mute confidence and
joy, while he pecks from my hand crumbs of bread and sugar. Foolish
birdie, to return to prison for shelter and food! Cold and cruel must be
the world, my little Dick; or is it friendship, that is stronger than
even love of liberty?
So may it be. Almost daily I see men pass through the gates and soon
return again, driven back by the world--even like you, little Dick. Yet
others there are who would rather go cold and hungry in freedom, than be
warm and fed in prison--even like me, little Dick. And still others
there be who would risk life and liberty for the sake of their
friendship--even like you and, I hope, Tony, little Dick.