AN ALLIANCE WITH THE BIRDS
I
The disappearance of the revolvers is shrouded in mystery. In vain I
rack my brain to fathom the precarious situation; it defies
comprehension and torments me with misgivings. Jim's certainty that the
weapons did not pass between the bars of the cellar, momentarily allays
my dread. But Tony's vehement insistence that he had delivered the
package, throws me into a panic of fear. My firm faith in the two
confidants distracts me with uncertainty and suspense. It is incredible
that Tony should seek to deceive me. Yet Jim has kept constant vigil at
the point of delivery; there is little probability of his having missed
the package. But supposing he has, what has become of it? Perhaps it
fell into some dark corner of the cellar. The place must be searched at
once.
Desperate with anxiety, I resort to the most reckless means to afford
Jim an opportunity to visit the cellar. I ransack the cell-house for old
papers and rags; with miserly hand I gather all odds and ends, broken
tools, pieces of wood, a bucketful of sawdust. Trembling with fear of
discovery, I empty the treasure into the sewer at the end of the hall,
and tightly jam the elbow of the waste pipe. The smell of excrement
fills the block, the cell privies overrun, and inundate the hall. The
stench is overpowering; steadily the water rises, threatening to flood
the cell-house. The place is in a turmoil: the solitaries shout and
rattle on the bars, the guards rush about in confusion. The Block
Captain yells, "Hey, Jasper, hurry! Call the plumber; get Jim. Quick!"
But repeated investigation of the cellar fails to disclose the weapons.
In constant dread of dire possibilities, I tremble at every step,
fancying lurking suspicion, sudden discovery, and disaster. But the days
pass; the calm of the prison routine is undisturbed, giving no
indication of untoward happening or agitation. By degrees my fears
subside. The inexplicable disappearance of the revolvers is fraught with
danger; the mystery is disquieting, but it has fortunately brought no
results, and must apparently remain unsolved.
* * * * *
Unexpectedly my fears are rearoused. Called to the desk by Officer
Mitchell for the distribution of the monthly allowance of matches, I
casually glance out of the yard door. At the extreme northwestern end,
Assistant Deputy Hopkins loiters near the wall, slowly walking on the
grass. The unusual presence of the overseer at the abandoned gate wakes
my suspicion. The singular idling of the energetic guard, his furtive
eyeing of the ground, strengthens my worst apprehensions. Something must
have happened. Are they suspecting the tunnel? But work has not been
commenced; besides, it is to terminate at the very opposite point of the
yard, fully a thousand feet distant. In perplexity I wonder at the
peculiar actions of Hopkins. Had the weapons been found, every inmate
would immediately be subjected to a search, and shops and cell-house
ransacked.
In anxious speculation I pass a sleepless night; morning dawns without
bringing a solution. But after breakfast the cell-house becomes
strangely quiet; the shop employees remain locked in. The rangemen are
ordered to their cells, and guards from the yard and shops march into
the block, and noisily ascend the galleries. The Deputy and Hopkins
scurry about the hall; the rotunda door is thrown open with a clang, and
the sharp command of the Warden resounds through the cell-house,
"General search!"
I glance hurriedly over my table and shelf. Surprises of suspected
prisoners are frequent, and I am always prepared. But some contraband is
on hand. Quickly I snatch my writing material from the womb of the
bedtick. In the very act of destroying several sketches of the previous
year, a bright thought flashes across my mind. There is nothing
dangerous about them, save the theft of the paper. "Prison Types," "In
the Streets of New York," "Parkhurst and the Prostitute," "Libertas--a
Study in Philology," "The Slavery of Tradition"--harmless products of
evening leisure. Let them find the booklets! I'll be severely
reprimanded for appropriating material from the shops, but my sketches
will serve to divert suspicion: the Warden will secretly rejoice that my
mind is not busy with more dangerous activities. But the sudden search
signifies grave developments. General overhaulings, involving temporary
suspension of the industries and consequent financial loss, are rare.
The search of the entire prison is not due till spring. Its precipitancy
confirms my worst fears: the weapons have undoubtedly been found! Jim's
failure to get possession of them assumes a peculiar aspect. It is
possible, of course, that some guard, unexpectedly passing through the
cellar, discovered the bundle between the bars, and appropriated it
without attracting Jim's notice. Yet the latter's confident assertion of
his presence at the window at the appointed moment indicates another
probability. The thought is painful, disquieting. But who knows? In an
atmosphere of fear and distrust and almost universal espionage, the best
friendships are tinged with suspicion. It may be that Jim, afraid of
consequences, surrendered the weapons to the Warden. He would have no
difficulty in explaining the discovery, without further betrayal of my
confidence. Yet Jim, a "pete man"[49] of international renown, enjoys
the reputation of a thoroughly "square man" and loyal friend. He has
given me repeated proof of his confidence, and I am disinclined to
accuse a possibly innocent man. It is fortunate, however, that his
information is limited to the weapons. No doubt he suspects some sort of
escape; but I have left him in ignorance of my real plans. With these
Tony alone is entrusted.
[49] Safe blower.
The reflection is reassuring. Even if indiscretion on Tony's part is
responsible for the accident, he has demonstrated his friendship.
Realizing the danger of his mission, he may have thrown in the weapons
between the cellar bars, ignoring my directions of previously
ascertaining the presence of Jim at his post. But the discovery of the
revolvers vindicates the veracity of Tony, and strengthens my confidence
in him. My fate rests in the hands of a loyal comrade, a friend who has
already dared great peril for my sake.
* * * * *
The general search is over, bringing to light quantities of various
contraband. The counterfeit outfit, whose product has been circulating
beyond the walls of the prison, is discovered, resulting in a secret
investigation by Federal officials. In the general excitement, the
sketches among my effects have been ignored, and left in my possession.
But no clew has been found in connection with the weapons. The
authorities are still further mystified by the discovery that the lock
on the trapdoor in the roof of the cell-house building had been tampered
with. With an effort I suppress a smile at the puzzled bewilderment of
the kindly old Mitchell, as, with much secrecy, he confides to me the
information. I marvel at the official stupidity that failed to make the
discovery the previous year, when, by the aid of Jim and my young friend
Russell, I had climbed to the top of the cell-house, while the inmates
were at church, and wrenched off the lock of the trapdoor, leaving in
its place an apparent counterpart, provided by Jim. With the key in our
possession, we watched for an opportunity to reach the outside roof,
when certain changes in the block created insurmountable obstacles,
forcing the abandonment of the project. Russell was unhappy over the
discovery, the impulsive young prisoner steadfastly refusing to be
reconciled to the failure. His time, however, being short, I have been
urging him to accept the inevitable. The constant dwelling upon escape
makes imprisonment more unbearable; the passing of his remaining two
years would be hastened by the determination to serve out his sentence.
The boy listens quietly to my advice, his blue eyes dancing with
merriment, a sly smile on the delicate lips. "You are right, Aleck," he
replies, gravely, "but say, last night I thought out a scheme; it's
great, and we're sure to make our get-a-way." With minute detail he
pictures the impossible plan of sawing through the bars of the cell at
night, "holding up" the guards, binding and gagging them, and "then the
road would be clear." The innocent boy, for all his back-country
reputation of "bad man," is not aware that "then" is the very threshold
of difficulties. I seek to explain to him that, the guards being
disposed of, we should find ourselves trapped in the cell-house. The
solid steel double doors leading to the yard are securely locked, the
key in the sole possession of the Captain of the night watch, who cannot
be reached except through the well-guarded rotunda. But the boy is not
to be daunted. "We'll have to storm the rotunda, then," he remarks,
calmly, and at once proceeds to map out a plan of campaign. He smiles
incredulously at my refusal to participate in the wild scheme. "Oh, yes,
you will, Aleck. I don't believe a word you say. I know you're keen to
make a get-a-way." His confidence somewhat shaken by my resolution, he
announces that he will "go it alone."
The declaration fills me with trepidation: the reckless youth will throw
away his life; his attempt may frustrate my own success. But it is in
vain to dissuade him by direct means. I know the determination of the
boy. The smiling face veils the boundless self-assurance of exuberant
youth, combined with indomitable courage. The redundance of animal
vitality and the rebellious spirit have violently disturbed the inertia
of his rural home, aggravating its staid descendants of Dutch forbears.
The taunt of "ne'er-do-well" has dripped bitter poison into the innocent
pranks of Russell, stamping the brand of desperado upon the good-natured
boy.
I tax my ingenuity to delay the carrying out of his project. He has
secreted the saws I had procured from the Girl for the attempt of the
previous year, and his determination is impatient to make the dash for
liberty. Only his devotion to me and respect for my wishes still hold
the impetuous boy in leash. But each day his restlessness increases;
more insistently he urges my participation and a definite explanation of
my attitude.
At a loss to invent new objections, I almost despair of dissuading
Russell from his desperate purpose. From day to day I secure his solemn
promise to await my final decision, the while I vaguely hope for some
development that would force the abandonment of his plan. But nothing
disturbs the routine, and I grow nervous with dread lest the boy,
reckless with impatience, thwart my great project.
II
The weather is moderating; the window sashes in the hall are being
lowered: the signs of approaching spring multiply. I chafe at the lack
of news from Tony, who had departed on his mission to New York. With
greedy eyes I follow the Chaplain on his rounds of mail delivery.
Impatient of his constant pauses on the galleries, I hasten along the
range to meet the postman.
"Any letters for me, Mr. Milligan?" I ask, with an effort to steady my
voice.
"No, m' boy."
My eyes devour the mail in his hand. "None to-day, Aleck," he adds;
"this is for your neighbor Pasquale."
I feel apprehensive at Tony's silence. Another twenty-four hours must
elapse before the Chaplain returns. Perhaps there will be no mail for me
to-morrow, either. What can be the matter with my friend? So many
dangers menace his every step--he might be sick--some accident....
Anxious days pass without mail. Russell is becoming more insistent,
threatening a "break." The solitaries murmur at my neglect. I am nervous
and irritable. For two weeks I have not heard from Tony; something
terrible must have happened. In a ferment of dread, I keep watch on the
upper rotunda. The noon hour is approaching: the Chaplain fumbles with
his keys; the door opens, and he trips along the ranges. Stealthily I
follow him under the galleries, pretending to dust the bars. He descends
to the hall.
"Good morning, Chaplain," I seek to attract his attention, wistfully
peering at the mail in his hand.
"Good morning, m' boy. Feeling good to-day?"
"Thank you; pretty fair." My voice trembles at his delay, but I fear
betraying my anxiety by renewed questioning.
He passes me, and I feel sick with disappointment. Now he pauses.
"Aleck," he calls, "I mislaid a letter for you yesterday. Here it is."
With shaking hand I unfold the sheet. In a fever of hope and fear, I
pore over it in the solitude of the cell. My heart palpitates violently
as I scan each word and letter, seeking hidden meaning, analyzing every
flourish and dash, carefully distilling the minute lines, fusing the
significant dots into the structure of meaning. Glorious! A house has
been rented--28 Sterling Street--almost opposite the gate of the south
wall. Funds are on hand, work is to begin at once!
With nimble step I walk the range. The river wafts sweet fragrance to my
cell, the joy of spring is in my heart. Every hour brings me nearer to
liberty: the faithful comrades are steadily working underground. Perhaps
within a month, or two at most, the tunnel will be completed. I count
the days, crossing off each morning the date on my calendar. The news
from Tony is cheerful, encouraging: the work is progressing smoothly,
the prospects of success are splendid. I grow merry at the efforts of
uninitiated friends in New York to carry out the suggestions of the
attorneys to apply to the Superior Court of the State for a writ, on the
ground of the unconstitutionality of my sentence. I consult gravely with
Mr. Milligan upon the advisability of the step, the amiable Chaplain
affording me the opportunity of an extra allowance of letter paper. I
thank my comrades for their efforts, and urge the necessity of
collecting funds for the appeal to the upper court. Repeatedly I ask the
advice of the Chaplain in the legal matter, confident that my apparent
enthusiasm will reach the ears of the Warden: the artifice will mask my
secret project and lull suspicion. My official letters breathe assurance
of success, and with much show of confidence I impress upon the trusties
my sanguine expectation of release. I discuss the subject with officers
and stools, till presently the prison is agog with the prospective
liberation of its fourth oldest inmate. The solitaries charge me with
messages to friends, and the Deputy Warden offers advice on behavior
beyond the walls. The moment is propitious for a bold stroke. Confined
to the cell-house, I shall be unable to reach the tunnel. The privilege
of the yard is imperative.
It is June. Unfledged birdies frequently fall from their nests, and I
induce the kindly runner, "Southside" Johnny, to procure for me a brace
of sparlings. I christen the little orphans Dick and Sis, and the memory
of my previous birds is revived among inmates and officers. Old Mitchell
is in ecstasy over the intelligence and adaptability of my new feathered
friends. But the birds languish and waste in the close air of the
block; they need sunshine and gravel, and the dusty street to bathe in.
Gradually I enlist the sympathies of the new doctor by the curious
performances of my pets. One day the Warden strolls in, and joins in
admiration of the wonderful birds.
"Who trained them?" he inquires.
"This man," the physician indicates me. A slight frown flits over the
Warden's face. Old Mitchell winks at me, encouragingly.
"Captain," I approach the Warden, "the birds are sickly for lack of air.
Will you permit me to give them an airing in the yard?"
"Why don't you let them go? You have no permission to keep them."
"Oh, it would be a pity to throw them out," the doctor intercedes. "They
are too tame to take care of themselves."
"Well, then," the Warden decides, "let Jasper take them out every day."
"They will not go with any one except myself," I inform him. "They
follow me everywhere."
The Warden hesitates.
"Why not let Berkman go out with them for a few moments," the doctor
suggests. "I hear you expect to be free soon," he remarks to me
casually. "Your case is up for revision?"
"Yes."
"Well, Berkman," the Warden motions to me, "I will permit you ten
minutes in the yard, after your sweeping is done. What time are you
through with it?"
"At 9.30 A. M."
"Mr. Mitchell, every morning, at 9.30, you will pass Berkman through the
doors. For ten minutes, on the watch." Then turning to me, he adds:
"You are to stay near the greenhouse; there is plenty of sand there. If
you cross the dead line of the sidewalk, or exceed your time a single
minute, you will be punished."