A NEW PLAN OF ESCAPE
I
My new neighbor turns my thoughts into a different channel. It is
"Fighting" Tom, returned after several years of absence. By means of a
string attached to a wire we "swing" notes to each other at night, and
Tom startles me by the confession that he was the author of the
mysterious note I had received soon after my arrival in the
penitentiary. An escape was being planned, he informs me, and I was to
be "let in," by his recommendation. But one of the conspirators getting
"cold feet," the plot was betrayed to the Warden, whereupon Tom "sent
the snitch to the hospital." As a result, however, he was kept in
solitary till his release. In the prison he had become proficient as a
broom-maker, and it was his intention to follow the trade. There was
nothing in the crooked line, he thought; and he resolved to be honest.
But on the day of his discharge he was arrested at the gate by officers
from Illinois on an old charge. He swore vengeance against Assistant
Deputy Hopkins, before whom he had once accidentally let drop the remark
that he would never return to Illinois, because he was "wanted" there.
He lived the five years in the Joliet prison in the sole hope of
"getting square" with the man who had so meanly betrayed him. Upon his
release, he returned to Pittsburgh, determined to kill Hopkins. On the
night of his arrival he broke into the latter's residence, prepared to
avenge his wrongs. But the Assistant Deputy had left the previous day on
his vacation. Furious at being baffled, Tom was about to set fire to the
house, when the light of his match fell upon a silver trinket on the
bureau of the bedroom. It fascinated him. He could not take his eyes off
it. Suddenly he was seized with the desire to examine the contents of
the house. The old passion was upon him. He could not resist. Hardly
conscious of his actions, he gathered the silverware into a tablecloth,
and quietly stole out of the house. He was arrested the next day, as he
was trying to pawn his booty. An old offender, he received a sentence of
ten years. Since his arrival, eight months ago, he has been kept in
solitary. His health is broken; he has no hope of surviving his
sentence. But if he is to die--he swears--he is going to take "his man"
along.
Aware of the determination of "Fighting" Tom, I realize that the safety
of the hated officer is conditioned by Tom's lack of opportunity to
carry out his revenge. I feel little sympathy for Hopkins, whose
craftiness in worming out the secrets of prisoners has placed him on the
pay-roll of the Pinkerton agency; but I exert myself to persuade Tom
that it would be sheer insanity thus deliberately to put his head in the
noose. He is still a young man; barely thirty. It is not worth while
sacrificing his life for a sneak of a guard.
However, Tom remains stubborn. My arguments seem merely to rouse his
resistance, and strengthen his resolution. But closer acquaintance
reveals to me his exceeding conceit over his art and technic, as a
second-story expert. I play upon his vanity, scoffing at the crudity of
his plans of revenge. Would it not be more in conformity with his
reputation as a skilled "gun," I argue, to "do the job" in a "smoother"
manner? Tom assumes a skeptical attitude, but by degrees grows more
interested. Presently, with unexpected enthusiasm, he warms to the
suggestion of "a break." Once outside, well--"I'll get 'im all right,"
he chuckles.
II
The plan of escape completely absorbs us. On alternate nights we take
turns in timing the rounds of the guards, the appearance of the Night
Captain, the opening of the rotunda door. Numerous details, seemingly
insignificant, yet potentially fatal, are to be mastered. Many obstacles
bar the way of success, but time and perseverance will surmount them.
Tom is thoroughly engrossed with the project. I realize the desperation
of the undertaking, but the sole alternative is slow death in the
solitary. It is the last resort.
With utmost care we make our preparations. The summer is long past; the
dense fogs of the season will aid our escape. We hasten to complete all
details, in great nervous tension with the excitement of the work. The
time is drawing near for deciding upon a definite date. But Tom's state
of mind fills me with apprehension. He has become taciturn of late.
Yesterday he seemed peculiarly glum, sullenly refusing to answer my
signal. Again and again I knock on the wall, calling for a reply to my
last note. Tom remains silent. Occasionally a heavy groan issues from
his cell, but my repeated signals remain unanswered. In alarm I stay
awake all night, in the hope of inducing a guard to investigate the
cause of the groaning. But my attempts to speak to the officers are
ignored. The next morning I behold Tom carried on a stretcher from his
cell, and learn with horror that he had bled to death during the night.
III
The peculiar death of my friend preys on my mind. Was it suicide or
accident? Tom had been weakened by long confinement; in some manner he
may have ruptured a blood vessel, dying for lack of medical aid. It is
hardly probable that he would commit suicide on the eve of our attempt.
Yet certain references in his notes of late, ignored at the time, assume
new significance. He was apparently under the delusion that Hopkins was
"after him." Once or twice my friend had expressed fear for his safety.
He might be poisoned, he hinted. I had laughed the matter away, familiar
with the sporadic delusions of men in solitary. Close confinement exerts
a similar effect upon the majority of prisoners. Some are especially
predisposed to auto-suggestion; Young Sid used to manifest every symptom
of the diseases he read about. Perhaps poor Tom's delusion was
responsible for his death. Spencer, too, had committed suicide a month
before his release, in the firm conviction that the Warden would not
permit his discharge. It may be that in a sudden fit of despondency, Tom
had ended his life. Perhaps I could have saved my friend: I did not
realize how constantly he brooded over the danger he believed himself
threatened with. How little I knew of the terrible struggle that must
have been going on in his tortured heart! Yet we were so intimate; I
believed I understood his every feeling and emotion.
* * * * *
The thought of Tom possesses my mind. The news from the Girl about
Bresci's execution of the King of Italy rouses little interest in me.
Bresci avenged the peasants and the women and children shot before the
palace for humbly begging bread. He did well, and the agitation
resulting from his act may advance the Cause. But it will have no
bearing on my fate. The last hope of escape has departed with my poor
friend. I am doomed to perish here. And Bresci will perish in prison,
but the comrades will eulogize him and his act, and continue their
efforts to regenerate the world. Yet I feel that the individual, in
certain cases, is of more direct and immediate consequence than
humanity. What is the latter but the aggregate of individual
existences--and shall these, the best of them, forever be sacrificed for
the metaphysical collectivity? Here, all around me, a thousand
unfortunates daily suffer the torture of Calvary, forsaken by God and
man. They bleed and struggle and suicide, with the desperate cry for a
little sunshine and life. How shall they be helped? How helped amid the
injustice and brutality of a society whose chief monuments are prisons?
And so we must suffer and suicide, and countless others after us, till
the play of social forces shall transform human history into the history
of true humanity,--and meanwhile our bones will bleach on the long,
dreary road.
* * * * *
Bereft of the last hope of freedom, I grow indifferent to life. The
monotony of the narrow cell daily becomes more loathsome. My whole being
longs for rest. Rest, no more to awaken. The world will not miss me. An
atom of matter, I shall return to endless space. Everything will pursue
its wonted course, but I shall know no more of the bitter struggle and
strife. My friends will sorrow, and yet be glad my pain is over, and
continue on their way. And new Brescis will arise, and more kings will
fall, and then all, friend and enemy, will go my way, and new
generations will be born and die, and humanity and the world be whirled
into space and disappear, and again the little stage will be set, and
the same history and the same facts will come and go, the playthings of
cosmic forces renewing and transforming forever.
How insignificant it all is in the eye of reason, how small and puny
life and all its pain and travail!... With eyes closed, I behold myself
suspended by the neck from the upper bars of the cell. My body swings
gently against the door, striking it softly, once, twice,--just like
Pasquale, when he hanged himself in the cell next to mine, some months
ago. A few twitches, and the last breath is gone. My face grows livid,
my body rigid; slowly it cools. The night guard passes. "What's this,
eh?" He rings the rotunda bell. Keys clang; the lever is drawn, and my
door unlocked. An officer draws a knife sharply across the rope at the
bars: my body sinks to the floor, my head striking against the iron
bedstead. The doctor kneels at my side; I feel his hand over my heart.
Now he rises.
"Good job, Doc?" I recognize the Deputy's voice.
The physician nods.
"Damn glad of it," Hopkins sneers.
The Warden enters, a grin on his parchment face. With an oath I spring
to my feet. In terror the officers rush from the cell. "Ah, I fooled
you, didn't I, you murderers!"
* * * * *
The thought of the enemy's triumph fans the embers of life. It engenders
defiance, and strengthens stubborn resistance.