MARRED LIVES
I
The discussion with the Girl is a source of much mortification. Harassed
on every side, persecuted by the authorities, and hounded even into the
street, my friend, in her hour of bitterness, confounds my appreciative
disagreement with the denunciation of stupidity and inertia. I realize
the inadequacy of the written word, and despair at the hopelessness of
human understanding, as I vainly seek to elucidate the meaning of the
Buffalo tragedy to friendly guards and prisoners. Continued
correspondence with the Girl accentuates the divergence of our views,
painfully discovering the fundamental difference of attitude underlying
even common conclusions.
By degrees the stress of activities reacts upon my friend's
correspondence. Our discussion lags, and soon ceases entirely. The world
of the outside, temporarily brought closer, again recedes, and the
urgency of the immediate absorbs me in the life of the prison.
II
A spirit of hopefulness breathes in the cell-house. The new commutation
law is bringing liberty appreciably nearer. In the shops and yard the
men excitedly discuss the increased "good time," and prisoners flit
about with paper and pencil, seeking a tutored friend to "figure out"
their time of release. Even the solitaries, on the verge of despair, and
the long-timers facing a vista of cheerless years, are instilled with
new courage and hope.
The tenor of conversation is altered. With the appointment of the new
Warden the constant grumbling over the food has ceased. Pleasant
surprise is manifest at the welcome change in "the grub." I wonder at
the tolerant silence regarding the disappointing Christmas dinner. The
men impatiently frown down the occasional "kicker." The Warden is
"green," they argue; he did not know that we are supposed to get currant
bread for the holidays; he will do better, "jest give 'im a chanc't."
The improvement in the daily meals is enlarged upon, and the men thrill
with amazed expectancy at the incredible report, "Oysters for New Year's
dinner!" With gratification we hear the Major's expression of disgust at
the filthy condition of the prison, his condemnation of the basket cell
and dungeon as barbarous, and the promise of radical reforms. As an
earnest of his regime he has released from solitary the men whom Warden
Wright had punished for having served as witnesses in the defence of
Murphy and Mong. Greedy for the large reward, Hopkins and his stools had
accused the two men of a mysterious murder committed in Elk City several
years previously. The criminal trial, involving the suicide of an
officer[50] whom the Warden had forced to testify against the
defendants, resulted in the acquittal of the prisoners, whereupon
Captain Wright ordered the convict-witnesses for the defence to be
punished.
[50] Officer Robert G. Hunter, who committed suicide August 30,
1901, in Clarion, Pa. (where the trial took place). He left
a written confession, in which he accused Warden E. S.
Wright of forcing him to testify against men whom he knew
to be innocent.
The new Warden, himself a physician, introduces hygienic rules,
abolishes the "holy-stoning"[51] of the cell-house floor because of the
detrimental effect of the dust, and decides to separate the consumptive
and syphilitic prisoners from the comparatively healthy ones. Upon
examination, 40 per cent. of the population are discovered in various
stages of tuberculosis, and 20 per cent. insane. The death rate from
consumption is found to range between 25 and 60 per cent. At light tasks
in the block and the yard the Major finds employment for the sickly
inmates; special gangs are assigned to keeping the prison clean, the
rest of the men at work in the shop. With the exception of a number of
dangerously insane, who are to be committed to an asylum, every prisoner
in the institution is at work, and the vexed problem of idleness
resulting from the anti-convict labor law is thus solved.
[51] The process of whitening stone floors by pulverizing sand
into their surfaces.
The change of diet, better hygiene, and the abolition of the dungeon,
produce a noticeable improvement in the life of the prison. The gloom of
the cell-house perceptibly lifts, and presently the men are surprised at
music hour, between six and seven in the evening, with the strains of
merry ragtime by the newly organized penitentiary band.
III
New faces greet me on the range. But many old friends are missing. Billy
Ryan is dead of consumption; "Frenchy" and Ben have become insane;
Little Mat, the Duquesne striker, committed suicide. In sad remembrance
I think of them, grown close and dear in the years of mutual suffering.
Some of the old-timers have survived, but broken in spirit and health.
"Praying" Andy is still in the block, his mind clouded, his lips
constantly moving in prayer. "Me innocent," the old man reiterates, "God
him know." Last month the Board has again refused to pardon the
lifetimer, and now he is bereft of hope. "Me have no more money. My
children they save and save, and bring me for pardon, and now no more
money." Aleck Killain has also been refused by the Board at the same
session. He is the oldest man in the prison, in point of service, and
the most popular lifer. His innocence of murder is one of the traditions
of Riverside. In the boat he had rented to a party of picnickers, a
woman was found dead. No clew could be discovered, and Aleck was
sentenced to life, because he could not be forced to divulge the names
of the men who had hired his boat. He pauses to tell me the sad news:
the authorities have opposed his pardon, demanding that he furnish the
information desired by them. He looks sere with confinement, his eyes
full of a mute sadness that can find no words. His face is deeply
seamed, his features grave, almost immobile. In the long years of our
friendship I have never seen Aleck laugh. Once or twice he smiled, and
his whole being seemed radiant with rare sweetness. He speaks abruptly,
with a perceptible effort.
"Yes, Aleck," he is saying, "it's true. They refused me."
"But they pardoned Mac," I retort hotly. "He confessed to a cold-blooded
murder, and he's only been in four years."
"Good luck," he remarks.
"How, good luck?"
"Mac's father accidentally struck oil on his farm."
"Well, what of it?"
"Three hundred barrels a day. Rich. Got his son a pardon."
"But on what ground did they dismiss your application? They know you are
innocent."
"District Attorney came to me. 'You're innocent, we know. Tell us who
did the murder.' I had nothing to tell. Pardon refused."
"Is there any hope later on, Aleck?"
"When the present administration are all dead, perhaps."
Slowly he passes on, at the approach of a guard. He walks weakly, with
halting step.
* * * * *
"Old Sammy" is back again, his limp heavier, shoulders bent lower. "I'm
here again, friend Aleck," he smiles apologetically. "What could I do?
The old woman died, an' my boys went off somewhere. Th' farm was sold
that I was borned in," his voice trembles with emotion. "I couldn't find
th' boys, an' no one wanted me, an' wouldn't give me any work. 'Go to
th' pogy',[52] they told me. I couldn't, Aleck. I've worked all me
life; I don't want no charity. I made a bluff," he smiles between
tears,--"Broke into a store, and here I am."
[52] Poorhouse.
With surprise I recognize "Tough" Monk among the first-grade men. For
years he had been kept in stripes, and constantly punished for bad work
in the hosiery department. He was called the laziest man in the prison:
not once in five years had he accomplished his task. But the new Warden
transferred him to the construction shop, where Monk was employed at his
trade of blacksmith. "I hated that damn sock makin'," he tells me.
"I've struck it right now, an' the Major says I'm the best worker in th'
shop. Wouldn't believe it, eh, would you? Major promised me a ten-spot
for the fancy iron work I did for them 'lectric posts in th' yard. Says
it's artistic, see? That's me all right; it's work I like. I won't lose
any time, either. Warden says Old Sandy was a fool for makin' me knit
socks with them big paws of mine. Th' Major is aw' right, aw' right."
* * * * *
With a glow of pleasure I meet "Smiling" Al, my colored friend from the
jail. The good-natured boy looks old and infirm. His kindness has
involved him in much trouble; he has been repeatedly punished for
shouldering the faults of others, and now the Inspectors have informed
him that he is to lose the greater part of his commutation time. He has
grown wan with worry over the uncertainty of release. Every morning is
tense with expectation. "Might be Ah goes to-day, Aleck," he hopefully
smiles as I pause at his cell. But the weeks pass. The suspense is
torturing the young negro, and he is visibly failing day by day.
* * * * *
A familiar voice greets me. "Hello, Berk, ain't you glad t' see an old
pal?" Big Dave beams on me with his cheerful smile.
"No, Davy. I hoped you wouldn't come back."
He becomes very grave. "Yes, I swore I'd swing sooner than come back.
Didn't get a chanc't. You see," he explains, his tone full of
bitterness, "I goes t' work and gets a job, good job, too; an' I keeps
'way from th' booze an' me pals. But th' damn bulls was after me. Got me
sacked from me job three times, an' den I knocked one of 'em on th'
head. Damn his soul to hell, wish I'd killed 'im. 'Old offender,' they
says to the jedge, and he soaks me for a seven spot. I was a sucker all
right for tryin' t' be straight."
IV
In the large cage at the centre of the block, the men employed about the
cell-house congregate in their idle moments. The shadows steal silently
in and out of the inclosure, watchful of the approach of a guard. Within
sounds the hum of subdued conversation, the men lounging about the
sawdust barrel, absorbed in "Snakes" Wilson's recital of his protracted
struggle with "Old Sandy." He relates vividly his persistent waking at
night, violent stamping on the floor, cries of "Murder! I see snakes!"
With admiring glances the young prisoners hang upon the lips of the old
criminal, whose perseverance in shamming finally forced the former
Warden to assign "Snakes" a special room in the hospital, where his
snake-seeing propensities would become dormant, to suffer again violent
awakening the moment he would be transferred to a cell. For ten years
the struggle continued, involving numerous clubbings, the dungeon, and
the strait-jacket, till the Warden yielded, and "Snakes" was permanently
established in the comparative freedom of the special room.
Little groups stand about the cage, boisterous with the wit of the
"Four-eyed Yegg," who styles himself "Bill Nye," or excitedly discussing
the intricacies of the commutation law, the chances of Pittsburgh
winning the baseball pennant the following season, and next Sunday's
dinner. With much animation, the rumored resignation of the Deputy
Warden is discussed. The Major is gradually weeding out the "old gang,"
it is gossiped. A colonel of the militia is to secure the position of
assistant to the Warden. This source of conversation is inexhaustible,
every detail of local life serving for endless discussion and heated
debate. But at the 'lookout's' whimpered warning of an approaching
guard, the circle breaks up, each man pretending to be busy dusting and
cleaning. Officer Mitchell passes by; with short legs wide apart, he
stands surveying the assembled idlers from beneath his fierce-looking
eyebrows.
"Quiet as me grandmother at church, ain't ye? All of a sudden, too. And
mighty busy, every damn one of you. You 'Snakes' there, what business
you got here, eh?"
"I've jest come in fer a broom."
"You old reprobate, you, I saw you sneak in there an hour ago, and
you've been chawin' the rag to beat the band. Think this a barroom, do
you? Get to your cells, all of you."
He trudges slowly away, mumbling: "You loafers, when I catch you here
again, don't you dare talk so loud."
One by one the men steal back into the cage, jokingly teasing each other
upon their happy escape. Presently several rangemen join the group.
Conversation becomes animated; voices are raised in dispute. But anger
subsides, and a hush falls upon the men, as Blind Charley gropes his way
along the wall. Bill Nye reaches for his hand, and leads him to a seat
on the barrel. "Feelin' better to-day, Charley?" he asks gently.
"Ye-es. I--think a little--better," the blind man says in an uncertain,
hesitating manner. His face wears a bewildered expression, as if he has
not yet become resigned to his great misfortune. It happened only a few
months ago. In company with two friends, considerably the worse for
liquor, he was passing a house on the outskirts of Allegheny. It was
growing dark, and they wanted a drink. Charley knocked at the door. A
head appeared at an upper window. "Robbers!" some one suddenly cried.
There was a flash. With a cry of pain, Charley caught at his eyes. He
staggered, then turned round and round, helpless, in a daze. He couldn't
see his companions, the house and the street disappeared, and all was
utter darkness. The ground seemed to give beneath his feet, and Charley
fell down upon his face moaning and calling to his friends. But they had
fled in terror, and he was alone in the darkness,--alone and blind.
"I'm glad you feel better, Charley," Bill Nye says kindly. "How are your
eyes?"
"I think--a bit--better."
The gunshot had severed the optic nerves in both eyes. His sight is
destroyed forever; but with the incomplete realization of sudden
calamity, Charley believes his eyesight only temporarily injured.
"Billy," he says presently, "when I woke this morning it--didn't seem
so--dark. It was like--a film over my eyes. Perhaps--it may--get better
yet," his voice quivers with the expectancy of having his hope
confirmed.
"Ah, whatcher kiddin' yourself for," "Snakes" interposes.
"Shut up, you big stiff," Bill flares up, grabbing "Snakes" by the
throat. "Charley," he adds, "I once got paralyzed in my left eye. It
looked just like yours now, and I felt as if there was a film on it. Do
you see things like in a fog, Charley?"
"Yes, yes, just like that."
"Well, that's the way it was with me. But little by little things got to
be lighter, and now the eye is as good as ever."
"Is that right, Billy?" Charley inquires anxiously. "What did you do?"
"Well, the doc put things in my eye. The croaker here is giving you some
applications, ain't he?"
"Yes; but he says it's for the inflammation."
"That's right. That's what the doctors told me. You just take it easy,
Charley; don't worry. You'll come out all right, see if you don't."
Bill reddens guiltily at the unintended expression, but quickly holds up
a warning finger to silence the giggling "Snowball Kid." Then, with
sudden vehemence, he exclaims: "By God, Charley, if I ever meet that
Judge of yours on a dark night, I'll choke him with these here hands, so
help me! It's a damn shame to send you here in this condition. You
should have gone to a hospital, that's what I say. But cheer up, old
boy, you won't have to serve your three years; you can bet on that.
We'll all club together to get your case up for a pardon, won't we,
boys?"
With unwonted energy the old yegg makes the rounds of the cage, taking
pledges of contributions. "Doctor George" appears around the corner,
industriously polishing the brasswork, and Bill appeals to him to
corroborate his diagnosis of the blind man's condition. A smile of timid
joy suffuses the sightless face, as Bill Nye slaps him on the shoulder,
crying jovially, "What did I tell you, eh? You'll be O. K. soon, and
meantime keep your mind busy how to avenge the injustice done you," and
with a violent wink in the direction of "Snakes," the yegg launches upon
a reminiscence of his youth. As far as he can remember, he relates, the
spirit of vengeance was strong within him. He has always religiously
revenged any wrong he was made to suffer, but the incident that afforded
him the greatest joy was an experience of his boyhood. He was fifteen
then, and living with his widowed mother and three elder sisters in a
small country place. One evening, as the family gathered in the large
sitting-room, his sister Mary said something which deeply offended him.
In great rage he left the house. Just as he was crossing the street, he
was met by a tall, well-dressed gentleman, evidently a stranger in the
town. The man guardedly inquired whether the boy could direct him to
some address where one might pass the evening pleasantly. "Quick as a
flash a brilliant idea struck me," Bill narrates, warming to his story.
"Never short of them, anyhow," he remarks parenthetically, "but here was
my revenge! 'you mean a whore-house, don't you?' I ask the fellow. Yes,
that's what was wanted, my man says. 'Why,' says I to him, kind of
suddenly, 'see the house there right across the street? That's the place
you want,' and I point out to him the house where the old lady and my
three sisters are all sitting around the table, expectant like--waiting
for me, you know. Well, the man gives me a quarter, and up he goes,
knocks on the door and steps right in. I hide in a dark corner to see
what's coming, you know, and sure enough, presently the door opens with
a bang and something comes out with a rush, and falls on the veranda,
and mother she's got a broom in her hand, and the girls, every blessed
one of them, out with flatiron and dustpan, and biff, baff, they rain it
upon that thing on the steps. I thought I'd split my sides laughing. By
an' by I return to the house, and mother and sisters are kind of
excited, and I says innocent-like, 'What's up, girls?' Well, you ought
to hear 'em! Talk, did they? 'That beast of a man, the dirty thing that
came to the house and insulted us with--' they couldn't even mention the
awful things he said; and Mary--that's the sis I got mad at--she cries,
'Oh, Billie, you're so big and strong, I wish you was here when that
nasty old thing came up.'"
The boys are hilarious over the story, and "Doctor George" motions me
aside to talk over "old times." With a hearty pressure I greet my
friend, whom I had not seen since the days of the first investigation.
Suspected of complicity, he had been removed to the shops, and only
recently returned to his former position in the block. His beautiful
thick hair has grown thin and gray; he looks aged and worn. With sadness
I notice his tone of bitterness. "They almost killed me, Aleck!" he
says; "if it wasn't for my wife, I'd murder that old Warden." Throughout
his long confinement, his wife had faithfully stood by him, her
unfailing courage and devotion sustaining him in the hours of darkness
and despair. "The dear girl," he muses, "I'd be dead if it wasn't for
her." But his release is approaching. He has almost served the sentence
of sixteen years for alleged complicity in the bank robbery at
Leechburg, during which the cashier was killed. The other two men
convicted of the crime have both died in prison. The Doctor alone has
survived, "thanks to the dear girl," he repeats. But the six months at
the workhouse fill him with apprehension. He has been informed that the
place is a veritable inferno, even worse than the penitentiary. However,
his wife is faithfully at work, trying to have the workhouse sentence
suspended, and full liberty may be at hand.