CHUM
I
The able-bodied men have been withdrawn to the shops, and only the old
and decrepit remain in the cell-house. But even the light duties of
assistant prove too difficult for the Swede. The guards insist that he
is shamming. Every night he is placed in a strait-jacket, and gagged to
stifle his groans. I protest against the mistreatment, and am cited to
the office. The Deputy's desk is occupied by "Bighead," the officer of
the hosiery department, now promoted to the position of Second Assistant
Deputy. He greets me with a malicious grin. "I knew you wouldn't
behave," he chuckles; "know you too damn well from the stockin' shop."
The gigantic Colonel, the new Deputy, loose-jointed and broad, strolls
in with long, swinging step. He glances over the report against me. "Is
that all?" he inquires of the guard, in cold, impassive voice.
"Yes, sir."
"Go back to your work, Berkman."
But in the afternoon, Officer "Bighead" struts into the cell-house, in
charge of the barber gang. As I take my turn in the first chair, the
guard hastens toward me. "Get out of that chair," he commands. "It ain't
your turn. You take _that_ chair," pointing toward the second barber, a
former boilermaker, dreaded by the men as a "butcher."
"It _is_ my turn in this chair," I reply, keeping my seat.
"Dat so, Mr. Officer," the negro barber chimes in.
"Shut up!" the officer bellows. "Will you get out of that chair?" He
advances toward me threateningly.
"I won't," I retort, looking him squarely in the eye.
Suppressed giggling passes along the waiting line. The keeper turns
purple, and strides toward the office to report me.
II
"This is awful, Aleck. I'm so sorry you're locked up. You were in the
right, too," "Coz" whispers at my cell. "But never min', old boy," he
smiles reassuringly, "you can count on me, all right. And you've got
other friends. Here's a stiff some one sends you. He wants an answer
right away. I'll call for it."
The note mystifies me. The large, bold writing is unfamiliar; I cannot
identify the signature, "Jim M." The contents are puzzling. His
sympathies are with me, the writer says. He has learned all the details
of the trouble, and feels that I acted in the defence of my rights. It
is an outrage to lock me up for resenting undeserved humiliation at the
hands of an unfriendly guard; and he cannot bear to see me thus
persecuted. My time is short, and the present trouble, if not corrected,
may cause the loss of my commutation. He will immediately appeal to the
Warden to do me justice; but he should like to hear from me before
taking action.
I wonder at the identity of the writer. Evidently not a prisoner;
intercession with the Warden would be out of the question. Yet I cannot
account for any officer who would take this attitude, or employ such
means of communicating with me.
Presently "Coz" saunters past the cell. "Got your answer ready?" he
whispers.
"Who gave you the note, Coz?"
"I don't know if I should tell you."
"Of course you must tell me. I won't answer this note unless I know to
whom I am writing."
"Well, Aleck," he hesitates, "he didn't say if I may tell you."
"Then better go and ask him first."
* * * * *
Considerable time elapses before "Coz" returns. From the delay I judge
that the man is in a distant part of the institution, or not easily
accessible. At last the kindly face of the Italian appears at the cell.
"It's all right, Aleck," he says.
"Who is he?" I ask impatiently.
"I'll bet you'll never guess."
"Tell me, then."
"Well, I'll tell you. He is not a screw."
"Can't be a prisoner?"
"No."
"Who, then?"
"He is a fine fellow, Aleck."
"Come now, tell me."
"He is a citizen. The foreman of the new shop."
"The weaving department?"
"That's the man. Here's another stiff from him. Answer at once."
III
DEAR MR. J. M.:
I hardly know how to write to you. It is the most remarkable
thing that has happened to me in all the years of my
confinement. To think that you, a perfect stranger--and not a
prisoner, at that--should offer to intercede in my behalf
because you feel that an injustice has been done! It is almost
incredible, but "Coz" has informed me that you are determined to
see the Warden in this matter. I assure you I appreciate your
sense of justice more than I can express it. But I most urgently
request you not to carry out your plan. With the best of
intentions, your intercession will prove disastrous, to yourself
as well as to me. A shop foreman, you are not supposed to know
what is happening in the block. The Warden is a martinet, and
extremely vain of his authority. He will resent your
interference. I don't know who you are, but your indignation at
what you believe an injustice characterizes you as a man of
principle, and you are evidently inclined to be friendly toward
me. I should be very unhappy to be the cause of your discharge.
You need your job, or you would not be here. I am very, very
thankful to you, but I urge you most earnestly to drop the
matter. I must fight my own battles. Moreover, the situation is
not very serious, and I shall come out all right.
With much appreciation,
A. B.
DEAR MR. M.:
I feel much relieved by your promise to accede to my request. It
is best so. You need not worry about me. I expect to receive a
hearing before the Deputy, and he seems a decent chap. You will
pardon me when I confess that I smiled at your question whether
your correspondence is welcome. Your notes are a ray of sunshine
in the darkness, and I am intensely interested in the
personality of a man whose sense of justice transcends
considerations of personal interest. You know, no great heroism
is required to demand justice for oneself, in the furtherance of
our own advantage. But where the other fellow is concerned,
especially a stranger, it becomes a question of "abstract"
justice--and but few people possess the manhood to jeopardize
their reputation or comfort for that.
Since our correspondence began, I have had occasion to speak to
some of the men in your charge. I want to thank you in their
name for your considerate and humane treatment of them.
"Coz" is at the door, and I must hurry. Trust no one with notes,
except him. We have been friends for years, and he can tell you
all you wish to know about my life here.
Cordially,
B.
MY DEAR M.:
There is no need whatever for your anxiety regarding the effects
of the solitary upon me. I do not think they will keep me in
long; at any rate, remember that I do not wish you to intercede.
You will be pleased to know that my friend Harry shows signs of
improvement, thanks to your generosity. "Coz" has managed to
deliver to him the tid-bits and wine you sent. You know the
story of the boy. He has never known the love of a mother, nor
the care of a father. A typical child of the disinherited, he
was thrown, almost in infancy, upon the tender mercies of the
world. At the age of ten the law declared him a criminal. He has
never since seen a day of liberty. At twenty he is dying of
prison consumption. Was the Spanish Inquisition ever guilty of
such organized child murder? With desperate will-power he
clutches at life, in the hope of a pardon. He is firmly
convinced that fresh air would cure him, but the new rules
confine him to the hospital. His friends here have collected a
fund to bring his case before the Pardon Board; it is to be
heard next month. That devoted soul, "Coz," has induced the
doctor to issue a certificate of Harry's critical condition, and
he may be released soon. I have grown very fond of the boy so
much sinned against. I have watched his heart and mind blossom
in the sunshine of a little kindness, and now--I hope that at
least his last wish will be gratified: just once to walk on the
street, and not hear the harsh command of the guard. He begs me
to express to his unknown friend his deepest gratitude.
B.
DEAR M.:
The Deputy has just released me. I am happy with a double
happiness, for I know how pleased you will be at the good turn
of affairs. It is probably due to the fact that my neighbor, the
Big Swede--you've heard about him--was found dead in the
strait-jacket this morning. The doctor and officers all along
pretended that he was shamming. It was a most cruel murder; by
the Warden's order the sick Swede was kept gagged and bound
every night. I understand that the Deputy opposed such brutal
methods, and now it is rumored that he intends to resign. But I
hope he will remain. There is something big and broad-minded
about the gigantic Colonel. He tries to be fair, and he has
saved many a prisoner from the cruelty of the Major. The latter
is continually inventing new modes of punishment; it is
characteristic that his methods involve curtailment of rations,
and consequent saving, which is not accounted for on the books.
He has recently cut the milk allowance of the hospital patients,
notwithstanding the protests of the doctor. He has also
introduced severe punishment for talking. You know, when you
have not uttered a word for days and weeks, you are often seized
with an uncontrollable desire to give vent to your feelings.
These infractions of the rules are now punished by depriving you
of tobacco and of your Sunday dinner. Every Sunday from 30 to 50
men are locked up on the top range, to remain without food all
day. The system is called "Killicure" (kill or cure) and it
involves considerable graft, for I know numbers of men who have
not received tobacco or a Sunday dinner for months.
Warden Wm. Johnston seems innately cruel. Recently he introduced
the "blind" cell,--door covered with solid sheet iron. It is
much worse than the basket cell, for it virtually admits no air,
and men are kept in it from 30 to 60 days. Prisoner Varnell was
locked up in such a cell 79 days, becoming paralyzed. But even
worse than these punishments is the more refined brutality of
torturing the boys with the uncertainty of release and the
increasing deprivation of good time. This system is developing
insanity to an alarming extent.
Amid all this heartlessness and cruelty, the Chaplain is a
refreshing oasis of humanity. I noticed in one of your letters
the expression, "because of economic necessity," and--I
wondered. To be sure, the effects of economic causes are not to
be underestimated. But the extremists of the materialistic
conception discount character, and thus help to vitiate it. The
factor of personality is too often ignored by them. Take the
Chaplain, for instance. In spite of the surrounding swamp of
cupidity and brutality, notwithstanding all disappointment and
ingratitude, he is to-day, after 30 years of incumbency, as full
of faith in human nature and as sympathetic and helpful, as
years ago. He has had to contend against the various
administrations, and he is a poor man; necessity has not stifled
his innate kindness.
And this is why I wondered. "Economic necessity"--has Socialism
pierced the prison walls?
B.
DEAR, DEAR COMRADE:
Can you realize how your words, "I am socialistically inclined,"
warmed my heart? I wish I could express to you all the intensity
of what I feel, my dear _friend_ and _comrade_. To have so
unexpectedly found both in you, unutterably lightens this
miserable existence. What matter that you do not entirely share
my views,--we are comrades in the common cause of human
emancipation. It was indeed well worth while getting in trouble
to have found you, dear friend. Surely I have good cause to be
content, even happy. Your friendship is a source of great
strength, and I feel equal to struggling through the ten months,
encouraged and inspired by your comradeship and devotion. Every
evening I cross the date off my calendar, joyous with the
thought that I am a day nearer to the precious moment when I
shall turn my back upon these walls, to join my friends in the
great work, and to meet you, dear Chum, face to face, to grip
your hand and salute you, my friend and comrade!
Most fraternally,
Alex.