One morning in the Spring of 1867—whether in April or May I am now
unable certainly to determine, but think it was in the latter month—I
was sitting at the breakfast-table, leisurely reading the morning paper,
and enjoying my last cup of coffee, when my eye accidentally fell upon
the following advertisement:—
“WANTED—A reliable man to take charge of the Crib. An unmarried German
preferred. One who can come well recommended, and give bond for
faithful performance of duty, will receive a liberal salary. Apply
immediately to the Board of Public Works, Pumping Department, Nos. 15
and 17 South Wells Street.”
Footnote 1:
The Crib is the name given to the isolated structure at the opening of
the Chicago Water Works tunnel, in the lake, two miles from the shore.
My attention was arrested by the thought of so strange an occupation,
and whether any one would be found willing to accept the situation and
live alone in the crib two miles from the shore. There all companionship
would be cut off, and I wondered what effect the utter solitude and
confinement in the small round building rising out of the water, with
little in the scenery to relieve the eye, and nothing to rest the ear
from the continual dashing of the waves against the frame sides—I
wondered what effect it would have upon the occupant.
It happened I had been lecturing before a class of medical students in
one of our colleges upon the relation of mind to body, and it occurred
to me that this crib-tender might prove an illustration of my theory.
His mind would have afforded it an opportunity to prey upon itself, and
might become perverted. Under certain circumstances the mental exerts an
influence over the physical system, aside from the voluntary volition of
the will, and it frequently transpires that what is mere illusion in the
spiritual nature appears a reality to the material, so closely are the
two linked together.
My interest being awakened, I secretly determined that I would try to
discover who accepted this situation, and notice, if possible, what
effect it would produce upon the keeper. Some time later I learned that
the above advertisement had been answered the same day (the exact date I
can not remember) by a German, one Gustav Stahlmann, who presented
himself at the address indicated, and applied for the situation. After a
slight examination he proved satisfactory in every respect. His
recommendations were of the highest kind and bore testimony to his
strict integrity and upright character.
The position was accordingly offered to him, provided he would be
willing to comply with certain conditions. First, that in accepting it
he would bind himself to remain in the situation at least two years;
and, secondly, that during that period, he would upon no occasion or
pretense whatever, leave the crib. He manifested little hesitation in
assenting to these requirements, as the salary was good, and an
opportunity afforded for resting from the severe labor to which he had
been accustomed.
All necessary arrangements were completed, and upon the following day,
with his dog for the sole companion of his future home, he had been
taken out and instructed in the duties of his office. These were few and
light, consisting mainly of attention to the water-gates of the tunnel,
opening and closing them as required, and removing any obstructions
which might clog their action. At night he was to trim and light the
lamp which had been placed on the apex of the roof as a warning to
passing vessels. This was all; the remainder of the time lay at his own
disposal. A boy might readily have accomplished this labor, and he
congratulated himself upon his good luck in securing so easy a
berth—one, too, which yielded a good income.
The first time I saw Stahlmann myself was soon after he had accepted the
situation. If I recollect rightly, he told me he had been a month on the
Crib. I had rowed myself out from the foot of Twelfth Street in a small
boat.
At this early period in its history the Crib was not so well finished
and comfortable as now, but was bare and barn-like, being in fact
nothing more than a round unplastered house, rising out of the lake. The
wooden floor, which was some fifteen feet above the water, contained in
its center a well about six feet in diameter, around which arose the
iron rods of the water-gates. A small room, the only apartment, had been
partitioned off by three plank walls from the southeastern part of the
circular interior, and furnished for the abode of the keeper. If it were
rough, there was all present that he could reasonably desire for his
comfort. A sufficient supply of provisions were delivered to him once a
month by a tug-boat from the city.
I found Stahlmann to be a man rather above the medium height, with a
broad muscular frame, but there were no evidences of sluggishness in his
movements; on the contrary, his elasticity and gracefulness betokened
great powers of endurance, and indicated to me activity both of body and
mind. He was perhaps thirty-five years of age, and his frank, open
countenance was marked by regular features of a somewhat intellectual
cast; honesty and principle were plainly visible in his face, and a
ready command of language betrayed considerable education. He impressed
me as superior to the majority of men in his rank of life, and from this
conclusion I was none the less driven by the appearance of his coarse
and soiled clothing. I engaged him in conversation, into which he was
easily drawn, and I was surprised by the native love of the beautiful
which he evidently possessed. He seemed to take great pleasure in
pointing out the beauties in the scene that laid before our view.
The sun was scarcely an hour high, and we could hardly turn our eyes
eastward for the splendor of his rays reflected on the water. To the
north the sea-like horizon was flecked by the white sails of retreating
vessels, some hull-down in the distance, others uncertain specks
vanishing from our range of vision. Stretching along the shore to the
westward, Chicago shot a hundred spires, glistening and glorified, into
the morning sunlight, while just opposite us stood the grim lighthouse,
a motionless sentinel keeping watch over the harbor.
I admitted the attraction of the scene, and made an effort to turn the
conversation to his private life. He was easily led to talk of himself,
although he did it in a natural and unaffected manner. I gathered that
he was born in Bavaria, and that when he had attained his sixteenth
year, some difficulty had driven his parents to this country. They were
well educated, but misfortune compelled them, on their arrival, to put
their son to labor. The instruction he had received in the Fatherland
had evidently strengthened his powers of observation and quickened his
understanding.
I asked him if he did not find his life at the Crib very tiresome, and
what he did to pass away the time. I remarked that I believed, if I were
in his place, I would be smitten most fearfully with the blues. He
laughed good humoredly, and said he had never been troubled in that
manner, that there were daily a great number of visitors,
curiosity-seekers, which the Crib attracted, as it was altogether novel,
and had but just been completed. Then he said he had his dog for
companionship, and that they lived very pleasantly together. He was
evidently much attached to this animal, whom he called Caspar, for he
frequently interrupted the conversation to stroke it on the head. I was
astonished to find him well acquainted with the current news of the day,
but he readily explained this, for usually some one who came out carried
a paper, which was willingly given to him, and having nothing else to
occupy his time he read it much more carefully than we do who are in the
turmoil of the city.
Towards the middle of the day I left him, almost envying his peaceful
life and happy contentment, yet doubting if this would last long, for,
after the novelty wore away, I could not help thinking that he might
find his solitary existence less pleasing. I had become wonderfully
interested in this man, and determined to pay him another visit when I
could again find half a day to devote to pleasure.
It was not, however, until the following September that I could spare
time for another trip to the Crib. This visit, as I said, had been
prompted out of curiosity to watch the effects of this solitary life
upon Stahlmann. Although four months had elapsed, I found him situated
just as I had left him, and by the appearance of the surroundings, I
might have almost believed it was but yesterday I had looked upon him.
When I remarked this to him, I noticed a peculiar smile play across his
features, and it struck me that his face had not the same happy
expression which had so pleased me before. I observed, too, that he
carried himself in a listless manner, very unlike his former erect
bearing. I found him, however, just as readily drawn into conversation,
although some of his old enthusiasm was gone, and he manifested an
evident disinclination to speak of himself, for when I made an effort to
bring up the subject, he displayed considerable skill in evading it.
This was repeated again and again until I found that he would not be
forced to it, but I saw full well by his actions that he had already
grown tired of his monotonous life. All my jokes about the solitude,
which he had laughed at before, were now received in silence and with
furtive glances. Evidently it had become a serious matter, and I dropped
the disagreeable subject.
He inquired most eagerly for any news, and said he had not seen a paper
for almost a week, as the wet weather had interfered with visitors,
preventing any one from coming out. When I left he repeatedly invited me
to come again, which I promised to do, as in our slight intercourse we
had struck up a mutual friendship. My interest, too, had been increased,
as I plainly saw that his life had become distasteful to him, and I had
considerable curiosity to ascertain whether he would, according to his
promise, remain the two full years upon the Crib; at any rate, I
concluded that I would not lose sight of him.
Directly after this visit, business arrangements called me away from
home, and detained me in New York City without interruption until last
May. During this period, of course, I had no means of learning any thing
whatever concerning Gustav Stahlmann. On my return, the first glimpse I
caught of the familiar lake recalled him to my memory, and revived the
old interest. I determined to renew our former acquaintance, but found,
to my great disappointment, that all visitors to the Crib had been
prohibited by the authorities soon after I was called from home; yet I
did not give up in my attempt to find out if he still remained in his
situation. After many fruitless inquiries, I finally learned that he was
dead. This was the only knowledge I could gain, and, disappointed by the
sad intelligence, I dismissed the subject from my mind.
A week ago I made the startling discovery that the Crib at the eastern
terminus of the lake tunnel, within the year following its completion,
had been the scene of a tragedy, the particulars of which, when I
learned them, thrilled me with horror, and called forth my profoundest
sympathy for the poor victim. The whole circumstance had been so
carefully kept secret by an enforced reticence on the part of the
authorities, that beyond two or three individuals no one in Chicago had
the slightest suspicion of the sickening drama which was enacted but two
miles from her shores.
I was walking through the Court House looking at the arrangement of the
newly erected portion of the building, and while in the rooms occupied
by the Water Board, I accidentally stumbled upon an old memorandum book
which had evidently been misplaced during the recent removal of this
department from their old quarters on Wells Street to the first floor of
the west wing. Upon examination it proved to be a kind of diary, and was
written with pencil in the German character. On the inside of the front
cover, near the upper right hand corner, was inscribed the name Gustav
Stahlmann, and underneath a date—1865. A small portion of the book, the
first part, was filled with accounts, some of them of expenditures,
others memoranda of days’ work in different parts of the city, and under
various foremen. But it was to the body of the book that my attention
was particularly called. This was in the journal form, being a record of
successive occurrences with the attending thoughts. The entries were
made at irregular intervals and without any regard to system. Sometimes
it had been written in daily for a considerable period, then dropped,
and taken up again apparently at the whim of the owner. In places there
appeared no connection between the parts separated by a break of even
short duration; at others the sense was obscure, and could only be
attained by implication. The earliest records in the second part were in
June, 1867, and I found dates regularly inserted as late as the November
following. In December they ceased entirely; afterward the diary, if
such it might then be called, was either by the day or the week, or
without any direct evidence as to the time when the circumstances
therein narrated had occurred. In fact, throughout the whole of the
concluding portion there was nothing to indicate that the matter had not
been written on a single occasion, except the variations which almost
every person’s hand-writing exhibits when produced under different
degrees of nervous excitement.
From this black morocco memorandum book; from the hand-writing of Gustav
Stahlmann himself, I learned the incidents of his career after I parted
from him. They constitute the history of a fate so horrible in every
respect, that I shudder at the thought that any human being was doomed
to experience it.
The main facts in this narrative I have translated, sometimes literally,
at others using my own language, where the thoughts in the original were
so carelessly or obscurely expressed as to render any other course
simply impossible.
It seems, as I supposed, that when Stahlmann was first settled in the
Crib, he was greatly pleased with his situation. The weather was mild
and beautiful; the fresh air blowing across the water was a grateful
change from the close and dusty atmosphere of Chicago. Many of his old
friends came out to take a look at his new quarters, and almost surveyed
them with envy while listening to an account of his easy, untroubled
life. At dusk, after he had lighted his lamp, and it threw out its rays,
he would watch to see how suddenly in the distance, as if to keep it
company, the great white beacon in the lighthouse would flash out,
burning bright and clear. Then along the western shore the city lights,
one by one, would kindle up, multiplying into a thousand twinkling stars
that threw a halo against the sky. Afterwards the soughing of the waves
as they washed up the sides of his abode, fell pleasantly on his ear,
and lulled him to sleep with Caspar lying at his feet.
But it seemed as if the same day came again and again, for still the
waters broke around him, and still night after night the same lights
flashed and burned. Then the time appeared to become longer, and he
watched more eagerly for the arrival of some visitors, but, if his
watching had been in vain, he went wearily to sleep at night with a
feeling of disappointment, only to waken and go through the same
cheerless routine. Sometimes for a whole week he would not see a single
human being nor hear the sound of a human voice, save his own when he
spoke to the dog, who seemed by sagacious instinct to sympathize in his
master’s lonesome position, and capered about until he would attract his
attention, and be rewarded by an approving word and caress upon the
head.
Visitors had become less and less frequent until the last of September,
when they ceased altogether. Stahlmann in trying to explain this to
himself correctly concluded that the authorities must have prohibited
them, as he had heard some time previously they entertained such an
intention, although he had been reluctant to believe it, and still
vainly hoped that it might not be true. But time only confirmed the
suspicion which he had been so unwilling to accept, and although within
two miles of a crowded city, he found himself completely isolated, cut
off, as it were, from the human race.
Then he searched for something that might amuse him and help wear away
the interminable days, but he found nothing. He would have been glad
even if only the old newspapers had been preserved that he might re-read
them, but they were destroyed, and he owned no books. His former severe
labor, performed in company with his fellow men, was now far preferable
in his eyes to this complete solitude, with nothing to occupy his hands
or mind. He saw the vessels pass until they seemed to become companions
for him in his loneliness; he had watched them all the Summer, but the
winds grew chill and rough, sweeping out of sullen clouds, and
boisterously drove home the ships.
Stahlmann found himself utterly alone on the wide lake, and the fierce
blasts howled around his frame house, covering it with spray from the
lashing billows that seemed ready to engulf it. Crusts of ice formed and
snapped, rattling down to the waves. Heavy snow fell, but did not whiten
the unchanging scenery, for it was drowned in the waste of waters. Night
after night he lit the beacon and looked yearningly westward to the
starred city. Then the solitude grew intolerable. It was like the vision
of heaven to the lost spirits shut out in darkness forever. He was
alone, all alone, craving even for the sound of a kindred voice, so that
he cried out in his anguish. The flickering lights he was watching threw
their rays over thousands of human beings, yet there was not one to
answer his despairing call.
Sleep would no longer allow him to forget that he was shut out from all
human society, for he lost consciousness of his lonesome position only
to find himself struggling in some nightmare ocean, where there was no
eye to see his distress. Then he would be awakened by the dog rubbing
his nose against his face, and knew he had groaned aloud in his troubled
slumber, and Caspar had crawled closer, as if to comfort his unhappy
master. Sometimes the tempter whispered escape—escape from this Crib,
which had been so correctly named, for it had, indeed, become a dismal
cage. He felt himself strong to combat the waves in flying from the
horrible solitude; he could swim twice the distance in his eagerness to
be once again among his fellow beings; but his high principles shrank in
horror from the thought of violating a promise. He had solemnly given
his word that he would remain upon the place, and it bound him stronger
than chains of iron. He cast the thought, which had dared to arise in
his mind, from him with a sense of shame that it had been a moment
entertained.
Early on one bitter cold night, when his house was thick-ribbed with
ice, Stahlmann noticed a great light, which increased until it illumined
all the western sky. He saw the city spires as plainly as though bathed
in the rays of the setting sun, and the lurid glare lit up the waters,
making the surrounding blackness along the lake shore appear more
terrible. The fire brightened and waned, brightened and waned again. He
watched it far into the night, and thought of the thousands of anxious
faces that were turned toward the same light, until he fell into a
troubled sleep, yearning for the sight of a single countenance. This
fire which he witnessed must have been the great conflagration on Lake
Street that occurred in February, 1868.
He was sitting one dull, cloudy afternoon, looking out over the dreary
waves, when his attention was attracted by the strange behavior of
Caspar. The dog was greatly excited; it would jump about him, whining
and howling, then run to the door, which stood partly open, and look
down into the water, at the same time giving a short, quick yelp. This
was repeated so frequently that Stahlmann was aroused from his gloomy
reverie. He followed it to the threshold, and saw for an instant some
black object that the waves threw up against the Crib. A second time it
arose, and Stahlmann plunged into the water with the quick instinct that
prompts a brave man to peril his own life in attempting to save another
from drowning. In one moment more he had grasped the body, and fastened
it to the rope ladder that hung down the western side of the Crib. Then
mounting it himself, he drew it up after him on to the floor.
It was the form of a young man, and Stahlmann eagerly kneeled over it,
hoping yet to find a faint spark of vitality. A glance showed him that
the body must have been in the water several hours, for it was already
somewhat bloated; but even then, in his mad desire to restore life, he
rubbed the stiffened limbs; but the rigid muscles did not relax. He
wrung the water from the black hair, which in places was short and
crisp, looking as if it might have been singed by fire. The features
were not irregular, but the open eyes had a stony, death-glaze on them,
and the broad forehead was cut across in gashes which had evidently been
made by the waves beating it against the walls of the Crib. The hands
were clenched and slightly blistered.
Stahlmann’s frenzied exertions could not call back the departed spirit,
and he sat gazing wildly upon it in his bitter disappointment. Then a
startling thought broke suddenly into his mind—What, out in his desolate
and watery home, could he do with the dead? Where could he put the
stiffened corpse? But as the night came on, he arose to light the
beacon; then descended again immediately, taking up his former position
by the lifeless form, for it appeared to exert a peculiar fascination
over him; he felt a strange kind of pleasure in the presence of the form
of a human being, even though it were dead. He seemed to have found a
companion, and the thought, which had startled him at first died from
his memory.
Hour after hour as he sat beside the corpse; its strange influence
increased, until it gradually filled up in his troubled heart the aching
void which had so yearned for society. He left it only as necessity
called him away to attend to his duties, each time returning with
increasing haste. Day by day the spell continued, and he grew to regard
the dead body with all the tenderness he would have manifested toward a
living brother. He did not shrink from the cold, clammy skin when he
raised the head to place it on a stool, but sat and talked to it. He
asked why it looked at him with that stony glare, and why its face had
turned that dark and ugly color; but when no answer came, he said he
realized that it was dead and could not speak. Then the terrible truth
flashed upon him. With a groan he saw that he could keep the corpse no
longer, and the thought which had startled him once before crept in
again with increased significance. Where could he bury it? In the bottom
of the lake, where nothing would disturb its peace. He gently let it
down into the water, and, as he saw it disappear, he awoke to wild grief
at losing it, and would have plunged in to rescue it the second time,
but it was gone from sight forever.
Might not this body have been one of the lost from the ill-fated Sea
Bird, which burned in the beginning of April, 1868, a few miles north of
the city? Stahlmann must have found it about this time.
His grief for the loss of his dead companion grew upon him each day, and
rendered the solitude more unendurable. Solitude? It was no longer
solitude, for the place was peopled by the phantom creations of his
inflamed imagination. Here a part of the diary is altogether incoherent,
showing into what utter confusion his intellect had been thrown.
The waves roared at him in anger, and the winds joined them in their
rage. Fiendish spirits seemed to rise up before him that were fierce to
clutch him and gloat over his terror. The lights in the west danced
together and glared at him in mockery, and his own beacon threw its cold
white rays over the familiar aperture where the iron rods of the
water-gates rose; but that opening had suddenly become an undefined
horror to him. The very terror with which he regarded it drew him to its
verge. He cast his eyes into its depths, down upon the troubled but
black and silent water, and glared at the vision which met his strained
sight, for the ghostly face of the man who had been murdered in the
tunnel peered at him through the uncertain light.
There was only the dog that he could fly to in his agony, but it, too,
had a strange appearance and answered his call by low plaintive howls
that sent a shiver through his frame. He repeated its name aloud, and
Caspar crawled closer to his master, still at times making moans that
sounded sorrowful—almost like the pleading of a human voice in distress,
and he thought its eyes had a strange reproachful gaze. While he spoke
to it, the dog uttered a prolonged wail. Stahlmann shivered, and a cold
chill crept through his blood; all his superstition was roused afresh.
The wind lost its rage and died down to funeral-sobs. The sound of the
waves fell into a dirge-like cadence, and that melancholy wail which had
chilled his blood rang in his ears—it rang with the awful significance
of an evil omen long after it had died upon the air. The dog lay
perfectly motionless; he stooped to stroke it, but it did not move. He
stared at it with a bewildered gaze, when suddenly the horrible reality
with the fearful explanation, broke upon his half-crazed brain, and he
staggered back with a wild shriek. In the utter misery of his solitude,
in his strange grief for the loss of the drowned corpse, and his terror
from the hallucinations of a disordered intellect, he had neglected to
feed his faithful dog, and had starved to death the only living creature
that existed for him in the world. Caspar was dead.
Stahlmann in his agony seemed to hear once more the piteous cry which
the dog had uttered with its expiring breath, and to him the wail
sounded in its pathetic mournfulness like the mysterious herald of
another death.
The diary is so blurred at this point that it is hardly legible. What
can be read is incomprehensible from broken, incoherent sentences—the
empty language of a lunatic. Save one remaining passage, I could make
out nothing further. This entry must have been written in a lucid
interval when he realized to what a fearful condition he had been
reduced by unbroken solitude. Because it is the last record, I translate
it literally, as follows:
“That cry again—what have I come through? Hell with its host of furies
can not be worse than this awful Crib—I kill myself.