________________________________________________
_ All that day I lay in the dungeon cudgelling my brains for the
reason of this new and inexplicable punishment. All I could
conclude was that some stool had lied an infraction of the rules on
me in order to curry favour with the guards.
Meanwhile Captain Jamie fretted his head off and prepared for the
night, while Winwood passed the word along to the forty lifers to be
ready for the break. And two hours after midnight every guard in
the prison was under orders. This included the day-shift which
should have been asleep. When two o'clock came, they rushed the
cells occupied by the forty. The rush was simultaneous. The cells
were opened at the same moment, and without exception the men named
by Winwood were found out of their bunks, fully dressed, and
crouching just inside their doors. Of course, this was verification
absolute of all the fabric of lies that the poet-forger had spun for
Captain Jamie. The forty lifers were caught in red-handed readiness
for the break. What if they did unite, afterward, in averring that
the break had been planned by Winwood? The Prison Board of
Directors believed, to a man, that the forty lied in an effort to
save themselves. The Board of Pardons likewise believed, for, ere
three months were up, Cecil Winwood, forger and poet, most
despicable of men, was pardoned out.
Oh, well, the stir, or the pen, as they call it in convict argot, is
a training school for philosophy. No inmate can survive years of it
without having had burst for him his fondest illusions and fairest
metaphysical bubbles. Truth lives, we are taught; murder will out.
Well, this is a demonstration that murder does not always come out.
The Captain of the Yard, the late Warden Atherton, the Prison Board
of Directors to a man--all believe, right now, in the existence of
that dynamite that never existed save in the slippery-geared and all
too-accelerated brain of the degenerate forger and poet, Cecil
Winwood. And Cecil Winwood still lives, while I, of all men
concerned, the utterest, absolutist, innocentest, go to the scaffold
in a few short weeks.
And now I must tell how entered the forty lifers upon my dungeon
stillness. I was asleep when the outer door to the corridor of
dungeons clanged open and aroused me. "Some poor devil," was my
thought; and my next thought was that he was surely getting his, as
I listened to the scuffling of feet, the dull impact of blows on
flesh, the sudden cries of pain, the filth of curses, and the sounds
of dragging bodies. For, you see, every man was man-handled all the
length of the way.
Dungeon-door after dungeon-door clanged open, and body after body
was thrust in, flung in, or dragged in. And continually more groups
of guards arrived with more beaten convicts who still were being
beaten, and more dungeon-doors were opened to receive the bleeding
frames of men who were guilty of yearning after freedom.
Yes, as I look back upon it, a man must be greatly a philosopher to
survive the continual impact of such brutish experiences through the
years and years. I am such a philosopher. I have endured eight
years of their torment, and now, in the end, failing to get rid of
me in all other ways, they have invoked the machinery of state to
put a rope around my neck and shut off my breath by the weight of my
body. Oh, I know how the experts give expert judgment that the fall
through the trap breaks the victim's neck. And the victims, like
Shakespeare's traveller, never return to testify to the contrary.
But we who have lived in the stir know of the cases that are hushed
in the prison crypts, where the victim's necks are not broken.
It is a funny thing, this hanging of a man. I have never seen a
hanging, but I have been told by eye-witnesses the details of a
dozen hangings so that I know what will happen to me. Standing on
the trap, leg-manacled and arm-manacled, the knot against the neck,
the black cap drawn, they will drop me down until the momentum of my
descending weight is fetched up abruptly short by the tautening of
the rope. Then the doctors will group around me, and one will
relieve another in successive turns in standing on a stool, his arms
passed around me to keep me from swinging like a pendulum, his ear
pressed close to my chest, while he counts my fading heart-beats.
Sometimes twenty minutes elapse after the trap is sprung ere the
heart stops beating. Oh, trust me, they make most scientifically
sure that a man is dead once they get him on a rope.
I still wander aside from my narrative to ask a question or two of
society. I have a right so to wander and so to question, for in a
little while they are going to take me out and do this thing to me.
If the neck of the victim be broken by the alleged shrewd
arrangement of knot and noose, and by the alleged shrewd calculation
of the weight of the victim and the length of slack, then why do
they manacle the arms of the victim? Society, as a whole, is unable
to answer this question. But I know why; so does any amateur who
ever engaged in a lynching bee and saw the victim throw up his
hands, clutch the rope, and ease the throttle of the noose about his
neck so that he might breathe.
Another question I will ask of the smug, cotton-wooled member of
society, whose soul has never strayed to the red hells. Why do they
put the black cap over the head and the face of the victim ere they
drop him through the trap? Please remember that in a short while
they will put that black cap over my head. So I have a right to
ask. Do they, your hang-dogs, O smug citizen, do these your hang-
dogs fear to gaze upon the facial horror of the horror they
perpetrate for you and ours and at your behest?
Please remember that I am not asking this question in the twelve-
hundredth year after Christ, nor in the time of Christ, nor in the
twelve-hundredth year before Christ. I, who am to be hanged this
year, the nineteen-hundred-and-thirteenth after Christ, ask these
questions of you who are assumably Christ's followers, of you whose
hang-dogs are going to take me out and hide my face under a black
cloth because they dare not look upon the horror they do to me while
I yet live.
And now back to the situation in the dungeons. When the last guard
departed and the outer door clanged shut, all the forty beaten,
disappointed men began to talk and ask questions. But, almost
immediately, roaring like a bull in order to be heard, Skysail Jack,
a giant sailor of a lifer, ordered silence while a census could be
taken. The dungeons were full, and dungeon by dungeon, in order of
dungeons, shouted out its quota to the roll-call. Thus, every
dungeon was accounted for as occupied by trusted convicts, so that
there was no opportunity for a stool to be hidden away and
listening.
Of me, only, were the convicts dubious, for I was the one man who
had not been in the plot. They put me through a searching
examination. I could but tell them how I had just emerged from
dungeon and jacket in the morning, and without rhyme or reason, so
far as I could discover, had been put back in the dungeon after
being out only several hours. My record as an incorrigible was in
my favour, and soon they began to talk.
As I lay there and listened, for the first time I learned of the
break that had been a-hatching. "Who had squealed?" was their one
quest, and throughout the night the quest was pursued. The quest
for Cecil Winwood was vain, and the suspicion against him was
general.
"There's only one thing, lads," Skysail Jack finally said. "It'll
soon be morning, and then they'll take us out and give us bloody
hell. We were caught dead to rights with our clothes on. Winwood
crossed us and squealed. They're going to get us out one by one and
mess us up. There's forty of us. Any lyin's bound to be found out.
So each lad, when they sweat him, just tells the truth, the whole
truth, so help him God."
And there, in that dark hole of man's inhumanity, from dungeon cell
to dungeon cell, their mouths against the gratings, the two-score
lifers solemnly pledged themselves before God to tell the truth.
Little good did their truth-telling do them. At nine o'clock the
guards, paid bravoes of the smug citizens who constitute the state,
full of meat and sleep, were upon us. Not only had we had no
breakfast, but we had had no water. And beaten men are prone to
feverishness. I wonder, my reader, if you can glimpse or guess the
faintest connotation of a man beaten--"beat up," we prisoners call
it. But no, I shall not tell you. Let it suffice to know that
these beaten, feverish men lay seven hours without water.
At nine the guards arrived. There were not many of them. There was
no need for many, because they unlocked only one dungeon at a time.
They were equipped with pick-handles--a handy tool for the
"disciplining" of a helpless man. One dungeon at a time, and
dungeon by dungeon, they messed and pulped the lifers. They were
impartial. I received the same pulping as the rest. And this was
merely the beginning, the preliminary to the examination each man
was to undergo alone in the presence of the paid brutes of the
state. It was the forecast to each man of what each man might
expect in inquisition hall.
I have been through most of the red hells of prison life, but, worst
of all, far worse than what they intend to do with me in a short
while, was the particular hell of the dungeons in the days that
followed.
Long Bill Hodge, the hard-bitten mountaineer, was the first man
interrogated. He came back two hours later--or, rather, they
conveyed him back, and threw him on the stone of his dungeon floor.
They then took away Luigi Polazzo, a San Francisco hoodlum, the
first native generation of Italian parentage, who jeered and sneered
at them and challenged them to wreak their worst upon him.
It was some time before Long Bill Hodge mastered his pain
sufficiently to be coherent.
"What about this dynamite?" he demanded. "Who knows anything about
dynamite?"
And of course nobody knew, although it had been the burden of the
interrogation put to him.
Luigi Polazzo came back in a little less than two hours, and he came
back a wreck that babbled in delirium and could give no answer to
the questions showered upon him along the echoing corridor of
dungeons by the men who were yet to get what he had got, and who
desired greatly to know what things had been done to him and what
interrogations had been put to him.
Twice again in the next forty-eight hours Luigi was taken out and
interrogated. After that, a gibbering imbecile, he went to live in
Bughouse Alley. He has a strong constitution. His shoulders are
broad, his nostrils wide, his chest is deep, his blood is pure; he
will continue to gibber in Bughouse Alley long after I have swung
off and escaped the torment of the penitentiaries of California.
Man after man was taken away, one at a time, and the wrecks of men
were brought back, one by one, to rave and howl in the darkness.
And as I lay there and listened to the moaning and the groaning, and
all the idle chattering of pain-addled wits, somehow, vaguely
reminiscent, it seemed to me that somewhere, some time, I had sat in
a high place, callous and proud, and listened to a similar chorus of
moaning and groaning. Afterwards, as you shall learn, I identified
this reminiscence and knew that the moaning and the groaning was of
the sweep-slaves manacled to their benches, which I heard from
above, on the poop, a soldier passenger on a galley of old Rome.
That was when I sailed for Alexandria, a captain of men, on my way
to Jerusalem . . . but that is a story I shall tell you later. In
the meanwhile . . . . _
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