Back Home: Being the Narrative of Judge Priest and His People

by Irvin S. Cobb

He paused for a little, fumbling at the bow of his spectacles.

“In the natural course of human events you have probably but a few more years to live. It is to be regretted by all right-thinking men that you cannot go to your grave free from the stigma of a prison. And it is a blessing that you have no one closely related to you by ties of blood or marriage to share in your disgrace.” The old judge's high voice grew husked and roughened here, he being himself both widowed and childless. “The judgment of the court stands—two years at hard labor.”

He made a sign that he was done. The sheriff edged up again and touched the sentenced man upon the arm. Without turning his head, Harper shook off the hand of authority with so violent a shrug that the sheriff dodged back, startled. Then for the first time the prisoner spoke.

“Judge, Your Honor,” he said quietly, “jest a minute ago you asked me if I had anything to say and I told you that I had not. I've changed my mind; I want to ask you something—I want to ask you a mighty big favor. No, I ain't askin' you to let me off—it ain't that,” he went on more quickly, reading the look on the judge's face. “I didn't expect to come clear in this here case. I pleaded guilty because I was guilty and didn't have no defense. My bein' sorry for shootin' Virge Settle the way I did don't excuse me, as I know; but, Judge Priest, I'll say jest this to you—I don't want to be dragged off to that there penitentiary like a savage dumb beast. I don't want to be took there by no sheriff. And what I want to ask you is this: Can't I go there a free man, with free limbs? I promise you to go and to serve my time faithful—but I want to go by myself and give myself up like a man.”

Instantly visualized before the eyes of all who sat there was the picture which they knew must be in the prisoner's mind—the same picture which all or nearly all of them had seen more than once, since it came to pass, spring and fall, after each term of court—a little procession filing through the street to the depot; at its head, puffed out with responsibility, the sheriff and one of his deputies—at its tail more deputies, and in between them the string of newly convicted felons, handcuffed in twos, with a long trace-chain looping back from one pair to the next pair, and so on, binding all fast together in a clanking double file—the whites in front and the negroes back of them, maintaining even in that shameful formation the division of race; the whites mainly marching with downcast heads and hurrying feet, clutching pitiably small bundles with their free hands—the negroes singing doggerel in chorus and defiantly jingling the links of their tether; some, the friendless ones, hatless and half naked, and barefooted after months of lying in jail—and all with the smell of the frowsy cells upon them. And, seeing this familiar picture spring up before them, it seemed all of a sudden a wrong thing and a very shameful thing that Press Harper, an old man and a member of a decent family, should march thus, with his wrists chained and the offscourings and scum of the county jail for company. All there knew him for a man of his word. If old Press Harper said he would go to the penitentiary and surrender himself they knew he would go and do it if he had to crawl there on his knees. And so now, having made his plea, he waited silently for the answer.

The old judge had half swung himself about in his chair and with his hand at his beard was looking out of the window.

“Mister Sheriff,” he said, without turning his head, “you may consider yourself relieved of the custody of the defendant at the bar. Mister Clerk, you may make out the commitment papers.” The clerk busied himself with certain ruled forms, filling in dotted lines with writing. The judge went on: “Despite the irregularity of the proceeding, this court is disposed to grant the request which the defendant has just made. Grievous though his shortcomings in other directions may have been, this court has never known the defendant to break his word. Does the defendant desire any time in which to arrange his personal affairs? If so how much time?”

“I would like to have until the day after tomorrow,” said Harper. “If I kin I want to find a tenant for my farm.”

“Has the commonwealth's attorney any objection to the granting of this delay?” inquired the judge, still with his head turned away.

“None, Your Honor,” said the prosecutor, half rising. And now the judge was facing the prisoner, looking him full in the eye.