The interval between dinner and the march to the shop is occupied chiefly by writing this journal; but I also have a pleasant call from the Chaplain’s assistant, Dickinson. He does not bring me the book I selected this morning, but in its place another book and some magazines, for none of which do I care. What I do care about is the pleasant chat we have. Not many words have been exchanged before he drops the books he is engaged in distributing along the cells and dashes off; soon returning with photographs of his wife and three charming children. He himself is a clean-cut, fine-looking fellow, with honest blue eyes and a good face—not a single trace of the “Criminal” about him. He tells me some of the details of his story, and it is a sad one. But his imprisonment is now over; he expects to go out on Saturday. Some time ago he was granted his parole on condition of obtaining a job, and that he has now secured. He says this prison experience has been a “good lesson” to him. I have no doubt it has, nor that his hopes will be fulfilled; but the pity of it! Why should not a man like this, guilty of only a lesser crime, guiltless of criminal intent, be allowed to go on parole under suspended sentence, and not have to come to prison at all? Why should not he and his wife and children have been spared these long years of separation, this bitter degrading experience, this almost irreparable stain upon his name?
At about half past one o’clock the cells are unlocked, as I have already described. The Captain returns, pressing down the levers; I push open my door, place my tin cup on a small shelf at the left on leaving the cell and follow the other men rapidly along the narrow gallery and down a short flight of narrow, slippery iron stairs, coming to a halt at the door opening into the yard. Here the Captain places me third in line on the left, for we march in double file. I am flattered by the promotion, but possibly the man in front of me feels differently about it. I hope he’ll bear no grudge; but, if he had turned about and landed me one between the eyes that last time I trod on his heel, it would not have been surprising. The shoes presented me by the state of New York are so stiff and clumsy that I find it quite a task to manage my feet; it is difficult to steer them properly; and of course this marching in close order is something quite new to me.
First at half speed—then at a good round pace—we march out of the north wing, wheel to the right on reaching the center walk, swing down the length of the yard; then turn to the left, pass through the building where the buckets are emptied and washed, and halt where they are placed to dry and be disinfected. After a pause here of only a moment we march on again to the basket-shop.
Just as we reach there and break ranks, the young officer who served as guide this morning presents himself; and in silence I am conducted back up the yard and again to the Doctor’s office, where my very thorough medical examination is completed.
After the Doctor is through with me I go to the hallway outside his office where a number of other prisoners are awaiting their turns. As my officer has not come back, and does not do so for some time, there is an opportunity to practice what is apparently the most necessary virtue of prison life—patience. I take my place along the wall with the other convicts and watch for a chance to open a whispered conversation. From where I stand I can look up a short flight of steps into the front room of the hospital, where there are a number of men moving about; among them one of the city undertakers. Then I remember having heard at the front office, as I came in this morning, of the sudden death of a young prisoner last night from pneumonia. Four convicts come up the stairs, bringing a large, ominous looking, oblong receptacle, which they take to a door on my left. It does not look quite like a coffin, but there is little doubt as to its purpose. As the door is opened, I glance in; and there, covered with a white sheet, is all that remains of the poor lad—the disgraced and discarded human tenement of one divine spark of life.
A death in prison. Tears fill my eyes as I turn away thinking of that lonely, friendless deathbed; thinking that perhaps some loving mother or young wife in the world outside, bearing bravely her own share of shame and punishment, has been struggling to keep body and soul together until her prisoner could come back home; perhaps at this very moment wondering why she has not received from him the last monthly letter. And now—— Can the world hold any tragedy more terrible than this?
A young negro prisoner standing by, who has also looked into the chamber of death, breathes a low sigh and whispers, “God! That’s where I wish I was!”
The convict next him, a broad-shouldered young chap, who whispers to me that he comes from Brooklyn and gets out in January, goes in to ask some special favor of the Doctor. He gives me on the side a most humorous and quite indescribable wink and grin as his request is granted. His attitude suggests that he has “slipped one over” on somebody. He mounts the steps to the hospital and the young negro takes his turn with the Doctor as the coffin, heavy now with its mournful load, is brought out from the room on the left. At the same moment the officer returns to my rescue; and I follow him downstairs and out into the fresh air and the sunlight.
Comedy and tragedy seem to jostle each other in prison even as in the world outside. But the comedy itself is tragic; while the tragedy lies beyond the realm of tears—in the gray twilight region of a suffering too deep for speech, where sympathy seems helpless.