In ship and prison

by William P. Chipman

Then I grew angry. “Tell him,” I exclaimed, “that there is an officer in here who is not going to die with the disease, and as sure as he lives the home government shall know. Yea, the whole civilized world shall know how he is treating men whose only fault is that they are prisoners.”

There must have been something in my looks or tones that startled him, for he shuffled away down the corridor, and going to the prison officials made known my demands, repeating word for word what I had said. The result was we were furnished with shovels, brooms, pails and water in abundance, and before night our quarters were clean.

A week passed, however, without any of my other demands being met. Six more men died, and were wrapped in their blankets, and carried away to their burial. Ten more of the men had come down with the contagion. The time was fast approaching when the disease might be expected to appear among my own crew. We needed everything—beds, clothing, better and more food, and medicine. In my desperation I grew cunning. From a piece of wire I found in the possession of one of the men I manufactured a key, with which I could unlock our door.

I knew it only allowed me to enter the outside corridor, but even that circumstance I believed I could use to our advantage. Our turnkey was in the habit of communicating with us by a small opening in the door. In fact, the door had been thrown wide open but once since we had entered the prison—the day we had cleaned the room, and then four soldiers, all immunes, had stood in the passageway with loaded muskets to prevent our escape. Usually, however, the attendant came to the door alone.

With this fact in mind, near the noon hour I unlocked the door and waited. As soon as I heard the footsteps of the old man outside, I suddenly threw the door open, and sprang out upon him. He was so surprised I had no difficulty in catching him by the shoulders.

“Now lead me to the office,” I demanded.

“But you mustn’t go there, sir,” he cried in alarm. “I’m told not so much as to let you into the corridor. You’ll give the disease to the officials and the other prisoners.”

“That is just what I propose to do,” I retorted, shaking him as a terrier would a rat. “If we are not given clean beds and clothing and medicine, we’ll tear this building down inch by inch; we’ll scatter the germs of the smallpox on the air. Some of us may die in the attempt, but not until we have infected the whole town. So lead on or I’ll throttle you!”

My loud voice and his equally loud remonstrances reached the ears of the superintendent, as I had intended they should, and he now peeped into the corridor to see what the trouble was. Catching enough of my words to comprehend both my demands and my threats, he called out:

“Don’t come down here, sir! Let the turnkey go, and I’ll do what you say. The things shall be sent you at once.”