CHAPTER XXXVI.

"NOTHING LEFT US BUT A GRAVE, THAT SMALL MODEL OF THE BARREN EARTH," WITH

DISHONOR FOR AN EPITAPH.

Judge Archibald proceeded to pass sentence. He began with the

interesting and truthful remark: "I have anxiously considered whether

anything less than the maximum penalty of the law will be adequate to

meet the requirements of this case, and I think not." We had information

that a few days previously a meeting of judges had been held and that he

had been advised to pass a life sentence. What he really meant to say

was that he had anxiously considered whether anything less would be

adequate to satisfy the Bank of England. He went on to say that we had

not only inflicted great loss on the bank, but had also seriously

discredited that great institution in the eyes of the public. He

continued: "It is difficult to see the motives for this crime; it was

not want, for you were in possession of a large sum of money. You are

men of education, some of you speak the Continental languages, and you

have traveled considerably. I see no reason to make any distinction

between you, and let it be understood from the sentence which I am about

to pass upon you that men of education"--and he might have added, what

he undoubtedly thought, Americans--"who commit crimes which none but men

of education can commit must expect a terrible retribution, and that

sentence is penal servitude for life, and I further order that each one

of you pay one-fourth of the costs of prosecution--L49,000, or $245,000

in all."

And, after all, what aroused so greatly his indignation? It was simply

this--because we were youngsters and Americans, and had successfully

assaulted the fondly imagined impregnable Bank of England, and, worse

still, had held up to the laughter of the whole world its red-tape

idiotic management, for had the bank asked so common a thing as a

reference the fraud would have been made impossible.

Let my reader contrast this modern Jeffreys, his savage tirade, and, for

an offense against property, this most brutal sentence, with the

treatment of the Warwickshire bank wreckers. Greenaway, the manager of

this bank, and three of the directors by false balance sheets and

perjured reports for years had looted the bank, finally robbing the

depositors of L1,000,000, several of whom committed suicide and

thousands more of whom were ruined.

They were tried, convicted, and in being sentenced were told that, being

men of high social position, the disgrace in itself was a severe

punishment; therefore, he should take that fact into consideration, and

ended by sentencing two to eight months', one to twelve and one to

fourteen months' imprisonment.

We were sentenced late at night--nearly 10 o'clock--a smoky, foggy

London night. The court was packed, the corridors crowded, and when the

jury came in with their verdict the suppressed excitement found vent.

But when the vindictive and unheard-of sentence fell from the lips of

this villain Judge an exclamation of horror fell from that crowded

court.

We turned from the Judge and went down the stairs to the entrance to the

underground passage leading to Newgate. There we halted to say farewell.

[Illustration: BEFORE THE GOVERNOR--ASSISTANT WARDER REPORTING A

PRISONER FOR TALKING.]

To say farewell! Yes. The Primrose Way had come to an end, but we were

comrades and friends still, and in order that in the gloom of the

slow-moving days and the blackness and thick horror of the years to come

we might have some thought in common, we then and there promised--what

could we poor, broken bankrupts promise?

Where or to what in the thick horror enshrouding us could we turn? We

had

"Nothing left us to call our own save death,

And that small model of the barren earth

Which serves as paste and cover to our bones;"

nothing but a grave, that

"Small model of the barren earth,"

with dishonor and degradation for our epitaph!

But there, in the very instant of our overwhelming defeat, standing in

the dark mouth of the stone conduit leading from the Old Bailey to the

dungeons of Newgate, by virtue of the high resolve we made, we conquered

Fate at her worst, and by our act in establishing a secret bond of

sympathy in our separation dropped the bad, disastrous past, and

starting on new things planted our feet on the bottom round of the

ladder of success, feeling that, with plenty of faith and endurance,

Fortune, frown as she might now, must in some distant day turn her wheel

and smile again.

And what was this act? Why, it was a simple one, but bore in it the germ

of great things.

As we halted there in the gloom we swore never to give in, however they

might starve us, even grind us to powder, as we felt they would

certainly try to do. We knew that in their anxiety about our souls they

would be sure kindly to furnish each with a Bible, and we promised to

read one chapter every day consecutively, and, while reading the same

chapter at the same hour, think of the others. For twenty years we kept

the promise. Then, making the resolve mentioned in the beginning of this

book, I marched back to my cell. The door was opened and closed behind

me, leaving me in pitch darkness--a convict in my dungeon. Dressed as I

was I lay down on the little bed there, and through all that long and

terrible night, with a million dread images rushing through my brain, I

lay passive, with wide-open eyes, staring into the darkness, conscious

that sanity and insanity were struggling for mastery in my brain, while

I, like some interested spectator, watched the struggle; or, again, I

was struggling in the air with some powerful but viewless monster form,

that clutched my throat with iron fingers, but whose body was impalpable

to the grasp of my hands. A mighty space, an eternity of time and

daylight came. Then, like one in a dream, I rose mechanically, and,

finding the pin I had secreted, I stood on the little wooden bench, and,

impelled by some spiritual but irresistible force, I scratched on the

wall the message I had resolved to leave:

"In the reproof of chance

Lies the true proof of men."

Then I thought of my friends and my promise, and, like one in a dream, I

took the ill-smelling and dirty little Bible from the shelf, and,

turning to the first chapter, read:

"And the spirit of God moved upon the waters." ...

"And God said let there be light, and there was light."

Then the book fell from my hand, and I remembered no more. My mind had

gone whirling into the abyss.

I was sentenced on Wednesday. For three days, from Thursday to Sunday,

my mind was a blank. I have no recollection of my removal under escort

from Newgate to Pentonville.

On Sunday, the fourth day of my sentence, like one rousing from a

trance, I awoke to find myself shaven and shorn, dressed in a coarse

convict uniform, in a rough cell of white-washed brick. The small window

had heavy double bars set with thick fluted glass, which, while

admitting light, foiled any attempt of the eye to discern objects

without. In the corner there was a rusty iron shelf. A board let into

the brickwork served for bed, bench and table. A zinc jug and basin for

water, with a wooden plate, spoon and salt dish (no knife or fork for

twenty years!) completed the furnishings.

As I was looking around in a helpless way a key suddenly rattled in the

lock and, the door opening, a uniformed warder stepped in and, giving me

a searching look, said in a rough voice: "Come on; you'll do for chapel;

you have put on the balmy long enough." His kindly face belied his rough

tones, and I followed him out of the door and soon found myself in the

prison chapel. None was present, and I was ordered to sit on the front

bench at the far end. The benches were simply common flat boards ranged

in rows. Soon the prisoners came in singly, marching about two yards

apart, and sat on the benches with that interval between them--that is,

in the division of the chapel where I sat, it being separated from the

rest by a high partition. Soon a white-robed, surpliced clergyman came

in, and the service began; but I had no eye or ear, nor any

comprehension save in a dim manner, as to what was going on. My brain

was trying to connect the past and the present, feeling that something

terrible had befallen me, but what it was I could not understand. When

the services were over I returned under the escort of the warder, who,

when I arrived at my cell, ordered me to go in and close the door, which

I did, banging it behind me. It had a spring lock, and when I heard the

snap of the catch and looked at the narrow, barred window, with its

thick, fluted glass admitting only a dim light, I remembered everything.

Like a flash it all came to me, and I realized the full horror of my

position. Sitting down on the little board fastened to the wall, serving

as bed, seat and table, I buried my face in my hands and began to

ponder. Regrets came in floods, with remorse and despair, hand in hand,

when, realizing that it was madness to think, I sprang up, saying to

myself the hour and minute had come for me to decide--either for

madness and a convict's dishonored grave, or to keep the promise I had

made to my friends--never to give in, but to live and conquer fate.

I determined then and there to live in the future, and never to dwell on

the horrible present or past. Then I remembered the last scene in

Newgate and my promise to accompany my friends step by step, day by day,

in our readings. Finding a Bible on the little rusty iron shelf in the

corner, and this being the fourth day of our sentence, I turned to the

fourth chapter. It gives the story of Cain's crime and punishment, and I

read the graphic narrative with an intensity of interest difficult to

describe. When I read, "And Cain said unto the Lord, my punishment is

greater than I can bear. Behold, thou hast driven me out this day from

the face of the earth," I felt that the cry of Cain in all its intense

naturalness, in its remorse and despair, was my own, and I was overcome.

Laying the book down, I walked the floor for an hour in agony, until

fantastic images came thronging thick and fast to my brain. I realized

that my mind was going and felt I must do something to make me forget my

misery.

I opened the Bible at random and my eye caught the word "misery." I

looked closely at the verse and read:

"Thou shalt forget thy misery, and remember it as waters that pass

away."

I threw the book down, crying with vehemence, "That's a lie! God never

gives something for nothing." Soon I opened the book again and looked at

the context. Those of my readers who care to do so can do the same. The

verse is Job xi., 16. The context begins at verse 13. From that hour I

never despaired again.

The same day I began committing the Book of Job to memory, and worked

for dear life and reason. I became interested, and my interest in that

wondrous poem deepened until the study became a passion. Thus I turned

the whole current of my thoughts into a new channel. Reason came back,

and with it resolution and courage and strength.

I was in Pentonville Prison, in the suburbs of London. All men convicted

in England are sent to this prison to undergo one year's solitary

confinement. At the completion of the year they are drafted away to the

public works' prisons, where, working in gangs, they complete their

sentences.

Of my experience in Pentonville during my year of solitude it suffices

to say that, passing through a great deal of mental conflict, I found I

had grown stronger and was eager for transfer to the other prison, where

I could for a few hours each day at least look on the sky and the faces

of my fellow men.

At last the day of transfer came, and, escorted by two uniformed and

armed warders, I was taken to the famous Chatham Prison, twenty-seven

miles from London on the river Medway....

"You were sent here to work, and you will have to do it or I will make

you suffer for it," was the friendly greeting that fell on my ears as I

stood before a pompous little fellow (an ex-major from the army) at

Chatham Prison one lovely morning in 1874.

I had arrived there under escort but an hour before, strong in the

resolve to obey the regulations if I could, and never to give in if I

had a fair chance; also with a desperate resolve never to submit to

persecution, come what might, and these resolutions saved me--but only

by a steady and dogged adherence to them on many occasions, through many

years and amid surroundings that might well make me--as it did and does

many good men--desperate and utterly reckless.

After a few more remarks of a very personal and pungent nature the

little fellow marched off with a delicious swagger and an heroical air.

I at once turned to the warder and asked, "Who is that little fellow?"

"The Governor!" he gasped out. "If he had only heard you!" and then

followed a pantomime that implied something very dreadful. Then I

marched off to the doctor, and next to the chaplain, who (knowing who I

was) asked me if I could read and write, to which I meekly replied,

"Yes, sir;" but apparently being doubtful upon the point he gave me a

book. Opening it and pretending to read, I said in a solemn tone of

voice: "When time and place adhere write me down an ass." He took the

book from me, looked at the open page, gazed solemnly in my face with a

funny wagging of his head, as much as to say, "you will come to no

good," and followed the little major.

Then my cicerone took me into the main building, filled up to the brim

with what seemed to be little brick and stone boxes, and, halting in

front of one, said, "This is your cell." Looking around to see if it was

safe to talk, he began to question me rapidly about my case, and getting

no satisfaction he wound up the questioning with the remark: "Well, you

tried to take all our money over to America." Then, becoming

confidential, he told me what wicked fellows the other prisoners were,

chiefly because they went to the Governor and reported the officers,

charging them with maltreatment and bullying particularly, and knocking

them about generally. Of course, the warders never did such things, but

were really of a very lamblike and gentle nature. In order to back up

their lies the prisoners would knock their own heads against the walls

and then swear by everything good that some one of the warders had done

it. I said, perhaps he had.

Well, he said, perhaps an officer might give a man "a little clip," but

never so as to hurt him, and "only in fun, you know." I felt at the time

that I would never learn to appreciate Chatham "fun," but on the very

next day I was convinced of it when a man named Farrier pulled out from

his waistband a piece of rag, and, unrolling it, produced two of his

front teeth with the information that a certain warder had struck him

with his fist in the mouth and knocked them out.

But to return to my narrative. After many "wise saws and modern

instances," he locked me up in the little brick and stone box and

departed, having first informed me that I "would go out to labor in the

morning."

I looked about my little box with a mixture of curiosity and

consternation, for the thought smote me with blinding force that for

long years that little box--eight feet six inches in length, seven feet

in height and five feet in width, with its floor and roof of

stone--would be my only home--would be! must be! and no power could

avert my fate.

On the small iron shelf I found a tin dish used by some previous

occupant, and smeared inside and out with gruel. There being no water in

my jug, when the men came in for dinner, I, in my innocence, asked one

of the officers for some water to wash the dish. He looked at me with

great contempt and said: "You are a precious flat; lick it off, man.

Before long you won't waste gruel by washing your tin dish. You won't be

here many days and want to use water to clean your pint."

After dinner I saw the men marched out to labor, and was amazed to see

their famished, wolfish looks--thin, gaunt and almost disguised out of

all human resemblance by their ill-fitting, mud-covered garments and

mud-splashed faces and hands. I myself was kept in, but the weary,

almost ghastly spectre march I had witnessed constantly haunted me, and

I said, "Will I ever resemble them?" And youthful spirit and pride

rushed to the front and cried, "Never!"

Night and supper (eight ounces of brown bread) came at length, and I

rose up from my meal cheerful and resolute to meet the worst, be it what

it might short of deliberate persecution, with a stout heart and faith

that at last all would be well.

In the morning I arose, had my breakfast (nine ounces of brown bread and

one pint of gruel), and was eager to learn what this "labor" meant. I

was prepared for much, but not for the grim reality. I had been ordered

to join eighty-two party--a brickmaking party, but working in the "mud

districts." So we, along with 1,200 others, marched out to our work, and

as soon as we were outside of the prison grounds I saw a sight that,

while it explained the mud-splashed appearance of my spectral array, was

enough to daunt any man doomed to join in the game. Mud, mud everywhere,

with groups of weary men with shovel, or shovel and barrow, working in

it. A sort of road had been made over the mud with ashes and cinders,

and our party of twenty-two men, with five other parties, moved steadily

on for about a mile until we came to the clay banks or pits. Fortunately

we had a very good officer by the name of James. He wanted the work

done, and used his tongue pretty freely; still he was a man who would

speak the truth, and treated his men as well as he dared to do under the

brutal regime ruling in Chatham. He speedily told me off to a barrow and

spade, and I was fully enlisted as barrow-and-spade man to Her Majesty.

A steam mill, or "pug," like a monster coffee mill, was used for mixing

the clay and sand and delivering it in form of bricks below, where

another party received them and laid them out to dry, preparatory to

burning. Our duty was "to keep the pug going"--keep it full of clay to

the top. The clay was in a high bank; we dug into it from the bottom

with our spades, and filled it as fast as possible into our barrows. In

front of each man was a "run," formed by a line of planks only eight

inches in width, and all converging toward and meeting near the "pug."

The distance we were wheeling was from thirty to forty yards, end the

incline was really very steep; but that in itself would not have been so

bad, but the labor of digging out the clay was severe, and that

everlasting "pug" was as hungry as if it were in the habit of taking

"Plantation Bitters" to give it an appetite.

One had no period of rest between the filling of one's barrow and the

start up the run. In an hour's time my poor hands were covered with

blood blisters, and my left knee was a lame duck indeed, made so by the

slight wrench given it each time I struck in my spade with my left foot;

but I made no complaint. About 10 o'clock the man next to me with an

oath threw down his spade and vowed he would do no more work. Putting on

his vest and packet, he walked up to the warder, and quite as a matter

of course turned his back to him and put both hands behind him. The

warder produced a pair of handcuffs, and without any comment handcuffed

his hands in that position, and then told him to stand with his back to

the work. No one took the slightest notice and the toil did not slacken

for an instant, but one man was out of the game, and we had to make his

side good.

Noon came at last. We dropped our spades, hastily slipped on our jackets

and at once set off at a quick march for the prison. I naturally looked

at the various gangs piloting their way through the mud and all steering

in a straight line for the Appian way whereon we were, for, as all roads

lead to Rome, so all the sticky ways "on the works" led to the prison.

Our laconic friend was trudging on behind the party, and to my surprise

I noticed that several of the other parties had un enfant perdu, hands

behind his back, marching in the rear, and as soon as we reached the

prison each poor sheep in the rear fell out quite as a matter of course.

When all the men were in, a warder came up and gave the order, "Right

turn! Forward!" and off the poor fellows marched to the punishment cells

for three days' bread and water each, and no bed, unless one designates

an oak plank as such. It was all very sad; 'twas pitiful to see the

matter-of-fact way in which every one concerned took it all.

So my first day in the mud and clay came to an end, and I found myself

once more in my little box with a night before me for rest and thought.

Although I had suffered, yet there were grounds for gratitude and hope,

and I felt that I might regard the future steadily and without despair.

[Illustration: VISITOR TRYING ON THE HANGMAN'S IR ON PINIONING BELT AT

NEWGATE.]