In my cell, Saturday noon, October 4.

This morning,—the morning of my last full day in prison,—dawns bright and sunny; a pleasant change from the dark, cloudy and oppressive weather we have been having. The routine of my day has become firmly established now; and I conform to it almost without thought. At six I arise. As I sleep in my one suit of underclothes, my dressing may be said to have already begun. I add my socks and the clumsy state shoes, which are on the chair close at hand. Then I am ready to stand upon the stone pavement of the cell. After this I gain space, and at the same time put my house in order, by hanging up mattress, pillow and blankets, and turning the iron bed up under them against the wall. Then I brush my teeth, wash my face and comb my hair. Then I finish dressing by putting on shirt, trousers, coat and cap. These and other necessary operations completed, I am ready for the day.

In the midst of my toilet the electric light is switched on; so that the latter part has been accomplished with its aid. As I have dressed leisurely there is not very long to wait before I hear the clicking, which marks the unlocking of the levers, far around the corner to my left. Already, however, I have heard the tread of shuffling feet in the corridor below; and know that the first company has already started down the yard.

All the familiar sounds,—the familiar routine,—seem to give me a sort of strange, new feeling on this last day. It seems so curious that something which now seems like the established order of the universe should ever have been unfamiliar, or that it should so soon come to an end—at least, so far as I am concerned.

The levers click; the captain unlocks the cells; the long bar is raised; the doors are opened; the galleries are filled with hurrying figures carrying the heavy iron buckets; and my company forms at the foot of the stairs.

What special reason there is for so much haste I have not yet discovered; but I presume that the officers put off their arrival at the prison to the very last moment, allowing the shortest possible time for the operations between their arrival and breakfast.

The air and sunshine are pleasant and invigorating as we march down the yard and back, emptying and leaving the buckets as usual. Then to my cell where I sweep out and shut myself in.

Soon comes breakfast with its regular routine. I have laid off my cap; as the lever is pressed down I push open the grated door, let Stuhlmiller, Bell and the other two who march in front of me pass by; then fall in between them and the next man. We traverse the short gallery to the right, descend the iron steps and line up in the corridor; standing motionless, with folded arms. As the Captain’s stick strikes the stone pavement the line begins to move. Then at a second rap we march rapidly to the mess-hall. Just within the door we salute the P. K.; then swing to the right, turn to the left, pass alongside the men who have already taken their seats and are eating, and reach our shelf or table. As we stand at our places, comes one rap; and we lean down and pull out our stools, standing again erect. A second rap; and we sit. Throughout the meal the Captain stands, rigid and silent, in the aisle at our right.

Our Saturday breakfast is rice; which I eat with relish. My appetite is in excellent working order this morning, after a good night’s rest; and I am feeling in fine physical condition. There can be no question about the punishment cell; no one who feels as well as I do has any excuse for not misbehaving himself. In dressing this morning I took up my belt another notch. My youngest was quite right when he asserted that I should not be so fat when I came out; I must have lost several pounds.

I carefully avoid the coffee this morning; no more bootleg for me! I reserve my thirst for a good drink of water when I get back to the cell.

Already, while we are stowing away our breakfast, the companies in our rear are departing; and now our turn comes. One rap; and we rise and set back our stools. A second rap; and spoons in hand (no use for knives and forks at this breakfast) we march in double file down the middle aisle,—holding our spoons high for the officers to see and dropping them into the proper receptacles at the door. Then back through the stone corridor, up the iron stairs and along the gallery to the cells. In these, as there is the wait of half an hour or more before shop-time, we are double-locked.

And now comes Dickinson, to wish me a final good-bye. He is in his citizen’s clothes, and can hardly wait to have the gate shut behind him.

He assures me again of his desire and intention to go straight and make good; and I put through the bars two fingers which he grasps as fervently as he would my whole hand, if he could get it. Another moment, and the brave, well-meaning fellow is gone. If a man like this does not succeed, it is not his fault; but the fault of the System which fails to strengthen his power of self-control and ability to bear responsibility.

After Dickinson’s departure comes one of the trusties, bringing the information which I passed the word along yesterday to get for me. Then I write in my journal and read some of the kites which have reached me. The latest one I find under the blankets,—tucked into the strap which holds up my mattress—a most ingenious hiding place.

Then comes work-time. Again the captain unlocks the levers; and again I follow along the gallery to the iron stairway and the yard door. After a much shorter period of waiting than at our earlier march, we start off and go directly down the yard and around the corner to the basket-shop.

“Good morning, Tom!” “Good morning, Jack!” and we are off to work in good time.

“Well, old pal, how are you feeling to-day?”

I look up and catch an anxious look in my partner’s eyes. I laugh as I answer: “Oh, I’m all right; and in fine fighting trim.”I know what he means; and he knows what I mean. It is the shadow of the jail that is between us.

“Come on now, Jack,” I say; “don’t worry about me. I shall get through it all right.”

“But you don’t know what it means,” he insists anxiously. “One hour of that misery is worse than a week of the worst kind of pain. You’d better think it over.”

“Well, I’ll tell you, Jack; I have reconsidered it and I don’t believe I shall stay so long as I intended. In fact I had planned to go down this morning but I shall wait until afternoon. I’ll get all I want of it in about three or four hours.”

“You can just bet you will,” and Jack turns away with a discouraged air to pick up a fresh batch of rattan. I’m afraid he thinks me a very obstinate and unreasonable person.

The rattan seems to be worse than ever this morning. They’ve tried cold water, and they’ve tried hot water, and they’ve tried steam; but like the White Queen’s shawl, “there’s no pleasing it.” It still remains quite unfit to work with; and for the sake of the future usefulness of my fingers I can’t help thinking it’s just as well that my prison bit is drawing to a close.

As we are working away, one of our shopmates comes over to me (the same who accused me yesterday of working too hard) and says: “Well, Brown, I think you must be taking in the jail to-day.”

My surprise is great. No one, except Jack, Grant and the Warden, were aware of my intention, so far as I knew.

“What made you think of that?” I ask.

“Oh, they had a jail suit washed yesterday; so I guess they’re getting ready for you,” is the reply.

These men are certainly sharp. They can “see a church by daylight.”

We work busily at our basket-making through the morning, Jack and I—our last day together. I am actually beginning to feel that, if it were not for the pressure of business in my office and some engagements in New York City next week, I should like to stay longer among these new friends. But it may not be. I have secured what I came for—far more than I expected. And now the next question is: what can be done with this knowledge? How can it be utilized for the state? and incidentally to help these men who need help so badly?

The noon-hour approaches. “Is it good-bye, now, Tom?” says my partner, sadly.

“Oh, no,” I answer. “You don’t get rid of me so easily as that. I shall be back this afternoon.”

Jack looks relieved; and we fall into line as usual—the last time I shall march out of the shop with these men, my close prison companions of six days.

Down to the bucket stands; up the yard; into the north wing; up the iron stairs; along the gallery; and around the corner to my cell. Then off with my cap and coat; some water on my face; a comb passed through my hair and I am ready for dinner. I have time to write a few paragraphs in my journal before we march to the mess-room.

For dinner roast beef, potatoes and some sort of preserve; quite the best meal we have had. I must eat enough to last over until to-morrow morning; although for that matter the supper in jail will be similar to those I’ve had every day—bread and water. But I feel as if the ordeal I am to pass through may need all my strength. So I make good use of my knife and fork; and again find the dinner time almost too short for a square meal.

Back to the cell, where I arrange everything for an indefinite absence. Then, as I am writing in my journal, I am interrupted by the arrival of Grant. He comes to find out if there is any change of mind on my part regarding the jail; and, if not, to make final arrangements. I tell him I never felt in better health; and that I’m ready to carry out the plan made last night. “I will strike work,” I tell him, “between half past three and four; and be sent to the jail. You had better come for me there about seven o’clock. Don’t make it any later,” I add, “because I certainly will have had a sufficient taste of it by that time; and I see no reason for remaining any longer than is necessary. So please be on time.”

Somehow Jack’s warnings and admonitions, while they have not turned me from my purpose, have produced a feeling of disinclination to stay in the jail beyond a reasonable time. What is to be feared I am sure I do not know; or even that I fear anything. It is certainly not the pleasantest place in the world; but—well! I simply cannot understand why these men all speak of it in the way they do.

So Grant goes away; and now I close my journal. To-morrow morning I shall be too busy to write in it, as I shall be preparing the remarks I want to make to the men in chapel; that is, if the chaplain holds to his suggestion of calling upon me. I never like to attempt a speech of any kind unprepared; even an extempore and unexpected speech is so much better for a little preliminary improvising.

So here I write the last page within the walls; and go forth from my cell to embark upon the last round of my great adventure. I never expected to end my prison term with regrets; and I am probably the first man who ever did.At the end of the gallery I hear the familiar sound of the key turning in the locks; so here go for the last time my pencils and paper into the locker, as I put on my cap and coat and prepare to follow the Captain to my final hours in the basket-shop.

Thus far my prison journal carries us. From this time on, for reasons which will be apparent, I have to depend upon subsequent memory. It is only fair to say, however, that it is memory made peculiarly clear by the unusual character of the circumstances.

The Captain unlocks the levers; the cells are opened; and we march down to the shop. With a serious face and without his usual greeting Jack joins me at our work-table.

In fact Jack is not in very good spirits; and I have to do most of the cheerful part. This is not surprising; when one thinks it over. A rather exciting episode in Jack’s life is coming to an end; while the most exciting part of my adventure is just beginning. After that, I am going out, my life enriched with an unusual and interesting experience; while he is going back to the old, dull, depressing routine. Is it any wonder that he feels gloomy?

For about two hours, from half past one to a quarter past three, we both work away faithfully on our basket-making; and then as I finish off my last bottom I turn to my partner. “Well, old man, the time will be here pretty soon; and I may as well get ready for it. I think I’ll go over and wash up.”

So I raise my hand for permission; and upon seeing the Captain nod, as I suppose, I take Jack’s soap and towel which we still use in common and go to the sink. On my way back, as I pass the Captain’s desk, he stops me. “Brown, don’t you know that you mustn’t leave your place without permission?”

“Yes, sir,” is my reply, “but I raised my hand.”

“I didn’t see it.”

“Why, I thought I saw you nod, sir.”

“I did not.”

“Well, I am sorry, sir.” Then it occurs to me that this reprimand gives a good chance to settle the jail matter at once. Feeling somewhat surprised at my own boldness, I assume a rather insolent air and remark, “But it makes very little difference; because I’ve decided that I’ll not work any more.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that the rattan has been very stiff and rotten, and my fingers are getting badly swollen and blistered. We have complained but it doesn’t seem to make any difference. The rattan is as bad as ever; and I shall not go on with it.”

“Do I understand that you refuse to work?”

“Well, that’s about the size of it.”There is an instant’s pause. Then——

“Go and get your coat and cap.”

The foregoing colloquy has been carried on in low tones for I have no wish to disturb the shop, or make a show of rebellion.[14]

I make my way back to our work-table. “Well, Jack, I’m in for it!”

“What did you tell him?”

“I refused to work any longer.”

“Gee! You’ll get it in the neck, sure enough. You’ve committed a serious offense.”

“That’s all right; but I wish my hands weren’t so sticky. I can’t get them clean with that cold water.”

“I’ll get you some hot water.”

Jack goes off to fulfill his errand; and I see that Grant has come into the shop and is talking to Captain Kane. Wondering if this is the first the latter has heard of my plan of action, I take my coat and cap down from the hook and put them on. The men begin to feel that something is up; and a number of them cease work and stare as an officer steps up to our table.

“Thomas Brown.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come with me.”

For a moment I wonder what he would do if I refused. I should like to try; but reluctantly conclude it would be better not. I turn and get one last glimpse of Jack’s mournful face, as he stands at a distance with the pail of hot water which he has just secured. Waving my hand to him and stepping off in front of the officer, I make my way out of the shop in the face of its surprised inmates.

In this order we traverse the yard; and again, as on the day of my advent, I feel strangely conscious of many sharp eyes looking out from the various buildings. It is about half past three o’clock.

Just at the end of the south wing is a low building faced with stone, upon the ground floor of which is the jail office. The keeper who has me in charge guides me in and orders me to sit down. I do so. He then exchanges a few words with Captain Martin, who presides at the desk; hands him a yellow slip of paper and disappears up the yard toward the main building.

As I have said before, the one necessary virtue of prison life seems to be patience. I sit, and sit; and my sitting continues, as Mark Twain says about the circular staircase at Niagara Falls, “long after it has ceased to be a novelty and terminates long before it begins to be a pleasure.”

In the meantime, the members of the coal gang, returning from work to their cells in the south wing, pass by the door and, looking in, see me awaiting my doom. There is deep surprise on the faces of most of them. The young negro who offered me his mittens, the day we moved the coal cars—Tuesday morning, I think it was, but it seems a long time ago—gives me a cheering nod as he begins to climb the stairs. Then Captain Martin, noticing the attention I am attracting, shuts the door. But it is too late. Undoubtedly the wireless has flashed the message, “Tom Brown’s pinched,” into every nook and corner of the prison by this time.

At last the P. K. makes his appearance. He takes his seat with an assumption of great dignity in an arm chair; and I rise and stand silently before him. He examines at leisure the yellow slip of paper which Captain Martin has handed to him, and clears his throat. “Thomas Brown,” he begins, “you are reported for refusing to work”; and he looks up interrogatively.

“Yes, sir.”

“What have you to say for yourself?”

“Well, sir, the rattan has been so stiff and rotten that we couldn’t do good work, sir; and you can see for yourself that my fingers are getting swollen and blistered.”

“You should have made a complaint to the Captain.”

“So we did, sir; but it didn’t make any difference. So I just told him that I wouldn’t work any more.”

There is a moment’s pause.

“Well, Brown, this is a very serious offense—refusing to work; and, if you persist in it, I fear you will have to be punished.”

“I can’t help that, sir.”

“Do you still refuse to work?”

“Yes, sir. I shall not work under existing conditions in the shop.”

“Well, Brown; I’m very sorry to punish you; but I have to obey the orders laid down in such cases by those in higher authority than I am. Captain Martin, you will take charge of this man.”

The P. K. takes his departure. Captain Martin leisurely unhooks a large key from a locker behind his chair and saying briefly: “In here, Brown,” opens a solid iron door in the wall. We are in the passage which leads to the death chamber; that terrible spot where those who are adjudged guilty by Society of coldly calculated and brutal murder are by coldly calculated and brutal murder put to death by Society. As if one crime of such nature done by a single man, acting individually, can be expiated by a similar crime done by all men, acting collectively!

We traverse the passage, up to the very door of the death chamber. Here is another iron door on the right. This is unlocked and opened; and we enter the jail.

It may be well, before beginning the next chapter, to explain just what the jail is like.

Up to the advent of Superintendent Riley, there were in Auburn Prison two types of punishment cells: the jail, and the screen cells. The latter are built into the regular cell blocks and are about three and a half feet wide with the same length and height as the regular cells. They have solid doors of sheet iron pierced by a few round holes about the size of a slate pencil. These holes are probably of comparatively recent origin. The doors of similar cells at Sing Sing and Dannemora had no openings except for a small slit at the extreme bottom and top.

Ventilation there was none; the occupant breathed as best he could, lay on the damp stone floor and went insane for lack of light and air, within full hearing of the officers—and incidentally of the other prisoners. The use of the screen cells at Auburn was ordered discontinued by Superintendent Riley immediately after he had seen and condemned those at Dannemora.

The jail at Auburn is at present the place where all offenders against prison discipline are sent for punishment.

Whether the offense is whispering in the shop or a murderous assault upon an inmate or a keeper, the punishment is exactly the same—varying only in length. So far as I can learn, there is no specific term for any offense; so that when a man goes to the jail, he never knows how long he may be kept there. The official view, as I understand it, is that no matter what the cause for which the man is sent to the jail, he had better stay there until “his spirit is broken.”

The jail is admirably situated for the purpose of performing the operation of breaking a man’s spirit; for it has on one side the death chamber, and on the other the prison dynamo with its ceaseless grinding, night and day. It is a vaulted stone dungeon about fifty feet long and twenty wide. It is absolutely bare except for one wooden bench along the north end, a locker where the jail clothes are kept, and eight cells arranged in a row along the east wall and backing on the wall of the death chamber. The eight cells are of solid sheet iron; floor, sides, back and roof. They are studded with rivets, projecting about a quarter of an inch. At the time that Warden Rattigan came into office there was no other floor; the inmates slept on the bare iron—and the rivets! The cells are about four and a half feet wide, eight feet deep and nine feet high. There is a feeble attempt at ventilation—a small hole in the roof of the cell; which hole communicates with an iron pipe. Where the pipe goes is of no consequence for it does not ventilate. Practically there is no air in the cell except what percolates in through the extra heavily grated door.

In the vaulted room outside there are two windows, one at either end, north and south. But so little light comes through these windows that except at midday on a bright, sunny day, if you wish to see the inside of the cells after the doors are opened you must use the electric light. There are two of these and each is fastened to a long cord, so that it can be carried to the farthest of the eight cells. At the south end of the room is a toilet seat, and a sink with running water where the supply for the prisoners is drawn. Up to the time of Superintendent Riley’s and Warden Rattigan’s coming into office, the supply of water for each prisoner was limited to ONE GILL FOR TWENTY-FOUR HOURS!

The sink was not used for the prisoners to wash, for the simple reason that the prisoners in the jail were not allowed to wash.

Other peculiarities of the jail system will be made clear in the next chapter.