A KANSAS HELL
1. CHAPTER I.
MY INITIATION AND CRIME.
GUILTY! This word, so replete with sadness and sorrow, fell on my ear
on that blackest of all black Fridays, October 14, 1887.
Penitentiary lightning struck me in the city of Leavenworth,
Kansas. I was tried in the United States District Court; hence, a United
States prisoner.
The offense for which I was tried and convicted was that of using
the mails for fraudulent purposes. My sentence was eighteen months in
the penitentiary, and a fine of two hundred dollars. I served sixteen
months, at the end of which time I was given my liberty. During the
period I was in prison I dug coal six months in the penitentiary coal
mines, and was one of the clerks of the institution the remainder of the
term. Getting permission to have writing material in my cell, I first
mastered short-hand writing, or phonography, and then wrote my book: "A
Kansas Hell; or, Life in the Kansas Penitentiary." My manuscript being
in short-hand, none of the prison officials were able to read it, and
did not know what I was doing until I obtained my liberty and had my
book published.
This, no doubt, will be the proper place to give some of my
antecedents, as well as a few of the details of the crime for which I
was sent to the penitentiary. I spent my youth and early manhood at
Indianola, Iowa, from which place I removed to Nebraska. After residing
for some time in Columbus, of that State, I was appointed by the
governor to assist in organizing the Pawnee Indian Reservation into a
county. When organized it was called Nance County, being named for Hon.
Albinus Nance, then governor of the State. I held the position of
county clerk of that county for four consecutive years. During this time
I organized the Citizens' Bank. I was its cashier at first, and, later
on, its president. I had a lucrative business and was doing well. My
wife's health failed her; she became consumptive. My family physician
advised a removal to the South. I closed out my business
at a great sacrifice, and came to Atchison, Kansas. Here I located, and
made it my future home. Soon after my arrival I commenced the
publication of a daily newspaper, known as the
Times. In the
county in which I located I found one of the worst and most corrupt
political rings on the face of the earth. This combination had
controlled the politics of the county for almost a quarter of a century.
Soon I became involved in a terrific newspaper war with the members of
this political organization. An election of county and State officials
was soon to take place. In order to test the strength of the contending
elements, in my newspaper, I presented the name of Hon. W. D. Gilbert as
a candidate for district judge in opposition to the ring candidate. A
sharp fight ensued. Mr. Gilbert was elected by an overwhelming majority.
This was the first time for twenty-five years that this ring had been
defeated. The members of it were very sore. Looking upon me as the
principal spirit, I was the object toward which they directed all their
shafts of spite.
Some time before this an insurance company had been organized in
the city of Atchison. I was invited to become its president. I
examined the books of the corporation, and found it to be organized
according to the laws of Kansas; that the company had a charter from the
State, and also certified authority to issue policies of insurance,
granted by the State insurance commissioner. I accepted the presidency
on condition that the company was simply to have the use of my name, and
that I was not expected to give any of my time to the company, as I was
otherwise engaged. I was editor of a daily newspaper, and could not
attend to anything else. While this company was doing business a printed
circular was used, stating that the corporation had one hundred thousand
dollars PAID up capital. This circular was sent out through the mails
over the State advertising the business. It was charged this circular
was fraudulent; that the company did not have that amount of capital
paid in. My name was attached to this printed circular. For this, I
was indicted in the United States District Court, on the charge of using
the mails for fraudulent purposes. The advertised capital of this
corporation was
subscribed, but not all paid in, as it was not
needed in the business of the company. After indictment I was arrested,
and gave bonds for my appearance
at the next term of court, which was held soon after.
Not being able to secure the attendance of all my witnesses, my
attorney wrote the prosecuting attorney asking his consent that my case
be continued. The request was granted. When the case was called, my
attorney appeared and introduced a motion to continue the case, filing
affidavits necessary in such cases. The prosecuting attorney having
given his consent, there was no doubt in the minds of those interested
as to the continuance of the case. For some cause best known to himself,
the judge would not grant the continuance, and forced me to trial
without having a single witness. It was my intention to have some fifty
witnesses subpœnaed, to prove that the insurance company of which
I was president was not a fraud. Not being allowed to have my witnesses,
I was, under the instructions of the court, which were, indeed,
exceedingly pointed, found guilty, and sentenced to eighteen months'
imprisonment and to pay a fine of two hundred dollars. The political
ring now triumphed for a brief period. In order to prove conclusively to
the reader that this was a piece of spite work, I have only to
state that I was the only one of all the officers of that company that
was ever tried for running a bogus insurance company. Why was it that I
was the only one sent to the penitentiary when there was the secretary,
treasurer, and six directors equally as guilty as myself?
To prove more conclusively that it was political spite work that
sent me to prison, let me inform the readers that about the time the
insurance company at Atchison was organized, a similar one was organized
in Topeka. They were similar in EVERY RESPECT. I was president of the
one at Atchison, while a distinguished gentleman by the name of Gen. J.
C. Caldwell was president of the one at Topeka. Both of these companies
failed. The president of the Atchison company was sent to the
penitentiary, while the president of the Topeka company was appointed by
the governor of the State to the responsible position of chairman of the
State Board of Pardons. Many persons have asked why this difference in
the treatment of the presidents of these two companies. The only answer
that can be given is that General Caldwell stood in with the Kansas
political ring, while I did not. Every sensible man must admit that if
it was just for me to
serve a term in prison for the offense charged against me, General
Caldwell should have been prescribed for in the same manner. I have no
fight to make upon Mr. Caldwell. He is an excellent gentlemen. He was in
luck. The fates were against me. Had I been a State instead of a United
States prisoner, no doubt Mr. Caldwell, as chairman of the Board of
Pardons, would have used his influence to secure for me my liberty. That
I was sent to prison is wholly due to politics. It is unnecessary,
therefore, for me to inform the reader that I am now "out of politics."
Having served out my term I returned to my home in Atchison. As to the
ring that sent me to prison, some of them are dead, others have left
Atchison to make their homes in other places, others have failed
financially, and still others have fallen so low that they have scarcely
friends enough to bury them should they happen to die.
The big wheel of life keeps on revolving. Those who are up
to-day may be down to-morrow, and vice versa. But to continue my
narrative. Immediately after my conviction and sentence I was taken to
the Leavenworth County jail. Here I remained until the following
Tuesday in the company of a dozen or more prisoners who were awaiting
trial. On Sunday, while in this jail, my wife, who died during my
imprisonment of a broken heart, and an account of which is given in a
subsequent chapter, came to see me. I can never forget this visit. She
remained with me during the entire day. During the conversation of the
day I said to her that, it seemed that the future appeared very gloomy.
That it would be a miracle if I ever was able to survive the disgrace
that had been so cruelly placed upon me. That all ambition and hope as
to the future had fled, and that I could not blame her if she should now
free herself by means of divorce, as my conviction of crime was a legal
ground for divorce in Kansas. In reply to this, the noble little woman,
her face aglow with the radiance of womanly devotion, said, that for
twenty years of married life our home had been one of sunshine; that I
had been kind to her and made her life one of happiness, and that now,
when misfortune came, it was not only a duty, but the highest pleasure,
to prove her fidelity. She kept her word. She was true to the last. When
dying, her last words were a petition for the blessings of God upon
her husband who was far away behind frowning prison walls. On Tuesday
morning a deputy United States marshal came to the jail and gave me
notice that in a few moments we would leave for the penitentiary. This
officer was a gentleman, and did not seek to further humiliate me by
placing irons on my person. I have often thought of this act of
kindness on the part of this humane official. We took the train at
Leavenworth, and in a very few moments were at my future place of
residence. Lansing, the small village where the penitentiary is
located, is about five miles from the city of Leavenworth. The entrance
to the prison is from the west. Under the watchful care of the officer
who had me in charge, I passed under a stone archway, to the left of
which was a small office, where a guard was on duty during the day time.
We were halted by this officer, who inquired if we had any firearms. No
one visiting the penitentiary is allowed to carry fire-arms within the
enclosure. The marshal who had me in custody handed over a large navy
revolver. Between this archway and the western wall of the prison is a
beautiful lawn. The walks are lined with fragrant flowers; beautiful
fountains send aloft
their silvery sprays. Passing up the roadway leading to the entrance
door, and looking about me upon the rich carpet of green, the flowers
and fountains, I came to the conclusion that the penitentiary was not so
bad a place as I had imagined. I changed my mind, however, as soon as I
had seen inside the walls.
The prison enclosure contains about ten acres of ground. This is
surrounded by a stone wall some fifteen feet high, and six feet thick at
the base. It is not more than four feet at the top. At each of the four
corners may be found a tower rising some ten feet above the wall. A
guard is on duty in each of these towers during the day. He carries a
double-barreled shotgun loaded with buckshot. In case a prisoner tries
to escape he is liable to get a dose of lead, provided the officer on
duty is a good marksman. The western wall is almost entirely made of a
large stone building with its two long wings. The main building is four
stories. The wings stretching to the north and south, each two hundred
and fifty feet, contain the cells. On the first floor of the main
building are the offices of the warden, clerk, deputy warden
and turnkey. The upper rooms are used by the warden's family.
I was first conducted into the clerk's office and introduced to
Mr. Jones, the clerk. He is a very pleasant gentleman, and spoke kindly
to me, which I can assure all was very acceptable, for just about that
time I was feeling very badly. His remark was: "I am very glad to meet
you, Mr. Reynolds, but sorry to meet you under these sad circumstances."
On his invitation I took a chair and sat down to await the next part of
the progamme. As I sat there and thought of the kind words spoken to me
by the clerk, I quickly reached the conclusion that if all the officers
of that institution were as kind as Mr. Jones, it would not be as bad a
place as I had anticipated. I had no experience then that would justify
any other conclusion. Soon a side door of the office opened and in came
the deputy warden, Mr. John Higgins. Mr. H. is the sourest appearing
man I ever met in my life. At least, it seemed so to me on that day. He
can get more vinegar on the outside of his face than any other person in
the State of Kansas. He did not wait to be introduced to me. He never
craves an introduction to a criminal.
As soon as he came into the room he got a pole with which to measure me.
Then, looking at me, in a harsh, gruff voice he called out: "Stand up
here." At first I did not arise. At the second invitation, however, I
stood up and was measured. My description was taken by the clerk. In
this office there is to be found a description of all the criminals that
ever entered the Kansas penitentiary. I was asked if I was a married
man, how many children I had, and how much property I possessed. These
questions were easily answered. After the deputy warden had discharged
his duty he retired. I soon discovered that it was according to the
rules of the prison for the officers to talk in a harsh and abrupt
manner to the prisoners. This accounted for the way in which I was
greeted by the deputy warden, who is the disciplinarian of the prison. I
may say, in passing, that all the harsh manners of Mr. Higgins are
simply borrowed for the occasion. Away from the presence of prisoners,
over whom he is to exert his influence, there is not to be found a more
pleasant and agreeable gentleman. In came a second official, and, in the
same gruff manner, said to me, "Come along." I followed him out to
the wash-house, where I took a bath. A prisoner took my measure for a
suit of clothes. After he had passed the tape-line around me several
times, he informed the officer that I was the same size of John
Robinson, who had been released from the penitentiary the day before.
"Shall I give him John Robinson's clothes?" asked the convict. In the
same gruff manner the officer said, "Yes, bring on Robinson's old
clothes." So I was furnished with a second-hand suit! The shoes were
second-hand. I am positive about this last statement, judging by the
aroma. After I had been in the penitentiary some four months, I learned
that John Robinson, whose clothes I had secured, was a colored man.
Being arrayed in this suit of stripes I was certainly "a thing of
beauty." The coat was a short blouse and striped; the stripes, white
and black, alternated with each other, and passed around the body in a
horizontal way. The pantaloons were striped; the shirt was striped; the
cap was striped. In fine, it seemed that everything about that
penitentiary was striped—even to the cats! Being dressed, I was next
handed an article that proved, on examination, to be intended for a
handkerchief. It was covered with large blue
letters—"Leavenworth Mills. XXX Flour," etc. It was a quarter section
of a flour sack! Nine hundred prisoners very soon empty a great many
flour sacks. After the flour has been consumed the sack is cut up into
quarter sections, washed, hemmed and used for handkerchiefs. No better
handkerchief can be invented. They are stout, stiff and durable! They
will bear all manner of nasal assaults! There is no danger of blowing
them into atoms, and the officials are not afraid to give them out to
convicts sent there charged with the use of dynamite! One of them has
been known to last a prisoner for five years.
After I had donned my suit and taken possession of my
handkerchief, I was ordered to fold my arms. Prisoners marching in
ranks, or going to and fro about the prison enclosure, are required to
have their arms in this position. The object is to prevent them from
passing articles. I was marched to the building known as the south wing
of the cell house. In this building, which is two hundred and fifty feet
long, there are cells for the accommodation of five hundred convicts.
The prisoners who occupy this wing work in the shops located above
ground, and within the prison enclosure.
The officer in charge conducted me to cell number one. Click went the
lock. The door was pulled open, and in his usual style, he said, "Get
in." I stepped in. Slam went the door. Click went the lock, and I was in
a felon's cell! These rooms are about four feet wide, seven feet long,
and seven feet high. In many of the cells two men are confined. These
rooms are entirely too small for the accommodation of two prisoners. A
new cell house is being built, which, when completed, will afford
sufficient additional room so that each prisoner can have a cell. In
these small rooms there are two bunks or beds when two convicts occupy
the same cell. The bed-rack is made of iron or wood slats, and the
bed-tick is filled with corn-husks; the pillow is also filled with the
latter material, and when packed down becomes as hard as a board. When
the beds are not in use they are fastened to the side of the wall with a
small chain. When down and in use they take up nearly the entire space
of the cell, so that it is impossible for the two occupants to pass each
other in walking to and fro. The other furniture consists of a small
tin bucket, holding about two quarts of water, and a wash-basin. A
short-handled broom is also
found in one corner of the cell, with which the convict brushes it out
every morning. The walls are of stone, decorated with a small looking-glass
and a towel. Each cell contains one chair and a Holy Bible. There
is no rich Brussels carpet on the floor, although prisoners are allowed
one if they furnish it themselves. No costly upholstered furniture
adorns these safe retreats! Nothing in that line is to be discovered
except one cane-bottomed chair for the accommodation of two prisoners,
so that when one sits on the chair the other stands, or occupies a seat
on the stone floor. There is not room for two chairs, or the State would
furnish another chair. These rooms are built of stone. The door is of
one-half inch iron bars, crossing each other at right angles, leaving
small spaces about two by six inches; through these spaces come the air
, light and heat for the health and comfort of the inmates. When I
entered my cell on that eventful morning I found it occupied by a
prisoner. He was also a new arrival; he had preceded me about an hour.
When I entered he arose and gave me his chair, taking a seat on the
floor in the opposite corner. After I had been locked in, before going
away the officer said, "Now I don't want you fellows
to get to talking, for that is not permitted in this institution. "We
sat in silence, surveying each other; in a few moments my companion,
seeing something in my personal appearance that caused him to lose his
self control, laughed. That he might give full vent to his laughing
propensities, and not make too much noise, he drew from his pocket his
quarter section of a flour bag and put it into his mouth. He soon became
as red in the face as a lobster. I was curious, of course, to know what
it was that pleased him so much. Rising from my chair, going to the door
and looking through the openings I could see no officer near, so I asked
my companion, in a whisper, what it was that pleased him so. It was with
difficulty and after several trials before he could succeed in telling
me what it was that caused him to be so convulsed. I told him to take
his time, cool off gradually, as I had eighteen months, and could wait
patiently. At last, being able to control his feelings sufficiently to
tell me, in the midst of his outbursts of laughter, he said, "You look
just like one of them zebras in Barnum's Circus!" When my attention was
called to the matter, sure enough, I did look rather striped, and I,
amused at his suggestion, laughed also.
Soon an officer came gliding around in front of the cell, when our
laughing ceased. My companion was a young fellow from Doniphan County.
He got drunk and tried to rob an associate, still drunker, of a twenty
dollar gold piece. He was arrested, tried and convicted of robbery,
receiving a sentence of one year. Directly an officer came, took him
out of my cell and conducted him to another department. All alone, I
sat in my little parlor for nearly an hour, thinking over the past. My
reverie was at length broken by the turning of my door lock. A fresh
arrival was told to "git in." This prisoner had the appearance of just
having been lassoed on the wild western prairies. He resembled a
cow-boy. His whiskers were long and sandy. His hair, of the same color,
fell upon his shoulders. As soon as the officer had gone away and
everything had become quiet, I asked this fellow his name. "Horserider,"
was his reply, from which I inferred that he was a horse-thief. "How
long a term have you?" was my next question. "Seven years," was his
reply. I comforted him by saying it would be some time before he rode
another horse.
The next part of the programme consisted
in a little darkey coming in front of our cell with a rudely constructed
barber's chair. The cell door opened, and an officer said to me, as if
he would hit me with a club the next moment, "Git out of there." I went
out. Pointing to the barber's chair, he said, "Squat yourself in that
chair." I sat down. "Throw back your head." I laid it back. It was not
long before my raven mustache was off, and my hair cut rather
uncomfortably short for fly time. After this tonsorial artist had
finished his work then came the command once more, "Git in." I got in.
It now came Mr. Horserider's turn to bid a long farewell to his auburn
locks. He took his place in the chair, and the little darkey, possibly
for his own amusement, cut off the hair on one side of the head and left
the other untouched. He then shaved one side of his face without
disturbing the other. At this moment the bell for dinner rang, and the
little colored fellow broke away and ran to his division, to fall in
ranks, so that he would not miss his noon meal. Once more Mr. Horserider
entered his cell and we were locked in. A more comical object I never
beheld; he did not even possess the beauty of a baboon; he might
certainly have passed for the eighth wonder of the
world. When he came in I handed him the small looking-glass and asked
him how he liked his hair-cut. Remember, one side of his head and face
was shaved close, and the other covered with long sandy hair and beard.
Looking into the glass, he exclaimed: "Holy Moses! and who am I,
anyway?" I answered his question by stating that he favored Mr.
What-Is-It. He was very uneasy for a time, thinking that he was going
to be left in that condition. He wanted to know of me if all
horse-thieves of the penitentiary wore their hair and whiskers in this
style. I comforted him all I could by imparting the information that
they did. He was much relieved when the darkey returned after dinner and
finished the shaving.
I was next taken out of my cell to pass a medical examination.
Dr. Mooney, the gentlemanly officer in charge of the hospital, put in an
appearance with a large book under his arm and sat down by a table. I
was ushered into his presence. He began asking me questions, and wrote
down my answers in his book, which proved to be the physician's
register.
"Have you any decayed teeth?" was his first question,
"No, sir," was my reply.
"Have you ever lost any teeth? "
"No, sir."
"Have you ever had the measles?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have you ever had the mumps?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have you ever had the chicken-pox?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have you ever had the thresh?"
Well, I didn't know what was meant by the thresh. I knew that I
had been "thrashed" a great many times, and inferred from that fact that
I must have had the disease at some time or other in my youth, so I
answered,
"Yes, sir."
"Have you ever had the itch?"
"What kind?" said I. "The old fashioned seven year kind? Y-e-s,
sir, I have had it."
He then continued asking me questions, and wanted to know if I
ever had a great many diseases, the names of which I had never heard
before. Since I catch almost everything that comes along, I supposed, of
course, that at some period during my childhood, youth or early manhood
I had suffered from all those physical ills, so I always answered,
"Yes, sir." He wound up by inquiring if I ever had a stroke of
the horse glanders. I knew what was meant by that disease, and replied
in the negative.
He then looked at me over the top of his spectacles, and, in a
rather doubting manner, said, "and you really have had all these
diseases? By the way," he continued, "are you alive at the present
moment after all that you have suffered?" Mr. Mooney is an Irishman. He
was having a little cold-blooded sport at my expense. Whenever you meet
an Irishman you will always strike a budget of fun.
His next question was, "Are you a sound man?"
My reply was to the effect that I was, physically, mentally and
morally. So he wrote down in his book opposite my name "physically and
mentally a sound man." He said he would take my word for being sound
morally, but that he would not put that down on the books for the
present, for fear there might be a mistake somewhere. Before discharging
me, he calmly stated that I would make a good coal miner. All the
prisoners undergo this medical cross-examination.
After I had run the doctor's gauntlet, I was conducted from the
south wing of the cell-house to the north wing. Here I met for the
first time Mr. Elliott, who has charge of this building during the
daytime. It is a part of this highly efficient officer's duty to
cross-examine the prisoners as to where they have lived and what they have
been doing. His examinations are very rigid. He is a bright man, a good
judge of human nature, and can tell a criminal at sight. He would make
an able criminal lawyer. He is the prison detective. By means of these
examinations he often obtains clues that lead to the detection of the
perpetrators of crime. I have been told by good authority that on
account of information obtained by this official, two murderers were
discovered in the Kansas penitentiary, and, after their terms had
expired, they were immediately arrested, and, on requisition, taken back
to the Eastern States, where the crimes had been committed, and there
tried, convicted and punished according to the laws of those States.
After I had been asked all manner of questions by this official, he very
kindly informed me that I came to the penitentiary with a bad record.
He further stated that I was looked upon as
one of the worst criminals in the State of Kansas. This information was
rather a set-back to me, as I had no idea that I was in possession of
any such record as that. I begged of him to wait a little while before
he made up his mind conclusively as to my character, for there might be
such a thing as his being mistaken. There is no man that is rendering
more effective service to the State of Kansas in the way of bringing
criminals to justice than Mr. Elliott. He has been an officer of the
prison for nearly nine years. As an honest officer he is above reproach.
As a disciplinarian he has no superior in the West.
After this examination I was shown to my cell. It was now about
two o'clock in the afternoon of my first day in prison. I remained in
the cell alone during the entire afternoon. Of all the dark hours of my
eventful history, none have been filled with more gloom and sadness than
those of my first day in prison. Note my antecedents—a college
graduate, a county clerk, the president of a bank, and an editor of a
daily newspaper. All my life I had moved in the highest circles of
society, surrounded by the best and purest of both sexes, and now, here
I was, in the
deplorable condition of having been hurled from that high social
position, down to the low degraded plane of a convict. As I sat there in
that desolate abode of the disgraced, I tried to look out down the
future. All was dark. For a time it seemed as if that sweet angel we
call hope had spread her wings and taken her departure from me forever.
The black cloud of despair seemed settling down upon me. But very few
persons possess the ability to make any thing of themselves after having
served a term in the penitentiary. Having once fallen to so low a plane
it is almost impossible to rise again. Young man, as you peruse this
book, think of these things. Once down as a felon it is a miracle if
one ever regains what he has lost. I sat brooding over these things for
an hour or more, when my manhood asserted itself. Hope returned. I
reasoned thus: I am a young man. I enjoy good health. There will be only
a few months of imprisonment and then I will be free. I thought of my
loving wife, my little children, my aged mother, my kind friends, and
for their sake I would not yield to despair. Soliciting the aid of a
kind Heavenly Father, I resolved to do the best I
could toward regaining what I had lost. My father was a minister of the
gospel for fifty years prior to his death. He was not blessed with much
of this world's goods. For this reason I began in very early life to aid
myself. I spent seven years in college preparing for the struggles that
awaited me. I earned every dollar of the money which paid my expenses
while securing my education. I carried the hod to assist in building the
college in which I afterward graduated. Few men can truthfully make this
statement of themselves. While working my way through the institution
where I received my education, I learned one useful lesson—self
reliance. I learned to depend upon my own efforts for success. Every
one must learn this useful lesson before he can become anything in life.
After I had met with misfortune and found myself in a prison cell, I was
glad that I had learned to rely upon my own efforts.
The question: "What shall I do in the future?" now came to me.
That afternoon I laid my plans which I would carry out out in the years
to come. I was financially ruined in the great battle I carried on with
the Atchison ring. I was aware of the fact that, when I got out
of the penitentiary, all the money that I would have with which to make
another start in life would be five dollars. The United States presents
her prisoners, when discharged, with a suit of citizen's clothes and
five dollars. This was my capital. What could I do with five dollars, in
the way of assisting me in getting another financial foot-hold in life?
After my release it was necessary for me to do something at once to get
money. It never entered my mind to borrow. It will be interesting to the
reader to know what I did, after my prison days were past, to make a
"quick raise." Sixteen months of imprisonment slipped away. I regained
my liberty on Monday. I received my five dollars and immediately started
for my home, in Atchison. On my arrival, Monday night, I had four
dollars and ten cents. On Tuesday morning I went to the proprietor of
the Opera House, in Atchison, and inquired how much money was necessary
to secure the use of the building for the next evening. "Fifty
dollars,"was his reply. I gave him all the money I had, and persuaded
him to trust me for the rest. I informed him that I was going to deliver
a lecture on my prison life. He asked if I thought anybody would come
to
hear a convict talk. In answer, I told him that was the most important
question that was agitating my mind at the present moment, and if he
would let me have the use of the Opera House we would soon settle that
question. I further told him that if the receipts of the evening were
not enough to pay him for the use of the house, that I would pay him as
soon as possible. He let me have the use of the house. I advertised in
the daily papers of the city that I would lecture in the Opera House the
following evening on my prison life,—admission fifty cents. I thought
if the good people wanted to come at all they would come even if they
had to pay well for it. I was very restless from the morning that I
engaged the Opera House until the next evening, at which time I was to
speak. I did not know whether I would have any audience. If not, I was
fifty dollars deeper in debt. The evening for the lecture came, I went
to the Opera House prepared to interest anyone that might put in an
appearance; I entered the building in the rear, and took my position on
the platform. The signal was given and up went the curtain. I was highly
pleased when I saw my audience. The building was
packed. The lecture was a financial success. In this manner I secured a
nice "stake" for furture{sic} use. I delivered that lecture for several
weeks in Kansas, and made a thousand dollars above expenses. To return
to my first afternoon in the cell. I thought of another scheme. I
conceived the idea that a book about, a penitentiary, giving its
history, and also the history of many of the leading criminals, modes of
punishment, escapes, etc., would be very interesting, and would sell. I
decided to write such a book while in prison. In order to write a book
it became necessary to have writing material. How was I to secure this?
It was against the prison regulations for a prisoner to have a
lead-pencil or scrap of paper. The officials were very strict on this
point. It was essential they should be. If the prisoners could pass
notes, it would not be long before a prison insurrection would be the
result. The plan that I adopted to secure writing material was rather
unique, and perhaps the reader will like to know how I managed this
difficult matter. It is wonderful what a man can accomplish, with
adverse surroundings, if he wills it. As I have stated before, I had
much to do in securing the election of
Hon. W. D. Gilbert to the district judgeship. This made him feel very
kind toward me. He came often to visit me at the prison. One day while
visiting me, I asked him to use his influence with the warden to secure
for me the privilege of having writing material in my cell. "What do
you want with writing material," said he. The answer I gave was, that I
might pass away my leisure hours in learning to write short-hand. He
called on Warden Smith, and got his consent. He told the warden that if
I would master this useful art while in prison, on my release, he would
appoint me his district court reporter, at a salary of $2,500 a year.
The scheme was a success. I sent and got my short-hand books and writing
material. I mastered short-hand, and can now write as fast as one would
care to dictate. It was not long before I began writing my book in
short-hand. The officials, as was their custom, would examine my cell
daily to see if anything had crept in that did not belong there. They
could not read short-hand. They did not know what so many little
straight marks and curves indicated. I persevered, and one month before
my time expired I had my book completed, and sent it out by a friend
who visited the prison, who kept it for me until I secured my liberty.
As before stated, I lectured until I got money sufficient, and then I
published my first book on prisons, giving it the impressive title of "A
Kansas Hell." This book sold rapidly, and soon the first edition was
disposed of. I made enough money out of this book to place me on my
feet, financially. But, to return to my cell the first afternoon. I
remained alone until time for the prisoners to come in from their work,
when I found that I was to have a "life man" for my cell-mate, whose
name was Woodward R. Lopeman. I have given his history in a subsequent
chapter. I remained in my cell during the evening, until the prison bell
rang for retiring. Strange to say, after going to bed, I soon fell
asleep, and did not awake until the prison bell rang on the following
morning. When I did awake, it was to find myself, not in my own pleasant
little home in the city of Atchison, Kansas, but in a felon's cell. I
arose and dressed, and then waited and wondered what would be the next
thing on the programme.
2. CHAPTER II.
THE COAL MINES.
I WAS next taken to the coal mines. These mines are located just
outside of the prison enclosure, and are surrounded by high stone walls
and stone buildings, which, by their location, take the place of walls.
The coal yards are separated from the prison campus by a partition wall,
which constitutes the south wall of the coal department and the north
wall of the prison.
Passing from one of these departments to the other, through a
large gateway, the gate being kept by a convict, an old man who murdered
his son, and who has a life sentence. Reader, how would you like to
spend your entire life, day after day, week after week, month after
month, year after year, in the monotonous employment of opening and
closing a large gate? When my escort and myself reached the mines, I was
placed in charge of Mr. Dodds, the official in control of the mines at
the surface. Mr. Dodds is a very competent officer, and has been on duty
at that place more
than twenty years. From this officer I received a mining cap. This piece
of head-wear was turban-shaped, striped, of course, with a leather
frontlet, on which was fastened the mining lamp. This lamp, in shape,
resembled an ordinary tea-pot, only it was much smaller. In place of the
handle was a hook, which fastened to the leather frontlet. The bowl of
the lamp contained the oil; a wick passes up through the spout, at the
end of which is the light. The miner carrying his lamp in this position
has it out of his way. With the cap on my head and lamp lighted, I stood
on the verge of a ten by twelve hole in the earth, that was almost eight
hundred feet deep. We think that a well one hundred feet deep is quite a
distance down into the ground, but here was a hole eight times deeper.
In the mining vernacular this hole is termed a shaft—the term that will
be employed in speaking of it hereafter. There are two of these shafts,
about one hundred yards apart. Each shaft is divided by a wooden
partition which descends from the top to the bottom. Two elevators, or
cages, as they are called, ascend and descend along the shaft. While one
cage is coming up the other is going down. They derive their motor power
from
two large engines, one for each shaft. The officer in charge inquired,
before making my descent into the mines, if I ever fainted. "Never,"
was my reply. Persons sometimes faint in going down this shaft. "Step
into the cage," was the order given. I obeyed, and, reaching up, took
hold of some iron bars that went across the top. The signal was given,
down I started. After I had descended a few feet a current of air coming
up from below put out my light, which left me in the darkness of an
Egyptian night. Down, down, down I went. There are a great many things
in life that I have forgotten. There are a great many more that I expect
to forget, but that first ride down the coal shaft I never can forget.
Thug! I had struck bottom. It is said that when one starts down hill in
this world he keeps on going until he strikes bottom. My readers will
certainly agree with me that reaching a resting place eight hundred feet
under the surface I had found the lowest round of the ladder. Whatever
I may be in the future, to whatever heights I may ascend, I shall not
forget that my starting point was nearly a thousand feet under the
Kansas penitentiary. Water seeks its level. You may force one below the
surface,
and to whatever depth you please, to the extent of your power, but if he
does not belong there, you cannot keep him down: in the course of time
he will rise.
It was six long, dreary months before I was able to reach the
first round in the ladder. Through that period I lay in the
penitentiary mines, or at the bottom of "The Kansas Hell." It is said
the old fashioned Hell has fire and brimstone; while the "Kansas Hell"
has no fire, one thing is certain, it has plenty of material out of
which to make it, and an abundant supply of sulphur.
At the end of my descent I found an officer there on duty. He
told me to step off and occupy a seat on a small bench near by. He
desired to impart some information. He advised me that while I was
there, a convict, it would not be proper to assume the warden's
privileges or endeavor to discharge his duties. In other words, the
best thing to do was to keep my place, revolve about in my own orbit,
carefully regarding all laws, both centripetal and centrifugal;
otherwise, I might burst by the natural pressure of too highly confined
interior forces! I confess that, though not subject to such infliction,
I very nearly fainted over
these ponderous polysyllables! He also informed me that the beautifully
paved highway to popularity in the coal mines was to excavate large
quantities of the carboniferous substance contained in the subterranean
passages of the mine; the more coal I got out the more popular would I
be!
After his lecture was over the officer gave a low whistle, and
out from a dark recess there emerged a convict in his stripes. His face
and hands were covered with coal dust. He came out grinning, showing his
white teeth. As I caught sight of him I thought, surely, this is a fiend
from the lower regions. Take one of those prisoners with his striped
clothes, a light burning on his head, his face black and shining like
ebony, behold him in the weird darkness of the mines, and if he does not
call to your mind the picture of one of the imps of Eternal Night there
is nothing in this world that will. This prisoner was the runner or
messenger for this officer at the foot of the shaft. Each officer in the
penitentiary who has charge of a division of men has a messenger to run
errands for him. When this messenger came up to the officer he made his
obeisance. Convicts are taught to observe good manners in the presence
of the officials. He was told to take me to another officer in a distant
part of the mines, a Mr. Johns, who would give me work. From the foot
of the shaft there go out in almost all directions, roadways or
"entries." These underground roadways are about six feet in width and
height. I could walk erect in most of them. Along these entries was a
car track, over which the small coal cars pass to and from the rooms
where the coal is taken out, to the shaft, and hoisted to the top with
their load of coal. Some of these entries extend more than a mile out
into the earth from the base of the shaft. As my fellow-prisoner and I
were passing along one of these roadways to the place where I was to
work, he asked me my name and the nature of my offense. At this place
let me inform, the reader that the prisoners are given permission to
converse with each other in the mines. Their instructions are to the
effect that they are not to talk about anything but their work, but in
the penitentiary the same rule holds good as on the outside: "Give a man
an inch and he will take a yard." So, when permission is given to the
convict to talk about his work, he talks about everything else. In
answer to my escort's question as to the
length of my sentence, I informed him that I had eighteen months. He
dryly remarked that was nothing, and if the judge who sent me up could
not give me a longer term than that, he should have sent me home to my
family. He also remarked that he was afraid I would get into trouble in
the mines on account of my short sentence. There were a great many
long-term fellows down there, who were envious of short-term men, and were
likely to put up jobs on them by reporting their mistakes and violations
of regulations to the officer in charge, and thus get them punished. I
informed my guide that I thought I would get along some way with the
prisoners, and keep out of trouble. I then inquired of him as to the
length of his sentence.
"Twenty-five stretches," was his reply. I did not know what he
meant by the term "stretches" and asked for information. "That is the
prison term for years, a stretch meaning a year," was his reply. I
learned that my companion, having twenty-five stretches, was carrying
about with him a twenty-five years' sentence. A quarter of a century in
prison! This was a young man. He had been in the prison for three years.
When
he entered this living tomb he had the bloom of youth upon his cheek.
When he goes out, at the end of his term, if he lives so long, he will
be an old, broken down man. He will not be likely to live that long. The
average life of a convict is but fourteen years under the most favorable
surroundings, but in the coal mines it cannot exceed five years at most.
Let me tell you of this man's crime, and then you can determine
for yourself how easy it is to get in the penitentiary. This young
fellow is the son of one of the most respectable farmers in the State.
He attended a dance one night in company with some of the neighbor boys
at a village near by. While there, he got under the influence of strong
drink, became involved in a quarrel over one of the numbers with the
floor managers, and in the fight that ensued he drew his knife and
disemboweled the man with whom he was fighting. In a few moments the
wounded man died. The young fellow was tried, convicted of murder, and
sent to the penitentiary for twenty-five years at hard labor. It is
awful to contemplate. Young man, as you read this, had you not better
make up your mind
to go rather slow in pouring whisky down your throat in future?
As we passed along through the mines I thought about that word
"stretch," and as I did not like the idea of having jobs put up on me,
came to the conclusion that I would render myself popular by telling the
prisoners in the mines who might ask me as to my sentence, that I had
eighteen "stretches." I did not think that calling a month a "stretch"
would be "stretching" my conscience to such a degree as to cause me any
particular distress, for I knew that by the time I had served out a
month it would seem equivalent to a year on the outside.
After following along the entry for some distance, almost a mile,
we came to that portion of the mines where I was to work. Coming up to
the place where the officer was seated, the headquarters of this
division, my guide made a low bow, and informed the officer in charge
that he had brought him a man. Then bowing himself out, he returned to
his place at the foot of the shaft.
The officer in whose division I was to work now signaled his
messenger, and there came
out of the darkness another convict, stripes, cap, lamp and all.
"Get Reynolds a set of mining tools," said the officer.
These were soon brought, and consisted of a pick, a short-handled
shovel, two iron wedges and a sledge hammer,
"Take him," said the officer, "to room number three, and tell
George Mullen, who is working in that room, to teach him how to mine."
I got my arms around those implements of coal warfare, and
following my escort, passed along the entry for some distance, possibly
two hundred yards, when the roadway in which we were walking suddenly
terminated, and instead, there was a small hole that went further on
into the earth. When we came to this place my guide dropped down on his
hands and knees and passed into the room. I halted. I had never been in
such a place before. I did not know what there was in that dark hole.
Soon my escort called out, "Come along, there is nothing in here to hurt
you." So I dropped down on my hands and knees and into the dark hole I
went.
These rooms where the miners work are
about twenty-eight inches in height, twenty-four inches wide, and about
fifty feet long. Think of working in such a place as that! Oh, how
often have I sighed for room enough to spread myself! How I would have
made that coal fly had the vein been on top where I could have stood on
my feet and mined. George Mullen, the convict who was to teach me to
mine, was at the farther end of the room at work when we entered. We
crawled on our hands and knees to him, and when my guide had delivered
his message he withdrew and hastened back to his headquarters near the
stand where his officer sat.
After he had gone and my room-mate and myself were left alone,
about the first question that George asked me was, "How long have you
got?"
"Eighteen stretches," was my quick reply.
George loved me dearly from that moment. I very soon discovered
that I was very popular with him on account of my long sentence.
"How long are you in for?" said I to him.
"Always," was his answer.
He was a life prisoner. At one time he was marshal of a Kansas
town, and while acting in that capacity he killed his man. He was trying
to arrest him, so he informed me, and the fellow showed fight, when he
took out his gun and shot him. It was claimed by the authorities that
the shooting was unprovoked, and that the man could have been arrested
without killing him. Aside from the fact that he had killed his man, I
must say that I never met a man for whom I had a higher regard. He was
very kind to me, very patient, and made my work as easy for me as he
possibly could. I remained with him for nearly a month, when, having
learned the business, I was taken to another part of the mines and given
a task.
"Have you ever mined any?" inquired my instructor.
"No; I never was in a coal mine before coming here."
He then gave me my first lesson in mining. I lay on my right
side in obedience to his orders, stretched out at full length. The
short-handled shovel was inverted and placed under my right shoulder.
This lifted my shoulder up from the ground a little distance and I was
thus enabled to strike with my pick. The vein of coal is about
twenty-two inches in thickness. We would mine out the dirt, or fire-clay
as it was called, from under the coal to the distance of
two feet, or the length of a pick-handle, and to the depth of some six
inches. We would then set our iron wedges in above the vein of coal, and
with the sledge hammer would drive them in until the coal would drop
down. Imagine my forlorn condition as I lay therein that small room. It
was as dark down there as night but for the feeble light given out by
the mining lamp; the room was only twenty-eight inches from the floor to
the ceiling, and then above the ceiling there were eight hundred feet of
mother earth. Two feet from the face of the coal, and just back of where
I lay when mining, was a row of props that held up the roof and kept it
from falling in upon me. The loose dirt which we picked out from under
the coal vein was shoveled back behind the props. This pile of dirt, in
mining language, is called the "gob." I began operations at once. I
worked away with all my might for an hour or more, picking out the dirt
from under the coal. Then I was tired completely out. I rolled over on
my back, and, with my face looking up to the pile of dirt, eight hundred
feet thick, that shut out from me the light of day, I rested for awhile.
I had done no physical work for ten years. I was physically soft. To put
me down in the mines and set me to digging coal was wicked. It was
murder. Down in that dark pit how I suffered! There was no escape from
it. There was the medicine. I had to take it. I do not know, but it
seems to me that when a man is sent to that prison who has not been in
the habit of performing physical labor, he should not be put to work in
the mines until he becomes accustomed to manual labor. It would seem
that it would be nothing more than right to give him an easier task at
first and let him gradually become hardened to his work at coal digging.
Nothing of this kind is done. The young, the old, the middle-aged are
indiscriminately and unceremoniously thrust into the mine. Down there
are nearly five hundred prisoners. Among them are boys from seventeen to
twenty years of age, many of whom are in delicate health. Here are to be
found old men, in some cases sixty years of age. I do not wish to be
understood as casting any reflections upon the officers of this
institution. They cannot help these things. If Warden Smith could avoid
it there would not be a single man sent down to that region of death.
The mines are there and must be worked. Let this blame fall where it
belongs. I must say injustice to our common humanity, that to work these
two classes, the boys and old men, in those coal mines is a burning
shame and outrage. It is bad enough, as the sequel will show, to put
able-bodied, middle-aged men to work in that pit. The great State of
Kansas has opened those mines. Her Legislature has decided to have them
worked. It becomes the duty, therefore, of the prison directors to work
them as long as they are instructed to do so, even if scores of human
beings are maimed for life or murdered outright each year. The blame
cannot rest on the prison officials, but upon our lawmakers.
3. CHAPTER III.
THE COAL MINES (Continued).
AFTER we had mined some twenty-five feet we took down the coal. To do
this the wedges are set and driven in at the top of the vein of coal,
with the sledge hammer. After my companion had struck the coal several
times it began to pop and crack as if it would fall at any moment. I
became alarmed. I was never in such a place before, and I said: "George,
had I not better get out of this place? I don't want the coal to fall on
me the first day." His reply was, that if I wanted to learn how to mine
I must remain near the coal and take my chances of being killed. This
was indeed comforting! Then he informed me that he was going to knock
on the coal and wanted me to catch the sound that was produced. He
thumped away, and I got the sound—a dull, heavy thud. Now, says he,
"when coal sounds in that manner it is not ready to drop." So he
continued to pound away at it. The more he pounded the more the coal
cracked and the more alarmed I became. I was afraid it would drop at
any moment
and crush me. I begged of him to cease pounding until I got into the
entry out of the way of danger. He tried to make me believe there was no
danger. I was hard to convince of that fact. There I lay stretched out
on my side next to the coal, he driving in the wedges, and the coal
seeming to me to be ready to drop at each stroke of the hammer. "Now
listen," said he, "while I knock on the coal once more." I listened.
The sound was altogether different from the first. "Now," said he, "the
coal is about ready to fall." It is necessary for the miner to know this
part of his business. It is by the sound that he determines when it is
ready to fall. If he is ignorant of this part of his work, he would be
in great danger of getting killed from the coal falling unexpectedly.
"Well," said I, "if this coal is about ready to drop, had I not better
get out of here into the entry, so that I may be out of danger?" "No,"
was his reply; "just crawl up behind that row of props and remain in the
`gob' until after the coal falls." In obedience to his command I
cheerfully got up behind the props and embraced that pile of dirt. He
struck the wedges a few more blows and then darted behind the props out
of danger. No sooner had he got
out of the way than the coal came thundering down. "Now," said my
room-mate "go out into the entry and bring in the buggy." "All right."
And out I went on my hands and knees. I soon found my way into the
entry, but found no buggy; so back I crawled into the room and reported.
At this my instructor crawled out to see what had become of that
singular vehicle known as a mining buggy. I followed after. I did not
want to remain behind in that coal mine. I did not know what might
happen should I be left there in that dark hole alone. After we had
reached the entry where we could stand erect my teacher pointed to an
object which lay close to our feet, and said to me, "Man, where are your
eyes?" "In my head," I calmly replied. "Do you see that thing there?"
"Of course I see that thing." "Well, that is the buggy." "Indeed!" I
exclaimed. "I am certainly glad to know it, for I never would have taken
that for a buggy." It had a pair of runners which were held in their
places by a board being nailed across them. On this was a small box; at
one end there was a short iron handle. On our knees we pushed the buggy
into the room, took up the hammer, broke up the coal into
lumps we could handle, filled up the small box, dragged it out into the
entry and emptied it into a heap. This is called "buggying" coal. It is
the most laborious part of mining. Whenever a new man would be placed
with the convicts for instructions in mining he would have to buggy coal
just as long as it was possible to get him to do so. After a time,
however, he would want to take turn about with his teacher.
After we had finished getting out what we had down the noon hour
had arrived. At certain places in the entries or roadways there are
large wooden doors which, when shut, close up the entire passage. These
doors are for the regulations of the currents of air which pass through
the mines. The loud noise produced by pounding on one of these doors was
the signal for dinner. It was now noon. Bang, bang, bang, bang, went the
door. I had now put in one-half day of my sentence in the mines. Oh!
the many long, dreary, monotonous days I passed after that! At the call
for dinner the convict, always hungry, suddenly drops his tools
and makes his way at a rapid pace along the entry until he comes to the
place where the division officer has his headquarters. Arriving
at this place each convict takes his position in a line with his
fellow-convicts. All talking now ceases. They sit on the ground while
eating, with their lower limbs crossed. There are no soft cushioned
chairs on which the tired prisoner may rest his weary limbs. When
seated, a small piece of pine board, about a foot square, is placed
across his knees. This is the table. No table cloth, no napkins, no
table linen of any kind. Such articles as these would paralyze a
convict! Thus seated in two rows along the sides of the entry, with
their mining lamps lighted and hanging in their caps, they present a
weird and interesting sight. The dinner had been brought down from the
top about an hour before on coal cars. Three of the prisoners are now
detailed to act as waiters. One passes down between the two rows of
convicts, carrying in his hand a wooden pail filled with knives and
forks. These culinary instruments have iron handles. Were they made of
wood or horn, the convicts would soon break off the handles and make
trinkets out of them. This waiter, passing along, drops a knife and fork
on each table. He is followed by another who drops down a piece of corn
bread; then another with a piece of meat for each man, which he
places on the pine board. There is no "Please pass the meat," or "Hand
over the bread." Not a word is spoken. After the knives and forks have
been passed around this waiter returns and gives each man a quart of
water.
This is dinner. The bill of fare is regular, and consists
of cold water, corn bread and meat. Occasionally we have dessert of
cold cabbage, or turnips or cracked corn. When we have these luxuries
they are given to us in rotation, and a day always intervenes between
cabbage and turnips. In the coal mines the prisoner never washes himself
before eating. Although he gets his hands and face as black as the coal
he has been digging, yet he does not take time to wash himself before
eating. Reader, how would you like to dine in this condition? The old
saying is, we must all eat our "peck of dirt." I think I have consumed
at least two bushels and a half! I can never forget my first meal in the
mines. I was hungry, it was true, but I couldn't manage to eat under the
circumstances. I sat there on the ground, and in silence watched the
other prisoners eat. I thought, " You hogs! I can never get so hungry as
to eat as you are now eating." In this I was mistaken. Before ten days
had gone by I could eat along
with any of them. The first day I thought I would do without my dinner,
and when supper time came go to the top and enjoy a fine meal. I
imagined that after digging coal all day they would surely give us a
good meal in the evening. My mouth "watered" for some quail on toast,
or a nice piece of tenderloin, with a cup of tea. Think of my surprise,
when hoisted to the top at the close of day, after marching into the
dining-room and taking our places at the table, when I saw all that was
put before the prisoners was a piece of bread, a cup of tea without
sugar or milk, and two tablespoonfuls of sorghum molasses. It did not
require a long time for me to dispose of the molasses, as I was very
hungry, and handed up my cup for an additional supply; this was refused.
It is considered in the penitentiary an excess of two tablespoonfuls of
sorghum is unhealthy! There is danger of its burning out the stomach!
So at each supper after that I had to get along with two spoonfuls. As
far as the tea was concerned, it was made of some unknown material whose
aroma was unfamiliar to my olfactory; the taste was likewise unfamiliar,
and in consequence of these peculiarities of the prison tea I never
imbibed of it but the one time, that
being amply sufficient to last through the entire period of my
confinement. From that day on I took cold water, which, after all, is
God's best beverage for the human race. The penitentiary, so far as I
know, is the only place in the State of Kansas where prohibition
actually works prohibition as contemplated by the laws of the State!
There are no "joints" in the Pen. No assistant attorney generals are
necessary to enforce prohibition there. I never saw a drunken man in the
prison. The Striped Temperance Society of Kansas is a success.
For breakfast in the prison we have hash, bread, and a tin cup of
coffee, without sugar or milk; no butter, no meat. The hash is made of
the pieces of bread and meat left over from the preceding day. We had it
every day in the year for breakfast. During my entire time in the prison
I had nothing for breakfast but hash. One day I was talking to an old
murderer who had been there for eighteen years, and he told me he had
eaten hash for his breakfast during his entire term—six thousand five
hundred and seventy days. I looked at the old man and wondered to myself
whether he was a human being or a pile of hash, half concluding that he
was the latter!
In conversation with the chaplain of the prison I received the
following anecdote, which I will relate for the benefit of my readers.
It is customary in the prison, after the Sunday exercises, for such as
desire to remain and hold a sort of class meeting, or, as some call it,
experience meeting. In one of these, an old colored man arose, and said:
"Breddren, ebber since Ize been in dis prison Ize been tryin' to git de
blessin'; Ize prayed God night and day. Ize rascelled wid de Almighty
'till my hips was sore, but Ize nebber got it. Some sez its la'k ob
faith. Some its la'k of strength, but I b'l'eves de reason am on 'count
ob de quality ob dis hash we hab ebbery day!"
Accidents are occurring almost daily. Scarcely a day passes but
what some man receives injuries. Often very severe accidents happen, and
occasionally those which prove fatal. Many men are killed outright.
These accidents are caused by the roof of the little room in which the
miner works falling in upon him, and the unexpected drop of coal. Of
course there are many things that contribute to accidents, such as bad
machinery, shafts, dirt rolling down, landslides, etc.
One day there was a fellow-prisoner working
in the room adjoining me; he complained to the mining boss that he did
not want to go into that room to work because he thought it was
dangerous. The officer in charge thought differently, and told him to go
in there and go to work or he would report him. The prisoner hadn't been
in the place more than a half hour before the roof fell and buried him.
It took some little time to get him out. When the dirt was removed, to
all appearances he was dead. He was carried to the hospital on a
stretcher, and the prison physician, Doctor Neeally, examined him, and
found that both arms were broken in two places, his legs both broken,
and his ribs crushed. The doctor, who is a very eminent and successful
surgeon, resuscitated him, set his broken bones, and in a few weeks what
was thought to be a dead man, was able to move about the prison
enclosure, although one of his limbs was shorter than the other, and he
was rendered a cripple for life.
On another occasion a convict was standing at the base of the
shaft. The plumb-bob, a piece of lead about the size of a goose egg,
accidentally fell from the top of the shaft, a distance of eight hundred
feet, and, striking
this colored man on the head, it mashed his skull, and bespattered the
walls with his brains.
I had three narrow escapes from death. One day I lay in my little
room resting, and after spending some time stretched out upon the
ground, I started off to another part of my room to go to work, when all
of a sudden the roof fell in, and dropped down just where I had been
lying. Had I remained a minute longer in that place, I would have been
killed. As it happened, the falling débris just struck my
shoe as I was crawling out from the place where the material fell.
At another time I had my room mined out and was preparing to take
down the coal. I set my wedges in a certain place above the vein of coal
and began to strike with my sledge hammer, when I received a
presentiment to remove my wedges from that place to another. Now I
would not have the reader believe that I was in any manner
superstitious, but I was so influenced by that presentiment that I
withdrew my wedges and set them in another place; then I proceeded to
strike them a second time with the sledge hammer, when, unexpectedly,
the vein broke and the coal fell just opposite to where my head was
resting, and came within
an inch of striking it. Had I remained in the place where I first set my
wedges, the coal would have fallen upon me; it had been held in its
place by a piece of sulphur, and when it broke, it came down without
giving me any warning.
On still another occasion, my mining boss came to my room and
directed me to go around to another part of the mine and assist two
prisoners who were behind with their work. I obeyed. I hadn't been out
of my room more than about half an hour when there occured{sic} a
land-slide in it, which filled the room entirely full of rock, slate and
coal. It required several men some two weeks to remove the amount of
débris that had fallen on that occasion. Had I been in
there, death would have been certain at that time.
Gentle reader, let me assure you, that although some persons
misunderstanding me, assert that I am without belief in anything, yet I
desire to say, when reflecting upon these providential deliverances,
that I believe in the Eternal Will that guides, directs, controls and
protects the children of men. While many of my fellow-prisoners were
maimed for life and some killed outright, I walked through that
valley and shadow of death without even a hair of my head being injured.
Why was this? My answer is the following: Over in the State of Iowa,
among the verdant hills of that beautiful commonwealth, watching the
shadows as they longer grow, hair whitened with the frosts of many
seasons, heart as pure as an angel's, resides my dear old mother. I
received a letter from her one day, and among other things was the
following:
"I love you now in your hour of humiliation and disgrace as I did
when you were a prattling babe upon my knee.***
"I would also have you remember that every night before I retire
to rest, kneeling at my bedside, I ask God to take care of and watch
over my boy."
Of the nine hundred convicts in the penitentiary not one of their
mothers ever forgot or deserted them. A mother's prayers always follow
her prodigal children. Go, gather the brightest and purest flowers that
bend and wave in the winds of heaven, the roses and lilies, the green
vine and immortelles, wreathe them in a garland, and with this crown the
brow of the truest of all earthly friends—Mother! Another reason I
give for my safe keeping in
that hour of darkness and despair: In the city of Atchison, on a bed of
pain and anguish, lay my true, devoted and dying wife. Every Sunday
morning regularly would I receive a letter dictated by her. Oh! the
tender, loving words! "Every day," said she, "I pray that God will
preserve your life while working in the jaws of death." The true and
noble wife, the helpmeet of man, clings to him in the hour of misfortune
and calamity as the vine clings to the tree when prostrate on the
ground. No disgrace can come so shameful that it will cause the true
wife to forsake. She will no more forsake than the true soldier will
desert on the battlefield. For those imps in human form that endeavor
to detract from the honor belonging to the wives of the country there
ought to be no commisseration{sic} whatever. Let us honor the wifehood
of our native land. It is the fountain of all truth and righteousness,
and if the fountain should become impure, all is lost. One more reason:
Before I was sent to the prison I was an evangelist, and was
instrumental in the hands of God of persuading hundreds of people to
abandon a wicked life and seek the good. During my imprisonment I
received many letters from these men and women who had been
benefited on account of what I had said to them, and they informed me
that they still retained confidence in me and were praying God for my
deliverence.{sic}
Now, I believe, in answer to a mother's prayers, in answer to the
prayers of my sainted wife, in answer to the prayers of good men and
women, who were converts to "the faith once delivered to the saints"
under my earnest endeavors—in answer to all these prayers, God lent a
listening ear and preserved me from all harm and danger.
1. PATHETIC OCCURRENCES IN THE MINES.
It is a great consolation for prisoners to receive letters from their
friends. One day a convict working in the next room to me inquired if I
would like to see a letter. I replied I would. He had just received one
from his wife. This prisoner was working out a sentence of five years.
He had been in the mines some two years. At home, he had a wife and five
children. They were in destitute circumstances. In this letter his
wife informed him that she had been taking in washing for the support of
herself and children, and that at times they had to retire early because
they had no fuel to keep
them warm. Also, that, on several occasions, she had been compelled to
put the children to bed without supper. But this noble woman stated to
her husband that their lot was not so bad as his. She encouraged him to
bear up under his burdens, and that the time would soon come when his
sentence would expire and he would be permitted to return home again,
and that the future would be bright once more as it had been before the
unfortunate circumstances that led to his imprisonment. It was a good
letter, written by a noble woman. A couple of days after this, as I was
mining, I heard a voice in the adjoining room. I listened. At first I
thought it was the mining boss, but I soon discovered I was mistaken.
Listening again I came to the conclusion that the convict who was
working in the next room was becoming insane, a frequent occurrence in
the mines. Many of the poor convicts being unable to stand the strain of
years and the physical toil, languish and die in the insane ward. To
satisfy my curiosity, I took my mining lamp from my cap, placed it on
the ground, covered it up as best I could with some pieces of slate, and
then crawled up in the darkness near where he was. I never saw such a
sight
as was now presented to me. This broad-shouldered convict on his knees,
with his frame bent over, his face almost touching the floor of the
room, was praying for his wife and children. Such a prayer I never
heard before, nor do I expect to hear again. His petition was something
like the following:
"Oh, Heavenly Father, I am myself a wicked, desperate man. I do
not deserve any love or protection for my own sake. I do not expect it,
but for the sake of Jesus do have mercy on my poor wife and helpless
children."
I have been able, many times in my life, to spend an hour or more
in the prayer circle, and, unmoved, could listen to the prayers of the
children of God. But I could not remain there in the darkness and listen
to such a prayer as that going forth from the lips of that poor convict;
so I glided back through the darkness into my own room, and left him
there alone, pleading with his Creator for his lone and helpless ones at
home.
Reader, did God listen to the wails of that poor heart-stricken
prisoner? Yes! yes! yes! For though a prodigal, sinful child, yet he is
still a child of the universal Father. Who of
us dare excommunicate him? What frail mortal of passing time would dare
lift up his hand and say, this poor wanderer is forgotten of his God?
What a glorious privilege is communion with God. What a sweet
consolation to know God hears, though we may be far removed from the
dear ones we love. And who can tell the glorious things that have been
wrought by the wonderful Father of the race by that strong lever of
prayer. How often has the rough ways of life been made smooth. How often
do we fail to credit the same to the kind intercession of friends with
the Father of us all.
But to continue, it often happens that in the coal mines,
persons, no longer able to sustain the heavy load that is placed upon
them of remaining in prison for a long time, give way, and they become
raving maniacs. One day a prisoner left his room, and crawling out on
his hands and knees into the entry, sat down on a pile of coal and
commenced to sing. He had a melodious voice, and these were the words,
the first stanza of that beautiful hymn:
"Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to Thy bosom fly."
After he had completed the first stanza two of
the officers came to him and directed him to go back into the room to
work. He replied that he did not have to work; that he had religion, and
that when a man had religion he did not have to work. Said he, "We are
now going to have a prayer meeting, and" addressing one of the officers,
"you you will please lead us in prayer." The officer replied, "I don't
pray in coal mines; I pray above the surface so that God can hear." At
this the insane convict picked up a large piece of coal and was going to
hurl it after him, and threatened that if he did not get on his knees
and go to praying he would compel him to do so. While he was thus
addressing one officer the other slipped around in his rear and striking
his arm knocked the piece of coal out of his hand. Then the officers
seized him, one on each side, and forced him to go with them down the
roadways to the shaft, from whence he was taken to the top and placed in
the insane ward, where he remains at this writing. As he was passing
down the entries, away in the distance we heard him singing—
"Other refuge have I none,
Hangs my helpless soul on Thee.
Leave, oh leave me not alone,
Still support and comfort me."
I can never forget the impression made upon me as those words rang
down through the dark passages, coming from the lips of that insane
convict as they led him away from the confinement of the mines to the
confinement of insanity. How true those beautiful words were in his
case!
2. THE COAL MINES A COLLEGE OF INFAMY.
The mines of this Penal institution are a college for the education
and graduation of hardened criminals, and for illustration, and the
instruction of those not familiar with the subject matter referred to, I
will relate what came under my personal observation, and some things
that I heard while in there. One day, in company with me while engaged
in mining, were two other convicts. One of these was a hardened old
crook. He was serving out a term on the charge of making and passing
counterfeit money. The other fellow-convict was a young man seventeen
years of age—a mere boy. Tired of mining, we laid off awhile, resting.
During this time the old convict gave us instructions in the manner of
making counterfeit money. He told us how he would construct his
counterfeit molds out of plaster paris,
which he would use in the same manner that bullet molds are used. He
would purchase some britannica metal. On some dark night he would go
into the forest, build up a fire, melt the metal, pour the melted liquor
into the molds, and in this manner make silver dollars. He informed us
that it didn't take very long to make a hatful of money. A few days
thereafter this young man, who was with us in the room at the time,
informed me that when he went out again into the world, if he was unable
to secure work, he would try his hand at making counterfeit money. I
advised him not to do this, as it was almost a certainty that he would
be detected. He thought differently. About a month thereafter he was
released from the prison. He went out into the world, and, unable to
obtain work,
did try his hand at making counterfeit money.
Shortly before my time expired here came this young man to prison again,
with a sentence of three years at hard labor for making and passing
counterfeit money. He had received his criminal instruction in the
penitentiary mines, the result of which will be that he will spend the
greater portion of his life a convict.
There are a great many instances where
these young convicts, having received their education in the coal mines,
go into the world to become hardened criminals. Down in this school of
crime, in the midst of the darkness, they learn how to make burglary
tools, to crack safes, and to become expert as pickpockets; they take
lessons in confidence games, and when their time expires they are
prepared for a successful career of crime. It is utterly impossible for
the officers of the coal mines to prevent these men from conversing with
each other. If these mines were sold, and the money obtained from the
sale of them was used in building workhouses on the surface, and these
men placed at work there under the watchful care of the official, they
would then be unable to communicate with each other, and would be saved
from the debasing contamination of the hardened criminals. They would
be saved from all this that degrades and makes heartless wretches.
A scene occurred in the mines one day that illustrates the fact
that judges sometimes, in their anxiety to enforce the laws, overstep
the bounds of justice, and inflict excessive punishment and place
burdens upon human beings which they are unable to bear. One afternoon
in the city of Emporia ten tramps were arrested and thrown into the
county jail. During the succeeding night one of these persons thrust a
poker into the stove, and heating it red hot, made an effort to push the
hot iron through the door, thus burning a large hole in the door-casing.
The next morning the sheriff, entering the jail, perceiving what this
vagrant had done, was displeased, and tried to ascertain which one of
the ten was guilty of the offense. The comrades of the guilty party
refused to disclose the perpetrator of the act. Court was then in
session. The sheriff had these ten fellows brought into court, hoping
that when placed upon the witness stand, under oath, they would tell
which had committed the offense. Even in court they were true to each
other, and would not reveal the perpetrator. They were then all
convicted, and the judge passed a sentence of ten years upon each of
these vagrants for that trivial offense. They came to the penitentiary.
The day after their arrival they were all sent to the coal mines. For
two years they worked day after day down in the Kansas bastile. One
morning, after they had been in the mines for two years, one of the
number, at the breakfast table in the dining-room, unperceived secreted
a knife in his clothing and carried it with him down to his place of
work. He went into his little room and began the labors of the day.
After toiling for a few hours he took a stone and sharpened his knife
the best he possibly could, then stepped out into the entry where he
could stand erect, and with his head thrown back drew that knife across
his throat, cutting it from ear to ear, thus terminating his life,
preferring death to longer remaining in the mines of the Kansas Hell!
Who is there that is not convinced of the fact that the blood of this
suicide stains the garments of the judge who placed this unbearable
burden of ten years upon this young man, and who, I subsequently
learned, was innocent of the offense. I would advise the good people of
Lyons County, and of Emporia particularly, after they have perused this
book, if they come to the conclusion that they have no better material
out of which to construct a district judge, to go out on the frontier
and lassoo a wild Comanche Indian and bring him to Emporia and place him
upon the ermined bench. I do not even know the name of this judge, but I
believe, if I am correctly informed in this case, that his judgment is
deficient somewhere. But I must say in this
connection, when the good people of Lyons County heard of this suicide,
they immediately thereafter petitioned the Board of Pardons for the
release of these prisoners, and the board at once reported favorably
upon their cases, and Governor Martin promptly granted their pardons and
they were released from the prison. If the pardon had not been granted,
others of them had resolved upon taking their lives as did their
comrade. One of these prisoners was for a time a companion of mine in
one of my mining rooms, and told me if he was required to remain in the
coal mines digging coal another three months he had made up his mind to
follow the example of his comrade, preferring death to the horrors of
the mines.
For the further information of the reader, as to the dread of the
prisoners of work in the mines, I cite the following which I call to
recollection. The gentlemanly physician of the institution, Dr.
Neeally, told me that at four different times men had feigned death in
the mines and had been carried on stretchers to the hospital; the
particulars in one case is as follows: One of these men feigned death
and was carried to the hospital, and was reported by his comrades
to be dead. He had suppressed his breathing. The physician felt his
pulse, and finding it regular, of course knew he was simply endeavoring
to deceive. In order to experiment, the physician coincided with the
statements of the attending convicts who had carried him from the mines,
and announced that he would try electricity, and if he failed to restore
him to life he would then have to bury him in the regular way. The
doctor retired for the purpose of getting his electrical apparatus. In
a few moments he returned, bringing it with him, and placing the
magnetic cups, one in each hand, commenced generating the electricity by
turning the generator attached to the machine. After a few turns of the
crank the prisoner opened his eyes; one or two more and he sat up; a few
more and he stood on his feet; another turn or two and he commenced
dancing around, and exclaimed, "For God's sake, doctor, do quit, for I
ain't dead, but I can't let loose!" Reader, what do you suppose was the
object this convict had in view in thus feigning death? What did he hope
to gain thereby? Being well acquainted with this prisoner, a few days
after the doctor had told me of the circumstances I met him, and asked
him what object he had in feigning death the time that he was taken from
the mines to the hospital? His reply was that he hadn't the nerve to
take his own life, as he believed in a future state of punishment, and
that he did not desire to step from the Kansas Hell to the hell of the
future, and that by feigning death he hoped to be taken to the hospital,
placed in a coffin, then taken out to the prison graveyard, and buried
alive, so that he would suffocate in his grave!
There is not a man in those mines but would leave them quickly
for a place on the surface.
I now call to mind one instance where a heart-broken father came
to the prison and offered one of the leading prison officials one
thousand dollars if he would take his son out of the coal mines and give
him a place on the surface during the remainder of his term. A man who
labors in these mines simply spends his time, not knowing but the next
hour will be his last.
As I have stated heretofore the prisoners are allowed to converse
in the mines, and as a result of this almost necessary rule, every
convict has an opportunity to listen to the vilest
obscenity that ever falls upon human ears. At times, when some of these
convicts, who seem veritable encyclopedias of wickedness, are crowded
together, the ribald jokes, obscenity and blasphemy are too horrible for
description. It is a pandemonium—a miniature hell! But worse than this
horrible flow of language are the horrible and revolting practices of
the mines. Men, degraded to a plane lower than the brutes, are guilty of
the unmentionable crimes referred to by the Apostle Paul in his letter
to the Romans, chapter I, verse 27, which is as follows: "And likewise
also the men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their
lusts one toward another,
men with men, working that which is
unseemly, and receiving in themselves that recompense of their error
which was meet." Every opportunity is here offered for this vile
practice. They are far removed from the light and even from the
influences of their officers, and in the darkness and silence old and
hardened criminals debase and mistreat themselves and sometimes the
younger ones that are associated with them in their work. These cases of
self-abuse and sodomy are of daily occurrence, and, although the
officials of the prison take every precaution to prevent
such evil practices, yet, as a matter of fact, so long as prisoners are
permitted to work in the mines it will be impossible to break up these
terribly degrading and debasing practices. Oh, Kansan! you that boast
of the freedom and liberty, the strength of your laws, and the
institutions in your grand young State, what do you think of this
disclosure of wickedness, equalling if not excelling the most horrible
things ever pictured by the divine teachers of humanity,—the apostles
and their followers? A hint is only here given, but to the wise it will
be sufficient, and but a slight exercise of the imaginative powers will
be necessary to unfold to you the full meaning of this terrible state of
affairs.
It is believed by the writer that if the people of the State of
Kansas knew under what circumstances men in the prison were compelled to
work, there would be a general indignation, which would soon be
expressed through the proper channels, and which might lead to a proper
solution of the difficulty.
In many of the rooms of the mines there are large pools of water
which accumulate there from dripping down from the crevices above; this,
taken in connection with the natural
damps of the mines, which increases the water, makes very large pools,
and in these mud-holes convicts are compelled to work and wallow about
all day long while getting out their coal, more like swine than anything
else. How can this be in the line of reformation, which, we are taught
to believe outside of the prison walls, is the principal effort of all
discipline within the prison. The result of work under such unfavorable
circumstances is that many of the convicts contract rheumatism,
neuralgia, pneumonia and other lung troubles, and, of course, malaria.
Many persons that enter these mines in good health come out physical
wrecks, often to find homes in the poor-houses of the land when their
prison days are over, or die before their terms expire. In the judgment
of the writer the coal mines should be sold; until that is done,
prisoners who contract diseases there that will carry them to untimely
graves should be pensioned by the State, and thus kept from spending the
rest of their natural lives in some of the country poor-houses.
Each person in the mines is assigned a task; he is required to
get out a certain amount of coal each week. In case the convict fails to
mine the task that has been assigned him he must endure punishment, a
description of which will be given later on. It is the opinion of the
author that something should be done to remedy this. The young men from
seventeen to twenty, together with the old men from fifty to sixty, and
those suffering from diseases, are often required to dig as much coal as
middle-aged and able-bodied men. I have seen old men marching to their
cells after a hard day's work scarcely able to walk, and many times have
I laid in the mines along with these young boys who would spend hours
crying like whipped children for fear they would be unable to get out
their regular task of coal, and would therefore have to spend the
Sabbath in the dungeon, suffering unspeakable anguish.
Because of the dangers to which the inmate is exposed; because of
the debasing influences by which lie is surrounded, it is wrong, it is
wicked to work our criminals in such a place as those mines of
the Kansas penitentiary.
4. CHAPTER IV.
THE PUNISHMENTS OF THE PRISON.
THE discipline of this institution is of the very highest character,
and is unequaled in any similar institution of the United States. The
officers are very watchful and strict. The inmates who work on the
surface are not permitted to converse with each other only within the
hearing of an officer, and then only with regard to matters that pertain
to work. The convict attends to his duties, observing the strictest
silence. When visitors pass about the prison the inmate is not permitted
to lift up his head to gaze at them. Not even is he permitted to take a
drink of water or to leave his place of work for anything without the
permission of the officer in charge. As soon as a criminal enters the
prison and is clothed in stripes, a copy of the rules and regulations is
placed in his hands for perusal. If he cannot read, an officer reads
them to him. On the first day of his admission the prisoner receives
certain tickets, which are permits for privileges granted to him. One of
these tickets allows him to have tobacco if he
used the same before coming to the penitentiary; one allows him to
receive visits from his friends; another to write a letter, monthly, to
his relatives; and still another gives him the privilege to draw a book
from the library, weekly. These privileges are highly appreciated by
the prisoners. For the first offense in violation of any of the rules
and regulations the refractory prisoner is deprived of his ticket; and
in extreme cases these tickets have been kept from the prisoner for six
months. To deprive the convict of his tobacco for a month or two, if he
uses it, and many do, is a severe punishment. This kind of punishment
is usually effectual in securing good discipline. There are extreme
cases, however, that require severer punishment. To meet this
contingency, dungeons are provided. As their name implies, they are
dark. They resemble an ordinary cell with the exception of the door,
which, in the common cell, contains open spaces for the admission of
light; but the dark cell admits neither light nor a sufficient quantity
of air. There is no furniture in this dark cell. While undergoing
punishment, if a prisoner desires to rest, he can do so by reclining on
the stone floor. No refractory prisoner
ever grows corpulent while confined in these dark cells, as he only
receives one meal of bread and water in twenty-four hours! The prisoner
is often kept in these cells from eight to ten days. Sleep is almost
impossible. When a prisoner enters the dungeon he is required to leave
behind him his coat, cap and shoes. During the winter months it is often
very cold in these cells, requiring the prisoner to walk up and down the
dungeon in his stocking feet to prevent his freezing, and this for a
period of ten days, in nearly every instance compels submission. After
the dark cells thaw out, during the summer months, they are excessively
hot. Sometimes in winter the temperature is below zero, and in summer it
often rises to one hundred degrees. They are then veritable furnaces.
Generally, after the prisoner undergoes the freezing or baking process
for eight or ten days, he is willing to behave himself in the future.
They are sometimes so reduced and weak when brought out of the dark cell
that they can scarcely walk without aid. I have seen them reel to and
fro like drunken men. They are often as pale as death. That in many
cases the prisoner contracts cold which later on terminates fatally, is
one of the principal
objections to this mode of punishment. There is no doubt that the dark
cells of the Kansas Hell have hastened the death of many a poor,
friendless convict. If a person in the mines does not get out his
regular weekly task of coal, on Saturday night he is reported to the
deputy warden by the officer in charge, and is sent to the blind cell
before supper, and is kept there until the following Monday morning,
when he is taken out and sent to his work in the mines. While in there
he gets only bread and water once in twenty-four hours. This is a great
inducement to work; it certainly prevents criminals from shirking their
labor, and soon converts a lazy tramp into a rustling coal miner. There
is one thing, however, that is connected with this system of punishment
that I will criticise. The officer under whose immediate control the
prisoner is placed fixes the period of his confinement in the dungeon.
It gives the officer a good opportunity to abuse a prisoner he may
dislike. These subordinate officers are not all angels. Some of them
are lacking in sympathy. They have become hardened, and frequently
treat their men like beasts. These persons should not possess such a
dangerous
power. The warden or deputy warden should decide the character as well
as the period of punishment.
If in this dark cell ten days and nights is insufficient to
subdue the rebellious spirit of the convict, he is taken out and placed
in the solitary cell. This is similar to the ordinary cell, with the
exception that it contains no furniture. Here the convict remains on
bread and water until he is starved almost to death, or until he is
willing to submit and do his work as ordered.
Another mode of punishment resorted to in a few cases, is even
more brutal than the dark cell. The obdurate prisoner is stripped naked
and tied to a post. The hose which is connected with the water-works is
turned upon his naked body. The water pressure is sixty pounds to the
square inch. As the water strikes the nude body the suffering is
intense. This mode of punishment is but rarely resorted to. It is
exceedingly wicked and barbarous. It is a shame to treat a human being
in such a manner. There are many hardened criminals and desperate
characters in the penitentiary, and it may sometimes be necessary to
resort to extreme measures, but there have been
many instances when, as it seemed to me, these excessive punishments
might have been avoided and still the good discipline of the prison
maintained. "Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy." But
the author would have you recollect that the punishments of the Kansas
penitentiary are not as severe as the discipline in her sister
institutions. Many of the inmates of this prison who have formerly
served terms in others of like character, have shown him the scars and
marks of brutal punishment. One of these poor unfortunates showed me his
back, which is covered with great furrows in the flesh caused by the
cat-o'-nine-tails in the hands of a merciless official of the Missouri
penitentiary. Another prisoner carries thumbs out of joint and
stiffened by the inhuman practice of hanging up by the thumbs in vogue
in a former place of imprisonment, and still another carries about with
him ugly wounds inflicted by bloodhounds which overtook him when trying
to escape from a Southern prison.
The foregoing is a view of the punishments inflicted from a
prisoner's standpoint. That the reader may arrive at just conclusions, I
quote the statements on the same subject made
by the warden, Captain Smith, in his able biennial report of last year.
In doing so, I beg leave to state that the convict who had ever been the
object of the prison discipline, or who had spent his ten days and
nights in one of those dismal dungeons, subsisting on bread and water,
would readily say that the warden had treated the subject in a manner
"very mild."
"The discipline has been carefully looked after, and as a general
thing prisoners yield to strict discipline quicker than most people
think. They seem to see and realize the necessity of rules, and very
seldom complain, if they violate them, at the punishment that is sure to
follow. Our punishments are of such a character that they do not
degrade. Kansas, when she established her penitentiary, prohibited
corporal punishment. She is one of the few States that by law prohibits
the use of the whip and strap; taking the position that it is better to
use kindness than to resort to brutal measures. I have often been told,
and that, too, by old prison men, that it was impossible to run a prison
and have first-class discipline without the whip. Such is not my
experience. We have had within our walls perhaps as desperate men as
ever received a sentence. We have controlled them,
and have maintained a discipline second to none in the country, How did
we accomplish this? Our answer is, by being kind but firm; treating a
man, although he may be a prisoner, as a man. If he violates rules, lock
him up. Give him an opportunity to commune with himself and his Maker;
also give him to understand that he is the executioner of his own
sentence, and when he concludes that he can do right, release him. It
matters not how vicious, how stubborn, or what kind of a temper he may
have, when left with no one to talk to, and an opportunity to cool down,
and with a knowledge that when he comes to the conclusion that he will
do better he can be released, he leaves the cell feeling much different
than the prisoner who leaves the whipping-post, after having received
any number of lashes that a brutal officer may desire to inflict. One
goes to his work cheerful, and determined to behave himself; the other
dogged, revengeful, completely humiliated, and only lives in hope that
he may at some time take his revenge upon the person that ordered or
inflicted the punishment, and upon the State or country that would, by
its laws, tolerate such a brutal or slavish practice."
5. CHAPTER V.
SUNDAY IN THE PRISON.
A PRISONER is always thankful for the Sabbath. He has been working
hard all week, and Sunday affords the opportunity of resting. On the
Sabbath morning, the bell for rising rings at eight o'clock. At its
ringing each person must rise and dress; he is not permitted to do so
before it rings. If he gets tired of remaining in his bunk so late as
eight o'clock, and should wish to get up and dress, it would do him no
good; it would be a violation of rules and result in punishment. After
the prisoner is up and dressed, he washes and marches out in ranks to
breakfast. It is hash, hash, hash, for Sunday breakfast, the same as any
other day, except once a month it is codfish hash instead of beef hash.
After breakfast, instead of going from the dining-room to work, the
prisoners are marched back into their cells where they remain until time
for chapel exercises.
There is a dining-room for the prisoners and another for the
officers. The room where the
prisoners dine is a large hall capable of seating fully twelve hundred
men. Each table is long enough to accommodate twenty men, and resembles
an ordinary school-desk. There are no table-cloths or napkins; nothing
but a plain, clean board. The table furniture consists of a tin quart
cup, a small pan of the same precious metal, which holds the hash, an
iron knife, fork and spoon. No beautiful silverware adorns this table;
on the contrary, all the dining service is very plain and cheap. The
convicts are marched into the dining-room in divisions, and seated at
the table. Here they remain in perfect silence, with their heads bowed.
No talking or gazing about the dining-room is permitted. After
all the divisions are in and seated, the deputy Warden taps a small
bell, and the convicts begin the work of "concealing the hash." Before
the men enter the dining-room the coffee, bread and hash are placed on
the table for each man. The prisoners are given all the food they can
eat. It is not the quantity, but the quality, that is objectionable.
If more bread is wanted, instead of calling out "Please pass the
bread," the convict holds up his hand, and the waiter comes along and
puts a piece of bread in it. He gets but a pint of coffee, and if he
wishes a second supply he holds up his cup and it is refilled—but with
water instead of coffee. If he wishes more hash he holds aloft his meat
dish, and an officer hands him a large pan of hash, out of which he
fills his dish. Not a word is spoken during the meal. Ample time is
given the convicts to get all the food they desire; then the deputy
warden, who occupies a raised seat at the end of the dining-room, taps a
small bell, and the men march out in divisions, back to their cells on
Sunday mornings, and to their work on week days.
Breakfast over, and the men in their cells, the choir, which
leads the singing and furnishes the instrumental music for the occasion,
is taken out, and, under the watchful care of an officer, is conducted
to the chapel where they practice until time for the regular services.
The choir was composed of convicts who could sing, regardless of the
crimes for which they were sent to prison. I recollect at one time we
had two horse-thieves, two rapists—one with a sentence of forty
years—three murderers, two hog-thieves, and several others of equally
villainous records, and, last of all, the author!
But this choir will compare favorably with some of the high-toned church
choirs outside! To return, think of such a choir singing:
"Oh, how happy are they,
Who their Saviour obey,
And have laid up their treasures above!"
At eleven o'clock, the prison bell rings, and the men are marched in
ranks to the chapel. When the first division or company reaches the
room where the services are to be held, the string band commences to
play, and as the divisions march in one after another they are greeted
with music. The instruments used are a piano, organ, violin, cornet and
bass viol. Very fine music is rendered by the prison band. All being
seated, the chaplain, the Rev. Dr. Crawford, a genuine Christian and
God-fearing man, rises, and in his happy style reads some beautiful
hymn which is familiar to the congregation. The choir leads and the
entire congregation sings. Such singing! The convicts have only one
opportunity a week to try their voices in a musical way, and when that
opportunity comes around it is improved. Nearly one thousand voices
unite in singing those beautiful gospel hymns! A prayer is offered; more
singing; then the chaplain, or some visiting
minister who may be present, preaches a short discourse. There is a
large field for usefulness, and for doing good, in the penitentiary. The
harvest is truly great. Chaplain Crawford comprehends the situation, and
is putting forth strenuous efforts to save these men who have drifted
thus far down the currents of sin. His labors are abundantly blessed of
God. Many men go out of that institution a great deal better than when
they first entered. Were it not for the cruel treatment the prisoners
suffer in the coal mines of that institution many more of them would be
reformed. This treatment tends to harden the criminal. The chaplain has
many evils to counteract, yet he contends nobly for the right, and some
of these men are being redeemed from a sinful life. After the sermon,
the choir and the string band furnish more soul-stirring music, which
enlivens the spirits of the prisoners, and then the chapel exercises are
over. The prisoners are now returned to their cells. Occasionally the
convicts are permitted to remain after the chapel exercises proper are
over and have a social meeting. The chaplain remains with them. These
men sing, pray and give in their religious experience. It is novel
to hear these Christian criminals telling how they love Jesus.
Immediately after the religious services are over the prison
school begins. Nearly one hundred of the convicts attend this school{.}
The common branches, reading, writing, spelling, arithmetic, etc., are
taught. This school is graded, and under the management of the chaplain,
who is an excellent instructor, is a great blessing to the prisoners.
Numbers have fitted themselves here so that when they went out they were
able to pass examination and obtain certificates as teachers.
On entering the institution many of the prisoners who are unable
to read and write soon acquire these useful arts if they have any
ambition for self-improvement. If there was room, and this school could
be conducted in the evening, as well as on Sunday afternoons, much more
good could be accomplished. I would suggest that it would be a good act
on the part of the State to employ an officer who should devote all his
time to teaching and imparting instruction in the common branches, and
let a room be fitted up for evening school, so that all prisoners who
might desire to improve themselves could attend this place of
instruction after the work of the day was over. Nothing could be done
that would be more advantageous to the convict. The teachers for the
prison school are selected from among the prisoners, some of them being
very fine scholars.
After school is over the Sunday dinner is served. The prisoners
once more march into the dining-room and take their places at the table.
The Sunday dinner is the "crack" meal of the institution. At this meal
the prisoners have as a luxury, beans, a small piece of cheese and some
beet pickles, in addition to their regular diet. This meal is served at
2:30.
The prisoners are then returned to their cells, where they remain
until the following morning. They spend their time in the cells which is
not taken up by sleeping, in reading. The prison has a fine library of
five thousand volumes. The State Legislature annually appropriates five
hundred dollars to be expended in purchasing books. This collection
consists of histories, scientific works and books of fiction. The
greater part of the criminals prefer the works of fiction. Were it not
for this privilege of reading, the Sunday afternoons
and winter evenings would seem very long and dreary.
Several officers are on duty during the time the men are locked
in their cells on Sunday, and the cell houses are very quiet and
orderly, there is no talking, as officers are constantly walking
backward and forward in front of the cells.
This is the manner and style of spending the Sabbath in prison.
The convicts who do the cooking for the officers and convicts, are
compelled to work on Sundays as any other day of the week. It would be
nothing more than right to give these men credit for this extra work,
and in this manner reduce their sentences. The law does not contemplate
that criminals in the penitentiary should work seven days in the week
and fifteen hours each day. There are more than fifty men who are forced
to put in this extra time in hard labor.
6. CHAPTER VI
SCENES IN THE HOSPITAL.
WHEN a prisoner gets sick he reports to the prison physician in the
morning, before working hours. As the men march out of their cells to go
to their breakfast, those who are sick and desire to see the doctor fall
out of the ranks and occupy seats in the cell house. Soon the prison
physician, Dr. Nealley, calls and examines them. Many try to deceive the
physician and thus get into the hospital, simply to avoid work. But the
shirkers are pretty well known, and have to be very sick and give
unmistakable symptoms of their illness before they can get excused. It
is very difficult to deceive Dr. Nealley. He has been with the prisoners
so long, nearly six years, that he knows them and can tell without much
effort when one of them is sick or is not in condition to work. At these
morning examinations, sometimes there are nearly one hundred who report
as being sick. Most of them, instead of being excused, get a dose of
medicine and are sent to work. When a prisoner takes sick during
the day while at work, he is excused by his officer, and permitted to go
to the hospital to see the physician. Fully nine-tenths of the sickness
of the prison is contracted in the coal mines. The principal physical
disabilities are prison fever, colds, pneumonia, lung diseases and
rheumatism. Very few contagious diseases ever find their way into the
prison, and those that do are quickly discovered and checked by the
prison physician. When a convict is unable to work he is sent to the
hospital. This department contains two wards, in the first of which
those remain who are not sick enough to be confined to their beds, while
the very sick are kept in the second ward. Convicts, detailed for that
purpose, are the hospital nurses. It is gratifying to know that these
convict nurses have a sympathy for their sick comrades truly admirable.
Many of these sick men die. It is sad to die in the State's
Prison! I recollect one case that came under my own observation which
was indeed pathetic. A man had been sentenced for five years, and had
served out his time save one week, when, taken suddenly ill, he was sent
to the hospital and died the day before his term would have expired.
This poor
fellow piteously begged of the doctor to try and extend his life so that
he could die a free man; but all in vain! On the day which would have
brought liberty he was borne through the large gate and buried in the
prison graveyard. It is heartrending to hear those men dying in the
hospital, call for their mothers, wives or sisters! The convict nurses
are as kind and sympathetic as possible, but in sickness and death there
is no one that can take the place of mother, wife or sister.
There was one man who died a few days before my term expired, for
whom I felt the greatest sympathy. His name was Frank Rhodes. He was
sent from Holton. While in jail and awaiting trial at that place he was
converted. Several Christian ladies had visited the jail and left with
the inmates a few Bibles and other religious literature. At his trial
Frank was convicted of crime and sentenced to the penitentiary for five
years. When he came to the State's prison he brought his religion with
him. For two years this man performed his duties faithfully. He soon
gained the good will of the officers. He was a true Christian man; he
showed it in his life while in prison. After awhile his religion got the
better of him; he
could not control his emotions. Often during the chapel services, when
the convicts were singing their Christian songs, overcome by his
feelings, Frank would weep like a child. Time passed. It was a bright
Sabbath morning. The prisoners were marching out of the cell houses to
the chapel, to attend divine service. All nature seemed to be
rejoicing. Frank could not longer restrain himself. The glowing sunshine
has much to do with causing a man's religion to boil over. All of a
sudden, clapping his hands, Frank shouted at the top of his voice,
"Glory to God in the highest I peace on earth, good will to men!" This
was too much for the discipline of the prison. Convicts are expected to
keep quiet. A couple of officers seized him and led him back into the
cell house, where he was placed in a cell of the insane ward and was
called a religious crank. He remained in this cell for the following
eighteen months. He told me afterward these were the happiest months of
his life. He would read his Bible, sing, pray, and exhort the officers
to be religious. The deputy warden would often tell him that when he
could control his religion enough to keep quiet he should be taken out
of the insane ward and sent to work again. When
eighteen months had passed he concluded he could keep quiet, and so
informed the deputy warden. He was immediately released from his place
of confinement and went to work. While at work he was honest and quiet.
His only trouble was, too much religion! Months went by. His wife came
to see him frequently. These visits were enjoyable affairs to them. On
a certain Friday his wife was to visit him. I met him the day before,
and he was overjoyed at the prospect of seeing his wife the next day.
She came. They had a joyful time. Little did either think they should
see each other in this life no more. When the hour of her departure came
they separated not to meet again until in the world of perpetual
sunshine. The next day this poor convict was taken with the prison
fever, and in one short week he was a corpse. He died trusting in his
Saviour. The chaplain, speaking of this man's death, said if officers or
convicts at death go from the Kansas penitentiary to heaven, then Frank
Rhodes was among the saved; he was a true Christian man. After death his
body was sent to his former home, Holton, where it was buried.
The following is my experience with a poor friendless colored boy
who had a six years'
sentence for burglary. I took the prison fever and was sent to the
hospital. This colored convict was detailed as my nurse. He had been
sick, but was then convalescent. He was very kind to me; because of this
kindness and good care I began to like him. He seemed anxious to make me
comfortable. "Be kind to the sick and you will win their friendship." I
was quite sick for two weeks, but began to recover slowly. About this
time my nurse suffered a relapse. He grew worse and worse. The doctor
gave him up. "Bob must die," he said to the head nurse one day in my
hearing. A day or two after this, Bob, for that was the sick prisoner's
name, sent for me to come to his couch. I sat down on the edge of his
bed and asked him what he wanted. He said: "I am going to die, and want
a friend. In all this wide world," continued he, "there is not a single
human being that I can look upon as my friend." He then told me how he
had lost his father and mother when a mere child, had drifted out into
the world an orphan boy, got into bad company, into crime and into
prison. As I sat there looking into the face of that little darkey, I
thought how sad his lot must be, and my sympathies were aroused. I said,
"Bob, is
there anything I can do for you? I am your friend, and will do all I can
to aid you." I spoke words of encouragement, and tried to cheer him up
by saying that I thought he would not die. In this I used a little
deceit, but it was to assuage his grief. I really thought he would die
very soon. Then he told me what he wanted. He said, "I am going to die;
my angel mother came to my bedside last night; I saw her as plainly as I
see you now. She said she was coming soon to take me out of prison and
out of this world of sorrow. Yes, I am going to die, but I am afraid to
cross the dark river. When I am dying I want you to sit by my bedside,
take hold of my hand and go with me down the vale of death as far as
possible. It will do me so much good. Will you do this for me? It is the
only favor I ask." I told him I would only be too glad to do so if it
would aid him in the moment when life shrinks from the shadow of death,
but told him I thought he would not die—another little fib on my part.
However, that did no harm, for I failed to convince him he would live.
About 1 o'clock A. M. a couple of nights after this, one of the watchers
came to my cot and said Bob wanted to see me immediately. I
felt his time had come. Hastily dressing, I went to his bedside. I found
him dying. I sat down by his side and took his hand in mine. I was going
with him to the dark river. He pressed my hand and a smile of
satisfaction passed over his countenance. He said, "You are so kind." I
spoke words of hope and encouragement suitable to the time and occasion.
I sat thus for some little time; his limbs grew cold; his eyes became
glassy; the death dew was dampening his brow. It was evident he would
soon breathe his last. Poor, helpless, friendless negro! What was your
life's mission? Many similar pious thoughts flitted through my mind.
Without a friend! Among all the millions of earth he could not call one
by the endearing name of friend! Sad, sad thought! After I had remained
there some time, expecting every breath to be his last, what was my
astonishment to discover his hands and limbs growing warmer. The crisis
of his disease was passed. No dark river this time! Soon his "glassy"
eyes were closed, and in a few moments he began to snore! Disappointed,
I dropped that black "paw," and went back to my cot. That little darkey
is still alive. He often asked me
after that if I wanted to take another trip down to "de da'k ribbah!"
The prisoners who die in the penitentiary are buried in the
graveyard of the institution, unless they have friends who will pay for
the removal of the body. Just outside the prison walls is the cemetery.
Its location is a walnut grove in a deep ravine. The first graves were
dug near the eastern side of the cemetery and as near to each other as
possible. As fast as this space is filled with graves it is covered over
many feet deep with the slate and dirt taken from the coal mines, a few
yards distant. Beneath this rubbish will the prisoners sleep until the
trump shall sound and the dead arise. Prisoners dying are dressed in a
neat suit of black clothes, if the body is to be forwarded to the
friends; otherwise, the burial suit consists of a cotton shirt and a
pair of drawers of the same material. The coffin is very plain, and is
made in one of the prison shops.
7. CHAPTER VII.
ESCAPES FROM PRISON.
OCCASIONALLY there is a man shrewd enough to make his escape from
prison. When a convict has almost served out his time he is generally
selected to perform the duties of a "trusty," and allowed to go outside
the prison enclosure. By good conduct other prisoners gain the
confidence of the officials, and there are instances where these men,
though they may have several months to serve, are permitted to go beyond
the walls, doing duty for the prison. But they are rare. Generally a
convict, if he has long to serve, is not trusted to any great extent. At
times these "trusties," although they may have but a few weeks to
remain, cannot successfully resist the temptation to escape. Ordinarily
the escaped convict is overtaken and brought back.
I recollect an instance where two young fellows were thus
trusted. One of them had two months to serve, and the other but
twenty-seven days. They were given employment at
the reservoir, over a mile from the prison. No officer was guarding
them. They made an attempt to get away. After being absent a few hours
they were missed from their post of duty. The alarm was given, and
officers started in pursuit. They were overtaken and caught about five
miles distant, hid in the brush. They had concealed themselves in this
place, intending to make their escape in the darkness of the coming
night. The officers in search accidentally came upon them in this brush
patch. They were taken back to prison. They were compelled to work for
thirty days with a ball and chain attached to each of their limbs, after
which they were taken to Leavenworth, to the District Court, where they
plead guilty to the charge of attempting to escape from the prison.
Each of them received a sentence of one year at hard labor in the
penitentiary for this foolishness. After their present sentence has
expired, they will have to enter immediately upon the other for trying
to escape. At this writing, both of these convicts are digging coal in
the mines. They are not trusted now.
Another prisoner, a much older man than these two whom I have
described, tried to escape; he got as far as Ohio before the officers
secured him. During the late rebellion this man was a captain in the
army. He became involved in a quarrel with some of his relatives and was
sent to the penitentiary for forgery. On account of his previous good
character, on coming to the penitentiary he was immediately set to work
as a "trusty." Some few months after he was sent to the Missouri River,
over a mile from the prison, to do some work. No officer was with him.
Going down to the banks of the river he discovered a boat tied to the
shore. In a subsequent conversation, he told me when he saw that boat it
suggested the thought of escaping. His wife and children were in the
State of Ohio. They had removed there since his conviction. "The boat,"
said he, "seemed to say, `get in and cross the river.' I thought of my
family. Oh, how I longed to be with them! I could not resist the
temptation. I had some old overalls, and I drew these on over the
stripes. I got into the boat, rowed across, and hid in the woods on the
Missouri side until night. During the night-time I walked, and during
the daytime would lay by in the woods, occasionally going out to a house
begging something to eat. At last I reached my home in Ohio. I was
footsore
and almost starved when I arrived." Continuing his narrative, he
informed me that he had no peace of mind. He was in constant dread of
pursuing officers. Every man he saw he took to be a detective in search
of him. At last, so great was his alarm and uneasiness, that he
telegraphed the prison officials where he was. The warden went and
brought him back, For punishment he remained in the dungeon several days
and nights, and wore the ball and chain for over a month. This man has
not been tried yet for making his escape. It will probably be overlooked
because of the change in the prison administration. His original
sentence was five years.
Another prisoner made his escape, was away for five years; was
then discovered, brought back, and is at present eight hundred feet
below the surface, digging coal.
One day a young man was brought to the penitentiary under three
years' sentence. He was handsome and had winning ways. It was not long
before the officers had learned to like him. He was a natural confidence
man. It was difficult to resist his influence. After he had been in the
penitentiary a short time he was made a "trusty." For awhile he was
very dutiful and obedient. He was no fool. He gained the confidence of
the officers so that many of them would have confided their pocketbooks
to his care. He was permitted to go beyond the prison walls to quite a
distance. Finally he walked off. That convict has never been heard of
since. He was a slick one. After his departure it was found out that he
had walked away from the Colorado prison in the same manner.
The following is an instance of the shrewdness practiced in
effecting escapes. A hog-thief was convicted and sent to the prison.
He related that while traveling through the southern part of Kansas, a
mere tramp, passing by a farmer's residence, he saw a number of hogs in
a lot adjoining a grove some distance to the rear of the house. Passing
up through the grove, unperceived, he removed one of the boards and
drove the hogs out through the woods into a small pond where they
covered themselves with mud. Then driving them around on to the main
traveled road, he started with them for town some five miles off. As he
was driving along the highway, the owner of the hogs met him and
inquired where he was taking them. He replied that he was going to
market. The farmer said he was making up a car load and would give him
as much as he could get in town. After some further conversation the
parties agreed upon the price, the farmer buying his own hogs from the
tramp, who went on his way rejoicing. An hour or two thereafter the
farmer, going out into his field to see his hogs, found they were gone,
and upon examining those recently purchased, which by this time had
rubbed all the mud off, he discovered it was his own hogs he had
purchased from the tramp. He immediately set out in pursuit of the
thief, whose whereabouts were soon determined. The thief, after
receiving the money, went to town, took a train, but stopped off at a
little place nearby, and instead of secreting himself for a time, began
to drink. While dissipating he was overtaken, arrested, and held for
trial. Had he left whisky alone, he could have escaped. At the trial,
which soon followed, he was convicted of grand larceny, and on his
arrival at the prison was immediately put into the coal mines. After
working there for a week or ten days he became dissatisfied, and decided
to secure a position on the surface. One morning, as the prisoners were
being let down into the mines, apparently in a fit he fell
into the arms of a prisoner; when he landed at the bottom he was in the
worst part of his spasm; the officer in charge ordered him sent to the
top as soon as he had partially recovered, stating that it was dangerous
to have a man working in the mines who was subject to fits, as he might
not only kill himself but be the cause of the death of others with him
in the cage. To make his case more plausible, when the convict learned
that the officer had ordered him to the top, he began pleading to remain
in the mines and work, stating that he enjoyed the work and would rather
do service there than on the top. But the officer persisted; he was sent
up and reported to the deputy warden, who set him to quarrying rock.
This was no better job than working in the coal mines. Providing
himself for the occasion, by putting a piece of soap in his mouth,
assuming a frenzy and frothing at the mouth, he would almost deceive a
physician as to the nature of his malady. Later, it was decided that he
was unable to do duty on the rock pile, and was placed in the "Crank
House" with the cranks. Those prisoners, who have either lost their
mind or are suffering with temporary insanity, not incurable insane, or
wholly idiotic, are
classed as "cranks," and have an apartment by themselves. As a rule this
class of individuals are harmless and not guarded very closely. Their
cells are not locked up until nine o'clock at night; the others at six
o'clock. During the noon hour the officers leave them alone, in fact,
being of a supposed harmless disposition they are at no time closely
guarded. This fellow improved the opportunities afforded by the noon
hour. He would go into one of the towers and work as long as he dared
cutting the bars with a saw he had made out of a knife. He labored in
this manner until one of the bars was sawed so near off that a little
push would remove it. One afternoon he bade the other cranks good-bye,
telling them he was going to fly that night. They made sport of him,
thinking he was growing more insane. He went so far as to say good-bye
to the officer, stating that he had received a revelation from God the
previous night, and that an angel was coming to liberate him. The
officer, of course, thought he was getting more and more insane. When
night came he slipped out of his cell and secreted himself in a portion
of the cell house where it was dark, and when the officer came to lock
up, the crazy hog-thief was not missed.
Along in the night he pushed aside the bars and made his escape. This
was the last the prison authorities heard of him until they learned he
was arrested at St. Joseph, Missouri, and held there on a charge of
grand larceny for the same thing that he was in the Kansas
penitentiary—stealing hogs. An officer went up there to get and bring
him back to the Kansas penitentiary, but the St. Joseph authorities
refused to give him up. He was tried there and sent to the Missouri
penitentiary. After his term expires in that place he will have to serve
out his original term in the Kansas penitentiary. "The way of the
transgressor is hard," even if he does pretend to have fits.
One of the most interesting and perilous attempts at escaping
from the penitentiary was the following: In the evening, after the day's
work is over in the mines, the convicts are all lifted to the top, as
before stated, and remain in their cells over night. One Saturday night
a convict, with a twenty years' sentence, resolved that he would remain
in the mines, and try to effect his escape. He had supplied himself with
an extra lot of bread and meat, and hid himself in the darkness of the
mines
when the men were marched out in the evening at six o'clock. When the
count of the prisoners was made at the evening lock up, this man was
found missing. As he had not been seen since the prisoners were taken
from the mines, it was believed, correctly, that he had remained below.
There was nothing done about the matter that night, the officers knowing
there would be no opportunity of effecting his escape during the
night-time, as they had carefully closed the shafts at the top. They did
not set any watch until the next day. During that Saturday night this
convict climbed eight hundred feet to the top of one of the shafts. The
wooden beams running across the shaft are about five feet apart.
Standing erect on one of these beams he threw his arms over the one
above his head, and would swing up to it. In this manner he worked his
way to the top of the shaft. When he reached the surface how great was
his disappointment, for instead of finding the shaft open, as he
supposed it would be, he found that the cover was down and that he was
unable to get out of the shaft, and thus out of the coalfields into the
woods adjoining. When he discovered this there was nothing to do but
descend, This was a perilous undertaking.
The cross-beams were covered with oil which, dripping down from the
machinery above, made them very slippery. A number of times he came near
falling, and if he had done so, he would have reached the bottom a
mangled mass. It required nearly the entire night for the ascent and
descent. When he reached the bottom he took a lunch of bread and meat,
went to the base of the other shaft, which is about one hundred yards
distant, and began his ascent of it, with the hope he would find it
open. It was daylight when he reached the top. Two officers had been
stationed there to watch him. Arriving at the surface and just ready to
get out, they took charge of, and marched him into the presence of the
deputy warden. When the convict related the narrow escapes from death in
his efforts for liberty, the deputy warden was so affected he refused to
punish him.
Out in the world, with the blessings of liberty all around us, we
do not realize the priceless boon they are to us; but when we stand in
the presence of the perils that are undertaken in order to gain them
when deprived of their benefits, we begin to comprehend the real value
of these sacred immunities of citizenship.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE PRISONERS.
THINKING that it may be interesting to some of my readers, I will now
give, in brief form as possible, a history of some of the most noted
inmates of the penitentiary.
1. FEMALE CONVICTS.
He must be of a very unsympathizing nature who does not feel for his
brother, who, though sinful and deserving, is imprisoned, and excluded
from the society of friends. While we are sad when we behold our
fellowmen in chains and bondage, how much sadder do we become when,
passing through the prisons, we behold those of the same sex with our
sisters, wives and mothers. In this land, blessed with the most exalted
civilization, woman receives our highest regard, affection and
admiration. While she occupies her true sphere of sister, wife or
mother, she is the true man's ideal of love, purity and devotion. When,
overcome by temptation, she falls from her exalted sphere, not only do
men feel the keenest sorrow
and regret, but, if it is possible, the angels of God weep.
In the Kansas penitentiary, just outside the high stone wall, but
surrounded by a tight board fence some fifteen feet high, stands a stone
structure—the female prison. In this lonely place, the stone building,
shut out from society, there are thirteen female prisoners. During the
week these women spend their time in sewing, patching and washing. But
very few visitors are allowed to enter this department, so that the
occupants are permitted to see very few people. Their keepers are a
couple of Christian ladies, who endeavor to surround them with all the
sunshine possible. For these inmates the week consists of one continual
round of labor. It is wash, patch and sew from one year's end to the
other. The Sabbath is spent in reading and religious exercises. In the
afternoon the chaplain visits them and preaches a discourse. Several of
these women are here for murder. When a woman falls she generally
descends to the lowest plane.
A few days before I was discharged, there came to the prison a
little old grandmother, seventy years of age. She had lived with her
husband fifty-two years, was the mother of ten children, and had fifteen
grand-children. She and her aged husband owned a very beauful{sic} farm
and were in good circumstances, probably worth $50,000. Her husband died
very suddenly. She was accused of administering poison. After the
funeral, she went over into Missouri to make her home with one of her
married daughters. She had not been there but a short time when her
eldest son secured a requisition, and had his aged mother brought back
to Kansas and placed on trial for murder. She was convicted. The
sentence imposed, was one year in the penitentiary, and at the end of
which time she was to be hung by the neck until dead, which in Kansas is
equivalent to a life sentence. The old woman will do well if she lives
out one year in prison. She claims that her eldest son desires her
property, and that was the motive which induced him to drag her before
the tribunal of justice to swear her life away, During her long life of
three score and ten years, this was the only charge against her
character for anything whatever. She always bore a good name and was
highly esteemed in the neighborhood in which she lived.
Another important female prisoner is Mary J. Scales. She is
sixty-five years of age, and is called Aunt Mary in the prison. She is
also a murderess. She took the life of her husband, and was sentenced to
be hung April 16, 1871. Her sentence was commuted to a life
imprisonment. For eighteen years this old woman has been an inmate of
the Kansas penitentiary. While she is very popular inside the prison,
as all the officers and their families are very fond of Aunt Mary, it
seems that she has but few, if any, friends on the outside. Several old
men have been pardoned since this old woman was put into prison, and if
any more murderers are to be set at liberty, it is my opinion that it
will soon be Aunt Mary's turn to go out into the world to be free once
more.
2. MRS. HENRIETTA COOK.
This woman was twenty-five years of age when she came to the Kansas
penitentiary to serve out a life's sentence. She was charged with having
poisoned her husband. For fifteen years she remained in close
confinement, at the end of which time she received a pardon, it being
discovered that she was innocent. When Mrs. Cook entered the prison
she was young and beautiful, but when she took her departure she had the
appearance of an old, broken-down woman. Fifteen years of imprisonment
are sufficient to bring wrinkles to the face, and change the color of
the hair to gray. This prisoner made the mistake of her life in getting
married. She, a young woman, married an old man of seventy. She was
poor, he was rich. After they had been married a short time she awoke
one morning to find her aged husband a corpse at her side. During the
night he had breathed his last. The tongue of gossip soon had it
reported that the young and beautiful wife had poisoned her husband to
obtain his wealth, that she might spend the rest of her days with a
younger and handsomer man, After burial the body was exhumed and
examined. The stomach showed the presence of arsenic in sufficient
quantity to produce death. The home of the deceased was searched and a
package of the deadly poison found. She was tried, and sufficient
circumstantial evidence produced to secure her conviction, and she was
sent to prison for life. A short time before this sad event happened, a
young drug clerk took his departure from the town where the Cook family
resided,
where he had been employed in a drug store, and took up his abode in
California. After fifteen years of absence he returned. Learning of
the Cook murder, he went before the board of pardons and made affidavit
that the old gentleman was in the habit of using arsenic, and that while
a clerk in the drug store he had sold him the identical package found in
the house.
Other evidence was adduced supporting this testimony, and the
board of pardons decided that the husband had died from an overdose of
arsenic taken by himself and of his own accord. The wife was immediately
pardoned. How is she ever to obtain satisfaction for her fifteen years
of intense suffering. The great State of Kansas should pension this poor
woman, who now is scarcely able to work; and juries in the future should
not be so fast in sending people to the penitentiary on flimsy,
circumstantial evidence.
The other female prisoners are nearly all in for short terms, and
the crime laid to their charge is that of stealing.
3. INDIANS IN THE PENITENTIARY.
John Washington and Simmons Wolf are
two young Indians tried and convicted in the U. S. District Court on the
charge of rape. They were sentenced to be hung. After conviction these
Indians were taken to the penitentiary to await the day set for their
execution. In the meantime an application was made to the President to
change the sentence of death to that of life imprisonment. The change
was made. These two Indians were placed in the coal mines on their
arrival, where they are at the present time getting out their daily task
of coal. They both attend the school of the prison, and are learning
very rapidly. Prior to this, Washington served out a one-year sentence
in the Detroit house of correction for stealing. He is a bad Indian.
At present there are fourteen Indians incarcerated in the Kansas
penitentiary. The Indian pines for his liberty more than the white man
or negro. The burdens of imprisonment are therefore greater for him to
bear. One young Indian was sent to the penitentiary whose history is
indeed touching. Ten Indians had been arrested in the Territory by U. S.
marshals for horse-stealing. They were tried and convicted in the U. S.
District Court. Their sentence was one year in the State's
prison. On their arrival at the penitentiary they were sent to the mines
to dig coal. This was a different business from being supported by the
government and stealing horses as a diversion. The Indians soon wanted
to go home. One of them was unable to get out his task of coal. The
officer in charge thought he was trying to shirk his work and reported
him to the deputy warden. The young Indian was placed in the dungeon. He
remained there several days and nights. He begged piteously to get out
of that hole of torture. Finally the officers released him and sent him
back to the mines. While in the dungeon he contracted a severe cold. He
had not been in the mines more than a couple of days, after being
punished, when he gave suddenly out and was sent to the hospital, where
in a few days he died. That young Indian was murdered, either in that
dungeon or in the mines. A few weeks before, he came to the penitentiary
from roaming over the prairies, a picture of health. It did not take
long for the Kansas penitentiary to "box him up" for all time to come.
He now sleeps "in the valley," as the prison graveyard is called.
Another one of the same group did not
fare quite so badly as his associate. The one I am now describing was
sent with the rest of his companions to the bottom of the mines. He
remained there during the first day. A short time after he went down on
the following morning he became sick. He began to cry. The officer in
charge sent him to the surface. He was conducted to the cell-house
officer, Mr. Elliott. I was on duty that day in the cell house, and Mr.
Elliott, on the arrival of the Indian, ordered me to show him to the
hospital. After we had started on our journey from the cell house to
the hospital building to see the doctor, and had got out of hearing of
the officer, I said, "Injun, what's the matter with you?" This question
being asked, he began to "boo-hoo" worse than ever, and, rubbing his
breast and sides with his hands, said, between his sobs, "Me got pecce
ecce." I was not Indian enough to know what "pecce ecce" meant. In a few
moments we reached the hospital building, and I conducted my charge into
the nicely furnished room of the prison physician, and into the
immediate presence of that medical gentleman. Removing my cap, and
making a low bow, as required, I said, "Dr. Nealley, permit me
to introduce a representative of the Oklahoma district, who needs
medical attention."
While I was relieving myself of this little declamation the young
Indian was standing at my side sobbing as if he had recently buried his
mother.
"Reynolds, what is the matter with him?" asked the doctor.
I then turned to my charge and said, "Injun, tell the doctor what
ails you."
Mister Indian then began rubbing his sides and front, with tears
rolling down his face, and sobbing like a whipped school-boy, he
exclaimed, "Me got pecce ecce."
"There, doctor," said I, "you have it. This Indian has got that
dreadful disease known as `pecce ecce.' "
The physician, somewhat astonished, frankly informed me that he
never had heard of such a disease before. I was in a similar boat, for I
had never heard of such words prior to this. The sick Indian was unable
to talk the language of the white man. The doctor then sent down into
the mines for another of the Indians who could speak English and had
acted as an interpreter. On entering the office, the doctor said to
him, "Elihu," for that was his name, "this
Indian says he has an attack of pecce ecce. Now what does he mean by
that?"
During all this time the sick Indian kept rubbing his body and
sobbing. What was our great astonishment and amusement when the
interpreter informed us that "pecce ecce" meant nothing more nor less
than "belly-ache." The doctor administered the proper remedy for this
troublesome disease, and the Indian was sent back to the mines. He had
not dug coal more than an hour when he had another attack, and began his
crying, and was sent to the top. He kept this up until he wore out the
patience of the officers, and they finally decided to take him out of
the mines altogether and give him work at the surface. Even here, every
few minutes the Indian would have an attack of "pecce ecce," and would
start for the hospital. At last, the chaplain, taking pity on the poor
outcast, wrote to President Cleveland, and putting the case in a very
strong light, was successful in securing a pardon for the Indian. That
"cheeky" red youth was no fool. He belly-ached himself out of that
penitentiary. I trust I may never have to spend any more of my time in
prison. If I do, I think about the
first day I will get a dose of "pecce ecce," and keep it up, and see if
I can't get a pardon.
4. MALE PRISONERS.
Ed. Stanfield.—The history of this prisoner is as follows: He was
about nineteen years of age when he entered the prison, which was some
five years ago. His people reside in South Bend, Indiana. His father,
prior to his death, was a prominent judge. The family was wealthy,
influential and highly respected. It consisted of the parents and two
sons. Ed. proved to be the black lamb of the flock. At the early age of
nine years, being sent away to school, he bade all good-bye one day and
followed in the wake of a circus show which was holding forth in the
town where he was attending school, He was not heard of anymore for
several years. His parents spent vast sums of money attempting to
ascertain his whereabouts. They finally heard of him in the following
accidental manner: His father, Judge Stanfield, had been out in Nebraska
looking after some land he had recently purchased, and, on his return
home, sitting in the cars, purchased a newspaper of the newsboy as he
came around. Looking over the paper he caught the name
of his prodigal son. There, before him, was the account of his son who,
having knocked down a prosecuting attorney in broad daylight with a
coupling pin, with the intention of robbery, had been tried, convicted
and sentenced to the penitentiary for ten years, and was on that day
safely lodged behind the walls. The sad father, on reaching home,
dispatched his elder son to the Kansas prison to ascertain if it was his
younger son who was a convict. The young man came on and soon satisfied
himself of the identity of the long-lost brother. He returned home and
made the report to his parents. From that day Judge Stanfield was a
broken-hearted man. He soon grieved himself to death over the sad fate
of his boy, and the disgrace he had brought upon the family. In making
his will, however, he gave Ed. an equal share in the estate with his
brother. After the death of the father, the mother began to put forth
efforts to secure a pardon for her son. His crime was so heinous and so
uncalled for that it was necessary for some time to elapse before an
application was presented. At the earliest moment possible the wheel
began to turn. The prosecuting attorney of Bourbon County, who had been
knocked down with an iron coupling pin, was soon satisfied, for the
family had wealth. It is of course unknown how much money was passed to
him to make his heart tender and his eyes weep over the erring child
that had come so near getting away with his gold watch and chain. A
petition was soon in circulation for his release, signed by many
prominent citizens. An open pocketbook will easily secure a petition for
pardon, it makes but little difference as to the
gravamen of the
crime. The convict promised not to engage again in this pleasant pastime
for filthy lucre. The mother of the young man came on from the East and
remained until she had secured a pardon for her boy. The young man
stated in our hearing that it took one thousand big dollars to secure
his pardon. A great many who are acquainted with the facts in the case
are not slow in saying that if Stanfield had been a poor, friendless
boy, he never would have received a pardon, but would have had to serve
his time out. There are more than five hundred men in that prison whose
crimes are of a less serious nature, and who are far more deserving of
executive clemency than Stanfield. It is said that "rocks talk" in the
penitentiaries as well as on
the outside. The history of this criminal will show my boy readers the
future of many of those who, in early youth, ran away from home, and go
out into the world to mingle in bad company.
Cyrenius B. Hendricks.—This man was sent from Chatauqua County.
He was twenty-seven years of age when sentenced. His crime was murder
in the first degree. The particulars are as follows: He had been down to
the Indian Territory looking after his own and his father's cattle. He
was absent on this business some little time. On his return his wife
informed him that a neighbor had been talking about her in his absence,
and had given her a bad character, and that on account of it she had
become the talk of the entire neighborhood. The enraged husband compels
his wife to go with him, and they proceed to the neighbor's house.
Hendricks took his gun with him. When they reached the neighbor's gate
they halted and called the unsuspecting man out of his home. Hendricks
then asked him if the charges were true as to his talking about Mrs.
Hendricks. The neighbor neither affirmed nor denied the statement. At
this Hendricks leveled his gun and shot him dead on the spot. He
and his wife in a few hours after were arrested, and, as it was too late
to take them to the county seat that night, they were guarded in an old
log house in the neighborhood. Hendricks was fastened to the wall with a
log-chain. During the night some one, supposed to be the brother of the
murdered man, came to the window of the house in which they were
confined, and, placing the muzzle of a gun through the window, shot
Hendricks. The ball struck him near one of the eyes, rendering him blind
in that eye, but did not kill him. The next day the two prisoners were
taken to jail. They were tried, and both found guilty of murder in the
first degree. The husband was sentenced to be hanged, while the wife
received a life sentence. They were both taken to the penitentiary.
After they had been there a short time Hendricks lost the other eye,
from sympathy, as they call it. For a time the husband and wife remained
on good terms. They were allowed to visit each other once a month.
After a while she tired of him and would have nothing more to do with
him. She served four years, and received a pardon. Hendricks still
remains in prison, and is a pitiable and helpless wreck. He is totally
blind, and his
nervous system entirely shattered. He can scarcely lift food to his
mouth. He is so weak that it is with difficulty he walks about the
prison park. An aged prisoner waits on him constantly to care for his
wants, and to see that he does not commit suicide. Abandoned by his wife
and friends, left to his own sad fate, totally blind and physically
helpless, he is another testimonial to the truth that "the way of the
transgressor is hard," and it also illustrates how much trouble may
arise from using that little member called the tongue in an
indiscriminate manner. Since my discharge from the prison I have learned
of the death of Hendricks.
Ed. Miner.—One of the men whose history will be interesting to
the general reader is Ed. Miner. This man is forty-nine years of age.
He served in the Missouri penitentiary two years on the charge and
conviction of assault and battery with intent to kill. After the
expiration of his sentence, drifting down the current of crime, he next
embarked in stealing horses. He was arrested, tried and convicted. He
received a five years' sentence, served his time, and went out into the
world a free man. Again falling into bad company, he tries his
hand once more at the same old trade of riding fast horses, is again
caught, tried, convicted, and received another sentence of five years in
the prison, which he is now serving out. As a prisoner, Miner is one of
the very best. He never violates a prison regulation and was never known
to be punished. During the war he served his country faithfully for four
years as a member of the 12th Illinois Infantry. At the close of the
war, and just before the troops were discharged, one day on review, the
governor of the State of Illinois being present, Miner was asked by the
commanding officer to step from the ranks, and was introduced to the
governor as the bravest and most daring man in the command. The
governor gave him a hearty shake of the hand, and afterward sent him a
neat little golden medal as a token of his esteem. Miner now wears this
suspended on a small gold chain about his neck. He is very proud of it.
One of our prison officers, Mr. Elliott, was in the army with Miner, and
says there never was a braver man. It may be a surprise to the reader
that such a brave man, such a bold defender of his country's rights,
would now be filling a felon's cell. The answer to this is easily given.
It is all contained
in the one word—liquor. Miner loves strong drink, and when he is under
its influence appears to have no sense. He is then ready for the
commission of any offense, ready to participate in any kind of deviltry.
Were it not for this baneful appetite there is every reason to believe
he would be a highly respected citizen. I asked him one day what he
would do when he got out. His reply was, "I don't know; if I could not
get the smell of whisky I could be a man; it has downed me so many times
that I fear my life is now a wreck; the future looks dreary; awful
dreary." With this remark Ed. went away to attend to his duties. My
eyes followed the old soldier, and, reader, do you blame me when I say
to you that from within my heart there came forth the earnest desire
that God in some way would save that man, who, away from strong drink
and the influence of wicked companions, is a good-hearted, generous man.
Gordon Skinner.—A young man of twenty, possessed of an innocent,
boyish appearance, whom none would take for a murderer, was sent up from
Ellis County. His victim was Andrew Ericson, a respectable and worthy
citizen about thirty-seven years of age. Skinner
claims the shooting was purely accidental; that he was carelessly
handling a six-shooter when it went off, the ball striking Ericson. He
claims, also, that he and his victim were good friends, and that he
never had any intention of killing him. The other side of the story is
that there lived near Hayes City a beautiful girl, and that Skinner and
Ericson were rivals for her heart and hand. Ericson, being much older
than young Skinner, possessed of some property, and doubtless more
skillful in the art of winning hearts, was beginning to crowd his rival
to the wall. Young Skinner, not being able to endure the sight of his
fair one being thus ruthlessly torn away by an old bachelor of
thirty-seven, met him one day and the two engaged in a spirited
controversy, when Skinner drew his revolver and shot him. Ericson lived
several days afterward. Just before death, Ericson begged of his friends
not to have Skinner arrested, stating he was not to blame. Skinner,
moneyless, friendless, a comparative stranger in the neighborhood, his
people all residing in Phillips County, this State, and, with the
prejudices of the Ericson people against him, was tried, convicted and
sentenced to twenty years' imprisonment. If the Board of Pardons
ever takes the trouble to investigate this case, with a view of
tempering justice with mercy, they will find it worthy. Skinner is a
good prisoner, and has ingratiated himself in the good opinion of the
officers. But the weight of a twenty years' term is heavy, and is
visibly affecting his health. Death should not be left to accomplish
what the Board of Pardons should take pleasure in doing. This delicate
boy should be sent home to his parents.
5. FREAKS OF JUSTICE.
Robert W. Corey was sent from Wyandotte County with a sentence of
three years for stealing cattle. This is a remarkable case. Corey is a
blind man, and had been totally blind for thirteen months prior to his
arrival at the prison; he was a taxidermist, and some years ago had
taken a contract for furnishing stuffed birds for the museum of the
Agricultural College of Ames; Iowa. This business requires the use of
arsenic; carelessly handling it destroyed his eyesight. How a man, blind
as he is, and was, at the commission of the alleged offense, could drive
off and sell these cattle, is a mystery. The man who swore that he
committed the theft is now an inmate of the institution,
sent here for stealing since the arrival of blind Corey. This man now
says that he is not positive that Corey took the cattle. On the trial,
however, he swore it was Corey, and that he was positive of that fact!
About the the truth of the matter is, he was the villain that took the
cattle and swore it on the blind man. Corey has only a few months to
remain in prison at this writing. It is terrible to heap such a disgrace
upon as helpless a creature as Corey.
His case calls to mind another in the penitentiary. He is a
colored man who cannot write, by the name of Thomas Green, from Fort
Scott, serving out a five years' sentence for forging a check for
$1,368. He was tried, convicted, and sentenced. Taking an appeal to the
Supreme Court, the judgment of the lower court was set aside; but at his
second trial, he was found guilty again, and is now in prison serving
out his sentence. How can one commit the crime of forgery who cannot
write? Probably some "Smart Aleck" of a district judge can explain. I
admit that it is beyond my powers of comprehension. It may be law, but
there is not much common sense in it.
6. OH! RIGHTEOUS JUDGE!
Gus Arndt is the next. The history of this man will show the freaks
of whisky when enclosed in the hide of a raw Dutchman. Gus came to this
country a number of years ago, and went to work for his uncle in
Wabaunsee County. Not being able to speak English, his uncle took
advantage of him, no doubt, for he paid him only ten dollars a month for
his services as a farm hand during the summer season, and nothing but
his board during the winter. Gus remained here for some time, three or
four years, working at these wages. He had learned and could understand
and speak English a little. One day as he was pitching grain in the
field an Irishman came by who resided on a farm a few miles distant.
Needing a hand and noticing that Arndt handled himself in a satisfactory
manner, he offered him twenty dollars per month to go and work for him.
Arndt accepted his proposition, and agreed to report at the Irishman's
farm the following Monday, this being Thursday when the bargain was
made. That night the German settled up with his uncle, and received the
balance of his wages, some $75. He had been in America long enough
to reach that point in our civilization that, after working awhile, and
getting a balance ahead, he must take a rest and go on a "spree." He
started for the nearest town. For a couple of days he fared sumptuously,
constantly drinking. He at length reached a point below zero. Half
crazed, he staggers off to the fence across the way where the farmers
who had come to town to do their shopping on Saturday had hitched their
teams, and, untying a horse that was hitched to a buggy, Gus thought he
would take a ride. Lumbering into the buggy, as a drunken man can, he
drove down the main street of the town in broad daylight and out into
the country. In an hour or so the owner getting ready to return, misses
his horse and buggy. Making numerous inquiries about them and getting
nothing satisfactory, he places the matter in the hands of a sheriff,
who commences a search for the missing property. Not finding it in town
he sends men out on the roads leading to the country, himself taking
one. In a very short time he overtakes the noted horse-thief. Gus was
sitting in the buggy sound asleep; the lines were hanging down over the
dashboard, and the old horse was marching along at a snail's pace. He
was out some
two miles from town, and, no doubt, had traveled at this gait all the
way. He was faced about, and, assisted by the sheriff, drove back to
town. He was then placed under arrest and sent to jail, subsequently had
his trial, and for this little drive was sent to the penitentiary for
five years. Of a more unjust sentence I never heard. Gus served his time
out and a better behaved person was never behind the walls. When he
regained his liberty, instead of returning to Wabaunsee County, and to
his uncle's house, he finds his way to Marysville, Kansas. Here reside a
number of prosperous German farmers, and the ex-convict soon got work.
When he applied for work he forgot to tell his employer that he had just
finished up a contract for the State of Kansas. Some months had elapsed
and Gus had worked hard and industriously, had accumulated a neat little
sum of money, and began to feel happy once more. At this time a man
passed through the country that was acquainted with Arndt's antecedents,
and being a dirty dog he thought it was his duty to inform the farmer
that his hired man was an ex-convict, horse-thief and a desperado of the
worst type. Some men are so officious and are
so anxious to do their duty when it is in their power to injure a
fellow-man who is trying to earn an honest living. Gus immediately got
the "bounce." He was informed by his employer that he did not want to
make his home a harbor for horse-thieves. Gus took his wages and clothes
and started for Marysville. He could not bear the idea of being
discharged because of his former misfortune. He again applies to the
bottle for consolation. He goes on another spree. When crazed with
liquor he acted just as he did before; he goes to a hitching post, and
unties a team of horses attached to a buggy. One of the horses had had
its leg broken at some former time, and was almost worthless, while the
other one was very old. He seemed to select the very worst team he could
find. Maybe it was the buggy he was after! He was probably very tired
and wanted an easy place to rest. He unhitched them just as if they had
been his own. It was in the afternoon. The streets were full of people.
Gus crawled into the buggy in his half drunken manner and started off
down the road. When found by the sheriff some two hours after he had
gone, about half a mile from town, the old horses were standing
at one side of the road and the drunken Dutchman was lying in the buggy
sound asleep, with one bottle of whisky uncorked, the contents of which
had run out and over his clothes, and another bottle in his pocket
untouched. He had evidently gone out for a drive. He was taken to jail,
and the news soon spread that he was an ex-convict and horse-thief. He
was tried on a charge of stealing horses, and was returned to the
penitentiary for a term of two years. Here were seven years' service for
two drunks! Ancient Jacob, "how tuff!" After Gus had completed his
narration to me he wound up by saying, "Ven I shall oudt git this time,
I let von visky alones."
7. BOVINE TROUBLE.
Woodward R. Lopeman was sent up from Neosho County for murder in the
first degree. Under his sentence he was to be hanged at the close of
the first year. This part of the sentence is never carried out in
Kansas. The particulars of his crime are as follows: He was a well-to-do
farmer residing in Neosho County, and never had any difficulty to amount
to anything before this time. He was an old soldier
and served his country faithfully and bravely for four years. For some
trivial cause he and one of his neighbors had a little difficulty, but
it was thought nothing would ever come of it, as each of them had been
advised by their friends to bury their animosity before it should lead
to graver results. Lopeman seemed willing to do this, but his irate
neighbor would not meet him half way. One day a calf of Lopeman's, worth
but a few dollars, got through the fence and over into his neighbor's
pasture. Word was sent to the owner of the calf that if he would come
over and pay damages for the trouble of penning it up he could have his
property. This had a tendency to arouse a bad feeling in the heart of
Lopeman; so, placing his revolver in his pocket, and asking his grown up
son to accompany him, they went to the house of the neighbor and
directly to the lot where the calf was shut in and commenced to lay down
the bars to let it out, when the neighbor came from the house with his
son, and Lopeman was ordered to leave the bars alone. The neighbor, who
was a strong, muscular man, proceeded to chastise Lopeman; the two sons
also got ready for an encounter. Lopeman, being by far the smaller man
of the two, began to
retreat slowly as his enemy advanced brandishing a club. When almost
near enough Lopeman to strike him with the uplifted club, Lopeman, in
self-defense, as he claims, drew his revolver and shot him. He fell
lifeless to the ground. The son of the murdered man perceiving what was
done, ran quickly into the house, and getting a double-barreled shotgun,
came out and fired twice at Lopeman and his son. The shots did not take
effect. Lopeman fired two shots at him. At this the son retired into the
house, and Lopeman and son taking the almost worthless calf, which had
been the cause of so much trouble, went to their home. Lopeman then went
to the county seat and gave himself up to the authorities. As soon as
the news spread over the neighborhood, excitement ran high and there was
loud talk of lynching. The murdered man was very popular. His old
neighbors smelled blood, and it was with some difficulty that they were
prevented from taking the law into their own hands. Better judgment
prevailed, however, and after six months the trial came off and the
murderer was convicted and sentenced as aforesaid.
This man was my
cell mate. He is something over sixty years of age, of medium
height, and during
his younger days must have been very hard to handle. The first evening
we occupied the cell together he told me of all his troubles, and I
learned from his own lips that I was to room with a murderer. I felt I
would much rather be at home, than locked in that 4x7 cell with a man
whose hands were dyed with the blood of his neighbor. My alarm somewhat
subsided when the time came for retiring. The old man, as solemnly as
the Apostle Paul would have done, took down the Bible, read a few
verses, and then knelt down and prayed. I sat there in mute
astonishment at the proceedings of this gray haired criminal. How was it
possible for a man who was guilty of such a grave crime to be devout. He
often told me that he had no consciousness whatever of guilt, nor the
fear and dread of a murderer. I asked him if in his dreams he could not
often see the face of his victim. With a shrug of the shoulders he
admitted that he could. For six months this old man and myself occupied
that small cell together, so small that it was very difficult for us to
get by each other when the sleeping bunks were down. We never had the
least trouble during the entire time. A kinder hearted man I never met.
Whenever
he received any little delicacies from home he would always divide with
me, and in such a cheerful spirit that I soon came to think a good deal
of the old man. If we had both been on the outside world I would not
have desired a kinder neighbor. His son, later on, was convicted as an
accomplice, and sent up for two years. The old man has hopes of a pardon
in a few years. He has a wife and several children who are highly
respected and much beloved in the neighborhood where they reside. They
have the sympathy of all their neighbors in this affliction and
bereavement.
8. WHISKY AND WOMEN.
Doc. Crunk.—One of the many desperadoes now behind the prison walls
of the Kansas penitentiary is this noted Texas outlaw. He is a native
Texan, now nearly fifty years of age. After years of crime he was
finally caught in the Indian Territory while introducing whisky among
the Indians. He had his trial in the U. S. District Court, was convicted
and sent to the penitentiary for three years. For a time during the war
he was a confederate soldier. Becoming dissatisfied with the profession
of arms, he deserted
and entered upon the life of an outlaw. He gathered about him a few
kindred spirits with which Southern Texas was infested, and organized a
band of cattle and horse thieves,{.} This band of banditti became so
numerous that after a time it extended along the lower line of Texas
into the Indian Territory and up into Kansas. Their ravages were also
felt in Arkansas. They had a regular organized band, and stations where
they could dispose of their stolen property. The cattle that were
stolen were run to the frontiers and sold to cattlemen who were in
collusion with them, and which latter were getting immensely rich out of
the operations of these thieves. They would steal horses, run them off
and sell them to buyers who knew they were purchasing stolen property.
For years this gang flourished. Another mode of securing stock was the
following: A great many estrays would be taken up and advertised. In
every instance some member of the Crunk gang would claim the property
under oath and take it away. The leader of these outlaws stood trial for
nineteen different murders, and was acquitted each time. He could always
prove an alibi. His assistants would come in and swear
him clear every time. He was an intimate acquaintance and on friendly
terms with the James boys, and related many trips that he had made with
these noted and desperate men in their work of "seeking revenge," as he
styled it. He has no love for a colored man, and as he works now in the
prison with a number, pointing to them one day he said to me, "I wish I
had a five-dollar note for each one of them black skunks I have killed
since the wa'." He said he considered "a `niggah' that wouldn't vote the
way decent people wanted him to should not vote at all." Said he: "I
know of a number that will not vote any mo'. I saw them pass in their
last ballot." "The most money, made the easiest and quickest, was made
by our men," said he, "as moonshiners in Montague County. We carried on
this business successfully for a long time, but finally the U. S.
marshals became too much for us, and we had to close up shop. We had
several engagements with them; men were dropped on both sides, until
finally we concluded to quit the business and return to our old trade of
stealing cattle and horses. The way our moonshiner's nest was found out
was very romantic. A young woman came into the district, and tried to
get
up a school, seemingly, but failed. I guess she did not try very hard to
get scholars. At any rate she remained with a family in the neighborhood
for some time, whom she claimed were her relatives. One of my men fell
desperately in love with this young woman. He would be out riding with
her, and, as none of us suspected anything, he would at times bring her
over to our camp, and we taught her how to make whisky. She seemed
deeply interested in the business. I told the boys several times that I
was a little afraid of that `gal,' but they laughed at me, and so I
said, `I can stand it if the rest of you can.' She even went so far as
to become familiarly acquainted with all of us. We all got to thinking
that she was a nice young woman, and her lover simply thought he had
secured the finest prize in the world. But alas! At the proper time she
fixed our camp. She proved to be a female detective from New York city.
She gave away our fellows, and soon we were surrounded by a posse of U.
S. marshals and their deputies. Her lover was captured and is now in the
Texas penitentiary. Several of our boys were killed or wounded, and
those of us who escaped made up our minds to go back to the old cattle
trade." "What are you going to do, Doc.," said I, "when you get out of
this place?" "Going back to Texas; hunt up the boys, and see if we
can't find some more horses and cattle. One thing is certain I will
never go to another penitentiary. I will swallow a dose of cold lead
first."
And, with this, the famous outlaw went off to his room in the
mine to get out his task of coal to keep from being punished. Of the
nine hundred criminals in the prison, probably there is not one of them
who has seen so much of a life of crime as the famous Doc. Crunk.
9. EIGHT TIMES A CONVICT.
Thomas A. Currens.—One of the most unique characters to be found in
the striped ranks of the Kansas penitentiary is that of the man who is
herein described. This convict is fifty-two years of age, and a native
of Kentucky. His life, save a short time spent in the army, has been
one of crime. He was a courageous lad. Leaving his home at the early age
of ten years, thus deprived of all parental protection and restraints,
he formed bad associations, and soon his future career was in the
direction
of crime. The greater part of his boyhood was spent in city and county
jails and reform schools. At the age of twenty-two years he was
convicted on a charge of horse-stealing and sent to the Frankfort, Ky.,
penitentiary for six years. After serving four years he was pardoned by
the Legislature. He remained out of prison for the two following years.
We next find him in "limbo" in Indiana. He was arrested, and twenty
different charges were preferred against him. By pleading guilty to the
count of stealing a wagon, the court dismissed the other cases and gave
him a sentence of three years at hard labor. He was taken to the State's
prison. Shortly after his arrival he was put to work running an engine
during the night-time. After five months had passed away, Thomas,
reaching the conclusion that he did not enjoy watching over an engine
during the lonely hours of the night, determined to escape. Stealing an
old suit of clothes belonging to an officer, which he drew on over his
suit of stripes, he scaled the walls and was once more a free man. It
was a cold winter's night. After traveling some distance through the
woods his feet were almost frozen. Daylight was now approaching. He must
find a
place of hiding during the coming day. In a few hours he would be missed
at the penitentiary. The alarm being given, the usual reward being
offered, scores would be on the lookout for him. Approaching a farmyard,
he sat down and cut up his striped pantaloons and wrapped up his almost
frozen feet. He then crawled under a hay-stack. In this place he came
near being discovered, for in a couple of hours the farmer came out to
feed his cattle, and as chance would have it took the hay from the stack
under which the convict was secreted. As he was removing the hay,
several times prongs of the fork sank deep enough to penetrate the flesh
of the runaway. He endured this pitchfork probing heroically while it
lasted, and was thankful when the cattle had received sufficient
provender. Here he remained until nightfall. He did not renew his
journey until the farmer and his family had retired and were in the land
of dreams. Almost starved, uninvited he enters the kitchen and helps
himself to what he can find. His hunger being appeased, his old habit of
taking things that he should leave alone, forced him into the bed-room
of the sleeping farmer, and forced his hand into the pocket of the
aforesaid granger's pantaloons,
from which he took his pocketbook containing twenty dollars in money. He
was now prepared for traveling. Continuing his journey for several
miles, becoming very tired, he decided not to walk any longer as there
was so much good horse-flesh in the vicinity. Near the hour of midnight,
this weary tramp entered the farmyard of a wealthy old Indiana farmer,
and going into the barn led out one of his fleetest steeds. Once more
astride a good horse, Thomas felt like a free man. During the rest of
the night he made good headway, and by the morning sun was up the rider
and horse were many miles away from the place where first they met.
Entering a small village, the horse was fed and nicely groomed. At the
same time Thomas partook of a good breakfast, which he heartily enjoyed.
The fates seemed to favor the man of crime. It is an old saying: "The
devil looks after his own." A horse-buyer had arrived in the village a
few days before. When the noon train came whistling up to the station,
the convict having converted his horse into one hundred and twenty-five
dollars, purchased a new suit of clothes, a silk hat, and a pair of kid
gloves, and, representing himself to be a traveling salesman, getting
aboard, soon reaches Chicago, where, soon after his arrival, he joined a
band of crooks. He was never discovered by the Indiana prison
officials. Fifteen years after his escape, he got a "pal" to wire the
authorities of the Indiana penitentiary, and inquired of them what
reward they would pay for the return of Thomas A. Currens, a convict
who had effected his escape many years before. An answer came that if he
would remain out of the State, he would never be molested.
Wandering about several months after his escape, he arrives in
Sedalia, Missouri. Among other little articles he was accused of
stealing at this place was an eight hundred dollar barouche, the
property of Judge Ferguson, of that place. Again this noted thief was
arrested and confined in the county jail to await trial. He was not
anxious for trial, for he knew the "yawning pen" was waiting to receive
him. For eleven months he remained in this jail, having his trial
continued from term to term. When his case was called up for the first
time he feigned sickness. The next time one of the principal witnesses
was absent, and thus for eleven months his case was continued. Thomas
now yearned for freedom. How to get out of
that jail was the problem. Another term of court would soon convene. He
had no grounds for further continuance. Fortune favored him. At this
time a man was arrested and placed in the same cell with Currens. The
face of the new arrival was covered over with blotches. The next
morning Currens in a confidential manner stated to the sheriff that his
cell mate had the small-pox. Being interrogated the prisoner said he had
been exposed recently, and a physician being called, on examination it
was decided to remove him to the pest-house. Currens was sent along on
account of his exposure to the contagion. An officer was placed in
charge of the two jail-birds at the pest-house. During the night
following their arrival at this out-of-the-way place, the officer was
pounced upon by the two desperate criminals, bound hand and foot, and
with a large cork placed between his teeth, was gently laid on the
floor. His gold watch and chain, and all the loose change he had with
him were taken from his person, and the two small-pox patients walked
forth into the darkness and gloom of that night unattended by any
friendly official.
Thomas never believed in criminals traveling in groups, so he
bade his companion an affectionate
farewell. Wending his way to the southwestern portion of the State he
was arrested for additional crimes and misdemeanors. Knowing that the
officers had not sufficient evidence against him he bravely stood trial
and was acquitted. However, as he was going forth from his prison cell a
free man, much to his surprise, an official from Sedalia put in an
appearance and took him back to the scene of his small-pox escapade. At
his trial he was convicted and received a sentence of six and one-half
years. He now took a cell in the Jefferson City penitentiary. After four
years of imprisonment this notorious criminal makes an application for
pardon, setting up an alibi as the basis of the application, and
succeeded in influencing the Governor to believe the testimony, and was
set at liberty, promising that he would leave the State of Missouri,
never to return. The conscience of the said Thomas never troubled him
over failing to keep his word with the officers of the law. He did not
leave Missouri, as he agreed, but betook himself to the pleasant little
city of Carthage. Scarcely three moths had elapsed before he found
himself again in durance vile for stealing horses. He was tried,
convicted and returned
to Jefferson City penitentiary under a sentence of six years. He took an
appeal to the Supreme Court. The judgment of the lower court was
reversed. He was taken back to Carthage for another trial, and was
convicted the second time, and again received a sentence of six years at
hard labor in the penitentiary. As before, he appealed the case, and
the governor, thinking the State was getting the worst of the matter,
and that a large amount of costs were being made, pardoned the convict
under another promise that he would leave the State. Currens, now
following Greeley's advice, turns his eyes toward the setting sun. He
crosses the Big Muddy, and plants his feet upon the sacred soil of
Kansas. He makes a raid upon Lawrence, breaks into a house, and is
caught in the act of trying to carry off the household goods. A
courteous policeman takes charge of him—now deeply steeped in
crime—soon landing him behind the bars. In the presence of the court he
next makes a solemn statement that, prior to this, he had been a
Sunday-school teacher; that misfortune had overtaken him, and he was
forced to enter some friend's kitchen or starve. Those who listened to
his pathetic appeal inform me that the stern judge
was moved to tears, and that while he had contemplated giving the
wayward Thomas six years, he made it three. This was the first
introduction of our hero to the principal brown stone front of Lansing.
It was not long after his arrival at the Kansas penitentiary before he
gained the confidence of the authorities, and was made a "trusty." He
had an easy place given him.
His three years' sentence soon passed away. His term was reduced
three months because of his excellent conduct while in prison. Bearing
with him the good wishes of a majority of the prison officials, and
followed by the prayers of the pious chaplain, he goes forth to engage
in life's battle again. Thomas could not fully enjoy the sweets of
liberty unless on horseback. He makes his way to the capital of Kansas,
and engages at once in the dangerous business of stealing horses. He had
not continued this course long before he was arrested, tried, convicted
and returned to Lansing for five years more. Thomas had not been in the
Kansas penitentiary the second time but a few months, when he called
upon the chaplain, and with tears rolling down his face confessed he was
a great sinner, promised to lead a different life,
and urged the chaplain to pray for him. Delighted at the prospect of
snatching such a brand from the eternal burning, the man of God took
Thomas into a private room, and the two knelt down. The chaplain offered
a fervent prayer that the loving Father would take to His embrace the
returning, sinful prodigal. At the conclusion of this prayer the
chaplain called upon the "sin sick soul" to pray for himself. This was
an unexpected movement by the chaplain, and Thomas was hardly prepared
for the emergency. However, he prayed. He was converted on the spot. At
least, the chaplain thought so. Strange as it may appear to my readers,
instead of this noted convict having to remain and serve out his five
years' sentence, through the influence of this minister he secured a
pardon. At the expiration of eighteen months the shrewd convict was a
free man. That chaplain was "worked."
The fortunate Thomas next visits Atchison. A farmer came to the
city one day, driving a beautiful horse. The temptation was too great,
and the man who had been an inmate of a penitentiary seven different
times followed the unsuspecting farmer to his home, and that night rode
away the coveted prize. The Atchison
County Vigilance Committee traced and soon caught the guilty
horse-thief, landing him in Atchison County's beautiful jail. Shortly
after, Thomas had an interview with the county attorney, and it was
agreed by and between them, if the horse-thief would plead guilty, he
should be let off with one year in the penitentiary. To this the grave
offender agreed, and, presenting himself before the tribunal of justice,
Hon. W. D. Gilbert presiding, plead guilty. The county attorney being
absent, the court gave Thomas, instead of twelve months, a year and a
half at hard labor. I met him in the penitentiary a few days ago, and
learned that he is putting forth an effort to secure a pardon on the
ground that had he not been promised only a one year's sentence, he
would have stood trial and been acquitted. He claims that he should be
given his liberty when his one year is up.
Thomas was out of the penitentiary long enough to go into the
army and get a bullet through his ankle, and therefor draws a pension of
twenty-four dollars per month. He takes good care of his money, and has
enough on hand to enable him to get a good start in life when he obtains
his freedom. He is a well-behaved
prisoner. He is true to his pals in crime, never having been known to
turn State's evidence. He has a mania for taking things that do not
belong to him. He claims that he never would have been caught the last
time had not his housekeeper "given him away." The two had a domestic
quarrel, and in her efforts to get even, she told the authorities of his
theft. After his trial and conviction, womanlike, she repented in
sackcloth and ashes, but Thomas would have no more to do with her.
Later, she went over into Missouri, where she has since died. One of the
first things Thomas will do on regaining his liberty will be to secure
another housekeeper, and probably the the next thing will be to steal
some farmer's horse.
This convict is now serving out his eighth term in the
penitentiary. It is fearful to contemplate these human wrecks. A wasted
life, golden opportunities unimproved, a dark and dismal future will
constitute the death knell of such fallen beings. Young man, remember
the life of this convict, and shun such a course.
10. SKILLED LABOR.
William Hurst.—Some of the narratives in
this book read like the story of Aladin's Lamp, and we have no doubt
some of them so reading are absolutely true, while for the Lamp story
nothing is claimed. For many ages men, and particularly those engaged in
the literary field of thought, have discanted on the baseness of the
passion of jealousy. There is no sense in being jealous. You are either
loved or you are not, and hence the absolute foolishness of indulging
the passion.
William Hurst, whose history we now relate, is a man of rough
personal appearance, Irish descent, and his age is now about fifty-five.
Coming to Kansas at an early day, he settled in Doniphan County, and
there courted and subsequently married one of Doniphan County's pretty
girls. Time went along as usual, and in a few years there were several
little cherubs that blessed the household of Hurst. But, as sometimes
happens, the husband began to drink, love grew colder, the necessities
of the family hourly grew greater, poverty in all its hideousness came
to curse the home once so happy. The poor, distracted wife and mother
did all she could, by taking in washing and ironing, to prevent the
starvation of her little ones. The husband through his bleared eyes
imagined he
could see that other men were too friendly to his wife. He charged her
with unfaithfulness to the marriage vows. She denied the charge. Only
incensed by this he would beat and mistreat her out of all reason. For
protection she had him arrested, intending to bind him over to keep the
peace, but on the advice of officers, who are so full of it, she
withdrew the charge and he was set at liberty. For a few days he was
quiet, but soon the red liquor poured down his throat, and like a
mountain devil stirred all the dark passions of his lost and ruined
nature. He attempted to debauch his own daughter, and was only
prevented by the physical force of the ever-watchful mother. The father
(great God! is such a human being entitled to the endearing term?)
turned upon her, and again, as had often happened, abused, kicked and
mistreated her in a most shameful manner. She had him arrested a second
time with the intention of binding him over to keep the peace. He
pretended, while in charge of the officer, that he must see his wife,
and together they started toward the hovel where they lived. They met
the wife and mother at the outskirts of the little village, had some
words, and before the officer could prevent it, Hurst sprang upon
the woman and cut her throat from ear to ear jumped away, and made good
his escape to the woods, the officer, meanwhile, deeming it more
important to aid the woman, not knowing, for a moment, that the cutting
was fatal. That fact was very soon apparent. Others were called who took
charge of the body, and the officer struck out in hot pursuit of the
murderer. He was followed to the woods a few miles from White Cloud, in
Doniphan County, there overtaken and conducted to the county seat,
tried, convicted of murder in the first degree, sentenced to be hung,
sent to the penitentiary to await the final execution, which, in our
State, never comes. He remained in there about twenty months when he
became insane, and was sent to the asylum; was there about three and a
half years, when he was pronounced cured and returned to the
penitentiary. He is now insane a second time. You have all in your
younger-days read the story of the maniac that paced his cell, repeating
"once one is two," and now comes the queerest part of this narrative.
Hurst seems anxious to talk to every one that calls, and especially
anxious to shake hands; but if you say anything to him, or ask any
question, his only answer is "skilled
labor," and keeps on repeating these words as he walks up and down his
place of confinement.
Who knows but the infinite God has destroyed reason to prevent
the power of darkness over this poor, unfortunate being. Or who knows
but the demands of justice are met in the terrible conscience blows
which have staggered and shattered that which originally was in the
image of God.
11. LIFE INSURANCE AND MURDER.
McNutt and Winner.—These are two of the most noted criminals in the
penitentiary, rendered so because of the dastardly crime committed by
them, and the high social relations of the latter. They came from
Wichita, and have been in prison almost fifteen years. McNutt is a fine
artist and painter. He had his paint shop in Wichita, and was doing a
very successful business. Winner was his associate, and the two plotted
and carried into execution the following horrible crime: McNutt got his
life insured for $5,000, his wife being his beneficiary. It was a dark,
stormy night when McNutt and Winner enticed into this paint shop an
unsuspecting mutual friend. Here they
murdered him in cold blood. They then set fire to the paint shop and
took to flight. After the fire was put out, the charred remains of the
murdered man were found, and supposed to be those of McNutt, the owner
of the building. The wife, cognizant of the awful deed which her
husband had committed, followed the remains of the murdered man to the
grave, dressed in her garb of mourning.
Shortly after this she applied for the insurance money on her
husband's life. Some doubts were raised as to the identity of the body.
Detectives were employed to make an investigation of the case. They made
use of a deception, and thus got the woman to confess. They told her
that they had found an accomplice who had confessed the crime, and was
in jail. They promised the wife that if she would tell the truth they
would not prosecute her. She consented. She narrated the sickening
events as they had been plotted in her presence and under her roof.
Officers were now despatched to find the murderers. McNutt was found in
Missouri plowing corn. Winner was found near Wichita. They were brought
to trial, convicted, and sent to prison for life. Winner was unmarried
at the time of
his conviction. His father and only brother are very wealthy, and living
in Kansas City. I have been told they offer $20,000 for Winner's
pardon. McNutt is a very useful man in the prison. He has charge of the
painting department. He has done some fine work on the walls of the
prison chapel, covering them with paintings of the Grecian goddesses.
Both of these prisoners hope to receive pardons. Whether they will
regain their liberty is a question which the future alone can
answer.
12. THE HOG-THIEF.
In the coal mines, as before stated, the convicts are permitted to
converse with each other. I improved this opportunity of acquiring the
histories of the five hundred criminals with whom I daily worked, eight
hundred feet below the surface. I would talk with a fellow prisoner, and
get the details of his crime as we sat together in the darkness.
Understanding "short-hand," I would go to my cell in the evening and jot
down what I had learned during the day. I had no fears of any one
reading my notes, as I was the only short-hand writer about the
institution. Day after day I kept this up,
until I had material sufficient of this nature to fill a book of more
than two thousand pages. My readers should also know, that a convict
will tell a fellow-prisoner the details of his crime, when he would not
think of saying a word about it to others. As a rule they deny their
crimes to those who are not, like themselves, criminals, pleading
innocence. It is not difficult for a prisoner to get the confidence of a
fellow-prisoner. In fact, criminals love to unburden their minds to
those who possess their confidence. The truth is, convicts have related
their crimes so often to me that it became tiresome. They say it
relieves them to communicate their troubles. Pinkerton, of Chicago, the
prince of detectives stated at one time that a criminal could not keep
his secret. It is true. I know it to be a fact. It has been
demonstrated a hundred times in my association with these convicts in
the Kansas penitentiary. Securing their confidence, these men have not
only told me of the crimes for which they have been sent to prison, but
also of crimes that they have committed, and, in the commission of
which, they had not been detected, which, if I should make them known,
would cause a number of them to remain in the penitentiary the rest of
their lives. I am not in the detective business, and will therefore keep
what was confided to me. I have met but few criminals in the mines that
would not admit their guilt. I have thought in many cases, convicts
received sentences too severe, and not at all commensurate with the
crime committed. I have met a few men, however, who would stubbornly
deny their guilt and stoutly affirm their innocence. I have worked upon
these men day after day, and never got anything out of them but that
they were innocent. At times, in tears, they would talk of their
sufferings, and wonder if there was a just God silently permitting the
innocent to suffer for the guilty. I am satisfied these men are
innocent, and they have my sympathy. They are exceptions. Others, while
admitting their guilt on general principles, and assenting to the
justice of imprisonment, yet maintain that they were innocent of the
particular crime for which they stand convicted. I trust the reader will
not get his sympathies wrought too high, as comparatively few angels
find their way into modern prisons. I will give you a few illustrations.
These are just samples of scores of histories in my possession.
A hog-thief worked in the mines with me for a few days. His dose
was five years at hard labor. He had stolen an old sandy female swine
with six pigs. I asked him if he was really guilty of carrying on the
pork business. "Yes," said he, with a low chuckle, "I have stolen pigs
all my life, and my daddy and mammy before me were in the same business.
I got caught. They never did." He then related the details of many
thefts. He made a considerable amount of money in his wicked traffic,
which he had squandered, and was now penniless. Money secured in a
criminal manner never does the possessor any good. I asked him if he had
enough of the hog business, and if it was his intention to quit it, and
when he got out of the pen to earn an honest living. "No," he replied,
"as long as there is a hog to steal and I am a free man, I propose to
steal him." Imprisonment failed to reform this convict. Although a
hog-thief he was an excellent singer and a prominent member of the
prison choir.
There are many murderers in the mines. In fact, nearly all the
life men are there. Some of them speak of their crimes with a bravado
simply astonishing, showing their utter depravity.
Others, admitting their guilt, say but little of details. The following
will give the reader some idea of the stories that greeted my ears
almost daily, and led me to conclude that the coal mines of the
penitentiary are not inhabited exclusively by Sunday-school scholars.
This cruel and heartless wretch had murdered an old man and his wife.
The old people lived on a farm adjoining the one where this criminal,
who was then a hired man, worked, It was the talk of the neighborhood
that they had money. This human fiend undertook to secure their "loose
change," as he called it. He procured a shotgun and an axe, and, in the
dead hour of night, went to the house of the old people. He forced open
the kitchen door and went in. He had also brought with him a lantern.
He quietly stole to the bedside of the innocent and aged sleepers. He
had no use for his lantern as the moonlight shone through the window
opposite and fell upon the faces of the unconscious victims. Setting his
gun down by the side of the bed, so that he could have it handy for use,
if necessary, he took the axe and struck each of his victims a blow upon
the head. He said, with a demoniac chuckle, that
it was more difficult to kill a woman than a man, as it required two
blows from the axe to kill the woman, while one was sufficient for the
man. He then ransacked the house, and, between some blankets underneath
the straw-bed upon which the old folks were sleeping, he found a small
bag, which contained some gold, silver and paper money, amounting to
over one thousand dollars. In a cold-blooded manner he further stated
(and as I pen his words my blood nearly freezes in my veins), in order
to search the bed upon which his victims were lying, it became necessary
for him to remove the bodies; so he lifted them up one at a time, and
placed them upon the floor, face downward, for the reason, as he said,
that their eyes bulged out and seemed to stare at him.
After securing the money he fled and returned to the farm where
he worked. He slept in the barn, as is very often the case with farm
laborers during the summer season. Entering the barn he procured an old
bucket, places his money in it, covers the top with a piece of board,
and buries it in the earth east of the barn. He also buried the axe near
the bucket. He said there were clots of blood and
hair on the axe, and he thought best to put it out of sight. He then
returned to the barn, and, strange to say, soon fell asleep and slept
sweetly until morning. He went to work the next day as usual, and his
mind was taken up more by thinking of what a good time he would have
after a little, spending that money, than in worrying over the terrible
crime he had committed. He reasoned that the money would do the old
people no good, but that he could use it to advantage.
The discovery of the murder was made the next day about noon. The
alarm was given. The whole country was aroused and excited over the
commission of such a horrible crime two innocent, helpless and
highly-respected old people murdered for their money. A couple of tramps
had passed through the neighborhood the day before, and, of course,
everybody thought it must have been the tramps that committed the
murder. The object now was to find them. They were overtaken the next
day and brought back to the scene of the murder. They both stoutly
denied any knowledge of the crime. They were separated, and each was
told that the other had confessed. This was done that a confession
might be forced
from them. They continued in their affirmation of innocence. They were
then taken to the woods near by and each hung up until life was almost
extinct, but they still denied the commission of the crime. They were at
length taken to the county seat, not far distant, and, on a preliminary
examination, were bound over to appear at the next term of the District
Court, and put in the county jail. The majority of the people believed
that the perpetrators of this crime had been arrested and were now in
durance vile; the excitement soon passed away, and very little was said
about it.
"It was at this time," said my informant, that I made the mistake
of my life. I had worked hard on the farm for several months, and
thought I would take a lay off. I felt it was due me. I now made up my
mind to have a time. I went to town and soon fell in with a harlot. I
got to drinking. I am very fond of strong drink; it has been my ruin. I
became intoxicated, and during this time I must have betrayed my secret
to this wicked woman. A large reward had been offered for the murderer
of these old people. This woman who kept me company having thus obtained
my secret, went to the city marshal and made an arrangement
that for half of the reward offered she would show him the man who had
committed the crime. This was agreed to. While I was drinking and having
a good time with my `fast woman' three men were on the road to the farm
where I had been working. They found and dug up the old bucket
containing what money I had left in it, and the axe. All this I learned
at the trial. I was arrested and bound over to the District Court on a
charge of murder in the first degree. The officers had to keep me
secreted for some time, as there was strong talk of lynching. In due
time I had my trial and got a life sentence."
I asked him if he had any hope of pardon.
"Oh yes," said he, "in the course of eight or ten years I will be
able to get out once more."
"What became of the tramps that came so near being compelled to
suffer the penalty of your crime?"
" They were released as soon as I was arrested, a snug little sum
of money was raised for them, a new suit of clothes purchased, and they
went on their way rejoicing, thinking themselves creatures of luck."
As we sat together in a secluded place in the
mines, with the faint light of my miner's lamp falling on his hideous
face, the cool, deliberate manner in which he related his atrocious
doings, the fiendish spirit he displayed, led me to regard him as one
among the most debased and hardened criminals I had met in the mines—a
human being utterly devoid of moral nature —a very devil in the form of
man!
13. A NOTED COUNTERFEITER.
One of my companions in the mines, and with whom I worked a couple of
weeks, lying almost side by side with him as we dug coal in the same
room, was a noted counterfeiter. He had plied his trade for many years
successfully. Whisky finally sent him to the penitentiary. If
professional criminals would only let strong drink alone not half so
many of them would get caught. They get drunk, and in this condition
expose themselves. We don't mean to use this as an argument against the
prohibitory law! It is, perhaps, proper for them to drink. This
counterfeiter makes his dies out of plaster paris. They are very simple
and easy of construction. He explained to me the manner in which they
were made. I would give his method of making these dies
were it not for the fact that some smart boy getting hold of this book
and learning the method would undertake the business, and as a result
his good old mother would be going to the penitentiary to visit him.
When this counterfeiter would run short of funds he would purchase the
necessary material, go into the woods on a dark night, and in a very
short time would have plenty of bogus money. He taught the trade to his
brother and to some bosom friends, and it was not long until they had a
regular organized gang. Getting drunk one day one of them displayed too
many shining new pieces of money. He was "spotted." A detective was put
on his track. He was traced to the headquarters of the gang, and in a
few hours thereafter the entire posse were locked up in jail on a charge
of counterfeiting and passing "bogus money." They now formed plans for
their escape from jail. They adopted the plan of seizing the jailor, as
he brought in supper, thrusting him into a cell, locking him in, and
then making good their escape. They made the attempt. The jailor was
locked in the cell according to the programme, but so much noise was
made in the struggle that the sheriff put in an appearance with a loaded
revolver.
The prisoners made a dash for liberty. A brother of my informant was
killed; another of the gang was wounded and dragged back into his cell
in the jail; the others got away. It was in the winter time. The
succeeding night was extremely cold. Wandering about all night in the
snow, their feet were frozen, and they were easily recaptured the next
day. They had their trial, and all were sent to the penitentiary. They
got eight years apiece, three for counterfeiting and five for breaking
jail. In this manner was broken up one of the worst counterfeit gangs of
the West. Whisky has trapped many a criminal. There are but very few
that do not "indulge." In fact, I cannot now recall a single
professional criminal but would take a drop if he could get it. They
must have whisky to nerve them for their iniquitous business. When the
crime is committed they drink again to soothe their wounded
consciences."
14. YELLOW BACK LITERATURE.
A boy was brought into the hospital one day while I was there, whose
history is worth relating, as it shows the fatal effects of bad
literature upon the human mind, and to what sad
results it may lead. This youth had become suddenly ill in the mines,
and had to be assisted from his place of work to the ward for the sick.
He was very ill for several days, but began to grow convalescent. An
opportunity presenting itself, I got into conversation with him, and he
told me the history of his crime. He was an orphan. At the death of both
his parents in the East he had come to Kansas to make his home with an
uncle. This relative was very kind, and after a time adopted the boy. He
had a pleasant home, and his prospects for the future were bright. How
often is it the case that the sky of the future becomes overcast. This
young criminal was a constant reader of the Life of Jesse James, and
kindred literature, until he made up his mind to go on the "war path"
and become Jesse James No. 2. With this in view, he provided himself
with two large revolvers. One night, after all the household had
retired, he crept stealthily into the bed-room of one of the hired men
and stole seventy dollars. He goes to the barn and takes one of his
uncle's horses and starts for the Indian Territory. The uncle was
awakened an hour later on account of some unusual sound at the barn, and
going thither discovered that
one of his best horses was gone, and also that his nephew was away. He
got together several of his neighbors and started in pursuit, and the
next day, about noon, the youthful thief was overtaken and surrounded.
The uncle rode up to him and began to question him as to his strange
conduct, when the boy drew one of his revolvers, and, pointing at his
uncle, shot him dead. He was going to play Jesse James to the last. When
he saw his uncle fall dead from his horse, now realizing what he had
done, the bravado spirit forsook him, and he began to quake with fear.
The neighbors closed in upon him and soon took his firearms from him. In
due time he had his trial and was sent to the penitentiary for life.
Bad books are our worst companions. I have narrated the history
of this young murderer, and now urge my boy readers to let yellow back
literature alone. It wrecked the future of this youth, and what it did
for one it may do for another.
15. A YOUTHFUL MURDERER.
Willie Sells.—In the prison, this convict is called the "baby
convict." When he came to
the penitentiary in 1886, he was but sixteen years of age, and in
appearance much younger. One of the most sickening murders committed in
Kansas is charged to the account of this boy. His home is in Neosho
County. His father, a prosperous farmer, lived happily with his wife and
three children. Willie was the oldest of the children. Early one morning
he rushed from his home and made his way to the nearest neighbor, about
half a mile distant, and with his face and hands covered with blood
conveyed the startling intelligence that the entire family had been
murdered, and he only had escaped. Soon an excited crowd of neighbors
gathered at the home of the murdered victims, and the sight that was
presented has but few parallels in the fatal and fearful results of
crime. The victims had been murdered while asleep. In one room lay the
father and mother of the youthful murderer, on their bed of death. Their
heads had been split open with an axe that lay nearby, and the blood of
one mingled with that of the other. In an adjoining bed-room, covered
with their own life's blood, were found the little brother and sister.
They had been foully murdered with the same instrument that had caused
the death of the parents. Who
was the monster that had committed this terrible and atrocious act? A
search of the premises disclosed the fact that robbery was not the
motive. No property was missing. The survivor was questioned again and
again. He said that a burly-looking tramp had effected an entrance into
the house through a window during the night; that he being awake at the
moment, and becoming alarmed, hid himself, and, unperceived, beheld his
father and mother, his brother and sister, thus foully murdered. A
thorough and extensive search was made, but no clue could be obtained
that would warrant the arrest of any one.
Finally, the surviving child was taken into custody. It was
claimed that his statements of the circumstances connected with the
crime varied, and in several instances were contradictory. The evidence
introduced at his trial was purely circumstantial. After much
deliberation and hesitancy, the jury decided on a verdict of guilty of
murder in the first degree, and this child criminal was sentenced to
imprisonment for life.
He conducts himself well in the prison. On account of his extreme
youth he is given a great deal of liberty. It is with great reluctance
that he talks about his crime, and longs for freedom.
Is this boy guilty? This question has never been satisfactorily
answered in the affirmative. I am informed there was a grave doubt in
the mind of the judge who tried the case and imposed the sentence as to
the guilt of this alleged youthful offender. A chill of horror creeps
over us as we think of the members of this family weltering in each
other's blood. Should he be innocent, it would be awful for this boy to
remain in the Kansas Hell for a lifetime.
16. A MOST REMARKABLE CASE.
William Baldwin furnishes the history of one of the most remarkable
cases in the criminal annals of Kansas. He was charged with the
atrocious crime of murdering his own sister. William and his sister
were the only children of a widowed but wealthy mother. It is claimed
that the son had received his portion of the estate prior to this sad
occurrence, and that by taking the life of his sister he would become
the sole heir of the Baldwin estate, which was supposed to be very
large. Mary, the beautiful and accomplished sister was discovered dead
one morning lying upon her bed in her chamber
with a chloroform bottle at her side. A panel of the outside door of the
house was found removed. Immediately upon the discovery of the murder
it was supposed that the house had been burglarized, and that the thief
had committed the murder. Upon an examination of the premises by the
proper officials it was found that nothing had been taken from the
house. In looking for a motive that would prompt a person to commit such
a fiendish act, and it being known that William Baldwin, the brother,
would be the sole heir in case of the death of his sister, he was at
once suspected of having committed the crime. His arrest was prompt and
immediate. He was bound over on preliminary examination, and in due
course of time had his trial and was convicted. He was sentenced to the
penitentiary for one year, at the expiration of which he was to be hung
until dead. His case was taken on appeal to the Supreme Court of the
State. Baldwin, in the meantime, was removed to the penitentiary. Here
he was placed in the tailor shop, where he has remained since. He is a
very obedient prisoner, and is highly esteemed by the prison officials.
The judgment in his case upon hearing in the Supreme Court of the
State was affirmed. From the Supreme Court of Kansas his case was taken
by appeal to the Supreme Court of the United States; in this highest
tribunal, the judgments of the lower courts were affirmed, and the fate
of William Baldwin is forever sealed so far as the judiciary of the
country is concerned. If he is permitted again to inhale the air of
freedom, it must be through the clemency of the pardoning board and of
the governor of Kansas. During one hundred and ten years of American
jurisprudence, there had been only two similar cases taken to the
Supreme Court of the United States. But a few days before my release I
was talking with Billy Baldwin in the penitentiary, and he seemed to be
very hopeful that after a time he would secure his pardon.
His wife is one of the most highly respected ladies of Atchison;
is true, faithful and devoted to her husband. She has enlisted the
sympathies of the entire community in her behalf, because of her youth
and great bereavement. His aged mother, who has been called upon to
wade through deep waters of affliction because of the great calamity
that has befallen her son and daughter, will also exert great influence
in getting signers to a petition for his pardon.
The question has often been asked me, because of my intimate
relation with Baldwin in the penitentiary, whether I believed that he is
guilty. I can answer as to my own belief. I have watched him carefully
as I have the other fifty-five lifetime convicts, and I am free to say
that I do not believe that William Baldwin ever committed the crime of
killing his sister for the malicious desire of obtaining filthy lucre,
or the estate of his sister. He does not conduct himself as scores of
other criminals who have confessed their guilt. In conversation with
him, while I was "in stripes," he has time and again told me, with tears
rolling down his cheeks, that he was innocent of the terrible crime of
which he stands accused, and that there was no brother had greater love
for his sister than he, and that he had such faith in an overruling
Providence that eventually he would be exonerated from the crime; and
that the real perpetrator would be made known. If he is innocent and it
should ever be clearly proven, his will be one of the saddest and most
mysterious events ever recorded. There is beyond doubt an unsolved
mystery hanging over this remarkable case.
9. CHAPTER IX.
FORTY-EIGHT HOURS IN HELL.
ONE of the most interesting cases of resuscitation that ever came to
my knowledge was that of George Lennox, a notorious horse-thief of
Jefferson County. He was serving his second term. Sedgwick County sent
him to the prison, the first time for a similar offense—stealing
horses.
During the winter of 1887 and 1888, he worked in the coal mines.
The place where he was laboring seemed dangerous to him. He reported the
fact to the officer in charge, who made an examination, and deciding
that the room was safe, ordered Lennox back to his work. The convict,
obeying, had not continued his work more than an hour, when the roof
fell in and completely buried him. He remained in this condition fully
two hours. Missed at dinner-time, a search was instituted for the absent
convict, and he was found under this heap of rubbish. Life seemed
extinct. He was taken to the top, and on examination by the prison
physician was pronounced dead. His
remains were carried to the hospital, where he was washed and dressed
preparatory for interment. His coffin was made and brought into the
hospital. The chaplain had arrived to perform the last sad rites prior
to burial. A couple of prisoners were ordered by the hospital steward to
lift the corpse from the boards and carry it across the room and place
it in the coffin. They obeyed, one at the head and the other at the
feet, and were about half way across the room when the one who was at
the head accidentally stumbled over a cuspidor, lost his balance, and
dropped the corpse. The head of the dead man struck the floor, and to
the utter surprise and astonishment of all present, a deep groan was
heard. Soon the eyes opened, and other appearances of life were
manifested. The physician was immediately sent for, and by the time he
arrived, some thirty minutes, the dead man had called for a cup of
water, and was in the act of drinking when the physician arrived. The
coffin was at once removed, and later on was used to bury another
convict in. His burial robes were also taken from him, and the prison
garb substituted. On an examination he was found to have one of his legs
broken in
two places, and was otherwise bruised. He remained in the hospital some
six months, and again went to work. I learned of his peculiar experience
while apparently dead, soon after, from a fellow miner. Prompted by
curiousity, I longed for an acquaintance with Lennox to get his
experience from his own lips. This opportunity was not offered for
several months. At last it came. After being removed from the mines I
was detailed to one of the prison offices to make out some annual
reports. The subject of this man's return to life was being discussed
one day, when he happened to pass by the office door and was pointed out
to me. It was not long until I had a note in his hand, and asked him to
come where I was at work. He did so, and here I got well acquainted
with him, and from his own lips received his wonderful story. He is a
young man, probably not over thirty years of age. He is not a hardened
criminal; is possessed of a very good education, and naturally very
bright.
The most wonderful part of his history was that during the time
he was dead. Being a short-hand reporter I took his story from his
dictation. Said he: "I had a presentiment all the morning that something
terrible was going
to happen. I was so uneasy on account of my feelings that I went to my
mining boss, Mr. Grason, and told him how I felt, and asked him if he
would not come and examine my `coal room,' the place where I was digging
coal. He came, and seemed to make a thorough examination, and ordered me
back to work, saying, there was no danger, and that he thought I was
going `cranky.' I returned to my work, and had been digging away for
something like an hour, when, all of a sudden, it grew very dark. Then
it seemed as if a great iron door swung open, and I passed through it.
The thought then came to my mind that I was dead and in another world. I
could see no one, nor hear sound of any kind. From some cause unknown to
myself, I started to move away from the doorway, and had traveled some
distance when I came to the banks of a broad river. It was not dark,
neither was it light. There was about as much light as on a bright
star-lit night. I had not remained on the bank of this river very long
until I could hear the sound of oars in the water, and soon a person in
a boat rowed up to where I was standing. I was speechless. He looked at
me for a moment, and then said that he had come for me, and told me to
get
into the boat and row across to the other side. I obeyed. Not a word
was spoken. I longed to ask him who he was, and where I was. My tongue
seemed to cling to the roof of my mouth. I could not say a word.
Finally, we reached the opposite shore. I got out of the boat, and the
boatman vanished out of sight. Thus left alone, I knew not what to do.
Looking out before me, I saw two roads which led through a dark valley.
One of these was abroad road, and seemed to be well traveled. The other
was a narrow path that led off in another direction. I instinctively
followed the well beaten road. I had not gone far when it seemed to grow
darker. Ever and anon, however, a light would flash up from the
distance, and in this manner I was lighted on my journey. Presently I
was met by a being that it is utterly impossible for me to describe. I
can only give you a faint idea of his dreadful appearance. He resembled
a man somewhat, but much larger than any human being I ever saw. He must
have been at least ten feet high. He had great wings on his back. He was
black as the coal I had been digging, and in a perfectly nude condition.
He had a large spear in his hand, the handle of which must have been
fully fifteen
feet in length. His eyes shone like balls of fire. His teeth, white as
pearl, seemed fully an inch long. His nose, if you could call it a nose,
was very large, broad and flat. His hair was very coarse, heavy and
long. It hung down on his massive shoulders. His voice sounded more like
the growls of a lion in a menagerie than anything I can recall. It was
during one of these flashes of light that I first saw him. I trembled
like an aspen leaf at the sight. He had his spear raised as if to send
it flying through me. I suddenly stopped. With that terrible voice I
seem to hear yet, he bade me follow him; that he had been sent to guide
me on my journey. I followed. What else could I do? After he had gone
some distance a huge mountain appeared to rise up before us. The part
facing us seemed perpendicular, just as if a mountain had been cut in
two and one part had been taken away. On this perpendicular wall I could
distinctly see these words, `This is Hell.' My guide approached this
perpendicular wall, and with his spear-handle gave three loud raps. A
large massive door swung back and we passed in. I was then conducted on
through what appeared to be a passage through this mountain. For some
time we traveled in
Egyptian darkness. I could hear the heavy footfalls of my guide, and
thus could follow him. All along the way I could hear deep groans, as of
some one dying. Further on, these groans increased, and I could
distinctly hear the cry for water, water, water. Coming now to another
gateway, and, passing through, I could hear, it seemed, a million voices
in the distance, and the cry was for water, water. Presently another
large door opened at the knock of my guide, and I found that we had
passed through the mountain, and now a broad plain layout before me. At
this place my guide left me to direct other lost spirits to the same
destination. I remained in this open plain for a time, when a being
somewhat similar to the first one came to me; but, instead of a spear,
he had a huge sword. He came to tell me of my future doom. He spoke with
a voice that struck terror to my soul. `Thou art in hell,' said he; `for
thee all hope is fled. As thou passed through the mountain on thy
journey hither, thou didst hear the groans and shrieks of the lost as
they called for water to cool their parched tongues. Along that passage
there is a door that opens into the lake of fire. This is soon to be thy
doom. Before thou art conducted
to this place of torment never more to emerge—for there is no hope for
those who enter there—thou shalt be permitted to remain in this open
plain, where it is granted to all the lost to behold what they might
have enjoyed, instead of what they must suffer.' With this I was left
alone. Whether the result of the terrible fright through which I had
passed I know not, but now I became stupified. A dull languor took fall
possession of my frame. My strength departed from me. My limbs longer
refused to support my body. Overcome, I now sank down a helpless mass.
Drowsiness now took control of me. Half awake, half asleep, I seemed to
dream. Far above me and in the distance I saw the beautiful city of
which we read in the Bible. How wonderfully beautiful were its walls of
jasper. Stretching out and away in the distance I saw vast plains
covered with beautiful flowers. I, too, beheld the river of life and the
sea of glass. Vast multitudes of angels would pass in and out through
the gates of the city, singing, oh, such beautiful songs. Among the
number I saw my dear old mother, who died a few years ago of a broken
heart because of my wickedness. She looked toward me, and seemed to
beckon me to her
but I could not move. There appeared to be a great weight upon me that
held me down. Now a gentle breeze wafted the fragrance of those lovely
flowers to me, and I could now, more plainly than ever, hear the sweet
melody of angel voices, and I said, oh, that I could be one of them. As
I was drinking from this cup of bliss it was suddenly dashed from my
lips. I was aroused from my slumbers. I was brought back from happy
dreamland by an inmate of my dark abode, who said to me that it was now
time to enter upon my future career. He bade me follow him. Retracing my
steps I again entered the dark passage way, and followed my guide for a
time, when we came to a door that opened in the side of the passage,
and, going along this, we finally found ourselves passing through
another door, and lo! I beheld the lake of fire. Just before me I could
see, as far as the eye could reach, that literal lake of fire and
brimstone. Huge billows of fire would roll over each other, and great
waves of fiery flame would dash against each other and leap high in the
air like the waves of the sea during a violent storm. On the crest of
these waves I could see human beings rise, but soon to be carried down
again to the lowest depth of this
awful lake of fire. When borne on the crest, of these awful billows for
a time their curses against a just God would be appalling, and their
pitiful cries for water would be heartrending. This vast region of fire
echoed and re-echoed with the wails of these lost spirits. Presently I
turned my eyes to the door through which I had a few moments before
entered, and I read these awful words: `This is thy doom; Eternity never
ends.' Shortly I began to feel the earth give way beneath my feet, and I
soon found myself sinking down into the lake of fire. An
indiscribable{sic} thirst for water now seized upon me. And calling for
water, my eyes opened in the prison hospital.
"I have never told this experience of mine before, for fear the
prison officials would get hold of it, think me insane, and lock me up
in the crank-house. I passed through all this, and I am as well
satisfied as I am that I live, that there is a Heaven and there is a
Hell, and a regular old-fashioned Hell, the kind the Bible tells about.
But there is one thing certain, I am never going to that place any more.
As soon as I opened my eyes in the hospital, and I found that I was
alive and on earth once more, I immediately gave my heart to God, and I
am
going to live and die a Christian. While the terrible sights of Hell can
never be banished from my memory, neither can the beautiful things of
Heaven I saw. I am going to meet my dear old mother after awhile. To be
permitted to sit down on the banks of that beautiful river, to wander
with those angels across the plains, through the vales and over the
hills carpeted with fragrant flowers, the beauty of which far surpasses
anything that mortal can imagine; to listen to the songs of the saved—
all this will more than compensate me for living the life of a Christian
here on earth, even if I have to forego many sensual pleasures in which
I indulged before coming to this prison. I have abandoned my companions
in crime, and am going to associate with good people when I am once more
a free man."
After he got through with this wonderful story I asked him if he
was going to tell others of his experience when he got out. His reply
was that people would not believe him, and he would keep it to himself.
Should this little book fall into his hands, and he should read of his
experience while in Hell for forty-eight hours, it will no doubt
surprise him.
We give the account to the reader just as we received it from Lennox. We
do not pretend to solve the mystery.
10. CHAPTER X.
STOLEN HORSES.
JUSTICE should be meted out to many who, though guilty, are shrewd
enough to evade it. From one of the most notorious horse-thieves in the
Kansas penitentiary I learned of the manner in which stolen horses were
disposed of.
This convict's name is John Watkins. He served a term of three
years in the Missouri penitentiary, and is now serving out a ten years'
sentence in the Kansas State's prison. He is the chief convict steward
in the hospital, and an able assistant of the prison physician, by whom
his services are highly appreciated. This prisoner has immediate care
of all the sick. His heart is tender as that of a woman. To listen to
this man, as he sat with tearful eye at the bedside of the dying
prisoner, and spoke words of cheer to him, one would scarcely believe
him to be the most daring and one of the shrewdest horse-thieves that
ever visited our State. In conversation with him one night as I lay on
my sick bed in the hospital,
he gave me an outline of his life's history that reads much like a
romance.
I said to him, "John, tell me how many horses you have stolen
during the time you have been engaged in that line of business?"
His reply was, that if he had stolen one more he would have been
successful in having stolen an even two hundred.
"What did you do with them after you had stolen them?"
He told me his headquarters were in Kansas City; that he would go
up in the neighborhood of Omaha and Lincoln and get his horses, and tie
them in the woods until he had picked up a number of them, and then he
would make his way to the south. Horses stolen in Nebraska he would run
south to sell. Those stolen in Missouri and Kansas he would take to the
north. He told me that in Omaha, St. Joseph, Atchison, Leavenworth and
Kansas City there were dealers, usually keepers of livery stables, who
would purchase these stolen horses. He gave me the names of a number of
these men, some of whom I know personally. Little would I ever have
suspected that these men were engaged in such a wicked traffic as
knowingly to deal in
stolen property. "When I had a number of horses," he continued, "and
wished to dispose of them in St. Joseph, for instance, I would ride into
the suburbs of the city and send a note to the man who usually purchased
my stock. I would never be seen about his barn. After night he would
make his way to where I was and purchase my horses, paying me about
one-half what they would really bring in the general market. I would get
about fifty dollars for an average horse. After purchasing my stolen
horses he would not take them to his livery barn, but to a private
stable, usually at his residence. When he would pay over the money for
this stolen property he would make out a bill of sale for each one, and
would step into a store or grocery, and in the presence of some business
man he would say to me, we will sign the bill of sale for that horse I
bought of you, and have this gentleman to witness the transaction. I
gave you fifty dollars at the barn, and now here is fifty dollars more,
which makes the hundred, the sum I was to pay for the animal." I would
take the money, sign the bill of sale, which would be witnessed by the
business man in whose presence the trade was consummated. We would then
go to another place of
business and sign a bill of sale for another horse, and have that
witnessed by another business man, and would continue this until all the
horses I had sold were paid for. In this manner he would shift all
responsibility of crime upon me. Securing my money I would rest for a
time until `I went broke,' and then I would make another trip. The horse
merchant would sometimes keep his horses until he had picked up a car
load, and then he would ship them out of the country to Chicago, St.
Louis or some other horse market. Sometimes the horse buyer would run
stolen property out into the country and exchange it for other property
in which he would have a good title and which he could take to his
livery barn and feel safe with it there."
"What did you do with your money, John?" I inquired.
To this question he answered that in Kansas City he had a suite
of rooms fitted up in elegant style, and kept a mistress. Upon this
woman he squandered all his money, obtained honestly and dishonestly. In
addition to his horse-thieving raids he had several other sources of
criminal revenue. One of these sources he described as follows: "I kept
a horse and wagon, the wheels of which were covered with india
rubber. The feet of the horse were also encased in the same material. I
could move about the streets of the city in the late hours of the night
without making any disturbance, and would pick up anything I could lay
my hands on that I could convert into money. I have carried away many a
stove and broken it up and sold it for old iron. I would also make my
way out into the country and pillage. Often I would enter small towns
and load up my noiseless wagon with stolen goods, which I would take out
of the stores. All of this money I would foolishly spend on the woman I
loved."
"How did you happen to get caught?"
"One day on the streets of Kansas City I accidentally met an
ex-convict whom I knew while in Jefferson City penitentiary. He was
penniless and somewhat shabby. He suspected me of crooked work, and
wanted to go with me on a `horse raid.' At first I refused to take him
with me, as it has always been my rule to go alone when in the crooked
business. He persisted and urged me to let him go along. At last I
yielded to his appeals, and we started from Kansas City. I have never
been back since. My `pal' was caught on this trip and offered to turn
State's evidence if he could regain his liberty.
He was allowed to do this. I was tried and got a ten years' sentence. He
went free."
"What became of the woman?" I asked.
"When in jail at Leavenworth and in need of money to pay my
lawyer, I wrote her a letter informing her of my trouble, and begged her
to send me some money. She forgot to answer that letter, and I have
never seen or heard from her since that time."
"I suppose when your time is up you will hunt her up and fit up
another suite of rooms, won't you?"
"Never," said he. When I get out I am going to lead an honest
life and take care of my money. It does not pay to get money by
crookedness. Such money never does one any good."
Having imparted this information he bade me good night and went
over to another part of the ward, where he took his place beside the cot
of a dying convict.
11. CHAPTER XI.
CANDIDATE FOR THE STATE SENATE.
THE author of this book has been guilty of a great many bad breaks
during the course of his earthly pilgrimage up to the present date.
Making the race for State senator from the Atchison district while an
inmate of the Kansas penitentiary, actually an occupant of a felon's
cell, and robed in the livery of disgrace, probably eclipsed anything
that maybe charged to my account in the past.
One Sunday afternoon, after the usual exercises of the day were
over, I was sitting in my little 4x7 of stone. The outside world was in
convulsions over the presidential campaign. There were no convulsions,
however, where I was. It was painfully quiet. Everywhere, all over the
broad land, except behind prison walls, politics was the all-absorbing
topic. As I sat there in my solitude the question came to my mind as to
what part of the great political play I would be engaged in were I a
free man. Some months prior to this a petition signed by 5,000 people
had been forwarded
to President Cleveland for my pardon. Had I secured my liberty it was
my intention to make the race for State senator in my district for
vindication. Mr. Cleveland interfered with my plan by refusing my
pardon.
Thinking over the matter in my cell that Sunday afternoon, I
determined that while the President had the power of keeping me in
prison he should not keep me from making the race for the position I
coveted. Immediate action followed my decision. Within thirty minutes I
had written a letter for publication, stating my intention of becoming
an independent candidate. But how was I to get this letter out of the
prison and into the newspapers of my district.
It is expected of the convict that during Sunday afternoon he
will sit quietly in his cell and meditate about his past misdeeds. I
would be dishonest if I did not state that my thoughts were now more
taken up with the probable outcome of the course I had adopted than of
lamenting over my past shortcomings. I reasoned that I was not only
pursuing an original, but a safe course. Original, in that no one, so
far as my knowledge extended, had ever made the race for office while a
convict; safe, in that
I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. I will frankly confess
that when the thought, suppose I should not get more than a dozen votes,
would rush into my mind, I would feel as if I had better not be so fresh
while in limbo. Several times during the afternoon and evening I took
up the piece of paper, on which was written my announcement, to tear it
into shreds, and as often I would lay it down. I viewed the subject from
almost every conceivable standpoint. I reasoned as follows: Prior to
this I had decided to write a book on my penitentiary career, as well as
to deliver a lecture at various points in the State on the same subject.
To be successful in these enterprises I must be advertised. And I knew
that should I annonnce{sic} myself as a candidate for such an important
office while in the penitentiary I would get a good ventilation. In this
I was not mistaken. When the announcement appeared in the Leavenworth
Times it was quickly copied and commented upon by the newspapers
all over the country. Some of these newspapers in their comments stated
that I had more "cheek" than should be allotted to ordinary mortals.
Some said "he is a nervy cuss." Others said his back isn't broken. "Now
and then one
could be found that predicted my election. So the matter was discussed,
pro and con, for several weeks, not only by the newspapers of Kansas,
but whole columns would appear in the St. Louis, Chicago and Denver
papers, as well as those of other cities. I was advertised. It would
have cost me thousands of dollars to pay for the ventilation I received
just for making that little simple announcement, had I been forced to
pay the regular rates of advertising.
But to return. It was at a late hour of the night when I closed
my eyes in slumber. Before doing so I had made the final decision; I had
crossed the Rubicon; I had looked the ground over, and had my plans well
matured. The next morning, after the day's work had commenced, and the
warden had come down to his office, I asked permission of my officer to
see Captain Smith. The officer wanted to know what my business was with
the warden. My reply was, "Official and strictly private." My request
was granted. I was soon standing in the presence of the big-hearted
Warden Smith, and being asked as to what I wanted, I said, "Captain, I
thought I would come in and get your opinion as to whether I was crazy
or not, and if you think I am not beside myself I would like to make a
statement to you and ask your advice." A few days before this I had had
several interviews with him as to my pardon, and other business matters,
and I suppose he thought he was going to get something more along the
same line. "Go ahead, John," he said, "and let me know what it is." I
then told him of my intentions and plans. He made no reply until I had
gone over the whole subject. Then he said. "You are certainly on the
safe side, for you can lose nothing. I always thought," continued he,
"that it was practical to engage in any enterprise where all was gain
and nothing to lose. And, furthermore, knowing your standing at home, it
would not surprise me very much if you would receive more votes than
your competitors."
This was encouraging. I then asked permission to write letters to
a number of my friends, and also to receive letters from them. He
informed me he could not do this, as it would be a violation of the
rules of the prison, but if any of my friends should come down I could
send out anything by them I wished. I then wired a personal friend, A.
S. Hall, Esq., of Atchison, who called at the prison, to whom
I gave my letter of announcement, and several letters I had written to
political friends.
The news spread rapidly, and in a few days I was squarely before
the people as an independent candidate. Shortly after this announcement
I wrote an article for the papers, stating my reasons for making the
senatorial race. When writing this communication I forgot I was a
prisoner, and said some things that reflected seriously upon some of the
warden's personal friends. Here, I made a mistake. The warden, on
reading this article, became enraged, and took away my writing material.
At this juncture the senatorial outlook was rather discouraging. My
friends championed my cause. Being an independent candidate, and my name
not printed on any ticket, I received no accidental votes. An elector
voting for me had to erase the name of my competitor and insert mine.
There were four candidates in the field. While I was not elected, I was
far from coming in last in the race. I received twice as many votes as
one of my competitors. He is one of the best men in the senatorial
district, one of the old settlers, and a gentleman highly esteemed. To
receive twice as many votes as this man was highly complimentary to me,
I
certainly felt flattered. When the vote was made known I received an
official copy of the returns, and forwarded it to President Cleveland.
My term was then almost ended, and I felt confident that because of the
splendid vote I had received, and consequent endorsement of the people
who were personally acquainted with me, Mr. Cleveland would certainly
grant a pardon. He did not so much as answer my communication.
No one can imagine the anxiety I felt during that campaign. Had I
received but a small vote it would have required more nerve than I
possess to have induced me to return to my old home. But when the vote
was counted, and I received the returns, I must write it down as one of
the happiest hours of my life. I had many true friends, and they
demonstrated that fact by voting for me. Although in the garb of a
felon, was not the vote I received a grand vindication? Any person of
sense must answer in the affirmative.
Looking over the past, I can now see that I made no mistake in
carrying into effect the scheme to which my mind gave birth on that
Sunday afternoon as I sat in my little-cell.
I will Close this chapter by tendering my friends who voted and
worked for me at the time when I so much stood in need of their aid, my
heartfelt gratitude.
12. CHAPTER XII.
A DARK HOUR.
IT was a bright Sabbath morning. I had been detailed to assist the
prison choir in their preparation for the religious services of the day.
While engaged in this duty, the deputy warden sent for me. Meeting this
official, he said to me, "John, I have sad news for you. Governor
Martin has just telephoned from Atchison that your wife is dead, and
that it was his wish to have you sent home at once." This was a great
surprise to me. I had heard from my wife only two days before this. At
that time she was quite sick, but was thought to be improving. With a
heart filled with sadness I now prepared for my journey home. The warden
was absent, and the deputy warden said, "There was no precedent for
permitting a prisoner to go home on a visit, as such a thing had never
occurred before in the history of the State, but," continued he, "if you
will give me your word that you will return to the prison I will let you
go." I told him to set the time for my return and I would be back. Mr.
Morgan,
the turnkey of the prison, was my guard. My journey from the prison was
the saddest of my life. It was a bright May morning. Everything around
seemed joyful and happy, but to me the world was gloomy. I imagined my
wife lying at home a corpse, surrounded by my weeping, motherless little
ones. She had passed away without my being at her bedside to go with her
to the brink of the dark river. Mr. Morgan, my attendant, had lost his
mother but a short time before this, and he could sympathize with me in
a manner that aided me in bearing my burdens.
After riding for a couple of hours we arrived at Atchison. The
train on reaching the city passes on some two blocks beyond the depot;
then backs down. As I thus passed by the depot I saw numerous friends
who had heard of my coming, and were there waiting to welcome me to my
home. They saluted me as I sat in the car at the window and passed on by
the depot. I thought they exhibited too much joy in receiving a friend
who was coming back to see his dead wife. I wondered at it. When the
train stopped to back down to the depot, I got off and took the nearest
cut to my residence. Walking some four blocks I reached
my home. When nearing the gate, one of my little daughters came bounding
across the street, full of joy and gladness, welcoming me home. I
thought she acted rather strange for her mother to be lying in the house
a corpse. Without saying anything I stepped to the door; it was
standing ajar. Looking in, I saw my wife lying in the adjoining
room—not dead! Thank God! It seemed as if I had stepped into another
world. My wife was very sick, but still conscious. Oh! what joy I felt
at once more being able to see my wife and to talk with her. All the way
from the prison to the door of my residence I was laboring under a false
impression. I drank the cup to its very dregs. I could have suffered no
more on that journey home if she had been dead. In fact I supposed she
was. Governor Martin had made a mistake in transmitting the message, or
had been wrongly informed.
I do not know how it came that I was permitted to return home. I
was a United States' prisoner. As such, Governor Martin had no control
over me. No one had authority to send me home on such a furlough except
President Cleveland. But I care nothing about this. I did not stop to
inquire about the
authority; when the prison doors came open I left for home. I was
furnished a citizen's suit of clothes. I remained at home for nearly a
week. Many friends came to see me. This to me was one of the best weeks
of my life.
A little occurrence took place, during this short stay at home,
which I will mention here. I have a legal friend at Atchison by the
name of Hon. D. C. Arnold. This man, when tested, proves himself true to
those who have gained his good will. He conceived the idea that sending
me out of the penitentiary, in citizen's clothing, was without
warrant in law or precedent in fact, and that, by releasing me in
that way, they had lost control of me. Unknown to me he had prepared an
application in habeas corpus. The judge of the District Court,
Hon. W. D. Gilbert, who was on the bench at the time, was a personal
friend of his and mine also, as I had something to do in his election,
and had the application been presented to him, the judge would have
inclined to turn me loose, and I would have been a free man. When Mr.
Arnold informed me as to what he was doing, I told him that I had given
my word of honor that I would return to the prison, and that I would
keep it.
At the expiration of a week I returned to my prison cell. A
petition, signed by nearly five thousand people, had been forwarded to
President Cleveland for my pardon. I had some hopes of securing relief.
I bade my wife good-by. I thought sure I would be sent home in a few
days. My wife hopefully entertained the same opinion. We were both
deceived. When I reached the prison, the deputy warden, Mr. Higgins,
when he was informed by the officer, Mr. Morgan, who attended me home,
how I refused my chances of liberty by means of the proceedings in
habeas corpus, contemplated by my friends, choosing imprisonment
rather than breaking my word, called me into his office, and said that
there was not one man in ten placed in my circumstances that would have
done as I did. He then said to me: "Reynolds, I will see that you have
no more hard work to do while you are in the penitentiary; I would give
you your liberty if I could, but that is beyond my power. I will make it
as agreeable for you as possible in the prison." He got another man to
take my place in the mines, and I was given an easy task from that on. I
was detailed to make out reports for the prison officials, and was kept
busy, and was, as I was
informed, a very valuable man in that capacity. This kind of work was
in keeping with my labors when on the outside, and was not hard on me
like digging coal. I was given the liberty of the prison; was allowed to
converse with the prisoners, and because of these favors shown me, I was
able to secure the material for this book.
The month following my return to the prison was the darkest, the
most desolate, and the most sorrowful portion of my earthly pilgrimage
yet experienced. My wife was at home dying! I was behind the prison
walls! During that month I was entirely unfit for any kind of work. The
prison officials, knowing my sorrows, took pity on me and did not insist
upon my performing any kind of labor. I was left alone with my grief.
None but God and the angels knew what I suffered. During the day I could
think of nothing but my dying wife; in the night-time, when the angel
Sleep closes the eyelids down to rest, none came to me; in my dreams the
pale face of my dear one at home in the agonies of death was before me.
I would but drop sometimes into a dull slumber when I fancied that I
could hear her calling for me, and thus aroused, it seemed to me that I
must burst
the prison bars and go to her. Knowing how much deeper and stronger,
purer and sweeter the affections and sympathies of woman are than those
of man, what must my poor, dead wife have borne! For thirty days and
nights I endured these torments. At last the hour came when her
sufferings ceased. Reader, doubtless you have lost a loved one. If so,
you were permitted to go down to the very brink of the River of Death;
you were permitted to sit at the bedside and administer words of comfort
and cheer. Not so with me. My loved one passed away, her husband kept
from her side by prison bolts and bars. And, reader, when you buried
your loved one, kind friends condoled with you, and in some degree
assuaged your grief. Not so with me. When the news came that my wife was
dead I sat down in my solitary cell and shed my tears alone. The cup
that was placed to my lips was indeed a bitter one, and I drank to the
dregs. My wife was one of earth's purest and best. We lived together as
husband and wife the fifth of a century. During those twenty years of
married life my wife never uttered a cross word to her husband. What
greater eulogy could be pronounced! In the sunshine, and as certainly
amid the storms of life, she was constant and true. Because of her
goodness of heart my home was cloudless. Many times during life have the
storms and waves swept against my trembling barque, but in that little
harbor called home no storms ever came. Oh, how much a man loses when a
good wife dies! So great was my distress that, had it not been for the
strength imparted by a pitying God, I never could have passed through
that long night of suffering. Gone, never to return.
When my prison days were over, I returned to my old home in
Atchison, but how changed it was. My wife in her grave; my motherless
children among strangers; my home desolate. As I pen these lines,
surrounded by the fogs and mists of time, the question comes to me ever
and anon, when the hour shall come for me to close my eyes to the scenes
of earth, will I be permitted to greet my sainted wife in the beautiful
city above? Yes. I have the faith that the loving Galilean—the man of
sorrows, who was acquainted with grief—will in that hour open the gates
of pearl, and let me in. Until that happy hour—until we meet in the
land where none of life's storms ever reach, my darling wife,
farewell!
13. CHAPTER XIII.
FREEDOM.
To all things earthly there comes an end. Sixteen long, dreary
months of imprisonment finally passed away. The dark clouds of sadness
and gloom that for so long hung above me now parted, and folding
themselves together rolled away in the distance. The large iron doors
swung upon their hinges, and once more I breathed the air of freedom.
Drowsy Nature was just being aroused from her wintry slumber by the
gentle touch of Spring, as I began life anew. On that, to me, eventful
morning the sky appeared brighter than I had ever beheld it before. O
liberty! No one can ever appreciate thy blessings save him upon whose
limbs have pressed the cruel fetters of slavery. The sunlight of
freedom falls with its greatest refulgence upon him who has been
surrounded for months and years by the baleful mists and darkness of
abject bondage. The air of liberty comes doubly surcharged with the
fragrance of the rarest flowers to him who has inhaled the feted breath
of serfdom. Grateful to God that
my life had been spared; retaining all the ambition of former years;
possessed of my manhood; conscious of no guilt, I felt that, under the
guiding hand of Providence, there was for me a bright future. With a
determination to succeed, that can never be satisfied short of success,
I returned to my home. I concluded that instead of going to some distant
place, among strangers, it was best for me to return to the locality
where all knew of my misfortunes and the true causes that led to them.
On my arrival at the depot I was met by a multitude of friends. By the
reception that was given me no one, ignorant of the facts, would have
for a moment imagined that I had but a few hours before vacated the cell
of a criminal. I pen these lines three months from the day when I began
life anew, and during that time I have met with no one so base as to
"snub" a man, who, having met with misfortune, is honestly endeavoring
to regain what he lost.
Is there any hope for the ex-convict? Is it possible for him to
be clothed in the garments of respectability who once has been attired
in the habiliments of disgrace? Can he ever be a man among men who has
for a time been numbered
with the debased of earth? To these questions, with all the powers of my
being, I answer, YES! I do not know how the outlook may appear to others
who have met a similar misfortune; but as for myself I can truthfully
say I was never more hopeful in my life. There may be storms in the
future, obstacles to meet and overcome, but self reliant, and trusting
in Him who observes the struggles even of the worm, I hope to soon reach
my proper place among men, and in the end reap the golden harvest of
success. The world is full of kind-hearted people who are ready to help
those who, though unfortunate, are willing to help themselves. Scores of
men annually go out from the "Kansas Hell," having paid the penalties of
their crimes, who are not so highly favored as myself, and whose
struggles will have to be greater than mine if they ever secure a
foothold of respectability in life. In behalf of these in their efforts
to become better men I appeal to the great, loving heart of the true
Kansan.
Help the fallen in his struggles to rise again.
Since my return home, several times have I visited the grave of
my wife, and often on these occasions would the hot blood go surging
through my veins, and my baser nature would demand that I avenge the
death of her who was so heartlessly sent to an untimely grave. A better
judgment has prevailed, and as I drop the tear of affection upon the
grave of her who is the mother of my children, I leave the wrongs of the
past in the hands of an avenging God. May there fall upon those who were
so kind to my sorrowing family and myself while we were passing through
the deep waters, the radiant smiles of Him who says, "Inasmuch as ye
have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto
me."
