“There is a stool in with me, fellows! He’s Ignatius Irvine!
Watch out what you say!”
The outburst of imprecations that went up would have shaken the fortitude of a braver man than Ignatius Irvine.
He was pitiful in his terror, while all about him, roaring like beasts, the pain-racked lifers told him what awful things they would do to him in the years that were to come.
Had there been secrets, the presence of a stool in the dungeons would have kept the men quiet, As it was, having all sworn to tell the truth, they talked openly before Ignatius Irvine.
The one great puzzle was the dynamite, of which they were as much in the dark as was I.
They appealed to me. If I knew anything about the dynamite they begged me to confess it and save them all from further misery.
And I could tell them only the truth, that I knew of no dynamite.
One thing the stool told me, before the guards removed him, showed how serious was this matter of the dynamite.
Of course, I passed the word along, which was that not a wheel had turned in the prison all day.
The thousands of convict-workers had remained locked in their cells, and the outlook was that not one of the various prison-factories would be operated again until after the discovery of some dynamite that somebody had hidden somewhere in the prison.
And ever the examination went on.
Ever, one at a time, convicts were dragged away and dragged or carried back again. They reported that Warden Atherton and Captain Jamie, exhausted by their efforts, relieved each other every two hours.
While one slept, the other examined.
And they slept in their clothes in the very room in which strong man after strong man was being broken.
And hour by hour, in the dark dungeons, our madness of torment grew.
Oh, trust me as one who knows, hanging is an easy thing compared with the way live men may be hurt in all the life of them and still live.
I, too, suffered equally with them from pain and thirst; but added to my suffering was the fact that I remained conscious to the sufferings of the others.
I had been an incorrigible for two years, and my nerves and brain were hardened to suffering.
It is a frightful thing to see a strong man broken.
About me, at the one time, were forty strong men being broken.
Ever the cry for water went up, and the place became lunatic with the crying, sobbing, babbling and raving of men in delirium.
Don’t you see?
Our truth, the very truth we told, was our damnation.
When forty men told the same things with such unanimity, Warden Atherton and Captain Jamie could only conclude that the testimony was a memorized lie which each of the forty rattled off parrot-like.
From the standpoint of the authorities, their situation was as desperate as ours.
As I learned afterward, the Board of Prison Directors had been summoned by telegraph, and two companies of state militia were being rushed to the prison.
It was winter weather, and the frost is sometimes shrewd even in a California winter.
We had no blankets in the dungeons.
Please know that it is very cold to stretch bruised human flesh on frosty stone.
In the end they did give us water.
Jeering and cursing us, the guards ran in the fire-hoses and played the fierce streams on us, dungeon by dungeon, hour after hour, until our bruised flesh was battered all anew by the violence with which the water smote us, until we stood knee-deep in the water which we had raved for and for which now we raved to cease.
I shall skip the rest of what happened in the dungeons.
In passing I shall merely state that no one of those forty lifers was ever the same again.
Luigi Polazzo never recovered his reason.
Long Bill Hodge slowly lost his sanity, so that a year later, he, too, went to live in Bughouse Alley.
Oh, and others followed Hodge and Polazzo; and others, whose physical stamina had been impaired, fell victims to prison-tuberculosis.
Fully 25 per cent. of the forty have died in the succeeding six years.
After my five years in solitary, when they took me away from San Quentin for my trial, I saw Skysail Jack.
I could see little, for I was blinking in the sunshine like a bat, after five years of darkness; yet I saw enough of Skysail Jack to pain my heart.
It was in crossing the Prison Yard that I saw him.
His hair had turned white.
He was prematurely old. His chest had caved in. His cheeks were sunken.
His hands shook as with palsy. He tottered as he walked.
And his eyes blurred with tears as he recognized me, for I, too, was a sad wreck of what had once been a man.
I weighed eighty-seven pounds.
My hair, streaked with gray, was a five-years’ growth, as were my beard and moustache.
And I, too, tottered as I walked, so that the guards helped to lead me across that sun-blinding patch of yard.
And Skysail Jack and I peered and knew each other under the wreckage.
Men such as he are privileged, even in a prison, so that he dared an infraction of the rules by speaking to me in a cracked and quavering voice.