the jacket (the star-rover)-第2章

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censure　me　for　my　coal…oil　lamp　still　burning。　　As　if　the　mere

living　could　censure　the　doomed　to　die！







CHAPTER　II







I　am　Darrell　Standing。　　They　are　going　to　take　me　out　and　hang　me

pretty　soon。　　In　the　meantime　I　say　my　say；　and　write　in　these　pages

of　the　other　times　and　places。



After　my　sentence；　I　came　to　spend　the　rest　of　my　〃natural　life〃　in

the　prison　of　San　Quentin。　　I　proved　incorrigible。　　An　incorrigible

is　a　terrible　human　beingat　least　such　is　the　connotation　of

〃incorrigible〃　in　prison　psychology。　　I　became　an　incorrigible

because　I　abhorred　waste　motion。　　The　prison；　like　all　prisons；　was

a　scandal　and　an　affront　of　waste　motion。　　They　put　me　in　the　jute…

mill。　　The　criminality　of　wastefulness　irritated　me。　　Why　should　it

not？　　Elimination　of　waste　motion　was　my　speciality。　　Before　the

invention　of　steam　or　steam…driven　looms　three　thousand　years

before；　I　had　rotted　in　prison　in　old　Babylon；　and；　trust　me；　I

speak　the　truth　when　I　say　that　in　that　ancient　day　we　prisoners

wove　more　efficiently　on　hand…looms　than　did　the　prisoners　in　the

steam…powered　loom…rooms　of　San　Quentin。



The　crime　of　waste　was　abhorrent。　　I　rebelled。　　I　tried　to　show　the

guards　a　score　or　so　of　more　efficient　ways。　　I　was　reported。　　I　was

given　the　dungeon　and　the　starvation　of　light　and　food。　　I　emerged

and　tried　to　work　in　the　chaos　of　inefficiency　of　the　loom…rooms。　　I

rebelled。　　I　was　given　the　dungeon；　plus　the　strait…jacket。　　I　was

spread…eagled；　and　thumbed…up；　and　privily　beaten　by　the　stupid

guards　whose　totality　of　intelligence　was　only　just　sufficient　to

show　them　that　I　was　different　from　them　and　not　so　stupid。



Two　years　of　this　witless　persecution　I　endured。　　It　is　terrible　for

a　man　to　be　tied　down　and　gnawed　by　rats。　　The　stupid　brutes　of

guards　were　rats；　and　they　gnawed　the　intelligence　of　me；　gnawed　all

the　fine　nerves　of　the　quick　of　me　and　of　the　consciousness　of　me。

And　I；　who　in　my　past　have　been　a　most　valiant　fighter；　in　this

present　life　was　no　fighter　at　all。　　I　was　a　farmer；　an

agriculturist；　a　desk…tied　professor；　a　laboratory　slave；　interested

only　in　the　soil　and　the　increase　of　the　productiveness　of　the　soil。



I　fought　in　the　Philippines　because　it　was　the　tradition　of　the

Standings　to　fight。　　I　had　no　aptitude　for　fighting。　　It　was　all　too

ridiculous；　the　introducing　of　disruptive　foreign　substances　into

the　bodies　of　little　black　men…folk。　　It　was　laughable　to　behold

Science　prostituting　all　the　might　of　its　achievement　and　the　wit　of

its　inventors　to　the　violent　introducing　of　foreign　substances　into

the　bodies　of　black　folk。



As　I　say；　in　obedience　to　the　tradition　of　the　Standings　I　went　to

war　and　found　that　I　had　no　aptitude　for　war。　　So　did　my　officers

find　me　out；　because　they　made　me　a　quartermaster's　clerk；　and　as　a

clerk；　at　a　desk；　I　fought　through　the　Spanish…American　War。



So　it　was　not　because　I　was　a　fighter；　but　because　I　was　a　thinker；

that　I　was　enraged　by　the　motion…wastage　of　the　loom…rooms　and　was

persecuted　by　the　guards　into　becoming　an　〃incorrigible。〃　　One's

brain　worked　and　I　was　punished　for　its　working。　　As　I　told　Warden

Atherton；　when　my　incorrigibility　had　become　so　notorious　that　he

had　me　in　on　the　carpet　in　his　private　office　to　plead　with　me；　as　I

told　him　then：



〃It　is　so　absurd；　my　dear　Warden；　to　think　that　your　rat…throttlers

of　guards　can　shake　out　of　my　brain　the　things　that　are　clear　and

definite　in　my　brain。　　The　whole　organization　of　this　prison　is

stupid。　　You　are　a　politician。　　You　can　weave　the　political　pull　of

San　Francisco　saloon…men　and　ward　heelers　into　a　position　of　graft

such　as　this　one　you　occupy；　but　you　can't　weave　jute。　　Your　loom…

rooms　are　fifty　years　behind　the　times。　。　。　。〃



But　why　continue　the　tirade？for　tirade　it　was。　　I　showed　him　what

a　fool　he　was；　and　as　a　result　he　decided　that　I　was　a　hopeless

incorrigible。



Give　a　dog　a　bad　nameyou　know　the　saw。　　Very　well。　　Warden

Atherton　gave　the　final　sanction　to　the　badness　of　my　name。　　I　was

fair　game。　　More　than　one　convict's　dereliction　was　shunted　off　on

me；　and　was　paid　for　by　me　in　the　dungeon　on　bread　and　water；　or　in

being　triced　up　by　the　thumbs　on　my　tip…toes　for　long　hours；　each

hour　of　which　was　longer　than　any　life　I　have　ever　lived。



Intelligent　men　are　cruel。　　Stupid　men　are　monstrously　cruel。　　The

guards　and　the　men　over　me；　from　the　Warden　down；　were　stupid

monsters。　　Listen；　and　you　shall　learn　what　they　did　to　me。　　There

was　a　poet　in　the　prison；　a　convict；　a　weak…chinned；　broad…browed；

degenerate　poet。　　He　was　a　forger。　　He　was　a　coward。　　He　was　a

snitcher。　　He　was　a　stoolstrange　words　for　a　professor　of

agronomics　to　use　in　writing；　but　a　professor　of　agronomics　may　well

learn　strange　words　when　pent　in　prison　for　the　term　of　his　natural

life。



This　poet…forger's　name　was　Cecil　Winwood。　　He　had　had　prior

convictions；　and　yet；　because　he　was　a　snivelling　cur　of　a　yellow

dog；　his　last　sentence　had　been　only　for　seven　years。　　Good　credits

would　materially　reduce　this　time。　　My　time　was　life。　　Yet　this

miserable　degenerate；　in　order　to　gain　several　short　years　of

liberty　for　himself；　succeeded　in　adding　a　fair　portion　of　eternity

to　my　own　life…time　term。



I　shall　tell　what　happened　the　other　way　around；　for　it　was　only

after　a　weary　period　that　I　learned。　　This　Cecil　Winwood；　in　order

to　curry　favour　with　the　Captain　of　the　Yard；　and　thence　the　Warden；

the　Prison　Directors；　the　Board　of　Pardons；　and　the　Governor　of

California；　framed　up　a　prison…break。　　Now　note　three　things：　　（a）

Cecil　Winwood　was　so　detested　by　his　fellow…convicts　that　they　would

not　have　permitted　him　to　bet　an　ounce　of　Bull　Durham　on　a　bed…bug

raceand　bed…bug　racing　was　a　great　sport　with　the　convicts；　（b）　I

was　the　dog　that　had　been　given　a　bad　name：　　（c）　for　his　frame…up；

Cecil　Winwood　needed　the　dogs　with　bad　names；　the　lifetimers；　the

desperate　ones；　the　incorrigibles。



But　the　lifers　detested　Cecil　Winwood；　and；　when　he　approached　them

with　his　plan　of　a　wholesale　prison…break；　they　laughed　at　him　and

turned　away　with　curses　for　the　stool　that　he　was。　　But　he　fooled

them　in　the　end；　forty　of　the　bitterest…wise　ones　in　the　pen。　　He

approached　them　again　and　again。　　He　told　of　his　power　in　the　prison

by　virtue　of　his　being　trusty　in　the　Warden's　office；　and　because　of

the　fact　that　he　had　the　run　of　the　dispensary。



〃Show　me；〃　said　Long　Bill　Hodge；　a　mountaineer　doing　life　for　train

robbery；　and　whose　whole　soul　for　years　had　been　bent　on　escaping　in

order　to　kill　the　companion　in　robbery　who　had　turned　state's

evidence　on　him。



Cecil　Winwood　accepted　the　test。　　He　claimed　that　he　could　dope　the

guards　the　night　of　the　break。



〃Talk　is　cheap；〃　said　Long　Bill　Hodge。　　〃What　we　want　is　the　goods。

Dope　one　of　the　guards　to…night。　　There's　Barnum。　　He's　no　good。　　He

beat　up　that　crazy　Chink　yesterday　in　Bughouse　Alleywhen　he　was

off　duty；　too。　　He's　on　the　night　watch。　　Dope　him　to…night　an'　make

him　lose　his　job。　　Show　me；　and　we'll　talk　business　with　you。〃



All　this　Long　Bill　told　me　in　the　dungeons　afterward。　　Cecil　Winwood

demurred　against　the　immediacy　of　the　demonstration。　　He　claimed

that　he　must　have　time　in　which　to　steal　the　dope　from　the

dispensary。　　They　gave　him　the　time；　and　a　week　later　he　announced

that　he　was　ready。　　Forty　hard…bitten　lifers　waited　for　the　guard

Barnum　to　go　to　sleep　on　his　shift。　　And　Barnum　did。　　He　was　found

asleep；　and　he　was　discharged　for　sleeping　on　duty。



Of　course；　that　convinced　the　lifers。　　But　there　was　the　Captain　of

the　Yard　to　convince。　　To　him；　daily；　Cecil　Winwood　was　reporting

the　progress　of　the　breakall　fancied　and　fabricated　in　his　own

imagination。　　The　Captain　of　the　Yard　demanded　to　be　shown。　　Winwood

showed　him；　and　the　full　details　of　the　showing　I　did　not　learn

until　a　year　afterward；　so　slowly　do　the　secrets　of　prison　intrigue

leak　out。



Winwood　said　that　the　forty　men　in　the　break；　in　whose　confidence　he

was；　had　already　such　power　in　the　Prison　that　they　were　about　to

begin　smuggling　in　automatic　pistols　by　means　of　the　guards　they　had

bought　up。



〃Show　me；〃　the　Captain　of　the　Yard　must　have　demanded。



And　the　forger…poet　showed　him。　　In　the　Bakery；　night　work　was　a

regular　thing。　　One　of　the　convicts；　a　baker；　was　on　the　first

night…shift。　　He　was　a　stool　of　the　Captain　of　the　Yard；　and　Winwood

knew　it。



〃To…night；〃　he　told　the　Captain；　〃Summerface　will　bring　in　a　dozen

'44　automatics。　　On　his　next　time　off　he'll　bring　in　the　ammunition。

But　to…night　he'll　turn　the　automatics　over　to　me　in　the　bakery。

You've　got　a　good　stool　there。　　He'll　make　you　his　report　to…

morrow。〃



Now　Summerface　was　a　strapping　figure　of　a　bucolic　guard　who　hailed

from　Humboldt　County。　　He　was　a　simple…minded；　good…natured　dolt　and

not　above　earning　an　honest　dollar　by　smuggling　in　tobacco　for　the

convicts。　　On　that　night；　returning　from　a　trip　to　San　Francisco；　he

brought　in　with　him　fifteen　pounds　of　prime　cigarette　tobacco。　　He

had　done　this　before；　and　delivered　the　stuff　to　Cecil　Winwood。　　So；

on　that　particular　night；　he；　all　unwitting；　turned　the　stuff　over

to　Winwood　in　the　bakery。　　It　was　a　big；　solid；　paper…wrapped　bundle

of　innocent　tobacco。　　The　stool　baker；　from　concealment；　saw　the

package　delivered　to　Winwood　and　so　reported　to　the　Captain　of　the

Yard　next　morning。



But　in　the　meantime　the　poet…forger's　too…lively　imagination　ran

away　with　him。　　He　was　guilty　of　a　slip　that　gave　me　five　years　of

solitary　confinement　and　that　placed　me　in　this　condemned　cell　in

which　I　now　write。　　And　all　the　time　I　knew　nothing　about　it。　　I　did

not　even　know　of　the　break　he　had　inveigled　the　forty　lifers　into

planning。　　I　knew　nothing；　absolutely　nothing。　　And　the　rest　knew

little。　　The　lifers　did　not　know　he　was　giving　them　the　cross。　　The

Captain　of　the　Yard　did　not　know　that　the　cross　know　was　being

worked　on　him。　　Summerface　was　the　most　innocent　of　all。　　At　the

worst；　his　conscience　could　have　accused　him　only　of　smuggling　in

some　harmless　tobacco。



And　now　to　the　stupid；　silly；　melodramatic　slip　of　Cecil　Winwood。

Next　morning；　when　he　encountered　the　Captain　of　the　Yard；　he　was

triumphant。　　His　imagination　took　the　bit　in　its　teeth。



〃Well；　the　stuff　came　in　all　right　as　you　said；〃　the　captain　of　the

Yard　remarked。



〃And　enough　of　it　to　blow　half　the　prison　sky…high；〃　Winwood

corroborated。



〃Enough　of　what？〃　the　Captain　demanded。



〃Dynamite　and　detonators；〃　the　fool　rattled　on。　　〃Thirty…five　pounds

of　it。　　Your　stool　saw　Summerface　pass　it　over　to　me。〃



And　right　there　the　Captain　of　the　Yard　must　have　nearly　died。　　I

can　actually　sympathize　with　himthirty…five　pounds　of　dynamite

loose　in　the　prison。



They　say　that　Captain　Jamiethat　was　his　nicknamesat