Part 7 (1/2)
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 pet.i.tion 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 announce 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 compet.i.tors.”
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 compet.i.tor 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 compet.i.tors. 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 endors.e.m.e.nt 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 grat.i.tude.
CHAPTER XII. A DARK HOUR
It was a bright Sabbath morning. I had been detailed to a.s.sist 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.ses on some two blocks beyond the depot; then backs down. As I thus pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d! 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 pet.i.tion, 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 circ.u.mstances 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 G.o.d 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.