The Story of a Strange Career.
by Anonymous.
INTRODUCTION
The story that follows this introduction is literally true. There died lately, in a Western State prison, a man of the cla.s.s known as habitual criminals. He was, at the time of his death, serving out a sentence for burglary. For thirty years he had been under the weight of prison discipline, save for short periods of freedom between the end of one term and the beginning of another.
Because of this man"s exceptional qualities, as contrasted with those of the mult.i.tude of criminals, he was induced, semi-officially, in a friendly way, to write the story of his life. He accepted the proposition made to him, though, consistent with his quality, not quite fulfilling his pledge, omitting, as he did, certain hard details of the later part of his criminal career. This was but natural, and, perhaps, it is the one incident which shows that the man realized, in some measure, the truth as to his own character.
The account which makes this book was written in 1897 and 1898, when its author was in the free world. It has been thought best, out of regard for an estimable family, to omit from the printed work the real name of the writer. Another name has been subst.i.tuted for the actual one, but, with the exception of a few necessary technical corrections, and changes of names of people and of one vessel--the one in which the first voyage was made--the ma.n.u.script appears almost as it left the hands of its author.
As a true tale, as a study of sociology, as a picture of one human life somehow bent and twisted from the normal, this work, it seems to the editor, is one of the most surprising of productions. Its frank unconsciousness, its striking revelations, its absence from all pose, combine to make it unique among the writings of men. The Confessions of Rousseau appear, in phases, almost artificial compared with the simple but startling revelation which is here given.
It was not hopelessness, nor recklessness, nor penitence, which made this man write down unflinchingly what he remembered of the story of his life. A cheerful reminiscent vein runs throughout all he tells. His sense of humour is ever present. Nowhere appears a hint of the tragedy of his experience. Of that he was not conscious. He was as free from remorse and self-upbraiding as a wild animal or a tree.
The story, one would imagine, should appeal to those who think. From the beginning can be seen, in the character of the runaway sailor and one-time officer of the navy, traits which indicate his absolute failure, eventually, as a man. He drifts. He is irresponsible. He escapes from one dilemma only to get into another. He is thriftless, and takes no thought for the morrow. He has no regard for the truth, nor any for the rights of property. He lies and steals simply because lying and stealing are the obvious things for him to do. He does not think of doing anything else. The manner in which the story is told is characteristic, and should open the eyes of sentimentalists as to the real att.i.tude of habitual criminals. Never, from first to last, is there an expression of genuine shame or the least contrition. There are, it is true, occasional sentences in which the man calls himself a fool, and betrays a glimmering of appreciation of the general want of sense and wisdom in his course, but there is no ring of sincere repentance nor of sorrow over a wasted life. This extraordinary character is simply of the opinion that he has not been clever enough. He never suspects that he has not been good enough to live a normal life among normal people. The truth is, he had no clear ideas of right and wrong.
Released from prison, and glad to be free, he always declared that now he was determined to "keep out of trouble." With him "trouble" meant "prison," and nothing else. Inevitably, surely, certainly, he was drawn into ways of crime. As water seeks its level, so he gravitated towards "trouble." To plan and execute an enterprise of robbery was the form of activity most natural to him. He was hindered by no scruples, schooled by no experience, tormented by no necessity. When arrested, and not before, he considered that he was "in trouble." He fretted over his punishment, but not over his offence.
And yet this was a human being, one not without good traits. He was not, physically, a coward; on the contrary, he was simply and naturally fearless. He was kind of heart, gentle to children, and tender to animals. Under discipline, he was patient and obedient, a model prisoner, the wardens say. What he could not do was to stand alone and be a man in the world.
Looking outward, this man was a shrewd and appreciative observer. His descriptions of natural scenes are vivid. There are few better stories of the life of a prisoner of war than his, and his characterizations of men and events are singularly apt. His eyes looked on the seamy side of life, and saw with clearness when fixed on any one or anything but himself. The conditions under which common sailors live have rarely been more vividly described. One can only wonder, while reading his plain story, told without heat or pa.s.sion, how any man could follow such a life as he describes.
The work is without precedent in character. It is fascinating as a life story and as a study of human nature. It is a contribution to unconscious literature.
STANLEY WATERLOO.
THE STORY OF A STRANGE CAREER
CHAPTER I
MY FIRST VOYAGE
On my mother"s side I am of an old New York family. My great-grandfather served as colonel in the war of 1812. My father was born in Dublin, being a younger son of an Irish gentleman. He was educated to be a druggist, his father paying a large bonus to have him apprenticed to a celebrated firm in that business. His elder brother was ordained as a clergyman in the Church of England, and is now a high dignitary in the Church, if living. At the age of twenty, my father came to New York and started in business. My mother, then about fourteen or fifteen years old, became acquainted with him, and they were shortly afterward married, the match being a runaway one. I was born when mother was but sixteen years old. My parents lived comfortably; they sent me to boarding-schools at North Cornwall, Conn., b.a.l.l.ston Spa, N. Y., and the Military School at Danbury, Conn., and finally to one of the New York colleges. At that time I was very desirous to be a sailor, and have been sorry for it ever since. My parents objected, but afterwards consented.
My father had many customers among the ship-owners and sea captains. At that time New York ship-owners had several vessels in the China trade, and sought to get well-taught American boys to educate them in seamanship and navigation, the idea being to make them officers of their ships as soon as they became competent. Seven boys were selected, I being one of them.
Father furnished me with a complete outfit for sea, and a set of navigation instruments and books. One thing I thought lacking--that was a pipe and tobacco. The sea-chest was sent to father"s store. My younger brother, Charlie, was anxious to know what sailors wore at sea, so he examined the contents of the chest, and found a paper of cheap tobacco and a two-cent pipe.
Charles--"Oh, father, George smokes!"
Father--"Why, George, do you use tobacco?"
George--"No, father, I never have done so yet; but I always hear that sailors smoke at sea."
Father--"Well, George, throw that stuff away and come with me."
He then took me to a cigar-store, and bought me twelve half-pound papers of fine Turkish tobacco, some pipes, and a box containing one hundred fine cigars. What was the result? I never used a pipeful of that tobacco, nor a cigar, and not until years afterward, when I was forty-eight years old and in Joliet Prison, did I acquire the tobacco habit, first by chewing it and then by smoking pipes made out of tool handles on holidays--our only opportunity in that "h.e.l.l-hole."
My father"s friends had a full-rigged ship ready for sea at that time; there were the captain, first, second, and third mates, and a crew of about sixteen men of all nationalities. We seven boys were shipped on board as apprentices, at the rate of four dollars a month. The voyage was to be to Batavia, Island of Java, for a part cargo of coffee; from there to Shanghai, China, for the balance of the cargo, the new crop of tea, which would be ready for us by the time of our arrival.
The ship--we"ll call her the Prospero--was to go out in ballast, as they had no cargo to send out. Three pa.s.sengers were to go with us--a man, his sister, and her child. The sister was the wife of a pilot and opium smuggler in the Chinese waters. Ten kegs, containing five thousand Mexican dollars each, were also sent on board to be delivered to the branch firm in China. The fifty thousand dollars were placed in the male pa.s.sengers" state-room, under his berth.
The ship was moved out from the dock, and anch.o.r.ed in the East River.
Next morning, early, a large tugboat came alongside the ship. On board the tugboat was a large party, invited by the firm to have a pleasure trip while towing the ship out to sea. My father and mother were with the party, many of their friends, the captain"s wife, and our pa.s.sengers" friends among the number. It was a merry party. We weighed anchor. They gave us three cheers, and, wishing us a happy voyage, turned back for New York. We had commenced our voyage to the Indian Ocean.
No one had any idea how abruptly that voyage was to end, nor of the misery that was to follow. In less than two months this despatch was sent all over the country:
"CHARLESTON, S. C., _August, 1856_.
"The ship Prospero has arrived here, its captain having been murdered at sea. The first mate and two boys are under arrest by the United States officers, accused of having committed the murder."[A]
[A] Our pa.s.sengers took pa.s.sage from Charleston in another ship for China. They never reached their destination. The vessel caught fire at sea and all aboard perished. Not a soul was ever heard from.
Now comes the story of the mysterious murder. It has never been solved to this day, although many years have pa.s.sed since it occurred.
The ship had been headed to the south-east, so as to get into the trade-winds near the coast of Africa. When near the Cape Verde Islands the captain was found dead in his bed, having been killed by being struck in the head with a ship"s axe, having his throat cut, and being stabbed in the heart several times with a double-edged knife. The cabin steward went into the captain"s state-room at eight o"clock to wake him for breakfast, and at once notified the first mate of the murder. The mate first went to the state-room, and then came on deck and ordered all the crew into the state-room. This is what we saw: the captain dead in bed, the only clothing on him being an undershirt, while the blood had stained all the bedding, had spurted up on the part.i.tions around the berth for three or four feet, and also on the floor. Beside the body lay a small axe and a white handkerchief stained with blood, marked in one corner with the letter "L" embroidered in red silk, which letter had been partly picked out with a pen or knife, but was still discernible.
The mate then informed us that he was acting captain of the ship. In our presence he wound up the two chronometers, which are always kept in the captain"s room, for on them are dependent the daily calculations of the correct longitude.
We were finally ordered upon deck. The crew conversed together, and agreed among themselves that the ship should return to New York. The mate insisted upon continuing the voyage, and also asked the crew if they would allow him to place anyone under arrest whom he believed to be the murderer. They a.s.sented, and he ordered Henry Leroy to be put in irons.
The boy Leroy"s hands were put behind his back, and he was handcuffed, then rusty iron chains were fastened to them and around his ankles. He was placed in the second mate"s cabin on deck and the door was locked.
He was kept there until we reached Charleston. The weather was extremely warm. When taken out, he was completely covered with iron rust, which had stuck to his body with the perspiration, and he was not allowed to wash himself.
Shortly after Leroy was put in irons, he called for the second mate, and had a long conversation with him. The result was that I was handcuffed, hands behind my back, was taken on the quarter-deck, made to sit down with my back to a stanchion, and lashed to it by the pa.s.sing of a rope several times around my body and once around my neck. I remained in that position for forty-eight hours, and was then put into the first mate"s cabin with my hands fastened behind my back.
The mate still insisted on continuing the voyage, the crew upon returning. Then he proposed going back to Fayal, Western Islands, and leaving Leroy and me there, to be sent to New York by the American Consul, for trial. The crew would not agree to that. Nothing would satisfy them but to return home. So the ship was put about and headed for New York. We never got there, but fetched up at Bulls Bay, about forty miles north of Charleston, S. C.
The ship was anch.o.r.ed close to sh.o.r.e and the sails furled. Shortly afterward a steamer was sighted coming down the coast. Signals of distress were hoisted, and the steamer headed for us. The mate had one of our boats lowered, and, with a boat"s crew of four men, went aboard the steamer. He wished to go to Charleston himself for a tugboat, also to telegraph to New York, but the men with him would not let him go, so he sent an order to Charleston for a tug, and a letter to the captain of the revenue cutter, explaining the situation.
The knife was never found; no blood stains could be found on any clothing or person aboard the ship. The axe had always hung in brackets over the captain"s bed, that being the only trace that was left. The man who did the deed must have been covered with blood. No noise had been heard, although a number of persons were sleeping close by, and one half of the crew were awake and on duty continually. The corpse was placed in a water-cask, which was filled with brine and salt from the beef barrels. After the inquest, it was shipped to New York for burial. Next will be related the evidence against Leroy and myself.
Henry Leroy was born in Poughkeepsie, N. Y., his parents being quite wealthy. The elder brother was lieutenant commander in the U.S. Navy during the War of the Rebellion. Henry was the "black sheep" of the family, and was sent to sea in order to tame him down. The captain was instructed to be severe with him. He was very flighty, had a wild look in his eyes, and was very quarrelsome. In less than three weeks he had had four fights with the boys, the last one with me. There being no cargo on board, the boys had quarters fixed up for them between decks.
Henry was in one watch and I in the other.
One night, at twelve o"clock, Henry came below and I was to go on watch.
It was then we had the fight. There being only a thin part.i.tion between our place and the cabin, the noise woke the captain. The next morning the captain tied Henry to a dry-goods box and gave him a severe flogging with a rope"s end. Henry afterward told some of the crew that he would be revenged for that flogging; that was the evidence against him.
Now for myself: All the boys would tell Henry all kinds of nonsense and he would believe it. I at one time proposed to him that we should kill everybody on board the ship; that we two should sail the ship to the coast of Africa, take the fifty thousand dollars in silver (weighing over four thousand pounds) and go home with it. Much to my surprise, he was willing to do so. Two or three times afterwards I amused myself with that yarn. That story, with some additions of his own, was the evidence against me. Some of his schoolmates afterwards stated under oath that it was impossible for him to tell the truth. A tugboat was sent to Charleston, and the ship was towed to that port. The United States Marshal came on board, and Henry and I were taken up to the city in the revenue cutter and put in the police station until the inquest was held.
In a couple of days after our arrival the inquest was held on board the ship. Leroy and I were present. The captain"s body was laid on deck and we were made to stand near it and look at the terrible sight while some of the jurors felt of our pulses, to see if we were unusually excited.
Leroy testified that I had confessed to the murder at twelve o"clock the night it occurred, and that I had told him of it when the watches were changed. At my trial it was proved that I had not spoken to him from the evening before the murder until we were on the revenue cutter.