the jacket (the star-rover)-第8节

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stool　placed　there　to　work　a　frame…up　on　them。　　It　had　been　done

before；　to　Oppenheimer；　and　he　had　paid　dearly　for　the　confidence　he

reposed　in　Warden　Atherton's　tool。



To　my　surpriseyes；　to　my　elation　be　it　saidboth　my　fellow…

prisoners　knew　me　through　my　record　as　an　incorrigible。　　Even　into

the　living　grave　Oppenheimer　had　occupied　for　ten　years　had　my　fame；

or　notoriety；　rather；　penetrated。



I　had　much　to　tell　them　of　prison　happenings　and　of　the　outside

world。　　The　conspiracy　to　escape　of　the　forty　lifers；　the　search　for

the　alleged　dynamite；　and　all　the　treacherous　frame…up　of　Cecil

Winwood　was　news　to　them。　　As　they　told　me；　news　did　occasionally

dribble　into　solitary　by　way　of　the　guards；　but　they　had　had　nothing

for　a　couple　of　months。　　The　present　guards　on　duty　in　solitary　were

a　particularly　bad　and　vindictive　set。



Again　and　again　that　day　we　were　cursed　for　our　knuckle　talking　by

whatever　guard　was　on。　　But　we　could　not　refrain。　　The　two　of　the

living　dead　had　become　three；　and　we　had　so　much　to　say；　while　the

manner　of　saying　it　was　exasperatingly　slow　and　I　was　not　so

proficient　as　they　at　the　knuckle　game。



〃Wait　till　Pie…Face　comes　on　to…night；〃　Morrell　rapped　to　me。　　〃He

sleeps　most　of　his　watch；　and　we　can　talk　a　streak。〃



How　we　did　talk　that　night！　　Sleep　was　farthest　from　our　eyes。　　Pie…

Face　Jones　was　a　mean　and　bitter　man；　despite　his　fatness；　but　we

blessed　that　fatness　because　it　persuaded　to　stolen　snatches　of

slumber。　　Nevertheless　our　incessant　tapping　bothered　his　sleep　and

irritated　him　so　that　he　reprimanded　us　repeatedly。　　And　by　the

other　night　guards　we　were　roundly　cursed。　　In　the　morning　all

reported　much　tapping　during　the　night；　and　we　paid　for　our　little

holiday；　for；　at　nine；　came　Captain　Jamie　with　several　guards　to

lace　us　into　the　torment　of　the　jacket。　　Until　nine　the　following

morning；　for　twenty…four　straight　hours；　laced　and　helpless　on　the

floor；　without　food　or　water；　we　paid　the　price　for　speech。



Oh；　our　guards　were　brutes！　　And　under　their　treatment　we　had　to

harden　to　brutes　in　order　to　live。　　Hard　work　makes　calloused　hands。

Hard　guards　make　hard　prisoners。　　We　continued　to　talk；　and；　on

occasion；　to　be　jacketed　for　punishment。　　Night　was　the　best　time；

and；　when　substitute　guards　chanced　to　be　on；　we　often　talked

through　a　whole　shift。



Night　and　day　were　one　with　us　who　lived　in　the　dark。　　We　could

sleep　any　time；　we　could　knuckle…talk　only　on　occasion。　　We　told　one

another　much　of　the　history　of　our　lives；　and　for　long　hours　Morrell

and　I　have　lain　silently；　while　steadily；　with　faint；　far　taps；

Oppenheimer　slowly　spelled　out　his　life…story；　from　the　early　years

in　a　San　Francisco　slum；　through　his　gang…training；　through　his

initiation　into　all　that　was　vicious；　when　as　a　lad　of　fourteen　he

served　as　night　messenger　in　the　red　light　district；　through　his

first　detected　infraction　of　the　laws；　and　on　and　on　through　thefts

and　robberies　to　the　treachery　of　a　comrade　and　to　red　slayings

inside　prison　walls。



They　called　Jake　Oppenheimer　the　〃Human　Tiger。〃　　Some　cub　reporter

coined　the　phrase　that　will　long　outlive　the　man　to　whom　it　was

applied。　　And　yet　I　ever　found　in　Jake　Oppenheimer　all　the　cardinal

traits　of　right　humanness。　　He　was　faithful　and　loyal。　　I　know　of

the　times　he　has　taken　punishment　in　preference　to　informing　on　a

comrade。　　He　was　brave。　　He　was　patient。　　He　was　capable　of　self…

sacrificeI　could　tell　a　story　of　this；　but　shall　not　take　the

time。　　And　justice；　with　him；　was　a　passion。　　The　prison…killings

done　by　him　were　due　entirely　to　this　extreme　sense　of　justice。　　And

he　had　a　splendid　mind。　　A　life…time　in　prison；　ten　years　of　it　in

solitary；　had　not　dimmed　his　brain。



Morrell；　ever　a　true　comrade；　too　had　a　splendid　brain。　　In　fact；

and　I　who　am　about　to　die　have　the　right　to　say　it　without　incurring

the　charge　of　immodesty；　the　three　best　minds　in　San　Quentin　from

the　Warden　down　were　the　three　that　rotted　there　together　in

solitary。　　And　here　at　the　end　of　my　days；　reviewing　all　that　I　have

known　of　life；　I　am　compelled　to　the　conclusion　that　strong　minds

are　never　docile。　　The　stupid　men；　the　fearful　men；　the　men　ungifted

with　passionate　rightness　and　fearless　championshipthese　are　the

men　who　make　model　prisoners。　　I　thank　all　gods　that　Jake

Oppenheimer；　Ed　Morrell；　and　I　were　not　model　prisoners。







CHAPTER　VI







There　is　more　than　the　germ　of　truth　in　things　erroneous　in　the

child's　definition　of　memory　as　the　thing　one　forgets　with。　　To　be

able　to　forget　means　sanity。　　Incessantly　to　remember；　means

obsession；　lunacy。　　So　the　problem　I　faced　in　solitary；　where

incessant　remembering　strove　for　possession　of　me；　was　the　problem

of　forgetting。　　When　I　gamed　with　flies；　or　played　chess　with

myself；　or　talked　with　my　knuckles；　I　partially　forgot。　　What　I

desired　was　entirely　to　forget。



There　were　the　boyhood　memories　of　other　times　and　placesthe

〃trailing　clouds　of　glory〃　of　Wordsworth。　　If　a　boy　had　had　these

memories；　were　they　irretrievably　lost　when　he　had　grown　to　manhood？

Could　this　particular　content　of　his　boy　brain　be　utterly

eliminated？　　Or　were　these　memories　of　other　times　and　places　still

residual；　asleep；　immured　in　solitary　in　brain　cells　similarly　to

the　way　I　was　immured　in　a　cell　in　San　Quentin？



Solitary　life…prisoners　have　been　known　to　resurrect　and　look　upon

the　sun　again。　　Then　why　could　not　these　other…world　memories　of　the

boy　resurrect？



But　how？　　In　my　judgment；　by　attainment　of　complete　forgetfulness　of

present　and　of　manhood　past。



And　again；　how？　　Hypnotism　should　do　it。　　If　by　hypnotism　the

conscious　mind　were　put　to　sleep；　and　the　subconscious　mind

awakened；　then　was　the　thing　accomplished；　then　would　all　the

dungeon　doors　of　the　brain　be　thrown　wide；　then　would　the　prisoners

emerge　into　the　sunshine。



So　I　reasonedwith　what　result　you　shall　learn。　　But　first　I　must

tell　how；　as　a　boy；　I　had　had　these　other…world　memories。　　I　had

glowed　in　the　clouds　of　glory　I　trailed　from　lives　aforetime。　　Like

any　boy；　I　had　been　haunted　by　the　other　beings　I　had　been　at　other

times。　　This　had　been　during　my　process　of　becoming；　ere　the　flux　of

all　that　I　had　ever　been　had　hardened　in　the　mould　of　the　one

personality　that　was　to　be　known　by　men　for　a　few　years　as　Darrell

Standing。



Let　me　narrate　just　one　incident。　　It　was　up　in　Minnesota　on　the　old

farm。　　I　was　nearly　six　years　old。　　A　missionary　to　China；　returned

to　the　United　States　and　sent　out　by　the　Board　of　Missions　to　raise

funds　from　the　farmers；　spent　the　night　in　our　house。　　It　was　in　the

kitchen　just　after　supper；　as　my　mother　was　helping　me　undress　for

bed；　and　the　missionary　was　showing　photographs　of　the　Holy　Land。



And　what　I　am　about　to　tell　you　I　should　long　since　have　forgotten

had　I　not　heard　my　father　recite　it　to　wondering　listeners　so　many

times　during　my　childhood。



I　cried　out　at　sight　of　one　of　the　photographs　and　looked　at　it；

first　with　eagerness；　and　then　with　disappointment。　　It　had　seemed

of　a　sudden　most　familiar；　in　much　the　same　way　that　my　father's

barn　would　have　been　in　a　photograph。　　Then　it　had　seemed　altogether

strange。　　But　as　I　continued　to　look　the　haunting　sense　of

familiarity　came　back。



〃The　Tower　of　David；〃　the　missionary　said　to　my　mother。



〃No！〃　I　cried　with　great　positiveness。



〃You　mean　that　isn't　its　name？〃　the　missionary　asked。



I　nodded。



〃Then　what　is　its　name；　my　boy？〃



〃It's　name　is　。　。　。〃　I　began；　then　concluded　lamely；　〃I；　forget。〃



〃It　don't　look　the　same　now；〃　I　went　on　after　a　pause。　　〃They've　ben

fixin'　it　up　awful。〃



Here　the　missionary　handed　to　my　mother　another　photograph　he　had

sought　out。



〃I　was　there　myself　six　months　ago；　Mrs。　Standing。〃　　He　pointed　with

his　finger。　　〃That　is　the　Jaffa　Gate　where　I　walked　in　and　right　up

to　the　Tower　of　David　in　the　back　of　the　picture　where　my　finger　is

now。　　The　authorities　are　pretty　well　agreed　on　such　matters。　　El

Kul'ah；　as　it　was　known　by〃



But　here　I　broke　in　again；　pointing　to　rubbish　piles　of　ruined

masonry　on　the　left　edge　of　the　photograph



〃Over　there　somewhere；〃　I　said。　　〃That　name　you　just　spoke　was　what

the　Jews　called　it。　　But　we　called　it　something　else。　　We　called　it

。　。　。　I　forget。〃



〃Listen　to　the　youngster；〃　my　father　chuckled。　　〃You'd　think　he'd

ben　there。〃



I　nodded　my　head；　for　in　that　moment　I　knew　I　had　been　there；　though

all　seemed　strangely　different。　　My　father　laughed　the　harder；　but

the　missionary　thought　I　was　making　game　of　him。　　He　handed　me

another　photograph。　　It　was　just　a　bleak　waste　of　a　landscape；

barren　of　trees　and　vegetation；　a　shallow　canyon　with　easy…sloping

walls　of　rubble。　　In　the　middle　distance　was　a　cluster　of　wretched；

flat…roofed　hovels。



〃Now；　my　boy；　where　is　that？〃　the　missionary　q