9 At the Capital

I stayed nearly two weeks in Louisville after the election, and I was much at the home of Guthrie, going there either alone or with Jimmy Warfield. They were pleasant days for me in many ways. Summer had come and business in the law was lax, leaving leisure, but the warm weather was not sufficiently advanced to drive people away to the mountains or the seaside. I saw continually at the Guthries’ the best the town afforded, not always the most fashionable perhaps, but seldom uninteresting. Alicia was present two or three times and we entered into a tacit agreement neither to seek nor to avoid one another. I hope that I am not a boaster or a braggart, but I believe my presence and sympathy gave her a certain support in this troubled period of her life. I think she was unconscious of it. I have never seen another with so absolutely pure a mind, but it gave me a great and I am sure guiltless joy to know that she leaned on me.

Meanwhile I noticed that Harrison was conducting an insidious pursuit of Alicia. He seemed to me to belong to the predatory tribe, the lean, fine type of the hunting wolf, but the hunter all the same. He was a cultivated man, who had travelled widely and I understood that he had in his house a magnificent library and some pictures by both the old and modern masters, which latter is the more remarkable as our State is not yet old enough and rich enough to have acquired a taste for great painting.

It so chanced that Alicia came to a house one evening while we were both there, and I was a keen observer of Harrison’s manner toward her. It was quiet and deferential, showing those qualities that any woman, good or bad, was bound to like, that is, respect, admiration and a tempered feeling. The predatory fangs were hidden, and Alicia could feel that she was neither pitied nor hunted, merely admired and observed with sympathy.

I realized with a sudden fear that such a man might end by making Alicia love him, and if he felt the time was ripe he would not hesitate to sweep Grey from his path.

Thus the days passed and Harrison followed Alicia about, respectfully attentive and most silent. I knew that he helped her with Grey, that is he kept the man out of her way nearly all the while and at other times soothed and modified his rough spirit. I saw that she was beginning to regard him with more leniency, as a friend who served her well, when she needed a friend most, and I could think of no way to stop his insidious advance. But I knew all the time that Harrison was helping Grey with Pauline Harmon, furthering the intrigue and making the road smooth for it. Shreds of gossip about the two, unmistakably true floated to me now and then, and Grey was seen more seldom than ever in the company of his own wife.

When the midsummer heats arrived I went back to Carlton, and was received by Uncle Paul and Aunt Jane as their own son who could now be trusted without reserve.

Perhaps I have not stated before that I was a rich man, a very rich man for our State. I had inherited two thousand acres of land in one of the finest counties, and in the days of my wildness and disgrace Uncle Paul had guarded it with a wise head and skillful hand. Moreover, a valuable coal mine had been recently discovered on some neglected slopes of mine far out in the mountains and large revenues were now coming in from that source.

Thus, I did not practice the law because I needed money, but because I liked the profession, and because I thought I could be of service in it. My life in prison had given me new thoughts and had made me see new things. It seemed to me that the rich in our country were not doing their full duty. I am bitterly against all privileged classes, but from my reading, I have a certain respect for the better part of the aristocracy in England, which tries to make part payment to the State and the Nation in return for its privileges. There is something in noblesse oblige.

The regular elections were held in November, and I was present at my own, mere formality though the latter was, as Sumpter County is heavily Democratic. Then I went back to Louisville and found, to my great surprise, that Harrison also was to be a member of the next Legislature. The nominee in his district had been suddenly stricken by a fatal illness. His death occurred only two days before the election, and there was a great scurrying about to find a man to take his place. Some one jokingly mentioned Harrison, and when the joke was passed on to him he amazed them all by accepting.

Looking back now on what occurred not so long ago, I think that Harrison’s acceptance of so small a post that would take him moreover outside his habitual circles was due to a mixture of impulses. It may be that he had become tired of all his old pleasures and wished a new emotion, it may be that he was looking far ahead and sought now a leverage, and it may be that he thought he was doing something likely to further him in the good opinion of Alicia. And I have a little belief away down at the bottom of my heart that I was partly the cause of it; he would match himself against me, what I did he also would do. Perhaps Harrison himself, acute as he was, did not know just why he did it.

The autumn passed quickly, and winter, clear and very cold, came in its place. The mercury went down to zero and thick ice formed on all the streams. At night wooden houses cracked like pistol shots as they contracted, but by day there was a brilliant sun and skies of a cold, cloudless blue. The Legislature was to meet as usual on the last day of the year, and after the Christmas holidays with Uncle Paul and Aunt Jane I went down to Frankfort on the day before the calling of the session.

The very first day of my arrival I walked to the penitentiary—the temptation was irresistible—and strolled beside its sombre gray walls. It seemed incredible now that three years of my life had been passed behind those stones. It was another man who had been there or at least my old self had been recreated.

After my circuit of the walls I left the place and passed into the purer regions on the hills, where I looked down at the pretty town, the noble river and the coiling ridges beyond. It was a wintry world, but pure and beautiful, and as I walked there on the heights, I was joined by Judge Wharton of the Court of Appeals, and I speak particularly of him now, because he was a good influence in my life, a friend to whom I owe much, and who owes little to me. I had met him once before, and as we strolled back and forth he gave me out of the fund of a vast experience much good advice, some of which I am happy to say I took.

The formal opening of the Legislature occurred the next day and the House was called to order by Speaker Warfield. Jimmy wore a rose in his button hole and his black frock coat was buttoned tightly about him, but his light manner was shed for the time, and he was a dignified and impressive figure. He made a short speech, full of good sense, and then we devoted most of the brief session to getting acquainted with each other.

I confess to a feeling of pride when I took the official chair that was to be mine for the next four or five months. The formal seal had been put upon my rehabilitation and instead of obeying orders I was now one to give them. My desk was next to the aisle on my left, and the man on my right was a bushy-whiskered farmer of middle age from the part of the State that we call the Pennyroyal, Thomas J. Peden by name. He leaned over to me just after Warfield finished his speech and said:

“We must be friends, Clarke; I can’t quarrel with a man from whom I’ve got to borrow postage stamps all through the session.”

I agreed, but I was sure that I should like him on his own account. Many of these farmers conceal a lot of shrewdness and penetration under a rustic appearance, and bad grammar doesn’t always mean either bad morals or bad judgment.

I was on the right hand side of the House and Harrison was on the left, with several of the Louisville members about him. I soon saw that he was going to be a power on the floor. His wonderful self-command, his light ironic manner, and his keenness of attack and retort quickly made him feared and admired. He posed chiefly as a free lance and as one who is against most things. For this a man needs unmitigated assurance and a willingness to hurt the feelings of others, rather than intellect, although Harrison had plenty of the latter. His unsparing tongue soon frightened the weaker-kneed members, gave him a reputation and also made him enemies. But he attended to the duties of his place far more closely than I had thought and was present every day at the full session, although he always went to Louisville on Saturday afternoons, not returning until Monday morning.

I was absorbed for the next two or three weeks in my new occupation, striving to learn what I could about legislation, the bills that were to be considered, and the character and temperament of my fellow members. Peden and I became great friends. True to his promise he borrowed postage stamps from me regularly—but he paid them back with religious accuracy. Often he made remarks about the other members that surprised me with their penetration.

“A dangerous man,” he said once, nodding toward Harrison, “a sight smarter than he looks. Don’t you ever buy him for a fool.”

I went several times to the house of Judge Wharton, where I became, I know, a welcome visitor, and I also extended my acquaintance among the residents of the capital. Frankfort has a pleasant little society, particularly bright and gay when the General Assembly meets, and the city itself is not without historic interest. Thus the days passed agreeably enough and I began to feel that I had settled into my place.

But about this time occurred an incident that gave me a shiver. Every new Legislator feels it his duty to investigate everything. In my own humble opinion, which is given for no more than it is worth, we have carried the rage for exposure in our country too far, and we frequently expose when there is nothing to be exposed.

Nothing would satisfy some of the new members but a trip through the penitentiary. Surely they would discover great evils there. Perhaps the warden or deputies had been flogging convicts to death; it was impossible to say what atrocities might not be uncovered. I was asked to go along and I consented. Peden also was of the party. For the second time in my life I entered the great gates of the penitentiary, but now as an honored guest, and I felt a singular mingling of emotions, of shame and of pride, of apprehension and of confidence. I did not notice until I was inside that Harrison had joined us.

It was a cold winter day, but golden with sunshine, and we stood in the same yard, across which I had marched a thousand times in a striped suit and with hair cropped. The same warden who had received me and who had given me back my money and civilian clothing when I left led us now. It seemed to me that he had not changed a particle, the same iron-gray hair, the same keen but kindly gray eyes and if I had counted the wrinkles in his face I should probably have found them the same in number. I was introduced to him and I shook hands with him, but I took care not to give him a strong grip. He looked pleasantly into my face, but he did not know me from Adam.

We prowled about, sometimes with the warden and sometimes without him; occasionally a member of our party left the main body and hunted around alone, hoping to find a hidden horror, but my interest was far different. I could tell my associates more about the prison and prison life than they would learn in a hundred years from such trips as this, and the thought actually gave me a feeling of superiority.

We passed more than one convict whom I knew well. An old “lifer,” named Walker, was bold enough to ask me for a chew of tobacco. In the old times I had obtained tobacco for him more than once, and now borrowing a plug from a member of our party who chewed, I presented it to him. He thanked me and shuffled away, like the warden not knowing me from Adam.

Our wanderings took us bye and bye toward the blacksmith shop. It is possible that indirectly I led the way thither, drawn by the strong attraction old associations always have for us. It gave me a strange thrill when I went into the place. The great bellows was going and the bed of coals flared into a white heat. Hammers were ringing on iron with a steady rhythmic beat, but they stopped when we entered. The warden was telling us about the methods of the place and was giving us the names of the men who worked there. Four of them I knew and one a stalwart scoundrel named Carter from the western part of the State had been second to me with the great sledge in my day. Now I divined at once that he was my successor with that massive tool.

I looked about and walked hither and thither while the warden talked, and when I last came back to the little group which he was addressing, I paid heed to his words because he was speaking of things that affected me.

“This has always been one of our least troublesome departments,” he was saying. “I think the physical labor, the regular beat of the hammers and the vivid colors of the fires have a soothing effect upon the men. Of course that seems far-fetched, but I am inclined to believe in it.”

I did not doubt his theory at all. I knew it to be true. Who should know better?

“We also have here something that marks achievement,” continued the warden, “and it is this great sledge. The man who can swing it is the real king of the blacksmith shop. Show them how it is done, Carter.”

One of the men with his tongs put a piece of iron in the coals, and the man at the bellows began to pump. The iron was quickly at a white heat, then it was taken out and held on the anvil. Carter meanwhile had been leaning on the great sledge, a satisfied smirk on his face. I knew the scamp—a twenty year man—thoroughly. He was proud of his strength and would make the best display he could for the Members. Now he lifted the huge hammer and beat with rhythmic stroke upon the iron, spreading it out into a sheet. The shop rang with the regular music of the blows, and the great muscles on Carter’s arms coiled and uncoiled as he swung the heavy tool. When the iron was beaten flat, he let the hammer drop by his side, and leaned upon the handle, ready to receive the applause that quickly came.

Harrison felt approvingly of his muscle.

“I suppose few men can swing that hammer?” he said.

“Not many,” replied Carter, with the calm satisfaction of one who is of the chosen few. “There ain’t more ’n two or three in the whole place who can do it at all. But there was a man once, a real man. Oh! he was a man, I tell you!”

“A man once, a real man! well, who was this man?” asked Harrison, his interest aroused.

I felt a sudden chilling of the blood, because I knew what was coming.

“It was Johnson, Charlie Johnson,” replied Carter. “He’s been gone two or three years now—a burglar he was. He was lighter than me and built more slim, least ways he looked so, but he did have a chest like a brick house. I think he just naturally turned into iron while he was here. You ought to have seen him swing that sledge.”

“What kind of a man was he, this real man?” asked Harrison.

I think it was a chance question merely intended to carry on the conversation—I do not believe he had the remotest suspicion, but my blood chilled again.

“Young fellow,” replied Carter, “tall, good lookin’—he came from Louisville, I think—I kinder liked him, he never did me no harm, an’ I’d like to know where he is now.”

It looked like a startling coincidence, but it was not, the conversation had led to it almost inevitably, and now I turned my face away from Carter, pretending to examine things on the other side of the shop. Yet it was impossible that he should recognize me, especially in such a group. Put a man in a world in which he has never been before, in a world which hitherto has seemed impossible, and a month later his own brother would not know him. As I stood thus, with my face turned away, all my courage came back and with it a certain hardy defiance, incited, perhaps, by what the warden was just then saying. I felt as if a challenge were being made to me, and, as there is a reckless strain in us all I was ready to respond.

“Would any of you gentlemen like to try the hammer, and see how heavy it is?”the warden was asking.

Harrison shrugged his shoulders.

“Thank you, no,” he said, “it is beyond my aspirations.”

Peden seized the handle in a tight grasp and swung the hammer once or twice on the anvil, but it was obviously with an effort and he put it down again, panting.

“It proves to me that I’m a farmer and not a blacksmith,” he said, “I’ve enough. What do you think you could do, Clarke? With a shoulders and chest like yours, you ought to have a lot of strength.”

“Maybe I have,” I said recklessly. “At any rate I’ll try.”

I took off my overcoat and gloves, and seizing the handle, I swung the hammer lightly aloft. The old familiar feel of it, familiar despite time passed, sent a singular thrill through me. For the moment I was companion to Carter, the convict, a brother convict, and I was full of pride because I could wield the great sledge so easily. My muscles tightened and my lungs filled with air, much, I think as those of a mediaeval knight must have done, when he faced a worthy enemy in the tournament.

The iron had been heated again and placed upon the anvil. Crash! I brought the hammer down upon it. And then I whirled it aloft and brought it down again and then again and again and again. The shop rang with the blows and I heard little cries of surprise that pleased me. It was foolish of me and more than reckless, but the human mind will rebel at times against long suppression, and, for the moment, I was in a state in which I did not care. The thoughtless boy was in the ascendant.

The iron was beaten out flat in much less time than Carter had taken. Then I cast the great hammer aside and began carelessly to put on my overcoat and gloves. Harrison gave me a critical examining look.

“Upon my word, Clarke,” he said in his usual vein of light irony. “You are quite a prodigy. I should have thought that no man could do that without long and hard training.”

Carter was staring at me.

“I didn’t think anybody in the world but Charlie Johnson could do it,” he said, and a sudden shiver passed over me. All at once I realized my folly, and the insensate boyish pride in mere muscularity slipped from me.

“I trained hard at college with the clubs and balls,” I said with affected carelessness, and then I turned to leave the shop, expecting the others to follow just as a group always follows any one who pushes himself forward as a leader. I was right, and I quickly had them out of the shop, but as I went I was conscious that Carter’s eyes were following me in a stare of bewilderment. Harrison also gave me two or three more critical looks, but he seemed to be taking a sort of physical measurement of me, instead of nourishing suspicions.

I felt better when I was outside in the clear cold air, though still inwardly bewailing my folly. I was anxious now to leave the penitentiary at once, as the sight of it weighed upon me, but I did not choose to hurry, lest Harrison should conceive a sudden idea that I was anxious to get away from something. Of him alone I had any fear, because he alone was interested in watching me. But he did not revert to the subject and he was the one presently to suggest that we end the visit.

When we left the penitentiary, I returned to my room. Then I felt the shiver of apprehension again, but it quickly passed. How could any one now connect me with Charles Johnson, the convict. The links that would have bound me to him were not only broken, they were absolutely missing. Such a thing as a similar identity would seem to the world impossible in this case.

►   ▲