The deputy who kept the jail was
cruel and malignant, and took delight in torturing his prisoners. He
would come in sometimes under pretence of looking at my irons to see
if they were safe, and would twist and turn them about so that I
suffered intolerable pain, and blood flowed from my wounds made by
these cruel irons. Such abuse as he could give with his tongue he
dispensed freely. Of course he was a coward, and he never dared to
come into one of the prisoner's rooms unless he was armed. This is a
faithful photograph of the interior of the jail at Easton, Penn., as
it was a few years ago; there may have been some improvement since
that time; for the sake of humanity, I hope there has been.
After I had been in this jail about six weeks, and had become well
acquainted with my room-mates, I communicated to them one day, the
result of my observation:
"There," said I, showing them a certain place in the wall, "is a
loose stone that with a little labor can be lifted out, and it will
leave a hole large enough for us to get out of and go where we
like."
Examination elicited a unanimous verdict in favor of making the
attempt. With no tools but a case knife we dug out the mortar on all
sides of the stone doing the work by turns and covering the stone by
hanging up an old blanket-which excited no suspicion, as it was at
the head of one of the iron bedsteads--whenever the Deputy or any of
his men were likely to visit us. In twelve days we completed the
work, and could lift out the stone.
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