It came into my head, however, one day, that I might as well do
nothing. The prison fare was indescribably bad, almost as bad as the
jail fare at Easton. We lived upon the poorest possible salt beef
for dinner, varied now and then with plucks and such stuff from the
slaughter houses, with nothing but bread and rye coffee for
breakfast and supper, and mush and molasses perhaps twice a week.
I was daily abused, too, by the Warden, his Deputy, and his keepers.
They looked upon me as an ugly, insubordinate, refractory,
rebellious rascal, who was ready to kill any of them, and, worst of
all, who would not work. I determined to confirm their minds in the
latter supposition, and so one day I threw down my tools and refused
to do another thing.
They dragged me to the dungeon and thrust me in. It was a wretched
dark hole, with a little dirty straw in one corner to lie upon. My
entire food and drink was bread and water. The man who brought it
never spoke to me. His face was the only one I saw during the
livelong day. Day and night were alike to me; I lost the run of
time; but at long intervals, once in eight or ten days, I suppose,
the Deputy came to this hole and asked me if I would come out and
work.
"No, no!" I always answered, "never!" Then I paced the stone floor
in the dark, or lay on my straw. I lay there till my hips were worn
raw. No human being can conceive the agony, the suffering endured in
this dungeon. At last I was nearly blind, and was scarcely able to
stand up.
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