the jacket (the star-rover)- 第19部分

had　just　lived　in　old　France。



So　it　was；　even　as　they　stood　about　me；　that　I　strove　to　eliminate

the　live　portion　of　my　body　from　my　consciousness。　　I　was　in　haste

to　depart；　but　Warden　Atherton's　voice　held　me　back。



〃Is　there　anything　you　want　to　complain　about？〃　he　asked。



Now　I　had　but　one　fear；　namely；　that　they　would　unlace　me；　so　that

it　must　be　understood　that　my　reply　was　not　uttered　in　braggadocio

but　was　meant　to　forestall　any　possible　unlacing。



〃You　might　make　the　jacket　a　little　tighter；〃　I　whispered。　　〃It's

too　loose　for　comfort。　　I　get　lost　in　it。　　Hutchins　is　stupid。　　He

is　also　a　fool。　　He　doesn't　know　the　first　thing　about　lacing　the

jacket。　　Warden；　you　ought　to　put　him　in　charge　of　the　loom…room。

He　is　a　more　profound　master　of　inefficiency　than　the　present

incumbent；　who　is　merely　stupid　without　being　a　fool　as　well。　　Now

get　out；　all　of　you；　unless　you　can　think　of　worse　to　do　to　me。　　In

which　case；　by　all　means　remain。　　I　invite　you　heartily　to　remain；

if　you　think　in　your　feeble　imaginings　that　you　have　devised　fresh

torture　for　me。〃



〃He's　a　wooz；　a　true…blue；　dyed…in…the…wool　wooz；〃　Doctor　Jackson

chanted；　with　the　medico's　delight　in　a　novelty。



〃Standing；　you　ARE　a　wonder；〃　the　Warden　said。　　〃You've　got　an　iron

will；　but　I'll　break　it　as　sure　as　God　made　little　apples。〃



〃And　you've　the　heart　of　a　rabbit；〃　I　retorted。　　〃One…tenth　the

jacketing　I　have　received　in　San　Quentin　would　have　squeezed　your

rabbit　heart　out　of　your　long　ears。〃



Oh；　it　was　a　touch；　that；　for　the　Warden　did　have　unusual　ears。

They　would　have　interested　Lombroso；　I　am　sure。



〃As　for　me；〃　I　went　on；　〃I　laugh　at　you；　and　I　wish　no　worse　fate　to

the　loom…room　than　that　you　should　take　charge　of　it　yourself。　　Why；

you've　got　me　down　and　worked　your　wickedness　on　me；　and　still　I

live　and　laugh　in　your　face。　　Inefficient？　　You　can't　even　kill　me。

Inefficient？　　You　couldn't　kill　a　cornered　rat　with　a　stick　of

dynamiteREAL　dynamite；　and　not　the　sort　you　are　deluded　into

believing　I　have　hidden　away。〃



〃Anything　more？〃　he　demanded；　when　I　had　ceased　from　my　diatribe。



And　into　my　mind　flashed　what　I　had　told　Fortini　when　he　pressed　his

insolence　on　me。



〃Begone；　you　prison　cur；〃　I　said。　　〃Take　your　yapping　from　my　door。〃



It　must　have　been　a　terrible　thing　for　a　man　of　Warden　Atherton's

stripe　to　be　thus　bearded　by　a　helpless　prisoner。　　His　face　whitened

with　rage　and　his　voice　shook　as　he　threatened：



〃By　God；　Standing；　I'll　do　for　you　yet。〃



〃There　is　only　one　thing　you　can　do；〃　I　said。　　〃You　can　tighten　this

distressingly　loose　jacket。　　If　you　won't；　then　get　out。　　And　I

don't　care　if　you　fail　to　come　back　for　a　week　or　for　the　whole　ten

days。〃



And　what　can　even　the　Warden　of　a　great　prison　do　in　reprisal　on　a

prisoner　upon　whom　the　ultimate　reprisal　has　already　been　wreaked？

It　may　be　that　Warden　Atherton　thought　of　some　possible　threat；　for

he　began　to　speak。　　But　my　voice　had　strengthened　with　the　exercise；

and　I　began　to　sing；　〃Sing　cucu；　sing　cucu；　sing　cucu。〃　　And　sing　I

did　until　my　door　clanged　and　the　bolts　and　locks　squeaked　and

grated　fast。







CHAPTER　XII







Now　that　I　had　learned　the　trick　the　way　was　easy。　　And　I　knew　the

way　was　bound　to　become　easier　the　more　I　travelled　it。　　Once

establish　a　line　of　least　resistance；　every　succeeding　journey　along

it　will　find　still　less　resistance。　　And　so；　as　you　shall　see；　my

journeys　from　San　Quentin　life　into　other　lives　were　achieved　almost

automatically　as　time　went　by。



After　Warden　Atherton　and　his　crew　had　left　me　it　was　a　matter　of

minutes　to　will　the　resuscitated　portion　of　my　body　back　into　the

little　death。　　Death　in　life　it　was；　but　it　was　only　the　little

death；　similar　to　the　temporary　death　produced　by　an　anaesthetic。



And　so；　from　all　that　was　sordid　and　vile；　from　brutal　solitary　and

jacket　hell；　from　acquainted　flies　and　sweats　of　darkness　and　the

knuckle…talk　of　the　living　dead；　I　was　away　at　a　bound　into　time　and

space。



Came　the　duration　of　darkness；　and　the　slow…growing　awareness　of

other　things　and　of　another　self。　　First　of　all；　in　this　awareness；

was　dust。　　It　was　in　my　nostrils；　dry　and　acrid。　　It　was　on　my　lips。

It　coated　my　face；　my　hands；　and　especially　was　it　noticeable　on　the

finger…tips　when　touched　by　the　ball　of　my　thumb。



Next　I　was　aware　of　ceaseless　movement。　　All　that　was　about　me

lurched　and　oscillated。　　There　was　jolt　and　jar；　and　I　heard　what　I

knew　as　a　matter　of　course　to　be　the　grind　of　wheels　on　axles　and

the　grate　and　clash　of　iron　tyres　against　rock　and　sand。　　And　there

came　to　me　the　jaded　voices　of　men；　in　curse　and　snarl　of　slow…

plodding；　jaded　animals。



I　opened　my　eyes；　that　were　inflamed　with　dust；　and　immediately

fresh　dust　bit　into　them。　　On　the　coarse　blankets　on　which　I　lay　the

dust　was　half　an　inch　thick。　　Above　me；　through　sifting　dust；　I　saw

an　arched　roof　of　lurching；　swaying　canvas；　and　myriads　of　dust

motes　descended　heavily　in　the　shafts　of　sunshine　that　entered

through　holes　in　the　canvas。



I　was　a　child；　a　boy　of　eight　or　nine；　and　I　was　weary；　as　was　the

woman；　dusty…visaged　and　haggard；　who　sat　up　beside　me　and　soothed　a

crying　babe　in　her　arms。　　She　was　my　mother；　that　I　knew　as　a　matter

of　course；　just　as　I　knew；　when　I　glanced　along　the　canvas　tunnel　of

the　wagon…top；　that　the　shoulders　of　the　man　on　the　driver's　seat

were　the　shoulders　of　my　father。



When　I　started　to　crawl　along　the　packed　gear　with　which　the　wagon

was　laden　my　mother　said　in　a　tired　and　querulous　voice；　〃Can't　you

ever　be　still　a　minute；　Jesse？〃



That　was　my　name；　Jesse。　　I　did　not　know　my　surname；　though　I　heard

my　mother　call　my　father　John。　　I　have　a　dim　recollection　of

hearing；　at　one　time　or　another；　the　other　men　address　my　father　as

Captain。　　I　knew　that　he　was　the　leader　of　this　company；　and　that

his　orders　were　obeyed　by　all。



I　crawled　out　through　the　opening　in　the　canvas　and　sat　down　beside

my　father　on　the　seat。　　The　air　was　stifling　with　the　dust　that　rose

from　the　wagons　and　the　many　hoofs　of　the　animals。　　So　thick　was　the

dust　that　it　was　like　mist　or　fog　in　the　air；　and　the　low　sun　shone

through　it　dimly　and　with　a　bloody　light。



Not　alone　was　the　light　of　this　setting　sun　ominous；　but　everything

about　me　seemed　ominousthe　landscape；　my　father's　face；　the　fret

of　the　babe　in　my　mother's　arms　that　she　could　not　still；　the　six

horses　my　father　drove　that　had　continually　to　be　urged　and　that

were　without　any　sign　of　colour；　so　heavily　had　the　dust　settled　on

them。



The　landscape　was　an　aching；　eye…hurting　desolation。　　Low　hills

stretched　endlessly　away　on　every　hand。　　Here　and　there　only　on

their　slopes　were　occasional　scrub　growths　of　heat…parched　brush。

For　the　most　part　the　surface　of　the　hills　was　naked…dry　and

composed　of　sand　and　rock。　　Our　way　followed　the　sand…bottoms

between　the　hills。　　And　the　sand…bottoms　were　bare；　save　for　spots

of　scrub；　with　here　and　there　short　tufts　of　dry　and　withered　grass。

Water　there　was　none；　nor　sign　of　water；　except　for　washed　gullies

that　told　of　ancient　and　torrential　rains。



My　father　was　the　only　one　who　had　horses　to　his　wagon。　　The　wagons

went　in　single　file；　and　as　the　train　wound　and　curved　I　saw　that

the　other　wagons　were　drawn　by　oxen。　　Three　or　four　yoke　of　oxen

strained　and　pulled　weakly　at　each　wagon；　and　beside　them；　in　the

deep　sand；　walked　men　with　ox…goads；　who　prodded　the　unwilling

beasts　along。　　On　a　curve　I　counted　the　wagons　ahead　and　behind。　　I

knew　that　there　were　forty　of　them；　including　our　own；　for　often　I

had　counted　them　before。　　And　as　I　counted　them　now；　as　a　child　will

to　while　away　tedium；　they　were　all　there；　forty　of　them；　all

canvas…topped；　big　and　massive；　crudely　fashioned；　pitching　and

lurching；　grinding　and　jarring　over　sand　and　sage…brush　and　rock。



To　right　and　left　of　us；　scattered　along　the　train；　rode　a　dozen　or

fifteen　men　and　youths　on　horses。　　Across　their　pommels　were　long…

barrelled　rifles。　　Whenever　any　of　them　drew　near　to　our　wagon　I

could　see　that　their　faces；　under　the　dust；　were　drawn　and　anxious

like　my　father's。　　And　my　father；　like　them；　had　a　long…barrelled

rifle　close　to　hand　as　he　drove。



Also；　to　one　side；　limped　a　score　or　more　of　foot…sore；　yoke…galled；

skeleton　oxen；　that　ever　paused　to　nip　at　the　occasional　tufts　of

withered　grass；　and　that　ever　were　prodded　on　by　the　tired…faced

youths　who　herded　them。　　Sometimes　one　or　another　of　these　oxen

would　pause　and　low；　and　such　lowing　seemed　as　ominous　as　all　else

about　me。



Far；　far　away　I　have　a　memory　of　having　lived；　a　smaller　lad；　by　the

tree…lined　banks　of　a　stream。　　And　as　the　wagon　jolts　along；　and　I

sway　on　the　seat　with　my　father；　I　continually　return　and　dwell　upon

that　pleasant　water　flowing　between　the　trees。　　I　have　a　sense　that

for　an　interminable　period　I　have　lived　in　a　wagon　and　travelled　on；

ever　on；　with　this　present　company。



But　strongest　of　all　upon　me　is　what　is　strong　upon　all　the　company；

namely；　a　sense　of　drifting　to　doom。　　Our　way　was　like　a　funeral

march。　　Never　did　a　laugh　arise。　　Never　did　I　hear　a　happy　tone　of

voice。　　Neither　peace　nor　ease　marched　with　us。　　The　faces　of　the

men　and　youths　who　outrode　the　train　were　grim；　set；　hopeless。　　And

as　we　toiled　through　the　lurid　dust　of　sunset　often　I　scanned　my

father's　face　in　vain　quest　of　some　message　of　cheer。　　I　will　not

say　that　my　father's　face；　in　all　its　dusty　haggardness；　was

hopeless。　　It　was　dogged；　and　oh！　so　grim　and　anxious；　most　anxious。



A　thrill　seemed　to　run　along　the　train。　　My　father's　head　went　up。

So　did　mine。　　And　our　horses　raised　their　weary　heads；　scented　the

air　with　long…drawn　snorts；　and　for　the　nonce　pulled　willingly。　　The

horses　of　the　outriders　quickened　their　pace。　　And　as　for　the　herd

of　sc