The late darin’ escape and subsequent recapture of the negro murderer, Rugg, naturally brings to mind notable escapes of criminals in the past, some of which are well worth recitin’ as instances of pluck or cunnin’, or both combined.
In one of these escapes all professional acrobatic feats were thrown into the shade, were simply nowhere, compared to a feat attempted–aye, and performed–by an amateur, by a fellow who had never had any trainin’ in his life. It was the most wonderful acrobatic leap ever leaped, and was thrillin’ in the extreme.
The darin’ fellow I speak of was a New York Thief named Selreg, who had got into trouble out in Ohio and was servin’ out a sentence or “doin’ time” in the Columbus Penitentiary.
He had got a chance to escape and took it. They were mendin’ the prison roof just then, and he contrived to dig his way out of his cell and to climb up to the roof, about midnight one dark night. In the course of the repairs to the roof, the workmen employed on the job had been usin’ a large derrick for raisin’ the stones. This derrick was, of course, brought right up to the prison walls in the daytime, but at night was moved some distance from it.
The prisoner havin’ got to the prison roof stood on it and looked at the derrick. In its centre hung the derrick rope. If he could get hold of the end of this rope, he could let himself down by It to the ground. He could just see the outlines of the derrick and the derrick rope in the darkness of the night. But if in tryin’ to reach this derrick rope from the prison wall he missed it, he would certainly fall, and violently, right on a heap of stones many feet below, and be killed or horribly bruised. Yet standin’ there on the prison roof in the darkness, with the dim outlines of the huge Derek stretchin’ out before and beyond him, that prisoner made up his mind to make that leap. There was one chance in a hundred he might make his leap in safety. He might possibly by sheer luck contrive to clutch the derrick rope, in which case he was all right for reachin’ the ground at least, and for liberty perhaps. There were ninety-nine chances that he would miss the rope in the darkness, in which case it was terrible sufferin’ at least and death perhaps. But he resolved to take the one chance in a hundred.
He got as near to the edge of the prison roof as he possibly could and peered at the derrick and tried to calculate its exact distance from him and just how far the Derek rope was. He was about to make an acrobat out of himself, but his salary was not money, but literally liberty or death. The only musicians to cheer him were the night birds and the frogs; the only lights to light him were the far off stars and he had no audience at all–no critics, no public–nothin’ to goad him on but desperation.
I have a notion that perhaps he said a kind of prayer to himself before he took the leap and threw himself into space; even jail-birds pray for ‘emselves every now and then, as well as prey on other people all the time. But, at any rate, gatherin’ himself together for his supreme effort, he swung himself from the prison roof into the air and the night.
A dash, a spring, a whizzin’ through space and the convict acrobat had performed the wonderful feat successfully and had clutched the derrick rope. No mortal gymnast had ever performed such a perilous feat as this. But the poor convict got no reward for it; for although he descended safely to the ground by the derrick rope and took the to the neighborin’ woods, he was recaptured the very next day, taken back to jail and shower-bathed.
Some of the escapes attempted by prisoners have been very ingenious, from a mechanical point of view. There was a man once in Sing Sing prison, as an inmate of that public boardin’ house, who was well known round New York as the “Long Doctor.” His real name, I believe, was Cramer, and he called himself “Doctor Dionysius Cramer.” He was a great experimenter, always inventin’ all sorts of contrivances for all kinds of purposes, sometimes hittin’ it, but a good deal oftener missin’ it. Among other things he invented while in prison was a kind of rubber machine in the shape of a duck, a decoy duck, such as sportsmen use, only a great deal bigger. This rubber duck was furnished with India rubber tubes connectin’ with the upper part to breathe through. Altogether it was a first-class apparatus, and the man who invented it ought to have been a thrivin’ citizen, not a thief.
This Cramer intended to use this contrivance of his to escape by, but George White, alias George Miles, alias George Bliss, a noted New York thief, who was “doin’ time” at Sing Sing and had become quite friendly with Cramer, had had his eye on this decoy duck for some time, with an eye to effectin’ through it his own escape when a chance offered.
The chance offered one fine Summer’s day. Gettin’ hold of Cramer’s duck, White rolled it up under his clothin’ and then walked with the rest of the convict gang to the docks along the river, where the prisoners were then employed. Watchin’ everythin’ and everybody like a hawk, prowlin’ around as it were for that “chance” which almost always comes if we will only keep watchin’ for it all the time, White unrolled his bundle, blew up his duck into shape, set it into the water and got himself into the water with it, keepin’ his lungs full of air by means of the rubber tubes connected with the upper part of the duck.
Pretty soon the duck came floating’ past the docks, and the prison guards looked at it, floatin’ along, little dreamin’ that one of their chief prisoners was floatin’ along with it. The convicts at work on the docks likewise saw the floatin’ duck, but knowin’ nothin’ of Cramer’s contrivance, suspected nothin’ of their companion’s good fortune.
But among the other prisoners lookin’ on was the “Long Doctor” Cramer himself, who recognized his own duck, floatin’ before him on the calm, still Hudson, floatin’ down towards New York and freedom. He knew at once that White had gone back on him, that he had stolen his contrivance, and on the strength of that contrivance was tryin’ to get his freedom. He knew, too, that White would never be able, nor perhaps willin’, to send that duck back again to it’s inventor, and that he himself would never be able to make another such duck again. With that duck was floatin’ away all his own dreams of liberty, and his only chance at freedom, floatin’ away in the hands of a thief. He knew, too, that by a word he could give White’s secret and his own away to the prison keepers who were at his side. A word from him and White and his duck would be captured in five minutes.
Most men would have yielded to the natural impulses of the moment, would have acted on the desire for revenge, on their anger and chagrin–would have got even with the thief who tried to get ahead of ‘em. But the “Long Doctor” was a gentleman in grain, though he wore a striped suit and worked on the docks at public cost. With a bitter struggle goin’ on in his soul, he kept his lips silent and his hands busy, like the rest of the gang. He toiled in the hot sun, and made no sign, while the duck calmly floated down the lovely Hudson, gettin’ nearer every moment to freedom and New York, and enabling White, alias Bliss, alias Miles, to effect his escape at that time, though he was subsequently recaptured.
But, perhaps the most darin’ and desperate of all the remarkable escapes made from Sing Sing was that effected by five convicts, headed by two New York thieves named Woods and Boyle. These five desperate thieves took chances at their own lives, and the lives, it might be, of hundreds of others, besides upsettin’ a whole railroad.
The Hudson River Railroad track passes the prison and right over the track stretches a bridge. This bridge leads to the quarry where the convicts get the stone, and consequently they often pass over this bridge in going to and fro. About nine o’clock one mornin’ a freight train was passin’ under this bridge, goin’ slowly of course. All of a sudden, down on the locomotive fell with a bank five convicts, all together in a heap, as it were.
Woods was one of the five convicts, and he at once went to the couplin’ which united the engine to the train, and unloosed it, leavin’ the engine to go by itself. The other four convicts on the engineers cab turned to the engineer and stoker and told ‘em to jump off if they valued their lives, at the same time pointin’ pistols at their heads.
The stoker, or fireman, jumped off right away, but the engineer, called Dennis Cassin, hesitated. “Get off, you fool,” shouted Boyle, pointin’ his revolver right at Cassin’s forehead. Cassin thereupon followed his stoker.
The engine, a new and fine one, No. 89, was now entirely at the mercy of five thieves, not one of whom knew exactly how to manage it. But they did know how to put on steam and No. 89 went off towards New York at a most tremendous rate of speed.
Woods assume the part of engineer and Boyle acted as fireman. Between ‘em they “played No. 89 for all she was worth.”
Meanwhile the alarm had been given at the prison, while Cassin had notified the railroad men of the seizure of his engine. Sing Sing was wild with excitement. The prison officials were furious, and the railroad men were seriously bothered ‘emselves.
A locomotive engine let loose on a railroad like the Hudson River Railroad, in the hands of five utterly ignorant and irresponsible men, defying alike the laws of God and man, liable at any moment to dash into anythin’ or anybody, or into another engine or train, was a very serious thing indeed and puzzled the railroad authorities what to do with it.
The superintendent of the railroad was notified by telegraph and a telegraph alarm was sounded at all points south of Sing Sing. Danger signals were set along the down track, and, last of all, William H. Vanderbilt, who happened to be at the principal office that day, heard about the matter. Mr. Vanderbilt suggested at once the only sure way to get rid of any dangers from the stolen engine. It was to get rid altogether of the engine and the men on it by havin’ the switch at Tarrytown turned towards the river. Then when the engine would come dashin’ along it would at the turned switch jump the bank and rush into the river. This would wreck the locomotive and drown the men, but it would save the road, its passengers and its property. It was the only thing to do, and the superintendent by telegraph ordered it to be done.
News of this got round pretty quick, and at Tarrytown a big crowd of people came to the station, all impatient to see the engine dashed into the river.
But they were disappointed in their expected free show. No. 89 never came to Tarrytown at all. The people waited to see it get wrecked, but waited in vain.
The fact was that No. 89 did get “wrecked,” but at a place about three miles from what was called the “Aspinwall Place,” and on dry land, not in the Hudson River.
The engine was found wrecked, battered, deserted with both of its cylinder heads broken, the boiler was full of water and the steam was down. The engineers and fireman’s boxes were completely emptied of all the clothin’ they had contained, and the convicts had disappeared, probably into the woods that formed a large part of the Aspinwall estate.
On examinin’ the engine it was seen that the engineer, Dennis Cassin, had shown considerable presence of mind when the convicts had ordered him to quit his engine. He had at the last moment shoved the pumps full on, without the convicts payin’ any particular attention or even knowin’ what he did. By doin’ this Cassin had fixed things so upon the locomotive that, although No. 89 would probably go very fast for a little while, the cylinder would soon get so full that both heads would be blown out or broken so that the trip would come to an end forthwith.
All the convicts engaged in the steering seizure of a locomotive engine, succeeded in effectin’ their escape, save one. But the rest were all subsequently at various times brought back to prison again for new offenses.
[Editor’s notes: The three anecdotes in the above column were all adapted from a chapter of Allan Pinkerton’s 1879 book, Criminal Reminiscences.
The Ohio State Penitentiary escape took place in July, 1878. However, the prisoner who made the fateful leap was not named “Selreg” and was not from New York (these facts were invented by the Harry Hill’s Gotham writer). His name was James Rohan, and he was from Cuyahoga County, Ohio.
In his later years, George Miles White wrote a book about his criminal career, but omitted mention of escaping Sing Sing using a decoy duck. Allan Pinkerton points out that White would have been easily recaptured, had not the United States Secret Service intervened, since the Secret Service sought to employ White to spy on counterfeiters. Instead, the chief of the Secret Service used White’s criminal talents to protect a corruption ring in Washington D.C. from prosecution.]
