I am, dear Sir, faithfully yours, WALTER BATES, Esq. WARD CHIPMAN.”
Wednesday, the 16th, we entered the prison and found that he had been employed in breaking the plaster off the partition wall with his chains, and broken one of the padlocks, and appeared to have been loose; seemed very vicious, and said “he would burn and destroy the building—would make it smoke before he left it” and that we would see it smoke. I then prepared a pair of steel fetters, case hardened, about 10 inches long, which we put on his legs, with a chain from the middle, 7 feet long, which we stapled to the floor; we also put an iron collar about his neck, with a chain about 8 feet long, stapled also to the floor in a direction opposite to the other; and also a chain from his fetters to the neck collar, with handcuffs bolted to the middle of his chain in such a manner as to prevent his hands from reaching his head and feet when standing, leaving it just possible for him to feed himself when sitting.
All these irons and chains he received without discovering the least concern or regard. When the blacksmith had finished riveting the whole, I said to him, “Now, Smith, I would advise you to be quiet after this, or if you are not you will next have an iron band put round your body and stapled fast down to the floor.” He very calmly replied, “Old man, if you are not satisfied, you may put it on now. I do not regard it, if you will let me have my hands loose you may put on as much iron as you please. I care not for your iron.” In this situation we left him, loaded with irons, the entire weight of which was forty-six pounds, and without anything to sit or lie upon but the naked floor.
Although he was thus situated and in an entire dungeon, he appeared not in the least humbled; but became more troublesome and noisy, and exceedingly vicious against the gaoler. Despair and madness seemed now to seize him, and raving and roaring would unite with the utterance of prayers and portions of the Scriptures. With a tremendous voice he would cry out, “Oh you cruel devils—you murderers—you man-slayers—you tormentors of man? How I burn to be revenged; help, help, help me; Lord help me to be revenged of those devils; help me that I might tear up this place, that I may turn it upside down, that there may not be one stick or stone of it left. My hair shall not be shorn, nor my nails cut, till I grow as strong as Sampson, then will I be revenged of all my enemies. Help, help, O Lord help me to destroy these tormentors, murderers of man, tormenting me in chains and darkness;” shouting, “darkness, darkness, O darkness—not light to read the Word of God,—not one word of comfort from any. All is,—you rogue, you thief, you villain,—you deserve to be hanged. No pity, not one word of consolation,—all darkness, all trouble;” singing, “trouble, trouble, trouble; O God help me, and have mercy upon me; I fear there is no mercy for me;—yes, there is mercy, it is in Jesus, whose arms stand open to receive; but how shall I dare to look at Him whom I have offended.”