So fierce was my desire to avoid capture, so desperate was my fear of it, that I plunged headlong into dense bushes and crawled through them on hands and knees. There was no time for any thought except toward the goal of getting away from Westborough and into a normal environment. Quickly I became covered with scratches, bruises and insect bites and the palms of my hands carried deeply embedded splinters. None of these discomforts seemed to penetrate my consciousness. No amount of pain or discomfort seemed too great a price to pay.
After traveling a distance of two or three hundred yards from the road into this wooded quagmire—in what might have been only twenty-five or thirty minutes but what seemed like hours—I arrived at an area of dense undergrowth. I concluded that I had reached a spot even a hunting dog would find inaccessible. I dug a little tunnel beneath an area heavily overgrown with bushes and lay there quietly for two hours, heedless of the hundreds of insects that attacked face, neck, hands, wrists and ankles and even bit me through the thin coverings of trousers, shirts and socks.
After dark, the many birds stopped singing and all became very still. I had heard human voices from a distance but these had disappeared. All was quiet now, exceedingly quiet, and I felt safe in continuing my journey. Only the early shades of darkness had fallen and I could still see well enough to find my way along without making too much noise. After getting beyond the tangled mass of dead trees, bushes, and the soft mushy ground, I came upon a more normal section of forestland with less dead trees and branches and with much firmer ground.
Travel then became faster, but every time I had traveled a short distance, I stopped and listened to make sure that I could not detect other footsteps nearby. The many small dead branches beneath my feet made loud crackling sounds and shut out all sounds coming from greater distances. It was no longer necessary to run. I walked slowly and without undue fatigue. For several miles I continued to stop every few paces, looking around to detect any moving object and listening for footsteps. My ears were strained to catch and interpret every sound.
I passed through the woods and reached an irrigation ditch flanked on each side by a growth of very high and tough sort of grass. This clearing had been cut through the forest region and it could be followed to the hills beyond the woods and toward Boston. By following the ditch I made faster progress, but every time my route carried me toward a house or even in the vicinity of a barking dog, I would change my direction and go back into the woods, taking wide turns to avoid any inhabited area. Finally I reached the hilly region. Leaving the irregular ditch and its high grass behind, I climbed over a fence at the foot of the first hill and slowly walked to the top, pulling myself along by holding on to small tree trunks and to the shrubbery.
Upon reaching the top of the first hill I felt once again very tired and, just before emerging from the trees, I lay down to rest. It was quite dark now, but a full, bright moon was coming up and the sky was filled with stars. As I lay there with the cool breezes blowing across my face and my eyes fixed upon the stars, I felt free again and happy. The happiness was a simple, animal-like, physical sensation, but it was not devoid of the consciousness of the many difficulties and uncertainties that lay ahead. Nor could I forget the haunting memories of nearly five months of almost intolerable suffering, the revocation of my license to practice and other realities. Yet here on the hillside I was happy in that simple, animal way; strangely happy just to be resting, cool and free of hospital barriers.
After a while I rose again and moved on. Travel was over stony ground but with wide areas of soft turf between the stones. It was possible to walk for a great distance at a good steady pace, guided by moonlight. I came to a rather high hillside, heavily overgrown with evergreen trees. When I reached the top, I looked back toward Westborough and thought I saw some lights flashing in the region of the swampy woodland where I had been hiding. I traveled over the hill and down on the opposite side which was extremely stony. After seeing lights in the woods, I began nervously to travel a little faster, even though the lights had been quite far away. As I came down the hill, I stumbled and fell several times. Once I jumped off the edge of a large rock and fell a distance of six to eight feet among some smaller rocks where I twisted one ankle but did not sprain it.
In passing through this section—heavily covered with small evergreen trees and stones of many sizes—my trousers became even more torn than was already the case. I began to experience extreme thirst and became more uncomfortable in my desire for water. At this point, I reached the bottom of the hill and came upon a small river sparkling in the moonlight. Trees grew close to the bank of the river but stopped for a path that followed the river. At the edge of the river, I lay face down upon a large, flat stone and drank from the cool, clear water using my folded hands as a cup. I followed this river for a long distance, drinking more water occasionally.
After this I followed the railroad track that left the course of the river and passed through a countryside of fields, woods, low hills, all illuminated by the bright moonlight and all very beautiful. I had had very little exercise for four and a half months and had become soft and decidedly out of condition. At this time it must have been 10 p.m. or 11 p.m. and I was beginning to feel thirst again and great fatigue. The sounds of a train became audible ahead of me and in a few minutes the strong headlight of the train engine became visible. The railway track was built at the top of a high embankment. As the train came nearer, I ran down the embankment, climbed through a barbed-wire fence and lay face down in some high grass until the train had passed slowly by.
A few feet away, surrounded on one side by trees, there was a shallow pond in which many frogs were croaking their moonlight songs. I removed my coat and laid it to one side, rolled up my sleeves and lay down by the edge of the pond. In my pocket were several letters. The envelope from one of these was easily converted into a paper cup and from this I drank greedily. The frogs were very near now and they croaked noisily, evidently not disturbed by my presence. After a while I felt cooler and my thirst was almost completely satisfied. I drew away from the edge of the pond and lay in the high grass with my head on my coat and my eyes finding comfort in the stars above. I might have slept but for the swarms of insects which gathered. I covered my face with a handkerchief and lay my coat across my chest with my hands and wrists beneath it, but it did not seem to make much difference. Droves of mosquitoes and other insects found their ways into my ears, neck and ankles, inflicting their painful effects.
After a few minutes I wandered on, crossing through fields until I came upon a lonely road. Consistently, I adhered to the roadside fence and got well away from the road itself. With each passing car I felt a recurrent spasm of fear. In these instances, I merely lay face down in the ditch at the side of the road. My brown suit probably blended well with the general plan of camouflage and wasn’t very noticeable in the moonlight. Had I been noticed by a state trooper cruising around, the police would surely have questioned me. Already I had made up a story to cover my situation, including the absence of a draft card and other forms of identification. I had intended to say that I was visiting friends in Worcester, that we had been at a party, that I had left my wallet in Worcester, that my friends had driven away as a joke when I got out of the car to empty my bladder. It was a tall story but I couldn’t think of any other to explain my peculiar situation. If the police had driven me to Worcester, I had planned to have them leave me at the home of my friend Benjamin Alton and bluff my way out as best I could in the presence of the police, later explaining everything to Ben.
By now it was around midnight. I carried on. I was not at all familiar with the country in which I was traveling and I judged the direction of travel purely by an instinctive feeling as to whether it carried me farther and farther away from Westborough. I didn’t greatly care whether I traveled north, east, south or west, so long as I left Westborough as far behind as possible. I was going to walk all night long and would conceal myself if necessary during the day. I had two doll
ars for a little food and some phone calls.
For one or two hours I traveled chiefly along a highway. The number of the highway meant nothing to me but I felt sure it led away from Westborough, either north or west. When possible I stayed off the highway itself, traveling through fields and just within the margin of wooded sections. I wasted a great deal of time wandering off the road in this way, but the highway was fairly well-traveled in spite of the hour of the night and it was a relief to get off the road and not to be compelled to duck away and hide from every passing automobile. After about twenty minutes the highway became clear of automobiles again and I set out to pass through the next town as quickly as possible. It was getting gradually lighter but dawn had not yet come. I came to some crossroads and looking up at a signpost I read these words: two miles to Westborough. At first I felt discouraged and blamed myself for being so stupid as to travel all night in a circle and end up so near the starting point, but later I grew assured at the idea and laughed to myself as I thought, “Well, at least this is the last place they would ever think of finding me.”
For a mile or so I followed the road to Westborough, thinking that it would lead to the turnpike and that there I could pick up a ride to Worcester, but I changed my mind and turned back again, traveling over rocky hills and pasture land in order to be away from the Westborough road. As dawn came on Sunday morning, I passed through some small towns and came upon the old Boston Post Road and followed this for some distance. I stopped at some lodging houses thinking I might rent a room, bathe and get some sleep, but it was still quite early and no one would answer the front door bell.
I wandered into a dairy and watched the early morning milking of the cows. Then I came to a farmhouse just off the right side of the road. Walking into the barn, I was first welcomed by a friendly dog chained to his kennel inside, and then by a fine looking, cheerful farmer who proved to be most friendly.
“May I use your telephone?” I inquired.
“I’d be glad to have you use the telephone,” he replied. “Just go into the house and you’ll find it in the dining room next to the kitchen.”
I thanked the farmer and went into the house. His wife was evidently upstairs asleep or dressing.
As I passed a mirror in the hallway, I took a good look at myself and wondered why the farmer had been so friendly. My face was covered with dried mud and my white shirt was conspicuously filthy. My hair was tousled and tangled; my suit was dirty, torn in many places, and the trouser legs were baggy. My shoes were caked with dirt and filth of many types. Stopping at the kitchen sink, I washed my face and combed my hair and straightened myself up as best I could. Then I went into the dining room and sat down to telephone. I was able to reach Larry Barnett who had done some work for me in the past. Many times he had trucked my horses around to various hunt clubs and shows. I reasoned that he probably knew nothing of my illness and might be willing to help. Evidently Larry was asleep. The telephone rang for a long time before he answered.
“Hello,” said Larry sleepily and in a tone of evident annoyance.
“Sorry to wake you up, Larry,” I said. “This is Perry Baird.”
“Oh, hello, Doc.”
“Say Larry, can you do some driving for me today?”
All arrangements were then completed for Larry to drive me for eight to ten hours in his car. It was agreed that I would pay $30 for the day’s work. I gave Larry careful directions in regard to how to reach me. For the next hour, the farmer’s family gathered for breakfast and they made me join them. I then took a short nap, paid for the phone calls and was sitting on the grass when Larry drove up. By this time, I had decided that my next destination would be Springfield.
My purpose in going to Springfield was to see my old friend, Leonard “Andy” Anderson, to ask him to help me. I knew that, if he were in town, Andy would do so without hesitation. We set out for Springfield without telephoning and without worrying. I reasoned that Springfield would be a good direction in which to travel and, even if Andy were on vacation, I would at least be far enough away from Boston to reduce greatly the possibility of arrest. We made good time, leaving the farmhouse at about 9 a.m. and arriving in Springfield in about two and a half hours.
We stopped in front of Andy’s house and Larry went to the door and rang the bell. Mrs. Anderson appeared at the door.
“Hello, Perry, come on in,” she called out.
“I’d love to but my appearance is terrible,” I replied. “Are you sure you won’t mind?”
“I’ve been working in the yard and I’m in old clothes,” she said. “Come on in. Andy has gone swimming with the children but he’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Larry was like an angel from heaven. He came back to the car and we made final business arrangements. We were good friends and he was willing to let me send him a check after reaching Dallas. He loaned me five dollars and let me borrow a pair of dark glasses. Just before driving away, Larry extended his hand and closed it upon mine in a warm, firm clasp of friendship. He looked straight at me and, from his facial expression, I could tell that he had some general idea of the problems that I’d had to face.
“Take good care of yourself, Doc,” were his parting words.
Andy and his wife were the next angels to come along. As I walked in the front door, Mrs. Anderson greeted me most warmly. We talked for a few minutes and she then suggested that I might like to take a bath while waiting for Andy to return. She took me to the guest room and showed me how to find the bathroom. She departed for a few minutes and then presently reappeared with a fresh suit of clothes, a clean shirt and some socks. It took quite a long time to take a thorough shower and to cleanse the tub afterwards. I cannot remember ever having been so dirty in my life. It felt good to get into clean clothes and once again to make a decent appearance. A tie that I had folded up and placed in my coat pocket had remained in good condition. My attire was quite satisfactory except for the absence of underwear. Nevertheless, I felt quite comfortable.
Mrs. Anderson and I sat and talked for a little while and soon thereafter Andy returned with the children. He was equally as cordial as his wife. I gave him a rather vague explanation about my clothes and so on, but he made things very easy by not asking any questions whatsoever. He brought out some very good Bourbon whiskey and mixed one good strong drink for each of us. We conversed amiably about his practice in Springfield, various aspects of dermatology and many other subjects of mutual interest. I told him of my ambition to become a writer and of the book I was engaged in writing. He offered considerable encouragement regarding the book and urged me to go ahead and submit the manuscript for publication without waiting too long to bring it to completion. He felt that I should not expect my first book to measure up to my own best ideals.
AFTER a delicious Sunday dinner, Andy and I drove to a nearby drugstore to buy some ice cream for dessert. On the way back, Andy turned to me.
“May I loan you some money?” he asked.
“That was most thoughtful of you, Andy,” I replied. “I would appreciate it if you would either loan me some money or else cash a check for me.”
I was indeed grateful to Andy for volunteering to loan me money. It was absolutely necessary for me to borrow some money from him and I hated to approach the subject. By opening the subject as he did, he saved me extreme embarrassment.
Andy’s household was a happy, wholesome affair. The children frolicked around and one of them showed off some of her little tricks and did very well. I played a few simple tunes on the piano for them. They made me play one of them several times. Andy and I sat down in his study and talked about trains going west. He succeeded in getting me a Pullman reservation on a train leaving for Chicago at 4 p.m. I had arrived in Springfield toward the end of the morning, a veritable tramp, flat broke and covered with dirt. A few short hours later, I was immaculately dressed; I had ample cash in my pockets and a ticket to Chicago. Things were happening so fast, going so smoothly, that the whole experience seemed more
like a dream than reality.
The train for Chicago was made up in Boston and I rather expected to encounter someone I recognized. There were a few familiar faces, but no one I felt sure that I knew. At about 7 p.m. I went into the dining car and was seated at a table across from the first pretty girl I had seen since leaving Baldpate, and I ordered the second good meal I’d tasted since leaving Baldpate. I sat and ate slowly, letting my thoughts wander, not dwelling upon the many problems I knew lay ahead, thinking mostly of the pleasant sides of life. As I sat at the window watching the trees, hills and houses run by, I felt wave after wave of happiness, based upon a sense of freedom, a sense of escape, the knowledge that Westborough was left far behind and that the danger of being captured would be largely gone by the time I left New York State, in fact by the time of awakening on the following morning.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
UPON arriving in Chicago I realized that I had the problem of finding a hotel room and of being able to get accommodations without a draft card or other forms of identification. The best plan seemed to involve calling a personal friend and asking him to put me up in some clubhouse or else give me an introduction to a hotel. By chance I had a good friend practicing psychiatry in Chicago. About ten o’clock on Monday morning, July 10, I stepped into a telephone booth and called Dr. Tom Fentress. He was most cordial and offered to see me immediately. I launched directly into an explanation of my problems. I left out the whole story of my stay in Westborough, my escape and my general predicament in Boston. I merely explained to him in general terms that I need his help in obtaining hotel accommodations in Chicago because I had no draft card. I explained that I had had episodes of manic-depressive insanity and that I was involved in litigation connected with my divorce, that I needed a letter testifying that my health was normal and that I hoped he felt my health was normal and that he could give me such a letter.
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