This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler
[Picture: Volume Cover]
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[Picture: Crowd scene—Horse-drawn Prison Van]
EIGHTEEN MONTHS’
IMPRISONMENT
(WITH A REMISSION)
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BY
D— S—
LATE CAPTAIN — REGT.
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_ILLUSTRATED BY WALLIS MACKAY_
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LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS
BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL
NEW YORK: 9 LAFAYETTE PLACE
1883
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LONDON
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
MY ARREST 1
CHAPTER II
THE HOUSE OF DETENTION 12
CHAPTER III
“SETTLING DOWN” 20
CHAPTER IV
“PRISON FARE” 31
CHAPTER V
GEORGINA 41
CHAPTER VI
BOW STREET 48
CHAPTER VII
NEWGATE 54
CHAPTER VIII
THE SCAFFOLD 67
CHAPTER IX
A PRIVATE EXECUTION 75
CHAPTER X
“NEWGATE ETIQUETTE” 88
CHAPTER XI
THE TITLED CONVICT 98
CHAPTER XII
THE CENTRAL CRIMINAL COURT 113
CHAPTER XIII
“CORPULENCY” 122
CHAPTER XIV
COLDBATH FIELDS 138
CHAPTER XV
“OAKUM” LET US SING 159
CHAPTER XVI
THE VISITING JUSTICES 191
CHAPTER XVII
PRISON TRADES 203
CHAPTER XVIII
THE OUTER WORLD 218
CHAPTER XIX
THE CONVALESCENT WARD 228
CHAPTER XX
CRIMINAL LUNATICS 248
CHAPTER XXI
PRISON CELEBRITIES 256
CHAPTER XXII
THE TREAD-WHEEL 270
CHAPTER XXIII
GARDENING 282
CHAPTER XXIV
THE CHURCH MILITANT IN PRISON 293
CHAPTER XXV
THE HOSPITAL DEAD-HOUSE 310
CHAPTER XXVI
BURGLARS “I HAVE MET” 335
CHAPTER XXVII
“JUSTICE TEMPERED WITH MERCY” 351
CHAPTER XXVIII
RETROSPECT 361
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
1.—“BLACK MARIA” _Frontispiece_.
2.—A CHEERFUL GROUP 60
3.—“SHOULD OLD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT?” 63
4.—THE EFFECTS OF A WARM BATH AT “COLDBATH” 141
5.—A CELL, 8 A.M. 161
6.—A CELL, 8 P.M. 178
7. —A TYPICAL TURNKEY 205
(_a_) _Its Normal Expression_.
(_b_) _Corroborative Evidence_.
8.—COUNTING 241
9.—“NEGATIVES KEPT” 271
10.—GARDENING—“SOMETHING APPROACHING” 282
11.—GARDENING—“THE LINE CLEAR” 287
12.—WHENCE COMEST THOU, GEHAZI? (AN EXHORTATION TO REPENTANCE) 333
CHAPTER I.
“MY ARREST.”
ON a dreary afternoon in November, cheerless and foggy as befitted the
occasion, and accompanied by that gentle rain which we are told “falleth
on the just and on the unjust,” I suddenly, though hardly unexpectedly,
found myself in the hands of the law, as represented by a burly policeman
in a waterproof cape and a strong Somersetshire accent. The
circumstances that led up to this momentous change can be briefly
described. I had gone to the office of a solicitor—one White, with whom
I had had previous monetary transactions—with reference to a new loan on
a bill of exchange; and it must be distinctly understood that any
allusions I may make to this individual’s vocations are not to be
misinterpreted, for I have the highest respect for his integrity and
aptitude for business, legal or otherwise, and cannot but admire (as I’m
sure every honest reader will) the horror with which any dishonest act
inspired him, which, though it did not deter him from conscientiously
completing the transaction as a matter of business, was equally swift in
retributive justice, and condemnatory (to use his own expression) of
compounding a felony. Mr. White, in short, is a money-lender, who, in
addition to the advantages derivable from his legal assistance, is always
prepared on undoubted security—such as a bill of sale or a promissory
note—to make cash advances at the rate of 240 per cent. I am justified
in quoting this as the gentleman’s rate of interest, for I paid him £5
for a loan of £45 for fourteen days, a transaction that his cheque on a
Holborn bank will testify. The only marvel that suggests itself to my
mind is, that a person who is so scrupulous in refusing to “compound a
felony,” as he termed it when he assisted in involving me in the meshes
of the law, should retain the ill-gotten and usurious sum of £5 one
moment after he was aware (as he has been for a year) that it was the
proceeds of a forgery. But perhaps I am wronging the worthy man; he may
have subscribed it towards the Hunt he honours with his patronage, or
have paid it as his subscription to the London and Discounty Club, to
which, I presume, he belongs.
At first sight this rate of interest may appear somewhat high, but a
moment’s reflection will dispel the idea. Here was a gentleman, a member
of the honourable profession of the law—one who (as he told me) actually
hunted with Her Majesty’s hounds, and, for aught I know, may have been
honoured with a nod from the Master of the Buckhounds—one, moreover, who
occasionally dined with impecunious Irish lords, with whom he had
transacted business, and talked of such aristocratic clubs as the
“Wanderers’” and the “Beaconsfield” with as much _sang-froid_ and a
degree of familiarity such as you and I, gentle reader, might refer to
the “Magpie and Stump” at Holloway, and which to me at the time was truly
appalling; here, I say, was a gentleman endowed with all these
recommendations actually condescending to minister to one’s pecuniary
wants; and one would indeed have been unworthy of such advantages had one
carped or squabbled over such vulgar trifles as a paltry 240 per cent.
There is certainly another point of view from which this “financial”
business may be regarded; but if the Master of the Rolls and the
“Incorporated Law Society” take no exception to this occupation of one of
their members, it is clearly no business of ours to find fault with a
gentleman who materially adds to his income by combining the profitable
trade of usury with the profitless profession of the law.
It is a prevalent and very erroneous impression to associate voracity and
sharp dealings with the Hebrew race, for I’ve found from experience (and
I’m admittedly an authority) that for meanness, haggling, and exorbitant
terms, with a cloak of hypocrisy to cover this multitude of sins, the
Hebrew is considerably out-distanced by his Christian _confrère_. I
might indeed go a step further, and add, that, barring a repellent manner
during the preliminaries of a transaction, but which is purely
superficial, the dealings of the children of Israel are based on strictly
honourable and considerate grounds. No one has ever heard of a Jew
robbing you first and then prosecuting you; they are invariably satisfied
with one course or the other. (I may here be permitted a slight
digression to note that I intend ere long to publish a list of usurers
never before attempted, based on my personal experience of them,
including members of almost every trade and profession, and which for
completeness and accuracy of detail will put to the blush the hitherto
feeble attempts of such society journals as _Town Talk_, _Truth_, &c.)
At about four o’clock, then, on this dreary November afternoon I found
myself with three or four others in Mr. White’s waiting-room. I verily
believe one of my companions was a detective, a suspicion that subsequent
events tend to confirm. In the frowzy room I found myself waiting for
more than an hour, during which time my naturally ’cute disposition,
coupled with a consciousness of guilt, convinced me with a “suspeeciun”
similar to that of the old lady at the subscription ball at Peebles,
“amoonting to a positive ceertainty” that something was up. This
apprehension was by no means allayed by my distinctly seeing the shadow
of the burly policeman, in cape and helmet, on the frosted window, as he
ascended the stairs; and had I been so inclined, there was nothing to
have prevented me from at once burning the damning document then in my
pocket and walking down-stairs. But I was perfectly callous and
indifferent to the result; indeed, I can only attribute my feelings at
the time to those of a madman who hailed with delight any change that
substituted incarceration and an unburthened mind for liberty and an
uneasy conscience. The rest of the incidents in this prologue are easily
told, and the next ten minutes (which abounded with sayings and doings,
however commendable from a moral point of view, sadly out of place in a
usurer’s parlour) found me in a cab, in company with a policeman, with
Mr. White, money-lender, solicitor, and commissioner to administer oaths,
on the box, his ‘fishy’ partner inside, and driving at the rapid rate
habitual to the fleetest four-wheelers of three miles an hour en route to
Bow Street. Luck now favoured me, and I was fortunate enough to obtain
an interview with Mr. Vaughan, who was on the eve of departure, and who,
in a few hurried and well-chosen words, and in a metallic tone of voice
that I can only, with all respect, compare to the vibrations of the
telephone, which I heard some years ago in its infancy, conveyed to me
the momentous intelligence that I was _remanded_ till Tuesday. This was
by no means my first appearance at Bow Street Police Court, for though
not on so serious a charge as the present, I had on a former occasion
made the acquaintance (officially) of the worthy magistrate. The
circumstances are briefly these, and though in no way bearing on my
present narrative, may be reasonably introduced, as a combination of
sweets and bitters, such as one gleans by the advertisements, are to be
associated with “chow-chow,” “nabob pickles,” &c., &c. Some four years
ago I had the honour of accompanying a well-known but not equally
appreciated young baronet, and High Sheriff of an Irish county, notorious
for his “Orange” (and orange-bitters with a dash of gin) proclivities, to
a low music-hall. The weather was hot, and the evening an exceptionally
warm one in June, such an one, indeed, that the most abstemious might
have been pardoned for exceeding the bounds of moderation. About
midnight we presented ourselves at the portals of that virtuous but
defunct institution, and were refused a box on the plea of inebriation.
So indignant, however, were both myself and my blue-blooded if not
blue-ribboned companion at this monstrous insinuation that we at once
proceeded to Bow Street, and laid a formal complaint with the inspector
on night duty. The books, and probably that official’s marginal notes,
would doubtless place facts and our respective intellectual conditions at
the time beyond the shadow of a doubt. For my own part, I confess (with
that frankness that has always been my ruin) that if I was not absolutely
inebriated, I was decidedly “fresh.” As regards my companion, however, I
will not presume to venture an opinion, although High Sheriffs admittedly
never get drunk;—is it likely, then, that this one, the pride of his
county and an ornament to its Bench, could so far forget himself?
Absurd! The sequel, however, has yet to be told; and a few nights
afterwards, about 9 P.M., alone, and disguised as a gentleman in evening
clothes, I went to the Night House and requested to see the proprietor.
A bilious individual hereupon came into the passage, and, supported by a
crowd of “chuckers out,” hurled me on to the verandah, where luck and my
proximity to the worthy publican enabled me to deal one blow on a face,
which eventually turned out to be that of Barnabas Amos; but a member of
“the force” happened to be passing, and the gentle Amos, not content with
having previously taken the law into his own hands with questionable
success, now appealed to the constable, and, in short, gave me in charge
for an assault. I will not weary the reader by a description of my
detention for twenty minutes in the police station, till I was bailed out
by a householder; nor of the proceedings next morning before the
magistrate. Suffice it to say that the case was dismissed; that the
daily papers honoured me by devoting half a column to a report of the
case; that six months after, alone and unaided, I opposed the renewal of
the licence for the night-house; that my thirst for revenge was
thoroughly satiated; and that I had the gratification of depriving the
Amos of a weekly profit of £300, besides about £500 for legal expenses;
and that the Middlesex magistrates did their duty and proved themselves
worthy of their responsible position by almost unanimously refusing the
licence, despite the fervid and well fee’d eloquence of Solicitor-General
and voracious barristers, and thus stamped out about as festering a heap
of filth and garbage as any that had ever infested this modern Babylon.
Mr. Barnabas Amos and I were thenceforth quits, and, barring a chuckle he
no doubt had at my subsequent troubles (such as a less magnanimous person
than myself might have had at his eventual bankruptcy), I may fairly
congratulate myself on having had the best of the little encounter. But
another feature of this case suggests itself, and I cannot dismiss this
long digression without a few words in conclusion. My quasi friend, the
High Sheriff, did not come well out of this matter. We had, as it were,
rowed in the same boat on this eventful night, we had both been refused a
box on the same grounds, and yet he left me to bear, not only the brunt
of the police-court row, but, by a judicious silence, got me the credit
of having tried but signally failed to lead him from the paths of
rectitude and virtue. I am prepared to make every allowance for a man in
his position, lately married to a young and innocent wife, whose ears it
was only right should not be polluted with such revelations as a
night-house would naturally suggest if associated with her husband’s
name; and I was perfectly alive to the necessity of screening him, and
willing that my name only (as it did) should appear in the proceedings;
nevertheless, there is a right and a wrong way of attaining such an end,
and the High Sheriff will, I am convinced, on reflection, admit that he
might have attained the same result in a more straightforward manner, and
have spared the feelings of his bride and possibly her younger sisters
equally as well without leaving a “pal”—to use a vulgar expression—in the
lurch without an apology. With this digression I will return (in the
spirit) to Bow Street, and close the chapter with a bang such as
accompanied the closing of my cell door, and await the arrival of “Black
Maria.”