THE SCAFFOLD.
IN the corner of the yard where I daily exercised stood an unpretending
looking shed, with slate roof and large folding doors, and resembling a
coach-house more than anything I can compare it to. This building always
puzzled me, and I enquired of my friend and fellow-lodger, Mr. Mike Rose,
what it was. I then discovered it was the scaffold, that grim limb of
the law on which so many wretches have periodically suffered within three
weeks of their sentence at the Old Bailey Sessions, or, as they are
familiarly known, “The C. C. C.” I was most anxious to have a minute
examination of this masterpiece of Marwood’s, for it is admitted that
that eminent manipulator of the carotid artery has brought his genius to
bear on the grim subject with such success that drop, knot, and platform
have all arrived at the highest possible degree of perfection. It was
the custom to utilise the services of certain prisoners every day in
general cleaning and helping about the prison, and as I was convinced
that “the scaffold” would, like every other prison institution, require a
periodical clean up, I suggested to my turnkey that if the chance
occurred he should select me to assist in this cheerful and instructive
duty. He laughed at the idea of _my_ doing such work, and added that
they only selected men whose antecedents had habituated them to scrubbing
and cleaning; but I explained to him that if Mike and I were selected,
that Mike would do all the washing, and that I would exercise a sort of
moral effect and general supervision that could not possibly make the
slightest difference to him, and was based on an agreement between Mike
and myself, whereby for a consideration of bread and butter, and my
leavings generally, he was to clean out my cell daily and make himself
useful to me, and on my behalf. This warder was a very good sort—indeed,
about the only one that had not that offensive “bad drainage” expression
I had noticed in the others. So he promised compliance, and one day
after dinner I found myself in company with Mike, crossing the yard—I
with a duster and he with a mop and pail _en route_ to the scaffold.
There is something horrible in this idea, and many readers will probably
consider my act and desire to participate in such a task as in the worst
possible taste, but I felt I should _never_ have such a chance again, and
being, moreover, a philosopher, and actuated, even at that early stage,
with a determination of some day writing my experiences, I lost no
opportunity from the first day of my incarceration to the last to see
_everything_ by hook or by crook. I can fairly say I attained my object,
and saw _more_ than any other man has ever done before, and that too
under such favourable circumstances as something more than chance enabled
me to. It may not here be out of place to say that I have read every
book, sensational or realistic, that purports to describe prison life,
and have invariably come to the conclusion that the writers never really
wrote from personal observation, or, if they did, had failed signally in
giving a correct description of what actually exists. Many were
well-written books, but they were NOT prison life. This narrative (to
use an advertising phrase) supplies a want long felt, and if it abounds
with faults of composition—as I readily confess it does—it compensates in
a measure for its shortcomings by the accuracy of its details. It is
written in a vein, moreover, more likely—as I hope—to meet public
approval than that snivelling, sanctimonious style adopted by its
predecessors, and which, even if sincere, would nevertheless be palling,
but where indulged in by some scheming, anonymous, rascally jail-bird, is
as impertinent as it is nauseous. I have no faith in converted burglars.
The entire scaffold is a most unpretending construction, and situated in
any other yard but Old Bailey might pass observation as a highly-polished
and tidy out-house. The floor is level with the outer yard, so that the
chief actor is spared the painful necessity of trying to ascend a flight
of steps with quaking knees and an air of assumed levity. A few steps,
quite unobservable whilst standing on the “drop,” lead down from the back
of the flooring into a bricked pit below, and a long bolt, worked by a
wheel, enables this apparently solid flooring to split from the centre
and to launch the victim in mid-air into the centre of this truly
“bottomless pit.” I minutely examined all this, and (as its thorough
dusting necessitated) rubbed and burnished every portion I could think
of. My _confrère_, meanwhile, was on his hands and knees, scrubbing away
like grim death, and preparing the floor for the ceremony that was to
take place a few days hence. Mike all this time was giving me the
benefit of his vast experience; and as he appeared to hear everything
that was going on, he led me to understand that eight A.M. on Monday next
would witness one of those dreadful private executions that periodically
take place, witnessed by none but prison officials, and associated, I
verily believe, in many instances by circumstances of brutality that
would not admit of publicity. He added that we might by luck get a view
of the procession, or at least hear a little, for, as he considerately
pointed out, our cells actually overlooked the yard. I was most anxious
to hear how we might attain to this unusual excitement, and listened
attentively whilst Mike enlightened me in something of the following
style:—“Yer see, they’ll begin to fake the cove about eight—ah, afore
that, and none of us, see, will be allowed out that morning, you bet; so
if we can get a bit of glass out of the windey—see—and plug it round wi’
bread, why none on ’em wud be none the wiser, and we might see a rare
lot; never you mind, leave it to me, and to-morrow when I cleans your
cell, I’ll fix it for yer.” This was indeed something to look forward
to, and next morning when Mike appeared he led me to understand, by the
most hideous grimaces, that he had succeeded on his own window, and
prepared to do the same by mine; so leaving him to himself, I withdrew
into another cell, for it is a peculiarity of prison system that if two
men are together, or even near one another, they are invariably watched,
but if alone they are comparatively unobserved, and free to prosecute any
undertaking without the least risk of detection. Mike’s gestures,
accompanied by a rolling of his eyes in the direction of the window,
convinced me on my return that he had succeeded in his undertaking, and
having the highest opinion of his constructive and destructive
capabilities, I determined not to approach the window nor to test his
work till the supreme moment arrived. Mike was one of those individuals
who undergo imprisonment as a matter of course, and with considerably
greater advantage than most men. I do not here include myself, for mine
was an exceptional case; he had benefited by the experience of years, and
though only a young man, appeared to be intimate with every prison in the
kingdom; he was, moreover, a most willing and respectful man and a
capital worker, and, as such, a favourite with the warders, who knew they
could always depend on a job being well done by him; he was,
consequently, all day employed on odd jobs, which carried with them
privileges that enabled him to roam about and give the uninitiated—such
as myself—the benefit of his profound and varied experience. Mike, I
fear, was a terrible ruffian; he was now awaiting his trial for burglary
and personal violence, and though he assured me it was a mere nothing,
and a grossly exaggerated and trumped-up charge, I gleaned from the facts
that came out at his trial that he had rifled the contents of a small
shop in the City Road, and that when the old woman who lived on the
premises had ventured to remonstrate, that Mike had marked his sense of
such an unjustifiable proceeding by half throttling her, and eventually
making away “for a little season.” He assured me, however, it was
“nothing,” adding, however, that as it was his fourth conviction, he
quite expected penal servitude. He informed me also that he had written
an elaborate defence, which he proposed reading to the judge and jury.
This defence he insisted on showing me, and I am bound to say that a more
damning document, or one more capable of hanging a man, I never saw; but
luck and circumstances happily (for him) prevented him carrying out his
intention of reading it, and Mike by the omission got off with two years’
hard labour. Mr. Rose, who was about four-feet-four in his stockings,
communicated to me, amongst other interesting facts, that he was a
volunteer, and I could not help realising on various occasions after he
had been performing violent exercise in my cell, that there was some
truth in the adage that “a Rose by any name would smell as sweet.” Mike,
in short, was a character, and whether in chapel, where he apparently led
the choir and knew every response by heart, or in the prison, where he
appeared _au courant_ with everything and everybody, I found him a most
useful neighbour, invariably obliging and respectful, and willing to turn
his hand to anything.