PRISON TRADES.
A GREAT variety of trades are represented in Coldbath Fields—such as
tailors, shoemakers, blacksmiths, tinsmiths, worsted-workers, laundrymen,
bakers, needlemen, basket-makers, mat-makers, printers, bookbinders,
carpenters, plumbers, and glaziers. Of these mat-making and laundry-work
are considered the hardest. The men selected for following any of the
above vocations are looked upon as privileged individuals, and infinitely
better off than the ordinary oakum-picker—a task that everyone has to
submit to for one month, although many never get beyond it and its
accompanying isolation during the two years of their imprisonment. A
good deal of the comfort or otherwise with which these trades are
followed depends on the warders in charge. If the warder is a brute, the
prisoners become demoralized, crime is rampant, and reports and
punishment the natural consequence. If he happens to be reasonable and
just in his dealings, contentment reigns, the work is well done, and
insubordination is unknown. I saw and heard a great deal in support of
this assertion, and during my few months’ retirement managed to poke my
nose into a good many queer corners. The laundry bears an unenviable
notoriety, both on account of the excessive hard labour and the brutality
with which it is enforced. There are about sixty men employed in this
department, who have severally to wash one or other of the following
quantities daily:—30 shirts, 80 sheets, 200 towels, 500
pocket-handkerchiefs, 18 blankets, 250 pairs of socks. Such quantities
would tax the capacity of an expert washerwoman; but when a
novice—probably a clerk or respectable tradesman—is put to the task, its
magnitude is at first insurmountable. Instead of 30 shirts, the poor
wretch finds he cannot manage more than 5, which next day he succeeds in
bringing up to 15. Meanwhile his hands become chafed and sore, and he
sees the doctor in hopes of getting relief; but the doctor is powerless.
A cut finger is not a serious complaint though probably a very painful
one; and he has no alternative but to send him back. This in itself is
considered as malingering; and the poor devil is brought before the
Governor for idleness and feigning sickness, and is sentenced to one
day’s bread and water as a first offence. Should this “crime” be
repeated, he gets an increased punishment, and is either flogged or sent
to the punishment cells. This is no overcoloured description. A
prisoner in such a case has neither justice nor any means of proving the
injustice. Any report, however garbled, is necessarily believed; and if
corroboration is necessary, a dozen turnkeys, from every part of the
prison, will come forward, and emphatically endorse their comrade’s
charge. The prisoner meanwhile is not allowed to speak, and if he did
would not be believed, and, as often happens with the lower classes, is
actuated by fear, which only increases his apparent guilt.
[Picture: Typical turnkey L. Normal expression R. Corroborative
evidence]
It is not the prison authorities that can be held responsible for this
burlesque on justice, for more humane, honourable, and just men than the
Governor and Surgeon of Coldbath Fields do not exist. It is the vile
system that gives no discretionary power to these officials, and
considers that a man once overtaken in a fault ought forthwith to be
treated like a dog; and, not satisfied with this inhuman conclusion,
deputes the carrying out of their system to a set of ignorant, cringing,
underpaid warders and turnkeys—in many cases ill-conditioned by nature,
and brutal, eye-serving, and untrustworthy by habit.
One victim of this cruel system, that was undergoing fifteen months’
imprisonment, worn out by work, constant reports, punishment, and
illness, and who was refused permission to revert to oakum-picking in
preference to remaining in the laundry, went back to his solitary cell
one Saturday night, and in sheer desperation hanged himself; and Sunday
morning found him suspended by his bed-straps from the bell-handle, cold
and stone dead. Another lad of 18, who had been reported for talking,
and sentenced to bread and water, took it so much to heart that on his
cell door being opened about 2 P.M. he rushed past the turnkey, and threw
himself over the railings. He was picked up insensible and taken to the
hospital, when, incredible as it may appear, he was found to be
absolutely uninjured, although he had jumped from a fifth storey and
landed on a stone floor. On his dinner tin the unhappy youth had
scratched, “Dear father and mother, brothers and sisters I wish you all
good-bye and have 3 days cells and 3 days bread and water and pushed
about. From A. Burke.” The lad was thereupon brought before the
visiting justices, and in consideration of his youth only got seven days
in the punishment cells.
It cannot be denied that great malingering and deception are practised by
prisoners, which necessitates the greatest vigilance on the part of the
officials. Nothing is commoner than for them to pretend attempted
suicide; and instances are of frequent occurrence where a man, having
calculated the time to a nicety, proceeds to hang himself as his door is
being opened. These gentlemen are almost invariably flogged.
On the other hand, it is equally certain that justice is not meted out in
the disposal of everyday offences. Discipline demands that the warders
must be supported; and even if they are known to be lying or grossly
exaggerating, “the system” necessitates their being believed. If,
therefore, this humble stratum of humanity is supposed to be entitled to
a particle of fair play, it calls for the immediate attention of Sir
Edmund Du Cane. I would suggest the advisability of an experienced _ex
parte_ official being daily present at these orderly-room farces, who
could watch the cases and weigh the evidence. Until this is done a
prisoner has about as much prospect of justice as had Arabi before the
arrival of Mr. Broadley. In this _résumé_ of justice as administered at
Coldbath Fields I must be permitted to disown all reflections on the
Governor, for whom I have the profoundest respect. It is the system that
I blame, and sympathize with a conscientious man being compelled by
regulation to conform to its usages.
About eighty men are employed as tailors; of these the best workmen are
employed in the shop, the remainder doing piecework in their respective
cells. They make the entire clothing for officers and prisoners for this
and many other prisons. The work is exceptionally good—a fact not to be
wondered at, considering they count amongst their ranks journeymen and
cutters from many of the principal West-end houses. The basket-making is
exceptionally good, and to a great extent made to the order of the
leading shops; and the specimens of neat work I have seen quite surprised
me. Mat-making is a severe type of hard labour. The daily task is one
yard, and men who have been employed at it have assured me that it is
very hard work. The mat-room is fitted with twelve looms for the make of
the best doormats. The Government has a contract with Treloar, a
shopkeeper in Ludgate; and as he is supposed to have a large connection,
it may be assumed that reputedly honest feet are constantly being brought
into contact with the work of dishonest hands.
The bakery is worth a visit, if only to see the mountains of bread in
course of preparation. In this place about twenty-four men are
constantly employed putting in or taking out loaves from two huge ovens.
All the bread, whether white or brown, is made in separate loaves of the
average size of a penny roll; and when it is added that some 4000 of
these are consumed daily, representing a gross weight of over half a ton,
in Coldbath Fields alone (to say nothing of Holloway Gaol and the House
of Detention, which are also supplied from here), some idea of the
proportions of “our bakery” may be arrived at. The kitchen is, if
anything, still more interesting. I have never seen anything to approach
the size of the vats and utensils, unless, perhaps, in a pantomime scene
representing Gorgeybuster the giant’s _cuisine_. Everything is here
cooked by steam, and excellent the cookery is. The soup, which is
supplied three times a week, is exceptionally good. It finds its way
from the kitchen in enormous tubs, and on arrival at the various wards is
transferred into greasy, half-washed tins; still it does not lose its
excellence, and I invariably enjoyed the soup. The usual amount made on
soup days is about 200 gallons, and the daily quantity of potatoes
consumed about 7 cwt. As may be supposed, certain farces and abuses have
crept into this department. Specimens of the cookery are daily laid out
for the inspection of the surgeon and Governor. If they should, however,
omit this essential form, it is amply compensated for by the voracity of
some of the head warders, who frequently sacrifice inclination at the
shrine of duty and make a substantial meal during the tasting process.
Beef-tea for the use of the patients is also made here—a brew that would
be considerably strengthened by being doctored in the hospital kitchen
instead of where it is. A pound of beef is the liberal allowance for
each pint of beef-tea. The usual custom that prevails, however, is for
the beef to be eaten, by those who ought to know better, and for Colonial
meat to be substituted for it. I assert this advisedly, and offer it as
the possible solution of the knotty problem of why complaints are of such
frequent occurrence. Home Office papers, please copy! Despite all the
assertions to the contrary, I freely confess I never found fault with the
prison fare; and if one could keep one’s thoughts from wandering to
“Bignon’s” or the “Café Helder,” one could thoroughly enjoy the liberal
fare. I experienced this dietary, pure and simple, for two or three
months, so may be fairly considered capable of forming an opinion.
The carpenters’ and smiths’ shops call for no special notice beyond the
custom in vogue, whereby all men are carefully searched before returning
to their cells. This is, no doubt, an essential ceremony, as turnkeys’
scalping-knives, in the shape of chisels, might occasionally go astray,
not forgetting the modest pencil, the most treasured possession of Her
Majesty’s prisoners.
The oakum shed finds employment for about a dozen men. In it piles of
old rope are being continually chopped up, weighed, and tied into bundles
varying from one to three pounds in weight. I have often seen van loads
of this apparently worthless rope discharging cargo at this shed, and was
surprised to see the same though quite unrecognisable rope leaving the
prison a week or two after converted into the finest oakum, to be again
utilized for the manufacture of rope.
The paper room is the most original and interesting of the various
institutions in this original and interesting place. I do not know if it
lies in the route through which visitors are conducted, but if it does it
will repay a minute inspection. Into this room the sweepings of the
Houses of Parliament and the various Government Offices in the United
Kingdom find their way. All old telegrams, after being kept six months
at the General Post Office, are sent here to be destroyed, to say nothing
of old ledgers, directories, blue books, almanacks, etc.; in short, a
heterogeneous mass of things useful and things useless, all
higgle-de-piggledy, to be sorted and torn into small pieces, and
eventually converted into paper by Alderman Waterlow and his sons (these
last named individuals do their share of the work at home). Amongst this
pile the most valuable discoveries are of daily occurrence; and articles
priceless in the estimation of a prisoner, such as pen-knives, boxes of
cigarettes, butt-ends of cigars, writing paper, envelopes, novels, coins,
pencils, and postage stamps, are hourly exhumed. About 200 men are
employed in this department, whose duty is to tear up into small atoms a
certain amount of waste paper daily. Of the above number some 20 of the
most trustworthy (_i.e._, those who are the greatest adepts in the art of
secreting property about their persons) are employed in overhauling the
supply, and delivering up contraband goods—that they may not
require—before passing it to be manipulated by their less trustworthy
_confrères_. Great precautions are supposed to be taken against the
possibility of a prisoner appropriating any of this “treasure trove,” and
they are each and all subjected to a minute examination before returning
to their cells. That this search meets all the requirements of the case
may be gleaned from the quantities of things that find their way into the
prison. I was never without a capital pen-knife, and when I lost mine
(or when it was stolen), as I did on more than one occasion, I never had
any difficulty in procuring another. The stationery that I used for my
“private” correspondence was invariably House of Commons paper, and,
excepting perhaps being almost imperceptibly soiled, was as good as new.
The traffic in tobacco through this agency is by no means inconsiderable,
and before I had made my personal arrangements for a weekly supply I have
frequently exchanged food for cigarettes; but they were far from
satisfactory, and I found them infinitely better adapted for choking than
chewing. Butt-ends of cigars, too, find a ready market; but at this
point I invariably drew the line, and preferred—inveterate smoker though
I am—to forego the luxury of chewing a cigar that had been
half-masticated by some scorbutic quill-driver. The special trade that I
was put to was worsted work. I was officially described as a
“needleman,” a title I had more claim to than may appear at first sight.
Needlemen are employed either in knitting stockings, making shirts, or
darning blankets, shirts, or socks. I had the choice of any of these
delectable pursuits, and selected the latter as the most easy of evasion.
Darning burglars’ stockings, I admit, sounds a humble and unsavoury
vocation; but considering they are boiled for about three days before
passing into the needlemen’s hands, any antipathy on the subject must be
attributed to sheer prejudice. Other motives also influenced me; it was
far the lightest and most elastic job, and a reserve bundle I always kept
in stock did me good service on the thimble rig principle. The allotted
task was 15 pair a day _at least_, but thanks to my “reserve” (a far
greater success than Mr. Cardwell’s), and “auxiliaries” of other kinds, I
found that two pair and sometimes three a day met all the “requirements
of the service.” The nature of my work amusingly exemplified Locke’s
theory of the “Association of Ideas,” and I never took up a stocking
without having vividly presented to my mind the scene in “Faust,” where
Marguerite is bound to lame the wearer. I speak from personal knowledge,
for one afternoon I experimentalized with one of my specimen repairs and
blistered my foot for a month. I often had qualms of conscience as I saw
the numerous men that were limping round at exercise—the number of whom
appeared to increase in proportion to the quantity of stockings I
darned—and I could not help feeling that I was the unintentional cause of
all this misery. My deplorable incapacity in the Berlin wool and fancy
line was once nearly getting me into a terrible scrape. Amongst the
pedestrians that exercised at the same time as myself was an ex-convict
and desperado, who prided himself on the recital of his past experiences,
and who had undergone penal servitude in Australia and England almost
without interruption during the past 20 years. He was a Hercules in
appearance, addicted to the use of his fists on the slightest
provocation, and about the last man whose susceptibilities one would care
to offend. On his arrival some twelve months previously he had laid down
some wholesome rules for the guidance of those whom it might concern. “I
don’t wants any ’umbug as long as I’m ’ere”—this was the burthen of his
instructions. “I’ll do my work as well as I’m able, and you’ll allus
find me willing and respec’ful-like; but if any of you attempts to bully
or ’umbug me I’ll cut your throats from ear to ear.” Conceive, then, my
feelings on seeing this amiable creature one morning struggling with his
stocking. A glance convinced me it was my handiwork. With a terrible
oath, and livid with rage, he expressed a wish that he only knew the chap
that had “fixed” his stocking. With an equally fervent but inaudible
prayer I sincerely hoped he never would.