“THE CONVALESCENT WARD.”
ON my admission into hospital I was at first sent to the convalescent
ward, a huge room devoted to light and unpronounced cases. It
accommodates 40 patients, and the entire furniture may be roughly
estimated as consisting of 40 beds, 40 tables, 40 chairs, one shovel and
tongs, and one thermometer. The beds are ranged round the entire room,
the tables and chairs a yard apart forming two rows down the centre; the
thermometer is suspended from a beam, the shovel is chained to one
fire-place, and the tongs to the other. A high desk and a still higher
stool complete the furniture of this singular room. The fixtures are of
a more unique kind; at one end are the cabinets, at the other the
lavatories. These are simply boarded partitions, extending only about
three feet from the ground—so constructed as to make it absolutely
impossible to conceal more than one-third of the body, however engaged;
thus admirably adapted for observation, but utterly regardless of privacy
or decency, and revolting in their proximity to a room devoted to
convalescents. Along the walls here and there are chains hanging. These
are the alarm bells for communicating with the outer yard in case of
fire, mutiny, or other emergency. At each corner are the padded
cells—grim, sombre constructions—admirably adapted for deadening sound,
and fitted with every appliance for the restraint of violent and demented
criminals. The proximity of these cells is very awful, and the shrieks
that occasionally emanate from them, and the sights I have seen, would
have filled me with horror six months previously. The treatment of
convalescents is as original as can well be conceived. The day is mapped
out into the following portions, which are observed with a punctuality
seldom attained except by chronometers:—
6 A.M. Rise, and roll up your bed.
6.30 ,, Breakfast.
11 ,, Visit by surgeon.
12 (noon) Dinner.
3 to 4 P.M. Exercise.
5 ,, Supper.
6 ,, Bed.
The dietary is the simple prison fare, although many (I amongst others)
are on what is known as ordinary diet—_i.e._, cocoa, mutton broth, and a
chop—and others on low diet, consisting of tea, bread-and-butter,
beef-tea, rice pudding, etc. Discipline is little or nothing relaxed
here; indeed the general system is evidently based on what is considered
applicable to confirmed patients not suffering from any acute disease,
and lunatics real and pretended. Shortly after rising a shout of
“Physic!” causes a rush to get the first pull at one’s respective
medicines; and as the same mug does duty for everything, and as time is
an object, it has been found that a dose of hop mixture is not improved
if augmented by the dregs of the black draught left by one’s predecessor.
Being always up and washed whilst my brother-reprobates were still
dozing, I was invariably the first to benefit by a clean mug, and devoted
the next few minutes to watching the frowsy cluster of depravity, half
dressed, half awake, and just out of bed, drink or throw away their doses
as opportunity permitted. Although strictly prohibited, many of these
wretches usually turned in with their stockings on, and in some instances
with their trowsers; and on rising, having previously assumed boots and
vest, proceeded to wash. I minutely watched this ceremony, and seldom
detected the slightest desire to do more than make clean the extreme
outer rim of their cups and platters, extending—humanly speaking—from the
hand to the elbow, and from the chin to the ear. Although in many
respects preferable to the prison proper, this convalescent ward was one
of the severest ordeals I had to undergo. I would not have missed it for
the world, nevertheless, to sleep, live, move, and have one’s being
amongst thirty or forty pickpockets, idiots, burglars, and lunatics,
implies an experience that baffles description. At 6.30 the advent of
two wash-tubs, containing respectively cocoa and gruel, announces
breakfast, which, being carefully measured into tins, is consumed in an
incredibly short time, and devoured with the voracity never to be seen
except in menageries or prisons. It must be remembered that the room
contains specimens of some of the sharpest pickpockets in London, and
experts at every dodge for the deceiving of their fellows, compelled by
circumstances to be huddled together, and relieved from the isolation of
separate cells that makes them comparatively powerless for mischief. It
cannot be wondered at, then, that the rules require, if anything, to be
more stringent; but all the vigilance of the sharpest warder is
powerless, and no two eyes capable of seeing or preventing the wholesale
exchange of food that now begins. If the warder is looking this way, a
loaf will change hands for a mug of gruel in the twinkling of an eye; if
he suddenly turns round, advantage is taken of it to swap something on
the other side; and at dinner hour especially, I have seen bread,
potatoes, and lumps of meat flying about with a rapidity, precision of
aim, and a profound silence, only disturbed by the “flop, flop,” as they
reached the various hands, that would have done credit to the most expert
Oriental-Whitechapel juggler. After breakfast everyone is supposed to
remain at his table without interruption the entire day, except during
exercise, and time is only to be beguiled by reading such wholesome
literature as “The Converted Burglar, and how he did it,” as the chaplain
may be graciously pleased to supply. At the side of each table is
considerately placed a handful of fibre, which is purely optional whether
picked or no. I attribute its presence indeed to the association that
invariably exists in official minds between hospitals, chapels, and
mortuaries, and only capable of being dealt with on the principle that a
certain old gentleman “finds some mischief still for convalescent hands
to do.”
Happily no one really is ill in the convalescent ward (he would then be
removed to the hospital), or it would be absolutely impossible to bear
the incessant fuss from officials and filth from the prisoners that never
cease day or night. Not twenty minutes elapse during the twenty-four
hours that someone is not passing through; and as every approach is
barricaded and double locked, the rattle of keys, the hobnailed boots of
head warders pounding over the floor, and the shouting and yelling, and
the necessity of “sitting up” to your table as they pass through, make it
almost unbearable for even a convalescent. In addition to this is the
absolute necessity of keeping one’s eye on one’s next-tabled neighbour.
If you turn round during a meal, a piece of food disappears, and any
trifle you may happen to possess cannot be considered your own from one
moment to another. I had a worsted needle that I prized considerably; it
fulfilled the duties of a toothpick, and had been my constant companion
and comforter for weeks. It was, indeed, my most cherished possession.
I usually kept it inside my cap, and my cap outside my head; here at
least it was safe, but one day, in a fit of absence, I crossed over the
room. On my return I discovered that my cap had been rifled and the
needle gone.
An old man (though only one of many) added considerably to my burthen.
He took a great fancy to me—or my food—and seldom lost a chance of
persecuting me. He was never without a pocket-handkerchief stuffed full
of crusts, chop bones, suet pudding, or any garbage he could find, firmly
clutched by day, and placed under his pillow at night. He was by way of
being a gentleman, and said, with some degree of truth, that he was a
general officer (he was at present undergoing three months’ retirement
for stealing a sovereign from a sixpenny lodging-house keeper). He
approached one with the blandest smile, hoped you were not seriously ill,
and asked how your appetite was. This, indeed, was the burthen of his
song:—If you told him it was bad, he begged you to kindly reserve your
fragments for him; if you said it was good, he stole what he could. The
result was consequently the same; and so to get rid of him I promised to
help him when I could. This nasty old man slept two beds from me, and
often during the night, “when everything was still,” I have watched him
unpack his treasure, and, selecting certain of the stalest pieces for
immediate use, carefully tie up and restore the bundle to beneath his
pillow or mattress.
This hoarding and stealing of food was by no means confined to the
“General”; it was, indeed, so much in vogue that periodical raids were
made on the beds, and even inside the shirts men were wearing, which
invariably resulted in the exhumation of sundry delicacies. So strong
was the ruling passion that one wretch with half a lung, who was allowed
extras which he never consumed, rather than part with a crumb, would hide
chops and even rice pudding in his pocket-handkerchief and towel, or
secrete them in his bedding or about his person.
That food was a drug in the market may be reasonably assumed; and if
further proof was wanting, the reckless waste that took place after meals
would amply provide it. The supplies of soup, porridge, cocoa, and gruel
were invariably in excess of the regulation personal allowance.
Discipline, however, demanded that so much and no more should be given to
each man; and I have seen gallons of capital soup and cocoa thrown down
the sink daily that many a starving wretch outside would gratefully have
devoured. I do not blame the hospital warders for this custom so much as
the kitchen officials for either sending too much or adding too much
water, for experience had taught them that it was equally dangerous to
give more or less than the regulation allowance, and that they would
probably be reported by one thief, if another thief got more than
himself; and it was a common occurrence for vagrants who had never heard
of arrowroot before coming to Coldbath to complain of the thinness of
their nightly allowance as “unfit to be eaten.” I once suggested to the
head hospital warder (but my proposal was never carried out) that the
staple food of discontented vagrant invalids should be treacle and
brimstone, and that if they complained of their diet, the treacle should
be omitted by way of variety.
I don’t know what is the annual expense of food, fuel, and gas in the
various prisons, but I confidently assert that an immense saving would
result if the coal at present issued _ad lib._ for the use of the warders
was as carefully weighed as the prisoners’ various allowances. These
turnkeys, whose supply of coal at home is probably limited to half a
hundred a week, cannot here do without fires banked up a foot high night
and day in the various corridors; and I have often been awakened in
various parts of the prison by the shovelling and piling on of coals on
even temperate nights. I should like no better billet than to be
appointed contractor for the coal and potatoes used and wasted in Her
Majesty’s prisons.
Another means of keeping down the present excessive expenses connected
with prisoners’ keep and warders’ coals would be the adoption of the
sensible course pursued in France, whereby the clothes of murdered men
and the instruments with which the murders have been committed, if not
claimed within three months, are sold by public auction. This might be
supplemented by the sale of the articles found in cabs and elsewhere,
often comprising objects of considerable value, and at present taken to
Scotland Yard and never claimed. It will possibly be urged that all this
would be opposed to English tastes and ideas; and yet it is an
incontrovertible fact that the principal purchasers at these “art” sales
in Paris are English and Americans, that the price of articles which have
belonged to notorious criminals generally rules very high, and that the
ghastly relics for the most part find their way to England.
Exercise was a most ridiculous ceremony; the tables were pushed back, and
everyone proceeded round and round in two rings. A scene I once saw at
some theatre, representing the “casual ward” of a workhouse, more nearly
resembles it than anything I can think of.
Amongst my numerous companions in this delectable sport was a celebrated
pickpocket; who was good enough on my invitation to show me “how it’s
done.” My request, indeed, appeared to flatter his vanity so much that
on more than one occasion, when I was not thinking of his particular
talent, he has removed my pocket-handkerchief, and politely returned it
as if pretending to pick it up. I once saw him bring his science to bear
on a thoughtless warder, who, through ignorance probably of his special
talent, had asked him to brush him down. A wink from the thief drew my
attention to his movements, and I watched him with profound interest.
For some seconds he confined himself to the legitimate brushing, but as
he worked round and the arm of his victim was slightly raised, with the
unemployed hand he deliberately opened the warder’s pouch, took out a
piece of tobacco, and then quietly re-buttoned it; with another smudge of
the brush and “I think that’ll do, sir,” he resumed his place. I
wouldn’t have betrayed him for the world; indeed, I gave him some bread
for the exhibition.
It was pretty generally known that I was very green, and that I was
anxious to see everything; indeed, I never lost an opportunity of
conversing with everyone capable of telling me an adventure; so that one
way and another I heard a lot, much of which I shall hereafter narrate.
Another oddity with whom I was associated was a kleptomaniac. Nothing
was safe from him, and his eye was as quick as his hand. He might be
seen at all hours sneaking about, thrusting his arm between mattresses
and occasionally into people’s pockets. He was undergoing two years’
imprisonment for stealing _two ounces of tobacco_. So impossible was it
for him to keep his hands from picking and stealing that it was
frequently necessary to lock him into a separate cell for weeks at a
time, only to be released after piteous appeals and promises not to
offend again, which were invariably broken on the first opportunity. He
was as nimble as a cat, and occasionally gave an acrobatic performance on
the sly. The poor wretch was admittedly an imbecile, and it seems
inexplicable how he ever incurred the punishment he received, though he
was probably happier at Coldbath than he was ever likely to be elsewhere.
One day he could not be found, and after the hue-and-cry had been raised
and the prison and grounds scoured, he was found concealed in a tank on a
portion of the roof. What he could have wanted there is beyond
comprehension, for he dreaded the water and never washed unless
compelled.
I’ve heard a great deal of prisoners escaping, and from the penal
establishments it is unquestionably practicable. At a prison conducted,
however, on the Coldbath Fields’ principle such an idea is simply absurd.
I do not refer to the impediments of locks and doors so much as to the
full blaze of light system along the corridors. The constant countings,
too, and patrols night and day would at once discover the truant, to say
nothing of the 20-feet wall that surrounds the building. I have
occasionally read descriptions of escapes from the Bastille, where
prisoners with a yard of rope, a spare shirt, and an oyster knife, have
burrowed and scaled and got clean off. I am not in a position to dispute
these assertions, but I will willingly undertake to provide the most
expert acrobat with a sack full of ropes, crowbars, and linen, _in_ his
cell, and stake my existence that he does not proceed five feet beyond
his premises without detection. The escape of a notorious burglar from
Millbank Convict Prison last year gave rise at the time to considerable
discussion amongst the officials at Coldbath Fields. That a man should
be able to break through the roof of a cell during the early hours of
morning without creating a disturbance seems incredible, and had the
corridors had the same acoustic properties as those at Coldbath, would
have been simply impossible without collusion.
[Picture: Counting]
So extraordinarily is sound conveyed in these vast and barren tunnels
that every word spoken during the night at the other end of the passage
is distinctly audible, whereas conversation close by is almost
unintelligible, so great is the echo. I think Mr. Burglar Lovell may
congratulate himself that he had not been relegated to Coldbath Fields,
for he would most assuredly have derived less benefit there from his
sixty feet of rope than he appears to have done at Millbank. A prisoner
attempting to escape forfeits all the time he may have completed of his
sentence—a sufficient deterrent for a sane man! A very disgusting
adjunct to the convalescent ward is “Itch Bay,” and though comparatively
distinct, is actually next door, and leads from it. It is devoted to
those filthy creatures who, on admission, are found to abound in vermin,
or who, after months in prison—as can be verified—have caught the disease
(according to my theory) by using the universal bath. The treatment of
this complaint can hardly be said to be a pleasant, although undoubtedly
a very effectual one. A man is taken to “the bay,” made to strip off all
his clothes, put into a separate cell, and smeared with a thick coating
of mercurial ointment, and left to soak for three days at least, and
often longer. His bedding may best be described as an ointment mattress,
with “blankets to match,” so saturated is everything in this fearful
quarter, the stench from which pervades the passage, and works into the
convalescent ward. I used almost daily to see these loathsome objects,
either before admission or after three days’ retirement, and it is
difficult to say which is the most revolting. On admission, and previous
to treatment, I have seen three or four of these unclean things waiting
to be admitted. During this time—often an hour and more—they sit in the
convalescent ward, use the furniture, and circulate with the others.
This surely is wrong, and may justly be laid to the charge of negligent
warders! On leaving they are again taken through the ward, devoid of all
covering but the saturated blanket, and conducted to a bath. This bath
is a fixture in the hospital kitchen. YES, the _itch bath_ in the
principal prison of civilized London _is in the hospital kitchen_! I
have seen these social pariahs splashing about within a few feet of the
kitchen fire, whilst a rice pudding was being made—an appetizing
accompaniment to the preparation of human food. This gross outrage on
cleanliness must fairly be charged to the Home Office people; and as the
kitchen is situated in the main thoroughfare, and passed through almost
daily by visiting justices or prison commissioners, it is clearly no
official’s business to point it out—and if a surgeon represented it he
would probably be told to mind his own business. This is in conformity
with prison usage, and anyone mentioning, or taking apparent interest in
a trifle not actually connected with his special department, is at once
suspected of some sinister motive. I have heard officials regret this
disgusting institution, and their inability to remedy it.
I have more horrors connected with this kitchen to mention when I
describe the hospital, and hope some one whose business it is will
redress this crying shame. As a set-off to the many discomforts
attending the convalescent ward, were the facilities it offered for the
uninterrupted working of the telephone, and so multifarious were the
opportunities, and so utterly impossible detection, that I omitted the
commonest precautions as absolutely superfluous. My favourite time for
correspondence was between two and four in the morning. I noticed that
nature usually asserted itself on turnkey humanity, and that the most
watchful became drowsy about this time. It must be remembered that a
night warder is in the room all night, and that the gas, though turned
down, is alight. I frequently wrote for two hours at a time, and as my
bed was next the fire-place I had the advantage of poking it into a blaze
as circumstances required. I often wondered whether these watch-dogs
were really dozing. That they had not the faintest suspicion I am
confident; the very possibility of such coolness may possibly have
disarmed them, for I have written for hours under their very noses. One
night I had a considerable scare. I had been carried away by the
interest of my letter, and whether I had thought aloud and some word had
escaped me I cannot say, but on peeping round the mantelpiece I saw one
of the most ferocious of the tribe—who was on duty that night—leaning
forward and peering in my direction. His eyes glistened like a cheetah’s
as he cautiously approached the fire-place—the mantelpiece and one bed
alone separated our respective positions, the rattle of a paper, or a
hurried motion, would have been fatal; so, proceeding to mutter in my
sleep, I slid my arm over a very damning pile. For some moments he stood
intently watching me, and then happily began to poke the fire. Had he
delayed much longer I should inevitably have betrayed myself; as it was,
the noise “justified” my being disturbed, and I rolled round, “papers
under,” as _Bell’s Life_ would once have described a pugilistic round.
The danger was now past, but I had quite determined, if he had asked me
any unpleasant questions, to have made a dash at the fire-place and
destroyed the evidence. There is a curious invention that exists in
various parts of the prison. Detector-clocks are intended to show that a
warder must have been alert every half-hour, by being required to press
down a pin. This pin is so constructed that it cannot be let down except
at the exact time, or unless the clock is unlocked. These various clocks
undergo a minute inspection the following morning, and if all the pins
are not down the delinquent is fined a shilling, or even more, for each
omission. I could tell some curious stories about these detector clocks,
but their narration might be interpreted as pointing in directions I have
no intention of indicating. I may, however, without compromising anyone,
state that if the authorities conceive they are aware of the exact number
of keys that open these clocks, they are considerably out of their
reckoning.
“My eye, old man,” I one morning said to an acquaintance, “you’ve missed
two or three pins.”
“Never mind,” he replied; “I’ve got a pal outside that’ll make it all
right before I’m relieved.”
At 6.30, when my friend was, I hope, comfortably in bed, I saw the
Detector inspected and found “correct.”
On one occasion a friend kindly supplemented the rubbishy literature
provided by the chaplain by lending me to read the book of “Rules for the
Guidance of Warders and Assistant-Warders.” They can hardly be said to
be as interesting as those lately published by Howard Vincent for the
guidance of the police, although, situated as I was, they were to me
vastly more important. I had intended to have produced them verbatim,
but they are not of sufficient general interest. They, however, deal
with the various duties of warders in that absurd style which attempts to
impress on them the responsibility and general respectability of what, if
carried out in its integrity, is a contemptible system of espionage.