THE TREAD-WHEEL.
BY Act of Parliament, all prisoners, till quite recently, were
photographed after admission to the various prisons. This universal
system is now abolished, and since January, 1882, it is only reserved for
habitual criminals and prisoners sentenced to police supervision. I had
the good fortune to add to my experiences and my desire to see
everything, by coming under the universal system, I having become a
Government ward exactly eleven days before the expiration of the Act.
One morning, whilst at exercise, my name was called amongst some
half-a-dozen others. I could not conceive what new atrocity I had
perpetrated, and what could have occurred to disturb the even tenor of my
ways. A few of my more experienced comrades, however, enlightened me by
remarking I was “a-goin’ to be tuk,” and I found myself on the road to
the studio.
[Picture: “Negatives kept.”]
Photography such as this can hardly be considered artistic, though I have
seen worse, but not much. It probably, however, answers all the
requirements it is intended for. These works of art are only produced in
duplicate, and though I offered a fabulous price to the seedy artist for
an extra copy, no business was done; for though negatives are kept, they
are kept under lock and key. Of the copies usually printed one was
presented to the Governor of Newgate (this individual being lately
abolished, I do not know who is now the recipient), the other finds its
way into the Coldbath album, and no doubt affords pleasure and
instruction at such jubilant gatherings as prison lawn tennis parties, or
warders’ beanfeasts, which I was informed (though never invited) are
occasionally indulged in. Prisoners are taken in their own clothes, and
it is a matter of regret that the ones I then wore have gone the way of
all old clothes, for, like their owner, they did not improve by their
incarceration, and their huge proportions made them worthless without
alteration. Pose or position is a secondary consideration, a good
out-and-out resemblance is the thing to be attained; a deformed ear, or a
fly-blown nose, would at once be seized upon, and the lens directed point
blank at such fortunate distinctions. In my case there was nothing to
merit special reproduction, so with a smirk that would have hanged me
fifty years ago (for even here the “artist” could not resist the
conventional request) I qualified for the Government album. On one side
one’s number is pinned to one’s coat, on the other is a slate with one’s
name in full, thus supplying an index simple but complete, and in
proportion to the intellects of such probable students as the motley crew
one periodically saw at Newgate. To me the ordeal had neither terror nor
charms, though to some of my companions it was evidently not agreeable.
One rogue caused considerable trouble by persistently protruding his chin
or distorting some feature; these antics were not indulged in in a spirit
of levity, but resorted to gradually as the cap was being taken off. He
evidently objected to an accurate likeness, and so he might. I never
could find out particulars, but not long after he disappeared from
Coldbath, and whether hanged or a “lifer,” I never heard. _That_
photograph had fulfilled its mission.
Visits to Coldbath cannot under ordinary circumstances be undertaken by
any but the most robust. The accommodation is clearly intended for the
scum of London, and it is unfair to expect any respectable person to come
unless smell-proof and provided with a box of Keating’s insect powder. I
received one visit under these revolting conditions, though my subsequent
ones left nothing to be desired. Conceive, then, a cell eighteen feet by
twelve, fitted with four partitions on either side, divided by a narrow
passage, with a warder walking up and down. Into one of these cages the
visitor is conducted and locked in. Immediately opposite, and similarly
enclosed, is the object of his visit. In appearance they resemble a
Cochin China hen-coop; in size they about equal the den of the untameable
hyæna in a travelling menagerie. Conversation of a private nature is out
of the question, as, indeed, is intended; topical subjects are tabooed,
and but for the sake of adding to my experiences I should never have
subjected myself or my friend to such nasty conditions. Within a foot of
one, and flanked on both sides, was either a costermonger talking to his
missus and her frowsy, unvaccinated-looking offspring, or a pickpocket
hearing the latest news from the Seven Dials; the Babel consequent being
such as to leave no alternative but to say nothing, or shout at the top
of one’s voice. There is a snobbishness about this custom that went far
to determine me in my course of telephoning as the only way to retaliate
effectually on official inconsideration. No one would be foolish enough
to expect that a gentleman should be better treated than a costermonger
under such painful circumstances, although it would be an act of
consideration, involving neither inconvenience nor relaxation of
discipline, if some little discretion were exercised, as at Newgate,
regarding the visitors.
The tread-wheel occupies a prominent position in prison life. There was
none at Coldbath on my arrival, the old one having been burnt down a
short time previously. There is a delightful interpretation to the three
magic letters, C. B. F. (Cold Bath Fields), that long puzzled me, and
which takes its origin—as I heard—from the ancient structure. I had
frequently heard this cheerful place referred to as “The Farm,” and on
enquiry it was explained that it was facetiously known as “Charley
Bates’s Farm.” “Charley,” it appears, was a peculiarly ferocious turnkey
that some years ago superintended the tread-wheel, but whether burnt,
like his toy, or still burning, or alive, I have not the remotest idea.
Its successor was now being rapidly built, and all the artisan talent
procurable was laid on, in order to complete without delay this necessary
adjunct to hard labour.
A reference to the “system of progressive stages” will obviate my
repeating many details as to the particular men put to this punishment,
etc.
I had never seen a tread-wheel except from the stalls of the Adelphi
Theatre, and was particularly anxious to gratify my curiosity. I
cudgelled my brains as to how it was to be managed, with such success
that I eventually found myself on the “works.” As I have the misfortune
to be neither a mechanic nor an artisan, and incapable of driving in a
nail without hammering my finger, and being a perfect infant in the use
of a shovel, I was at a loss to conceive how I could possibly be
employed; but this difficulty was at length surmounted, and armed with a
brush I was put on a roving job. I had the run of the building, with a
kind of general instruction to brush everything and everybody, up stairs
and down stairs, and in the warder’s chamber. The warder in charge of
this building in course of construction, was a worthy man, incapable of
being tampered with, though I never tried him (why should I?), but withal
courteous, respectful, and considerate—one of those men whose bringing up
had thrown him amongst gentlemen, and who knew how to maintain his own
position without offending the susceptibilities of others. The artisans
under him worked with a will, and reports and rows were things unknown,
except on scrubbing days, when some ill-conditioned hound happened to be
temporarily employed. My duties consisted in sitting about in sheltered
nooks with the broom between my knees, and on the approach of a spy, with
which the place was infested, to rise and make furious lunges at
imaginary spiders. These sweeps into space were very effective, and,
fatal as they would have been to any insect had I seen one, were equally
gratifying to their human prototypes, whose desire was to see one working
hard. During my employment in this building it was, I verily believe,
the object of more inspection than it had ever been before. I had been
informed by telephone that my antipathy had given a hint that I was to be
looked after, and if he was satisfied with the result I certainly was.
Not twenty minutes elapsed between the various inspections, and
occasionally they swarmed like horse-flies in summer round a lump of
sugar. These frequent visits involved an immense loss of energy, and the
casualties amongst the spiders must have been enormous. When all had
been destroyed I constructed a pile of dirt—one pound of dust to four of
shavings—which I placed in a conspicuous position. This was violently
propelled from me during a visit, and gently restored when the intruder
had passed.
I had the opportunity of inspecting this huge instrument of torture, and
was considerably disappointed that I could not try its effect. I had the
gratification, however, of putting some paint on one panel and a piece of
putty into a hole, thereby having assisted at the making of the wheel.
Putting putty into a hole is not so easy as it may sound. At the
inspection of work next day I had the mortification of seeing my lump
condemned, and cruelly removed. The tread-wheel is moved by elaborate
machinery worked by powerful engines, which, in addition to setting the
wheel in motion, grinds corn in an adjoining building for the use of the
prison. It is entirely different from the Adelphi one, and may be
described as four long cylindrical wheels extending the length of the
building on either side and along the gallery. Partitions, of sufficient
dimensions to enable a man to stand up, run the entire length of the
various wheels, thereby precluding all communication between the several
occupants. Two hundred and sixty men can be “on” at once, and the
punishment is carried out on the principle of ten minutes “off” and
twenty minutes “on.” The victims are marched down at 7.30 A.M., and
beguile the time thus pleasantly till 11.30. They return at 1.30 p.m.,
and continue the enjoyment till 5.
I am told this is considered an easy wheel, and men who have experienced
the working of others assured me that this one was mere child’s play. A
great deal depends on the worker, and the experienced jail-bird rises—or,
as it was termed to me, “waits for”—the step with little or no exertion.
With the novice, however, it is severe labour, and the exertion involved
bathes him in perspiration. A supply of warm water is given them on
returning to their cells of an evening, to obliterate in a degree the
unpleasant consequences of the wheel. But the discomfort—can one
estimate it? A poor wretch bathed in perspiration, and having to sleep
in the same shirt and work in it for a week! Only prisoners fit for hard
labour are put to the wheel, and no man is ever so employed unless passed
by the surgeon. The doctor’s work is considerably augmented by the
reconstruction of the wheel, and besides having to visit the yard
frequently during the day, he is persecuted by strings of schemers trying
by every conceivable subterfuge to evade the punishment. Some go the
length of tumbling off, and occasionally succeed in temporarily
disqualifying themselves by a sprained ankle or wrist. I was much amused
during my employment at its construction at the interest that the various
officials took in every detail connected with its progress. They
revelled at the prospect of the treat in store for them, and seemed to
gloat over the exquisite misery awaiting some of their lambs. Bunches of
these warders would occasionally meet, and discuss the intricacies of the
machinery with a gusto only to be acquired by prison contagion. It would
not have surprised me to have heard that the opening ceremony had been
attended by some kind of _fête_, to which the warders and “their ladies”
had been invited, and condiments—made on the premises—distributed
wholesale.
My worst enemies, and those I had to fear most, were the prisoners. They
were all jealous of me, and had got an absurd notion into their heads
that I could do as I liked, and, though there was no truth in such an
impression, never lost an opportunity of “rounding” on me. A one-eyed
scoundrel, who was one day checked and eventually punished for idleness,
complained to the Governor that he didn’t see why he should work all day
and another man (me) sit down and do nothing. This had the effect of
causing me to be transferred elsewhere, and I next added to my
experiences by becoming a gardener. I was not sorry to leave the
wheelhouse, for it had a depressing effect on me, which the hum of the
traffic just outside did not assist in allaying. As a wag said to me one
day, “This will be a nice place when it’s finished.”