THE PENITENTIARY REOCCUPIED
Improved Ventilation and Drainage—Revised dietary—Provision
of Hard Labour—Mild rule of Governor Chapman—Constant warfare
between Prisoners and Authorities—Feigned suicides—Repeated
Offences—Turbulence developed into open mutiny—Cells
barricaded—Furniture demolished—Officers assaulted—Resistance to
Authority culminates in murderous affray—Act permitting corporal
punishment passed.
NO pains were spared to make the Penitentiary wholesome for
re-occupation. A Parliamentary Committee—that great panacea for all
public ills—had however already reported favourably upon the place.
They had declared that no case of local unhealthiness could be made
out against it; nor had they been able to find “anything in the spot
on which the Penitentiary is situated, nor in the construction of
the building itself, nor in the moral and physical treatment of the
prisoners confined therein, to injure health or render them peculiarly
liable to disease.”
Yet to guard against all danger of relapse, they advised that none
of the old hands should return to the prison, and recommended also
certain external and internal improvements. Better ventilation was
needed; to obtain this they called in Sir Humphrey Davy, and gave him
_carte blanche_ to carry out any alterations. Complete fumigation
was also necessary; and this was effected with chlorine, under the
supervision of a Mr. Faraday from the Royal Institution. To render
innocuous the dirty ditch of stagnant water—dignified with the name
of moat—which surrounded the buildings just within the boundary wall,
it was connected with the Thames and its tides. Additional stoves
were placed in the several pentagons, and the dietary reorganized on
a full and nutritive scale, in quality and quantity equal to that in
force before the epidemic. Provision was also made to secure plenty of
hard labour exercise for the prisoners daily, by increasing the number
of crank mills and water machines in the yards. More schooling was
also recommended, as a profitable method of employing hours otherwise
lost, and breaking in on the monotony and dreariness of the long dark
nights. The cells, the committee thought too, should be lighted with
candles, and books supplied “of a kind to combine rational amusement,
with moral and religious instruction.” Indeed there was no limit to
the benevolence of these commissioners. Adverting to the testimony of
the medical men they had examined, who were agreed that cheerfulness
and innocent recreation were conducive to health, they submitted for
consideration, whether some kind of games or sports might not be
permitted in the prison during a portion of the day. Fives-courts
and skittle-alleys were probably in their minds, with cricket in the
garden, or football during the winter weather. As one reads all this,
one is tempted to ask whether the objects of so much tender solicitude
were really convicted felons sentenced to imprisonment for serious
crimes.
The rule of Governor Chapman was essentially considerate and mild.
There was no limit to his long-suffering and patience. Though by all
the habits of his early life he must have learned to look at breaches
of discipline with no lenient eye, we shall find that he never punished
even the most insubordinate and contumacious of the ruffians committed
to his charge till he had first exhausted every method of exhortation
or reproof; and when he had punished he was ever ready to forgive, on
a promise of future amendment, or even a mere hypocritical expression
of contrition alone. It is now generally admitted that felons cooped
up within four walls can be kept in bounds only under an iron hand.
Captain Chapman acted otherwise, the committee which controlled him
fully endorsing his views. For a long time to come the prison was like
a bear garden; misconduct was rife in every shape and form, increasing
daily in virulence, till at length the place might have been likened to
Pandemonium let loose. Then more stringent measures were enforced, with
satisfactory results, as we shall see; but for many years there was
that continuous warfare between ruffianism and constituted authority
which is inevitable when the latter savours of weakness or irresolution.
Feigned suicides were among the earliest methods of annoyance. It is
not easy to explain exactly what end the prisoners had in view, but
doubtless they hoped to enlist the sympathies of their kindhearted
guardians, by exhibiting a recklessness of life. Those who preferred
death to continued imprisonment must indeed be miserably unhappy,
calling for increased tenderness and anxious attention. They must be
talked to, petted, patted on the back, and taken into the infirmary,
to be regaled with dainties, and suffered to lie there in idleness for
weeks. So whenever any prisoner was thwarted or out of temper, often
indeed without rhyme or reason, and whenever the fancy seized him, he
tied himself up at once to his loom, or laid hands upon his throat
with his dinner-knife, or a bit of broken glass. Of course their last
idea was to succeed. They took the greatest pains to insure their own
safety, and these were often ludicrously apparent; but now and then,
though rarely, they failed of their object, and the wretched victim
suffered by mistake. Happily the actually fatal cases were few and far
between.
This fashion of attempting suicide was led by a certain William
Major, who arrived from Newgate on the 8th October, 1824. A few days
afterwards he confided to the surgeon this determination to make away
with himself; “that, or murder some one here; for I’d sooner be hanged
like a dog than stay in the Penitentiary.” Such terrible desperation
called of course for immediate expostulation, and Captain Chapman
proceeded at once to Major’s cell. The prisoner’s knife and scissors
were first removed; then the governor spoke to him. Major replied
sullenly; adding, “I’ve made up my mind: I’d do anything to get out
of this place; kill myself or you. I’d sooner go to the gallows than
stay here.” “I reasoned with him,” says Captain Chapman in his Journal,
“for a length of time on the wickedness of such shocking expressions;
telling him there was only one way of shortening his time, and that
was by good conduct. I told him his threats were those of a silly lad,
which I should however punish him for.” So Major was carried off to a
dark cell, but not before the governor had said all he could think of,
to reason him out of his evil frame of mind. He remained in the dark
two days, and then, having expressed himself penitent and promising
faithfully better behaviour, he was released. For three weeks nothing
further occurred, and then, “Suddenly,” says the governor, “as I was
passing through a neighbouring ward, a turnkey called to me, ‘Here,
here, governor! bring a knife. Major has hanged himself.” He had made
himself fast to the cross beam of his loom. The action of his heart
had not, however, ceased, though the circulation was languid and his
extremities cold. He was removed at once to the infirmary, and as soon
as animation was restored, the governor returned to the prisoner’s
cell, and then found that “the hammock lashing was made fast in two
places to the cross beam from the loom to the wall; in one was a long
loop, in which Major had placed his feet; in the other a noose, as far
distant from the loop as the length of the beam would permit, in which
he had put his head; a portion of the rope between noose and loop he
had held in his hand.” It was quite clear, therefore, that he had no
determined intention of committing suicide; besides which he had chosen
his time just as the turnkey was about to visit him, and he had eaten
his supper, “which,” says the governor, “was no indication of despair.”
Major soon recovered, and pretended to be sincerely ashamed of his
wicked behaviour.
Not long afterwards a man, Combe, in the refractory cell, tried to
hang himself with a pocket handkerchief. Placing his bedstead against
the wall, he had used it as a ladder to climb up to the grating of the
ventilator in the ceiling of his cell. To this he had made fast the
handkerchief, then dropped; but he was found standing calmly by the
bed, with the noose not even tight. Next a woman, Catherine Roper,
tried the same trick, and was found lying full length on the floor,
and evidently she was quite uninjured. Then came a real affair; and
from the hour at which the act was perpetrated all doubt of intention
was unhappily impossible. Lewis Abrahams, a gloomy, ill-tempered man,
was punished for breaking a fly-shuttle; again for calling his warder
a liar. That night he hung himself. He was found quite dead and cold,
partly extended on the stone floor, and partly reclining as it were
against the cell wall. He had suspended himself by the slight “nettles”
(small cords) of his hammock, which had broken by his weight. The
prisoner in the next cell reported that between one and two in the
morning he had heard a noise of some one kicking against the wall; and
then no doubt the deed was done.
After this unhappy example attempts rapidly multiplied, though happily
none were otherwise than feigned. One tried the iron grating and a
piece of cord; another used his cell block as a drop, but was careful
to retain the halter in his hands; a third, Moses Josephs, tried to cut
his throat, but on examination nothing but a slight reddish scratch
was found, which the doctor was convinced was done by the back of the
knife. In all these cases immediate and anxious attention was afforded
by all the officials of the Penitentiary. The governor himself, who
never gave himself an hour’s relaxation, and was always close at hand,
was generally the first on the scene of suicide. If there was but a
hint of anything wrong he was ready to spend hours with the intending
_felo-de-se_. Thus in Metzer’s—a fresh case: a man who would not eat,
was idle too, morose and sullen, “though spoken to always in the
kindest manner.” No sooner was it known that he was brooding over
the length of his confinement—his was a life sentence—and had hinted
at suicide, than the governor spent hours with him in exhortation.
Metzer, being a weaver by trade, had been placed in a cell furnished
with a loom; from this he was to be changed immediately to another,
lest the beam should be a temptation to him; but the governor, being
uneasy, first visited him again, and found him, though late at night,
in his clothes perambulating his cell. On this his neighbour was set
to watch him for the rest of the night, and the doctor gave him a
composing draught. Next morning, when they told him he was to leave
his cell for good, he became outrageously violent, and assaulted every
one around. He was now taken forcibly to the infirmary, and put in a
strait-waistcoat; whereupon he grew calmer and promised to go to his
new cell, provided he was allowed to take his own hammock with him. It
struck the governor at once that something might be concealed in it,
and it was searched minutely. Inside the bedclothes they found a couple
of yards of hammock lashing, one end of which was made into a noose,
“leaving,” the governor remarks, “little doubt of his intention.”
But to meet and frustrate these repeated attempts at suicide were by
no means the governor’s only trials. The misconduct of many other
prisoners must have made his life a burthen to him. Thefts were
frequent: these fellows’ fingers itched to lay their hands on all
that came in their way. The tower wardsman—a prisoner in a place of
trust—steals his warder’s rations; others filch knives, metal buttons,
bath brick, and food from one another. Then there was much wasteful
destruction of materials, with idleness and carelessness at the looms,
aggravated often by the misappropriation of time in manufacture of
trumpery articles for their own wear: one makes himself a pair of green
gaiters, another a pair of cloth shoes, a third an imitation watch of
curled hair, rolled into a ball, which hangs in his fob by a strip of
calico for guard.
These were doubtless offences of a trivial character. The anxiety
evinced by many to escape from durance was a much more serious affair.
Surprising ingenuity and unwearied patience are exhibited by prisoners
in compassing this, the great aim and object of all who are not free.
As yet, however, the efforts made were tentative only and incomplete.
To break a hole in the wall or manufacture false keys was the highest
flight of their inventive genius, and the plot seldom went very far.
One of the first cases was discovered quite by chance. On searching
a prisoner’s cell, some screws, a few nails, and two pieces of thick
iron wire were found concealed in his loom; and in one of his shoes
as it hung upon the wall, a piece of lead shaped so as to correspond
with the wards of a cell key. This the prisoner confessed he had made
with his knife from memory, and altogether without a pattern. “I have
a very nice eye,” he said, “and I have always carefully observed the
keys as I saw them in the officers’ hands.” “And what did you mean
to do with the key?” he was further asked. “To get away, of course.”
“How?” “I can open the wooden door when I please, and then I should
have unlocked my gate.”[1] On examination a hole was found in his door,
just below the bolt and opposite the handle; through this, by means
of a narrow piece of stuff, a knitting needle in fact, he could move
back the bolt whenever he pleased. Once out in the ward, he meant, with
a file he had also secreted, to get through the bars of the passage
window. The wards of this key were fastened into a wooden handle, which
was also found in his cell. Another prisoner, having been allowed to
possess himself of a large spike nail, which had been negligently left
about in the yard, worked all night at the wall of his cell, and soon
succeeded in removing several bricks. The hole he made was large enough
to allow him passage. Besides this, from the military great-coats, on
which he was stitching during the day, he had made himself a coat and
trousers. He might have actually got away had not a warder visited his
cell to inspect his work, and taking up the great-coats as they lay
in a heap in the corner, discovered the disguise beneath, also the
spike nail, and the rubbish of bricks and mortar from the hole. More
adventurous still, a third prisoner proposed to escape by stealing his
warder’s keys. Failing an opportunity, he too turned his attention to
making false ones; and for the purpose cut up with scissors his pewter
drinking can into bits. By holding the pieces near the hot irons he
used for his tailoring, he melted the metal, and ran it into a mould
of bread. Information of this project was given by another prisoner in
time to nip it in the bud. Another, again, had been clever enough to
remove a number of bricks, and would have passed undetected, had not
the governor by chance, when in his cell, touched the wall and found
it damp. A closer inspection showed that the mortar around the bricks
had been picked out, and the joints filled in by a mixture of pounded
mortar and chewed bread. On the outside was laid a coating of whiting,
such as was issued to the prisoners to help them in cleaning their cans.
In some mischief of this kind, one or other of the prisoners was
perpetually engaged. Cutting up their sheets to fabricate disguises;
melting the metal buttons, as the man just mentioned had melted his
pewter can; laying hold of files, rasps, old nails, scissors, tin,
copper wire, or whatever else came handy; and working always with so
much secrecy and despatch, that their plans were discovered more
by fortune generally, than good management. In those days the best
methods of prison discipline were far from matured. We know now that
the surest preventives against escape, are repeated and unexpected
searchings, with continuous vigilant supervision. A prisoner to carry
out his schemes must have leisure, and must be left to himself to work
unperceived. By the practice of the Penitentiary, prisoners had every
facility to escape; and we shall find ere long, that they knew how to
make the most of their advantages. For the present, all the good luck
was on the side of the gaolers.
But at this juncture a new trouble threatened all the peace and comfort
of the place. The prisoners seem to have grown all at once alive to
the power they possessed of combination. It had been suspected for
some time that a conspiracy was in progress among the denizens of D
Ward, Pentagon two, and a minute search of the several cells brought to
light a number of clandestine communications. These, written mostly on
the blank pages of prayer-books, and spare copy-book leaves, were all
to the same effect: exhortations to riot and mutiny. A certain George
Vigers was the prime mover; all the letters, which were very widely
disseminated, having issued from his pen. It had long been openly
discussed among the prisoners that the hulks were pleasanter places
than the Penitentiary. Here, then, was an opportunity of removal.
All who joined heartily in the projected commotion would draw upon
themselves the ire of the committee, and would certainly be drafted to
the hulks. To explain what might otherwise appear unintelligible, it
must be mentioned here, that the punishment implied by a sentence to
the hulks was by no means of a terrifying character, as is evidenced by
the choice of the prisoners.
A year or two later (1832), the report of the Parliamentary Committee
on Secondary Punishments laid bare the system, and expressed their
unqualified disapprobation of the whole treatment of convicts on board
the hulks. It being accepted that the separation of criminals, and
their severe punishment, are necessary to make crime a terror to the
evil doer, the committee pointed out that in both these respects the
system of management of the hulks was not only necessarily deficient,
but actually inimical. All that has been said of the miserable
effects of the association of criminals in the prisons on shore, the
profaneness, the vice, the demoralization that are its inevitable
consequences, applied in the fullest sense to the hulks. The numbers
in each ship varied from eighty to eight hundred. The ships were
divided into wards of from twelve to thirty persons; in these they were
confined when not at labour in the dockyard, and the evil consequences
of such associations may easily be conceived, even were the strictest
discipline enforced. But the facts are stated as follows: “The
convicts after being shut up for the night are allowed to have lights
between decks, in some ships as late as ten o’clock; although against
the rules of the establishment, they are permitted the use of musical
instruments; flash songs, dancing, fighting, and gaming take place; the
old offenders are in the habit of robbing the newcomers; newspapers
and improper books are clandestinely introduced; a communication is
frequently kept up with their old associates on shore; and occasionally
spirits are introduced on board. It is true that the greater part of
these practices are against the rules of the establishment; but their
existence in defiance of such rules shows an inherent defect in the
system. But the indulgence of purchasing tea, bread, tobacco, etc.,
is allowed, the latter with a view to the health of the prisoners;
the convicts are also allowed to receive visits from their friends,
and during the time they remain, are excused working, sometimes for
several days. Such communications can only have the worst effect. It
is an improper indulgence to anyone in the position of a convict, and
keeps up a dangerous and improper intercourse with old companions.
The most assiduous attention on the part of the ministers of religion
would be insufficient to stem the torrent of corruption flowing from
these various and abundant sources; and but little attention is paid
to the promotion of religious feelings, or to the improvement of the
morals of the convicts.” It was plainly seen that the convicts were
also allowed to earn too much money—threepence a day to convicts in the
first class, three halfpence to those in the second; out of which the
former got sixpence a week, and the latter threepence, to lay out in
the purchase of tea, tobacco, etc., and the remainder was laid by to be
given to them on their release. They were supposed to work during the
day at the arsenals and dockyards, but “there was nothing in the nature
or severity of their employment which deserves the name of punishment
or hard labour.” The work lasted from eight to ten hours, according
to season; but so much time was lost in musters, and going to and
from labour, that the summer period was never eight hours, and winter
only six and a half. As common labourers work ten hours, and when at
task work or during harvest much longer, the convicts could hardly be
said to do more than was just sufficient to keep them in health and
exercise; indeed, their situation could not be considered penal; it was
a state of restriction, but hardly of punishment.
Thus, as the committee described, the criminal sentenced to
transportation for crimes to which the law affixed the penalty of
death, passed his time, well fed, well clothed, indulging in riotous
enjoyment by night, vexed with but moderate labour by day. No wonder
that confinement on the hulks failed to excite a proper feeling of
terror in the minds of those likely to come under its operation.
The hulks were indeed not dreaded; prisoners described their life in
them as a “pretty jolly life.” If any convict could but overcome the
sense of shame which the degradation of his position might evoke,
he would feel himself to be better off than large numbers of the
working-classes, who have nothing but their daily labour to depend on
for subsistence. At the dockyards, among the free men the situation of
a convict was looked upon with envy; and many labourers would have been
glad to change places with him, in order that they might better their
situation. It was not strange, then, that the discontented denizens of
the Penitentiary found even the moderate rigour of that establishment
too irksome, and that they were eager to be transferred to the hulks.
Towards the end of September, 1826, came the first indications of
disturbance. A prisoner having smashed his bedstead, demolished also
the iron grating to his window, and thrust through it his handkerchief,
tied to a stick, shouting and hallooing the while loud enough to be
heard in Surrey. The same day, Hussey, another notorious offender,
returning from confinement in the dark, was given a pail of water to
wash his cell out, but instead, discharged the whole contents over his
warder’s head. Before he could be secured he had destroyed everything
in his cell, and had thrown the pieces out of the window. Next, a
number of prisoners during the night took to rolling their cell-blocks
and rattling their tables about. By this time the dark cells had many
occupants, who spent the night in singing, dancing, and shouting to
each other.
Early next morning, about 5 A.M., in this same ward from which all the
rioters came, Stephen Harman broke everything he could lay hands on—the
window frame and all its panes of glass, his cell table, stool, shelf,
trencher, salt-box, spoon, drinking-cup, and all his cell furniture.
He had first barricaded his door, and could not be secured till all
the mischief was done. Later in the day from another cell came a
long low whistle, followed by the crash of broken glass. The culprit
here, when seized, confessed he had been persuaded by others; all
were to join after dinner, the whistle being the signal to commence.
The governor was now really apprehensive, anticipating something of
a serious nature. He had a strong force of spare warders and patrols
posted in the tower of the pentagon; but though the whistle[2] was
frequently heard during the night, nothing occurred till next day, at
half-past eight, when George Vigers and another followed Harman’s lead
and destroyed everything in their cells. They joined their companions
in the dark cells, all of whom, being outrageously violent, were now
in handcuffs. In the dark they continued their misconduct; using the
most shocking and revolting language to all officials who approached
them; assaulting them, deluging them with dirty water, resolutely
refusing to give up their beds, and breaking locks, door panels,
and windows, and this although they were restrained in irons. These
handcuffs having failed to produce any salutary effect, they were now
removed; although several of the prisoners did not wait for that, and
had riddled themselves of their bracelets. For the next few days “the
Dark,” as these underground cells were styled in official language,
continued to be the scene of the most unseemly uproar. When Archdeacon
Potts, one of the committee, visited it he was received with hoots
and yells; and this noise was kept up incessantly day and night.
But at length, after nearly a fortnight of close confinement, the
strength of the rioters broke down, several of them being removed to
the hospital, while the others went back to their cells. But there was
no lack of reinforcements: fresh offenders took up the game, and the
dark cells were continually full. As soon as those first punished were
sufficiently recovered, they broke out again. The cases of misconduct,
generally of the same description, were varied now and then by a
plot to break the water-mill by whirling round the cranks too fast,
continuous noise, insolence, dancing defiantly the double shuffle,
attempts to incite a whole ward, when in the corridor at school, to
rise against their warders, overpower them, and take possession of
their keys.
Throughout the long nights of the dreary winter months these
disturbances continued; a time of the utmost anxiety and annoyance to
worthy Captain Chapman, who was invariably the foremost in the fray.
Nothing can exceed the pluck and energy with which he tackled the most
truculent. When a prisoner, mad with rage, dares any man to enter his
cell, it is Governor Chapman who always enters without a moment’s
hesitation; when another, armed with a sleeveboard, threatens to dash
out everybody’s brains, it is Captain Chapman who secures the weapon
of offence; when a body of prisoners on the mill break out into open
mutiny, and the warder in charge is in terror for his personal safety,
it is Governor Chapman who repairs at once to the spot and collars the
ringleaders. Perhaps it would have been better if so much resolute
courage had not been tempered with too much kindness of heart. No one
can read of Captain Chapman’s proceedings without admitting that he was
brave; but for his particular duties he was undoubtedly also amiable
to a fault. Had he been more unrelenting it is probable that the worst
offenders would never have gone such lengths in their insubordination.
A word or two of contrition, often the merest sham, was sufficient
generally to secure his pardon. Thus when a man has worked himself
into a fury and appears ready for any act of desperation, the mere
appearance of the governor calms him, and the prisoner, softened, says,
“You, sir, use me much better than I deserve. Put me in the dark.” “I
left him,” says Captain Chapman, on one occasion, “saying I trusted my
lenity would have a much better effect than a dark cell. I therefore
admonished and pardoned him.” Had such kindness been productive of good
results no one could have questioned his wisdom; almost invariably it
was worse than futile, and the malcontents soon worse than ever, and
devising fresh schemes.
It was in this winter that the superintending committee became
convinced that the methods of coercion they possessed were hardly so
stringent as the case required. They reported to the House of Commons
that “there were among the prisoners some profligate and turbulent
characters for whose outrageous conduct the punishments in use under
the rules and regulations of the Penitentiary were by no means
sufficient.” They found by experience that “confinement in a dark cell,
though in most cases a severe and efficacious punishment, operates
very differently on different persons. It appears to lose much of its
effect from repetition; it cannot always be carried far without the
danger of injuring health; and on some men as well as boys it has no
effect.” Many of the ringleaders in the disturbances just described
were subjected to twenty-five, twenty-eight, and even to thirty days
of uninterrupted imprisonment in the dark, and certainly with little
effect. In view of this want of some more salutary punishment the
committee expressed a wish for power to flog. They were convinced
that “the framers of the statute under which the Penitentiary is now
governed acted erroneously in omitting the power to inflict corporal
punishment when they re-enacted most of the other provisions of the
19th Geo. III. And they are satisfied that a revival of this power (a
power possessed in every other criminal prison in this country) would
be highly advantageous to the management of this prison, provided such
power were accompanied by regulations adequate to control the exercise
of it, and to guard against its being abused.”
Soon after these lines were in print, and presented to the House, it
became more than ever apparent that to tame these turbulent characters
some serious steps must be taken soon. During the early months of
1827 there had been no cessation of misconduct of the kind already
described, but the cases were mostly isolated, and generally succumbed
to treatment. But as March began a storm gathered which soon burst
like a whirlwind on the place. It was heralded by a riot in chapel
on Sunday, the 3rd of March. Previous to the sermon, during evening
service, a rumbling noise was heard, as if the prisoners assembled were
stamping in unison with their feet. The sound ceased with the singing
of the psalm, and recommenced during the sermon, and increased in
violence. It was discovered that the noise was made by the prisoners
knocking with their fists against the sheet iron that separated the
several divisions. As the uproar continued to increase to a shameful
and alarming extent, the governor left the chapel to fetch the
patrols, and other spare officers, all of whom, with drawn cutlasses,
were posted near the chapel door. The prisoners were then removed to
their cells, and, in the presence of this exhibition of force, they
went quietly enough. The ringleaders were afterwards singled out and
punished: the chief among them being a monitor, long remarkable for his
piety, who on this occasion had distinguished himself by mimicking the
chaplain, by commenting in scandalous terms upon the sermons, and using
slang expressions instead of responses.
After this, in all parts of the prison there are strong symptoms of
mutiny. Loud shouts, laughter, and the thieves’ whistle on every side.
For the next few days there is much uneasiness; and at length, about
midnight on the 8th, the governor is roused from his bed. Pentagon six
is in an uproar. As Captain Chapman hurries to the scene he is saluted
with the crash of glass, interspersed with loud cries of triumph and of
encouragement. The airing-yard below is strewed with fragments; broken
window-frames, fragments of glass, utensils, and tables smashed to
bits. Two notorious offenders in B Ward, Hawkins and John Caswell, are
busy at the work of destruction, and already everything is in ruins.
The tumult is so tremendous, so many others contribute their shouts,
and the thieves’ whistle runs so quickly from cell to cell, that sleep
is impossible to any one within the boundary wall; and presently all
officials, chaplain, doctor, manufacturers, and steward, have joined
the governor, and are helping to quell the disturbance. It is quelled,
but hardly has the governor got back to bed, at two in the morning,
when the uproar recommences: the same noise and loud shouts from one
side of the pentagons of prisoners, inciting each other to continue the
riot. Next day, from various other wards come reports that a spirit
of insubordination is on the increase; and the offenders in the dark,
ten in number, are violent in the extreme. Again, at midnight, the
governor is aroused by a tremendous yelling from Pentagon six, followed
by the smashing of glass. The offenders are seized at once, and, the
governor remarks, “from what I could learn, were pretty roughly handled
by their captors.” During this night, too, in noise and violence the
several prisoners in the dark exceeded, if possible, their accustomed
mutinous conduct. One, by some extraordinary effort, broke the part
of his door to which the lock was attached, and got it into his cell,
swearing he would brain the first person who approached him. There was
much answering to and from the dark cells and the upper stories of the
pentagons opposite. There was evidently discontent also in other parts
of the prison. Those prisoners who had no hope of gaining any remission
of their sentences, having no inducement to behave well, were on the
point of insurrection. In addition to these alarms, on the night of the
14th it was reported to the governor that the prisoners were making
their escape from the dark cells. The noise was so tremendous that it
could be heard all over the prison.
And now mysterious documents emanating from the prisoners were picked
up, containing complaints mostly of the treatment they received, and
full of terrible threats. As time passed, the worst of these threats
found vent in the hanging of the infirmary warder’s cat. The halter was
a strip of round towel from behind the door, and a piece of paper was
affixed to it, with these portentous words:—
“you see yor Cat is hung And
you Have Been the corse of it
for yoor Bad Bavior to Those
arond you. Dom yor eis, yoo’l
get pade in yor torn yet.”
Next were several closely written sheets, full of inflammatory matter,
which gave the authorities so much uneasiness that several hundred
prisoners were closely examined as to their contents. As these letters
afford curious evidence of the importance prisoners arrogate to
themselves, it may be interesting to publish one _in extenso_. It was
found on the road back from chapel. There was no signature attached. It
was addressed to the visitor.
“SIR,—Four instances of brutality have occurred in this Establishment
within the last week; the which we, as men (if we do our duty towards
God and man), cannot let escape our notice, and hope and trust you will
not let them pass without taking them into your serious consideration.
We will take the liberty of putting a few questions to you, which we
hope you will not be offended at. Who gave Mr. Bulmer authority to
strike a lad named Quick almost sufficient to have broken his arm,
indeed so bad that the lad could not lift his hand to his head? and who
gave Mr. Pilling the same authority to smite a lad to the ground, named
Caswell, with a ruler, the same as a butcher would a Bullock, without
him (Caswell) making the least resistance? On Saturday night last there
was brutal and outrageous doings, Mr. Pilling as desperate as ever,
assisted by that villain Turner (we cannot give him a better term—we
wish we could). Who would have thought a man could have been so cruel
as to lift a poker against a fellow-creature? A ruler, we have heard,
was broken into two pieces, a thing that is made of the hardest of
wood. Was there ever, in the annals of treachery and oppression, facts
more scandalous than these! No. To hear their cries was sufficient to
make the blood run cold of any man, if he was possessed of the least
animal feeling (‘For God’s sake have compassion, and do not quite kill
me,’ etc., etc.). And we do not hesitate to say, had not the wise
Creator, that sees and hears all, put it into the heart of a man to
be there and stop them in their bloody actions, homicide would have
been committed: then God knows what would have been the result. We
will admit that these men committed themselves in the most provoking
manner; but still, who are, what are these men, that they should
take the law in their own hands? You are the person they should have
applied to, and we are satisfied you would not have given them such
authority. Many men have committed as bad, or worse crimes than either
of these, and in less than one minute afterwards have been sorry for
it. How did these men know but this was the case here? but without
speaking to them, as Christians would do, knocks them down, as we have
stated before, as a Butcher would do an Ox—we cannot make a better
comparison—Messrs. Pilling and Turner in particular. The governor, too,
who professes to fear God, we think if he would study the great and
principal commandment, that is, to do to others as he would be done
unto, it would be much more to his credit; especially, sir, as you and
other gentlemen of this establishment expect when there is a discharge
of prisoners (and it is to be hoped that soon will be the case) that
they will give the establishment a good name. They cannot do it, unless
there is a stop put to such brutal actions; they will most likely speak
the sentiments of their hearts; they will say they have seen some of
their fellow-creatures driven like wrecks before the rough tide of
power till there was no hold left to save them from destruction. That
will be a pretty thing for the public to hear. And, sir, we do not wish
to be too severe, but unless Pilling and Turner are dismissed from the
Establishment, and that shortly, we will fight as long as there is a
drop of blood in us; for it is evident, many men have expired from a
much lighter blow than either of those delivered; therefore necessity
obliges us—we must do it for our own safety; but depend upon it, sir,
it is far from our wish to do anything of the kind, for your sake, and
for the sake of what few good ones we have (and God knows it is but
few). There is 3 good men in the Pentagon—Messrs. Newstead, Rutter, and
Hall, and we wish we could speak well of the others—but we cannot.
* * * * *
“N.B. We do not wish to give the last new warder a bad name, for we
have not seen sufficient of him to speak either way, but what little we
have seen leads us to believe he is a good man. We hope, sir, you will
excuse us, but we will ask you another question. If you were in Mr.
Pilling’s situation, and a man committed himself, would you not reason
with him on the base impropriety of what he had done? We know you
would. Instead of that, Mr. Pilling takes a delight in aggravating the
cause with a grin, or a jeer of contempt, not only before you see him
(the prisoner), afterwards the same; which, without the least doubt,
makes a man commit acts of violence which at other times he would
tremble at the idea. We hope, sir, you will take this into your worthy
and serious consideration, and by so doing you will greatly oblige,
“Your Obedient Humble Servants,
“FRIENDS TO THE OPPRESSED.”
This letter indicates the prisoners’ attitude. On another occasion a
few of them go to the governor’s office to remonstrate with him on one
of his punishments. We might as well imagine—to compare great things
with small—a deputation from the criminal classes waiting on a judge
to complain of his sentence on a thief. As soon as the protesters are
ushered in, one says that Davis, the culprit, is very sorry for what he
has done; another says that he was unwell at the time, and all unite
in hoping the governor will let him off. Fortunately the governor is
not so weak as they fancied. He says: “On my remarking to them—which I
did with much indignation—their highly improper conduct in presuming
to remonstrate with me in the execution of my duty, Boak (one of the
three) remarked, that by their rules they were to apply to the governor
or visitor if they had any complaint. To which I answered, ‘Most
certainly,’ but that my confining Timothy Davis could not possibly be
any grievance to them; and repeated that their presuming to dictate
to me was of such a reprehensible and insubordinate nature that I
should confine them in the dark cells.” But as they were penitent, and
promised for the future to mind their own business, they were released
the same day.
Meanwhile, the rioting and destruction proceeded without intermission.
A frequent device now was for prisoners to barricade their cell
doors, so as to work the more uninterruptedly. For this purpose the
cell-blocks or some of the fragments from the demolished furniture
served; and, as a brilliant idea, one or two prisoners invented the
practice of filling their keyholes with sand and brick rubbish, or
hampering the locks with their knives. But in March the riot exceeded
anything in previous experience. It was prefaced by the usual
exhibitions of defiance and insubordinate conduct, and the uproar as
before broke out in the middle of the night. A dozen or more of the
prisoners dressed themselves, barricaded their doors, and then set to
work. By and by the whole ward was in a tumult. The dark cells were
already full, and there was no other place of punishment. The shouting
and yelling could not therefore be checked, and continuing far into
the day excited other prisoners at exercise, so that they were on the
point of laying violent hands upon their warders. One scoundrel took
off his cap and tried to cheer on his fellows to acts of violence; and
some followed the warder into a corner, swearing they would have his
life. The condition of the whole prison was now so alarming that the
governor, with permission of the visitor, sought extraneous help.
Application was made to the Queen’s Square police office for a force of
constables to assist in maintaining order and insuring the safe custody
of the prisoners. As soon as these reinforcements arrived they were
marched to the airing-yard of Pentagon five—the scene of the recent
riots.
Here a large body of prisoners were at exercise. The governor and
the visitor in turn addressed them, pointing out “the shame and
disrepute they were bringing on themselves and the institution by their
mutinous conduct.” Several in reply were most insolent in speech and
manner, declaring they did not deserve to be treated with suspicion.
One addressed a warder close at hand with loud abuse, another the
taskmaster, swearing he was starved to death, and both had to be
removed. These constables remained on duty during the night, and for
several weeks to come continued to give their assistance. On the return
of the prisoners to their wards, the governor spent four hours, from
seven to eleven o’clock, going patiently from cell to cell, impressing
on each man the necessity for orderly and subordinate conduct. “My
time and efforts,” he says next day, “were, I regret to say, quite
thrown away, for the noise and shouting continued during the night,
though not quite to the same extent.” Nothing very serious, however,
happened till three o’clock the following day, when Hickman, a prisoner
in the infirmary, began to break his windows, and with loud huzzahs
endeavoured to incite the others in the yards to “acts of violence and
insubordination.” He was answered by many voices, and the tumult soon
became general. Meanwhile, the governor and the visitor had repaired
to Hickman’s cell as soon as the smashing of glass was heard, but the
man had cunningly made fast his door, and could not be interfered
with. It appeared that he had complained of want of exercise, and had
accompanied this complaint with so much contrition for previous violent
conduct, that the surgeon had allowed his cell door to be unlocked,
so that he might walk when he liked in the passage. Directly the
officers had gone to dinner he got out, and, using his knife, which had
imprudently been left in his possession, hampered the locks at both
ends of the passage. His next act was to slice into ribbons the whole
of his bedding and that of several cells adjoining his own, which were
unoccupied and proved not to be locked. This business satisfactorily
arranged, he began to shout and to smash all the windows within his
reach. Before he could be secured he had demolished eighty-two panes of
glass and several sashes complete. He was found brandishing his broom,
and offering to fight the lot of his captors, one of whom promptly
knocked him down, when he was quickly handcuffed and carried back to
his cell. But the noise he made that night, with others, was so great
that the governor declared he never closed his eyes during the night.
Night after night the misconduct of the prisoners continued, and grew
worse and worse. Wards hitherto well behaved became infected. In C
Ward, Pentagon six, “they commenced at 4 A.M. shouting and bellowing
like the rest.” The visitor on going to “the dark” was again most
grossly insulted and abused. Another evening the noise and shouting
that broke out was so loud that many officers going off duty heard the
disturbance at the other end of Vauxhall Bridge, and returned to the
prison.
All through the months of April and May the violence of the malcontents
continued unabated. They had found out their strength, no doubt, and
laughed at all attempts to coerce them. Neither dark cells nor irons
exercised the least effect, and the only remaining punishment—the
lash, the committee were not as yet empowered to enforce. It must be
confessed that one reads with regret that a parcel of unruly scoundrels
should thus be allowed to make a mockery of the punishment to which
they were sentenced by the law, and that they should be suffered
unchecked to set all order and discipline at defiance. And all this
deliberate insolence and open insubordination could have but one end,
and culminated at length in a murderous affray, in which a couple of
prisoners fell upon the machine-keeper and nearly killed him. The plot
had been well laid, and brewing for some time. About seven o’clock one
morning, while working quietly at the crank, prisoner Salmon rushed at
Mr. Mullard, the machine-keeper, and knocked him off the platform by a
tremendous blow, which caught him just behind the ear, and cut his head
open. Crouch, another prisoner, struck Mr. Mullard at the same moment.
When on the ground he was kicked by Salmon in the mouth. No one but
the wardsman, another prisoner, came to poor Mullard’s assistance; but
this man acted with great spirit, and it was mainly owing to his prompt
interference that the machine-keeper escaped with his life.
At the moment the attack was made all the other officers were at a
distance. One warder said he saw Mr. Mullard fall, but thought it was
accidental, and that the prisoner Salmon had stooped over to pick him
up. However, when the other prisoners crowded round, shouting, “Give
it him! Give it him! Lay on,” this warder, perceiving their evil
intentions, took to his heels—to get assistance, for he afterwards
indignantly disclaimed all idea of quitting the yard through personal
apprehension. At the tower he found the taskmaster coming out cutlass
in hand; Rogan, the warder, got one also, and both hurried back to the
yard. Smith, the wardsman, was fighting with Crouch, and Mr. Mullard,
who had got again to his feet, with Salmon; the other prisoners looking
on, being, as they afterwards asserted, afraid to stir, “particularly
after seeing the warder, Rogan, run away.” Crouch now came at the
taskmaster “with fury in his looks;” upon which the latter drew his
cutlass and warned him to stand off, and then both Crouch and Salmon
were secured. There was no doubt the greater part of the prisoners
were concerned in this mutiny, for although Mullard called aloud for
assistance, not a soul but Smith, the wardsman, stirred a finger to
help him. These miscreants were subsequently tried at the Old Bailey,
and sentenced to increased imprisonment.
Not long after this the new Act, authorizing the committee to flog for
aggravated misconduct, was passed, and then a clearance was made of
the worst subjects by sending them from the Penitentiary to the hulks.
This was really yielding to the prisoners. But it gained a certain lull
of peace within the walls—no slight boon after the disturbances, and
it was hoped that the new powers of punishment would check any further
outbreak amongst those who remained.