CHAPTER XXIII

A WEST VIRGINIA PRISON CAMP

In July of 1919 my attention was called to the brutal conditions of the

Sissonville prison Camp in Kanawha County, West Virginia. The practices

of the dark ages were not unknown to that county. Feudalism and slave

ownership existed in her coal camps. I found the most brutal slave

ownership in the prison camp.

Officials of state and nation squawk about the dangers of bolshevism

and they tolerate and promote a system that turns out bolshevists by

the thousands. A bunch of hypocrites create a constabulary supposedly

to stamp out dangerous “reds” but in truth the constabulary is to

safeguard the interests of the exploiters of labor. The moneyed

interests and their servants, the officials of county and state, howl

and yammer about law and order and American ideals in order to drown

out the still, small voice of the worker asking for bread.

With Mr. Mooney and Mr. Snyder, organizers, I went to the prison camp

of Kanawha County where prisoners were building a county road. It was a

broiling hot day.

About forty men were swinging picks and shovels; some old grey haired

men were among them, some extremely young, some diseased, all broken

in spirit and body. Some of them, the younger ones, were in chains.

They had to drag a heavy iron ball and chain as they walked and worked.

A road officer goaded them on if they lagged. He was as pitiless as the

sun on their bent backs.

These were men who had received light sentences in the courts for

minor offenses, but the road officer could extend the sentence for the

infraction of the tiniest rule. Some men had been in the camp for a

year whose sentence had been thirty days for having in their possession

a pint of liquor. Another fellow told me he was bringing some whiskey

to a sick man. He was arrested, given sixty days and fined $100. Unable

to pay he was sentenced to five months in the prison camp, and after

suffering hell’s tortures he had attempted to run away. He was caught

and given four additional months.

At night the miserable colony were driven to their horrible sleeping

quarters. For some, there were iron cages. Iron bunks with only a thin

cloth mattress over them. Six prisoners were crowded into these cages.

The place was odorous with filth. Vermin crawled about.

A very young lad slept in a cell, sixteen by twenty feet practically

without ventilation, with sixteen negroes, some of whom suffered from

venereal disease. There was no sewage system, and the only toilet for

this group was a hole in the floor of the cell with a tub beneath. It

was not emptied until full. Great greedy flies buzzed about the cells

and cages. They lighted on the stripped bodies of the men.

The sick had no care, no medicine. The well had no protection against

the sick. None of the wretched army of derelicts had any protection

against the brutality of the road overseers. A prisoner had been beaten

with the pick handle by the overseer. His wounds were not dressed.

Another was refused an interview with his attorney.

I knew it was useless to tell the governor about conditions as I found

them. I knew he would be neither interested nor would he care. It

wasn’t election time.

That night I took the train from Charleston and went straight to

Washington. In the morning I went to the Department of Justice. I

told the Attorney General about conditions in the prison camp of

Sissonville ... the fetid, disease-breeding cells ... the swill given

the men for food ... the brutal treatment. I asked him to make inquiry

if there were not federal prisoners there. He promised me he would

make immediate inquiry. This he did. To be sure there were no federal

prisoners in the gang, but the investigation scared hell out of them,

and the day after the federal agents had been there, fifteen prisoners,

illegally held, were released.

The worst abuses were corrected for a while, at least.

Whenever things go wrong, I generally head for the National government

with my grievances. I do not find it hard to get redress.

I do not believe that iron bars and brutal treatment have ever been

cures for crime. And certainly I feel that in our great enlightened

country, there is no reason for going back to the middle ages and their

forms of torture for the criminal.

Autobiography of Mother Jones · 第 23 / 27 章