REMOVAL OF A BATCH OF CONVICTS――PEACE TAKEN TO DARTMOOR.
The events we have been describing――the search after, the capture, and
committal, of Giles Chudley――were unknown to Peace; indeed he was in
entire ignorance of the murder of Mr. Jamblin.
Through the long weary hours of his imprisonment he was looking
forward through the darkness which enshrouded him to the day of his
liberation as to a bright and unsetting star.
Its clear white ray pierced the clouds which hung dark and heavy over
him, and shed light and hope within him, for it told him that behind
those clouds there was a light and a day which would yet dawn upon
him, wherein he could work and redeem the past.
As he lay upon his bed and gazed out of the window of his cell,
watching the birds dart hither and thither in a clear blue sky,
thoughts of the time when he should be free arose in his mind and
cheered his desponding heart.
Through the silent hours of the night he watched the myriad stars
shining in the midnight sky, glancing glory from far-off worlds, and
thought the while which among that radiant, silent throng was his.
He looked forward to the day when he should be cast into the world
again.
Can it be wondered at that under the influence of these feelings he
bitterly regretted having pursued such a reckless and lawless career?
He had seen enough and heard enough from the prison chaplain to be
forcibly impressed with the errors of his ways.
He had met with men whose whole life had been spent in constant
warfare against society, and who had no other intention, on regaining
their liberty, than to continue the struggle to the bitter end――
The murderer, cheerful and complacent over the verdict of
manslaughter; the professional garotter, in whose estimation human
life is of no value, troubled only at being so foolish as to be
caught; the professional thief, the pickpocket, the skilled
housebreaker――every one of them sound in wind and limb, intent only on
their schemes and “dodges,” to extract the sting from their
punishment――all longing for the time when they and society would cry
“quits,” and they be at liberty to pursue their career of villainy.
With these, the vilest of the vile, and also with the hoary criminal
who knew no home save the prison, who preferred it to the poor-house.
He had been shut up many months without a glance at the external world
and its doings; he had not seen a newspaper or heard a scrap of news
of any sort, and it was, therefore, some relief to him when he was
informed that he was to be transferred with the next batch of convicts
to Dartmoor.
He never reflected at this time that perhaps he might possibly find
the discipline much more severe in that place.
Dartmoor, as most of our readers know, is an extensive and remarkable
tract of land on the north-west of Exmoor. It comprises an area of
three hundred and fifty thousand acres, one-third of which is termed
Dartmoor Forest.
During the revolutionary war a French prison was erected on the moor,
which has been transformed into an agricultural settlement for the
poor. Part of the buildings are now occupied by a company established
to extract naphtha from peat.
The prisons were commenced in 1806. They are built of granite found on
the moor.
Two of the prisons, a row of houses for subordinate officers, and the
chapel walls, were erected by French, whilst the interior of the
chapel was fitted by American, prisoners, who received from Government
a small gratuity for their labour.
At one period of the year as many as ten thousand prisoners were
confined within the walls――the site of the prisons――which comprise a
circular measurement of thirty acres, and is about one thousand four
hundred feet above the sea. The mortality in the prison at Dartmoor
is, therefore, from the healthiness of its situation, much less than
any other town average.
Public attention has of late years been directed to this place in
consequence of the prisoner Arthur Orton, or the “Claimant,” as he has
been termed, undergoing penal servitude there.
On the morning upon which the convicts were to be removed from Preston
Gaol four omnibuses were drawn up, and into these the batch of
prisoners were conducted.
To say the truth, they did not present a particularly respectable
appearance, cropped, shaven, and habited in prison clothes as they
were; but this, after all, did not trouble them much.
The moment they left the walls of the prison every man in a short time
became loquacious――the silent system was no longer in full force, and
a certain amount of latitude was allowed; the men were permitted to
talk and chatter as they liked, and it is easy to conceive that they
did not fail to avail themselves of this privilege.
The omnibuses rumbled along the streets with their distinguished
passengers, who looked through the windows in a curious inquiring
manner. Their attention was very naturally directed to the contents
bills of the morning papers displayed outside the news-vendors’ shops,
every line of which was eagerly devoured.
The theatrical posters, too, displayed on the advertising stations of
the clever and enterprising firm of Willing and Co. interested them in
no small degree.
They saw the names of new pieces, of new actors and actresses, with
which they were much gratified.
Like boys let out from school, they were in the best of spirits,
forgetting for the nonce that they were but exchanging one
prison-house for another.
When they reached the railway station a crowd collected to see them
alight. They could hear the remarks of the people, which were by no
means complimentary, and two or three of the gang of convicts made use
of coarse expletives in an undertone.
The warders in charge of the convicts did not give them much time to
indulge in idle curiosity; the prisoners were hustled into a large
third-class carriage and told to take their seats. They obeyed
sulkily, and those next to the windows thrust out their heads and
began begging for tobacco from those who were on the platform.
“Now then, guv’nor――you with the barnacles I mean”――cried one, “we are
all down in the dumps. Give us a bit o’ ’bacco, you won’t miss it,
ever so little a bit.” The speaker held out his hand and a
costermonger emptied his tobacco box, the contents of which he placed
in the hand of the prisoner.
“Good luck to ye, and many thanks,” cried the latter.
“Aint one of you got never such a thing as a cigar about you?” said
another convict.
Three cigars were thrown in at the window by a heavy swell.
“Thank you, sir, you’re worth your weight in gold. I wish there were
more like you in this world.”
“Get down, we’ve had enough o’ this,” said one of the warders, in a
commanding tone.
“All right, guv’nor,” cried the convicts. “Don’t draw the string too
tight,” said a prisoner. “If so be as the gentleman is in a generous
mood it won’t hurt you or anyone else to let us have the benefit on
it.”
“Well take what’s given you and look sharp about it,” returned the
warder.
“We aint proud any on us,” said the prisoner, addressing himself to
those on the platform. “A pennorth o’ shag will be acceptable, but
cheeroots and cigars we shall be grateful for.”
Several of the throng on the platform burst out in a loud laugh, and
cigars and tobacco were supplied in a most generous manner.
“We shan’t forget this kindness,” cried one or two of the convicts;
“and you’ve no call to be afeard that we shall rob any of you. Come
what may, we aint such wretches as people suppose us to be, for all
that we are in a bit of trouble just now.”
“I hope you will mend your ways, and that your hearts may be turned
from wickedness,” said a tall, thin man, with a white choker,
thrusting at the same time a handful of tracts in at the carriage
window.
“Oh! I say, guv’nor, give us something better than these; they ain’t
of no use.”
The tract distributor made no reply, but made off without further ado.
“One of the goody-goody sort,” murmured a convict. “Aint much to be
got out of any of his kidney. He aint my sort.”
“Sit down, men,” again repeated the warder; “we are just going to
start.”
The prisoners sat down, and in a few seconds after this the carriage
began to move, and they were on their journey.
Peace, during his incarceration in Preston Gaol, had made the
acquaintance of a professional “cracksman,” or burglar, who hailed
from London.
He had, however, been “landed” at Manchester, where he had committed a
number of daring robberies. He was a man of fair education, good
appearance, and considerable natural ability, much above the average
of his professional brethren.
He had been living luxuriously in London on the fruits of his
professional skill. Till now he had escaped all punishment, with the
exception of a few months’ imprisonment for a “mistake” committed at
the outset of his career.
Seeing in Peace a kindred spirit he fraternised with him, and they sat
next to each other in the train.
They carried on a conversation in whispers, the words of which were
inaudible to the warder who sat at the farther end of the carriage.
“Oh, yes,” observed the cracksman. “I have no reason to complain――I’ve
had a pretty goodish run of it, all things considered, but they nabbed
me in Manchester. Did I tell you how it happened?”
“No,” whispered Peace. “How was it?”
“Well, you see, one of my pals showed me an advertisement of a
Manchester jeweller, wherein he boasted of his safe having
successfully resisted the recent efforts of a gang of burglars. I said
to my pal, ‘Get Jim, and let us go down to-morrow by the mail train to
Manchester, and we will see what this man’s safe is like.’ We all
three went down, inspected the jeweller’s premises, and decided upon
doing the job through an ironmonger’s shop at the back.
“We had got the contents of the ironmonger’s till, and were just
through the intervening back wall when the ‘copper’ (policeman) heard
us, and signalled to another ‘bobby’ (policeman) to come and help
him.”
“Oh that was an ugly situation,” remarked Peace.
“Yes,” whispered his companion, “it was an unfortunate affair
altogether, but there was no help for it. I sprang out at once, for I
saw the game was up, and escape was all I thought about.”
“But you did not succeed in getting clear off.”
“I shouldn’t be here if I had,” returned the convict, sulkily. “I wish
I had never undertaken the job. I made a desperate fight for it,
though, and was nearly getting away when the ‘bobby’ belaboured me
most unmercifully with his staff. But I did not give in till I got
knocked down insensible. My pal was more fortunate――he bolted and got
clean away. Jim and myself got ‘copt’ (caught), and as we had
first-class tools on us, new to the authorities here, they gave it us
rather hot.”
“Ah, that they would be sure to do. Let them alone for that. But do
you think you could have opened the safe?”
“Could I! Certainly. I would have managed it somehow, although I
candidly confess it was a jolly good one of its sort. I should not
have wasted much time in trying to pick the lock.”
“What did you intend to do, then?” inquired Peace.
“Well, you see,” said the other, in a reflective manner, “safes do
give us chaps some trouble at times, but they’re to be mastered. Casey
could open any safe, and there are many others in the profession
equally clever as him. I flatter myself I’m one, but this you will say
is vanity.”
“I don’t say anything of the sort. What one man can do another ought
to accomplish.”
“You’ve heard of Casey?”
“Oh, yes, he’s in quod, aint he?”
Peace’s companion nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “Poor Casey isn’t likely to trouble anybody outside
the walls of a prison for a jolly long time to come. They’ve given it
him worth his money.”
“Yes, but about the safe? How did you purpose opening it?” inquired
Peace, for whom the conversation had special interest.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” answered his companion. “I did not intend to
set to work on the lock――that is, not make any attempt to pick it. My
plan was to drill a hole, and get into the ‘jack.’ When this was
accomplished I could, with an instrument I had with me, get moving
power sufficient to open any safe.”
“You could?”
“Oh dear, yes! The great difficulty is to get the time. The work I can
easily do; but then Jim, my pal, is one of the best locksmiths in
England, and he’s as true as steel. I always take him with me for a
job of that sort. But, mum, the warder’s got his eye upon us,” said
the “cracksman.”
This was true enough, but, situated as he was, he was unable to hear
one word of the foregoing conversation. The other prisoners were
laughing and talking so that there was too much din and clatter for
the warder in charge of them to comprehend the nature of the
discussion between Peace and his companion.
The officers in charge of the prisoners allowed them to have it pretty
much their own way in respect to social gossip.
As the train proceeded on its journey the prisoners continued to
converse together in whispers almost incessantly.
They appeared to be, all of them, in excellent spirits, and to judge
from their demeanour, lively conversation, and the occasional fits of
laughter, anybody would have come to the conclusion that it was a
holiday party of pleasure-seekers, instead of being convicts about to
be transferred to a penal gaol.
Peace recognised among his companions many faces that were well known
to him.
One young man, who in every respect was superior to the rest,
particularly attracted his notice.
He was a stranger to our hero; but there was a sad and thoughtful
expression on his features which enlisted Peace’s sympathy.
He was very handsome, and did not appear to be more than twenty years
of age.
He had been town traveller for a wholesale City house in London, and,
unfortunately for him, got mixed up with a fast set of young men about
town, and contracted habits of extravagance.
He was introduced to an actress, “fair but frail,” and became
fascinated with her charms to such an extent that the salary he
received was not commensurate to supply her wants.
She persuaded him to try his fortune on the stage. He was under the
impression, poor young man, that he had all the requisites to ensure
success, but soon found out, however, that it takes years and
unwearied industry to climb the ladder which leads to dramatic fame.
The sequel may be readily guessed. He embezzled a considerable sum of
money from his employers. He was prosecuted by the firm――they said,
“for example sake,”――and he was sentenced to five years’ penal
servitude.
He was irretrievably ruined. While in prison he listened to the
counsel of several hardened offenders, who schooled him for a career
of crime and vice.
It is a well-known and acknowledged fact that in this country felony
is so lucrative and so far from hazardous that it thrives, and will
thrive.
It appears from the judicial statistics that, while incidental crime
is decreasing, habitual crime is growing.
Transportation no longer carries off our thieves, who are discharged
at the rate of about two thousand a year into the general population.
It is more than probable that a great proportion of these liberated
prisoners re-enter the ranks of the criminal class.
The money spent on the repression of crime, ten millions a year, is
amply sufficient to effect the purpose. But, as yet, it has been spent
in vain. If things continue in the present course, we may look for
another panic ere long. The subsidence of that in 1856 was as
irrational as its rise. In deference to the popular outcry a show was
made for a time of restraining the issue of the licences, and the
country was appeased. But the real evil, the discharge of criminals
unreformed by their past treatment, and without a check on their
future conduct, continues unabated.
It is to be hoped that when the indignant terror of the public is once
more aroused it will not again be squandered on the wrong object――the
unlucky ticket of leave. But we must not be too sanguine. It is the
nature of the bull to vent his fury on the red rag instead of the
matador.
It must, however, be conceded that a man really anxious for
self-restoration may pass through Portland or Dartmoor uncontaminated,
and even derive some benefit from the discipline, defective as it is;
but each instances are rare.
The young man who had attracted Peace’s attention became utterly
reckless and debased while in the last-named prison.
He became instructed in all the manœuvres of the habitual criminals
with whom he associated, and his face became quite changed, as well as
his mind.
It assumed that peculiar expression so prevalent among hardened
offenders, which to the initiated is unmistakeable. A “leary look,” in
which fear, defiance, and cunning are blended together.
His was one of the many instances of evil communication sapping and
undermining all moral principle.
The train in which the convicts were did not go direct to Dartmoor.
They had to change on to another line.
Upon the arrival at the station they were ordered to get out, and here
they were, as at the time of their starting, surrounded by a curious
throng of gazers.
“Keep your peckers up,” cried a cab-driver, “and mind you are good
boys for the future.”
“All right, cabby――when I come out I shall want you to drive me to the
Hoperoor,” returned one of the prisoners.
“There, that will do; you are not brought here to chaff cabmen,” said
one of the warders. “The less you have to say the better.”
“Give him his head for a little bit,” observed the cab-driver. “He’ll
be reined up tight enough before long, I fancy.”
“You mind your own business,” said the warder.
“All right, guv’nor, sorry I spoke. Lord, you have got a crew under
your charge, and no mistake,” and with these words the man drove off.
The prisoners begged hard for tobacco of persons on the platform, and
that, as well as money, was handed to them.
“Oh, I say, master,” cried one, addressing himself to a young man of
the Dundreary type, “can you spare us that paper when you have done
with it?”
“Certainly, it is at your service,” replied the gentleman, handing the
newspaper to the other.
“It’s against the rules,” observed the warder. “Prisoners are not
allowed to read newspapers.”
“Only for this once.”
“No, it’s against the rules.”
“But we are not in prison now. Mayn’t a cove have a squint at the news
while he’s in the train?”
“Ah, let him have the newspaper; you can make him give it up before
the train reaches its destination, you know,” said the gentleman to
the warder.
“I don’t like to be too hard with them, but it’s against the rules,”
replied the warder, walking away.
The prisoner thrust the paper into his pocket, and no further notice
was taken of the action.
“I’m blest if I can read it now I have got it,” murmured the prisoner,
as he stepped into the other carriage which was to convey him to
Dartmoor; “but there’s some of ’em as can.”
The train had not proceeded very far on its journey before the man
drew forth his prize.
“I say, mates, I’ve got a newspaper. Will any on you read it out loud
for the benefit of all of us? Please, sir, you won’t object to it,
please,” he said, touching his cap and addressing the officer in
charge.
“You know as well as I do that it is against the rules,” replied the
officer, “but as it has been given to you, and you are not now inside
the walls of the prison, I consent.”
“Ah, thank you, sir――thank you,” cried several.
The young man to whom allusion has already been made was asked to read
aloud for the benefit of the other prisoners. He was the best educated
man of the whole party, some of whom could not read at all, while
others could read but imperfectly.
The paper in question was a Sunday morning edition of one of the
weeklies.
It contained reports of the trials at the Middlesex and Surrey
Sessions, and the young man began at these, after which he read a
portion of the police reports, then his eye lighted on a line in
broad-faced type, “THE MURDER IN LARCHGROVE LANE; Examination and
Committal of the Prisoner.”
“Eh, what’s that?” cried Peace. “In what lane?”
“Larchgrove.”
“Let’s have it,” cried one of the convicts. “The whole true and
particular account.”
The young man began to read. As he repeated the name of Mr. Philip
Jamblim Peace started.
“Do you know him?” inquired the “cracksman,” who sat next to him.
“Yes, very well.”
The reader continued. The murdered man, the detective engaged in the
case, the several witnesses, together with the chairman of the bench
of magistrates, were as familiar to him as household words.
He was in a feverish state of excitement and drank in every word with
the greatest avidity.
Everybody in the carriage was interested, even to the unimpressionable
warder, but not in an equal degree to Peace, who was absorbed as he
listened to the thrilling narrative.
“Well, I’m blessed,” exclaimed a young pickpocket, “but it is a big
case.”
“Hold your jaw, you young fool,” cried a prisoner; “let’s hear all
about it.”
The evidence of Brickett and John Adolphus had been gone carefully
through, then followed the examination of Ellen Fulford.
“My eye, he’s giving it her pretty hot,” said the cracksman, “and
doesn’t he cheek the beaks?”
“I call him a right-down good ’un,” observed another.
It would be difficult to describe the sensation produced when the
young man read the following passage from the report:――
“Pray, Miss Fulford, were you not acquainted some time ago with a
person named Charles Peace?”
The reader paused suddenly. Every eye was directed towards our hero.
“Jemmy Johnson squeeze me, but if that aint a cawker,” exclaimed one
of the prisoners.
“Order――silence!” said the warder, who began to repent having
permitted the reading of the newspaper. He, however, found it
impossible to repress the exclamations and inquiries which came from
all sides.
“Why, was she a fancy girl of yours?” said one.
“Well, I never,” cried another.
“But aint it lucky he’s in quod?” observed another. “If it had not
been for that he might have been charged with the murder.”
“I wish you’d all hold your tongues, and mind your own business,”
cried Peace, in a petulant tone. “If you want to hear the case, keep
silent; if you don’t, shut up.”
“Well, don’t speak so sharp. It’s no fault of ourn,” said a man on the
opposite seat.
“Don’t take on so because the girl’s jilted you,” cried another.
“You hold your clatter, you fool,” said Peace.
“Now then,” said the young man, who had been reading, “there isn’t
much more of it, and so just keep quiet that I may finish the case.”
The prisoners obeyed, and the reader continued.
Several more questions were put to the witness regarding Peace, and
our hero was greatly relieved when Ellen Fulford’s examination came to
an end.
Never in his whole life had he been so astonished, and for the rest of
the journey he remained moody and silent, hardly exchanging a word
with any one, with the exception of his friend the cracksman, who, of
his own accord, made Peace acquainted with his offence and the
sentence which had been passed upon him.
There is a certain amount of forbearance displayed by prisoners. They
make it a rule never to ask a man what he is in for. If a man likes to
be communicative that’s another thing, but it would be deemed
impertinent of a fellow-prisoner to question him on the subject.
The badge on his left arm gives his sentence as well as his number, so
there is no reason to inquire “what he has got.”
The “outing,” as some of the prisoners termed their journey from one
prison to another, was now nearly over.
When the train came to the end of its journey, omnibuses were found
waiting at the station, to take the convicts to Princetown, on
Dartmoor, where the gaol is situated.
To say the truth, the men had behaved very well, all things
considered. They had not given their janitors much trouble, and much
to their credit, be it said, they had not made use of any
objectionable language. Slang words they could not help introducing in
their discourse, as they form part of their vocabulary.
They at once entered the omnibuses, which were driven at a moderate
pace, for the road and hills necessitated a slow mode of progression.
Peace, who had chummed up with the cracksman, sat next to him as
heretofore, for the men were permitted to take their places according
to their own fancy, and there were distinct little coteries inside the
prison the same as in the outside world.
As soon as they had got a few miles out of the town they were told to
alight and walk up the steep hills――to say the truth, the journey was
mostly up hill.
Princetown chiefly consists of the barracks and houses of those
connected with the prison; in addition to these there are a few shops
kept by tradesmen who supply them. It is rude and rugged in character,
and possesses but few attractions, if any. It is true some portion of
the land is under cultivation――the remaining parts of the place is
composed of granite, gorse, heather, and bog.
It was while walking up one of the hills that Peace and his companions
beheld for the first time, at a distance, their new prison-house. As
they came upon the piquets of the Civil Guard (uncivil would be the
better term), armed with their rifles and bayonets, they were
impressed with the rigid discipline carried on at the place.
Upon reaching the prison, a gloomy, cheerless, heavy-looking granite
building or series of buildings, surrounded by a high wall, Peace’s
heart seemed to sink within him. He turned to the “cracksman” and
said――
“This is a God-forgotten place.”
“Not cheerful――not very cheerful-looking, is it?”
Peace made a face and then groaned.
The gate is one of the most gloomy pieces of architecture it is well
possible to conceive――indeed, the whole aspect of the place was
cheerless and depressing to the last degree.
As soon as the convicts arrived at the gate they were received by
several warders, who conducted them into the receiving wards, where
all was prepared for their arrival.
Their chains and handcuffs were removed, and they soon found
themselves in a long passage about twelve feet wide, lighted by a
skylight.
It was made painfully manifest to them all that the discipline at
Dartmoor was much more strict than at Preston, and there were not a
few who deeply regretted having left that well-regulated gaol.
“I expect we shall have a lively time of it here,” whispered the
cracksman to Peace.
“Out of the frying-pan into the fire――that’s about the size of it,”
murmered Peace.
The prisoners were taken in ten or a dozen at a time to the bath-room,
where they were told to perform the usual ablution. This ceremony
occupied some time. At length, however, Peace’s turn came. He was
taken with the cracksman and eight others down a passage and across a
yard. Two warders in charge of this last batch pointed significantly
to a number of baths which were all of a row; they were about four
feet six inches square and three feet deep.
A wooden seat ran along the whole of the baths, which were about
twenty or more in number; behind the seats was a passage.
The convicts sat on the seats with their backs to the passage and
facing the water, to undress, while the prison officials marched up
and down.
But other ceremonies had to be gone through. When the bathing was
over, the men were conducted into a large room leading out of the
passage. In this room there were a number of forms. In the centre of
the apartment was a table, and at the end of this, facing the door,
sat the chief warder.
He was a handsome, pleasant-featured man, somewhat above the middle
height, and it was evident that he was an old soldier, for he bore on
his breast several medals won on the battle-field. Behind him was a
gentlemanly, courteous man, who was the deputy-governor.
At the side of the table sat the doctor with a book before him, and a
bundle of papers to which he ever and anon referred. These papers
consisted of reports from the other prisons of the men who were sent
to Dartmoor. Peace’s party consisted of thirty-seven.
After they had been in the examining room a minute or so, they were
told to strip. There was no alternative but to obey, repugnant as it
was to many, or indeed all of them; but when a man is sent to a goal
to undergo penal servitude, he is constrained to leave all sense of
decency, modesty, or shame outside, and it is much to be regretted
that some better regulations are not made in this respect.
Indignities of this sort are not necessary――they are worse than
useless. They have a debasing, and baneful effect upon the prisoners,
lower their moral tone, and render them callous.
In a minute or so after the order every man was as bare and naked as a
Pict.
The chief then left his seat, and stood up beside the table, and every
man paraded himself before him. This scene is at once degrading and
disgusting.
After the inspection they were directed to go over to the other side
of the apartment, where they found thirty-seven bundles of clean
clothes awaiting them.
Each prisoner helped himself to a clean bundle, and donned the
garments as quickly as possible.
While the dressing was going on the officials in the room were
convening on the leading topics of the day in an unconcerned manner.
The ceremony which had just been gone through was one of such frequent
occurrence that the prison officials looked upon it as a part of their
ordinary every day duty, but to a person who has to undergo it for the
first time it is something appalling, especially if he happens to have
been well brought up or has any self-respect. To the hardened offender
it is a matter of no moment.
The doctor was a very kind, considerate gentleman, who paid every
attention to those under his care. He called each man before him whose
medical report required him to take special notice of, and examined
him, comparing any deformity with the written description, and when,
if he found it necessary, he questioned the prisoner upon matters
relating to his constitution and general health.
He was a sharp observer of human nature, and could almost tell at a
glance whether the man he was questioning spoke the truth or
otherwise.
“Well, Peace,” he observed, as that personage came before him, “there
is nothing much the matter with you, I believe――that is, so far as
your general health is concerned.”
Our hero was surprised at hearing himself addressed by his proper name
instead of his number. He was not aware, however, that the doctor had
adopted the same method with all the prisoners who had come before
him. It was a way he had, albeit it is not the usual custom in convict
prisons.
“Yes, sir,” returned Peace, who had passed on to make room for another
of the batch.
When all were dressed as far as flannels, shirts, drawers, and
stockings were concerned, the men were marched out and resumed the
outer clothes which they had arrived in, and which had all been
carefully examined by one or more of the prison attendants. Every pin
a man had stuck in a jacket was removed.
The men were now fitted with boots, some with two pairs of
water-tights.
These were for the prisoners who were destined to work out of doors in
the swamps and quarries. The strongest and most able-bodied were
selected for this employment. All the caps were altered; they had to
be turned down according to the regulation pattern and securely
stitched in to the required shape.
The selection of those articles took some time, and while it was going
on the warders were operating upon the men’s heads and beards.
Peace and his companions had their hair cropped as close as scissors
could make it. The cropping at Dartmoor is a sort of mania with the
officials, who delight in denuding the men of their hair, and making
them look as much like convicts as possible.
When all were supplied with clothes they were called in, a few at a
time, and each new-comer received a new register number and a small
card, a small brush, a comb, and a towel.
Those who required spectacles were desired to give their names to be
submitted to the prison surgeon. As each batch was finished off and
received their register number and ticket, they were marched away to
their respective prisons and wards.
Peace felt very much depressed, and would have given anything to be
back in his old quarters. He felt assured that his life at Dartmoor
would be a wretched one.
Just as he and some half-dozen others arrived outside in the yard, the
warder told them to stand in a line against the wall.
“What is this caper for?” whispered our hero to a companion.
“Silence!” exclaimed the prison official. “Prisoners are not allowed
to talk.”
The tramp, tramp of many feet was now heard. The outside gang were
returning from work. They came on in long lines, two abreast, each
gang with its officers in military style, and keeping excellent step
and time, but the men looked desponding and careworn.
Poor wretches, there was good reason for this. The work upon which
they had been engaged was arduous enough, and in addition to this the
ground under foot was little better than a dismal swamp.
At the inner gate of the prison stood the chief warder. He was saluted
by every officer as the gangs came up.
Everything is done at Dartmoor with military precision. The number of
men being brought back from the quarries or elsewhere, together with
the number of the gang, was called out by the officer in charge.
This was checked against the number that had left the prison in the
earlier portion of the day.
Peace, as they marched along, was duly impressed with the fact that it
was a melancholy spectacle he was witnessing. The wretched convicts
came in gang after gang till some three hundred men or more, according
to his calculation, must have passed through. Every officer, as he
reached the lodge gate, delivered up his rifle, bayonet, belt, and
cartridge-box to the armourer, who with his assistant stood ready to
receive them.
When all had arrived, and the working parties were safely within the
walls of the prison, the Civil Guard closed up the rear, and there was
an end to the melancholy tramp of men doomed to wretched daily
servitude.
As the poor wretches passed the knot of newcomers they regarded them
with a curious and inquiring glance, for they knew perfectly well that
they had but just arrived from some other convict prison; but not a
word was spoken.
[Sidenote: No. 34.]
[Illustration: DISCOVERY OF CHUDLEY’S ATTEMPT TO ESCAPE.]
Peace and his companions were then conducted into No. 4 prison. This
was a large granite building originally constructed for the French
prisoners, but now adapted for modern convict appliances.
Since its original construction it had undergone a complete change, as
far as its interior arrangements were concerned; it was remodelled
upon the plan laid down by those who are so well versed in all the
requirements for the reception of convicted felons.
All the floors were taken out, and the galleries of cells were
constructed one over the other in four tiers. There are about fifty
cells on each landing or gallery, and five landings reached by two
flights of stairs, one on each end of the hall.
These halls are called A hall and B hall, and there is only one
communication between the two, this being in the middle of the ground
floor. The whole of the cells and their supports are constructed of
iron, the sides and doors being corrugated iron, and the floor both of
cells and landings thick slab slate.
A strong iron rail runs along each landing. No prisoners happened to
be there when the new batch of convicts arrived, and the newcomers
were now mounted up to the top floor of all.
Over the door-cell was a proper receptacle for a small card with the
prisoner’s numerical register on it.
“What is the number of your gang?” said the warder to Peace.
“I don’t know the number, sir,” answered our hero.
“Not know your number?”
“No, sir. When at Preston I worked in the tailors’ shop, but the
number of the gang I don’t know――indeed, I never did know it.”
“Oh, well, that is not of any great importance. If you can’t tell me
we must do without. Go in there, and the warder of the landing, Mr.
Dring, will soon be here.”
Peace entered, and the moment the door was closed he saw what a little
dark hole he was thrust into――indeed, it was some minutes before he
could make out anything distinctly.
He was curious about his future home, and as soon as possible he
proceeded to make an examination of the same.
It was like most places of that description――small enough, certainly,
not more than seven feet long by four feet six inches in width, and,
as far as he could judge, about eight feet in height.
By the side of the door was a narrow window of thick rough
plate-glass, beneath which was a small flap table, that had to be let
down when the hammock was slung. Only at this table, and immediately
close to the window, was there light enough to see any object
distinctly. Over the table and under the window was a narrow shelf, on
which to place a candle.
Peace glanced curiously around and surveyed each object with a curious
and inquisitive eye. The general appearance of the place was much the
same in its leading features as the cells in other convict prisons.
A wooden shelf ran over the door from side to side of the cell. On
this spare boots and shoes, together with cleaning rags, were kept.
Opposite the door, about five feet from the ground, was another and
wider shelf. On this was arranged the bedclothes, done up in a neat,
round, compact roll, a tin pint mug, a tin plate, a small brass
candlestick, with a curiously contrived pair of snuffers, made
ingeniously out of one piece of tin, a tin knife, a wooden spoon, a
wooden salt, and an ordinary school slate.
Below the shelf, and at the opposite end of the cell to the window and
flap table, was the hammock, neatly rolled up and strapped against the
wall.
An ordinary stable bucket, with iron handle and hoops, was on the
floor alongside of a low wooden stool; a small hand broom, and in a
corner, under the table, a scrubbing brush, and two tin tallies, with
the number of the cell, prison, and hall, hanging behind the door,
completed the furniture of the cheerless receptacle for the felon.
Peace surveyed the several objects with a look of resignation. He had
by this time been pretty well used to the most noticeable features of
apartments of this sort. His attention was now directed to the
ventilation of his new abode.
This was of a very primitive principle. There was a gap at the bottom
of the door to let air in――the door in fact was made five inches too
short――and over the shelf whereon the bedding and utensils were
stowed, were some dozen round holes an inch or so in diameter, to let
the air out. Each door had a peep-hole with a cover to it.
By the time Peace had completed his inspection the gangs came up, they
made a rare clatter and noise, and it seemed to him that they took a
delight in making as much disturbance as possible.
In the hall in which he was confined, there were about two hundred
convicts, rough, coarse brutes, who, in many respects, resembled caged
animals, who only wanted the opportunity to wreak their vengeance upon
anyone who came in their way. But they were kept under control, and
were so securely guarded that there was not much chance of them
getting the upper hand of their janitors.
As each man entered his cell, he slammed the door as hard as he could
to vent his spleen and spite upon it for his day’s hard and monotonous
toil.
“There’s a nice lot of boys in here,” murmured Peace――“a set of
savages, I fancy. Well, it does not much matter, I suppose, but I wish
I was back at Preston.”
He had hardly given expression to this wish, when he heard a clatter
of tins, which at first he could not make out; this was followed by a
shouting between the warders below in the hall and those on the
landings.
Presently he heard a warder shout out――
“Can’t you put out your tins and your brooms?”
Peace’s door was opened, and a dark-whiskered man peered in.
“Don’t you hear me?” he said.
“I heard your voice, sir,” said Peace, in a soft and submissive tone.
“What do you wish me to do?”
“Humph! You are one of the last batch, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir. Only came in to-day.”
“Ah, I see. Well, then, put out your broom like that,” and here he
pointed to the broom at the next cell; “and your tin mug and plate.”
“Oh, I didn’t know,” returned our hero.
“Mind you attend to what I say now you do know, my man.”
“Yes, sir.”
While the warder was explaining this, the principal in the hall below
was shouting to him for his “roll,” the number of men he had upon his
landing.
This the warder ascertained by running along the landing and counting
the brooms.
As soon as the roll is called the brooms should be taken in. It is, to
say the truth, not a very dignified way――for a man to put in his
appearance by means of a broom――but dignity, or even common civility,
is never thought of in the treatment of convicts.
Peace had a pretty good sample of this; not knowing the rules of the
place, he left his broom out, a warder came and kicked it so violently
that it was a wonder it did not go through the partition.
“This is a lively sort of establishment,” murmured Peace, who, after
this, kept as quiet as possible. He had made up his mind to conform to
the rules and give as little trouble as possible; but at present he
was in ignorance as to what these were.
Soon after the broom incident he heard a further noise of opening and
shutting of cell doors till at last his own was flung open, and a
little six-ounce loaf of bread was handed him, and he found that his
tin mug that he had put outside was filled with gruel.
“My supper, I suppose,” he murmured. “Not a sumptuous repast, it is
true, but better than nothing.”
He sat down on his stool and devoured the dainty meal with something
like a relish.
While he was partaking of his frugal repast all appeared to be quiet
in the prison, the reason for this being that the other convicts were
similarly occupied.
Both cells on each side of the one occupied by Peace had tenants also.
In about half an hour the man in one kept knocking, and wanted our
hero to enter into conversation, but as he judged this was against the
rules he did not deem it advisable to take any notice of the summons,
and so he let the man knock until he was tired, and gave it up as
hopeless.
In the other cell he heard every now and then a curious clanking noise
which he could not make out. This he took no notice of, for he was
determined not to compromise himself in any way, or to incur the
displeasure of the officials.
At present he was new to the place, and deemed it advisable to play a
“safe game,” as he termed it.
Nevertheless he was greatly disturbed and annoyed by his noisy
neighbour, who seemed to keep up an incessant clatter throughout the
livelong night.
The next morning he discovered what it was that so disturbed him. His
neighbour was what is called a black-dress man, who wore fetters and a
heavy chain, one end of which was fastened with rivetted rings round
each ankle, and the middle of it was held up to his waist by a strap.
Doubtless many of our readers have seen the print of Captain Macheath
in the condemned cell at Newgate. The fetters on that fabulous hero of
Gay’s opera resembled those worn by the black-dress man of Dartmoor.
His dress was parti-coloured, of black and drab――one side one colour,
one the other; the front of one sleeve black and the back drab, and
the reverse with the other sleeve.
The same with the breeches or knickerbockers, which were fastened with
buttons down the sides of the legs, to admit of their being fastened
with the fetter on.
The costume was not picturesque, but then the reality of prison life
is so vastly different from that shown on the stage! In this man’s
case it was miserably wretched, albeit he richly deserved the
hardships he was compelled to endure.
He was condemned to this punishment for either striking or threatening
an officer, and for this offence he had been “bashed,” or flogged,
besides.
It is not often a flogging is inflicted, only in extreme cases. Night
and day the refractory prisoner has to wear his manacles; in bed or
out of bed, it was just the same, and every time he moved in bed they
clanked and rattled, making so strange a noise that Peace was sorely
troubled as he lay in his cell during the lonely hours of the night.
Sometimes, in turning, the manacled prisoner would strike his fetter
against the corrugated iron partition of the cell.
Peace pitied the poor wretch, but he had the prudence not to offer any
observation.
Mr. Dring, the chief warder, had, as may be imagined, no sinecure.
The duties of his office did not admit of much leisure time for
relaxation, and when he returned from his tea he had yet plenty of
work before him.
The fifty men on his landing had all their wants to be attended to,
and our worthy prison official was not accustomed to shirk his duty.
He was a peculiar man in many respects, but want of attention to those
under his charge was not one of his faults.
He was a strict disciplinarian, but in the main was a kindly-disposed
man enough.
Sometimes he would “take” to a man, as the convicts termed it.
When this was the case the prisoner was all right; he was treated with
civility and consideration, which, all things considered, is saying a
great deal; but woe betide the man who was in his black books! He had
it pretty “hot,” to make use of another phrase of the prisoners.
Mr. Dring had seen something of the world before he made the
acquaintance of the interior of one of her Majesty’s gaols.
He had served her aforesaid Majesty on land and sea.
He was at one time of his life attached to the Royal Marines, and
after fighting his country’s battles in that capacity for some years,
he rose to the rank of sergeant-major, and those who happen to know
what an old sergeant-major of the Marines is will understand that a
man must get up very early in the morning, and be a cute fellow to
boot, to take the wind out of the sails of Mr. Warder Dring.
He was a quiet, orderly, unobtrusive man, and, from his general
demeanour, many were under the impression that he was as mild as a
lamb and as green as a middy; but those under his charge soon found
out their mistake when they came playing pranks or trying on the
hanky-panky business.
Mr. Dring was down upon them at once. There was no man in Dartmoor
Prison better adapted to deal with convicts and command their respect
than the old marine.
To those who were straightforward and well behaved he was the most
considerate and kind master it is well possible to conceive.
But when he once found out a man playing him tricks, deceiving him,
and disobeying the rules and regulations of the gaol, he would lead
him a fine life. Peace reckoned up the chief warder with something
like accuracy, and he did his best to propitiate him.
When he came his rounds he regarded our hero with a searching glance.
“Ah,” he observed, “you are new to the place. Well, here’s soap, salt,
and cleaning rags.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Peace, touching his cap.
“But stay, you must give me your jacket to be badged,” said Mr. Dring.
Peace pulled off his jacket with the utmost alacrity. His janitor gave
him another to wear in the meantime; he also gave him a clean pair of
sheets, and told him where to place each article, and supplied him
with a candle.
Peace thanked him again and again.
“When you hear ‘beds down’ called out,” said Mr. Dring, “you must
prepare your hammock for the night. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir, I will do so.”
“But you must not do it till you hear the word given outside.”
“No, sir.”
“Well, that is all, I think――you will not forget my instructions?”
“Certainly not.”
“Good. You’ve got a queer pair next to you――I mean in the cells
adjoining yours. Have nothing to say to them, and if they make a
noise, which I expect they are pretty sure to do, take no notice of
them.”
“One makes a terrible noise.”
“Ah, the prisoner with the manacles――yes, I know――well, that can’t be
helped; it’s no fault of ours that he is constrained to wear the
fetters.”
Peace bowed, but did not offer any observation.
Mr. Dring left him to go to someone else.
Peace had nothing to read, and did not like to ask for a book or two
in his present early stage, so he had nothing for it but to sit and
listen to the noises that were going on, and there were a few.
As far as the acoustic principle of Dartmoor is concerned it is
something very near perfection; indeed, it is aggravatingly resonant.
The entire block of four hundred cells in that part of the prison in
which Peace was confined were framed in iron.
The consequence was that there was hardly a door slammed in the whole
building that did not vibrate more or less throughout the cell. This
fact was made manifest to every prisoner upon first entering Dartmoor;
after being there for some little time the men got used to the noises.
The effect when every cell door in the whole hall was slammed at once
is not easy to describe; it was like a volley of musketry.
Peace remembered what Mr. Dring had told him, and being anxious to
obey that worthy functionary to the very letter, he watched and
listened for the signal “beds down.”
When he heard the order given he let go his hammock; all the other
convicts did the same, and the consequence was that the whole fabric
seemed to be shaken.
Peace was pretty well used to prison hammocks, and therefore had no
difficulty in arranging his.
Some men on their first acquaintance with these snug resting places
make a great muddle of them.
Sometimes a hammock strap would give way, and let the man down on to
the hard stones of his cell; but Peace, who was an old soldier in
looking after his own comforts, if they could be so termed, took very
excellent care to see that his straps were all right.
The warders never object to give a man a new strap or two if any of
his old ones are worn out.
At Dartmoor the convicts had very little to complain of as far as
sleeping accommodation was concerned.
Each man has a good, warm, comfortable bed, and a plentiful supply of
covering, which is invariably clean indeed. This could hardly be
otherwise, seeing how frequently it is changed.
It is true there is no bed in a hammock, nor is one needed, but the
prisoner has two good blankets (three in the winter), an excellent
rug, and two stout linen sheets, with a wool or hair pillow.
The hammock is as comfortable as need be――indeed, many of the
prisoners never had such luxurious sleeping accommodation when outside
the walls of a prison.
Soon after “beds down” was sounded a warder was heard coming up the
stairs to see that every candle was put out.
There are gas lights along each landing-railing, so that there is more
or less light in every cell.
After the warder had made the necessary inspection with regard to the
candles a bell was sounded, which is the signal for the day-warders to
leave the prison, as the night warders came on duty.
When this occurs every man is expected to be in bed, and if the night
watch finds him up he is liable to be reported, and reporting means
puishment by loss of marks or otherwise.
At regular intervals throughout the night one of the warders comes
round and looks into each cell.
By placing the bull’s-eye of his lantern against the glass of the
window, and peeping through the spy-hole in the door, he can see
plainly enough if a man is in bed or not.
Many a time was Peace awoke with the sudden flash of the bull’s-eye
upon his face.