Читать книгу Eighteen Months' Imprisonment - Donald late captain Shaw - Страница 5

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Fresh arrivals appear to come to this awful place at every hour of the day and night. The police courts belch forth their motley loads on an average about twice a day, and when the Sessions are “on,” prisoners arrive as late as nine and ten of a night, and the rumbling of “Black Marias,” the shouting of warders, the turning of keys, the slamming of doors, and a hundred other “regulations” that make night hideous, lead one to imagine oneself in a third-class hostelry alongside a railway station. The absence of clocks, too, that strike (for even they are on the silent system), combined with the primitive hour of retiring to rest, bewilders one in arriving at anything like an approximate idea of time between the bell at night and the bell at 6 A.M. After my first interview with Mr. Vaughan, and with the sound of his melodious voice still ringing in my ears, I found myself about 6 P.M. alighting from the police van inside a dismal courtyard. We had just passed through a massive gate, and had been “backed” on to the entrance of a long and uninviting-looking corridor, but beyond that I had not the faintest idea of where I was; and if I had been told that the House of Detention was situated in the centre aisle of the British Museum, I should not have been in a position to dispute it. As we stepped out, carefully assisted by an official actuated apparently rather by precaution than courtesy, and carefully scanned and counted, I found myself with eight or nine others standing in a row on a huge mat. There was an entire absence of “dressing” in this ragged line, and thus destiny placed me between a ragamuffin with a wooden leg and an urchin of about twelve. My bulk, sandwiched between them, formed a charming picture, and filled up the mat, if not the “background.” My friend, the police sergeant, with a courtesy that officialism failed to rob him of, handed us over to the “Detentionite” barbarian, who, first inspecting us, and then “righting” us, went through the offensive and unnecessary formula of catechizing us—such as “What is your name?” “Who ga”—I mean, “Your age,” &c., &c. This to me was the first and greatest humiliation; the iron entered my very soul, and I realized how awful it all was. Implacable enemies, vindictive tradesmen, revengeful women, chuckle and shout; but time is short, and seventeen days will find me in clover, surrounded by every consideration that is possible, and as happy as circumstances will permit. When we had all been counted and booked, we were escorted downstairs and thrust into very small and separate cells. These cells were literally not more than three feet square, and their only furniture consisted of a block of stone intended for a seat. The turnkey, who showed and carefully locked me in, explained that I should only be there a few minutes, as we were merely awaiting the arrival of the chief warder. After the lapse of a few minutes, we were taken one by one into the office, where a further scrutiny “inside and out” took place. Here, at a desk, sat a warder in front of a ledger; there was, moreover, a weighing-machine and a couple of turnkeys. This constituted the entire furniture! The chief warder, blazing in gold lace and pegtop trousers that filled me with admiration at the time, now appeared, and having come to the conclusion that I was not one of the “unwashed” division, kindly exempted me from the usual bath, the preliminary and very necessary step on these occasions. The chief warder was a very decent and unaffected little man, and comparatively free from the penny-halfpenny bounce that characterizes the chief warder species in general. I here underwent, for the second time, the catechizing process, which being again carefully booked, I was invited in the most dulcet tones to unrobe to the extent of everything except my socks and trousers. With my thoughts wandering to the weighing-machine, “how careful,” thought I, “they must be in accurately weighing one;” and my conjecture was in a measure correct, but my inexperience did not prepare me for the accompanying formula that took place. As I divested myself one by one of my coat, hat, boots, vest, shirt, &c., a pair of nimble hands ran over them with lightning rapidity, which in their turn passed them on to another pair of equally nimble or nimbler hands. In the twinkling of an eye, the contents of my pockets were laid on the table—the modest quill toothpick was not even exempted; fingers passed over every seam and lining of my clothes, and then the same “delicate touch” was applied to my loins and ankles. I was then requested to get on the machine, and the astounding fact recorded that a mountain of humanity in his shirt and socks weighed 19 stone 13 lbs. I have been particular in accurately relating this fact, for later on I treat on the subject of obesity; and the remarks I there make, and the hints I offer, based on very careful observation and experience, will, I am confident, commend themselves to the corpulent, and, IF ACTED ON, will prove very beneficial to those who really desire to reduce themselves. Every article found on me—money, toothpicks, pocket-book, watch, studs, sleeve-links, &c.—were then carefully booked and neatly tied up, and having resumed my clothing, I proceeded upstairs to my future abode.

I cannot allow this opportunity to pass without noting the consideration that prompted the warder to give me a couple of bone studs to replace my own, without which I could not have kept my shirt closed. It was a kindly act, and tends to show that, as a rule and with very few exceptions, prison warders are a well-disposed race if properly treated, and desirous of rendering any civility to men of my class. If a prisoner is fool enough to stand on his dignity, he must not be surprised if his conduct is resented. Another peculiarity I observed here for the first time, but which I found to be the invariable rule at “Newgate” and “Coldbath,” was, that on arrival one was always placed in a most uncomfortable cell in the basement or even below, and gradually promoted upwards. I can only suppose it was intended as a kind of purgatory, with the idea of giving one a bird’s-eye view of what might be expected should one’s behaviour make him ineligible for the greater luxuries associated with “apartments on the drawing-room floor.”

Having dressed, I accompanied a turnkey through innumerable passages abounding in steel gates, which snapped like rat traps as we passed through, till we emerged into what appeared the main passage of the prison. My conductor here handed me over to another warder with a “Here you are; here’s another one;” and I again, and for the third time, had to undergo the “abridged catechism.”

I found this warder a capital fellow. He tried to put matters as cheerfully as he could; and when ushering me into my cell, and noting my horror at its bleak appearance, said in a manner that was kindly meant, “Oh! you’ll be all right when you’ve settled down a bit.”

“Settled down a bit!” As well ask the guinea-pig that is put into the rattlesnake’s cage to settle down, as to expect a man suddenly deprived of liberty to settle down in such a place. If I had not been of a very sanguine disposition, and one that can nerve himself to submit to anything, I should certainly have broken down, as I verily believe many do. On the contrary, I began to examine the uncomfortable place, read the notices for one’s guidance, and entered into a conversation with my guide and gaoler. He began by telling me that if I wanted supper I must order it sharp; and when I expressed a wish to have something, he kindly promised to order in a chop and a pint of beer. The next thing that attracted my attention was the hammock; and as my only experience of these uncomfortable substitutes for French bedsteads was from a distant view on a troopship, and as the idea of 20 stone suspended in mid air was out of the question, and as the tesselated floor appeared excessively hard, I determined not to risk a fall, for the fall of that house would certainly have been great. I discovered, however, that routine and prison discipline made it absolutely impossible for any exception to be made unless specially granted, and as none but the highest official, such as the Governor (or even the Home Secretary, as I presumed, or perhaps the Queen), could sanction a change of such importance as substituting a cot for a hammock, no time was to be lost in ferreting out some one of sufficient authority to assume the responsibility. At length the doctor was found, and after seeing me and hearing my weight, gave the necessary order, subject to the Governor’s approval in the morning.

I have often wondered in how many quires of foolscap this humane act involved the little man. I only hope he got no wigging from the Home Office for this assumption of responsibility, for I found him most kind and courteous, and in return I fear I worried him out of his life by applications for sleeping draughts, which he invariably let me have without a murmur. I took this opportunity also of getting his permission to keep my gas burning all night, for I felt that sleep was out of the question; and as I had asked for and been promised the special Standard, which invariably contains some paragraphs of interest of a world-renowned General’s, I began to hope that I might “settle down,” as my friend the warder had suggested. But settling down in theory and settling down in practice, especially in the “House of Detention,” are two distinct things. The privilege of keeping my gas burning, too, involved a most unpleasant consequence, diametrically opposed to “settling down.” Anyone whose light is left burning is supposed to be concocting some hideous treachery, and has to be “seen” every fifteen minutes; and thus through this long dreary winter night and every subsequent ten nights of my stay found me being taken stock of every quarter of an hour. I must—without being aware of it—about this time have commenced the “settling down” process, for I could actually bring myself to uttering the feeblest jokes, such as “Ah! how are you, old cockie? Just in time; another minute and I should have burrowed through the ventilator.” These little sallies, I am bound to admit, did not always meet with the reception their pungency merited. Occasionally they extracted a grin or a chaffy reply; at others a grunt and a bang of the trap-door. But I have again wandered from my first entrance into my cell, and demonstrating (what I honestly pleaded) my utter amateurishness in the writing of a book. I must only hope that the tale it unfolds will make up for this defect. A rattle of a tin knife on a pewter vessel, followed by the turning of the key, announced the arrival of my supper; and, oh, shades of Romano, how “my heart beat for thee!”