“It certainly was owdacious at times, but you see we warnt dressed in different sort of togs; we had white canvas jumpers and trousers.”
“Ah,” said Peace, “and you needed a costume of that sort, I dare say; but did anyone ever manage to escape?”
“Did anyone? I should just think they did too. You see the Spaniards were very good as far as lay in their power; they’d always help a bloke if he was once over the lines. Say what ye like about the foreigners, they’re a jolly sight better than our people in many ways—a precious sight. They aint like the blarney fellows about this place who pounce upon a poor devil, and give ’im up directly for the sake of a paltry five quid that the Government gives ’im. It’s every man for hisself and God for us all in this country. Still Dartmoor is better than Chatham.”
“I thought you said it was the worst place you were ever in,” observed Raynton.
“It’s the worst place I’ve been in for a goodish while, but when I said that I forgot Chatham. It certainly aint so bad as that—leastways, not to my thinking. There’s many a bloke there as is druv to suicide—it’s such a ’ell upon earth. I hope I shan’t have to go there again. One chap, while I was at Chatham, threw hisself down in front of the engine as works the trucks of earth out of the new dock, and was cut in two. Poor fellow, he’d been bashed (flogged) twice, and the warder had been going on at him so that he couldn’t stand it any longer, and so he ups with his pick and chucks it straight at him on the shoulder. Just as he’d done this he sees an engine coming, so he saved ’em the trouble of ‘bashing’ him again. He chucked himself in front of it, and in a second or so all was over. Poor fellow, he was not half so bad as they tried to make him out, but he was nervous and irritable, and couldn’t stand being jawed at during the whole of the day. Ye see many of the men at Chatham are drove into being regular devils by being constantly nagged at by the blooming officers. It aint in the nature of man to stand being continually bullied, as some of the poor devils are. Them as ’as got pluck in ’em turns savage, and small blame to ’em; but them as ’aven’t knocks under, and does the meek and mild bisness, same as I did. But it’s hard lines, either way—precious hard lines—and no mistake; and lots ov ’em die, and it is considered to be a ’appy release; but lor, I don’t expect either of you two know the ins and outs of prison life as yet,” said the loquacious Mr. Baxter.
“We neither of us profess to have the experience that you appear to possess,” returned Raynton. “Have you ever been to Portland?”
“Have I? I should rather think I had! Well, let me tell you. Portland is a precious deal better than Chatham, though Portland aint altogether what you may call an inviting sort of place—far from that.”
Peace and the burglar, or the other burglar we ought to say, smiled at this last observation. The speaker’s manner was so naïve, there was a careless, free-and-easy, confidential tone assumed throughout his discourse, which was rather amusing than otherwise.
The fellow was as callous, and as utterly devoid of all moral principle as it is well possible to conceive. He talked of the crimes he had committed, and of the various terms of punishment he had undergone, as a soldier might tell of his escapes on the battle-field, or the wounds he had received in the service.
He was but one of many of the same type to be found at Dartmoor, Spike Island, Portland, and other convict establishments.