Prisons Over Seas / Deportation and Colonization; British and American Prisons of To-day

by Arthur Griffiths

The inexperienced prison officer is very apt, and not strangely, to be imposed upon also by eloquent and persistent protestations of innocence. No one is guilty in gaol. A French aumônier, "chaplain," once called upon his congregation in the prison chapel to answer him honestly and truthfully, by holding up their hands, whether they acknowledged the justice of their conviction. Only one hand was held up in response. I was as gullible as any other beginner until repeated disappointment hardened my heart. One of the first cases that worked a change was that of the coxswain of my gig. It was a smart little craft, the favourite plaything of my predecessor, who had manned it with a crew of convicts dressed like men-of-war's men, and the coxswain was an ex-master mariner, who had earned a long sentence for casting away his ship. W, the man in question, and I became very good friends. He was a neat, civil spoken, well conducted sailor, and I weakly let him see that I took an interest in him. He came to me on an early occasion praying that his case might be reconsidered. He assured me that he had been wrongfully convicted, the victim of a base plot fabricated and sworn to by some of his crew who hated him for ruling them with too tight a hand. There was not a word of truth in the charges brought against him, and if there were only a criminal court of appeal he would very speedily be released.

I confess I was won over by his specious pleading. I liked the man and was sorry for him, and I promised to make a full inquiry. There was a file of the London Times on the shelves of the Gibraltar garrison library and it was easy to turn to the number containing the full proceeding of the trial. All doubt was immediately dispelled, and I saw at the first glance that I had once more been imposed upon. The charge rested upon the clearest evidence, and the facts were proved beyond the shadow of a doubt. Captain W. had deliberately prepared his ship for destruction. It was shown that he had gone himself into the hold and had bored holes in the ship's side with an auger and scuttled her. She was cast away, and sank, but within reach of shore and of diving operations, which proclaimed the criminal ill-treatment of her skipper, to whom the possession and use of the augers were distinctly brought home. The evil intention was further shown by the valueless cargo shipped and the large amount for which it had been insured. After my experience with X, I rather slackened in my excessive sympathy with my unfortunate charges and was prepared to believe that they had had as much fair play as comes to most of us in this crooked world.

The fate which eventually overtook this gig and its convict crew well illustrates the difficulties of management in an oversea prison in near proximity to a foreign country. Spain is within a stone's throw of Gibraltar, and at the time of which I am writing there was no extradition of criminals. The question was complicated by the British reluctance to give up political refugees, and Spain would make no difference between classes. No treaty of extradition was possible which did not extend to all, and the convict at Gibraltar was well aware that he was safe if he set foot on Spanish soil. These facts were known in the prison, for local convicts were also confined there, and they could one and all see the Spanish shore a few miles away. There was always the chance of seizing a boat and escaping to the other side of the bay.

On one occasion a ship's cutter was seized and the fugitives made off. The warning gun was fired, the flag was run up at the yard-arm on the signal station on the top of the rock, and the alarm given at the dockyard. Some one immediately ordered out the convict gig to go in pursuit with an armed escort. The crew bent manfully to their oars and quickly overhauled the chase, but by this time they were half way across the bay. The temptation was too strong for loyalty. The crew of the gig rose upon the warder, disarmed him and consigning him to the bottom of the boat, carried it and him to Algeciras, where all parties landed without let or hindrance. The Spanish authorities were by no means overjoyed at the arrival of these desperadoes, but would not arrest them. They took to the wild hill country around and were a terror to quiet folk until they were gradually taken up for new offences or were shot down by the quadras civiles.

Escape was the dazzling lure before the eyes of the Gibraltar convicts and more than one ardent spirit strove to compass it. The patience and ingenuity exhibited by one man was really marvellous. He was employed alone in a remote workshop and had discovered that it communicated with one of the hollows or caves with which the great oolitic rock is honeycombed. In this he had constructed and kept concealed a boat built of the nondescript materials that came to his hand—scraps of canvas, disused cement bags and small pieces of timber. It was not unlike a collapsible boat, in three separate compartments for convenience of carriage, which could be made into one tiny dingy or coracle sufficient to keep one man afloat. He expected to be able to launch this fragile craft unobserved, choosing a favourable opportunity, and to commit himself to the waters of the Straits of Gibraltar, a narrow passage ever crowded with shipping, where he hoped to be picked up by some craft. He had laid by a store of provisions saved from his meagre rations, which he carried out daily from the prison. It was his abstraction of food that betrayed him to a jealous comrade, who treacherously gave him away and led to the detection of his undoubtedly clever scheme. The intensity of his disappointment when discovered was quite pathetic.

A seemingly much more serious affair was a plot set on foot for a combined attempt to break prison after rising upon the guards. When the matter was reported to me, it had all the aspect of a dangerous conspiracy and it imposed upon me, but I have reason now to think it was all a hoax. Convicts have no loyalty to each other and their best laid plans "gang aft agley," for the secret is rarely kept. Some one usually turns traitor. The scheme is at times a pure invention devised by some astute prisoner seeking to curry favour by his revelations to the authorities. If it has any foundation in fact, there is a race between the traitors, each anxious to be the first in betrayal and thus render himself safe.

On this occasion the dread news was broken by picking up an anonymous letter giving the particulars of the coming disturbance. Then came a very confidential message from a patient in the hospital whom I visited and who gave me some startling news. A deep laid conspiracy was afoot to rise while at work in a distant quarry, to overmaster warders and military guards and march straight on board the admiralty brig employed to remove the heavily laden lighters from the quarry. To cast her loose would be the work of a moment, and with steam up she might be taken across the bay before the alarm could be given and pursuit organised. The whole story seemed far-fetched but I could not ignore the warning. Upon my requisition to the military authorities, the guards were reinforced. They loaded ostentatiously before marching to the quarry, and on arrival there it was found that the steam tug was absent on some other duty. There was no outbreak, nor the semblance of one. The turbulent spirits were cowed at this exhibition of formidable strength, if indeed there were any who had contemplated mischief.

I must add a few words to the general description of the personnel of the Gibraltar convict prisoners. They were interesting to me, many of them as the survivors of the great tide of criminal exiles that turned for years toward the antipodes. They were to be easily recognised by those who had the key; their swarthy, weather-beaten complexions spoke of long exposure to trying climates. They were hardy in aspect, with muscular, well-knit frames, developed by much manual labour in the open air. They had the bold, self-reliant, reckless demeanour of men who had endured severe discipline and passed through it unbroken. They were hard, bitter men, who had faced the worst and were willing to do it again. Quarrelsome and of hasty temper, they might be cowed into good order, but were ever ready to break out and resist authority, to assault a warder or strike down a fellow convict with pick or shovel, or the first weapon that lay to hand. The type was entirely new to me then, and indeed I have seen little of it since, for they were a fast vanishing species and are to be met with no more in the prison population.

I will pick out one or two for more particular mention. One who was hopelessly "incorrigible," for instance, I will call H. This man happened to be in one of his periodical, almost chronic fits of rage on my first visit to the prison. My way had taken me across a drawbridge leading from the line wall road to the top of a winding staircase that descended to an inner gate which led straight into the main body of the prison. This main prison, by the way, was little better than a shed,—a long, low, two-storied wooden edifice, divided into bunks or cages shut off from each other and a central passage by iron bars. This building was filled with human beings, and, as we approached, the ceaseless hum of voices, angry and even menacing, rose from it into one piercing note, a yell or shriek of wild, or, it might be, maniacal, despair. We were told that it was H, who had broken out again and was now in a separate cell, and were asked if we would like to see him.