“You’re to come out to exercise, and look sharp. If you’ve a coat there, bring it with you, it’s raining.”
Through the small high window, ribbed with heavy bars and paned with thick, dirty glass, it was impossible to say what sort of a day passed by outside. The different texture of the twilight within was the only indication.
I was taken to the big yard, and there, for the first time, I saw my fellow-prisoners. There was an Excise Officer, two men whom I did not know, and two Gaelic League organisers. One of these last, as I entered the yard, threw up his hand in a Connacht salute, and greeted me: “
” It was surely a strange welcome to a prison yard; and the warder’s voice barked out across the yard: “Stop that talking there.” I was instructed to keep my distance from the others behind and before, and in silence we all walked round and round the yard under a cold drizzling rain.
Afterwards I learnt that a large batch of Westport men had been sent to Dublin two days before, and that the prison was now beginning to fill up again. This, apparently, was the reason of the delay in my arrest. The police could only arrest as the prisons gave them space.
For Ireland’s prisons were not able to keep pace with this new (and yet not so very new) manufacture of criminals.
For an hour we marched round in silence; and then we were taken in for our dinners. The two Gaelic League organisers had been appointed as the prison orderlies. Warders never do any work, that being an offence to the relative height at which they are placed; all work is done by prisoners under their direction. Therefore, Sean Seoighe brought me in my dinner; and when I in my ignorance asked for a knife and spoon with which to eat it, he, on his week-old experience of jails, passed quickly out into the passage to control his mirth, leaving me to the astonishment of the warder, who asked me if I knew where I was. The astonishing nature of my request seemed to rob the warder of his asperity, for he went out in silence, leaving me to an old horn prison spoon.
At three o’clock we were taken out again for exercise, and by that time I had already fallen into prison craft. Old criminals, I was told, develop it to such an extent that their communications with one another, in the friendships they establish, become almost as complete as in ordinary life, despite the close scrutiny under which they are kept at all times. I can well understand it; for here were we, new to the game, and without any experienced hand among us, bringing all our wits to work in order to establish communication with one another—that communication between man and man without which life is as unhealthy as a standing pool. Our minds became cunning and crafty; the whole being became watchful and alert for opportunities that had to be caught swiftly as they passed, while the outward manner maintained a deceptive innocence. The result was not conscious; or at least it was only half-conscious; for a new kind of reflex seemed to be developed. As we walked round the yard for instance, we timed our journey with the warder, who walked up and down a small path by the prison wall. The result was that we were walking toward the far end of the yard as he walked away from us toward the prison door. Thus his back would be turned just as we reached the most favourable part of our round, and by that time the distances between us would have become reduced as though quite naturally. It was a manœuvre that, ordinarily, would have been difficult to execute, yet it was managed quite simply, and, as it were, naturally. Then, as we passed round the favourable bend—while the warder was walking away from us down his little path—a swift conversation would proceed, in voices pitched just to reach the man before or the man behind, and without any perceptible movement of the lips. And by the time the warder had turned about we were slowly finishing the bend with lengthening distances between us, erect, and with calm faces forward. Thus we came to know who we all were, where we were taken, the circumstances that attended our arrests, and soforth. This play of wit became no small part of the daily life; and the penalties that were involved gave spice to existence.