Another oddity with whom I was associated was a kleptomaniac. Nothing was safe from him, and his eye was as quick as his hand. He might be seen at all hours sneaking about, thrusting his arm between mattresses and occasionally into people’s pockets. He was undergoing two years’ imprisonment for stealing two ounces of tobacco. So impossible was it for him to keep his hands from picking and stealing that it was frequently necessary to lock him into a separate cell for weeks at a time, only to be released after piteous appeals and promises not to offend again, which were invariably broken on the first opportunity. He was as nimble as a cat, and occasionally gave an acrobatic performance on the sly. The poor wretch was admittedly an imbecile, and it seems inexplicable how he ever incurred the punishment he received, though he was probably happier at Coldbath than he was ever likely to be elsewhere. One day he could not be found, and after the hue-and-cry had been raised and the prison and grounds scoured, he was found concealed in a tank on a portion of the roof. What he could have wanted there is beyond comprehension, for he dreaded the water and never washed unless compelled.
I’ve heard a great deal of prisoners escaping, and from the penal establishments it is unquestionably practicable. At a prison conducted, however, on the Coldbath Fields’ principle such an idea is simply absurd. I do not refer to the impediments of locks and doors so much as to the full blaze of light system along the corridors. The constant countings, too, and patrols night and day would at once discover the truant, to say nothing of the 20-feet wall that surrounds the building. I have occasionally read descriptions of escapes from the Bastille, where prisoners with a yard of rope, a spare shirt, and an oyster knife, have burrowed and scaled and got clean off. I am not in a position to dispute these assertions, but I will willingly undertake to provide the most expert acrobat with a sack full of ropes, crowbars, and linen, in his cell, and stake my existence that he does not proceed five feet beyond his premises without detection. The escape of a notorious burglar from Millbank Convict Prison last year gave rise at the time to considerable discussion amongst the officials at Coldbath Fields. That a man should be able to break through the roof of a cell during the early hours of morning without creating a disturbance seems incredible, and had the corridors had the same acoustic properties as those at Coldbath, would have been simply impossible without collusion.
So extraordinarily is sound conveyed in these vast and barren tunnels that every word spoken during the night at the other end of the passage is distinctly audible, whereas conversation close by is almost unintelligible, so great is the echo. I think Mr. Burglar Lovell may congratulate himself that he had not been relegated to Coldbath Fields, for he would most assuredly have derived less benefit there from his sixty feet of rope than he appears to have done at Millbank. A prisoner attempting to escape forfeits all the time he may have completed of his sentence—a sufficient deterrent for a sane man! A very disgusting adjunct to the convalescent ward is “Itch Bay,” and though comparatively distinct, is actually next door, and leads from it. It is devoted to those filthy creatures who, on admission, are found to abound in vermin, or who, after months in prison—as can be verified—have caught the disease (according to my theory) by using the universal bath. The treatment of this complaint can hardly be said to be a pleasant, although undoubtedly a very effectual one. A man is taken to “the bay,” made to strip off all his clothes, put into a separate cell, and smeared with a thick coating of mercurial ointment, and left to soak for three days at least, and often longer. His bedding may best be described as an ointment mattress, with “blankets to match,” so saturated is everything in this fearful quarter, the stench from which pervades the passage, and works into the convalescent ward. I used almost daily to see these loathsome objects, either before admission or after three days’ retirement, and it is difficult to say which is the most revolting. On admission, and previous to treatment, I have seen three or four of these unclean things waiting to be admitted. During this time—often an hour and more—they sit in the convalescent ward, use the furniture, and circulate with the others. This surely is wrong, and may justly be laid to the charge of negligent warders! On leaving they are again taken through the ward, devoid of all covering but the saturated blanket, and conducted to a bath. This bath is a fixture in the hospital kitchen. Yes, the itch bath in the principal prison of civilized London is in the hospital kitchen! I have seen these social pariahs splashing about within a few feet of the kitchen fire, whilst a rice pudding was being made—an appetizing accompaniment to the preparation of human food. This gross outrage on cleanliness must fairly be charged to the Home Office people; and as the kitchen is situated in the main thoroughfare, and passed through almost daily by visiting justices or prison commissioners, it is clearly no official’s business to point it out—and if a surgeon represented it he would probably be told to mind his own business. This is in conformity with prison usage, and anyone mentioning, or taking apparent interest in a trifle not actually connected with his special department, is at once suspected of some sinister motive. I have heard officials regret this disgusting institution, and their inability to remedy it.
I have more horrors connected with this kitchen to mention when I describe the hospital, and hope some one whose business it is will redress this crying shame. As a set-off to the many discomforts attending the convalescent ward, were the facilities it offered for the uninterrupted working of the telephone, and so multifarious were the opportunities, and so utterly impossible detection, that I omitted the commonest precautions as absolutely superfluous. My favourite time for correspondence was between two and four in the morning. I noticed that nature usually asserted itself on turnkey humanity, and that the most watchful became drowsy about this time. It must be remembered that a night warder is in the room all night, and that the gas, though turned down, is alight. I frequently wrote for two hours at a time, and as my bed was next the fire-place I had the advantage of poking it into a blaze as circumstances required. I often wondered whether these watch-dogs were really dozing. That they had not the faintest suspicion I am confident; the very possibility of such coolness may possibly have disarmed them, for I have written for hours under their very noses. One night I had a considerable scare. I had been carried away by the interest of my letter, and whether I had thought aloud and some word had escaped me I cannot say, but on peeping round the mantelpiece I saw one of the most ferocious of the tribe—who was on duty that night—leaning forward and peering in my direction. His eyes glistened like a cheetah’s as he cautiously approached the fire-place—the mantelpiece and one bed alone separated our respective positions, the rattle of a paper, or a hurried motion, would have been fatal; so, proceeding to mutter in my sleep, I slid my arm over a very damning pile. For some moments he stood intently watching me, and then happily began to poke the fire. Had he delayed much longer I should inevitably have betrayed myself; as it was, the noise “justified” my being disturbed, and I rolled round, “papers under,” as Bell’s Life would once have described a pugilistic round. The danger was now past, but I had quite determined, if he had asked me any unpleasant questions, to have made a dash at the fire-place and destroyed the evidence. There is a curious invention that exists in various parts of the prison. Detector-clocks are intended to show that a warder must have been alert every half-hour, by being required to press down a pin. This pin is so constructed that it cannot be let down except at the exact time, or unless the clock is unlocked. These various clocks undergo a minute inspection the following morning, and if all the pins are not down the delinquent is fined a shilling, or even more, for each omission. I could tell some curious stories about these detector clocks, but their narration might be interpreted as pointing in directions I have no intention of indicating. I may, however, without compromising anyone, state that if the authorities conceive they are aware of the exact number of keys that open these clocks, they are considerably out of their reckoning.
“My eye, old man,” I one morning said to an acquaintance, “you’ve missed two or three pins.”
“Never mind,” he replied; “I’ve got a pal outside that’ll make it all right before I’m relieved.”
At 6.30, when my friend was, I hope, comfortably in bed, I saw the Detector inspected and found “correct.”
On one occasion a friend kindly supplemented the rubbishy literature provided by the chaplain by lending me to read the book of “Rules for the Guidance of Warders and Assistant-Warders.” They can hardly be said to be as interesting as those lately published by Howard Vincent for the guidance of the police, although, situated as I was, they were to me vastly more important. I had intended to have produced them verbatim, but they are not of sufficient general interest. They, however, deal with the various duties of warders in that absurd style which attempts to impress on them the responsibility and general respectability of what, if carried out in its integrity, is a contemptible system of espionage.