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                            The History and
                              Romance of
                                 Crime

                        FROM THE EARLIEST TIMES
                          TO THE PRESENT DAY

                       [Illustration: colophon]

                          THE GROLIER SOCIETY
                                LONDON

[Illustration: _Prison Hulks at Portsmouth_

Old hulks of English warships were first used as prisons when the
American War of Independence closed the shores of the colonies to the
convict-exile and rendered some additional prison space in England
immediately necessary. Used as prisons of war: many American prisoners
were confined there after the War of 1812,--loathsome places of durance
from which escape was difficult. They were also used for temporary
detention of prisoners sentenced to penal servitude in the colonies over
seas.]




                         Non-Criminal Prisons

                 ENGLISH DEBTOR’S PRISONS AND PRISONS
                                OF WAR
                          FRENCH WAR PRISONS
                         AMERICAN WAR PRISONS
                      WITH REFERENCES TO THOSE OF
                              OTHER LANDS

                                 _by_

                        MAJOR ARTHUR GRIFFITHS

             _Late Inspector of Prisons in Great Britain_

                              _Author of
                  “The Mysteries of Police and Crime
                “Fifty Years of Public Service,” etc._

                        [Illustration: colphon]

                          THE GROLIER SOCIETY

                           EDITION NATIONALE

         Limited to one thousand registered and numbered sets.

                              NUMBER 307.




INTRODUCTION


The word prison connotes crime; a place of punishment and detention
where misdeeds are expiated and penalties enforced. A certain sense of
shame attaches to all who have been committed to durance; for according
to the old law, the “natural inherent right of liberty cannot be
surrendered or forfeited unless by the commission of some great or
atrocious crime.” This doctrine was coeval in one country at least,
England, with the foundation of the constitution. Yet the seclusion and
detention of individuals who had done no wrong, was long the rule in
most civilised countries, and many prisons, which are to all intents and
purposes non-criminal, have existed and been constantly filled with
unfortunate persons guilty of no real offence against the law.

Of these there have been two principal classes: The debtors--those who
had become bound to others for the repayment of moneys lent or goods
purchased--and the prisoners of war,--combatants captured in the field
whom the conqueror was entitled to hold in diminution of his enemy’s
strength while hostilities continued. In both cases the right exercised
is that of the strongest and in neither is it defensible, nor has it
been always carried out fairly or humanely. The full acceptance of the
principle, however, has called many large prisons into being which have
gained great notoriety, and a description of them and the methods
pursued forms the contents of this volume.

The British, essentially a commercial people, sought very early to
control the relations between debtor and creditor, and ancient practice
greatly favoured the latter. Every assistance was given him for the
recovery of what was due him. His right to it was so amply acknowledged
that the law went farther and decreed that the debtor who could not pay
in cash was liable in person, so his services were attached to work out
the debt and he was adjudged a serf or slave to the master he could not
otherwise satisfy. The principle was derived from the Mosaic law by
which the defaulter might be sold into bondage with his family, his wife
and his wage-earning children. It was the same in ancient Greece and
Rome, where the creditor had a claim to the person of his debtor. Solon
abrogated this procedure, but it long held in Rome under very barbarous
conditions. When judgment was pronounced there against a debtor, he was
allowed thirty days to liquidate, but if at the end of that period he
was still unable to pay, he was handed over to his creditor, who might
keep him in chains for sixty days and make public exposure of him
proclaiming his failure, with permission finally to sell him or put him
to death. There were no public prisons for debtors in old Rome and the
creditor acted as his own gaoler until milder methods ruled that the
right of private imprisonment was intolerable. Nor was it permissible in
feudal times, when men were continually called upon to bear arms for
their lord and their valid effective strength would have been reduced by
locking them up in gaol.

Imprisonment for debt had its origin in the wish to foster and protect
trade. The creditor was permitted when he had proved his debt to recoup
himself by laying his debtor by the heels. Yet in England the practice
was held by jurists to be an undoubted invasion of the “Bill of Rights.”
It was distinctly laid down that no court of justice, whether at common
law or statute law, possessed the power to deprive an individual of his
personal liberty for anything less than serious and atrocious crime.
Still the right was usurped and exercised by specious means. Sellon says
in his “Practice,” “They obtained jurisdiction by a mere fiction over
actions of debt, detinue and causes of a like nature.” The judgment
pronounced in English courts against a debtor was merely to the effect
that he should pay the debt and costs, and it was incidental thereto
that “if he does not pay an execution will issue against his property.”
But no mention of imprisonment was included in the judgment, for which
there was, in fact, no authority.

This immunity from personal arrest remained in force in England long
after Magna Charta, but a change was introduced by a statute generally
known as that of “Marlbridge,” which enacted as a remedy against
absconding bailiffs and stewards that if any went off with the rents
they had collected for their employers, their bodies might be attached
when caught and they themselves held to serve to make good the loss. A
second statute called that of “Acton Burnell” (11th Edward I), allowed
merchants to arrest their debtors for acknowledged breaches of contract.
The practice was excused by the plea that traders were very constantly
foreigners and very likely to run out of the kingdom. As time passed the
chicanery of the law was further called in to protect the creditor and
the debtors’ offence was held to be a fraudulent act, a _delictum_ or
offence injurious to the plaintiff or a contempt of the court originally
moved to recover the debt. The rule then was that the creditor should
make a sworn affidavit against his debtor and that the court should
summons him to appear and answer the claim. If he neglected to attend,
the disobedience justified a presumption against him and the sheriff was
ordered to distrain his goods so as to force him to come into court. If
this procedure also failed, the defendant’s conduct was construed into
contumacy and a writ of _capias_ was issued for the seizure of his
person.

Herein there was clearly a great stretch of power and an unlawful
interference with personal liberty, yet the procedure was acquiesced in
on account of its general convenience. Still the public suffered in its
broad interests and the debtor was undoubtedly damnified and afterward
horribly ill-used. When the arrest was made, too often arbitrarily, he
was hurried off to gaol where he might be kept in durance almost
indefinitely with small hope of enlargement. He was in much worse case
than the prisoner charged with a crime, for no proper provision was made
for his support and maintenance. While the supposed lawbreaker got the
county allowance, such as it was, the debtor might starve. The latter
was no doubt entitled to claim his “groats,” fourpence per diem, from
his creditor, who was slow to pay, and did so only under compulsion
enforced by legal process, a costly matter generally beyond the means of
the insolvent and necessitous debtor. To die within the walls was easier
than to obtain release, even if he could show that he had been
wrongfully locked up. It cost money to prove that he did not owe the
debt; a suit at law must be begun and carried through, and legal process
was an expensive undertaking wholly beyond his means. This was so well
understood that a recognised and not uncommon form of charity was the
donation and bequest of moneys for the assistance of poor debtors.

Many are the painful details of the misusage of debtors, and of the
power given to one class of the community to oppress the other. The laws
relating to debtor and creditor in England were for centuries unsound,
illogical and unequal, and productive of untold misery to enormous
numbers of innocent people. The great debtors’ prisons of England will
live in history rivalling in their callous neglect and distinctly
inhuman treatment the more notorious receptacles used by high-handed and
cruel tyrants for the coercion of their helpless subjects. The
irresponsible despotic ruler who cast all who offended him into dark
dungeons and hermetically closed _oubliettes_, condemning them to a
lingering and acutely painful death, was no worse than the callous judge
who, enmeshed by complex, senseless machinery, consigned harmless people
to gaol for unlimited terms and under the most irksome conditions,
because unable to meet the smallest and not always the most righteous
pecuniary demands. It was not until John Howard laid bare the secrets of
the prison houses that the whole story was revealed or the unjust
sufferings of the debtor class fully realised.

The status of military prisons the world over has been an indictment
upon humanity. In England, the Hulks and Dartmoor; in France, Verdun and
Bitche; in Russia, Peter and Paul and the Schlüsselburg; in the United
States, Libby Prison, Andersonville and Fort Delaware are sad examples
of the cruelties of war. Idleness, starvation and homesickness conspired
to make the wretched captives prefer death or daring escape to
indefinite torture.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER                                     PAGE

INTRODUCTION                                   5

I. THE FLEET PRISON                           15

II. ABUSES AT THE FLEET                       39

III. FAMOUS DWELLERS IN THE FLEET             76

IV. THE KING’S BENCH PRISON                  100

V. LIFE IN THE KING’S BENCH                  127

VI. ENGLISH PRISONS OF WAR                   154

VII. THE HULKS                               179

VIII. AMERICAN PRISONERS IN ENGLAND          199

IX. FRENCH WAR PRISONS                       231

X. LATER RECORDS                             258

XI. AMERICAN WAR PRISONS                     287




List of Illustrations


PRISON HULKS AT PORTSMOUTH         _Frontispiece_

THE FLEET BEGGAR                       _Page_ 28

A FLEET WEDDING                           “   68

PRINCETOWN PRISON                         “  164




NON-CRIMINAL PRISONS




CHAPTER I

THE FLEET PRISON

     The great debtors’ prisons of England notorious for their callous
     neglect and inhuman treatment--Denounced by John Howard, the
     philanthropist--The Fleet, the King’s Bench and the
     Marshalsea--Origin of the Fleet--Early government--Closely
     connected with religious and political persecution--Bishop
     Hooper--Account of the Fleet at the beginning of the seventeenth
     century--Charges of cruelty brought against Warden Alexander
     Harris--Charitable bequests--Fees extorted--Prices charged for
     chamber-rent--Deplorable state of the prison.


The three principal prisons in London in the fourteenth century were the
Fleet, the King’s Bench and the Marshalsea, but Newgate took precedence
in interest because identified with its earliest history. All have their
peculiar histories full of interesting associations, replete with
memories of famous inmates and striking incidents, and all are worthy of
detailed description. All alike received prisoners for debt and on
occasion, more heinous offenders, especially in the earlier years of
their existence. The old King’s Bench was the peculiar prison for the
Court of that name, but it also took debtors committed by the Court of
Exchequer and the Court of Common Pleas. The Marshalsea Court, so called
from having been originally under the control of the Knight Marshal of
the Royal Household, was at first intended to settle differences between
the lesser servants of the palace, and had its own judge, counsel and
attorneys, but none except members of Clifford’s Inn were permitted to
practise in this court. The jurisdiction of this court extended twelve
miles round Whitehall, excluding the city of London. It also served the
Admiralty Court and received prisoners charged with piracy.

The Fleet prison took its name from the little stream long stigmatised
as the “Fleet[1] Ditch,” the open sewer or water-way which rose in the
eastern ridge of Hampstead Hill, flowed by “Oldbourne” or Holborn under
four bridges to discharge into the Thames on the west side of
Blackfriars bridge. As time passed this ditch, after being deepened once
or twice to allow for water traffic, became more and more pestilential
and was at length filled up and arched over, becoming then the site of
Fleet Market in what is now known as Farringdon Street, on which the
main gates of the prison opened. The building was of great antiquity and
is first mentioned in authentic records about A. D. 1197. A deed of that
date granted it to the safe keeping of one Nathaniel de Leveland and his
son Robert, in conjunction with the King’s Houses at Westminster. It is
stated that the Fleet prison had been the inheritance of the Levelands
since the time of the Norman Conquest. Four years later this same Robert
de Leveland petitioned King John for leave to hand over the wardenship
of the Fleet to Simon Fitz-Robert, archdeacon of Wells, while he,
Leveland, proceeded with the crusaders to the Holy Land. He returned
very shortly afterward, as appears from a grant of moneys made him by
the City of London in 1205, his salary for guardianship of the prison.
His wife Margaret was also granted an allowance as keeper of the
Westminster Royal Houses.

Many entries in the records show that in those early days the Fleet was
a place of detention for offenders of all sorts as well as of ordinary
debtors, and especially of defaulters owing money to the King’s
Exchequer. The Chamberlain of Chester in the reign of Edward I was
imprisoned in the Fleet for a year on account of a debt to the King. A
similar case was that of the sheriffs of Nottingham and Derby, who were
detained in 1347 for sums owing to the Exchequer in the reign of Edward
III; another, that of William de Hedersete, who was answerable for
great “arrears to our lord the King,” through a deceased partner who had
died insolvent. The Fleet received debtors for the Court of Chancery,
and was essentially the King’s prison to which were committed all who
came under his displeasure or failed in their obligations and payments.
When one Guy de Codemore was ordered into exile and did not leave the
country, forthwith he was thrown into the Fleet. French prisoners of war
taken in the capture of Harfleur, in 1423, were brought to the Fleet.
When Sir Geoffrey Poole of Hampshire fell out with a neighbour, the Lord
Privy Seal summoned him to appear before him and committed him to the
Fleet until the King’s (Henry VIII) further pleasure should be known.
Lady Poole won her husband’s pardon this time, but Sir Geoffrey was
again in trouble the very next year for assaulting the parson of Pacton
in the county of Sussex.

In these troublous times various offenders found themselves in the
Fleet. It was a place of penitence for young gentlemen who misbehaved,
such as the son and heir of Sir Mathew Browne of Surrey who, with his
servants, was guilty of arson in a wood; a printer who sold seditious
books was committed to it in 1541; the riotous servants of a gentleman
of the Privy Chamber were laid by the heels in the Fleet. Smugglers and
all who infringed the Customs’ laws were committed to the prison as
debtors to the King. A ship master of Southampton who was “privately
conveying five packets of wool to Flanders without a license” was
arrested and sent to the Fleet, the wool being seized and the captain
fined half the value of his ship. It was made a place for the detention
of state prisoners, for when Cowley, the Master of the Rolls in Ireland,
was under examination in 1541 he was lodged in the Fleet until the King
himself should come to London. This was the fate of the illustrious
knight, Sir John Falstaff, when he bearded the Lord Chief Justice, as
Shakespeare tells us in “Henry IV”:--

    “Go carry Sir John Falstaff to the Fleet,
     Take all his company with him.”

Poets, dramatists and pamphleteers were from time to time cast into the
Fleet, and it was christened by Pope the “Haunt of the Muses.” Among the
first was Lord Surrey and among the latter Nash, author of the satirical
play “The Isle of Dogs.” Wycherley, the wit and dramatist, who married
the Countess of Drogheda, languished for seven years as a debtor in the
Fleet, and Sir Richard Baker, author of the famous “Chronicles,” wrote
them as a means of subsistence when an impecunious debtor there, where
he died. Francis Sandford, author of the “Genealogical History,” also
died in the prison in 1693. James Howell, who wrote the delightful
“Familiar Letters” during the troublous times of the Civil War, was a
tenant of the Fleet prison in the years 1643 to 1647. In one of his
letters dated from the Fleet in 1643, he describes his arrest one
morning betimes, by five men armed with “swords, pistols and bills,” who
took him to gaol where, as he says, “as far as I can tell I must lie at
dead anchor a long time unless some gentle gale blow thence to launch me
out.” He consoles himself, however, with the thought that all Englishmen
being islanders, are, in effect, prisoners.

The Fleet was arbitrarily used by Sir Richard Empson in the reign of
Henry VII, when that overbearing law officer was indicted for committing
to it, without process, persons accused of murder and high crimes.
Cardinal Wolsey was charged with a like invasion of the liberty of the
subject, “by his power and might contrary to right,” in the case of a
Sir John Stanley who had taken possession of a farm illegally. This man
would not yield but preferred to turn monk in Westminster monastery,
where he died.

Other prisoners were committed to the Fleet for political misdemeanours
and severely dealt with by the ruling powers. It was an offence to marry
the sister of Lady Jane Grey and for this imprisonment was adjudged to
Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford. Dr. Donne, who married Sir George
More’s daughter without his knowledge, was laid by the heels; the
penalty of durance overtook Sir Robert Killigrew for entering into
conversation with Sir Thomas Overbury, when returning from a visit to
Sir Walter Raleigh, then a prisoner in the Tower. James I, when
overmuch importuned by the Countess of Dorset, who broke into the Privy
Council Chamber, sent her to the Fleet, and Lucius Carey, Lord Falkland,
was imprisoned for sending a challenge.

Many painful memories hang about the old Fleet prison in connection with
the religious and political persecutions of the fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries. It was crowded with the martyrs to intolerance in the reign
of the bigoted Queen Mary and the victims Elizabeth sacrificed in the
way of reprisals when she came to the throne. The Protestant party had
been in the ascendant under Edward VI and the old religion had been
sharply attacked, so that many eminent Catholic bishops burned at the
stake,--Cranmer, Latimer, Ridley, and the pious Hooper, whose chief
offence was that being a priest, he had married a wife. He was now
Bishop of Worcester but he had been in the Fleet before, imprisoned by
his own friends for refusing to wear vestments on the occasion of his
consecration. He was soon set free but came again to the Fleet on his
way to the stake.

His own account of this second confinement is to be found in Fox’s Book
of Martyrs. “On the first of September, 1553, I was committed unto the
Fleet from Richmond, to have the liberty of the prison, and within five
days after I had paid for my liberty five pounds sterling to the warden
for fees, who immediately upon the payment thereof complained unto
Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, and so I was committed to close
prison one quarter of a year in the lower chamber of the Fleet and used
very extremely. Then by the means of a good gentleman, I had liberty to
come down to dinner and supper; not suffered to speak to any of my
friends, but as soon as dinner and supper were done to repair to my
chamber again. Notwithstanding ... the warden and his wife picked
quarrels with me and complained untruly of me to their great friend the
Bishop of Winchester.

“After one quarter of a year and somewhat more, Babington, the warden,
and his wife fell out with me for the wicked mass; and thereupon the
warden resorted to the bishop and obtained to put me in the ward, where
I have continued a long time, having nothing appointed to me for my bed
but a little pad of straw and a rotten covering with a tick and a few
feathers to lie on, the chamber being vile and stinking, until by God’s
means good people sent me bedding. On one side of the prison is the
stink and filth of the house and on the other side the town ditch (the
Fleet ditch) so that the evil smells have affected me with sundry
diseases. During which time I have been sick and the doors, bars, hasps
and chains being all closed and made fast upon me, I have mourned,
called and cried for help, but the warden when he hath known me many
times ready to die, and when the poor men of the ward have called to
help me, hath commanded the doors to be kept fast and charged that none
of his men should come at me saying, ‘Let him alone, it were a good
riddance of him.’”

Yet the sums extorted from the poor bishop were as high as for a peer of
the realm. A lord, spiritual or temporal, paid the sum of five pounds as
“fyne” for liberty of the house and irons on first coming in. It was a
graduated scale, each item according to rank ranging from ten pounds for
an archbishop, duke or duchess, to twenty-five shillings for an esquire.
The rates were proportionate and laid upon everything: fees for
dismission, for entering the obligation and to everyone concerned in the
administration, porter, “jayler,” chamberlain, charge for commons or
board and for “coyne.” When these fees were not promptly paid the
wretched prisoner was “left to lye in the common prison without ‘bedd’
or ‘dyete,’ subject to the discomfort of low companions and the dangers
of distemper.”

Bishop Hooper sums up his griefs thus: “I have suffered imprisonment
almost eighteen months. My goods, living, friends and comfort taken from
me; the Queen [Mary] owing me by first account eighty pounds or more,
she hath put me in prison and giveth nothing to find me; neither is
there any suffered to come at me whereby I might have relief. I am with
a wicked man and woman [the warden and his wife] so that I see no remedy
(save God’s help) but I shall be cast away in prison before I come to
judgment. But I commit my just cause to God whose will be done whether
it be life or death.” It was death, and as he esteemed it, a glorious
death, that of being burnt at the stake after some more months in
confinement, during which he was frequently examined and called upon to
recant. He was sent down for execution to Gloucester, of which diocese
he had been bishop before his translation to Worcester. He was burned
alive at a slow fire and suffered exceeding torment, but bore it with
the splendid endurance vouchsafed to so many victims to savage laws that
counted difference in religious belief an abominable crime.

We have an authentic account of the interior of the prison early in the
seventeenth century, in the volume published by the Camden Society,
entitled the “Æconomy of the Fleete” by Alexander Harris, at one time
warden there. Charges were brought against him by a number of his
prisoners, of oppression and ill-usage and he is at great pains to make
his defence. The prison, as he describes it, was no doubt identically
the same as that of earlier date. It consisted of “six great rooms and a
courtyard with Tower chambers and Bolton’s ward,” the strongest part of
the prison. There was a further sub-division. One ward of the Tower
chambers was appropriated to females exclusively; another was called the
“Twopenny” ward from the price charged; a third the “Beggars’” ward in
which nothing was demanded and nothing given. At a lower level was the
Dungeon, a receptacle for refractory prisoners where they were kept in
irons and confined in the stocks.

The inmates one and all were entirely at the mercy of the warden, who
inherited his office, or purchased it, and looked to recoup himself by
the fees he extorted from his prisoners. The place was a sort of sorry
hotel kept by a brutal and rapacious landlord, as a life tenant, with a
keen eye to profit, and who gave his lodgers nothing, exacting payment
often exorbitant for even light and air and the barest necessaries. The
English law was so neglectful and inhuman that it made no regular
provision for the imprisoned debtor. A fiction existed that the creditor
was bound to contribute four pence daily to provide him with food, but,
as has been said, as late as 1843 this payment of the “groat” was not
punctually made, if at all, and could only be enforced by slow process
of law at a cost prohibitory to the penniless prisoner, and he was
thrown on his own resources, to starve if without friends or private
means, or in the extreme case to drag out a miserable existence from the
doles of the charitable. Great numbers of hapless folk in the passing
ages were detained for five and twenty, thirty and even forty years, on
account of debts of a few pounds, grown out of a first pitifully small
sum and largely increased by arbitrary charges for fees and maintenance,
which but for unjust arrest and detention would never have existed.
Thousands died of hope deferred or slow starvation and with them
suffered those naturally dependent upon them. It was a calculation well
within the mark that every debtor was saddled with two dependents for
whom he was the stay and breadwinner. Some figures are given by John
Howard when, later, he began his self-sacrificing philanthropic labours,
and may be quoted here to show how numerous were the innocent victims of
the iniquitous and remorseless legal system in force:

“I have found,” he writes in 1777,[2] “by carefully examining sundry
gaols, that upon an average two dependents (by which I mean wives and
children only) may be assigned to each man (debtor) in prison. My
computation is confirmed by the account which we have from the
Benevolent Society at the Thatched House, October 9th, 1777. Since its
institution in 1772 there were yearly about 3,980 discharged debtors who
had 2,193 wives and 6,288 children.” From this he reasoned that as there
was a total of debtors in England and Wales of 4,084, the dependents
would be twice that number.

The sufferings entailed upon poor debtors and their families appealed
forcibly to good people and produced much spontaneous assistance.
Societies were formed having considerable sums at their disposal to be
expended in the relief of poor debtors by the payment of and legal
extinction of small debts. Other sums were subscribed, granted or
bequeathed with the direct intention of purveying to the daily crying
needs of the imprisoned, as moneys held in trust to be expended on bread
and improved dietaries for those who would otherwise starve. These
allowances survived to a comparatively recent date, and when the state
assumed control of all British prisons in 1878, a long list still
existed and was absorbed by the Charity Commissioners. These poor
creatures were active on their own behalf and collected funds by begging
openly in the public streets. This was practised by the so-called
“Running Box;” a prisoner ran about the streets adjacent, carrying a box
which he shook constantly, rattling its contents and imploring alms from
passers by for the poor prisoners in the Fleet. There was also the
prison gate or “grating,” which at the Fleet was a window barred, behind
which always sat an emaciated debtor rattling his money box and ever
chanting dolorously his appeal, “Pray remember the poor prisoners who
have no allowance.” The practice was universal and in Salisbury it went
the length in 1774--as Howard says--of exhibiting two Crown debtors at
the door of the County Gaol, who offered articles manufactured in the
prison for sale. Hard by the outer gate was a row of staples fixed in
the walls and through the rings was run a chain, to each end of which
was padlocked a “Common Side” debtor appealing to the passers by. At
Salisbury there was a custom of sending out felons to roam the city in
quest of alms; two were chained together, one carrying a money box, the
other a sack or basket for food.

No debtor was allowed to benefit by the funds thus obtained until they
had been formally sworn at the “grate,” to the effect that they were not
worth five pounds in the world. After this they were entitled to a share
in the contents of the collection box and to participate in the
donations and bequests of the charitable souls who compassionated their
poverty-stricken, hardly-used brethren.

A detailed list of the benefactors and their gifts will be found in
Howard’s “State of Prisons” (1784), and some are curious enough and may
be quoted, such as the bequest known as “Eleanor Gwynne’s bread,” which
gave the debtors in Ludgate every eighth week five shillings’ worth of
penny loaves, and the gift of Mrs. Elizabeth Mission, the yearly income
of two hundred pounds, three per cent. annuities for free bread and
coals. A mysterious gift was sent for years to the Wood Street Compter,
“nine stone of beef and fourteen quartern loaves,” but its origin was
kept secret until at the death of Princess Caroline its royal origin was
displayed, and the alms was continued by the order of George III during
his life. Mr. Allnutt, who was for many years a prisoner in the
Marshalsea for debt, came in for a good estate while incarcerated and at
his death he left one hundred pounds a year to be applied to the release
of poor debtors. In the Southwark County Gaol, once known as the

[Illustration: _The Fleet Beggar_

_From the painting by Hosmer Shepherd_

     At the barred window at the gate of the Fleet prison, it was the
     custom for an emaciated debtor to sit, rattling his money-box and
     imploring alms. English law made no regular provision for the
     imprisoned debtors. The creditor was supposed to contribute
     fourpence daily to provide him with food, but this was rarely made
     and could only be enforced by process of law.
]

White Lion Prison, there were sixteen legacies and donations, all
applied to the relief of debtors, and “Nell” Gwynne also bequeathed a
sum to be expended in loaves for Common Side debtors.

Returning to the misgovernment of Warden Harris, and the malfeasances
laid to his charge, one of the most serious against him was that he
allowed two prisoners, well-known to be bitter enemies and constantly
quarrelling, to consort together in the same cell or room, that called
the Tower chamber, where one fell suddenly upon the other and stabbed
him so that he presently died. The story told is much confused. It was
not clear who was the aggressor and whether or not the fatal blow was
struck in self-defence. The two prisoners in question were a Sir John
Whitebrook, against whom the warden had a grievance (no less than that
Whitebrook had murderously assaulted him), and the other was one
Boughton, of whose hostile feelings toward Whitebrook the warden
astutely availed himself.

It was stated that Whitebrook was held a close prisoner by the order of
two courts, but that he became violently disturbed, and breaking out
went to the warden’s study, where he found Harris in his gown writing. A
talk ensued as to the quality of the lodging provided and the charge for
the chamber-rent, and as the warden was using the pomice-box to dry his
writing, Sir John Whitebrook struck him on the head with the sharp end
of a hammer, inflicting four wounds upon his skull and other bruises,
before the warden could close with him. Then the assailant was thrown on
his back and the hammer taken from him so that the warden might easily
have beaten out his brains, “but that he was neither wrathful nor
daunted.” When the servants came upon the scene, Whitebrook was seized
by the butler but yet contrived to take out a stiletto and use it
fiercely. The warden’s deputy was stabbed through the hand and the
porter or doorkeeper of the house would have been killed but the
stiletto did not enter. After this the furious creature was carried in
irons to Bolton’s ward.

This affray was part of a settled plan of mutinous disturbance in which
some three score prisoners had combined to break up the strongest wards
and the massive doors of the Tower chamber. At that time Whitebrook and
Boughton agreed amicably and the malcontents set themselves to “bar out”
the warden from the prison and refused all persuasions of the officials
to “unlock” the chambers even at the request of the Lord Chancellor, the
Lord Chief Justice and the Sergeant at Arms, but they yielded to the
Clerk of the Council when sent from the Lords. Whitebrook was still
insubordinate and refused the chamber offered him but seized upon five
others which they “again fortified,” so that the warden “had no command
in that part of the prison.” The authority of the officials was at last
vindicated and the turbulent prisoners were removed into the common
prison, where Boughton and Whitebrook came together and, after a
suspension of hostilities for some months, the fatal quarrel with the
results described took place.

Another serious allegation was that a prisoner, who was in possession of
a large sum in cash, was robbed of it with the connivance of the warden.
A man named Coppin was supposed to have fifty-one pounds concealed in
his bed and orders were issued to remove him to another room and keep
him close while the turnkeys rifled his bed and carried off his
treasure. The answer given was that Coppin was known for six years past
to be quite impecunious and unable “to pay the warden one penny for
meate, drink, lodgings or attendance.” It was proved by the evidence of
other prisoners that when Coppin was transferred from the Tower Chamber
into Bolton’s ward, he took his bedding with him and that he never
complained of having lost “one penny or any other thing.”

There were many more charges against the warden, Alexander Harris, which
he answered speciously and sometimes denied categorically. He was
accused of breaking into prisoners’ rooms, forcing the locks of their
trunks, seizing their goods and cash and applying them to his own use;
but he replied that Peck, the particular complainant, although worth
money, never paid a sou and when set free left the Fleet deeply in the
warden’s debt, having occupied a good room for eight years, for which
he paid not one penny. He was a debtor whom a small sum would discharge,
but “he never paid any man.” Peck’s children were known thieves, who
sought shelter in the Fleet until the gallows got one and the other died
a natural death. Peck himself “purloyned the goods of his
fellow-prisoners and by force, with knife drawn, took away the bedding
of a dead room-mate from the mother who claimed it. Peck with his
accomplices came into the gaoler’s lodge and thrust him out, with his
aged wife, and in resisting grievously bruised the gaoler, offering to
stabb the man that was under the gaoler.”

For these foul abuses Peck was moved to Newgate by order of the Lord
Chief Justice, where he lay for a long time not daring to open his
trunks, for they were full of stolen goods; but the warden called in
neighbours and with the help of some prisoners forced them and
inventoried the contents. The warden of the Fleet found more than enough
to satisfy his debt for eight years’ lodging and fees. Peck’s remaining
property consisted of only three blankets, two pillows, “an ould
covering of darnex” and two bolsters.

Harris was also accused of impounding the moneys paid as fees to the
servant who went as escort with prisoners allowed to go at large for the
day. This curious custom obtained in the Fleet, from the earliest to the
latest times, of permitting a prisoner on payment of a fee to go at
large in the city and even into the country if accompanied by a
“baston” or tipstaff. When the practice began it was understood that no
prisoner was meant to go further than to Westminster or to his counsel,
but by degrees custom enlarged their walks all over London and indeed
far beyond it. In all cases the warden was always responsible for his
prisoner and if he escaped was mulcted to the amount of his debt.
Permission to go abroad was always preceded by the prisoner or his
friends giving security for the amount due. The extent to which this
privilege was conceded is seen by the fact that twenty officers were on
the staff of the prison for the purpose of providing the requisite
escorts. The warden estimated that he paid out to them some eighty
pounds a year, which at twenty pence a day would account for about a
thousand absences, or an average of ten days annually to say a hundred
prisoners, who could afford the luxury of an “exeat.” The warden’s risk
was great, for there were times when the aggregate of the debts owed by
the inmates of the Fleet amounted to two hundred thousand pounds,
besides the State obligations or sums owing to the king. The warden’s
emoluments were necessarily large to cover this liability, and often
exceeded two thousand pounds a year.

Residence beyond the prison within the “Rules,” was another form of
privilege. “The liberty of the rules and the ‘day rules’ of the Fleet
may be traced,” says Mr. Timbs, “to the time of Richard II, when
prisoners were allowed to go at large by bail, or with a ‘baston’
(tipstaff), for nights and days together. This license was paid at
eightpence per day and twelvepence for his keeper that shall be with
him. These were day rules. However they were confirmed by a rule of
court during the reign of James I. The rules wherein prisoners were
allowed to lodge were enlarged in 1824, so as to include the churches of
St. Bride’s and St. Martin’s, Ludgate; New Bridge Street, Blackfriars to
the Thames; Dorset Street and Salisbury Square; and part of Fleet
Street, Ludgate Hill and Ludgate Street, to the entrance of St. Paul’s
Churchyard, the Old Bailey and the lanes, courts, etc., in the vicinity
of the above; the extreme circumference of the liberty being about a
mile and a half. Those requiring the ‘rules’ had to provide sureties for
their punctual reappearance and keeping within the boundaries, and to
pay a percentage on the amount of debts for which they were detained,
which also entitled them to the liberty of the day rules, enabling them
during term or the sitting of the courts of Westminster, to go abroad
during the day, to transact or to arrange their affairs, etc. The Fleet
and the Queen’s Bench were the only prisons in the Kingdom to which
these privileges had for centuries been attached.”

The withholding discharge from those entitled by law to go at large
until all fees and duties were satisfied, an act amounting to false
imprisonment, was a frequent complaint against the warden, as against
all gaolers in the old days. This was answered by the plea that it was a
general rule to detain out-going prisoners until they had satisfied all
just dues, and the imposition of these dues was defended as having been
lawfully originated by Act of Parliament, custom or toleration of the
State and judges of courts. The warden was charged too with making
imprisonment more grievous by keeping prisoners too close, “chaining,
manacling and bolting them with irons,” and this for months and years
without order, warrant or law; but he pleaded that such treatment was
the necessary restraint of dangerous prisoners, “badd” debtors for great
sums, perjurers, “forgerors,” conspirators and such like censured
persons by whom the warden or his servants may be “out-done or slain”
through violence to his person or office, or whose cause was almost
ready for hearing by the Star Chamber.

The use of irons was justified by “ancient continuance” and custom
throughout the Kingdom which many “now in the Fleet do by suffering in
other prisons know to be true.” The fact that a fine was paid to be
freed from them “proveth the use,” said the warden, “and there be some
knights now prisoners that did wear irons for thirty years past for
misdemeanours after they had been fined to be freed from them in the
Fleet.” In support of this use of irons the opinion of the Master of the
Rolls, given twenty-three years previously, is quoted; that if abridged
the discipline of the house would be subverted. “The warden protested
that he did never show spleen or passion in the putting irons on
prisoners for private revenge, not even when several, who were in
execution for great sums, had run away and escaped and the warden was
compelled to pay their debts.”

The warden indignantly denied the charge of starving “close prisoners”
(those kept close), declaring it to be “fabulous and false and to have
no colour;” for food was supplied although no payment was made, and in
one case, when a prisoner “faigned himself sick” from starvation, the
doctor saw in the window the most part of a roasted pullet, left from
the meal before. This complaint of being starved drove a certain
prisoner to break out, behaving himself rather as a “Bedlam frantic than
a gentleman” and with others seeking “for revenge” to the utter dislike
and grief of all in the prison, “with steel chisel, mallets and hammers
cut all the stone work of the door of the Tower Chamber into which the
bolts and locks did shut, so that no door could be shut upon eighteen
prisoners of great weight.”

The exactions of the warden for chamber-rent were the cause of bitter
complaint; the order was that no man should pay more than one shilling
and threepence weekly for a room with bed and bedding, yet the price
demanded was eight shillings, ten, even twenty, per week without
bedding. The warden answered that many of his prisoners desired to have
more ease than ordinary, and sought lodgings in the warden’s own house
and would not lie in the prison. Better accommodation must be paid for
at a higher rate, if they paid at all, but “the misery is that none will
pay at all, but stand upon it they should pay nothing, which is contrary
to right, custom and usage.” Yet these defaulters also brought friends,
wives, children and servants which were no prisoners, to share their
quarters and still would pay nothing for the privilege. On the whole it
was quite a mistake to suppose that the warden’s rents “yielded a mass
of benefit each year, whereof the contrary doth appear, for prisoners
are not the best payers and some lie there many years and die without
paying and others lie many years and then become insolvent.”

It was pleaded that where in old time no rent was charged on the Common
Side, the warden Harris demanded it as if for a private chamber, and
even for the dungeon as well. The answer was that the Common Side was
the king’s ancient prison where for “many hundred years men were
imprisoned there only” and they were not exempt from payment. In the
part called the Tower Chamber there were eight bedsteads by which the
warden had made seventy-one pounds by the year. In one ward, called the
“Twopenny,” the inmates paid twopence a night; only in the “Beggars’”
ward did prisoners pay nothing and receive nothing. In this last the
insolvent debtor was forced to fend for himself; he was dependent upon
chance charity for food, fire, clothing, bedding. Many hundreds
succumbed to starvation and cold and died like dogs upon rotten straw,
their nakedness barely covered by foul scanty rags. Rarely the degraded
and neglected lodgers were suffered to go in search of water to cleanse
the ward, but these as a rule were always filthily dirty.

The state of affairs was horrible within the gaol. No order was kept.
Prisoners quarrelled and fought continually, many ranged the wards and
corridors howling like lunatics all through the night and blowing horns,
so that sleep was impossible to the sick and sorrowful. The lowest women
entered freely, thieves took refuge there and thus avoided arrest;
stolen goods were hidden in secure corners and never discovered. The
prisoners went about armed and used swords and daggers freely in brawls
and fights amongst themselves or in attacking the officers and servants
of the gaol.




CHAPTER II

ABUSES AT THE FLEET

     The Fleet, the appointed prison of the Star Chamber--Trial and
     conviction of Prynne and of “Freeborn” John Lilburne--Horrors in
     the Fleet and other debtors’ prisons reported by Moses Pitt--House
     of Commons Committee 1696--Ill treatment of Jacob Mendez Solas, a
     Portuguese prisoner--Shameful malpractices of Huggins and
     Bambridge--Case of Captain Mackpheadris and of Captain David
     Sinclair--Committal of Huggins and Bambridge to Newgate--Their
     trial and verdict of not guilty--Hogarth’s great picture of the
     Fleet Committee--Howard’s visitation in 1774--Social
     evils--Increase of Fleet marriages--Fleet parsons and their
     practices--Passing of the Marriage Act and abuses abolished.


The Fleet was the appointed prison for the victims of the Star Chamber
from the time of Elizabeth until toward the end of the reign of Charles
I. It was essentially the King’s Prison to which State offenders might
be committed, and to which debtors to the king on so confessing
themselves might claim transfer from anywhere in the provinces if they
preferred to be imprisoned in the capital. The Star Chamber, that
oppressive, half-secret and wholly irresponsible tribunal, was
accustomed to send to it all persons who fell under its displeasure; and
this view is further confirmed by the circumstance, that whilst during
the reign of Charles I we find it frequently used in this way, we do not
notice any suggestion that the practice was then a new one. The two most
interesting cases that belong to this part of the history of the Fleet
are those of Prynne and Lilburne.

The trial of Prynne in the Star Chamber should be forever memorable as
an example of the reckless disregard for law, justice, common sense and
humanity which can be exhibited by high-handed judges. The following
extracts will give a sufficient idea of the course of the trial and the
mode of determining the sentence:--

“For the book” (the “Histriomastix” wherein he castigated the court and
society severely), said Richardson, the Lord Chief Justice, “I hold it a
most scandalous, infamous libel on the king’s majesty, a most pious and
religious king; on the queen’s majesty, a most excellent and gracious
queen, such a one as this kingdom never enjoyed the like and I think the
earth never had a better,” etc. Then followed quotations from Prynne’s
book, full of “outrageous opinions” on plays and players and dancing and
then the first part of the sentence: “Mr. Prynne, I must now come to my
sentence; I am very sorry, for I have known you long, but now I must
utterly forsake you for I find that you have forsaken God” (the whole
tenor of Prynne’s book was to lead men, in his way, to draw nearer to
God) “ ... and forsaken all goodness. Therefore, Mr. Prynne, I shall
proceed to my censure wherein I agree with my Lord Cottington: first for
the burning of your book in as disgraceful manner as may be, whether in
Cheapside or St. Paul’s Churchyard.... And because Mr. Prynne is of
Lincoln’s Inn, and that his profession may not sustain disgrace by his
punishment, I do think it fit, with my Lord Cottington, that he be put
from the Bar and degraded in the University and I leave it to my lords,
the lords bishop, to see that done; and for the pillory I hold it just
and equal though there were no statute for it. In the case of all such
crime it may be done by the discretion of the Court, so I do agree to
that too. I fine him £5,000 and I know he is as well able to pay £5,000
as one-half of one thousand; and perpetual imprisonment. I do think fit
for him to be restrained from writing--neither to have pen, ink nor
paper--yet let him have some pretty prayer book to pray God to forgive
him his sins, but to write, in good faith, I would never have him. For,
Mr. Prynne, I do judge you by your book an insolent spirit and one that
did think by this book to have got the name of a reformer, to set up the
puritan or separatist faction.”

Sir Edward Coke followed, and among other things said: “Mr. Prynne, I do
declare you to be a schism-maker in the Church, a sedition-sower in the
Commonwealth, a wolf in sheep’s clothing; in a word _omnium malorium
nequissimus_. I shall fine him £10,000, which is more than he is worth
and less than he deserveth. I will not set him at liberty no more than a
plagued man or a mad dog, who though he cannot bite will foam. He is so
far from being a sociable soul that he is not a rational soul; he is fit
to live in dens with such beasts of prey as wolves and tigers like
himself, therefore do I condemn him to perpetual imprisonment as those
monsters that are no longer fit to live among men, nor see light. Now
for corporal punishment, my Lords, I shall burn him in the forehead and
slit him in the nose.... I should be loth he should escape with his
ears, for he may get a periwig which he now so much inveighs against and
so hide them or force his conscience to make use of his unlovely love
locks on both sides.”

These abominable barbarities were all inflicted in public, the branding,
the mutilation, the loss of ears, and afterwards poor Prynne, stout and
unyielding to the last, was remanded to the Fleet where his friends on
visiting him found him “serene in spirit and still cheerfully patient.”
His chief persecutor had been Archbishop Laud who was present in Court
throughout, and this fact was remembered against the cruel prelate when
later he was himself arraigned and sentenced to death. Prynne was a
second time tried and sentenced to lose the hacked remnant of his ears.

A second victim of the Star Chamber’s intolerance of criticism was John
Lilburne, “Freeborn John,” who refused to incriminate himself, standing
on his rights as a freeborn Englishman. His alleged offence (with his
printer Wharton) was the publication of libellous and seditious books,
called “News from Ipswich.” They were both remanded to the Fleet for the
present, but on the 13th February (1638) were again brought up and
pressed to reconsider their determination. Still inflexible, they were
sent back to the Fleet under a fine of £500 each and with an addition in
Lilburne’s case of a remarkable punishment. Foiled in their attempt to
break men’s spirits by fines, imprisonments, brandings, slitting of
noses, etc., another degrading punishment was now borrowed from the
felon-code,--whipping. “To the end,” runs the sentence, “that others may
be the more deterred from daring to offend in the like manner hereafter,
the court hath further ordered and decreed that the said John Lilburne
shall be whipt through the street from the Prison of the Fleet unto the
pillory, to be erected at such time and in such place as this court
shall hold fit; and that both he and Wharton shall be set in the said
pillory and from thence returned to the Fleet.” The pillory was placed
between Westminster Hall gate and the Star Chamber and Lilburne was
whipped from the prison thither “smartly.” Rushworth says, “Whilst he
was whipt at the cart and stood in the pillory, he uttered many bold
speeches against tyranny of bishops, etc., and when his head was in the
hole of the pillory he scattered sundry copies of pamphlets (said to be
seditious) and tossed them among the people, taking them out of his
pocket.” The Star Chamber Council was sitting at the time and was
informed of this last-mentioned incident; when, consistent in their
acts, they ordered him to be gagged immediately, which was done.
Lilburne then stamped with his feet, and the people understood his
meaning well enough,--that he would speak if he were able. This was not
all. At the same sitting of the Council an order was made directing that
Lilburne should be “laid alone with irons on his hands and legs in the
wards of the Fleet, where the basest and meanest sort of prisoners”
were, with other regulations in a similar spirit. This punishment also
was carried into effect for a time, but ultimately brought to a summary
conclusion through an accident in the prison. “Lilburne,” says
Rushworth, “having for some time endured close imprisonment, lying with
double irons on his feet and hands and laid in the inner wards of the
prison, there happened a fire in the prison of the Fleet, near to the
place where he was prisoner, which gave a jealousy that Lilburne, in his
fury and anguish, was desperate and had set the Fleet Prison on fire,
not regarding himself to be burnt with it; whereupon the inhabitants
without the Fleet (the street then not being five or six yards over from
the prison door) and the prisoners all cried, ‘Release Lilburne or we
shall all be burnt!’ and thereupon they ran headlong and made the warden
remove him out of his hold, and the fire was quenched and he remained a
prisoner in a place where he had some more air.” He continued in prison
till November the 3d, 1640, when the Long Parliament began and then he
was released and immediately applied to the House of Lords for redress,
who granted it in the most satisfactory manner, not merely declaring his
sentence and punishment most unjust and illegal, but ordering the
erasure of the proceedings from the files of all courts of justice, “as
unfit to continue on record.” On the breaking out of the Civil War,
Lilburne fought bravely, we need not say on which side. Freeborn John
was one of the most impracticable as well as courageous of enthusiasts
(Marten said of him, if there were none living but himself, John would
be against Lilburne, and Lilburne against John); and the Parliament
pleased him little better than the King; so he wrote against them too,
and was banished upon pain of death if he returned. But Freeborn John
would and did return, and was immediately arraigned at the Old Bailey,
where he was publicly acquitted, “which for joy occasioned a great
acclamation of the people present.” He died a Quaker and was buried in
Moorfields, four thousand citizens and other persons honouring his
remains by following them to the grave.

Atrocities continued to be perpetrated in the Fleet after the
Restoration and the inmates endured grievous ill-treatment. Some of
these were set forth in the reign of William III in a quaint book
printed and published in 1691 by one Moses Pitt, entitled, “The Cry of
the Oppressed,” being a true and tragical account of the unparalleled
sufferings of multitudes of poor imprisoned debtors in most of the gaols
of England under the tyranny of the gaolers and other oppressors. A
chief item was the relation of “some of the barbarities of Richard
Manlove, Esq., the present warden of the Fleet, who has lately been
found guilty of oppression and extortion by a jury of twelve men.”

The said warden “locked up till opened by the worthy Mr. Justice
Lutwyche three score gentlemen and others for non-payment of exclusive
chamber rent, where was a noisome House of Office near their lodgings,
not allowing the king’s beds, but forcing them to procure beds or lie on
the ground: and keeping men dead amongst them for pretended dues till
they infected others.”

“Again Richard Brocas, Esq., was carried down thither for not paying
excessive chamber-rent and his wife and servants denied to bring him
victuals or physic; and when he died the jury summoned, could not but
find his death occasioned by cruelty and they were dismissed by
contrivance with the coroner; and when he was buried, a new jury
summoned, he taken up again and an inquisition returned contrary to law;
and Sir John Pettus of Suffolk, baronet, for not paying extorting dues,
was forced into a little room (now the warden’s coachman’s lodgings) who
being a learned studious person for want of those necessaries, he
melancholy died and was kept many days above ground; his friends being
denied his body till they paid the warden’s pretended dues.”

“Sir William Ducy, Baronet, was kept by the warden in his coach house
till he was drawn out with ropes, being so offensive, that none could
come near him. Symon Edolph, Esq., seventy-eight years of age, the son
of Sir Thomas Edolph of Kent, for not paying forty two pounds demanded
of him, when he profered thirty pounds, which was for a little room
about twelve foot square, after the rate of six shillings per week,
besides payment of the chamberlain, was dragged down to the wards in the
hard weather and there not allowed a bed but must have lain on the
ground had he not (at his own charge) procured one.” “Walter Cowdrey,
gaoler of Winchester, for about two or three months’ chamber rent, was
kept above ground till it caused a sickness in the next room, and his
friends denied to take his body without paying extorting fees. By which
may be perceived the inhumanity of this gaoler, not only to gentlemen
but one of his own trade and calling. Sir George Putsay, sergeant at
law, dying of dropsie; and being a very great fat man, was kept (for
extorting fees) till a judge’s warrant was procured for his delivery.
Moses Pitt of London, bookseller, being committed prisoner to the Fleet,
April the 20th 1689, lodged on the gentleman’s side in a chamber which
the warden values at eight shillings per week, though of right it’s but
two shillings and fourpence, the rest being exaction (and the said Moses
Pitt at the time of writing of this has two chambers within the rules of
the Kings-Bench for one shilling three pence per week, twice as good as
the said chamber), he the said Pitt continued in the said chamber from
the said 20th of April 1689 to the 26th of August 1690 which was seventy
weeks and three days, in which time the said Pitt had paid the warden
his commitment fee, two pounds four shillings and sixpence, where as
there is but fourpence due: Pitt also paid him fourteen shillings for
two day-writs, and was to pay him eight shillings and fourpence at the
going out of the gate, (every prisoner there in execution pays eleven
shillings and twopence a day when he goes abroad about his business) but
the said warden kept his said fourteen shillings and would not let him
go out of the gates of the prison by which the said Pitt lost his
tryals, which was many thousand pounds damage to him.” This Moses Pitt
was once a rich man and his printing works were established in a large
house called “the theatre” in Westminster, which he rented from Dr.
Fell, Bishop of Oxford, and where in the reign of Charles II he brought
out an atlas in twelve folio volumes and a great quantity of Bibles,
Testaments and prayer books reducing their price by more than half which
he claimed, “did at that time great good, Popery being likely to
overwhelm us.” Mr. Pitt embarked upon extensive building speculations
in Westminster and erected a great house in Duke Street which he let to
the noted Judge Jeffreys, but failed to secure a clear title to the
property. Then his creditors came down upon him and he became involved
in a mesh of borrowings and their attendant lawsuits which landed him at
length in the Fleet prison. His hardships led him to prepare his book
denouncing the evils of imprisonment for debt; and to obtain facts he
addressed a circular to sixty-five provincial prisons. The result was a
“small book as full of tragedies as pages; which were not enacted in
foreign nations among Turks and infidels, Papists and Idolaters, but in
this country by our own countrymen”--such tragedies as no age or country
can parallel.

He tells the story of a Liverpool surgeon who was so reduced by poverty,
neglect and hunger that he lived on the mice caught by his cat. When he
sought redress he was beaten and put in irons. A debtor in Lincoln who
sought restitution of a purse taken from him was “treated to a ride on
the jailer’s coach;” in other words placed upon a hurdle and dragged
about the prison yard with his head on the stones whereby he “became not
altogether so well in his intellects as formerly.” One unfortunate
wretch who dared to send out of the prison for food had the thumbscrews
put on him and was chained by the neck on tip-toe against a wall. The
frontispiece of this old book gives a quaint representation of the
interior of the Fleet prison.

These complaints led to the appointment of a committee of the House of
Commons in 1696 and a report of many great irregularities, chief among
them that the warden will let the prison for the sum of £1,500 to a
sub-tenant on the understanding that there would be some two thousand
prisoners always in custody who would pay fees to the value of twice the
rent. A second report, presumably from the same committee, disclosed a
widespread system of discharges not by regular legal process but on the
payment of bribes and it was unanimously agreed that the management of
the Fleet was “very prejudicial to personal credit and a great grievance
to the whole kingdom.”

No remedy was applied to these glaring evils, which, on the contrary,
constantly increased until they culminated in the horrible scandals laid
bare by the Parliamentary Committee appointed in 1727 to inquire into
the conduct of the then deputy warden, the infamous Bambridge, who
leased the governorship from the real warden, the no less notorious
Huggins. The most shameful malpractices had been rife since the
abolition of the Star Chamber which had reserved the place entirely for
debtors and prisoners for contempt of the Courts of Chancery, Exchequer
and Common Pleas. It seemed that whereas the fees ought to have ceased
when the prison was limited in its uses, the warden had wielded an
unwarrantable and arbitrary power in extorting them at more exorbitant
rates, enforcing payment by loading the prisoners with irons “worse
than if the Star Chamber was still existing.”

The course pursued in every case where the incoming prisoner possessed
means, was much the same. On arrest he was first conveyed to a Sponging
House, one of three attached to the Fleet, beyond the walls, all
belonging to the warden and kept by one or other of his tipstaffs. Here
the charges were so ruinous that the debtors aghast begged to be taken
at once to the Fleet itself, where at least prices were regulated by
rules. Transfer was refused until a heavy fee had been exacted and while
the prisoner still demurred his bill in the Sponging House steadily grew
in total. When at last he was removed into the Fleet he had been bled
freely, in fees alone to the amount of some fifty odd pounds. Here fresh
exactions were imposed and the debtor, refusing to submit to insatiable
demands, was sent back to the Sponging House, where a virulent small-pox
was raging at the time. The prisoner, unvaccinated in those days, and in
terror of his life, implored the ruthless warden to again remove him but
could obtain no mercy and presently, taking the fell disease, died of
it, leaving his affairs in hopeless confusion and a wife with a family
of young children to starve. This was the true story of Mr. Robert
Castell, a gentleman and a scholar, by profession an architect, whose
original liabilities had been small and whose ruin and death were to be
laid at Bambridge’s door.

Another story of like complexion was that of the Portuguese Jacob Mendez
Solas, animadverted upon by the Parliamentary committee. This hapless
foreigner enlodging in the Fleet was one day called into the Gate House
or lodge, where he was seized, fettered and removed to Corbett’s
Sponging House, whence after weeks of detention he was carried back into
the prison. Extortion had been the object of this procedure and as the
Portuguese still resisted, his life was made intolerable to him. He was
turned now into a dungeon, known as the “strong room of the Master’s
Side,” which is thus described in the Committee’s report:--

“The place is a vault, like those in which the dead are interred, and
wherein the bodies of persons dying in the said prison are usually
deposited, till the coroner’s inquest hath passed upon them. It has no
chimney nor fireplace, nor any light but what comes over the door, or
through a hole of about eight inches square. It is neither paved nor
boarded; and the rough bricks appear both on the sides and top, being
neither wainscoted nor plastered. What adds to the dampness and stench
of the place is its being built over the common shore and adjoining to
the sink and dunghill, where all the nastiness of the prison is cast. In
this miserable place the poor wretch was kept by the said Bambridge,
manacled and shackled, for near two months. At length, on receiving five
guineas from Mr. Kemp, a friend of Solas’s, Bambridge released the
prisoner from his cruel confinement. But though his chains were taken
off, his terror still remained, and the unhappy man was prevailed upon
by that terror not only to labour gratis for the said Bambridge, but to
swear also at random all that he hath required of him. And this
committee themselves saw an instance of the deep impression his
sufferings had made upon him; for, on his surmising, from something
said, that Bambridge was to return again as warden of the Fleet, he
fainted and the blood started out of his mouth and nose.”

The same report continued: “Captain John Mackpheadris, who was bred a
merchant, is another melancholy instance of the cruel use the said
Bambridge hath made of his assumed authority. Mackpheadris was a
considerable trader, and in a very flourishing condition, until the year
1720, when, being bound for large sums to the Crown, for a person
afterward ruined by the misfortunes of that year, he was undone. In
June, 1727, he was prisoner in the Fleet, and although he had before
paid his commitment fee, the like fee was extorted from him a second
time; and he having furnished a room, Bambridge demanded an extravagant
price for it, which he refused to pay, and urged that it was unlawful
for a warden to demand extravagant rents, and offered to pay what was
legally due. Notwithstanding which, the said Bambridge assisted by the
said James Barnes and other accomplices, broke open his room and took
away several things of great value, amongst others, the King’s Extent
in aid of the prisoner (which was to have been returned in a few days,
in order to procure the debt to the Crown, and the prisoner’s
enlargement), which Bambridge still detains. Not content with this,
Bambridge locked the prisoner out of his room and forced him to lie in
the open yard called the ‘Bare.’ He sat quietly under his wrongs, and
getting some poor materials, built a little hut, to protect himself as
well as he could from the injuries of the weather. The said Bambridge,
seeing his unconcernedness, said, ‘---- him! he is easy! I will put him
into the strong room before to-morrow!’ and ordered Barnes to pull down
his little hut, which was done accordingly. The poor prisoner, being in
an ill state of health and the night rainy, was put to great distress.
Some time after this he was (about eleven o’clock at night) assaulted by
Bambridge, with several other persons, his accomplices, in a violent
manner; and Bambridge, though the prisoner was unarmed, attacked him
with his sword, but by good fortune was prevented from killing him; and
several other persons coming out upon the noise, they carried
Mackpheadris for safety into another gentleman’s room; soon after which
Bambridge, coming with one Savage and several others, broke open the
door, and Bambridge strove with his sword to kill the prisoner, but he
again got away and hid himself in another room. The next morning the
said Bambridge entered the prison with a detachment of soldiers and
ordered the prisoner to be dragged to the lodge and ironed with great
irons. On which he, desiring to know for what cause and by what
authority he was to be so cruelly used, Bambridge replied, it was by his
own authority, and ---- him, he would do it and have his life. The
prisoner desired that he might be carried before a magistrate, that he
might know his crime before he was punished; but Bambridge refused, and
put irons upon his legs which were too little, so that in forcing them
on, his legs were like to have been broken and the torture was
impossible to be endured. Upon which the prisoner complaining of the
grievous pain and straitness of the irons, Bambridge answered that he
did it on purpose to torture him. On which the prisoner replying that by
the law of England no man ought to be tortured, Bambridge declared that
he would do it first and answer for it afterwards; and caused him to be
dragged away to the dungeon, where he lay without a bed, loaded with
irons so close riveted that they kept him in continual torture and
mortified his legs. After long application his irons were changed and a
surgeon directed to dress his legs; but his lameness is not, nor can be,
cured. He was kept in this miserable condition for three weeks, by which
his sight is greatly prejudiced and in danger of being lost.

“The prisoner upon this usage, petitioned the judges; and after several
meetings and a full hearing, the judges reprimanded Mr. Huggins and
Bambridge and declared that a gaoler could not answer the ironing of a
man before he be found guilty of a crime, but it being out of term, they
could not give the prisoner any relief or satisfaction.”

There were other cases, that, for instance, of Captain David Sinclair,
an old and distinguished officer whom hard fate and impecuniosity had
consigned to a debtors’ prison. Bambridge was his enemy and openly
declared that he would have Sinclair’s blood. On the king’s birthday, a
jovial occasion, on which he thought to find the captain elated with
wine, Bambridge entered his room and struck him with a cane. Then
turning to the soldiers of the escort, who came armed with musket and
bayonet, Bambridge ordered them to carry Sinclair to the strong room and
to stab him if he made any resistance. Confinement in this dark, damp
dungeon all but cost Sinclair his life; he lost the use of his limbs and
his memory went; he was left for four days without food and had he not
been removed he would certainly have died. An unfortunate Spanish
merchant, Mr. John Holder, who was confined in the Common Side under
Bambridge, was seized with a fatal illness from the miseries and
privations he endured.

It was said in the report already quoted that Bambridge, when he
manacled Solas, was the first to put a debtor in irons. This is
manifestly erroneous as is seen in the account of the charges brought
against warden Harris in 1620, for misusage of prisoners in the Fleet.
But this brutal gaoler, Bambridge, was guilty of many and great
enormities. He was proved to have defied writs of habeas corpus; to have
stolen or misappropriated charitable bequests; to have bribed or
terrified lawyers who came to champion ill-used prisoners. When Sir
William Rich was behind-hand in his chamber-rent, Bambridge threatened
to fire at him, slashed at him with a hanger, and struck him with a
stick. Rich was then thrown into the strong room, heavily ironed, and
kept there in close confinement accused of having attacked the warden
with a shoemaker’s knife, which he did, but in self-defence.

Huggins and Bambridge, in their greedy desire to increase their
emoluments, invented an astute device, that of allowing, even helping
debtors to escape from custody, whom they presently rearrested, and
having made them pay forfeit, pocketed the amounts. To facilitate this a
false gate was broken through the prison wall, through which the
fugitives were released with the co-operation of the warden, and thus
the forfeit was exacted many times over.

The same means of exit was utilised by a smuggler, in custody for
revenue fraud, who passed in and out on his own concerns, and to do
business for Mr. Huggins. This man, by name Dumay, made frequent voyages
to France, where he bought quantities of wine for Huggins and paid for
them by bills drawn upon one of the tipstaffs, which when due were
punctually met. Confidence was thus established and the traffic was
greatly developed, but when an unusually large deal had been effected
the tipstaff declined to accept the bill and the French wine merchant
was swindled out of his goods and his money.

This inquiry of 1727 resulted in the committal of both Huggins and
Bambridge to the gaol of Newgate, and their prosecution. A bill was
introduced into Parliament to remove both men from their posts and to
revise the management of the Fleet; but when these wretches were
arraigned for their misdeeds the evidence was deemed insufficient and
they escaped with a verdict of not guilty. The episode is especially
interesting as having inspired Hogarth to paint the remarkable picture
of the Fleet Prison Committee, which is said to have first brought the
painter into fame. Speaking of this picture, Horace Walpole in his
“Anecdotes of Painting” says: “The scene is the Committee; on the left
are the instruments of torture. A prisoner in rags half starved appears
before them. The poor man has a good countenance that adds to the
interest. On the other hand is the inhuman gaoler. It is the very figure
that Salvator Rosa would have drawn for Iago at the moment of
detection,--villainy, fear and conscience are mixed on his yellow and
livid countenance. His lips contracted by tremor, his legs step back as
though thinking to make his escape--one hand is thrust precipitately
into his bosom, the fingers of the other are catching uncertainly at his
button-holes. If this was a portrait it is the most striking that ever
was drawn; if not it is still finer.” There is no question that this is
Bambridge, who lingered on for twenty years disgraced and despised and
in the end committed suicide by cutting his throat.

We have two views of the interior of the Fleet and its general aspect
from two eye witnesses at a later date than the exposure of Huggins and
Bambridge. One is John Howard’s account of his visitation in 1774; the
other a volume of verse “The Humours of the Fleet, an humorous and
descriptive poem written by a gentleman of the College,” published in
London in 1749. The author was the younger Dance, son of Mr. Dance, the
architect, who rebuilt the gaol of Newgate after its destruction by the
Lord George Gordon rioters in 1780. It is described as “The Prince of
Prisons” standing “close by the borders of a slimy flood,” a structure
in whose extended oblong boundaries are shops and sheds and stalls of
all degrees, for the sale of everything from trinkets to pork and beans.
The inmates are next described:

    “Without distinction intermixed is seen
     A squire quite dirty, a mechanic clean;
     The spendthrift new who in his chariot rolled
     All his possessions gone, reversions sold.
     Now mean, as once profuse, the stupid sot
     Sits by a Runner’s[3] side and shules a pot.”

The first ceremony for the newcomer is to sit or stand for his portrait:

    “Around you gazing jiggers[4] swarm,
     Your form and features strictly they survey
     Then leave you if you can, to run away.”

Then follows the description of the chamberlain “who settles the price
of quarters; one pound six and light weekly for the best room, or as low
as half a crown per month.”

    “Take my advice I’ll help you to a chum;
     With him you’ll pay but fifteen pence a week,”

and so on page after page illustrating the daily life, sorrows, dirt and
rags; the sports--backgammon, Mississippi, portobello, racquets,
billiards, fives; increasing drought quenched by gin; rough horseplay
with newcomers who are borne to the pump and drenched, the whole
presented in a picture crowded with the ragged, slipshod figures
standing treat to the tipstaffs and one another. The poem concludes with
the closing of the prison when

    “The warning watchman walks about
     With dismal tone repeating ‘who goes out.’”

The cry is heard from half-past nine till the clock of St. Paul’s
strikes ten, very like the familiar shout on shipboard “Any more for the
shore.” The final “all told” was the signal to shut and lock the gate
after which no person was permitted to pass either in or out.

The philanthropist’s inspection, naturally, was a more serious matter,
and his account of what he found in the Fleet was a striking item in his
general indictment of British prisons. The Fleet at that date held three
hundred and twenty-four inmates in the “House” and one hundred resided
within the “Rules.” The prison buildings were partly old and partly new,
having been rebuilt a few years previous. It now consisted of a long
house (198 feet) facing a narrow courtyard and having four stories or
galleries with a basement or cellar floor called Bartholomew Fair, which
was appropriated to the Common Side or the solvent pauper debtors. In
the galleries the rooms opened on either side of a central passage,
narrow and dark, with one window at each end. The rooms were for the
most part 14½ feet in length by 12½ feet wide, and 9½ feet in height,
all provided with fire-place and chimney, and lighted with one window.
On the ground-floor or Hall Gallery were a chapel, a tap-room, a
coffee-room and eighteen chambers for prisoners; on the first floor
twenty-five rooms, on the second twenty-seven, with prisoners’
committee-room, the infirmary and a “dirty billiard table, kept by the
prisoners who slept in that room.” This billiard table was open to
outsiders, and Howard saw “several butchers and others from the market
playing, who were admitted as at any public house. Besides the
inconvenience to prisoners,” says Howard, “the frequenting a prison
lessens the dread of being confined in one.” The gallery rooms on the
top floor were reserved for Master’s Side debtors who paid the warden’s
rent, nominally, at the rate of one shilling and three pence weekly, a
price liable to be much increased. They fell to prisoners in succession,
and when any became vacant it was taken by the first on the warden’s
lists who had paid his full entrance fee. If all rooms were occupied, a
newcomer must hire of some tenant a part of his room or shift as he
could. The same practice obtained some fifty years later as described by
Charles Dickens when telling of the imprisonment of Mr. Pickwick.

The discipline was very lax, due to the unrestrained admission of all
classes, male and female, the latter often of very indifferent
character. “Social evenings” were of common occurrence; on Monday nights
a wine club, on Thursdays a beer club, each lasting until one or two in
the morning. “I need not say,” remarks Howard, “how much riot these
meetings occasioned, and how the sober prisoners are annoyed by them.”
Master’s Side debtors, mostly well disposed, respectable people, were
moved to maintain order and better government and formed themselves into
a committee to establish rules and insist upon their observance. This
committee was chosen every month and consisted of three members from
every gallery, with a president and secretary. They met every Thursday
in their own committee room and at other times when summoned by the
cryer (the servant of the prison who called persons from within when a
visitor came to see them), at command of the president or a majority of
their own number. This committee raised contributions by assessment,
heard complaints, determined disputes, advised fines and seized goods
for payment. It claimed to speak the sense of the whole House. The
president held the cash and the committee disposed of it. It appointed a
scavenger who washed the galleries once a week, watered them and swept
them daily, every morning before eight, and who swept the yards twice a
week, and lit the lamps all over the House. The cryer’s fee for calling
a prisoner to any stranger who visited the prison was one penny; from a
complainant who desired that the committee might be brought together he
got a fee of twopence. The tax levied on a newcomer, besides the two
shillings for “garnish” to be spent in wine, was one shilling and
sixpence to be appropriated for the use of the House. Distinction of
rank was overlooked in the Fleet, for Common Side debtors were confined
to their own apartments in Bartholomew Fair and were forbidden to
associate with “the lawmakers.”

There were public regulations also in force dating, it was said, from
the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Among other orders the warden was
empowered to appoint turnkeys with arms, to prevent persons from
bringing arms past the gate, and to watch if any escape was being
agitated. Such as attempted to escape or greatly misbehaved might be
shut up in a close room or dungeon, which must be certified to by four
judges as “boarded, wholesome and dry.” Clandestine Fleet marriages were
forbidden, but to very little purpose, seeing that they were constantly
performed. (Fleet marriages of imprisoned debtors were legitimate and
openly solemnised in the Fleet Prison chapel till 1686.) Other rules
ignored were those against the demand for “garnish” and that which
forbade the detention of a debtor in a Sponging House, an order
constantly contravened by Huggins and Bambridge, as we have seen. A
portion of the infirmary (two rooms) was to be allotted to Common Side
debtors and it was strictly prescribed that no prisoner should be
obliged to sleep in a bed with any one diseased. A coroner’s inquest
must be held upon any dead prisoner and the body delivered to friends
free of cost, but these very important provisions were constantly
evaded.

A chaplain was appointed to the Fleet, his salary of thirty pounds per
annum being paid by the warden, supplemented by a fee of twopence to
fourpence per head from each prisoner. The Fleet had its own chapel, in
which marriages might be legally performed, the earliest on record being
that of a prisoner, Mr. George Lester, who in 1613 married a woman of
good fortune, Mistress Babington by name. In a contemporary letter, it
is stated that “she is a woman of good wealth, so that now the man will
be able to live and maintain himself in prison, for hitherto he has been
of poor estate.” We are not told why his rich wife did not proceed to
pay his debts and secure his enlargement. Soon after this, the system of
clandestine and irregular marriages, which afterwards became notorious,
began to be practised within the Fleet and the Rules beyond. The
practice seems to have originated in the desire to escape the expense
attending a regular wedding at which it was the fashion to make a great
show in feasting and entertainment lasting several days. Besides the
costs of marriage settlements, presents, pin-money and so forth had to
be met. To avoid all this wasteful outlay, the weddings became private
and unpretending. A French traveller in England, one Henri Mission,
describes one of these ordinary or incognito marriages,--

“The bridegroom, that is to say, the husband that is to be, and the
bride, who is the wife that is to be, conducted by their parents and
accompanied by two bridesmen and two bridesmaids go early in the morning
with a license in their pocket and call up Mr. curate and his clerk,
tell them their business; are married with a low voice, and the doors
shut; tip the minister a guinea and the clerk a crown; steal softly out,
one one way, and t’other another, either on foot or in coaches; go
different ways to some tavern at a distance from their own lodgings, or
to the house of some trusty friend, there have a good dinner and return
home at night as quietly as lambs. If the drums and fiddles have notice
of it, they will be sure to be with them by day break, making a horrible
racket, till they have got ‘the pence;’ and, which is worst of all, the
whole murder will come out.”

Although the law prescribed that marriages should be only performed by
licenses or the giving out of banns, there were many churches and
chapels towards the end of the seventeenth century which claimed to be
“peculiar” and exempt from the jurisdiction of the Bishop of London. But
the rector of one of these, St. James, Duke’s Place, was proceeded
against under the ecclesiastical law and suspended from duty for three
years on a charge of having married persons without banns or license.
Other churches claimed to be “peculiar” such as the chapel of Holy
Trinity, Minories, on the ground that it was a crown living and entitled
to the same privileges as Westminster Abbey or the Deanery of Windsor;
so did the chapels of the Tower and the Savoy as royal chapels. The
number of chapels where irregular marriages took place was about ninety,
and it became necessary to check them by obliging incumbents to keep
registers under a penalty of one hundred pounds, and the same amount
was levied on them for every irregular marriage. This penalty was
extended to the gaolers or keepers of prisons who permitted marriages to
be performed within the walls, which had now become a very common
practice in the metropolis. These Fleet parsons were not clergymen, but
mere laymen who assumed the garb of cassock, gown and bands. These sham
marriages were solemnised in a room in the Fleet, called the “Lord
Mayor’s chapel,” where the prison parson received the couples bent on
matrimony. The officiating parson was Mr. John Mottram who transacted an
enormous amount of business, and performed in one year alone as many as
two thousand two hundred marriages. He was convicted of unlawful
practices and fined £200 but he was not deterred from repeating them, or
giving false dates to their certificates to suit the desire and
convenience of the contracting parties. Pennant in his account of London
(1793) tells us that as he walked the streets near the Fleet prison he
was invited to walk in and be married. The sign over the door portrayed
a male and female hand joined with the words, “Marriages performed
within.” A tout or “plyer” as he was called, stood there soliciting the
passers-by and swearing that his employer would do the job cheaper than
any one else. Sometimes the parson himself, temporarily at large, was to
be seen walking before his shop: “A squalid, profligate figure, clad in
a tattered plaid night-gown, with a fiery face, ready to couple you for
a dram of gin or a roll of tobacco.”

These Fleet parsons drove a roaring trade. There were a great number of
them and a long list is given by no means exhaustive in Burns’ “History
of Fleet Marriages,” of some sixty in all who flourished between 1681
and 1752. Among the most notorious was John Gaynam who was commonly
known as the “Bishop of Hell.” He is credited with having performed two
thousand marriages within a few years. In person he was of commanding
presence and swaggered along Fleet Street in his silk gown and white
flowing bands drawing admiring attention to his handsome rubicund face.
He was always smug and self-satisfied. Nothing, and no one, could put
him out of countenance. When in the witness box to give evidence in a
trial for bigamy, a cross examining counsel asked him if he was not
ashamed to confess that he had made so many clandestine marriages, he
laughingly replied, “_Video meliora deteriora sequor_.” When someone
chastised him with a stick he took his punishment with well bred
composure. It was said of him that although he was bishop of an
extremely hot diocese he was personally remarkable for his coolness in
demeanour and language. Another popular Fleet parson was Daniel Wigmore,
who was not satisfied with his marriage fees, but was convicted in 1738
before the Lord Mayor of selling spirituous

[Illustration: _A Fleet Wedding_

_From the picture by Hogarth_

     The Fleet Prison was a popular place for clandestine marriages in
     the seventeenth century, and the Fleet parsons, so-called, did a
     thriving business. Two thousand marriages were performed within a
     few years by one of the parsons entitled the “Bishop of Hell,” who
     was, like most of them, merely a layman assuming cassock and gown.
     Bridegrooms were kept on hand for emergency, and a “plyer” stood
     outside soliciting business for his employer, the “parson.”
]

liquors contrary to the law. Edward Ashwell, known as the “archdeacon”
was a third. He was a notorious scoundrel, a bigamist three times over
who yet dared to preach in church when he could get a pulpit. This Dr.
Ashwell died within the Rules of the Fleet in 1746 and was recorded as
“the most noted operator in marriages since the death of the
never-to-be-forgotten Dr. Gaynam.”

Walter Wyatt did a very profitable business and made a large income out
of his clandestine marriages, no less then £700 a year, equal to four
times that sum in our modern money. On the cover of one of his registers
still preserved, he gives notice that “Mr. Wyatt, minister of the Fleet,
is removed from the Two Sawyers, at the corner of Fleet Lane (with all
the register books) to the Hand and Pen near Holborn Bridge, where
marriages are solemnised without impositions.” But there seem to have
been other establishments which traded on Wyatt’s sign, probably because
he was so prosperous. Joshua Lilley kept the “Hand and Pen” near Fleet
Bridge. Matthias Wilson’s house of the same sign stood on the bank of
the Fleet ditch; John Burnford had a similar name for his house at the
foot of Ludgate Hill and Mrs. Balls also had an establishment with the
same title.

One of these “Hand and Pen” public houses was kept by a turnkey of the
Fleet prison, who had a room in his house for solemnising marriages with
the assistance of mock clergymen, one of whom he pretends in one of his
handbills to be a “gentleman regularly bred at one of our universities
and lawfully ordained according to the institutions of the Church of
England and ready to wait on any person in town or country.”

There was a Peter Symson who performed marriages from 1731 to 1754, and
who claimed to have been educated at the University of Cambridge and to
have been late chaplain to the Earl of Rothes. His chapel was at the
“Old Red Hand and Mitre” three doors from Fleet Lane. When examined in
court on one occasion, he declared that he had been ordained in
Grosvenor Square Chapel by the Bishop of Winchester.

Another Fleet parson was William Dare, who had so large a connection
that he employed a curate. John Lands had been chaplain on board a
man-of-war and boasted that he had “gloriously distinguished himself in
defence of his King and Country.” His chapel was at the corner of Half
Moon Court, at the corner of the Old Bailey. Lands advertised that he
was a regularly bred clergyman and no mere Fleet parson, and “conducted
everything with the utmost decency and regularity such as shall always
be supported in law and equity.”

There was competition further afield and in such outwardly respectable
chapels as that of Mayfair, built in 1736, to meet the needs of a
growing neighbourhood. It was situated in Chapel Place off Curzon
Street, and was pulled down in 1900, to give place to the imposing town
mansion of the Duke of Marlborough, which now bears the name of
Sunderland House. Its first incumbent was the Rev. Alexander Keith, a
properly ordained clergyman who did a great trade in irregular
marriages. It was in Mayfair Chapel that the Duke of Hamilton wedded the
youngest of the beautiful Gunnings, in such indecent haste that the
ceremony was performed with a ring from the bed curtain at half an hour
past midnight. Besides the Mayfair Chapel, Mr. Keith had a small private
chapel of his own near Hyde Park Corner and he was so active in the two
that he interfered greatly with the vested interests of the neighbouring
clergy. One of these, Dr. Trebeck, rector of St. George’s, Hanover
Square, brought an action against him and he was sentenced to
excommunication. Keith retaliated by excommunicating the Bishop of
London, the judge who had condemned him and the prosecutor Dr. Trebeck,
but nothing came of it all except a warrant for Mr. Keith’s
apprehension, on which he was committed to the Fleet prison. He lay
there for some fifteen years, during which other parsons performed his
functions, notably the Peter Symson mentioned above. Keith, in the end,
fell into great poverty, for the Marriage Act introduced by Lord
Hardwicke in 1754 summarily put a stop to these illegal practices. The
new law came into force on March 25th, 1754, but the evil custom died
hard. On the day before, according to one register alone, two hundred
and seventeen couples were married in the Fleet and its purlieus and
sixty-one in Mayfair Chapel.

Keith, in his later days, made a piteous appeal for charity. In an
advertisement to the compassionate he used the following plea:--“By the
late Marriage Act the Rev. Mr. Keith from a great degree of affluence is
reduced to such a deplorable state of misery as is much better to be
conceived than related, having scarce any other thing than bread and
water to subsist on. It is to be hoped he will be deemed truly
undeserving of such a fate and the public are assured that not
foreseeing such an unhappy stroke of fortune as the late Act, he yearly
expended almost his whole income (which amounted to several hundred
pounds per annum) in relieving not only single distressed persons, but
even whole families. Mr. Keith’s present lamentous situation renders him
perhaps as great an object of charity himself.”

No record has been preserved of the response made to this appeal or of
the amount of assistance, if any, accorded to him. His distress did not,
however, prevent him from making a joke of it and Horace Walpole tells
in one of his letters of a “_bon mot_ of Keith’s the marriage broker.”
“So the Bishops,” he said, “will hinder my marrying. Well, let ’em, but
I’ll be revenged; I’ll buy two or three acres of ground and I’ll under
bury them all.” At the same time he had the impudence to take high
ground in a pamphlet he wrote about this date. “If the present Act in
the form it now stands,” he said, “should (which I am sure is
impossible) be of any service to my country, I shall then have the
satisfaction of having been the occasion of it, because the compilers
thereof have done it with a pure design of suppressing my chapel, which
makes me the most celebrated man in this kingdom though not the
greatest.”

Some of the outrages and infractions of the law due to these irregular
Fleet marriages may be specified. An heiress, Mistress Anne Leigh, was
decoyed in 1719 from her friends in Buckinghamshire, carried forcibly to
the Fleet, married against her consent and barbarously ill-used by the
abductors. In 1737 one Richard Leaver, being tried for bigamy, swore
that he knew nothing of his first wife to whom he had been married in
the Fleet when drunk. Bridegrooms were kept on hand. A man was married
four times over under different names and each time paid a fee of no
more than five shillings. Couples were tied together without giving more
than their Christian names. The certificate was dated as the parties
desired, or to please the parents. Sometimes a newly married woman ran
across Ludgate Hill in her shift under a popular delusion that her
husband would not be responsible for her antenuptial debts. Marriages
were kept secret for various reasons; one was that if the woman was a
widow she wished to save a jointure allowed her so long as she did not
remarry.

It has been said that irregular marriages were resorted to for ceremony
and despatch. Members of all classes, high and low, sought the
assistance of the Fleet parson--aristocrats, celebrities, roughs and
desperadoes, peers and paupers. Among the first were Lord Abergavenny,
the Honourable John Bourke, afterward Lord Mayo, Sir Marmaduke Gresham,
Lord Montague, afterward Duke of Manchester, the Marquis of Annandale
and Henry Fox who became Lord Holland, and of whose marriage Horace
Walpole wrote: “The town has been in a great bustle about a private
match but which by the ingenuity of the ministry has been made politics.
Mr. Fox fell in love with Lady Caroline Lennox (eldest daughter of the
Duke of Richmond), asked her, was refused and stole her. His father was
a footman, her great-grandfather a king. All the blood royal has been up
in arms.”

The marriage act of 1754 was first designed by the Marquis of Bath, but
was drawn so badly that the Lord Chancellor Hardwicke revised and
carried it against a strong opposition. The new law was evaded by the
Rev. John Wilkinson, who claimed to issue licenses on his own authority,
and in 1755 married nearly two thousand couples. When the law began to
look ugly, he appointed a curate to perform the ceremony and kept out of
the way, although he still gave the licenses. Two members of Garrick’s
company were thus united, but the great actor prosecuted the curate, who
was convicted and sentenced to transportation.




CHAPTER III

FAMOUS DWELLERS IN THE FLEET

     Deplorable condition of debtors throughout the country as detailed
     by Howard--Famous Inmates--The Chevalier Desseasau, the
     Prussian--Captain Johnson R. N., a professional smuggler employed
     in naval expeditions--Arrest--Daring escape--Employed as pilot for
     the Walcheren expedition--His project for rescuing Napoleon from
     St. Helena--The “no-Popery riots”--The Fleet burned and
     rebuilt--Royal Commission to inquire into imprisonment for
     debt--Debtors’ privileges and extravagances--Graphic picture of the
     Fleet given by Charles Dickens--The Common Side--The death of “the
     Chancery prisoner”--The closing days of the Fleet--Abolished in
     1840.


The condition of debtors as shown by Howard was deplorable all through
the country. The prisons were often the property of great personages.
Cheyney Court at Winchester was owned by the bishop of the diocese, so
was that at Durham, and here the debtors were in such evil case that
those on the Common Side had no subsistence for a whole twelve month
more than a diet of boiled bread and water. His Majesty the King kept a
prison for debtors in Windsor Castle in which Howard found two
prisoners. The place was governed by the Duke of Montague as constable,
and under him a janitor and deputy-janitor were appointed, the latter
receiving free house-rent as his salary. The prison of Chester Castle
was also the property of the King, who leased it to his constable or
patentee, who in his turn received rent from the gaoler, forty pounds a
year. The debtors were lodged in the so-called “Pope’s kitchen,” an
imaginary free ward. This “Pope’s kitchen” was underground, dark and
ill-ventilated, so that Howard when inside with the door shut felt that
his situation brought to mind what he had heard of the Black Hole of
Calcutta. In striking contrast to this, Howard speaks in commendation of
the noble prison for debtors in the spacious area within York Castle,
and of the admirable arrangements for the weighing and issuing of bread
for the supply of which many charities existed. Elsewhere they were
cruelly neglected; the keeper of Bodmin prison bore witness that in
twenty years only four prisoners had received the “groats” or allowance
from their creditors. At Exeter, during twelve years, only four or five
had received it besides the inmates of the Common Side ward known as the
“Shoe” because those inside were in the habit of lowering a shoe through
the window, to collect alms in the street. At this time the total number
of debtors in custody in England and Wales averaged about two thousand.

We may contrast the culpable neglect and ill-treatment of debtors in
Great Britain with the milder and more humane customs generally
prevailing at that time on the Continent of Europe. In Prussia a money
payment of two groschen (threepence farthing) was made by the creditors,
and if omitted for one whole week, the prisoner was set free. In Holland
creditors were bound to support their debtors with an allowance varying
from sixpence to two and three shillings a day. In Flanders the creditor
was obliged to pay for a month’s support in advance. At Cologne no
debtors who were quite penniless might be confined. In Paris a new
prison, La Force, had been constructed and occupied from January, 1782.
It was a spacious building with the means of separation of the sexes and
classes; the charge for a bed was from five to thirty sous a night, but
there were also free beds, and poor prisoners were supplied with
rations, soup and a pound and a half of bread daily. The rule obtained
in France that the bailiff who arrested a debtor must pay the gaoler on
committal a month’s allowance in advance for food. Moreover, the French
law obliged creditors to give bail for small sums even where the debtor
was insolvent. There was a general rule in Germany that the wives and
children of debtors were not allowed to reside within the prison.

Foreigners sometimes came within the grip of the English law and became
liable to imprisonment for debt. They did not all fare so well as that
eccentric character, the Chevalier Desseasau, who was well known to
Londoners at the latter end of the eighteenth century. He was a native
of Prussia, of French extraction, who had borne a commission in the
Prussian army, but having been involved in a quarrel with a brother
officer and fought a duel, in which his antagonist had been dangerously
wounded, he fled to England, where he eked out a precarious living in
literary pursuits. His line was poetry and his production very mediocre.
One verse inspired by his excessive vanity was often quoted against
him,--

    “Il n’y a au monde que deux héros,
     Le roi de Prusse et Chevalier Desseasau.”

He was to be met with in the best literary circles, was well known to
Dr. Johnson, Goldsmith, Foote, Murphy and to every publisher in the
trade. His appearance was so remarkable that he attracted amused
attention in the streets. Short of stature and of slender figure, he
always wore a black suit, cut in an ancient fashion, and carried in his
hands a gold headed cane, a roll of his poetry and a sword or two, so as
to be ready to fight at a moment’s notice. He did not greatly prosper as
time went on and found himself committed to the Fleet prison, where he
took advantage of the “Rules” and was suffered to go about as much as he
pleased. His chief places of resort were Anderton’s Coffee House in
Fleet Street, “the Barn” in St. Martin’s Lane and various taverns and
places of public resort in and about Covent Garden. Being a man of
originality and good-nature, his company was much courted. He was buried
in St. Bride’s Churchyard.

A rather remarkable character was an inmate of the Fleet and of other
London prisons at the end of the eighteenth century. This was Captain
Johnson, a sea-faring man, noted for his daring exploits and more or
less criminal pursuits throughout his long and diversified career. He
was a man of middle stature, with intelligent features and of striking
personal appearance, a native of Ireland and in religion a Catholic,
according to contemporary accounts. He was before all else a smuggler in
a very large way of business, constantly engaged in running profitable
cargoes, well known all along the southern sea-coast, full of guile in
evading capture, but desperately bold in defending his ill-gotten spoil.
He made London his headquarters and lived in Fitzroy Square “keeping up
an establishment fit for a nobleman,” with a stable full of horses and a
large staff of servants. On one occasion, when about to run a large
cargo into London, he was invited to assist four persons charged with
forgery out of the kingdom. After secreting them in the empty carts, he
got them on board ship near Folkestone and despatched them safely to
Flushing; returning with his smuggled goods, he fell in with a riding
revenue officer with a cavalry escort and was made prisoner. He was
lodged in the new prison in the Borough, no doubt the Queen’s Bench,
but when brought up for trial boldly made his escape in the open court.

A series of hairbreadth adventures followed. Johnson was hunted from
place to place but by moving constantly to and fro and assuming many
disguises he continued to keep at large, until his services being
urgently needed to pilot an expedition to Ostend, he was granted a
pardon. No one knew the Dutch coast better, and although the earliest
operations were unsuccessful, he was again employed to assist in landing
troops at the Helder. He was of immense service and gained a rich
reward; his pardon was confirmed, he was granted the rank and pay of
post-captain in the British Navy and was much esteemed as “a bold
intrepid, high-couraged Englishman” on the testimony of such officers as
Sir Home Popham and Sir Ralph Abercromby.

Johnson had become concerned with contracts for the provisions of the
troops and his money matters were so much mixed that he was arrested for
a large sum said to be owing to the crown, and lodged in the Fleet
prison. He brought counter charges and was in due course bailed out,
cleared of the debt. He had a further claim on the government, an income
promised him by Mr. Pitt of a thousand pounds a year if he would give up
smuggling. He could not substantiate the claim and was once more thrown
into the Fleet where he lived well and entertained largely, although
£13,000 was the amount of his liabilities. Very little restraint was
put upon him as he had given a bond to the warden against making an
escape. Soon he was identified by certain revenue officers as the
ringleader of a gang of smugglers who had attacked them, and from being
merely a debtor, he was constituted a prisoner awaiting trial on a
capital charge. An order was therefore issued for his removal to
Newgate, and to make sure of his person until transferred, he was lodged
in the strong room of the Fleet.

Matters now began to look serious and he secretly turned over in his
mind the possibility of escape. He withdrew therefore from his bond by
making it appear that he had quarrelled with his attorney, who would no
longer be responsible for him. After this Johnson commenced active
operations. The strong room was at the opposite end of the coffee-house
gallery; he could not file the window bars, the noise of which would
have betrayed him, but he bored through the panels of his double doors
with strong gimlets and after much patient labour broke them out. The
panels yielded to a tremendous blow delivered by one of the iron pulleys
of his window sash and the noise was deadened by the loud shouting and
bellowing of a neighbouring prisoner who was believed to be mad, and who
readily consented to give this assistance. When once through the panel,
he stole along the gallery and upstairs to an attic with a window
opening on the outside. From this he reached the boundary wall headed
with its _chevaux de frise_ and creeping along till he found a foothold
made fast a rope he had brought with him to one of the spikes just over
Fleet market. Here he lowered the rope, and slid down in safety only to
find the exterior watchman on his beat below, whom he would have shot
dead on the spot had he been observed, which fortunately for him was not
the case.

Johnson had taken the preliminary precaution to put on the uniform of a
lieutenant of the Hussars, before he climbed through the panel, the
clothes having been introduced into the prison for this purpose. The
Hussar regiment was stationed at Brighton and the supposed lieutenant,
with the help of a friend, secured a post chaise for the journey.
Arrived at Brighton, Johnson changed his clothes and went on board one
of his own cutters awaiting him at Hove. He must have gone to sea
forthwith and remained abroad, or in some secure hiding place, for he
was not heard of again until 1809 when he was again employed by the
government as pilot and guide upon the ill-starred _Walcheren_. His
active spirit prompted him to proffer advice to the dilatory commanders
and he strongly urged them to capture Flushing and proceed up the
Scheldt and lay siege to Antwerp. They would not listen to him and
turned a deaf ear also to his proposal but they approved of an attempt
to blow in the walls of Flushing by a submarine torpedo, his own
invention and presumably the first idea of that esteemed weapon of
modern warfare. Johnson himself took charge of the enterprise and
approaching the walls in a small boat, he swam up to them and fastened a
block with rope attached to a part of the piles on which the town was
built. The other end of this rope was fastened to the torpedo which was
run out and the match ignited, but there was no explosion. The engine
was imperfect, as Johnson afterward discovered, because the water had
entered and wet the powder through a hole drilled in the gunlock.
Johnson always attributed this to the jealousy of the inventor of the
Congreve rocket, Sir William Congreve, who was present at the siege, but
his charge it is difficult to believe. The torpedo which had failed at
Flushing was afterward successfully tried upon a barge in the Thames,
moored in midstream.

It is well known in history that Napoleon had still many active
sympathisers after his downfall. More than one friend in adversity would
have helped him to escape from St. Helena. Captain Johnson, although
still calling himself an officer of the Royal Navy, was willing enough
to give his aid and accepted a proposal to construct two submarine
vessels, to spirit the fallen emperor from his iron prison. These ships,
the _Eagle_, 110 tons, 84 feet long and 18 feet beam, and the _Etna_, 23
tons, 40 feet long, 10 feet beam, were to be built in a yard in
Battersea; they were to be propelled by steam, still in its infancy,
and were so constructed and provided with artificial air supply that
they could be submerged on the approach of an enemy, and use their
torpedoes with murderous effect. Nothing came of this extravagant
project, for before the ships were completed news came that Napoleon was
dead. Captain Johnson has left a detailed account of the steps by which
he hoped to accomplish the rescue. His two vessels were to lie submerged
close to the rocky shore and to rise to the surface after nightfall.
Captain Johnson would get ashore, taking with him the end of a rope
fastened to a mechanical chair which should be eventually raised to such
a height as to receive the person of the fugitive, who would then be
lowered on to the deck of the _Etna_. Napoleon was actually to be
smuggled out of Longwood disguised as a servant in livery.

Johnson was to have received £40,000 directly his submarine boats got
into blue water and a further sum if the escape was successfully carried
out. In his latter days Captain Johnson resided at Flushing, engaged in
mercantile pursuits, but he was looked upon with little favour, for his
services during the war were not forgotten or forgiven. He busied
himself with the proposal to defend the Dutch coast and rivers, with his
favourite device of submarines, but did not think it advisable to remain
in the country.

Not long after Howard’s visitation, the Fleet prison was involved with
all other London prisons in the destructive mischief wreaked by the
non-popery rioters, who, headed by the weak-minded Lord George Gordon,
terrorized the metropolis in 1780. On Wednesday, June 7th, the rioters,
now temporarily in the ascendant, sent word to all the public prisons
that they were coming to burn them down. They intended to do this on the
day previous, when the mob appeared before the Fleet prison and insisted
that the gates should be opened and the keepers yielded to their demand.
“They were then proceeding to demolish the prison, but the prisoners
expostulated with them, begging that they would give them time to remove
their goods. They readily condescended, and gave them a day for that
purpose, in consequence of which the prisoners were removing all this
day out of that place. Some of the prisoners were in for life.” In the
evening of the next day, they fulfilled their threat and burned it. This
was the second time, for the great fire of 1666 had previously
demolished it.

The evening of this Wednesday, June 7th, is described in the Annual
Register as one of the most dreadful spectacles this country ever
beheld. “Let those who did not see it judge what the inhabitants felt
when they beheld at the same instant the flames ascending and rolling in
clouds from the King’s Bench and Fleet prisons, from New Bridewell, from
the toll gates on Blackfriars Bridge, from houses in every quarter of
the town, and particularly from the bottom and middle of Holborn, where
the conflagration was horrible beyond description.”

The Fleet Prison was rebuilt immediately after the riots in 1780 on
almost exactly the same lines. Howard’s description of it as it stood
before the fire coincides pretty closely with later descriptions, after
the fire. Of these the most graphic is that familiar to the whole world
as given by Charles Dickens in the “Pickwick Papers.” The great literary
master no doubt drew upon his own personal knowledge, for he was
intimately acquainted with the London of his time, as he once resided
with his father within the limits of another great debtor’s prison, the
Marshalsea. In 1818, a Royal Commission was appointed as the outcome of
increasing agitation against imprisonment for debt, and the report
issued supplied much valuable information as to the state of the Fleet
and the Marshalsea at this period. There was little improvement in
either prison; they were still hot-beds of vice. While the poorer
starved, all who had command of money spent it freely in a reckless and
riotous fashion, little in keeping with the quiet decorum of a prison.
Outsiders came in at pleasure, women of loose morals, and men to play
the games provided for the prisoners. There was a racquet court, a
skittle ground and “forecorner” ground, all open to the strangers who
came in constantly and were a source of great profit to the racquet
masters, many of whom have been from time immemorial considered very
eminent players. The post of racquet master was in great request. It was
in the gift of the collegians (prisoners) who elected to it once a year
at Christmas tide. The canvassers for votes issued handbills. One reads
as follows: “I feel that the situation is one that requires attention
and increasing exertion, not so much for the individual position as from
the circumstance that the amusement and--what is more vitally
important--the health of my fellow inmates is in some measure placed in
the hands of the person appointed.”

The prison was not closed and lights put out till a late hour, when
gambling was in progress and riots frequent; when drunken persons
resisted the turnkeys and fought with the coffee-house and tap-room
keepers, who sought to put them out of the rooms at eleven o’clock at
night. If finally expelled, they resorted to secret gin shops kept in
the prisoners’ rooms, where they gambled and played at cards half
through the night. Clubs still existed as when reported by Howard, and
met regularly to sing and carouse at social evenings. It was impossible
to check the introduction of spirits, although prohibited by act of
Parliament, and a large quantity was consumed within the prison so that
drunkenness was very prevalent. A number of coffee-houses and public
houses were held to be within the “Rules” and were much frequented,
among the last the London Coffee-House, and the Belle Sauvage Inn at
Ludgate Circus. Grand dinners were frequently given at the latter by
prisoners “of great consideration, men of title and consequence.” Much
money was also spent within the walls. The warden told the committee
that he had seen a prisoner’s servant bringing in a pail of ice to cool
his master’s bottle of wine. He told another story of an Italian lady, a
prisoner, who was living under the protection of a gentleman outside and
who would not pay for a bushel of coals she had ordered. She struck the
messenger who brought the bill, but when she was threatened with removal
to the strong room she produced a guinea from her pocket and begged the
man’s pardon for the blows.

At this time there were many lodged in the Common Side without means of
subsistence beyond the county allowance of three and six pence a week,
or what they could earn by menial service,--cleaning boots, making beds
and dusting rooms, for their fellow prisoners. Sometimes after long
residence a poor debtor might succeed to be “the owner of a room” and
was permitted to levy “chummage” or rent from the “chums” who lodged
with him; their number was not limited. Debtors were entirely free from
supervision in their rooms. The warden and his officers held no master
keys and could only enter a room when its occupants unlocked it to them.
No numbering took place, and it was never certainly known that the
proper number were present.

The warden was responsible for safe custody and might suffer serious
loss for the escape of prisoners committed for heavy debts. In one case
he was mulcted in £2,500 for the escape of a French count who had got
over an old wall, afterward made more secure, but as the warden
philosophically remarked: “there can be no wall built which a prisoner
cannot get over if he is a clever fellow; a sailor who has the use of
his limbs can get over any wall.” On the other hand he pointed out that
“it seldom answers the purpose of any man to escape out of the Fleet
prison unless it is a foreigner who has no residence in this kingdom or
a smuggler who can live anywhere. Many people come to the prison for
their own benefit, that is for the purpose of taking the benefit of some
act passed to allow them to plead insolvency, and so purge their debts.”
With all his risks the warden had a considerable margin in the handsome
total of his fees and other receipts. These averaged yearly for the
three years ending 1818 as much as £3,008, from which his outgoings had
to be deducted, amounting to £1,125, leaving him a net annual income of
£1,883. The deductions were made up of an average of £300 per annum for
losses by escapes, a sum of £368.11.0 for rates and taxes on all
premises, and the rest for chaplain’s salary and servants’ wages,
lighting, coals and so forth.

At this date the prison population, taking the total inside the walls
and those located within the “Rules,” seldom exceeded three hundred.
The prisoners taken as a body were an idle, disorderly set of men with
vicious habits. Thefts from one another were very common, although
articles stolen were sometimes surrendered at the summons of the “crier”
who publicly announced things lost or found. Divine service was
performed on Sundays, Christmas Day and Good Friday, but prisoners
seldom attended. The chaplain, an earnest, painstaking man, thought the
hour of service inconveniently early and changed it to one o’clock in
the afternoon, but found his flock as indolent at that hour as when the
service was at eleven o’clock. The rule of attendance at chapel was laid
down, but it could not be enforced. Neither the warden nor his deputy
nor yet any of his turnkeys attended, but the latter sometimes drove
away idle boys and people who make a disturbance at the chapel doors.
The coffee-house and the “cellar head” tap were not closed during hours
of divine worship. The warden was an aged man, blind, deaf, and infirm,
who had delegated his duties to a deputy for fifteen years past, but who
took the emoluments and risks, only paying the warden a fixed annuity of
£500 a year. The rest of the staff consisted of a “clerk of the papers,”
three turnkeys, a watchman who acted also as scavenger and the “crier.”
There was no regular medical attendance, but a general practitioner from
the neighbourhood was called in when required.

The foregoing conditions still obtained at the date of Charles Dickens’
description. “Pickwick” first appeared in 1836, but the observations on
which the account of the Fleet was based were no doubt made much earlier
and the picture drawn is strikingly realistic, as a few quotations will
abundantly show.

When Mr. Pickwick accompanied by his astute solicitor Mr. Perker and his
faithful bodyservant Sam Weller was committed to the Fleet at the suit
of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg, he went through the usual preliminaries, sat
for his portrait and was duly passed through the inner gate and found
himself within the “lock” as imprisonment was euphemistically described.
His further progress in search of quarters for the night is thus
described: “It was getting dark; that is to say, a few jets were kindled
in this place, which was never light, by way of compliment to the
evening which had set in outside. As it was rather warm some of the
tenants of the numerous little rooms which opened into the gallery on
either hand had set their doors ajar. Mr. Pickwick peeped into them as
he passed along, with great curiosity and interest. Here four or five
great hulking fellows, just visible through a cloud of tobacco-smoke,
were engaged in noisy and riotous conversation over half-emptied pots of
beer or playing at ‘all-fours’ with a very greasy pack of cards. In the
adjoining room some solitary tenant might be seen, poring, by the light
of a feeble tallow candle, over a bundle of soiled and tattered papers,
yellow with dust and dropping to pieces from age, writing, for the
hundredth time, some lengthened statement of his grievances, for the
perusal of some great man whose eyes it would never reach, or whose
heart it would never touch. In a third, a man, with his wife and a whole
crowd of children, might be seen, making up a scanty bed on the ground
and upon a few chairs, for the younger ones to pass the night in. And in
a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth and a seventh, the noise and the beer
and the tobacco smoke, and the cards all came over again in greater
force than before.

“In the galleries themselves and more especially on the staircases,
there lingered a great number of people who came there, some because
their rooms were empty and lonesome, others because their rooms were
full and hot, and the greater part because they were restless and
uncomfortable, and not possessed of the secret of exactly knowing what
to do with themselves. There were many classes of people here--from the
labouring man in his fustian jacket to the broken-down spendthrift in
his shawl dressing-gown, most appropriately out at elbows; but there was
the same air about them all--a listless, jail-bird, careless swagger, a
vagabondish who’s afraid sort of bearing, which is wholly indescribable
in words.”

The visit to the Common Side is brought forcibly before us in the
following admirable description:

“The poor side of a debtor’s prison is, as its name imports, that in
which the most miserable and abject class of debtors are confined. A
prisoner having declared upon the poor side, pays neither rent nor
‘chummage.’ His fees upon entering and leaving the jail are reduced in
amount, and he becomes entitled to a share of some small quantities of
food, to provide which a few charitable persons have from time to time
left trifling legacies in their wills. Most of our readers will remember
that, until within a few years past, there was a kind of iron cage in
the wall of the Fleet Prison, within which was posted some man of hungry
looks, who from time to time rattled a money box and exclaimed in a
mournful voice, ‘Pray remember the poor debtors; pray remember the poor
debtors.’ The receipts of this box, when there were any, were divided
among the poor prisoners; and the men on the poor side relieved each
other in this degrading office.

“Although this custom has been abolished and the cage is now boarded up,
the miserable and destitute condition of these unhappy persons remains
the same. We no longer suffer them to appeal at the prison gates to the
charity and compassion of the passers-by; but we still leave unblotted
in our statute book, for the reverence and admiration of succeeding
ages, the just and wholesome law which declares that the sturdy felon
shall be fed and clothed, and that the penniless debtor shall be left to
die of starvation and nakedness. This is no fiction. Not a week passes
over our heads but, in every one of our prisons for debt, some of these
men must inevitably expire in the slow agonies of want, if they were not
relieved by their fellow-prisoners.”

No finer effort of genius has been shown than the pathetic episode of
the death of the Chancery prisoner:

“The turnkey led the way in silence; and gently raising the latch of the
room door, motioned Mr. Pickwick to enter. It was a large, bare,
desolate room, with a number of stump bedsteads made of iron, on one of
which lay stretched the shadow of a man, wan, pale and ghastly. His
breathing was hard and thick and he moaned painfully as it came and
went. At the bedside sat a short old man in a cobbler’s apron, who, by
the aid of horn spectacles, was reading from the Bible aloud.

“The sick man laid his hand upon his attendant’s arm and motioned him to
stop. He closed the book and laid it on the bed.

“‘Open the window,’ said the sick man.

“He did so. The noise of carriages and carts, the rattle of wheels, the
cries of men and boys--all the busy sounds of a mighty multitude
instinct with life and occupation, blended into one deep murmur, floated
into the room. Above the hoarse, loud hum arose from time to time, a
boisterous laugh; or a scrap of some jingling song, shouted forth by one
of the giddy crowd, would strike upon the ear for an instant and then be
lost amidst the roar of voices and the tramp of footsteps--the breaking
of the billows of the restless sea of life that rolled heavily on
without. Melancholy sounds to a quiet listener at any time; how
melancholy to the watcher by the bed of death!

“‘There is no air here,’ said the sick man, faintly. ‘The place pollutes
it. It was fresh round about when I walked there, years ago; but it
grows hot and heavy in passing these walls. I cannot breathe it.’

“‘We have breathed it together for a long time,’ said the old man.
‘Come, come.’

“There was a short silence, during which the two spectators approached
the bed. The sick man drew a hand of his old fellow-prisoner towards
him, and pressing it affectionately between both his own, retained it in
his grasp.

“‘I hope,’ he gasped, after a while, so faintly that they bent their
ears close over the bed to catch the half-formed sounds his pale lips
gave vent to--‘I hope my merciful Judge will bear in mind my heavy
punishment on earth. Twenty years, my friend, twenty years in this
hideous grave! My heart broke when my child died, and I could not even
kiss him in his little coffin. My loneliness since then, in all this
noise and riot, has been very dreadful. May God forgive me! He has seen
my solitary, lingering death.’

“He folded his hands and murmuring something more they could not hear,
fell into a sleep--only a sleep at first, for they saw him smile.

“They whispered together for a little time and the turnkey, stooping
over the pillow, drew hastily back. ‘He has got his discharge by G--!’
said the man.

“He had. But he had grown so like death in life that they knew not when
he died.”

As the years drew on the Fleet prison was more and more denounced and
discredited. While a certain section of those detained spent their days
in dissipation and excess, a much larger number, three-fourths of the
whole, were still destitute and unable to provide themselves with bread.
A case given in the _Morning Herald_ of August 12, 1833, may be cited in
this connection. “A gentleman complained that the overseers of St.
Bride’s Parish had refused to relieve a distressed prisoner in the
Fleet. The prisoner was Mr. Timothy Sheldrake, who had been well known
for his skill in treating deformities of the body. He once kept his
carriage and obtained £4,000 by his practice but he was now quite
destitute--when applicant saw him he had actually fasted forty-eight
hours.” There was some dispute as to the liability of the parish of St.
Bride’s, but it was decided to appropriate relief out of the County
Rate.

The hardships inflicted upon the poorer inmates of the Fleet were not
the only evils that prevailed in that mismanaged establishment. It was a
school of crime and more than one offender owed his lapse from honesty
to his residence in the Fleet. It came out that the ringleader of a gang
of utterers of forged bank-notes lived constantly in the prison. He made
it his business to ingratiate himself with young men of good appearance
who were fellow prisoners and to lead them into giving their services in
passing spurious notes when again at large. One of these was convicted
and only escaped the gallows by taking poison the night before his
execution. He had been a captain in the army and was of good family and
showy appearance. The gang at last committed a robbery on a bank in
Cornwall and was entirely broken up. From that time the instigator, who
had resided within the Fleet, disappeared entirely, although he was not
one of those convicted or even suspected of the crime in Cornwall.

At last the days of the Fleet prison were numbered. The act of 1 and 2
Queen Victoria C-110 abolished arrest on mesne process and no more
debtors were to be sent by the courts of Chancery, Exchequer and Common
Pleas to the Fleet: all debtors and bankrupts to go in future to the
Queen’s Bench prison in Southwark, or to the new prison in Whitecross
Street, which shall be dealt with in due course. These prisons were to
be fully utilised and the Fleet pulled down, with a considerable saving
to the Exchequer in its maintenance and the sale of its valuable site.
The change was not made without protest and the bill was opposed in
Parliament, but it passed in due course into law. There were several
strict clauses regulating the future governance of the Queen’s Bench,
all aimed at “preventing extravagance and luxury and enforcing due order
and discipline within the prison.”




CHAPTER IV

THE KING’S BENCH PRISON

     Earliest mention--Lord Chief Justice and Prince Hal--The first
     prison destroyed by the Lord George rioters--Rebuilt--Notable
     inmates--Richard Baxter--Sir William
     Reresbury--Chatterton--Smollett’s description in “Roderick
     Random”--George Morland frequently a prisoner--John Wilkes
     imprisoned and the disturbances that resulted--His career and
     death--William Hone, the well known litterateur, lodged in the
     King’s Bench for debt, where he compiled his “Every Day Book,”
     “Table Book,” and “Year Book”--Colonel Hanger, soldier, courtier,
     beau--A chosen companion of the Prince of Wales--His services in
     the American War--His difficulties and arrest--Lord Cochrane, a
     distinguished naval officer--Committal to the King’s Bench--Plot of
     which he was the victim--His adventures in the King’s Bench--Method
     of escape and appearance in Parliament--Later career in South
     America. Brilliant services and tardy rehabilitation by the British
     government.


The first King’s Bench Prison stood on the east side of the High Street
Borough, Southwark, near the Marshalsea and dated from 1377, the time of
Richard II. It is memorable as the prison to which Chief Justice
Gascoigne committed Prince Hal, the heir apparent of the English throne,
and later King Henry V, the hero of Agincourt. The royal offender,
Prince Hal, had been guilty of contempt of court in taking one of his
suite from the custody of the court and offering violence to the judge
on his bench. The story is held by some to be apocryphal, but the
Prince’s prison chamber was still shown in the time of Oldys,[5] the
historian. The prison was moved to the southwest corner of Blackman’s
Street and the entrance of the Borough Road, and was standing there when
burned down by the Lord George Gordon rioters in 1780, but was rebuilt
on the lines described by Mr. Allen in his history of Surrey, and
survived until a quite recent date. According to the account there
given, it occupied an extensive area of ground and consisted of one
large pile of buildings about 120 yards long. The south or principal
front had a pediment under which was the chapel. There were four pumps
of spring and river water in the interior. It contained 224 rooms or
apartments, eight of which being much larger than the others were called
staterooms. A coffee-house and two public houses were to be found within
the walls, with shops and stalls for the sale of meat, vegetables and
necessaries like any public market. “The number of people walking
about,” says Allen, “or engaged in various amusements are little
calculated to impress the stranger with an idea of distress or even of
confinement.” The walls surrounding the prison were thirty feet high
and were crowned with a _chevaux de frise_ to prevent escape. The
“Rules” were extensive and included all St. George’s Fields, one side of
Blackman Street, and part of the Borough High Street, enclosing
altogether an area of three miles in circumference. These “Rules” were
purchasable by prisoners at various rates; when the debt was
considerable the price was eight guineas for the first hundred, and half
that sum for every hundred in addition. Day rates cost 4_s_ 2_d_ for the
first day and 3_s_ 10_d_ for the days following. The exact limits of the
Rules were never strictly defined and Lord Ellenborough, when Chief
Justice of the King’s Bench, being asked to extend them, said he saw no
necessity, as to his certain knowledge they already included the East
Indies, implying that fugitives had fled there. Of course in such a case
the marshal was held responsible for the debt of the one who had run
away. The practice of permitting prisoners to live beyond the prison
originated, it was said, in the days of the Plague.

Among the earliest records of the King’s Bench prison of Southwark was a
petition from the prisoners to the Privy Council for its enlargement and
the erection of a chapel. It was pleaded that at this time, through
over-crowding, there was “much sickness in the house.” In later days
under the Commonwealth it was called the “Upper Bench Prison.” Among the
early inmates of any note was Dr. Robert Recorde, said to have been
physician to King Edward VI and Queen Mary; he was a Fellow of All
Souls, Oxford, and died in the King’s Bench in 1558, when confined there
for debt. John Rushworth, author of the “Historical Collections” of
facts, 1618-1648, was a prisoner in the Bench for six years, and the
notorious Judge Jeffreys committed Richard Baxter, the non-conformist
advocate, to it for eighteen months. An inmate of title who had fallen
sadly away from his high estate was Sir William Reresby, the son and
heir of Sir John, whose “Memoirs and Travels,” with anecdotes and secret
history of the courts of Charles II and James II are full of interest.
Sir William was the third baronet, a reckless spendthrift and gamester
who wasted large sums at the tables and in cock-fighting. He lost his
fine estate of Dennaby at a single throw of the dice and was afterward
tried and imprisoned for cheating in 1711. He eventually became a
tapster in the King’s Bench.

Chatterton, the youthful poet, who forged the apocryphal poems of Thomas
Rowley, the supposititious monk of the fifteenth century, was at one
time a prisoner in the King’s Bench, whence he dated a letter, May 14th,
1770, saying that a gentleman had recommended him as the travelling
companion for the young Duke of Northumberland, but that alas! he spoke
no language but his own. Chatterton’s fraud was one of the most curious
crimes in literary history. He was a native of Bristol and an attorney’s
clerk, when he pretended to have discovered an ancient manuscript,
which he put forward as authentic, but which was soon pronounced a
forgery by Mason and Gray and other contemporary poets. Nothing daunted,
Chatterton came to London to seek his fortune in literature; he produced
great numbers of satirical poems, political essays and critical letters
which found their way into print, but without remuneration. When
threatened with penury, he committed suicide at his lodgings in Brook
St., Holborn. He was undoubtedly a genius and he has been called the
greatest prodigy in literature, for he was no more than eighteen when he
died and he had already produced some fine, vigorous work.

A good picture of the King’s Bench is given by Smollett about this date
(1750) in his “Roderick Random:” “The prison is situated in St. George’s
Fields, about a mile from the end of Westminster Bridge, and it appears
like a neat little regular town, consisting of one street, surrounded by
a very high wall, including an open piece of ground which may be termed
a garden, where the prisoners take the air, and amuse themselves with a
variety of diversions. Except the entrance, where the turnkeys keep
watch and ward, there is nothing in the place that looks like a gaol, or
bears the least colour of restraint. The street is crowded with
passengers; tradesmen of all kinds here exercise their different
professions; hawkers of all sorts are admitted to call and vend their
wares as in any open street in London. There are butchers’ stands,
chandlers’ shops, a surgery, a tap-house well frequented, and a public
kitchen, in which provisions are dressed for all the prisoners gratis,
at the expense of the publican. Here the voice of misery never
complains; and indeed little else is to be heard but the sounds of mirth
and jollity. At the further end of the street, on the right hand, is a
little paved court leading to a separate building, consisting of twelve
large apartments called ‘State rooms,’ well furnished, and fitted up for
the reception of the better sort of Crown prisoners; and on the other
side of the street, facing a separate piece of ground, is the Common
Side, a range of rooms occupied by prisoners of the lowest order, who
share the profits of the begging-box, and are maintained by this
practice and some established funds of charity. We ought also to observe
that the gaol is provided with a neat chapel, in which a clergyman in
consideration of a certain salary, performs divine service every
Sunday.”

Artists shared with men of letters the honours of the King’s Bench. One
whose work is perhaps more highly appreciated to-day than in his own
time was George Morland, the painter, who was born in London on the 26th
June, 1763, and was the son of Henry Robert Morland and grandson of
George Henry Morland. He is said by Cunningham to have been lineally
descended from Sir Samuel Morland, while other biographers go so far as
to assert that he had only to claim the baronetcy in order to get it.
He began to draw at three years old and at the age of ten (1773) his
name appears as an honorary exhibitor at the Royal Academy. Although the
publishers reaped the principal profit from the sale of his works,
Morland’s credit and resources enabled him for some years to lead the
rollicking life he loved without much pressure of monetary care. At one
period he kept eight saddle horses at the White Lion Inn. But as time
passed he became crippled with debts and a prey to creditors who gave
him no peace. He lived a hunted life and was only able to escape from
the bailiffs by his knowledge of London and the assistance of friends
and interested picture dealers. He fled from one house to another,
residing now in Lambeth, now in East Sheen, now Queen Anne Street, the
Minories, Kensington or Hackney. At this last place his strict seclusion
aroused a suspicion that he was a forger of bank notes and his premises
were searched at the instance of the bank directors, who afterward made
him a present of £40 for the inconvenience caused by their mistake.

In November, 1799, Morland was at last arrested for debt, and he was
allowed to take lodgings “within the Rules” of the King’s Bench to which
his most discreditable friends constantly flocked. During this mitigated
imprisonment he sank lower and lower. According to the “Dictionary of
National Biography” he was often drunk for days together and generally
slept on the floor in a helpless condition. It is probable that these
stories are exaggerated, for he still produced an enormous quantity of
good work. “For his brother alone,” says Redgrave, “he painted 192
pictures between 1800 and 1804, and he probably painted as many more for
other dealers during the same period, his terms being four guineas a day
and his drink.” Another account says that during his last eight years he
painted 490 pictures for his brother and probably 300 more for others,
besides making hundreds of drawings. His total production is estimated
at no less than four thousand pictures. In 1802 he was released under
the Insolvent Debtors’ Act but his health was ruined and his habits
irremediable. About this time he was seized with palsy and lost the use
of his left hand so that he could not hold his palette. Notwithstanding
this, he seems to have gone on painting to the last, when he was
arrested again for a publican’s score and died in a sponging house in
Eyre Street, Cold Bath Fields, on 27th October, 1804. His much wronged
wife was so afflicted at the news of his death that she died three days
afterward and both were buried together in the burial ground attached to
St. James’ Chapel in the Hampstead Road.

Morland’s epitaph on himself was, “Here lies a drunken dog.” His
propensities to drink and low pleasure appear to have been unusually
strong. He had opportunities of indulging them at an unusually early
age and throughout life, except for a short interval of courtship and
domesticity, he was surrounded by associates who encouraged his
debauchery. “But though he was vain and dissolute he was generous, good
natured and industrious and appears to have been free from the meaner
and more malicious forms of vice. It should also be placed to his credit
that however degraded his mode of life, he did not degrade his art to
the same level.”

It would be difficult to define the exact place of John Wilkes in the
history of this time, but he figures largely in that of the King’s Bench
prison, both as an inmate and the cause of much loss of life in the
disturbances to which his committal gave rise. To-day he is rightly
judged as an insolent demagogue who misled the ignorant public by his
intemperate attacks upon the government and his offensive writings in
the _North Briton_, which cost him several duels and an embittered
prosecution. He gained immense popularity with the mob as his long trial
proceeded, which culminated in serious riots when the case at last went
against him, and he was sent to the King’s Bench. The carriage in which
he was conveyed was seized by the crowd, the horses removed, and the
vehicle was dragged to a public house in Spital Fields north of the
present Liverpool Street Railway Station. Here he was allowed to alight
and at eleven o’clock at night to escape from his over zealous friends,
taking immediate advantage of his liberty to surrender himself at the
King’s Bench prison. The next day a vast mob collected outside the
prison, and some hostile demonstration was feared. Nothing worse
occurred than the tearing down of the fences surrounding the prison and
burning them in a bonfire, while the residents in the neighbourhood were
compelled to illuminate their windows. Legal proceedings were resumed in
the days following and Wilkes’ counsel pleaded for arrest in judgment on
the ground of illegal action, but the Crown would not yield, and a day
was fixed for the final discussion whether or not the sentence of
outlawry passed on him should be maintained.

The malcontents held their ground about the prison in threatening
numbers, and resisted all efforts of the civil authority to disperse
them, and the troops were called out. The riot act was read and after
the warning the order given to fire, which was promptly obeyed with
fatal results. A number of persons were killed and wounded, the shots
aimed high after taking effect upon those at a distance. Further violent
outrages were not committed. Later a mob attacked the house of Lord
Bute, hated Prime Minister of that day, and the Mansion House and
private apartments of the Lady Mayoress were invaded and wrecked. People
were everywhere forced to illuminate their windows and the street echoed
with cries of “Wilkes and Liberty.” The rioters were guilty of many
outrages. Several quiet folk were killed, numbers wounded, windows were
broken, furniture destroyed, royal residences even were threatened. The
tumults extended to the provinces, the working classes were disaffected
and demanded higher wages, and when denied went out on strikes, the
earliest instances of them known. The disturbances were taken up by the
seamen in the Pool, and a body of thousands of sailors marched in
procession to the St. James Palace with drums beating and colours flying
to present a petition to the King, praying for a relief of grievances.
The following day they assembled in a great multitude in Palace Yard,
boisterously clamouring for an increase of wages, but dispersed on an
assurance from two M. P.’s that their requests should receive attention.
A fresh tumult arose at Limehouse where several outward bound vessels
were boarded and prevented from going to sea. All workers in
London--sawyers, hatters, watermen and the Spital Fields
weavers--combined in demanding an increase of wages, and confusion and
unrest were general throughout London. The commotion gradually subsided
and the principal rioters were brought to justice, while Wilkes still
remained in the King’s Bench prison. The sympathy shown him took a very
practical form. Some £20,000 were subscribed for the payment of his
fines and debts, many valuable gifts were presented to him: plate,
jewels, wine, furniture and purses embroidered in gold and containing
specie.

A word or two about John Wilkes will illuminate the foregoing recital.
He was born in 1727, the son of a brewer or distiller at Clerkenwell,
and had been well educated at the University of Leyden. On his return to
England at the early age of twenty-two he married an heiress, Miss Mead,
ten years his senior. Although he was without personal attraction, his
ready wit and charming manner gave him such an advantage with the fair
sex that he was fond of saying that he was only ten minutes behind the
handsomest man in a room. He kept a good table and soon won a large
circle of friends, but his extravagant ways and love of dissipation
involved him in difficulties. He quarrelled with his wife, they
separated, and in the lawsuit his character and reputation were much
damaged. When in 1757 he entered the House of Commons as a member for
Aylesbury, he joined the agitation against that already most unpopular
minister, Lord Bute, and founding the notorious _North Briton_,
succeeded by persistent attacks in the paper in driving him from office.
The next minister was no less fiercely assailed and Wilkes so far forgot
himself as to charge the King (George III) with telling a lie. For this
his house was entered and his papers seized and he himself committed to
the Tower, but released on his claiming privilege as a member of
Parliament. The _North Briton_ was publicly burned by order of the House
of Commons; Wilkes retaliated by an action against the Government for
the improper seizure of his papers, and he was awarded £1,000 damages
with a dictum from the Lord Chief Justice that general warrants were
illegal.

Wilkes then was expelled from the House of Commons and went over to
France. In his absence the Government proceeded to blacken his character
by publishing an obscene poem of which he was the joint author, but it
was shown that a printed copy had been obtained by underhand methods,
the ministers incurring so much odium that they were driven from office.
When the new Government was formed Wilkes returned to England and was
now elected member for Middlesex. It was at this time that the riots
described above occurred. Wilkes impugned the conduct of ministers and
accused them of responsibility for the “massacre in St. George in the
Field.” This was held in the House of Commons to be a seditious libel
and Wilkes was again expelled from the House. The electors of Middlesex
protested by returning him again and again, defying the House of Commons
and glorifying Wilkes--who was still imprisoned in the King’s Bench--as
the champion of national liberty. Wilkes was now the most popular man in
England. Soon afterward he won a suit against Lord Halifax with £4,000
damages and in the following year was released on giving a bond for
seven years’ good behaviour. Three years after he was made Lord Mayor of
London and once again elected as member for Middlesex, which he now
represented for several years. Wilkes in his last days sank into
comparative obscurity and died an “extinct volcano” in 1792. Wilkes was
not the immediate cause of the confinement in the King’s Bench prison of
William Hone, but this well-known writer owed his protracted trials
directly to the famous demagogue. He was arraigned at the Guildhall in
1817, charged with having printed and published the profane but curious
“Wilkes’ Catechism,” which purported “to have been from the original
manuscript in Mr. Wilkes’ handwriting and never before printed.” It was
described as a catechism or “Instructions to be learned of every person
before he be brought to be confirmed a placeman or pensioner by the
minister.” The first questions and answers indicate its character. “Q.
What is your name? A. Lickspittle. Q. Who gave you this name? A. My
sureties to the ministry in my political change wherein I was made a
member of the majority, the child of corruption and a locust to devour
the good things of the kingdom.” Then follows the “belief,” which is too
blasphemous for quotation, and the commandments, one of which ran,
“Honour the Regent and the helmets of the Lifeguards, that thy stay may
be long in the place which the Lord thy ministry giveth thee.” The
general tenor of this catechism will be seen in the question “What is
thy duty towards thyself?” and the answer, “My duty towards myself is to
love nobody but myself and to do unto most men what I would not that
they should do unto me; to sacrifice unto my own interest even my father
and mother; to pay little reverence to the King, but to compensate that
omission by my servility to all that are out in authority under him,”
and so on.

The prosecution was no doubt inspired by the fierce party spirit
prevailing at the time and caused great excitement; the Court, that of
the King’s Bench in Guildhall, was densely crowded by an audience by no
means in sympathy with the Attorney General when he unsparingly
denounced the publication, and the violent coughing and other marks of
disapprobation during his address roused the judge, Mr. Justice Abbott,
to declare that he would clear the court. Mr. Hone defended himself
ably, pleading that the whole publication was intended as a parody, but
that he had stopped its sale directly he found it was looked upon as
profane. A verdict of “not guilty” was speedily brought in by the jury,
which was received with loud demonstrations of approval. Mr. Hone was
again put on his trial, first for publishing a parody entitled “The
Political Litany,” and again for publishing a parody on the “Athanasian
Creed” styled the “Sinecurist Creed.” His defence, which he again
conducted personally with such great boldness that the sitting judge,
Lord Ellenborough, designated it as outraging decency and propriety,
resulted in another verdict of “not guilty,” a decision greeted with
loud cheers extending far beyond the limits of the court. These matters
would have no permanent interest nor would William Hone call for
reference here, but that he was afterward arrested by a creditor and
lodged in the King’s Bench when he was engaged upon the production of
his “Everyday Book,” a work full of curious and useful information,
completed within the walls of the prison. He also began and finished
there his “Table Book” and his “Year Book,” productions that have long
survived the personality of their author.

An interesting character, the hero of many striking adventures and who
passed through some strange vicissitudes and misfortunes, found himself
more than once in the King’s Bench at the latter end of the eighteenth
century. This was Colonel Hanger, commonly known as George Hanger, for
although he eventually succeeded to his father’s title of Lord
Coleraine, he steadfastly objected to assume it. He was a man of
substance in his time, having property in his own right, and he early
entered the army as an officer in the 1st regiment of Guards, from which
he passed during the war with the American Colonies into the service of
the Landgrave of Hesse Cassel. He was a prominent dandy in his time,
lived fashionably, spent large sums on his clothes, and although he
played little at cards, he gambled continually and for large sums on the
turf. It was the rule for well-born youths in his time to dress
extravagantly; young Hanger tells us in his memoirs that one set of
winter dress clothes cost him £900 and he adds, “This should not so much
astonish the reader as the fact that I actually paid the tailor.” The
expense of appearing properly on the King’s birthday was enormous, an
officer of the Guards being obliged to have two suits, and he says: “My
morning vestments cost me nearly £80 and those for the state ball above
£180. It was a satin coat and the first that had made its appearance in
this country; shortly after, satin dress clothes became common among
well-dressed men.... I had no office of emolument, advantage or trust
about his Majesty’s person, except an ensigncy, the pay of which did not
amount to four shillings per day, a sum insufficient to meet the
tailor’s charges for one single button and button-hole to my gala suit;
the very stitching of a button-hole in those days cost me more, and the
embroidered gold clocks on my stockings in which I never failed to
appear at a ball were very expensive.” Hanger became one of the chosen
companions of the Prince of Wales (George IV) and lived at the same
pace. He kept race-horses, backed them for considerable sums and once
stood to win or lose 3,000 guineas on one race. “I can with truth say
the turf had done me justice,” he writes, “but the extravagance of the
times, the delightful pleasure of that age and the frailty of my own
nature were my ruin.” He lived in fact far above his income which never
exceeded eleven hundred pounds a year, and presently he became
seriously involved. He had recourse to a mortgage on his estate for
£13,000, and as he became more and more indebted was obliged in due
course to sell it when it fetched rather less than half the sum at which
it had been originally valued. He accompanied his regiment to America,
took part in the war of Independence, but made the mistake of leaving
the British Guards for the Hessian service. He found friends in Sir
Harry Clinton and Colonel Tarleton, by whom he was appointed to the
British Legion, and distinguished himself in the field.

When the war ended and Major Hanger was due to return to England, his
affairs were so straitened that he took refuge in Calais, leaving
friends to act for him at home and arrange with his creditors. But for
the generous assistance of Mr. Richard Tattersal he could not have
landed in England, for he was now completely beggared, and when directly
he reappeared in the world, was arrested by his creditors. It was at
this time that his estate was forcibly sold at such a loss. He now
surrendered himself at the King’s Bench, where he was detained for some
months but by the help of friends was admitted to take the “Rules.” His
detention was brief, but his experiences as told in his “Life and
Adventures” throw a strong light upon the iniquitous system still in
force with regard to debtors as described later.

A distinguished naval officer, Lord Cochrane, afterward Earl of
Dundonald, was committed a prisoner to the King’s Bench in 1815, on
conviction of seeking to influence the stock markets by the
dissemination of false news. His eminent services in the late war with
France were forgotten and he was denied a fair, unprejudiced trial. It
was clear that he was the victim of a dastardly plot and was sacrificed
to the treachery of the villainous author of it. Lord Cochrane had
recently been given the command of a King’s ship, and was on the point
of sailing for the North American station. One day a visitor named de
Berenger called at his house, pretending to be an officer and prisoner
for debt, within the Rules of the King’s Bench. He said he had come to
Lord Cochrane to implore him to release him from his difficulties and
give him a passage across the Atlantic. His application was refused,--it
was forbidden indeed according to naval rules,--and de Berenger was sent
away. But before he left the house he pleaded piteously that to return
to the King’s Bench prison in full uniform would attract suspicion. It
was not stated how he had evaded its jurisdiction, but he no doubt
implied that he had escaped and changed into uniform somewhere. Why he
did not go back to the same place to resume his plain clothes did not
appear. Lord Cochrane only knew that in answer to his urgent entreaty he
lent him some clothes (the room was at that moment littered with
clothes, which were to be sent on board the _Tonnant_). He unguardedly
gave de Berenger a “civilian’s hat and coat.” This was a capital part of
the charge against Lord Cochrane.

De Berenger had altogether lied about himself. He had not come from
within the Rules of the King’s Bench but from Dover, where he had been
seen the previous night at the Ship Hotel. He was then in uniform and
pretended to be an aide-de-camp to Lord Cathcart, who was the bearer of
important despatches. He made no secret of the transcendent news he
brought. Bonaparte had been killed by the Cossacks, Louis XVIII
proclaimed and the allied armies were on the point of occupying Paris.
To give greater publicity to the intelligence he sent it by letter to
the port-admiral at Deal, to be forwarded to the Government in London by
means of the semaphore telegraph. The effect of this startling news was
to send up stocks ten per cent., and many speculators who sold on the
rise realised enormous sums.

De Berenger, still in uniform, followed in a post-chaise, but on
reaching London he dismissed it, took a hackney coach and drove straight
to Lord Cochrane’s. He had some slight acquaintance with his lordship
and had already petitioned him for a passage to America but the
application had been refused. There was nothing extraordinary, then, in
de Berenger’s visit. His lordship, again, claimed that de Berenger in
calling on him, instead of going straight to the Stock Exchange to
commence operations, indicated that he had weakened in his plot and did
not see how to carry it through. “Had I been his confederate,” says Lord
Cochrane in his affidavit, “it is not within the bounds of credibility
that he would have come in the first instance to my house and waited two
hours for my return home in place of carrying out the plot he had
undertaken, or that I should have been occupied in perfecting my lamp
invention for the use of the convoy of which I was in a few days to take
charge, instead of being on the only spot where any advantage to be
derived from the Stock Exchange hoax could be realised had I been a
participator in it. Such advantage must have been immediate, before the
truth came out; and to have reaped it, had I been guilty, it was
necessary that I should not lose a moment. It is still more improbable
that being aware of the hoax, I should not have speculated largely for
the special risk of that day.”

We may take Lord Cochrane’s word, as an officer and a gentleman, that he
had no guilty knowledge of de Berenger’s scheme; but here again the luck
was against him, for it came out in evidence that his brokers had sold
stock for him on the day of the fraud. Yet the operation was not an
isolated one, made on that occasion only. Lord Cochrane declared that he
had for some time past anticipated a favourable conclusion to the war.
“I had held shares for the rise,” he said, “and had made money by sales.
The stock I held on the day of the fraud was less than I usually had,
and it was sold under an old order given to my brokers to sell at a
certain price. It had necessarily to be sold.” It was clear to Lord
Cochrane’s friends--who, indeed, and rightly, held him to be incapable
of stooping to fraud--that had he contemplated it he would have been a
larger holder of stock on the day in question when, actually, he held
less than usual. On these grounds alone they were of opinion that he
should have been absolved from the charge.

The part taken by the late Lord Playfair in the rehabilitation of Lord
Cochrane has been told by Sir Wemyss Reid in his admirable “Memoirs” of
Playfair. The Earl of Dundonald died in October, 1860. To his grandson,
the present gallant earl, whose brilliant achievements as a cavalry
leader in the great Boer War have shown him to be a worthy scion of a
warrior stock, his last will bequeathed as follows: “All sums due to me
by the British Government for my important services, as well as the sums
of pay stopped under perjured evidence for the commission of a fraud
upon the Stock Exchange. Given under my trembling hand this 21st day of
February, the anniversary of my ruin.”

Lord Playfair was an intimate friend of the much-worried admiral, and
while he was a member of the House of Commons he made a strenuous effort
to carry out the terms of the above will by recovering the sums
mentioned in it. What followed shall be told in Playfair’s own words.
“In 1814 Lord Dundonald and Lady X were in love and though they did not
marry, always held each other in great esteem for the rest of their
lives. Old Lady X was still alive in 1877, and she sent me a letter
through young Cochrane, the grandson, authorising me to use it as I
thought best. The letter was yellow with age, but had been carefully
preserved. It was written by Lord Dundonald and was dated from the
prison on the night of the committal. It tried to console the lady by
the fact that the guilt of a near relative of hers was not suspected,
while the innocence of the writer was his support and consolation.

“The old lady must have had a terrible trial. It was hard to sacrifice
the reputation of her relative; it was harder still to see injustice
still resting upon her former lover. Lord Dundonald had loved her and
received much kindness from her relative, so he suffered calumny and the
injustice of nearly two generations rather than tell the true story of
his wrong.

“I had long suspected the truth, but I never heard it from Lord
Dundonald. The brave old lady tendered this letter as evidence to the
Committee, but I declined to give it in, knowing that had my friend been
alive he would not have allowed me to do so. At the same time I showed
the letter to the members of the Committee individually and it had a
great effect upon their minds and no doubt helped to secure the report
recommending that the Treasury should pay the grandson the back salary
of the admiral.

“The interesting letter itself I recommended should be put in the
archives of the Dundonald family and this I believe has been done.”

Lord Cochrane’s incarceration in the King’s Bench was the cause of
considerable trouble. He had been committed there in default of a
payment of the fine of a thousand pounds and with a sentence of one
year’s imprisonment during which, in company with his alleged
confederates, he was to stand once on the pillory in the open space
before the Royal Exchange. Lord Cochrane was at that time a member of
the House of Commons and it was moved in the House that he should be
expelled, which was carried by a large majority. He found many warm
friends, however, and chief among them Sir Francis Burdett, who, when
the seat of Westminster was declared vacant, proposed Lord Cochrane for
re-election, and his lordship was unanimously returned. He continued,
however, to reside in the King’s Bench until the time of the next
session approached, and he was resolved to break prison in order to
appear in his place when the House met. He did, in effect, but in none
of the ways reported at the time. One report was that he went out
concealed in a sofa bedstead; another that he was sewn up inside a
mattress with the feathers; a third that he passed the gates in
disguise, but not unknown to the authorities, whom he had bribed to wink
at his departure. The real truth was that having arranged for the visit
of three or four Life guardsmen, he exchanged clothes with one of the
troopers and walked out unmolested wearing the soldier’s uniform.

Lord Cochrane remained at large for a fortnight and evaded pursuit until
he presumed to enter the House of Commons where he found a seat upon the
Treasury bench. While he was addressing the House and reading the
documents connected with his own case, the marshal of the King’s Bench,
who had been notified, accompanied by several officers, walked into the
House and proceeded to arrest his lordship, who immediately demanded the
authority. He was told that it was the public proclamation offering a
reward for his apprehension. Lord Cochrane demurred, violently resisted
his capture, and something like a free fight occurred upon the floor of
the House; eventually his lordship was overpowered and reconducted to
the King’s Bench. Mr. Jones, the marshal, no doubt a little unhappy at
his temerity, humbly submitted himself to the Speaker, hoping he had not
been guilty of disrespect, for if he was wrong it was from an error of
judgment and due to no wish to offend the House. The matter was made the
subject of some debate, but when referred to the Committee of Privilege,
they considered that the case was quite novel and it did not appear to
them that the privileges of the House had been violated or that there
was any call for interference. The time remaining for the completion of
the term of imprisonment Lord Cochrane spent in a conflict with the
marshal as to his accommodation and general treatment in the prison, in
which Mr. Jones was ultimately exonerated and Lord Cochrane admitted
that he had no complaint to make of the marshal, or of any of the
officers of the prison.

Lord Dundonald’s later career is in a sense outside of my subject, but
it was distinguished by many brave exploits and his capacity as a naval
leader was usefully exercised in the service of another country than his
own; his merits were recognised by the Emperor of Brazil, who gave him
the command of the Brazilian fleet and created him a marquis. Through
his able leadership the South American colonies of Spain gained their
freedom and he assisted largely in the Greek war of independence. At
length in 1830, tardy justice was done him and Earl Grey, now in office,
believing him to have been the victim of a cruel and unjust persecution,
restored him to his rank in the British navy. He was granted the Grand
Cross of the Bath and appointed to a command, as an admiral. He was a
man of strong character, remarkable for his inventive genius, a skilled
and adventurous seaman, who won renown afloat although constantly
opposed to forces superior to his own in numbers and metal. At the end
of his life he enjoyed the sympathetic esteem of his fellow countrymen.
His heirs were eventually granted compensation for the pay and
allowances as a naval officer so long withheld from him, while under a
cloud.




CHAPTER V

LIFE IN THE KING’S BENCH

     Relations between debtor and creditor in England continue a
     disgrace--Abuses in procedure--Writs issued in error--Excessive
     costs the cause of prolonged detention--Processes irksome, very
     sweeping in their action and entailing disastrous consequences on
     many prisoners--Debtors’ prisons and their purlieus centres of
     vicious life--Drunkenness, gaming, self-indulgence prevailed--The
     “Rules” enclosed an area swarming with idle, reckless, dissipated
     persons--A prisoner regularly drove the night coach from London to
     Birmingham--Many notable residents--Theodore Hook--Benjamin Robert
     Haydon, the painter--A scene in the King’s Bench, “The Mock
     Election”--The Marshalsea--Death-place of Bishop Bonner--Prison
     described by John Howard and by Charles Dickens--Disappearance of
     the Marshalsea and the Fleet--Replaced by the Whitecross Street
     Prison, the last place of the kind.


The relations between debtor and creditor in England continued to be a
disgrace to any so-called free and enlightened country far into the
nineteenth century. The procedure was full of abuses and the system in
force subjected the debtor to great and manifest hardships without
benefiting the creditor or securing him the repayment of his debt. It
was customary to serve the debtor with a writ, which was returnable only
in term time, and if issued between terms it could be evaded by giving
bail to the sheriff. But if the debtor was a poor man, or without
friends and therefore unable to procure bail, he paid in person and was
taken off to prison. Here he might lie almost indefinitely waiting,
hopelessly, for money from the skies to enable him to liquidate the
claim or defend the action. Often enough the writ had been issued on no
clear grounds; the debt may never have existed in fact and innocent
persons were arrested upon the affidavits of scoundrels impelled by
unworthy motives, which might be revenge or extortion. Not only was it
often the case that the prisoner lay in prison until he discharged a
debt he had never incurred, but even when the claim was undoubted and
for a small amount, the liability was soon swollen by the lawyers’ costs
amounting to three or four times the original debt. People were still
detained who owed no more than three or four pounds which they could
pay, until they could satisfy the attorneys for the costs of twenty and
thirty pounds they did not really owe. “I, myself,” says Colonel Hanger,
“for a debt of four pounds, thirteen shillings, and for one of six
pounds, sixteen shillings, have paid ten, twelve or fourteen pounds
costs.” Once caught in the meshes of the law it was not enough to pay
the original debt, and the creditor, when he received it, could not
release the debtor until the attorney’s costs were liquidated. The
records of the King’s Bench show that hundreds of debtors who in the
first instance owed no more than ten pounds were still detained for
twice or three times the amount claimed by the attorneys.

As a natural result, the debtors’ prisons, especially the King’s Bench,
were constantly crowded with persons of all classes and
callings,--“Nobles and ignobles, parsons, lawyers, farmers, tradesmen,
shopmen, colonels, captains, gamblers, horse-dealers, publicans and so
forth.” The wives of many of these shared the fortunes and misfortunes
of their husbands. It has been calculated that at times the population
of the prison averaged eight hundred or a thousand individuals. This
total was presently much reduced by the institution of a court for the
relief of insolvent debtors, and the number was further kept down by a
charitable society which used considerable sums collected for the
extinction of small debts. Nevertheless numbers still languished within
the walls in a state bordering upon utter destitution. Colonel Hanger
testifies that out of 355 prisoners, he could with truth assert there
were seldom fifty who had any regular means of subsistence. “I do not
mean to say,” he continues, “that prisoners have been absolutely starved
to death; but this I positively assert,--that numbers of the lower
order, and many officers confined, some even for small debts under fifty
pounds, who have served their country with gallantry and fidelity and
have bled in her defence, have often gone a whole week with not above
three or four meals; nay more, have frequently been destitute of a
penny to buy them a roll of bread for breakfast.” The same difficulty as
that already mentioned of obtaining the “groats” or creditor’s allowance
for food still obtained. It was greatly increased by legal
technicalities, for it could only be sued for in term time and a debtor
arrested in June when the term was over must wait to take action till
November, five months that is to say, during which he might starve and
was wholly dependent upon the charity of generous fellow prisoners and
others. Judgment on the case might still be prolonged until the
following May, so that many gentlemen as well as others of superior
stations in life had for successive days never known what it was to
enjoy one good meal.[6]

The perfectly regular payment of the “groats” (the allowance was really
sixpence per diem) would not have gone far. “Will any man venture to
assert,” asks Colonel Hanger, “that a man can live on such a stipend,
for a sufficient quantity of bread and small beer to satisfy appetite
and thirst cannot be purchased for that money.” The price of provisions
in 1798 barely allowed the purchase of one pound of bread and one pint
of porter per day for sixpence. “The felon in Newgate and the prisoner
in the Penitentiary house, Cold Bath fields, for high crimes and
misdemeanours against the State, whatever his sufferings, has one
comfort--he knows not the pangs of hunger; but the gentleman, the
citizen, the sailor or the soldier, who may have bled in their country’s
defence, if oppressed by sinful poverty, that worst of crimes, is
allowed only sixpence per day for all his wants, and has not even a bed
or fire found him to rest his wearied limbs or warm his half-starved
frame.”

The evils above described do not exhaust the sufferings that were
inflicted upon debtors. It often happened that a writ was served and an
arrest made at a distance from London. The man taken was carried to the
county gaol and when the time came for surrender, after being bailed, he
must perforce do so in London at the King’s Bench prison. And he must
make the journey as best he could according to his means. Hanger quotes
a case of an aged man, between seventy and eighty years, who trudged all
the way from Cumberland and arrived at the prison barefooted and almost
exhausted. He was, however, unprovided with the proper forms for
surrender and was refused admittance until he had paid his fees in
Chancery Lane, when at last he was received. Colonel Hanger, when in the
King’s Bench, was removed to the Fleet on _habeas corpus_ to meet a writ
returnable there and was mulcted in further costs before he was allowed
to go back to the King’s Bench.

Much more might be said in condemnation of the old system of
imprisonment for debt, which was rightly characterised by a competent
writer as “the curse and disgrace of England.” We have seen how in the
earliest times it directly contravened the principles of constitutional
freedom, which forbade it for simple pecuniary obligations unaccompanied
by fraud. It was extended alike to early youth and decrepit old age; a
minor might be laid by the heels and an old man of ninety arrested on
his dying bed. Until more humane laws were passed the boy prisoner might
be confined _sine die_. Incarceration too often paralysed the bread
winner; the prisoner was unable to earn wages for himself and his
family, to his own great loss and a diminution of the wealth of the
country.

The moral side of the question remains. Debtors’ prisons and their
purlieus were seething centres of vicious life. Idlers and dissolute
persons congregated therein; drunkenness, gaming, dissipation of all
kinds constantly prevailed. Dealers in contraband commodities traded
without let or hindrance. Game was exposed for sale within the walls by
unlicensed dealers without interference. These traders were prisoners,
of course, who were lodged under fictitious arrests of their own
contriving to facilitate their operations. “Tap-shops” and “whistling
shops” for the illegal consumption of spirits were plentiful within the
prison and were supplied under the very noses of the authorities by
clandestine means. On one occasion, an inmate who had been a smuggler
got in seventeen two-gallon tubs of brandy, which lay hidden in a
friend’s room till they could be distributed through the prison. The
supplies on sale were so good that much custom was attracted from
outside. It was calculated that at the “tap” or public bar room, three
butts of porter were drawn daily to meet the demands of outsiders with a
nice taste for beer. Amusements and games were continually in progress.
Crowds came in to see the racquet players reputed the best in the
metropolis; on festivals and holidays--Easter Monday, Whit Monday,
Boxing Day--sports were held, such as racing and hopping in sacks and
blind man’s buff, the whole under the supervision of a clerk of the
courts, Captain Christie, who was long a prisoner but married a rich
wife and so at last gained his liberty.

The King’s Bench, with its dependent “Rules,” was like a modern Alsatia,
swarming with idle, self-indulgent men living a dissipated life,
spending recklessly the means that should have gone to the liquidation
of their debts and which belonged really to their creditors. At one time
they freely entered all taverns and theatres, but were presently
restricted to one “Lowthorpes,” in front of the Asylum for the Blind
near the Obelisk in St. George’s in the Fields. This limitation was due
to Lord Chancellor Thurlow, who was annoyed by the trespass on his
grounds of a number of “Rulers” on their way to the Derby. No
restriction was placed upon the movements of the “Rulers” provided they
showed themselves once in every twenty-four hours. On the strength of
this concession a prisoner, Mellor Hetherington, a famous whip, drove
the night coach from London to Birmingham for a whole month, very much
to the satisfaction of proprietor and passengers. The regular coachman
had been taken ill and his temporary substitute comported himself so
well that he would have been permanently appointed but that it was
feared his creditors would interpose and impound his wages. This Mr.
Hetherington, who began life with a substantial income inherited from
his father, soon wasted his substance and found himself a prisoner in
the Fleet from which he was transferred to the King’s Bench, where he
was long resident in the “State House,” the large building close to the
entrance or lobby of the prison at one time occupied by prisoners of
State. He lived in great luxury and was allotted two rooms, but to enjoy
their peaceable occupation he was always obliged to buy out the “chums”
quartered on him. Some of these he employed as servants and assistants
in his domestic arrangements and especially in the kitchen, for he was a
lover of good cheer and had installed a kitchen range in one of the
rooms he occupied. He entertained largely, and guests in great number
gladly accepted his invitations. This Mr. Hetherington spent twenty
years as a prisoner for debt either within the walls of the Fleet or the
King’s Bench, or enjoying the privileges of the “Rules.” Finally he
took advantage of the Act as it was called, and went through the court
for the relief of insolvent debtors. He began life with a clear income
of six hundred pounds a year and finished his career of wasteful
self-indulgence without repaying a single sixpence to his creditors, who
had so foolishly and so uselessly deprived him of his liberty.

To give a full and complete list of the many and varied characters that
passed through the King’s Bench would fill a great space, but some of
those mentioned in contemporary records may be briefly referred to here.
They belonged to all classes of society and often exhibited eccentric
traits. One prisoner residing in the “Rules” belonged to the family of
the Hydes, Earls of Clarendon, and he was never parted from the coffin
which was ultimately to receive him. It was a fine coffin of solid oak,
grown upon his own estate in Kent and hollowed out with a chisel. Its
owner was in the habit of getting into the coffin at night and sleeping
there “with great composure and serenity.” Its weight was five hundred
pounds and on one occasion when it was filled with punch it held upwards
of forty-one gallons. John Palmer, the actor, when a prisoner within the
Rules in 1789 was committed to the Surrey gaol for accepting an
engagement at the Royal Circus theatre, as acting manager at a salary of
twenty pounds a week. This led, it is said (but the statement is at
variance with that already given), to the prohibiting by Lord Chief
Justice Kenyon of debtors to enter theatres.

Literature and the arts were constantly represented in the King’s Bench.
It was the home of William Combe, the author of “Dr. Syntax,” a poem
“written to cuts” as the saying is, or planned for a series of
Rowlandson’s drawings, which were forwarded to Combe when residing in
the Rules. As Horace Smith tells us, “he was a ready writer of all work
for the booksellers.” Another notable resident was Theodore Hook, who
never cleared himself from his liability to the Crown for the moneys
that went astray when he was acting as treasurer in the colony of
Mauritius. There was a deficit in his accounts of a sum of twelve
thousand pounds for which he was held responsible, although there was
never any charge of dishonesty and the law officers said no grounds
existed for criminal proceedings. He was, however, arrested after his
arrival in England and passed from a sponging house into the Rules of
the King’s Bench, from which he was soon set at liberty, but with his
liability hanging like a millstone round his neck till the day of his
death. Theodore Hook, the most famous of humourists, was the inventor of
a witticism, now a time honoured “chestnut.” On his passage home from
Mauritius, he met at Saint Helena the newly appointed governor of the
Cape, Lord Charles Somerset, who knew nothing of the arrest. Lord
Charles said, “I hope you are not going home for your health, Mr.
Hook.” “Why, why, yes,” replied Theodore, “I am sorry to say there is
something wrong with my chest.” Theodore Hook was already associated
with the once famous weekly newspaper _John Bull_, which was a thorn in
the side of the Whigs then in power. The proprietors of the paper,
Messrs. Weaver, Arrowsmith and Shackell, were prosecuted for libel of
some great personages, found guilty, heavily fined and committed to the
King’s Bench. Persons of lesser note were Jimmy Bearcroft, a hanger on
of the Mr. Hetherington, Captain Garth, Lady Hydeparker, “Pea-green”
Hayne, one or two baronets, Lord Glentworth, General Bacon and Miss
Gordon, who sold newspapers and kept a circulating library in the King’s
Bench.

Miss Gordon’s story deserves a word or two as illustrating the hardships
entailed upon the impecunious in those days. She inherited a decent
property from her father which was, however, impounded as security for a
loan of one hundred pounds advanced by a friend; she proposed to pay off
the loan, but the title deeds could not be found and the debt ran on
until the lender died, when the one hundred pounds was claimed from Miss
Gordon with the back interest, the whole amounting now to nearly a
thousand pounds. She was arrested and committed to prison where she
remained for nearly twenty years, harassed by the law’s delays, always
on the verge of starvation, but eking out a bare existence by her
traffic in books and newspapers.

The name of Benjamin Robert Haydon, a British painter, deservedly
entitled to be called a great painter, but greater still on account of
his misfortunes, is intimately associated with the King’s Bench prison.
His pictures, mainly historical and Biblical, generally of vast size,
fine in conception and admirably executed, never quite appealed to the
public taste and in the end were but little appreciated.

Haydon’s personality gained him many enemies; he was conceited,
self-opinionated, with an exaggerated idea of his own merits, and he
very unwisely entered into conflict with the Royal Academy, the feud
lasting to the end of his life. Yet he long found a few admiring patrons
and the support and countenance of numbers of warm friends. He was on
the most intimate terms with the leaders of light and learning of his
day. Sir Walter Scott warmly appreciated him; Wordsworth addressed many
sonnets to his genius; Keats and he were like brothers. He spent much of
his spare time with Charles Lamb, and lived on equal terms with the most
eminent members of his own profession, Sir David Wilkie, Northcote,
Landseer, Canova and Chantrey. Some of the greatest personages in the
land took him by the hand, gave him orders for pictures and welcomed him
gladly to their houses. Sir Robert Peel was long his good friend and
the Duke of Wellington encouraged him and wrote him many characteristic
letters.

With all his undoubted talents, his unflagging industry and ceaseless
powers for work, Haydon was cursed with one irremediable defect, an
utter incapacity for managing his own affairs. He was no spendthrift or
wastrel. He could have lived well within the income he earned, not a bad
one in those days, if he had not steadfastly forestalled it and so
reduced it sometimes by a half or a third. Very early in his career he
got behind-hand in his payments; no doubt in the first instance by the
unpunctuality of those who owed him money. He was continually driven to
pay his way by borrowing at extravagant rates, by giving bills for sums
far in excess of value received and by mortgaging his pictures before
they were finished. His hand to mouth devices might give him immediate
relief but it was by incurring future liabilities of a much more onerous
kind. His embarrassments were intensified by the existing laws and the
powers given to his creditors over his freedom and independence. He was
essentially a good man struggling with adversity, whom Tennyson tells
us, “is a sight for the gods,” and one’s heart bleeds for him under his
constant sufferings as pathetically depicted in his diaries.

He was already famous and had painted some of his earliest and best
pictures. The “Entry of Christ into Jerusalem” was finished, his
“Lazarus Raised from the Dead” was well advanced, and he was little
more than five and twenty years of age when he was arrested for debt. He
writes, that after having passed through every species of want and
difficulty often without a shilling, without ever being trusted, a man
to whom he had paid three hundred pounds arrested him out of pique for
the balance. His lawyers extricated him but within a year he enters in
his diary, “I am without a shilling in the world and with a large
picture before me not half done.” A month later he was arrested by his
artists’ colourman with whom he had dealt for fifteen years. He again
escaped, but as the months passed he was harassed with letters for money
every hour with repeated threatenings of arrest staved off by friendly
assistance from Canova, Sir Walter Scott and Mr. Coutts. Others, Lord
Mulgrave, Sir Edward Codrington, Brougham, Barnes of the _Times_ and
Miss Mitford were all prompt and helpful. Yet the next year he dated an
entry, “Well, I am in prison,” from the King’s Bench. He decided to go
through the court and was discharged without opposition. He was free
again and the future before him was clear. “He must live”--I am quoting
Tom Taylor--“He must live first of all and if possible without repeating
that untoward, that living by credit and borrowing on no better security
than high hopes and honest intentions which had ended in the King’s
Bench and insolvency.” Another year and the entry appears, “Passed in
desponding on the future, not a shilling in the world.” Later on,
“Obliged to pawn my other lay figure, the female, for five pounds,--cost
me thirty.” On the 12th January, 1827, an execution was in the house and
he was saved only by the prompt assistance of a friend, yet he was
arrested and cleared by a public subscription, after spending a month in
the prison. But this detention brought him a great opportunity; he saw
the “Mock Election,” a scene which, he says, “contrasted as it was with
sorrow and prison walls, beggars all description ... never was such an
excellent burlesque.... I saw the whole from beginning to end. I was
resolved to paint it for I thought it the finest subject for humour and
pathos on earth ... day by day the subject continued in my mind and as
soon as I was restored to my family and pursuits I returned to the
prison and sketched all the heads of the leading actors. Began the
picture directly and I finished it in four months.” This picture hung
fire for a time, but finally George IV sent to say he wished to see it
and at once bought it for five hundred guineas. It may now be seen in
the Royal Galleries at Windsor Castle. The picture portrays a curious
episode in contemporary prison life painted with great fidelity and deep
appreciation of the contrasted humour and pathos of the scene. The
principal personages are drawn to the life and from life, for the
painter went again and again to the prison to find his models. Haydon’s
own account brings the picture before us:

“In the centre is the High Sheriff with burlesque elegance of manner
begging one of the candidates not to break the peace or be irritated at
the success of his rival.... This intended member is dressed in green
with an oil silk cap and a red bow, the colours of his party. The
gentleman who actually filled this character is, I have heard, a man of
considerable fortune in Ireland.... Opposite and attired in the quilt of
his bed and in a yellow turban is the other member who actually sat in
the House two years and who by experience in the finesse of elections
was the moving spring in all the proceedings in this picture. There is
the Lord Mayor with solemn gravity, holding a white wand with a blue and
yellow bow and a sash of the same colours. He was a third candidate.
Immediately below in a white jacket is the head poll clerk swearing in
three burgesses before they are allowed to vote.... The first, a dandy
of the very first fashion, just imprisoned, with a fifty-guinea pipe in
his right hand, a diamond ring on his finger, dressed in a yellow silk
dressing gown, velvet cap and red morocco slippers; on his left stands
an exquisite, who has been imprisoned three years, smoking a three-penny
cigar, with a hole at his elbow and his toes on the ground; and the
third is one of those characters of middle age and careless dissipation
visible in all scenes of this description, dressed in a blue jacket and
green cap. There are several other groups. In one a man of family sits
sipping his claret, and a soldier who distinguished himself in Spain,
imprisoned in early life for running away with a ward in chancery.
Embarrassment followed and nine years of confinement have rendered him
reckless and melancholy. He has one of the most tremendous heads I ever
saw, something between Byron and Bonaparte. In the picture I have made
him sit at ease with a companion while champagne bottles, a dice box,
dice, cards, a racket bat and ball upon the ground announce his present
habits. Leaning on him, and half terrified at the mock threats of the
little red-nosed head constable with a mace, is an interesting girl
attached to him in his reverses, and over his head, clinging to the top
of the pump, is an elector intoxicated and huzzaing.

“A third group is composed of a good family in affliction, the wife
devoted, clinging to her husband; the eldest boy with the gaiety of a
child is cheering the others; behind is the old nurse sobbing over the
baby five weeks old; while the husband, virtuous and in trouble, is
contemplating the merry electors with pity and pain. The father and
mother are in mourning for the loss of their second boy.... The father’s
hand holds a paper, and on it is written ‘debt £26.10., costs £157.10.
Treachery, Squeeze & Co., Thieves Inn.’” Upon the whole description
Haydon comments, “What a set of beings are assembled in that
extraordinary place, that temple of debauchery.”

Another description given in Haydon’s diary reveals a more painful side
of prison life. It is an account of a Sunday in the King’s Bench. “The
day passed in all the buzz, blasphemy, hum, noise and confusion of a
prison. Thoughtless creatures! My room was close to theirs. Such
language! Such jokes! Good Heavens! I had read prayers to myself in the
morning, and prayed with the utmost sincerity for my dearest Mary and
children, and to hear those poor fellows, utterly indifferent as it
were, was really distressing to one’s feelings. One of them had mixed up
an enormous tumbler of mulled wine crusted with nutmeg and as it passed
round some one halloed out, ‘Sacrament Sunday, gentlemen!’ Some roared
with laughter, some affected to laugh and he who was drinking pretended
to sneer; but he was awfully annoyed. And then there was a dead silence,
as if the blasphemy had recalled them to their senses. After an
occasional joke or so, one, with real feeling, began to hum the 100th
Psalm, not in joke, but to expiate his previous conduct, for neither he
nor any one laughed then, but seemed to think it too serious a subject.”

This was in 1830 and in that same year he records in his diary: “This
perpetual pauperism will in the end destroy my mind. I look round for
help with a feeling of despair that is quite dreadful. At this moment I
have a sick house without a shilling for the common necessaries of life.
This is no exaggeration.” The burden of his appeal to the Directors of
the British Gallery or Institution for encouragement is couched in the
same terms. He speaks of “his present struggling condition with eight
children and nothing on earth left him in property but what he is
clothed with, after twenty-six years of intense and ardent devotion to
painting,” and was vouchsafed help to the amount of £50. Year after year
he struggled with indomitable courage to keep the wolf from the door. He
was never at any time able to cope with current expenses or to face ever
pressing liabilities. He struck at new lines in art, tried portrait
painting, produced pictures of famous men at great epochs in their
lives, “Wellington on the Field of Waterloo,” “Napoleon Musing at St.
Helena,” to be engraved for general sale. He gave public exhibitions of
his own most popular works, canvassed on every side for new commissions,
tried fresco painting and the production of cartoons. Only in one
direction did he make money, by lecturing on art, for which he had a
natural gift, and for a time, but only for a time, he drew crowded
audiences. He earned bread thus, but no more, and his necessities caused
never ending pressure, still relieved constantly by the aid of the
pawnbroker, or the money lender at usurious rates. The sheriff’s
officers again carried him off to “that blessed refuge for the
miserable--the Bench,” which, as ever, was rendered hideous by the
levity of the vicious and the thoughtless. “Gambling, swearing and
drinking went on as usual,” he relates, “and last night when I was
musing on life and death, the bloods and blackguards were singing duets
outside my door at midnight.”

Haydon fought on to the last, but the end was very near when he speaks
in 1842 of “thirty-eight years of bitter suffering, incessant industry,
undaunted perseverance, four imprisonments, three ruins and five
petitions to Parliament, never letting the subject of State support for
national art rest.” He chafed, not without reason, that at a public
inquiry then in progress, neither Chairman nor Committee, witnesses nor
pupils gave any sign that they were conscious that such a creature as
Haydon existed.

“After this,” says Taylor, “the clouds settled down upon him and grew
darker and more dense every month of his few remaining years of life. It
is painful to follow day by day his struggles with disappointment,
despondency and embarrassment.” He was vexed and harassed more and more,
misfortunes multiplied, no fresh venture prospered and his last, the
exhibition of his own cartoons, was a dismal failure. No one came to see
them, the receipts on Easter day were beggarly; he took little more than
a pound, and next door thousands and thousands thronged to see Tom
Thumb. The future had never looked so black; “the butcher, the baker,
the tax collector, the landlord gave louder knocks than before.” At
length, he says, he “came home in excruciating anxiety,” not able to
raise the money for the rent of the Egyptian Hall where his cartoons
were exhibited. Fresh executions were to be put in and he says, “I felt
my heart sink, my brain confused, I foresaw my family’s misery and a
prison!” The desperate struggle was nearly over; he held on with but
small hope of deliverance and at last gave up in despair. He entered his
painting room for the last time and there shot himself on the 22nd of
June, 1846, “when temporarily of unsound mind” as the coroner’s inquest
charitably decided.

The third great prison of old London, but which survived down to the
middle of the last century, was the Marshalsea, which stood originally
in the High Street, Southwark, and a house now numbered 119 was the site
of the chapel. But it was removed by and by to other premises nearer the
St. George’s church that stands at the corner of the High St. Borough.
This prison derived its name from the Marshals of England to whom it
appertained and whose jurisdiction extended over the King’s household.
The royal servants were arraigned in the Marshal’s Court and committed
when in fault to the Marshalsea prison. It also received debtors,
arrested for even trifling sums, within a circuit of twelve miles from
Westminster Palace, and was especially used for the confinement of
persons awaiting trial. No exact record is preserved of its first
erection. The earliest account is that of a riot by sailors in 1377. A
man belonging to the fleet commanded by the Duke of Lancaster was slain
by a gentleman imprisoned in the Marshalsea, whereupon the men-of-war’s
men conceiving that the murderer was sheltered by great folk broke into
the prison, took him and hanged him on a gallows near the gaol, and
returned in triumph to their ships with trumpets sounding. The prison
was again attacked four years later by the insurgents headed by Wat
Tyler and at that time the marshal lost his life. On this occasion the
marshal of the King’s Bench adjoining, Sir John Imworth, was seized and
beheaded. Much importance attached to the prison in the reigns of Henry
VIII, Mary and Elizabeth, when it was used for State purposes. Bishop
Bonner, the last Roman Catholic bishop of London, was sent to it, when
suspended by Queen Elizabeth. The story runs that he preserved a grim
humour despite his misfortunes. When a man greeted him with the
insulting address, “Good morrow Bishop Quondam,” the bishop promptly
retorted, “Farewell, Knave Semper.” When on his way to the prison, some
one called out, “The Lord confound thee, or else turn thy heart.” “The
Lord send thee to keep thy breath to cool thy porridge,” was the defiant
reply. Bonner died in the prison in 1569 after a confinement of ten
years. Poets, pamphleteers and political satirists were often committed
to the Marshalsea and among them George Wither, Christopher Brooke and
many Puritan martyrs. After the Restoration, as John Evelyn tells us,
Colonel Culpeper was sent there as the aggressor in an affray with “my
lord of Devonshire,” when the latter stood very near His Majesty’s
bed-chamber. Some hot words passed between them and Lord Devonshire gave
Culpeper the lie. Upon which the colonel “struck him a box on the ear,”
but the lord returned it and “felled him.” They were soon parted;
Culpeper was seized and carried by the King’s order before the Board of
Green Cloth where he got his deserts by being confined in the
Marshalsea.

The Marshalsea did not escape reprehension for great abuses practised at
the time when the brutal administration of the Fleet was called in
question. We get a glimpse of it fifty years later in John Howard’s
first report. He describes the prison as too small and greatly out of
repair; “an old irregular building (rather several buildings) in a
spacious yard. There are, in the whole, nearly sixty rooms; and yet only
six of them now left for Common Side debtors. Of the other rooms, five
are let to a man who is not a prisoner; in one of them he keeps a
chandler’s shop; in two he lives with his family; the other two he lets
to prisoners. Four rooms, the Oaks, are for women. They are too few for
the number and the more modest women complain of the bad company in
which they are confined. There are above forty rooms for men on the
Master’s Side, in which are about sixty beds; yet many prisoners have no
beds nor any place to sleep in but the chapel and the tap-room.”

This account tallies exactly with another later and more graphic from
the hand of a great literary master, the same who has brought the Fleet
prison so vividly before us. Charles Dickens knew the Marshalsea by
heart for he had lived there with his father when the latter was
detained there as a debtor. Dickens writes: “It was an oblong pile of
barrack building, partitioned into squalid houses standing back to back,
so that there were no back rooms; environed by a narrow paved yard,
hemmed in by high walls duly spiked at top. Itself a close and confined
prison for debtors, it contained within it a much closer and more
confined jail for smugglers. Offenders against the revenue laws and
defaulters to excise or customs, who had incurred fines which they were
unable to pay, were supposed to be incarcerated behind an iron-plated
door, closing up a second prison, consisting of a strong cell or two,
and a blind alley some yard and a half wide, which formed the mysterious
termination of the very limited skittle-ground in which the Marshalsea
debtors bowled down their troubles.”

Here is another picture, the scene at the gate in the early morning when
the prison is first opened: “There was a string of people already
straggling in, whom it was not difficult to identify as the nondescript
messengers, go-betweens and errand-bearers of the place. Some of them
had been lounging in the rain until the gate should open; others, who
had timed their arrival with greater nicety, were coming up now and
passing in with damp whitey-brown paper bags from the grocers, loaves of
bread, lumps of butter, eggs, milk and the like. The shabbiness of these
attendants upon shabbiness, the poverty of these insolvent waiters upon
insolvency, was a sight to see. Such threadbare coats and trousers, such
fusty gowns and shawls, such squashed hats and bonnets, such boots and
shoes, such umbrellas and walking sticks, never were seen in Rag Fair.
All of them wore the cast-off clothes of other men and women; were made
up of patches and pieces of other people’s individuality and had no
sartorial existence of their own proper. Their walk was the walk of a
race apart. They had a peculiar way of doggedly slinking round the
corner as if they were eternally going to the pawnbroker’s. When they
coughed, they coughed like people accustomed to be forgotten on
door-steps and in draughty passages, waiting for answers to letters in
faded ink, which gave the recipients of those manuscripts great mental
disturbance and no satisfaction. As they eyed the stranger in passing,
they eyed him with borrowing eyes--hungry, sharp, speculative as to his
softness if they were accredited to him, and the likelihood of his
standing something handsome. Mendacity on commission stooped in their
high shoulders, shambled in their unsteady legs, buttoned and pinned and
darned and dragged their clothes, frayed their button-holes, leaked out
of their figures in dirty little ends of tape and issued from their
mouths in alcoholic breathings.”

The Marshalsea escaped the Lord George Gordon rioters and it lived on,
more and more eclipsed by its more ambitious neighbour and with uses
more and more curtailed, especially when a new debtors’ prison, that of
Whitecross Street, was planned in 1813. It was condemned and closed in
1842, when the prisoners remaining for any length of term were
transferred to the King’s Bench. It was soon afterward pulled down and
the last vestiges of it are preserved to us by Charles Dickens who
visited it in 1856 in the course of demolition. He tells his friend John
Forster of this visit:--“Went to the Borough yesterday morning before
going to Gad’s Hill to see if I could find any ruins of the Marshalsea.
Found a great part of the original building, now ‘Marshalsea Place.’ I
found the rooms that had been in my mind’s eye in the story.... There is
a room there still standing that I think of taking. It is the room
through which the ever memorable signers of Captain Porter’s petition
filed off in my boyhood. The spikes are gone and the wall is lowered;
and anybody can go out now who likes to go and is not bed-ridden.”




CHAPTER VI

ENGLISH PRISONS OF WAR

     Earliest mention by John Howard in 1756 when taken by a French
     privateer and lodged in the castle of Brest--Twenty-five years
     later again visits the French War Prisons and animadverts upon what
     he saw--Extends his inspection to British war prisons--Old
     war-ships or “hulks” brought into use in England--Many
     objections--Large prison establishments erected inland--Norman
     Cross in Huntingdonshire which accommodated five thousand--Another
     large prison designed in 1806 on Dartmoor--Opened in 1808--Occupied
     by members of many nationalities and of all classes--The lowest and
     most degraded, the “Romans,” akin to the “rafalés” of the
     hulks--Daily life at Dartmoor--Incurable passion for
     gambling--Curious games of chance--Duelling--Criminal pursuits not
     unknown--Coiners and forgers--Arrival of American war prisoners.


The first extensive use of places for the detention of prisoners of war
appears to have been in the middle of the eighteenth century, when
Europe was continually harassed by conflicts among the nations and when
decimation by a general massacre of captives taken under the fortune of
war was no longer permissible. Of the treatment accorded to these
prisoners, the earliest authentic record is to be found under John
Howard’s hand. In 1756 the great philanthropist took passage in a Lisbon
packet bent upon making a tour of Portugal, but his ship was captured
en route by a French privateer and he was carried with his companions
into Brest and subjected to extreme hardship and privation before he
reached that port. He was entirely deprived of food and drink; for forty
hours not one drop of water passed his lips and hardly a morsel of food.
“In the castle at Brest,” he tells us, “I lay six nights upon straw, and
observing how cruelly my countrymen were used there, and at Morlaix,
whither I was carried next; during the two months I was at Carhaix upon
parole, I corresponded with the English prisoners at Brest, Morlaix and
Dinnan: at the last of those towns were several of our ship’s crew and
my servant. I had sufficient evidence of their being treated with such
barbarity that many hundreds had perished and that thirty-six were
buried in a hole at Dinnan in one day. When I came to England, still on
parole, I made known to the commissioners of sick and wounded seamen the
sundry particulars, which gained their attention and thanks.
Remonstrance was made to the French court; our sailors had redress, and
those that were in the three prisons mentioned above were brought home
in the first cartel ships. A lady from Ireland, who married in France,
had bequeathed in trust with the magistrates of St. Malo, sundry
charities; one of which was a penny a day to every English prisoner of
war in Dinnan. This was duly paid; and saved the lives of many brave and
useful men. Perhaps what I suffered on this occasion, increased my
sympathy with the unhappy people whose case is the subject of this
book.”

Five and twenty years later when Howard was extending his visitation
through the Continent he found many more English prisoners of war in
French gaols. In Dunkirk 133 prisoners were confined in five rooms;
captains, mates, passengers and common sailors, all crowded together,
lying on straw with one coverlet to every three persons. In three other
rooms there were thirteen accommodated in a better manner, because they
were “ransomers” or persons held as security for a captured ship which
was to be ransomed at a certain sum. These prisoners exercised in a very
small courtyard and they were kept very short of water, but fairly well
fed,--“The bread, beer and soup were good and the beef tolerable;” the
prison was well governed under rules made by the King of France, which
prescribed certain pains and penalties and accorded certain privileges.
If any one attempted escape and was retaken he was “stinted to half his
pittance of food” until he had repaid the expenses caused by his pursuit
and recapture. If the place was damaged, the expense of repairs was paid
out of the food of those found guilty of the infringement. The prisoners
were at liberty to appoint a committee of three or five of themselves to
supervise the issue of food and, if they thought necessary, complain of
its quality.

In the common prison at Calais, Howard found great overcrowding and
many of the prisoners here and elsewhere had no change of linen, and
some were almost entirely destitute of clothes. Howard contrasted the
treatment of French prisoners in England with the foregoing and
generally in favour of the English. In the Mill prison near Plymouth,
however, there was great overcrowding and very inferior food, but this
was reformed in the newer edifice erected. The number detained here rose
at one time to a very high figure, 10,352, comprising four different
nationalities, American, French, Spanish and Dutch, the French
predominating in the proportion of two thirds. A new prison had been
erected at Bristol, built on rising ground three miles from the city.
Although new the building was imperfect; there were no chimneys and the
wards were dirty, never being washed. Over a thousand Frenchmen were in
the Winchester prison, who lay all day indolently in their hammocks and
were provided with no work. Several prisoners were confined in the dark
hole, sentenced to it for forty days, on half allowance, to meet the sum
expended in payment for their recapture after escape, on the same
principle as that which obtained in France.

Howard condemned another prison at Forton near Gosport, where the
rations were bad and the bread short weight. He says: “The straw by long
use was turned to dust in the mattresses and many of them, here and in
other places, had been emptied to clear them of vermin. The prisons at
Pembroke were very unsatisfactory and the prisoners in great
destitution; most of them had no shoes or stockings and some were also
without shirts; they had no victualling tables, nor did they know what
was their allowance; they lay in general on the boards without straw for
there were but four hammocks in two rooms. Here was a courtyard but no
water or sewer.” At Liverpool the French and Spanish prisoners were kept
apart because of the animosities between the two nations; here and
wherever French prisoners were confined, a money allowance was made to
all prisoners and regularly paid. “There was besides a supply from the
same court of clothes, linen and shoes to those who were destitute of
these articles, a noble and exemplary provision much to the honour of
those who conducted public affairs in France.” At this same time a
bounty was paid by the English government to English prisoners in
France.

War prisoners were also lodged in Scotch and Irish prisons, the first
fairly well, the latter indifferently. In all these prisons above
mentioned, there was a proportion of Americans, whose situation was much
the same as that of the French. In Pembroke prison they were without
shoes and stockings, and they lay on straw which was unchanged for six
or seven weeks at a time. As the eighteenth century drew to its close
and the war was waged with increasing severity, more and more prisoners
fell into the hands of the opposing forces. The star of Napoleon was now
in the ascendant and while all Europe submitted to his conquering hand,
England still stoutly maintained the combat by sea. The supremacy of the
British navy, never really in doubt, was conclusively established by the
victory of Trafalgar. French warships were continually captured and
their crews constantly passed on to swell the total in war prisons. It
became a matter of some difficulty to make proper provision for their
reception and safe custody. In the earlier years the floating prisons,
the old war ships, long disused, were largely utilised and great numbers
of prisoners were kept on board these hulks, which were moored in
harbours and river estuaries on our southern coast. The system was open
to serious objection. To keep great masses of men disarmed, it is true,
but distinctly hostile, and at all times potential foes, in the very
heart of the kingdom within easy reach of our naval arsenals was always
a source of keen disquietude. The prisoners were constantly turbulent,
ripe for mutiny and ready to break into excesses. Thus a number on board
the hulks at the Hamoaze managed to set fire to their ships hoping to
escape in the confusion; others, again, cut through bulkheads and decks,
seized boats and made for the shore, bent upon hostile attack. As the
best security against these dangers, it was decided to create one or
more large prison establishments inland, at some comparatively isolated
spot, at a distance from any large town. Of these the principal were at
Norman Cross and Dartmoor.

Norman Cross is in the parish of Yaxley, in the county of Huntingdon
near that grand old thoroughfare of England, the Great North Road, along
which coaches might be driven four abreast. In one corner was a large
piece of pasture land, some forty acres in extent which the Government
purchased in 1796, to be utilised in the erection of barracks for
prisoners of war. The situation was exceedingly healthy, being at the
highest point of the road sloping up for a mile and a half from what was
then Whittlesea Mere. It was not too near the sea to make escape easy,
yet near enough to Yarmouth, King’s Lynn and Wisbeach to facilitate the
landing and transport of prisoners to their destination.

The prison consisted of sixteen large buildings of wood, very long and
lofty, each two stories high, placed at the end of four rectangular
pieces of land (four blocks in each), nearly in the centre of the forty
acre field, and occupying altogether some fifteen acres. Each
rectangular block was separated from the others and was surrounded by
very high and strong palisades. They were placed symmetrically round a
circular block-house, mounting guns which commanded every one of the
sixteen buildings as well as the ground surrounding them. The
establishment provided accommodation for five thousand prisoners and
that number was frequently exceeded. Besides these central buildings,
which may be called the prison proper, many others were scattered about
the enclosures, intended for various purposes, such as kitchens,
bakehouses, guard-rooms, turnkeys’ lodges, and more important than all
to the safe custody of the prisoners, two large wooden barracks like
each other, one at the east and the other at the west of the whole
enclosure, for the accommodation of two regiments of infantry that
formed the garrison.

The English officers were quartered in a large wooden house close to the
road, towards the southeast corner of the enclosure and close to the
house of the commandant. This last was the only building of brick in the
whole place; and remains to this day together with the officers’ mess
room and the house where they were quartered, now cased with brick. It
is said that five hundred hands were employed in the construction of
these buildings, and the work was steadily pressed forward toward
completion. The prison possessed many natural advantages; a good soil
with an abundant water supply and salubrious air. The wells were of
considerable depth and yielded excellent water. In passing now along the
Peterborough Road, some of these old wells may be recognised by the
boards which protect them, being still in use for the cattle grazing
peacefully on the old prison site.

The discipline maintained at Norman Cross was strict. “Lights out”
sounded at 9 P. M., when all prisoners went into their hammocks,
sentries were posted, and pickets patrolling made the round every half
hour. No parole was given as it was extended only to officers residing
in other parts of the United Kingdom. The rations issued were not
excessive and consisted of one pound of bread, half a pound of beef with
vegetables for five days in the week, and on the two remaining _maigre_
days, Wednesday and Friday, a pound of salt cod or herring was
substituted for the beef. Ale and wine could be purchased at the
canteen. A market was also held within the prison enclosure for two
hours every morning, when, as at Dartmoor, goods were bought and sold.
The neighbours brought in supplies of food and necessaries and carried
off articles manufactured by the prisoners in which they displayed much
ingenuity and industry. These clever French fingers produced models of
ships exact in the minutest details, a model of the west front of
Peterborough Cathedral in plaited straw, many models of the
death-dealing guillotine, and a great variety of boxes, fire screens,
dressing cases, tea caddies, watch-stands, and crucifixes. They made
money and escaped the greatest evil, the unrest that follows enforced
idleness.

They were once on the eve of mutiny. A spirit of general insubordination
grew among them, born of the cheerless monotony of their lives and their
despairing hopelessness. The governor was harsh and unsympathetic.
Mutiny was imminent, fostered by the severity of his iron rule. The
presence of a masterful and intractable soul, a man who had been a
revolutionary, supplied the ringleader and a conspiracy was quickly
organised. One morning a red flag was hoisted on the principal barracks
and the malcontents, greatly excited, filled the yards with loud shouts
and threatening gestures. The commandant, a Major Kelley, promptly
turned out the troops, for the most part militia, surrounded the
enclosure and prepared to take summary measures. The guns of the central
block house commanded all parts of the interior and he was urged to fire
into all the yards, by way of warning, and follow it up by marching
strong bodies of infantry inside to shoot down all who did not forthwith
retire into their barracks. Meanwhile a mounted messenger was despatched
to Peterborough and soon returned with several troops of yeomanry. The
tumult still continued within the prison, mixed with the sounds of heavy
blows aimed at the palisade. The prisoners meant to break through and
succeeded at one point, where they were received at the point of the
bayonet and driven back under a heavy fire. Some got through, however;
nine got clear away and were never re-captured; others were caught in
the next few days. This collision and the stern action of the
authorities crushed the mutiny which was never renewed and the further
history of Norman Cross was uneventful. The prison was completely
emptied in 1814 after Napoleon’s abdication at Fontainebleau.

It will be seen further on how the great multitude of war prisoners in
England (nearly fifty thousand) were located throughout the country. A
large contingent (six thousand) was kept constantly at Norman Cross;
nearly ten thousand were in the neighbourhood of Portsmouth, at the
Forton prison and in the hulks; over five thousand were at Portchester;
more than four thousand at Stapleton prison near Bristol, and
twenty-five hundred in Edinburgh between the castle and Valleyfield. A
very large number were confined in the far off western wilds of Dartmoor
where a great war prison was constructed at Princetown in 1806.

The foundation stone of the Dartmoor prison was laid on the twentieth of
March in 1806, by Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt, Lord Warden of the stannaries,
the chief official of the Duchy of Cornwall, in other words, the
representative of the proprietor and Lord Paramount, H. R. H., the
Prince of Wales. The site was selected by a commissioner of the
Transport Board, the supreme authority in the war prison department, the
ground of preference being that “water was plentiful and excellent, the
soil gravel, peat for fuel abundant, with convenient access to the high
road and an abundant supply of granite for building.” The Prince of
Wales (George IV) gave as many acres as were required by the Board so
that the possibility of a garden for vegetables was an additional
consideration which was likely to tend to the health and comfort of the

[Illustration: _Princetown Prison at Dartmoor_

     The great war prison of Princetown on the wilds of Dartmoor was
     erected in 1806. The American prisoners were held here, during the
     War of 1812, and among them was a large contingent of colored men.
     At this time the prison held war prisoners from many countries,
     Frenchmen, Spaniards, Portuguese, Italians, Swiss, Germans, Poles,
     Swedes, Dutchmen, and Orientals.
]

prisoners. The general plan of the new buildings consisted of a series
of stone blocks radiating from a central point. Each block was of three
stories, two of them intended for long sleeping rooms, the third or top
story being used for a living room during the day and for exercise when
the weather, often inclement, forbade it in the open air. The floorings
of rooms and passages resembled those of a ship and were made of hard
timbers with caulked seams. These blocks or main buildings, seven in
number, were enclosed at a distance of forty feet by a circular line of
palisading, composed of stout iron bars with sharp points. As a further
obstacle were two granite walls fourteen feet high and twenty two feet
apart, and around the whole exterior ran a military road on which were
erected at intervals high stages overlooking the yards, for the
sentries, always on duty.

The original edifice and the boundary walls cost about £130,000 and were
completed in December, 1808. The several buildings were allotted as far
as possible to the various nationalities of which there were many,
including representatives of almost every European country, bearing
witness to the extent and diversity of the empire over which Napoleon
ruled. There were Frenchmen, Spaniards, Portuguese, Italians, Swiss,
Germans, Poles, Swedes, Dutchmen, and Orientals in the service of
Holland, which was then closely allied to France, some of them Malays
and Chinese. Later on a large influx of American prisoners swelled the
total and among them as many as a thousand coloured people, who, in
deference to the strong national prejudice, were kept entirely separate
and always restricted to a distinct block, that known as Number Four.
All sorts and conditions of men were included in this heterogeneous
collection which amounted at one time to ten thousand souls, members of
every conceivable trade and profession. Soldiers and sailors were in the
majority, of course, and the crews of merchant ships taken as prizes
were very numerous; there were artists of every category, painters and
actors, literary men and men of scientific pursuits, and many who had
been priests but had left the church in the troublous times. The
permanent garrison to overawe this despairing multitude so easily
intimidated, constantly discontented and quick to rise into
insubordination, was seldom more than a single regiment of militia or
line serving practically on a war footing, with an army of guards,
patrol and pickets, forever on duty and ready to turn out at a moment’s
notice to quell disturbances, give chase to fugitives and hunt them down
to the utmost limits of the moor.

There was an aristocracy of the prison; one of its blocks, to which the
French inmates gave the name of “_le petit cautionnement_” and which the
Americans called “the Commodore,” was set aside for the officers of
merchant ships, state officers who had broken parole and had been
retaken, and many of those (among them a negro general) attached to the
expedition against San Domingo under General Rochambeau, in 1803. These
West Indian officers had in their prison an excellent military band,
which was permitted to play daily.

As soon as the prisons were filled the French of their own accord
proceeded to organise a constitution. First of all, the inhabitants of
each prison elected a president, and then each separate apartment chose
its own commissary who was to exercise authority under the former. The
suffrage was universal and the election by ballot. As a necessary
consequence bribery and corruption were altogether banished from this
retreat of equality and fraternity. The authority of the presidents and
commissaries extended to every point on which it could possibly be
exercised. They were at once magistrates, judges and policemen, and
sometimes had to carry their own judicial sentences into execution. On
one occasion the cooks of a certain ward were condemned to death by the
president and the commissary because, unfortunately, a number of rats
were found boiled in the soup. They were respited, however, on making a
sufficient apology and laying the crime of the unhappy pottage to the
door of the perfidious British guard. At another time a prisoner
convicted of having stolen a shirt, was deprived of his political
privileges, declared incapable of voting at any elections, and finally
sent to Coventry for a period of six months. He was taken to the
hospital and died there of “_langueur_,” a disease common enough in the
place, a sort of loss of hope and fatal fading away. We will add that
all offenders did not escape so easily as the cooks. It is known that
very many murders,--judicial or otherwise,--took place within the
prisons. Among their inmates were men well acquainted with various
methods of secret despatch, so that the judges of the Dartmoor
_Vehm-Gericht_ had no difficulty in finding officers who could carry out
their sentences with scarcely a mark of external violence.

The prisoners were self-arranged under the following heads:--

“The Lords:” These were the richer prisoners, who received regular
supplies from home, and carried on a traffic within the walls, making
their own purchases at the grating of the market square. They had from
sixty to eighty shops in each prison, where they sold tobacco, thread,
soap, coffee, etc.

“The Labourers:” Those who worked at different trades, thereby supplying
themselves with the means of procuring something more than the ordinary
prison comforts.

“The Indifferents:” Those who did nothing, but resigned themselves to
the tender mercies of the English government.

“The Minables:” Gamblers who were ready to sell their last shirt to
satisfy their love of play.

“The Kaiserlichs:” Gamblers like the Minables, but who had attained an
utter obliviousness to human cares and necessities. When the annual
supply of clothing was distributed--a pair of trousers, a yellow jacket
marked with black letters, a shirt, and a pair of shoes--they at once
sold their allotments to the highest bidder and went all the rest of the
year barefoot and shirtless.

“The Romans:” The lowest class of all; so called because they occupied
the highest story of each prison, called the “capitol.” They possessed
no single article of clothing. Each man wore only a blanket, looked upon
as common property, with a hole cut in the middle, through which the
head was passed. In order to become a Roman, it was necessary that the
candidate’s hammock should be sold, and tobacco bought with the
proceeds, for the enjoyment of the whole society. They might be seen in
the common passages of the prison, five or six together fighting like
dogs for some chance bone or potato peeling, and it was said that on one
occasion when the governor’s cart had been sent into the court of the
prison, the “Romans” seized the horses, and killed and devoured them.
When the “capitol” was closed for the night, their general, who alone
had a hammock, but without mattress or covering, arranged his men in two
lines on either side, and at the word “_bas!_” all stretched themselves
on the floor in perfect order and silence. Even the solitary blanket was
laid aside in their own wards; but the general, besides the dignity of
a hammock, was allowed on certain occasions to wear a kind of uniform,
of which the embroidery was of straw, curiously worked. Once, when the
whole body of the “Romans,” about six hundred in number, had been
permitted to visit the interior of another prison, they seized the
supplies in the kitchen en route, actually made prisoners of the guard
sent to suppress the riot, and then paraded the court with loud cries of
“Vive l’Empereur.” The guards were speedily reinforced, and the “Roman”
general dismissed to the _cachot_. The scanty military strength which
could be spared for Dartmoor was a source of considerable apprehension
during the whole time the prisons were occupied.

Many details respecting these unhappy “Romans” are here purposely
omitted, although the authority quoted, L. Catel, does not hesitate to
relate them. They exhibited perhaps the lowest degradation of which
humanity is capable. An intense passion for play, manifested more or
less by the whole body of prisoners, was the main cause of their
wretched condition; but crime in all its shapes was common among them,
not the less horrible on account of the reckless and frantic merriment
with which it was accompanied. And yet among them were some of the best
educated of the prisoners. What was exhibited at Dartmoor was that same
dark tendency of human nature which in all ages has led men encompassed
by great and irremediable difficulties to catch at the first enjoyments
that present themselves. The throng of prisoners, housed together for
long and dreary years, was, it must be remembered, without any of that
surveillance which they would have had as criminals or convicts. The
sole aim of authority was merely to retain them safely.

The general sanitary condition of Dartmoor was, considering the great
number of men, remarkably good. The hospital was well appointed and the
patients well cared for; the humane treatment afforded them is
gratefully acknowledged on all sides. Fevers and small-pox at one time
committed great ravages, and the Americans suffered much. But those
disorders were most skilfully treated, and letters to that effect were
afterward sent by the released prisoners to Sir George McGarth, the
surgeon in attendance. There were a few instances of suicide both among
French and Americans.

It is worth notice that the “Romans” of Dartmoor, in spite of their ten
years’ imprisonment, winter and summer, utterly without clothing, were
more healthy than any other men in the depot. They were, however,
frequently brought to the hospital in a state of suspended animation,
from which they were recovered by the usual processes. They were at last
removed altogether to prison Number Four, that appropriated in part to
the coloured population, which was separated from the others. Regular
supplies of money and clothing were issued to them by the government
four times during the year, but they got rid of these within even a day
or two. At last they were removed from Dartmoor, clothed afresh, and put
on board a hulk at Plymouth, where they were debarred from intercourse
with the guards on the ship and closely watched, under strict
discipline, until their release at the end of the war in 1814. They were
then four hundred and thirty-six in number.

Life at Dartmoor must have been almost intolerable to this polygot
collection of foreigners with little in common among them but never
ending misery. Strangers in a strange land, surrounded by dreary wastes,
shivering under leaden skies, seldom seeing the sun which to many was as
the breath of life, all alike were consumed with inappeasable nostalgia,
hopelessly cut off from their native soil and seemingly separated
forever from their kith and kin and all they held most dear. Yet many
strove bravely in various ways to combat their wretchedness, to rise
superior to ever torturing despair. Occupation was a constant craving
with the larger number. Work of any kind was thankfully undertaken to
pass the weary hours. All who possessed any handicraft gladly offered
their services to the authorities. Ready employment offered to masons,
blacksmiths, carpenters, coopers, painters and so forth, in the many
buildings in progress around. By their aid two of the main blocks were
completed and the walls of the prison chapel were raised entirely by
the French captives, after their arrival on the moor. Road making and
the improved approaches and communications gave work to many more beyond
the enclosures. All permitted to work outside the prison limits carried
a tin plate or badge on their caps and were always engaged under the
eyes of the guards. If any got away the working pay of the rest was
forfeited for a time, not always an effectual plan, however, in checking
escapes.

The prisoners found many outlets for their steady and intelligent
industry. With the native ingenuity of the Frenchmen they employed
themselves constantly in the manufacture of fancy articles, which were
presently sold and some of which are still preserved as art treasures in
many English country homes. There is one ivory box possessed by Maclaine
of the island of Mull, originally made by a French war prisoner confined
in Edinburgh Castle, which is a marvel of artistic excellence and
covered with intricate carving. Another fine piece is mentioned: the
model of a ship only two inches in length constructed of bone by a
French sailor in Dartmoor prison, and which fetched the high price of
five hundred francs. Considerable sums were earned in this way; and it
is stated that when the day of release came prisoners often took with
them as much as one hundred pounds. Facilities for traffic in these
products were afforded by the prison authorities. A daily market was
held in an open space arranged within the innermost yard of the prison,
and to this people from the neighbourhood were admitted, bringing
articles of food for sale and to bargain for the commodities offered by
the prisoners, who also sold surreptitiously their rations and their
clothing in their hunger for ready money. The rations at that time
consisted of one pound of bread, half a pound of fresh meat, a quarter
of a pint of peas and a modicum of salt. Many of the Frenchmen had
special aptitude for trading and did a large business with the
outsiders. Some established coffee houses inside for the convenience of
their comrades; others set up as cooks and one invented a certain ragout
composed of mutton pies and potatoes called _ratatouille_ which was
highly commended.

More intellectual occupations were followed by the well educated.
Professors of various forms of learning might be found within its walls,
masters of most European languages, teachers of drawing, mathematics,
music and dancing. Books were by no means scarce, and it is said that
many who had arrived quite illiterate and ignorant, left the prison
possessing a good stock of general learning. Amusement of the higher
sort was not wanting, for a theatre existed with a respectable company
and many popular French comedies were regularly represented.

All amusements were not as reputable and comparatively harmless as
theatre going, nor all employments as honest. A passion for gambling
possessed the greater number of the prisoners, and the secret of much of
the strenuous industry previously mentioned, on the part of the ragged
and naked “Romans,” was to be found in the craving for funds to venture
in games of chance. It drove the idle and impecunious to break the
strict rules forbidding the prisoners to make away with rations or
clothing despite the penalties attached of forfeiture and the issue of a
yellow suit in the second case as a badge of ignominy. The attempt to
stop play was futile, for although cards were not permitted within the
limits, a hundred ingenious plans were devised for trying the luck of
the players. A day’s rations, a week’s, a month’s were risked on the
toss of a coin, or the length of a straw pulled out of a mattress. Bets
were laid as to the number of turns a sentry would make on his beat, or
whether or not the doctor would appear with a newly curled wig. An
amusing and most original game was played with the assistance of the
prison rats, who after “lights out,” when the ship’s lantern alone
feebly illuminated a ward, ventured out of their holes hunting for
crumbs of food that might have fallen beneath the hammocks. A specially
tempting morsel having been placed in an open space, the arrival of the
performers was anxiously looked for. They were all known by name and
thus each player was able to select his champion for the evening. As
soon as a certain number had gained the open, a sudden whistle given by
a disinterested spectator sent them back to their holes and the first to
reach his hole was declared the winner. An old grey rat called “Père
Ratapon” was a great favourite with the gamblers; for though not so
active as his younger brethren, he was always on the alert to secure a
good start when disturbed.

Whatever the reason, whether the baneful effects of previous training,
or the pressure of greed and the opportunities offered to gratify it by
the absence of any close supervision, one section of the French
prisoners was constantly and successfully engaged in criminal pursuits.
Dartmoor was long an active centre for coiners and bank-note forgers;
some of the prisoners possessed uncommon skill in these nefarious
processes. No precautions could check the manufacture or prevent the
passing out and circulation of spurious money through the kingdom. The
traffic was flourishing and very largely profitable; the intermediary,
for the most part the military guard, brought in the Spanish silver
dollars collected and sent up from Plymouth and each coin worth four
shillings was converted into eight of that value. The necessary
materials for fabricating bank-notes came through the same channel and
although no doubt imperfect, so much skill was displayed in their
manufacture that the imitation was so nearly exact that even at the
banks themselves the forged notes often passed undetected. As the
military guard was always suspected, the men were searched on going on
and coming off duty and if caught were, of course, severely punished.
Nevertheless many thousand notes were put in circulation and great
numbers of bad shillings.

Speaking in general terms, the condition of the French prisoners at
Dartmoor was not particularly irksome, apart from the continual aching
sense of exile and loss of freedom. The mass of the French at Dartmoor
lived well and made money to lay up. They admitted themselves that they
were at times “_fort gais_” and scrupulously kept up their
demonstrations on fête days and great anniversaries when they promenaded
the yard in procession behind the Tricolor and made loud cries of _Vive
la France_ and _Vive l’Empereur_. They were entirely neglected by their
own government, which as a rule contributed nothing to their support,
and they must have known that but for the obstinate policy of Napoleon,
in refusing to allow exchanges of war prisoners, some of them at least,
if not all, might long since have returned to their own country. They do
not appear to have fraternised very cordially with the American
prisoners when they began to arrive. The latter were generally much
discontented, not only on account of their loss of liberty, but that
they felt themselves neglected and in an inferior position to their
French colleagues, who had the best quarters and were longer residents
and more at home. For some time the Americans shared the block occupied
by the “Romans,”--a very sufficient cause of grievance. Prolonged
confinement in Dartmoor had, not strangely, an evil effect on their
tempers. The men were apt to be quarrelsome and easily annoyed over
small things, and under the prevailing code of honour disputes could
only be settled in one way, by personal encounter. The authorities did
not entirely prohibit duelling until the use of foils as a recreation
gave encouragement to hostile encounters. It was easy enough in a
community, trained to the use of arms, to remove the guard buttons from
the foils and convert the harmless toy into a lethal weapon. So much
mischief ensued that fencing with foils was forbidden, but on one
occasion a hostile meeting was declared inevitable between a French
corporal of the marines and a privateer’s man. It was necessary to find
weapons and great ingenuity was displayed in providing them. Two long
strips of hard wood were obtained from the carpenters employed in fixing
the roof of a Roman Catholic chapel. One end of each strip was fashioned
into a handle with a proper guard; at the other end, knife blades were
fixed, ground down to a fine point, and thus armed, the opponents met.
In the fierce fight which ensued the marine received a severe wound in
his shoulder and a great gash on the sword arm. When taken to the
hospital it was impossible to conceal the cause of these wounds. A
search was made for the weapons which were seized and confiscated.




CHAPTER VII

THE HULKS

     Description of the _Proteus_--Story of a French sufferer--Aspect of
     his fellow prisoners--Below decks--System of
     discipline--Overcrowding and bad sanitary conditions--Dietaries
     coarse and insufficient--Employments on board--The “Rafalés,” their
     misery and degradation--Attempts at escape often
     successful--Escapes at Dartmoor--Prisoner walled up in a
     chimney--Naval officer’s uniform stolen--Some figures giving number
     of French prisoners in custody.


We may leave Dartmoor for a time and return to the Hulks, which it was
intended to supplement and in a measure replace. It is well known that
they were viewed with horror, and some personal experiences of one who
was confined on board one for nearly nine years will be read with
interest. M. Louis Garneray, the author, was a French painter, who came
from a family of artists, and who took to a seafaring life from a love
of adventure. He sailed to the East on a French ship and made the
homeward voyage on the _Belle Poule_, one of a squadron which was to
cruise on the west coast of Africa, and was captured on the 30th of
March, 1806, by the English sloop _Ramillies_. Mr. Louis Garneray was
wounded and made prisoner and from that date, as he tells us, began a
torture which lasted for the nearly nine years of his imprisonment on
board the English hulks. He relates as follows: “I thought I was dead to
the past, but my blood boils with indignation when I recall the
unheard-of sufferings that I endured in those tombs of the living. The
lot of a solitary prisoner awakens compassion, but at least he is not
tortured by witnessing the woes of a herd of poor wretches, brutalised
and exasperated by privations and misery. Far from exaggerating I would
even wish to abate something of the truth in my account of the terrible
miseries of the English hulks.

“It took six weeks to reach Portsmouth Roads, and on the morning after
our arrival, I was transferred with some others to the hulk _Proteus_.
For the benefit of those who do not know what a hulk is, I may explain
that it is an old dismasted vessel, a two or three decker, which is
moored fast so as to be almost as immovable as a stone building.

“I passed between rows of soldiers on to the deck, and was brutally
thrust into the midst of the wretched, hideous mortals that peopled the
hulk. No pen, however powerful, could bring before the reader the sight
on which my eyes fell. Imagine a crowd of corpses leaving their graves
for a moment--hollow eyes, wan, cadaverous complexions, bent backs,
beards neglected, emaciated bodies, scarcely covered with yellow rags,
almost in shreds, and you will then have some notion of the scene that I
saw.

“Scarcely had I set foot on the deck, when the warders laid hold of me,
tore off my clothes with violence, forced me into an icy cold bath, and
then dressed me in a shirt, a pair of trousers, and waistcoat of an
orange yellow. Not an inch of stuff had been wasted in making these
garments; the trousers came to an end half way down my legs, and the
waistcoat obstinately refused to button. These garments bore the
initials T. O. stamped on them in black; those letters stood for
Transport Office. When dressed, I and my companions had our names
entered, and then each of us had a post assigned to him.

“The forecastle and the space between it and the quarter-deck were the
only parts where the prisoners were allowed to take air and exercise,
and not always even there. This space was about 44 feet long by 38 wide.
This narrow space was called by the prisoners ‘the park.’ Fore and aft
were the English; at one end the lieutenant in command; the officers,
their servants and a few soldiers at the other. The part allotted to the
prisoners was strongly boarded over, and the planks were thickly studded
with broad-headed nails, making them almost as impenetrable as a wall of
iron; and at intervals were loopholes, which, in case of an outbreak,
would enable the garrison to fire upon us without exposing themselves.
The prisoners’ berths were on the lower gun-deck and the orlop-deck,
each of which was about 130 feet long by 40 wide. In this space were
lodged nearly seven hundred men. The little light which could have
reached us through the portholes was obscured by gratings two inches
thick, which were inspected daily by our jailers. All round the vessel
ran a gallery with open floor, so that, had anyone attempted to hide
underneath, he would have been immediately seen by the sentinels, who
were always on duty in this gallery. Our guard consisted of about forty
or fifty soldiers; about twenty sailors and a few boys were also on
board. Sentinels were placed all over the vessel and on the quarter-deck
were always eight or ten men ready to take arms at the least noise. At
night we heard every quarter of an hour the monotonous cry of the
sentinels: ‘All’s well.’

“At six o’clock in the evening, during summer, and two in winter, the
English went round striking the sides of the hulk and the gratings over
the portholes, to see that all was right; later, soldiers armed with
loaded and bayoneted muskets came into our part of the hulk, and made us
go on deck that we might be counted. After this, the hatches and
portholes were closed, in winter at least, for in summer the portholes
were left open or we should have been all dead in the morning. As it was
the air was so poisoned by the close shutting up together of so many
persons, that the English, after opening the hatches in the morning,
rushed away from them immediately. The furniture of the hulk was very
simple; it consisted of a long bench placed against the walls, and four
others in the middle. Each prisoner was given, on coming on board, a
hammock, a thin blanket, and a flock mattress. The seven hundred
hammocks were arranged in two rows, one above the other. There was no
distinction of rank among us, but those of the prisoners who could
afford it, had made a sort of frame, which they themselves fitted with
mattresses; they were thus a little more comfortable, but the poisonous
air and vermin were the lot of all alike.

“It was, however, in our provisions that the hatred of the English
showed itself most clearly. Each prisoner’s ration consisted of a pound
and a quarter of brown bread, and seven ounces of cow-beef; for soup at
noon we were allowed three ounces of barley and an ounce of onion for
every four men. One day in the week, instead of meat and soup, we had a
pound of red herring and a pound of potatoes; and on another, a pound of
dried cod, with the same quantity of potatoes. These quantities would
have been sufficient, but the contractors always cheated; there were
also deductions made from a prisoner’s allowance for any attempted
escape, and for other alleged misconduct; and we had made a rule that
each should contribute his share towards these diminutions. There were
also other reductions made voluntarily by ourselves to pay for a
newspaper clandestinely introduced, and to supply money to those who had
escaped. The provisions were cooked by some of our number. We
breakfasted on dry bread; at noon we had our soup with bread in it, and
the meat was reserved for supper. The herrings were so detestable that
we generally sold them back again to the contractors at a low price;
they came round to us the next week; and in this way some of them did
duty faithfully for more than ten years! With the money realised by
their sale, we bought a little butter or cheese. The dried cod was bad,
but we could manage to swallow it. The bread was often heavy as lead,
but heavy as it was, the weight given to us was frequently so
insufficient that we were compelled to make complaint; and in that case
we had to wait fasting till the evening, before the proper authority
could find time to give his decision. Water was brought to us by little
boats, from which we ourselves had to raise it; those who were too weak,
too old or too dignified to share in this task, paid a halfpenny to
their substitutes. We had also to take each his part in cleaning our
decks and ‘the park.’ Crimes and disorders, the reader may suppose,
would be frequent enough in such an assembly of men, exasperated by
suffering and misfortune.

“In the _Proteus_ order was preserved as far as possible by a committee
of eight members, chosen by the majority, and their task was to issue
orders relating either to our general life or to particular cases, and
also to give decisions without appeal in all differences that arose. In
the event of a crime, however, the committee had only the power to
summon all the prisoners, who, in grave cases, were the judges. The
right of pardon did not exist in our community. To these means of
keeping order must be added the moral influence of the officers on
board, for although there was no distinction of rank, they were
generally esteemed, and could mostly get a hearing from the crowd.

“This was the community to which I was now introduced. When I went to
take the post assigned to me, there seemed to me to hang about the long
chamber a thick cloud, bearing in it the germs of epidemics. I had been
in my life in a slaver with 250 slaves packed in the hold, I knew how
poisonous was the atmosphere there, and thought that nothing could be
worse--I now learnt my mistake. The horrible den in which I found myself
was dimly lighted by the portholes covered with gratings; as my eyes
became accustomed to the dim light, I saw around the pale corpse-like,
ragged wretches I have described. Except a few who, stretched on the
boards at full length, wan and dull-eyed, seemed at the point of death,
all in this hideous den were busily engaged. Some, armed with planes,
were carpentering; others were at work in bone, making ornaments and
chessmen; others were making really beautiful models of ships; some were
making straw hats, and others knitted night caps; there were also among
them tailors, shoemakers and one man who manufactured, Heaven knows from
what, tobacco; nor must I omit the professors of fencing, the baton,
and, above all, dancing-masters, whose lessons were charged at the rate
of a halfpenny for an hour’s instruction. Seated near the portholes were
some of our officers, who by way of killing the time and earning a few
pence, gave lessons in algebra or geometry, at a price not above that
which the dancing-master received. Through this crowd moved dealers with
their cries of ‘Who wants to sell? Who buys?’ Every now and then some
poor wretch with hunger in his looks, would stop one of them, and
dispose of the miserable rags from his back, and then, turning to
another dealer, expend the amount in unattractive food. Some of the
occupations of which I have spoken--such as, for example,
straw-plaiting--were forbidden by the English, as coming into
competition with their own manufactures; with slight interruptions,
however, the prisoners worked continuously through the whole day.

“Did a soldier, sentinel or not, set foot on the gangway leading to our
part of the hulk, the first prisoner who observed him raised the signal
agreed on by us, and at the cry of ‘ship’ repeated from one end to the
other, everything forbidden was stowed away, and any who might happen to
be piercing the walls of the hulk in order to make their escape ceased
working for a while.

“My adventurous life had brought me into contact with many hardships,
but when I was shown the place assigned to me my heart sank. I had,
however, a little money; and for three out of my five louis, I purchased
from a soldier, who had succeeded to it within a fortnight, the right to
the best place in the hulk. I got a table and bench into the bargain,
and thus I was installed.

“I had not been long on board before I found that there was a particular
class excelling the generality in utter misery. They were called the
‘Rafalés,’ and lived penned up by themselves in seclusion from the rest.
Incorrigible gamblers, these wretches had long since parted with their
hammocks and blankets; at night they would lie for the sake of warmth in
a row on the bare boards, all on the same side; and when the one at the
head of a row got tired of the position, he would cry out, ‘Tack,’ and
the whole line would immediately change sides. The strange misery of
this existence seemed, nevertheless, to have its charms, for outsiders
would occasionally wish to enter this fellowship, but to do so, certain
rules had to be complied with. The aspirant had to sell all he
possessed, and to give a treat of beer and bread, after which a stone
would be given to him as a pillow, and he was then received as a member.
The experiment was tried of giving these men fresh hammocks, but they
found their softness insupportable and sold them. Many of these wretches
were all but naked; and when the roll was called, two or three in this
condition would hire between them an old blanket, under cover of which
they would come on deck; for this accommodation, the value of a
halfpenny (for money was a thing unknown to them) was deducted from
their next day’s rations. The rations of these men would be pledged for
sometimes five or six days in advance, and then they would wander about
looking with hungry eyes for potato-peelings or onion skins; a herring
head or cabbage-stump would be a blessed discovery; not seldom, however,
two ‘Rafalés’ in the extreme of hunger would even gamble for the prizes
thus obtained. Most of them, of course, soon died, and others, when at
the point of death, would be recovered by a course of treatment at the
hospital.

“By way of whiling away the time and in order that when my liberation
came I might be able to pass my examination, I determined to join those
who were studying mathematics. The difficulties in our way were not
slight; yet so earnestly did we study on board the hulks, that I have
known rude, ignorant sailors, who at setting out could not form a single
letter of the alphabet, become possessed in a few years not only of the
power to write fluently, but also of a competent knowledge of geography
and mathematics. Our first difficulty was to get books and instruments,
and even when this was overcome we had made but little progress. The
noise on deck by day rendered hopeless all attempt at study, and lights
were forbidden at night. At night, however, we determined to work. The
students were the poorest body on board, with the exception always of
our friends the ‘Rafalés;’ we had no money, yet to work at night we must
have a lamp or candle. At dinner, therefore, every student was bound to
set apart carefully every morsel of fat from his meat; this fat was
collected in a large shell, and with the addition of a wick we had our
lamp. When night came we drew our benches up to the table under our
lamp, and then surrounded the whole with a sort of hat, built up of
mattresses, hammocks and blankets. Every chink had to be stopped up to
hide the light from the English, who were constantly on the watch
through the loopholes. Sometimes the air became so bad in this
sanctuary, that I have frequently seen men by no means weak or delicate
fall senseless. These precautions were necessary, as, had we been
discovered, not only should we have had three days in the black-hole (an
awful den), on two-thirds of the allowance, but the authorities, by a
refinement of cruelty, which I have always been at a loss to understand,
were wont to destroy in the presence of prisoners books, papers, slates,
and other things, thus breaking all rules.

“It may be supposed that there was no lack of attempts to escape from
this life, which, in one of the three different hulks on board of which
I was during my imprisonment, was rendered still more miserable by the
choleric and vindictive character of the lieutenant in command. The
first of these attempts after my arrival was made in the following
manner. I have stated that water was brought over to us by little boats;
these boats carried back empty the barrels they had previously left.
Accordingly, the night before the arrival of the water-boat, one of our
number hid himself in an empty barrel. I and another were in the secret,
and it happened to be our turn to assist in raising and lowering the
casks. We had raised all the full barrels, and the order was given to
lower the empty ones. I could hear my heart beat, when, after having
lowered all but the row which would remain at the top, my companion and
I moved towards a barrel marked with a notch, to show us that it was
there our friend lay hidden. It descended safely and the boat, after a
while, pushed off. The man who had invented this desperate means of
escaping intended to remain till the following night in his barrel, and
then, when all was quiet, to get somehow to shore. Wild as the
undertaking seemed, it succeeded, nevertheless; but some time afterwards
when, from not hearing of his capture, we concluded that he had made
good his escape, and were about to repeat the attempt, we observed, to
our bitter disappointment, that the English carefully inspected the
barrels before lowering them.

“Various other methods were put in practice; and it was not seldom that,
in the dead of night, we were awakened by the firing of a musket,
followed perhaps by a cry, whereby we learnt that some attempt had been
discovered. The water would be immediately illuminated and boats would
put off from the other hulks to aid in the chase if necessary, and
presently soldiers would invade our den, and wake up those who still
slept with blows of the fist or the butt-ends of their muskets. Then,
for two hours, perhaps, we should have to turn out on deck, while we
were counted several times over; and when we at last regained our
hammocks, the rest of the night would pass in questions and suppositions
as to who had escaped, and whether he had got safely off. For an
intended escape was made known only to those who were to share in it,
and a few friends who could be relied on. Men driven desperate by hunger
would, for the sake of a little relief, turn traitors, and inform
against their companions in wretchedness. So many escapes were effected,
that at last, in order to reduce their number, the English Government
decreed that the flight of a prisoner should be punished by the death of
two others, who were to be hanged in his place, in case he should not be
retaken. Our officers met together and drew up a letter, addressed to
the Privy Council; and from it, in support of what I have stated, and
which else might appear my own invention, I cite the following passages:
‘We are unable adequately to express our astonishment at the order which
you have addressed to us; we have had to read it over and over again
before we could persuade ourselves that it was possible for persons
belonging to a nation calling itself civilised, to put forward such
barbarous threats as those contained in the order. You throw on us the
responsibility of holding in safe custody our comrades, removing it from
those to whom is confided their safekeeping. Prisoners are themselves to
answer for prisoners, and at the hazard of their lives.’ And again: ‘We
cannot doubt that it is your wish to reduce us to despair, and we swear
all, that whatever you may have in store for us, we will meet it with a
firmness that will not disgrace the great nation to which we have the
honour to belong. We choose death rather than ignominy; and death we
will face when called on in such a way as to leave behind us an example
of courage and firmness as striking as that you afford of injustice and
cruelty.’” This letter was followed by petitions from all the hulks, and
the atrocious measure was never put in force. The imposition of such
frightful penalties upon men who were only obeying the first dictates of
nature as exhibited by every caged animal from man downwards, was, of
course, perfectly indefensible. But England was no worse than France in
this respect. Severe punishment was decreed for all English prisoners
who sought to make their escape from French war prisons; at one time a
proclamation was made that all taken in the act should be sentenced to
the galleys; at another they were warned that they would be tried by
court-martial. But these threats availed little, and constant and
determined were the attempts to break away from the ruthless
confinement of such strong places as Verdun, Bitche and Valenciennes.

Our authority, M. Garneray, speaks of three of his attempts to escape
and no doubt he would have tried again but for the blessed advent of
peace. He brings his story to a close with the following last words:
“After long, patient labour, assisted by a companion, I had managed to
cut through the side of the hulk, but we were seen as we ventured forth
by some of the sentinels who laid rough hands upon us and wounded us
severely. Again, with a companion I got overboard, but was recaptured
when within an inch of drowning, the sad fate which overtook my friend.”
Once more, with two others, he contrived to seize a boat and get out to
sea, but when actually within sight of the French coast, they were
overtaken by an English corvette and secured. He says: “I was utterly
broken down. The ill-treatment we had so long suffered grew worse; news
reached us of the disasters of the French arms, and every moment we had
to listen to the grossest abuse of our emperor and our country. One day
my patience was exhausted, and I knocked down a sailor who had grossly
insulted me; others rushed up, and a fight ensued; the captain came up;
and bruised and bleeding I was thrust into the black-hole. Five days had
I been here when earlier in the morning than usual came the man who
generally brought me the morsel of horrible bread which was to last till
the following day: ‘You may come out.’ he said kindly; ‘you are free.’
I rushed on deck to get fresh air, where, to my surprise, I found my
comrades crying, laughing, dancing, shouting. The peace had been signed
and we were free!”

At Dartmoor attempts at escape were frequent and, when backed up with
much patient ingenuity and great daring, sometimes succeeded. A
favourite method of passing out was by mining underneath the boundary
wall. One case which narrowly involved the life of a boy of fourteen,
who was suspected of having given information, may be transcribed from
an official report:--“A poor boy called Philip Hamond,” says the report,
“calls for commiseration. This lad was born at Guernsey and was pressed
by a French privateer, which was taken by one of his Majesty’s cruisers.
The prisoners began a mine, which they carried under the foundations for
about forty yards at a depth of five feet below the surface and about
four feet in diameter, towards the outer walls to which they had nearly
approached. They were unable to work in a straight line on account of
the boulders which they came upon in the gravel, and were frequently
obliged to make a considerable deviation in order to turn these
obstacles. The tools used were wooden spades with an edge of tin, cask
hoops and old iron made into scrapers. The earth taken daily from the
mine had been concealed below the floor and had also been taken out to
the gardens in small quantities with ashes and refuse. The boy Hamond,
observing earth concealed and distributed in several places, became
alarmed lest he himself should become involved in a dangerous venture
and secretly informed the authorities. Upon the discovery of the plot
the prisoners rose in a body and arming themselves with daggers made of
old nails, iron wire and pieces of glass fitted into wooden handles,
they would instantly have made the boy the object of their vengeance if
he had not taken refuge under the bayonets of the guard which was called
in to suppress the rising.”

A captive will risk much and bear much to secure freedom. A Frenchman at
Dartmoor, who was a good practical stone-mason, was employed with others
in building the Princetown rectory-house. They had reached that part of
the work which consisted in fixing a chimney flue, and left an inner
recess large enough to hold a man standing upright, but walled only with
thin stone especially selected for the purpose and easily removable.
After six feet had been gained the strong work was resumed; the flue was
made the proper thickness and the stones rendered in good mortar. Care
was taken to leave air and eyelet holes for breathing and observation in
the six feet of thin wall. One afternoon the intending fugitive entered
the flue and took up his quarters in the above mentioned recess, while
his comrades went on with their work above. They worked so well and with
so much skill that they were particularly commended by their foreman,
who complimented them highly on the excellent face put upon the flue.
The man in hiding was not missed until after the party had left work,
but his absence was discovered at evening roll call. A thorough search
was then made of the rectory-house, inside and out, but the smooth
surface of the walls negatived all idea of a practicable hiding place. A
number of vigorous bayonet thrusts were made up the freshly built flue,
but without betraying or injuring the man inside and the search was
abandoned. It was believed the prisoner had absconded during the day,
having successfully eluded the vigilance of the sentries posted in a
cordon round the house. At nightfall, however, the immured man, finding
all quiet, attacked the green masonry at its thinnest part and
extricating himself without difficulty, made off unobserved. The state
of the flue on the following morning pointed clearly to the method by
which he had effected his escape.

The employment of the prisoners in the officers’ quarters outside the
prison, inspired another clever and audacious Frenchman with a plan of
escape. He was a man of the superior class, well educated, who had been
taken prisoner when serving on board a French privateer. He was a quick
and expert craftsman and was constantly employed in the officers’
quarters executing alterations and repairs. One day he was at work on a
cupboard in the house of the prison doctor who was an officer in the
British navy, and while thus engaged made friends with one of the
maid-servants. With her assistance he received a complete suit of the
doctor’s uniform including his sword and cocked hat. The prisoner was
not unlike the doctor, of the same fair complexion and much the same
height. With consummate coolness and skill he proceeded to change
characters, assuming the uniform which fitted him well and providing
himself with the doctor’s snuff box and silver topped cane. Just as the
hour for evening roll-call approached he had put the finishing touches
to the pigtail which he was careful to arrange as the doctor did, and
then he calmly walked out of the house, gained the high road to Plymouth
without observation and was beyond pursuit almost before his absence was
discovered. The fugitive eventually reached France in safety, whence,
with profuse thanks and acknowledgments, he returned the doctor’s
possessions.

When the continental war was at its height, the total number of French
prisoners was considerable. The majority of the prisoners were of course
sailors and soldiers, civilians being chiefly passengers taken in
merchant ships. All officers and civilians were ranked as gentlemen and
were given parole, with permission to reside within assigned limits on
certain conditions. They were kindly treated as a rule, were received in
society and their position, although painful, was at least endurable.
Great numbers, however, broke their parole between the years 1803-14.
The private men were not admitted to parole and were more or less
closely restricted to the hulks and prisons. It may be asserted on the
authority of contemporary writers that the pictures drawn of the
sufferings endured by the prisoners themselves were greatly exaggerated
and overcoloured. Some degree of severity was unavoidable, but their
treatment was generally mild and humane. The dietaries were sufficient
in quantity; the rations good and wholesome; the clothing warm and
serviceable, although in colour unsightly to lessen the chance of
escape. As time passed and when good order was regularly established,
close attention was paid to sanitary requirements, prisoners’ bedding
was well aired and in good condition, the prison chambers and the
between decks of the hulks were kept clean and dry and were thoroughly
well ventilated.




CHAPTER VIII

AMERICAN PRISONERS IN ENGLAND

     Increase of war prisoners by arrival of Americans in 1812--Mr.
     Andrews’ account, published in New York, 1815--Officers on
     parole--Others confined on board the Hulks at Plymouth--Daily
     duties on board--Removal from Hulks to Dartmoor--Description of
     interior--Precautions taken to prevent escape--Mr. Andrews’ account
     of the French prisoners--Sufferings increased by intense cold and
     snow of the winter of 1814--Stock of rations runs low--Starvation
     threatened--Release of French prisoners--Great schemes of wholesale
     escape--Conflict with the troops--Bloodthirsty conduct of Captain
     Shortland--Troops fire on the prisoners with deplorable
     results--The Dartmoor Prison of to-day--Results achieved by
     judicious labour--Reclamation of waste lands--Profitable
     farming--Good crops raised--Horses and cattle bred.


A very large increase of the number of war prisoners in England was the
result of the war with the United States in 1812. An excellent account
of what befell these American prisoners is preserved in the Memoirs of
Mr. Charles Andrews, published in New York in 1815. Some of his personal
experiences deserve to be quoted _in extenso_.

He says: “I myself happened to be so unfortunate as to be among the
first captives brought into England the 18th of June, 1812. On our first
arrival we were all collected from different ports and confined in
different prisons. Some were sent to Chatham, some to Hamoaze and others
to Portsmouth, where a strict examination took place as to their
nativity and citizenship. After the examination the officers who were
entitled to their parole (such as commanders and first lieutenants of
privateers manning fourteen guns; commanders and first mates of
merchantmen, non-combatants, etc.), received it and were sent to the
little village of Ashburton in Devonshire or Reading in Berkshire; the
former is situated about twenty miles inland from Plymouth and the
principal place of confinement for paroled officers. The town of
Ashburton is pleasantly situated, in a healthy and fertile part of the
country where every article of provision is more easily obtained and at
a much cheaper rate than in many other parts of the kingdom. Here all
the officers on parole had their names registered and particular
personal descriptions taken of them. They were allowed by the British
Government one shilling and sixpence, which equalled thirty-three and a
quarter cents money of the United States, per day each man. With this
small allowance great numbers of paroled officers were compelled
entirely to subsist, for having no other dependence and no friends in
this country, they were obliged to purchase clothing, board and lodging
and all the other necessaries of life, and to make use of every economy
to prevent themselves from suffering, notwithstanding the cheapness of
provisions and the facility of obtaining them. They were permitted
during the day to walk one mile on the turnpike road towards London or
Plymouth and at a certain early hour every evening they had to retire to
their respective lodgings, there to remain till next morning. These were
their general restrictions for all the days in the week except two, on
which every officer must answer at a particular place appointed by their
keepers in the presence of their agent or inspector. In this manner some
numbers of officers were compelled to drag out a tedious existence in a
state of painful solicitude for their country, their homes and families,
during the greater part of the late war.

“But the condition of the officers on parole was favourable indeed when
compared with that of the officers and others not entitled to that
privilege. Every such person taken under the flag of the United States
was sent to some one of the places before mentioned and confined on
board prison ships. The greatest number were sent to the _Hector_ and
_La Brave_, two line battle ships which were unfit for his Majesty’s
service at sea and were now used for the confinement of prisoners of
war. These were placed under the command of a lieutenant.

“The _Hector_ and _La Brave_ lie about two miles from Plymouth, well
moored by chain moorings. Captain Edward Pelew of the Royal Navy, the
agent for prisoners of war, resides at this place. On the reception of
all prisoners into their respective prison ships they were obliged to
undergo a strict examination concerning their birth, place of residence
and age; a complete and minute description of their person in all
respects was taken down in writing. After the examination there was
delivered to each man a very coarse and worthless hammock with a thin
coarse bedsack, with at most not more than three or four pounds of
flocks or chopped rags, one thin coarse and sleazy blanket; this
furniture of the bed-chamber was to last for a year and a half before we
could draw others. After the distribution of the bedding, we were
informed of the rules and restrictions which we must strictly observe.
Every ship has a physician attached to it, who is ever to be on board
and when any prisoner is sick he is to repair immediately to a certain
part of the ship for medical aid; but seldom has he any attention paid
him till the moment of dissolution. The doctors pay but little attention
to the suffering prisoners, although the prisoner is seldom or never
suffered to expire on board; for at the moment that death seems
inevitably approaching, the prisoner is removed to a ship lying near by,
called the hospital ship, where if he happen to survive, he receives
much better treatment and attendance; but when once removed to that ship
he may bid adieu to his fellow prisoners and sublunary things; for not
more than one out of ten ever recovers.

“We were then informed that the Transport Board had most graciously and
humanely, for the health and happiness of the prisoners, imposed on them
the following duties, viz., to keep clean the ship’s decks and hold, to
hoist in water, provisions, coal and every other article expended or
used in the ship; and also to cook their own victuals, which consisted
of the following rations allowed by the English Government,--to each man
one and a half pounds of very poor coarse bread, half a pound of beef
including the bone, a third of an ounce of salt and the same quantity of
barley with one or two turnips per man. These were the rations for five
days in the week; and the other two were fish days, the rations for
which were one pound of salt fish, the same weight of potatoes and the
usual allowance of bread.

“For consolation in our present miserable condition we were informed
that the said honourable board had indulgently permitted the American
prisoners to establish and carry on any branch of manufacture, except
such as knitting woollen fabrics, making straw hats and bonnets, etc.,
or rather, they proscribed every branch of manufacture which they were
capable of pursuing. At this time they could have carried on the making
of straw in plaits for bonnets with very considerable advantage, for
almost every sailor was more or less capable of working at this art and
by directing attention to the business could have earned six or eight
pence per day; but this was not permitted and we considered the
prohibition a contrivance of the agents of the government to induce
prisoners to enter H. M. service.[7]

“During the fall of the year 1812 to the April in 1813, the English had
collected at the following depots the number now mentioned, who were
mostly prisoners delivered up from ships of war and citizens of the
United States detained in them for some time before. At Chatham were
collected about nine hundred; at Portsmouth about one hundred and at
Plymouth about seven hundred. These unfortunate men had often made
application to Mr. Beasley, the agent for American prisoners of war, who
resided in England, but were never able to obtain an answer from him. At
this time great numbers of the oldest prisoners were completely
destitute of clothing.

“On the 2nd April, 1813, the Transport Board, apprehending the escape of
the prisoners, in consequence of their repeated threats to that purpose,
issued an order to Captain Pelew, then agent for prisoners at Plymouth,
to make preparation for removing all the prisoners then confined on
board the _Hector_ prison ship at Plymouth to the depot at Dartmoor in
the county of Devon, situated seventeen miles from Plymouth in the back
country.

“These orders were accordingly made known to the prisoners; and on the
morning of the 3rd April they were ordered on deck with their hammocks,
baggage, etc., in readiness to march to the prison, the very name of
which made the mind of every prisoner ‘shrink back with dread and
startle at the very thought,’ for fame had made them well acquainted
with the horrors of that infamous abode which was by far the most
dreadful prison in all England and in which it was next to impossible
for human beings long to survive.

“Two hundred and fifty dejected and unhappy sufferers, already too
wretched, were called, each of whom received a pair of shoes and his
allowance of bread and salt fish. Orders were then immediately given for
every man to deliver up his bed and hammock and to repair forthwith into
the different launches belonging to the ships of war which were
alongside the ships ready to receive them. The prisoners entered,
surrounded by the guards and seamen belonging to the _Hector_ and _La
Brave_. We were landed at New Passage near Plymouth and were placed
under the guard of a company of soldiers equal in number to the
prisoners. Orders were then given to march at half past ten in the
morning with a positive injunction that no prisoner should step out of
or leave the ranks on pain of instant death. Thus we marched surrounded
by a strong guard, through a heavy rain and over a bad road with only
our usual and scanty allowance of bread and fish. We were allowed to
stop only once during the march of seventeen miles.

“The prison at Dartmoor is situated on the east side of one of the
highest and most barren mountains in England and is surrounded on all
sides, as far as the eye can see, by the gloomy features of a bleak
moor, uncultivated and uninhabited, except by one or two miserable
cottages, just discernible in an eastern view, the tenants of which live
by cutting turf on the moor and selling it at the prison. The place is
deprived of every thing that is pleasant or agreeable, and is productive
of nothing but human woe and misery. Even riches, pleasant friends and
liberty could not make it agreeable. It is situated seventeen miles
distant from Plymouth, fourteen from the town of Moorton and seven from
the little village of Tavastock.

“On entering this depot of ‘living death,’ we first passed through the
gates and found ourselves surrounded by two solid circular walls, the
outer one of which is a mile in circumference and sixteen feet high. The
inner wall is distant from the outer thirty feet, upon which is a chain
of bells suspended by a wire, so that the least touch sets every bell in
motion and alarms the garrison. On the top of the inner wall is placed a
guard at the distance of every twenty feet, which frustrates every
attempt to escape and instantly quells every disorderly motion of the
prisoners. Between the two walls and over the intermediate space are
also stationed guards. The soldiers’ guardhouse, the turnkeys’ office
and many other small buildings are within these two circular walls;
likewise several large commodious dwelling houses which are occupied by
the captain of the prison, doctor, clerks, turnkeys, etc., etc. Inside
the walls are erected large barracks, capacious enough to contain a
thousand soldiers and also a hospital for the reception of the sick. No
pains have been spared to render the hospital convenient and comfortable
for the sick prisoners. And certainly much credit is due to the director
of this humane institution, whoever he may have been, for the attention
paid to this most important appendage to an extensive prison. These last
mentioned buildings and several cell store-houses are enclosed by a
third wall. These three ranks of walls form in this direction a barrier
which is insurmountable.

“At a time when the prisoners had despaired of any relief and began to
reconcile themselves to their hard fate, they were very agreeably
surprised to hear that Mr. Reuben G. Beasley had condescended to visit
them and then waited at the gate for admittance. The idea that their
deliverer had come diffused a general joy through the whole prison and
‘lighted up a smile in the aspect of woe.’ The soldiers and guards were
ordered into the prison and turned out every man, both sick and well;
overhauled the hammocks, swept the prison and opened the
window-shutters; all filth was removed and everything made clean for the
first time since our arrival. The guards were then stationed at the
door, to prevent any prisoner from going in to have any communication
with the Agent; we were told that no man could speak to him or have any
communication with him whatever. At three o’clock the entrance of Mr.
Beasley was announced by the turnkeys. We arranged ourselves in the yard
in anxious expectation of the glad tidings he might bring. He appeared
attended with his clerks, the clerks of the prison and a very numerous
train of soldiers. As he entered the yard of the prison, we presented a
frightful appearance, in our yellow uniforms, wooden shoes, and meagre
lantern-jaws. He viewed the sight and seemed much surprised at the
group. We stood in silent expectation; he moved along to the prison, but
how were our feelings damped; at this moment! when we expected from him
the language of consolation and relief, he only uttered in a careless
tone to his clerks, that ‘he did not think that the number had been so
great.’”

In December the cold increased, and the prisoners suffered acutely.
Captain Cotgrave, the governor and superintendent, ordered the prisoners
to turn out every morning at the hour of nine and stand in the yard till
the guards counted them. This generally took more than an hour. Many
prisoners were without stockings and some without shoes and many without
jackets. They cut up their blankets to wrap up their feet and legs that
they might be able to endure the cold snow while they were attending
this ceremony. Complaints were numerous and this practice was denounced
as much too severe for the prisoners but the superintendent pleaded his
orders which as agent he was bound to obey. Yet there were painful
incidents which should have touched the heart of any feeling man who saw
them. Several of these naked men, chilled and benumbed with cold, and
generally half-starved, fell down lifeless before him and in the
presence of the guards and turnkeys. It was a cruelty exceeding murder
to expose naked helpless creatures to perish in the pitiless blast of
this bleak mountain side. “We remonstrated,” continues Andrews, “with
the infamous author but all our applications and remonstrances were in
vain; the wretch was inexorable; his feelings had become callous by
continuing so long among the sufferings of the French prisoners. After
these men had fallen down in the yard they were taken up and carried to
the hospital and with some difficulty restored to life again; they were
then immediately sent back to prison, there to lie on the stone floor
without bed or covering.

“The name of Isaac Cotgrave, agent at Dartmoor, of cruel memory, will
ever be engraven in odious characters on the minds of every American who
witnessed his unparalleled cruelty.”

Presently the iron sceptre was wrested from his hand and placed beyond
his reach. The new agent, Captain Thomas G. Shortland, at this time,
December, 1812, superseded Cotgrave. Shortland was a man whose feelings
had not yet grown callous, and at his first arrival he was shocked at
the scenes of misery which presented themselves in every shape. Touched
with compassion he could not continue the cruel practice of counting
over the prisoners every morning in the yard. He countermanded the order
which his predecessor pretended he was obliged to enforce, and he
declared to the prisoners that he would do all in his power to procure
them better treatment from his government.

The year 1814 began with as cold weather as was ever experienced in the
city of New York. The buckets in the prison containing ten or twelve
quarts froze in the short space of four hours to a solid mass, and the
prisoners must have inevitably frozen were not the hammocks placed so
near together as to communicate the animal heat from one man to another.
The running stream that supplied the prison was set hard and the weather
was said to be colder than it had been for fifty years before. The water
was all frozen and the prisoners obliged to eat snow for drink. The
guards were driven to abandon their posts on the walls and retire to the
guard house; not one sentry was on duty except inside the barracks. At
midnight eight prisoners, thinking to take advantage of the night to
make their escape as no sentries were in sight, formed a ladder and with
it ascended and descended the first wall directly against the guard
house; in ascending the second the soldiers in the guard house
discovered them and prevented seven; the eighth got over the wall and
got away. Those recaptured were at once carried to the black-hole, the
first destination of all who tried and failed to escape. The weather
was bitterly cold; still despite their sufferings they were passed on to
the inner dungeon and lay there for ten days and nights on the straw;
worse threatened, and for the whole of the inhabitants of Dartmoor
communication with Plymouth was interrupted and supplies promised to run
short. Everyone was put on half or two-thirds allowance. Salt rations, a
reserve of which was always kept in stock, were issued to garrison and
prisoners alike and the total, it was estimated, would not last for more
than ten days for the large population shut in, amounting to nine
thousand French and American prison troops, and numbering fifteen
hundred with officers, doctors and turnkeys besides.

The situation mended when the labours of many hands with spades and
snowplough broke through the deep snowdrifts, and sledges with
provisions arrived. The Americans were also gladdened by the receipt of
a letter from their agent announcing an increase of their money
allowance, intended to pay for coffee and sugar as rations on the salt
fish days. This was to have been distributed in kind but it was thought
the cash,--three and a half pence per head, would be preferred, and the
money was therefore sent, sevenpence per man per week, and was very
heartily appreciated; and the total allowance was increased to six and
eightpence on the understanding that this was to continue being paid
monthly.

“As it was natural to expect,” continues Andrews, “this payment produced
great spirits and animation among the prisoners and was as welcome as a
thousand pounds when we were free and had plenty.” With this money the
prisoners purchased many necessary little articles of clothing such as
shirts, shoes, trousers, etc., which could be bought very cheap of the
French who always kept a store of second-hand clothing which was
supplied by the officers.

The weather then became fine--for the place--and the prisoners’ health
began to improve. They were quite comfortable when their condition was
compared to the distress of the cold winter they had just passed
through. Their little salary seemed to command some respect from the
turnkeys, soldiers, officers and subalterns who were themselves as poor
and meagre as Hamlet’s apothecary. It brought them many indulgences,
such as full liberty of the markets, which had before been proscribed,
when they had been compelled to purchase of the French at the gratings.
This was a great benefit to them, for they could trade with the country
people much cheaper. To regulate the rations they were also allowed to
appoint a committee of two to attend at the store house to see that the
director gave good weight in those articles allowed by the Board.

This year of 1814 saw the end of the French war and the release of the
French prisoners from Dartmoor. “The Americans still detained,” says
another authority, “were dispersed through the prisons, thus obtaining
more space and liberty. They immediately set to work upon a plan for
their escape which the French had never dreamed of attempting.[8] It was
found that a passage two hundred and fifty feet long would carry them
from three of the prisons to the road beyond the wall. Upon this they
set to work in each building, digging by night in alternate parties, and
carrying the earth from the passages into the stream that ran through
their yard. About sixty feet of ground had been got through in this
manner, when the proceedings in one of the prisons were discovered and
stopped. After some delay the work was continued in the others until the
passages were within forty feet of the road without the wall. Every man
was then provided with a dagger, made by the prisoners who worked as
blacksmiths; and they proposed on escaping to make at once for Torbay.
But at this point, one of the prisoners, who perhaps had some discreet
doubt as to the result of the enterprise, walked out in open day before
all then in the yard--went up to the turnkeys, and marching off with
them to the keeper’s house, gave him information of all the operation
and designs--and we never saw him after. Quite as well, perhaps, for the
informer.”

The confirmation of the treaty of Ghent was confidently expected to set
free the Americans. There was still, however, much delay in the
arrangements for the final release; and considerable excitement was the
result. They hung Beasley, the American agent, in effigy; and a few days
later a very serious disturbance took place at the prisons, owing to
some mismanagement in distributing the bread allowances. They broke open
the first three gates, drove the sentries to the guard-house, and were
only checked by the soldiers of the garrison, who advanced upon them
with fixed bayonets. Not a blow, however, was struck; but the alarm was
great and the governor brought additional strength from the troops at
Plymouth. On the evening of that day it was found that an attempt had
been made to pierce the wall between the prisoners’ yards and an
adjoining court, in which were kept the arms of the guard who were off
duty. As soon as this discovery was made, it was thought proper to place
an additional force on the wall commanding the courts, and to ring the
alarm bell, as a signal of disturbance. Unfortunately the prisoners, who
seemed to have had no intention of creating a disturbance, crowded to
the first gate; the iron chain by which it was fastened was broken, and
as many as were able pressed into the market square. It was naturally
inferred that they were on the point of a desperate attempt at escape;
and the governor, after some time vainly endeavouring to induce the
prisoners to return to their yards, at last ordered the guard to charge
them back. This they did; but the Americans still refused to enter
their prisons, insulting the soldiers, daring them to fire, and at last
pelting them with large stones. Whether any command to fire was given is
uncertain; but it then commenced, and was without doubt continued and
renewed without orders, in spite of the governor’s attempts to stop it.
At first, the muskets were fired over the heads of the prisoners, who
raised a cry of “blank cartridges” and continued their attack on the
guard. It is not to be wondered at that the soldiers lost their temper.
Seven of the prisoners were killed, and sixty more or less dangerously
wounded.

The jury who attended the inquest returned a verdict of justifiable
homicide; and both the American and English commissioners who conducted
the subsequent inquiry found it impossible to do more than express their
sorrow at the whole affair.

All of the prisoners, about five thousand, were almost at once released.

This same story is told more at length by Andrews. “On the 22d June,
1814,” he says, “Captain Shortland gave us information that all American
prisoners in England were to be collected at Stapleton (Bristol) as the
Transport Board had selected that place for a general depot. There were
now in England thirty-five hundred unparoled prisoners. The same
information was given at Chatham and Plymouth. On the evening of the 3rd
July an event happened at Dartmoor which ended in a very serious
manner. A dispute arose between two of the prisoners, belonging to the
United States’ brig _Argus_, by the names of Thomas Hill and James
Henry. The quarrel growing quite warm and not being ended with night,
they agreed to fight next morning. Accordingly the following morning
about nine o’clock they commenced the battle in prison No. 4, and by an
unfortunate blow from Hill, Henry was killed on the spot. A jury of
inquest was held over the body of the deceased, and after hearing the
evidence the jury brought in a verdict of ‘manslaughter’ or ‘a killing
not wholly without fault but without malice.’ Thomas Hill was removed
and confined in the county prison at Exeter to await his trial at the
August Assizes, then next ensuing.

“On the 29th December we were most agreeably surprised with the joyful
tidings of peace--the preliminaries were announced in the London paper
which we received this day, and the news was confirmed by a letter from
Mr. Beasley received the same day, stating that the treaty had been
signed by the commissioners at Ghent on the 24th, and that the sloop of
war _Favourite_ would sail with the treaty on the 2nd of January, 1815,
with all possible speed for the United States, and that three months
would release every man from confinement.

“Language is too feeble to describe the transports of joy that so
suddenly and unexpectedly filled every heart. Every man forgot the many
tedious days and nights he had so often numbered over within these
prison walls. On the 13th of February one of four prisoners who had been
sentenced the previous August to remain in his cell during the rest of
the war, watched an opportunity to get among the other prisoners in the
yard, and being led into the yard of that building for the benefit of
the fresh air and seeing the attention of the turnkeys and soldiers
occupied by some other object at this time, jumped over the iron railing
that separated this building from the yards Nos. 1, 2, and 3 and
concealed himself in the midst of the other prisoners. Next morning he
was missed by the keepers and information given to Captain Shortland,
who demanded that the man should be immediately surrendered to be again
returned to his cell. The prisoners positively refused to give the man
up and declared that no force of arms should wrest him from their
protection. Whereupon Captain Shortland closed the market and forbade
any communication with it, restricting the prisoners to their allowance
and denying them every privilege.”

On the 14th February he entered the yard at the head of two hundred
soldiers with fixed bayonets, and every prisoner was ordered to withdraw
into the prison so that search might be made for the missing man. The
whole having agreed to stand by each other and resist any violence, at a
signal given they surrounded the troops and gave notice of their
intention. But the officers interposed, anxious to avoid bloodshed. The
soldiers were ordered to retire and make no further attempt at arrest.
Peace was accordingly maintained until the 6th of April. “But on that
day,” says Andrews, “about six o’clock in the evening Captain Shortland
discovered a hole in the inner wall that separates the barrack wall from
prisons Nos. 6 and 7; this hole had been made in the afternoon by some
prisoners out of mere play without any design to escape.

“On discovering the hole Captain Shortland seemed instantly to conceive
the murderous design, for without giving the prisoners any notice to
retire, he planted soldiers in proper positions on the top of the wall
where they could best assist in perpetrating his murderous and barbarous
deeds. A few minutes past six while the prisoners were innocently, and
unapprehensive of mischief, walking in the prison yards and particularly
those in Nos. 1, 3 and 4 which were entirely separated from the yard in
which the hole in the wall had been made, the alarm bells rung and the
drums of the garrison in every direction beat to arms. This was about
ten minutes past six. Such a sudden and unexpected alarm excited the
attention of all the prisoners, who out of curiosity made immediately
for the gates of the prison yard to enquire the reason of the alarm.
When so many persons were confined in this depot, it is reasonable to
suppose that some mischievous persons were included in the number, and,
as a fact, among those collected at the gate were some who forced the
gates open, whether by accident or design I will not attempt to say, but
without any intention of making an escape, a project totally unknown to
the few who stood in front of the gates. Those at the back naturally
crowded forward to see what was going on at the gates; this pressed and
forced a number through the gates quite inadvertently and without
design. At this juncture Captain Shortland arrived in the inner square
at the head of the whole body of soldiers in the garrison. He took sole
command of the whole and immediately drew up the soldiers in a position
to charge. The English officers, however, penetrating the horrid and
murderous intention of their superior, resigned their authority over the
soldiers and refused to take any part or give any orders for the troops
to fire. They could see by this time that the overawed prisoners were
already retiring as fast as so great a crowd would permit and hurrying
in headlong flight in every direction towards their respective prisons.

“The troops had advanced within three yards of the prisoners when
Captain Shortland gave the order to charge. There was a terrible jam at
the gates and it was quite impossible for so great a crowd to pass
quickly through. Every one was mad to escape from the points of the
bayonets and a dreadful panic prevailed. At that moment, although
completely master of the situation and no other violence or resistance
was being offered or threatened, Captain Shortland was distinctly heard
to give orders to the troops to open fire. It was immediately obeyed by
the troops and a full volley of musketry was poured into the main body
of the prisoners on the other side of iron railings which separated the
prisoners from the soldiers. These volleys were repeated for several
rounds, the prisoners falling either dead or wounded in all directions,
while it was still impossible for them to enter the prison on account of
the numbers that flew there for refuge from the rage of the bloodthirsty
murderers. The troops seemed now resolved to make a wholesale massacre
of all whom accident or impossibility had left outside the prison, and
approaching the crowded doors instantly discharged another volley of
musketry on the backs of those endeavouring to force their way in. The
dead and the wounded lay scattered about the yard. Seven were killed on
the spot and six suffered the loss of leg or arm; thirty-eight were
dangerously wounded, several were pronounced mortally wounded, twelve
slightly, the total number of killed and wounded being sixty-three.”

A despatch was immediately sent to Plymouth to inform the admiral and
general commanding the station. Next morning, the 7th April, 1815, a
colonel with a reinforcement of troops arrived and assumed command at
Dartmoor. He very patiently listened to the accounts of both parties and
an inquest was forthwith assembled, composed of residents in the
neighbourhood, mostly farmers and salesmen. On the evening of the 9th
the jury pronounced a verdict of “justifiable homicide,” which was
indignantly denounced by the American opinion as contrary to the facts
and the result of prejudice and unfair pressure.

Another version of this very regrettable occurrence is given by the
commissioners for Dartmoor under date of 25th April, 1815, who made a
special inquiry. Their report takes a more moderate view than Andrews
and may be considered a plausible attempt by the superior officials to
palliate the circumstances. The commissioners say:--

“During the period which has elapsed since the arrival in this country
of the account of the ratification of the treaty of Ghent, an increased
degree of restlessness and impatience of confinement appears to have
prevailed amongst the American prisoners at Dartmoor which, though not
exhibited in the shape of any violent excess, has been principally
indicated by threats of breaking out if not soon released. On the 4th of
April in particular, only two days previous to the events, the subject
of this enquiry, a large body of prisoners rushed into the market square
from whence by the regulations of the prison they are excluded,
demanding bread instead of biscuits which had on that day been issued by
the officers of the depot. Their demands, however, having been then
almost immediately complied with, they returned to their own yards and
the employment of force on that occasion became unnecessary.

“On the evening of the 6th, about six o’clock, it was clearly proved to
us:--

“That a breach had been made in one of the prison walls sufficient for a
full sized man to pass and that others had been commenced in the course
of the day near the same spot though never completed;

“That a number of prisoners were near the railing erected to prevent
them from communicating with the sentinels on the walls, which was of
course forbidden by the regulations of the prison, and that in the space
between the railing and these walls they were tearing up pieces of turf
and wantonly pelting each other in a noisy, disorderly fashion;

“That a much more considerable number of the prisoners were collected
together at that time in one of their yards, near the place where the
breach was effected, and although such collection of prisoners was not
unusual at other times (the gambling tables being commonly kept in that
part of the yard) yet when connected with the circumstances of the
breach and the time of the day, being after the signal for the prisoners
to go to their respective prisons had ceased to sound, it became a right
and just ground of alarm to those who had charge of the depot. Upon
these grounds Captain Shortland appears to us to have been justified in
giving the order, which about six o’clock he seems to have issued, to
sound the alarm bell, the usual warning for collecting the officers of
the depot and putting the military on the alert. However reasonable and
justifiable this was as a measure of protection, the effects produced
thereby in the prisons, but which could not have been intended, were
most unfortunate, and deeply to be regretted. A considerable number of
the prisoners in the yards where no disturbance existed before, and who
were either already within their respective prisons or quietly retiring
as usual towards them, immediately upon the sound of the bell, rushed
back from curiosity--as it appears--towards the gates where by that time
a crowd had assembled.

“Captain Shortland, in the first instance, proceeded out of the square
towards the prisoners, having ordered a part of the different guards to
the number of about fifty only, though they were increased afterwards,
to follow him. For some time both he and Dr. Magrath (the chief medical
officer) endeavoured by quiet means and persuasion to induce the
prisoners to retire to their own yards, explaining to them the fatal
consequences which must ensue if they refused, as the military would in
that case be necessarily compelled to employ force. Captain Shortland
finding persuasion was in vain, at last ordered about fifteen file of
the guards to charge the prisoners back to their yards. With regard to
any order having been given to fire the evidence is very contradictory.
Several of the Americans swear positively that Captain Shortland gave
that order, but the manner in which from the confusion of the moment
they describe this part of the transaction is so different in its
details that it is very difficult to reconcile their testimony. Moreover
Captain Shortland denies the fact.

“The firing in the square having continued for some time, by which
several of the prisoners sustained injuries, the greater part of them
appear to have been running back with the utmost precipitation and
confusion to their respective prisons and the cause for further firing
seems at this period to have ceased. The subsequent firing appears to
have arisen from the state of irritation and exasperation on the part of
the soldiers who followed the prisoners into their yards and from the
absence of nearly all of the officers who might have restrained it.
Captain Shortland was from this time busily occupied with the turnkeys
in the square receiving and taking care of the wounded.”

Great efforts were afterwards made to bring home the responsibility for
the deaths or wounds inflicted, and to identify the soldiers who had
opened fire, but with no satisfactory result. The men to blame could not
be discovered, and indeed they must have been sheltered under the orders
that must almost certainly have been received. The commissioners in the
end came to a rather lame and impotent conclusion, and wound up their
report with the words: “Whilst we lament most deeply the unfortunate
transaction which has been made the subject of this inquiry, we find
ourselves totally unable to suggest any steps to be taken as to those
parts of it which seem to call for any redress or punishment.” This
“horrid massacre,” as it was freely styled at the time, was subsequently
submitted to a joint commission of English and Americans who awarded no
special blame, but were unanimous in deploring the costly mistake made
by too easily excited prisoners on the one side, and authorities too
hasty in availing themselves of savage and ferocious means of
repression.

It was not the only outbreak of dangerous dimensions at Dartmoor, but
that of 1812 was happily quelched without bloodshed. The mutineers were
Frenchmen and, according to a contemporary account, the prisoners rose
in protest against the issue of biscuit as a ration in lieu of bread.
The bake house had been recently destroyed by fire, and it was necessary
to give biscuit; at first an increased allowance of one and a half
pounds, but reduced presently to one pound. Any interference with the
dietaries is a dangerous proceeding with prisoners and generally
resented. On this occasion some seventy-five hundred of them broke out
in open insurrection. They attacked and broke the ponderous bars of the
principal gate, but could do no more mischief, and as a last resource
sought to set fire to the prison and escape _en masse_. The troops
saved the situation, assisted by three pieces of artillery brought to
bear upon the mutineers, which overawed them without opening fire.

Dartmoor was vacated on the advent of peace and remained empty for many
years. It was maintained in a habitable condition, however, and another
use was found for it as time passed, somewhat on the old lines, still as
a prison, but for criminal offenders. When the cessation of
transportation beyond the seas brought about a complete change in the
British methods of secondary punishment, and it was essential to provide
penal establishments at home, Dartmoor was converted into a convict
prison appropriated at first to invalids, but eventually to the able
bodied; and felon labour was applied in large quantities to the
reclamation of the barren moorland and its conversion into productive
farms. It was an ideal penal settlement; at first a wild, barbarous
place remote from the busy haunts of men, yet not too far for effective
control and supervision. When here, stern salutary discipline could be
enforced for the correction of wrong-doers and their removal, although
falling far short of the old penal exile with its many evils and
drawbacks, would act as a deterrent from the commission of crime.

The Dartmoor of to-day is an object lesson to prison administrators. It
is a striking proof of what patience and the judicious application of a
well conceived, admirably well worked out system can accomplish. It has
had a double aim; the useful and remunerative employment of depredators
making restitution, and the endowment of the country by bringing wide
areas of waste land into cultivation. In the earlier stages of its
renewed life, incessant labour was bestowed upon the improvement and
adaptation of ancient buildings to modern requirements, to fencing,
draining, road-making and then the regeneration of the soil to
agricultural pursuits. The prison farm, now of more than two thousand
acres, has been created by convicts in upwards of forty years. The whole
of this acreage, once a mere common and unenclosed waste, is now
transformed into productive fields worked with a proper scientific
rotation of crops. “Ground that was once mostly rushes is now able to
carry a bullock per acre through the summer. No purer or cleaner
pastures are to be found anywhere.... Sixty-seven acres of meadow land
have been laid out for irrigation and utilisation of the sewage from the
prison establishment, which at times numbers upwards of one thousand
persons. A dairy herd of forty-five cows is kept and all the cows are
reared ... a flock of four hundred sheep, ‘Improved Dartmoors,’ is kept
and has frequently been successful in the local show yards. The wool,
for so high a district, is remarkably good and of long staple. Pony
mares and their produce are run in the fields. One of the ponies bred on
Dartmoor won first prize at the Royal Show at Plymouth. Thirty acres of
garden are devoted to the growth of garden vegetables of which all kinds
are grown, and much success has been obtained with celery and cucumbers.
The whole of the work is done by convicts, without the aid of horses
except for carting.”

This peaceful and prosperous colony of condemned felons has replaced the
great war prison where as many as ten thousand unhappy victims of their
quarrelsome rulers, but innocent of all crimes, passed years of hopeless
exile, prolonged suffering and irksome confinement. The population
to-day is little more than a tenth of the number originally lodged here.
These inmates, whose liberty and labour have been forfeited by their
misdeeds, are treated with humane severity and subjected to an exact but
well-contrived discipline intended to maintain order and insist upon
unremitting industry. The principle inculcated by the motto over the old
gate, _parcere subjectis_, is still observed so long as the convicts
deserve it. Unquestioning submission to authority is insisted upon.
Without this none of the results achieved as already set forth could
have been even approximately attained. Dartmoor is one of the best
illustrations of the English convict system which was introduced after
the failure of transportation beyond seas. It is a progressive system
far superior and more effective than that “Irish system” so much praised
and, indeed, overrated. The law-breaker when expiating his offence is
put, so to speak, upon a ladder of improvement. He is subjected to
corrective processes, but with his own coöperation, so that his fate is
really in his own hands. He is first chastened, then strengthened. He
begins his penalty in the painful privacy of a separate cell; after six
months of irksome monotonous confinement he is promoted to the healthy
and laborious life in the open air of a “public work,”--Dartmoor,
Portland, Parkhurst or Borstal. The employment is akin to that of the
free workman, embracing many varieties of outdoor labour, digging,
bricklaying, stone dressing, pile-driving, plate-laying and all the
operations of farming and agriculture. Strong objections have been
raised to the so-called “degrading associations,” but the conditions are
identically those of all outdoor labour and the supposed mischief is not
really great. No idle gossip is permitted; talk encourages idleness, and
want of industry means loss of “marks,” or the forfeiture of a part of
that precious boon of remission of time which is the sheet anchor of our
English progressive system. To that system England owes the Portland
Breakwater, the fortifications of the Verne, the extension of the
dockyards of Chatham and Portsmouth with their vast inland lakes or
basin of water, and last but not least the reclamation of Dartmoor bogs
and their conversion into smiling gardens and fertile arable land.

Before leaving Dartmoor, it is right to refer to a graceful act
performed in these latter days by a governor of the modern prison. It
was in effect atonement for previous blameworthy neglect. In the old
days there was much mortality among the war prisoners. The severity of
the climate although greatly exaggerated was responsible for much, and
numbers suffered from their own recklessness in gambling away their
clothing and their constant addiction to drink. Scanty attention was
paid to the graves of those who succumbed at Dartmoor, and we read that
“the burial place of the unfortunate captives has been sadly neglected;
horses and cattle have broken up the soil and left the bones of the dead
to whiten in the sun.” Matters were no doubt made worse by the long
years during which the buildings remained unoccupied. The reproach was
at length removed by Captain Walter Stopford,[9] who, when governor of
the prison in 1865, was at great pains to have the remains collected in
two separate enclosures, and two monuments erected to the memory of the
gallant men, Americans and Frenchmen, deceased in a strange land, the
victims of the sad fortunes of war.




CHAPTER IX

FRENCH WAR PRISONS

     French war prisons in Napoleon’s time--Civilians detained in France
     in large numbers--The various prisons on the north-eastern
     frontier--General Wirion, a cruel and rapacious gaoler--Verdun
     described--A hot-bed of vice and iniquity--Wirion’s
     exactions--Treatment of prisoners--Wirion’s suicide--Succeeded by
     the inhuman Colonel Courcelles--Evidence of a subordinate, Anthony
     Latreille--Fierce reprisals--Life at Verdun described by an
     eyewitness, Captain Seacombe Ellison--Breaks out of the citadel of
     Verdun and is injured--After long wanderings is recaptured and
     removed to the fortress of Bitche, commonly known as the “Castle of
     Tears”--Description of Bitche--The Grande Souterrain.


When in 1803 there was a fresh rupture between France and England and a
renewal of embittered hostilities, Napoleon took great umbrage at the
action of his marine neighbour. He was hot with anger at the sudden
seizure, without notice, of all French ships in British ports, on the
declaration of war, and decided upon immediate reprisals. He decreed
that all British subjects on French soil should be arrested and
detained. This arbitrary act was made worse by the plain notice that the
prisoners, for the most part non-combatants, need not look for release.
No exchanges were to be permitted and imprisonment promised to become
permanent or to last at least to the far-off end of the war. Many
thousands of luckless, harmless folk were involved by this harsh
measure, altogether at variance with the law of nations. At the end of
the war the total reached the large number of more than twenty-one
thousand. Numbers of English people had but recently taken advantage of
the Peace of Amiens to visit Paris or set up their residence in France.
Some of the cases were very hard, as that of the young doctor about to
establish himself in a practice upon the south coast, who ran over to
Paris for a short holiday but was caught by the order of arrest and held
prisoner for many years.

Various fortresses and strongholds on the northeastern frontier were
constituted places of durance among which the war prisoners were
divided. Of these Verdun, Longwy, Givet, Valenciennes, Arras, Briançon,
Cambray, Sedan and Bitche were chief. At one time Verdun was used as a
common centre and placed under the supervision and command of a general
officer, Wirion by name, whose cruelties and extortions placed him in
the category of the brutal and oppressive gaolers who have inflicted so
much suffering on their fellow creatures in all ages and countries. Of
Wirion I shall have occasion to speak further. Verdun was the most
important of these northeastern places of detention. It is an ancient
city of the Gauls and played its part in early ecclesiastical history,
the seat of a bishop who kept his state as a count and prince of the
Holy Roman Empire. As it grew in wealth and splendour it was fortified
and the foundation laid of the strong citadel which survived until the
Napoleonic era and has since been worked into the scheme of frontier
defence. Its aspect is architecturally imposing with its bishop’s
palace, citadel and cathedral. It is situated on the Meuse which divides
the town into two parts, flowing through rich meadows under umbrageous
trees, past well wooded ramparts. It was made the centre and
headquarters of the prisoners’ depots, and was always crowded with the
victims of an unrighteous policy, governed by merciless and rapacious
tyrants, and may be taken as typical of many similar places that
disgraced the Napoleonic regime. It is but fair to add that when the
atrocities committed were fully exposed, the Emperor was swift to call
the offenders to account, to weed them out and replace them by
honourable soldiers of high principle and good repute, who speedily
retrieved the character of their cloth. But the evil deeds of their
predecessors stand out in the records of the time and will be best
appreciated by a brief reference to the just retribution that overtook
them. Of a total of eleven French officers employed in the superior
administration of the depots of prisoners, three committed suicide to
escape punishment, five were tried by court-martial and sentenced to be
dismissed from the service, one was condemned to the galleys, and
another reduced to the ranks.

The chief culprit was Wirion, a general officer and Inspector General
of Imperial Gendarmerie, the Commander in Chief of the war prisoners,
who shot himself; next in order of cruelty was Colonel Courcelles, the
commandant of Verdun and senior officer in the department of the Meuse,
who was cashiered; three others were lieutenants of gendarmerie, two
were aides-de-camp to General Wirion, who were both dismissed from the
service. The commandant of Bitche only saved himself by a testimonial of
his prisoners. There were many more delinquents, mostly insignificant,
against whom the evidence was not sufficiently strong.

Verdun at that time was a hot-bed of vice and iniquity. The collection
within the narrow limits of a second class provincial town of persons of
rank and affluence,--for the English _détenus_ were largely people of
good social pretensions,--for the most part idle and at all times
horribly bored and with no legitimate outlets for their energies, or
useful means of employing their time, tended to general demoralisation.
Detention long protracted, with small hope of enlargement, drove the
weak and self-indulgent without mental resources to the solace of the
bottle, and numbers became confirmed sots. Well meant efforts to reform
them seldom succeeded; deaths from delirium tremens or by _felo de se_
were frequent. The argument often used was that when a man could get
drunk twice a day for fourpence, he made the best use of his time. Life
otherwise was not worth having. A French peasant who had dragged a
drunken prisoner out of a ditch and saved his life, asked for his
reward. “He would have deserved twice as much if he had left me there.
What could be better for me than death?” was the reply.

The place was for years a perfect hell. Gambling tables for roulette and
_rouge et noir_ had been established by the permission of the presiding
authorities and were openly encouraged. General Wirion was a partner and
received a large percentage of profit. The rooms were just what may be
seen to-day at Monte Carlo; the tables of green cloth covered with coin
surrounded by a varied crowd, high and low, English peers and
indescribable riff-raff, with loose characters who came in hundreds from
Paris. Vice stalked shameless through the throng; high play was
incessant, large sums were won and lost, the latter chiefly, and as
money could be easily borrowed, ruin, disgrace and death constantly
overtook the unfortunate. Napoleon in 1806 very rightly forbade play and
abolished the tables, which from the first were only introduced for the
English, the French residents not being permitted to gamble.

In such a community as this Wirion and his myrmidons reaped a fine
harvest. Fees and fines were levied on the smallest and most trivial
grounds; every luxury was taxed by privilege and must be bought at a
price. No device was omitted that would put money into Wirion’s pocket.
It was said of him that he “persecuted the rich for his profit, the
poor for his pleasure.” He had begun life as a police officer and he
drew upon his training and experience to establish a system of espionage
by which he was kept informed of all that went on; he learned all he
wanted to know as to the private means of his prisoners and to what
extent he might squeeze money out of them. He began to ill-use them from
the moment they appeared in Verdun.

All prisoners on arrival were taken first to the citadel where they gave
particulars about themselves--name, age, birthplace, profession and
personal description. Then a paper was given them to sign, in which they
promised upon honour to conform to the rules of the depot, and to make
no attempt to escape, if permitted to reside in the town or beyond it,
the latter privilege being extended to a radius of six miles out into
the country. This last “parole” was generally kept, but it was evaded by
purposely seeking punishment for some trifling offence, as the fact of
arrest cancelled the parole.

The privileges purchasable were such as missing the daily roll call,
permission to drive or ride for some distance, to belong to clubs, and
to organise race meetings. Bills might be drawn on England and would be
cashed at twenty-five percent. discount. All wine to be consumed must be
obtained from the commandant’s cellars at increased rates.
Handicraftsmen or labourers were only allowed to earn wages on accepting
a percentage of reduction levied by the governor. The gross total
receipts of the governor and commandant were enormous and amounted in a
few years to upwards of thirty thousand pounds, secured by the most
high-handed and discreditable methods. When in 1809 Wirion was summoned
before the minister of war, Marshal Clarke, Duc de Feltre, to give an
account of misdeeds and the charges were handed to him, the minister
said, “If these things be true, my advice is that you go and shoot
yourself immediately.” The wretched general dressed himself in full
uniform, went to the Bois de Boulogne and there blew out his brains.

Colonel Courcelles outrivalled his late chief in brutality. He belonged
to a respectable family and was passably rich, advantages which neither
rendered him sociable nor honest; on the contrary, he was ignorant,
wicked, miserly and inhuman; he possessed in an eminent degree every
vice and folly of his predecessor without the least particle of his
fleeting goodness. Where poverty drove the one, avarice led the other;
where passion mastered the first, cruelty triumphed over the second. The
former often concealed his exactions under the polite deportment of a
gentleman, but the latter disdained such covering and gloried in the
exposition of his naked villainy. Courcelles commenced by arraigning the
measures of Wirion, whose errors he said he could plainly perceive, but
perceived only to plunge deeper into cruelty. He declared that no
prisoner should ever obtain the least favour from him, and in this, and
this only, he religiously kept his word.

The following extracts from the work of M. Anthony Latreille, who had
been at one time a trusted subordinate of Courcelles, but who fell into
his bad graces, show the character of this cruel man.

“I was ordered to discontinue my attendance at the _appel_; my intimacy
with the prisoners, it was observed, was too much cemented to entrust me
with so important a duty. All persons, without distinction, were
required to show themselves daily, and money could no longer exempt from
this regulation. If any one missed the _appel_, he was immediately
conducted to the citadel; and fearing that sooner or later he might get
into trouble by the masters of merchantmen, he begged of the minister
their removal to another town. This request was accorded and with the
exception of two hundred and sixty, of whom some were married and others
above the age of fifty, the whole class were marched to Auxonne.

“Courcelles obtained from Paris the powerful aid of the examination of
letters, which Wirion could never obtain. The peculation spoken of in
Wirion’s administration could not be abandoned; it was too profitable
and too facile in the collection, easily to be relinquished. Courcelles,
with his associate, Massin (lieutenant of gendarmerie), enjoyed the
sweets for two years; during which time ninety-six prisoners escaped
and the greatest part got clear off. A lieutenant in the royal navy, in
gaol for debt, contrived to break his bars and took refuge at a house in
the country, where he was speedily betrayed and given up to Courcelles,
who marched him through the principal streets of the city, thumb-screwed
and loaded with chains; he was then cast into a dungeon. Some months
afterwards he effected his liberation, when the commandant, from
feelings of revenge, threw his wife, who had remained behind, into
confinement from which she only came out by the interference and upon
the responsibility of several gentlemen.

“A declaration now appeared that, if any one decamped, the whole class
to which he belonged would be immediately arrested; ‘the only proper
method,’ as Courcelles observed, ‘of treating Englishmen.’ This threat
was afterwards carried into execution but without the desired effect.
The desertions still increasing, Napoleon’s famous decree was published,
condemning every prisoner taken in the act of breaking their parole to
the galleys. Rejoiced at this severity, the commandant knew not how to
contain his satisfaction. ‘Let them depart,’ said he, ‘I shall not miss
them.’ This savage pleasure was somewhat abated on finding that, between
the date of the law, 23rd December, and 30th January, no less than nine
had taken flight, two of whom were retaken and had sentence passed; but,
in spite of every obstacle that bolts, locks and sentinels could throw
in their way, they again delivered themselves and finally reached their
own country.

“These continual escapes caused Courcelles the greatest torment. It was
in vain that he placed guard upon guard, and patrol upon patrol; the
idea of his barbarity had fixed itself so firmly on everybody’s mind,
that they were anxious to take advantage of any opportunity to fly from
him. There was in the citadel a spacious convent, capable of containing
five hundred persons and into this he determined a great part of the
depot should be conducted. He wrote accordingly to the Minister of War
and after some trouble obtained permission to form a permanent depot of
certain persons at the monastery of St. Vannes.

“In a short time, about two hundred persons were lodged there, including
about one hundred and forty midshipmen. Innumerable representations were
made to the commandant but none were answered. A principal inhabitant of
the town interfered and having remarked that the reputable citizens were
indignant at the punishment inflicted on the _détenus_, Courcelles
ridiculed the idea of reputable citizens, observing, that he should have
very great trouble to find any in Verdun; ‘they were,’ he said, ‘only
concerned on account of letting their lodgings and if their interests
did not prevent them, they would be the first to favour the prisoners’
escape.’ ‘The plan I have adopted,’ added he, ‘ought long since to have
been followed, but the unhappy Wirion, who had accepted money, trembled
and dared not pursue it.’

“As was easy to foresee, the midshipmen not infrequently created riot
and disorder. Unoccupied and discontented, their accidental friendships
generally terminated in disputes--quarrelling and fighting seemed wholly
to engross their attention. Their altercations were but too often
submitted to Courcelles, who, without any regard to justice (where
justice was indeed somewhat difficult to administer) punished
indiscriminately and thus added to the evil. Teased with complaints, he
on one occasion shut up fourteen of the most noisy in so small a dungeon
that they had nearly been suffocated. Complaint being made by the senior
officer, he smilingly answered, ‘The more the merrier,’ and that as the
weather was cold, they would serve to keep each other warm.

“Courcelles pretended that his orders were to confine the prisoners in
the caverns of the citadel, and not in the convent--that appropriating
this to their use from motives of humanity, it was but just, he said,
that they reimbursed him for the necessary repairs the building had
lately undergone. The midshipmen appealed to their commanding officer;
this gentleman promised to resist for them the iniquitous claim. At the
expiration of the month, Courcelles desired him to retain a certain sum
for lodging money. ‘You may, sir,’ replied the officer, ‘lord it over my
countrymen, for unhappily they are too much in your power, but you
shall never force me to aid you; and no punishment you can inflict would
ever induce me to act dishonourably. Your order is unjust and I will not
listen to it.’ This firm language so intimidated Courcelles that he did
not enforce it.

“The midshipmen finding that he gave way so easily, petitioned the
Minister of War, in hopes that a statement of their circumstances might
ameliorate their situation. They stated their grievances as
follows:--‘That they had been compelled to purchase his wines; that the
difference (a small fraction) between the franc and the _livre tournois_
was still withheld; that an attempt had been made to force them to pay
for the apartments into which they had been thrust; with other minor
things.’

“The petition had the desired effect. The Duc de Feltre, with that
justice and humanity which ever distinguished his conduct towards the
prisoners, immediately caused the matter to be examined. A general with
two British officers were nominated to inquire into it. The general
observed to Courcelles that two of the charges were comparatively
trifling but that the payment in livres instead of francs could not so
easily be surmounted; and he wished to know what he had to say thereon.
Courcelles answered, ‘Nothing--I have never had to do with the
prisoners’ pay; it is the gendarmerie alone that have been employed in
this service; no profit has arisen to me--I am ignorant on the
subject.’ ‘Sir,’ said the general, ‘the gendarmerie are under your
orders; if they have committed abuses, you are answerable for them.’ I
was then sent for; and after answering a number of questions, the
following dialogue took place between the two men:

“‘How happens it that, resident in a town where so much money has been
spent and yourself one of the principal persons that has been employed,
no part of the treasure has come to you?’

“‘I confess that, since my stay in Verdun, I have annually consumed
above one hundred pounds more than my pay and that I have received this
sum from the generosity of the English.’”

Reference has been made above to the bitter pangs endured by the
commandant on the frequency of successful escapes. They were undertaken
with remarkable boldness in the teeth of abundant and it might have
seemed insurmountable obstacles, and accomplished after facing and
surmounting extraordinary hardships and incredible sufferings. This will
be best realised by recounting in some detail a few of the most
noteworthy evasions of British prisoners of war. One is recorded in a
small book, “Prison Scenes,” from the hand of a principal actor in the
enterprise, Mr. Seacombe Ellison, the master of a Liverpool merchantman,
the brig _Rachel_, carrying sixteen guns. The ship was captured by a
French privateer, off the American coast on her passage home from
Honduras, and taken to Bordeaux whence her captain and crew were sent
to Verdun. His experiences at that much and rightly abused depot have
been largely drawn upon in the following pages.

When the hope of release became more and more vague, Mr. Ellison cast
about him to compass his escape. In conference with some of his comrades
various plans were debated and dismissed as too hazardous; but at last
one was adopted. Mr. Ellison tells us that he always viewed the
undertaking with dread “particularly when in the morning he looked out
of the window and the weather happened to be wet and cold.” The idea was
to get across the French frontier, to pass the Rhine and travelling
through Baden, Wurtemburg and Bavaria enter Austria and make for the sea
at Trieste. This was in effect the route taken when finally success
crowned their efforts. But they were to be sorely tried by misfortune
before they regained their liberty. The first aim was to rid themselves
of the obligation of parole given. As has been said, it was only
necessary to commit some trifling breach of the regulations to secure
committal to the citadel, from which the open country might be reached
without passing through the gates of the fortress; such an escape,
moreover, when shut up in the citadel, would exonerate the bondsmen who
were jointly responsible with them for safe custody.

All the necessary preliminaries were completed by the intending runaways
at their lodgings in town; they bought very privately all the tools and
appliances required to assist them in breaking out--gimlets, small lock
saws and a fine saw made of a watch spring and set in a steel handle, to
be used in filing through iron bars; they also obtained maps and marked
out their projected route. These various articles, with a store of food
sufficient for eighteen days, were conveyed during daylight to a secure
hiding place in a wood beyond the walls, to which they had access, while
the gates were open. At the last moment they secreted the rope to be
used in their descent into the ditch, by lapping it round and round
their bodies under their waistcoats; it was about the thickness of a log
line or a window cord, so that a great length could be conveniently
secreted. Carrying all these on their persons they proceeded to the
office of the lieutenant of gendarmerie pretending that they were late
for roll call. Whereupon the choleric officer promptly ordered them to
the citadel under close arrest.

This citadel was familiar ground; from frequent visits they knew all its
intricacies and soon saw that the plan they had conceived was perfectly
feasible. They had access to the chapel adjoining the citadel and
belonging to the convent of St. Vannes. Happily but few prisoners were
in confinement in the citadel and no one suspected or spied upon them. A
passage through the chapel was effected by taking out one of the panels
of the door; a series of holes were bored through with the gimlet but
the panel was retained in its place by leaving one bit of wood intact.
At the appointed hour the loose panel was broken out, not without noise,
but no alarm was given; then all passed through the aperture, although
one man stuck fast in the opening and was with difficulty extricated.
Once through the body of the church, they groped about seeking a place
of exit and came upon an altar above which was a window undefended by
bars, through which they climbed and quietly descended into the convent
garden. They now gained the open enclosure of the citadel, reached the
general’s garden, easily surmounted a low wall to find a descent of
twenty feet on the far side, down which they slid, narrowly escaping
accident. Here they came upon a sentry box and found a sentinel soundly
asleep within. They were now at the inner edge of the rampart but not at
the point at which they had originally intended to pass; the drop was at
least sixty-five feet, nearly double that which they had expected, but
they now unwound the ropes from around their bodies and cast lots as to
who should go down first. Three fugitives preceded Ellison and descended
safely, but Ellison could not hold the rope, which had become slack and
slimy, and let go his hold, finishing with a fall of fifteen to twenty
feet.

They were now at the bottom of the ditch, two of them, Ellison and
another, in horrible pain from their falls, but not seriously injured,
and after a rest they hobbled away to their selected hiding place in the
recesses of the wood. At this moment the gun fired announcing the
escape, but they crept further in amongst the bushes and were not
discovered. Here they lay four whole days and nights, two of them in
great bodily pain and all in much discomfort, for rain fell
continuously. On the fifth night, when the injured men were somewhat
stronger, they left the wood and reached the bank of the Meuse, now
closely pursued by villagers who were blowing horns. What was to be
done? They had run into the toils, the enemy was before and behind, the
river on each side and none of them swimmers. They turned off the road,
ran along the bank and to their great joy found a boat, into which they
jumped, and were across in a moment and very soon out of hearing of
their pursuers. Their situation was by no means secure, but they were
undisturbed and at dark resumed their march. Progressing by night, lying
in the woods by day, they had still plenty of food and a small supply of
brandy, but their chief need was lack of water. By the help of their
maps they kept in a pretty direct course, never entering a house or
holding any communication with persons they met. On the eleventh day
their hiding place was on the edge of a steep hill; one of the party was
now exhausted and almost spent, but they would not desert him, being
still resolved to sink or swim together. That evening they made a
somewhat earlier start and on reaching a village found to their dismay
that there were still many people about. One was a gendarme who
accosted them, demanding their passports with much insistence; although
he could not read, he demurred at accepting the papers put forward,
which were not really passports, and while the discussion was proceeding
a brigadier of gensdarmes came up and all was lost. “Ah, gentlemen,” he
exclaimed, “I am glad to see you; I have been expecting you for above a
week,” and pulling out a paper he read out their names and descriptions.
Next morning the disappointed fugitives under a strong escort began to
retrace their steps towards Verdun, which they re-entered on the second
day. “We made,” he relates, “as may readily be imagined, a sorry
appearance; our clothes bearing evident signs of what had been the
nature of our lodgings, and our linen shewing that it had not lately
been in the hands of the laundress. We were paraded through the streets
into the citadel and lodged in the Tour d’Angouleme, a small round
building with only two apartments, one above the other, with a circular
stair outside, leading to the upper one.”

Soon afterwards a posse of gensdarmes appeared and proceeded to make
rigorous search. The prisoners were ordered to strip to their shirts,
their hats and shoes were examined, their neckerchiefs, coats,
waistcoats and pantaloons and stockings were visited and explored, but
nothing was found until a button was seen to exceed a regular size and
when cut in two was found to contain a double louis d’or. After this
every button was disembowelled but no more cash was detected. Yet
Ellison managed to retain five double louis sewn inside his flannel
waistcoat and one under the arm of his coat. After the search, the
prisoners were separated, a sentry placed over them and no communication
allowed between them. The only food issued was a loaf of black bread and
a pitcher of water. No bedding was given, not even straw.

To have failed brought down on the recaptured runaways the full weight
of the commandant’s wrath. They were bullied, brow-beaten, threatened
with all manner of pains and penalties, until they would make confession
of what had induced them to attempt escape, who first suggested it, who
aided and abetted, who procured the tools, who did the actual work of
cutting out, and which of the fugitives had first proposed an escape;
and no credence was given to the reply that the subject of escape had
been the constant theme of conversation with the prisoners, a subject of
perennial interest to all captives since they were first deprived of
personal liberty. The commandant would believe nothing and in his fury
ordered the culprits to be put in irons hand and foot, and kept so
continuously day and night, subjecting them to exquisite torture in
their damp, dirty, dungeon, unable to cope with the vermin that infested
it. The irons were of diabolically ingenious design and very heavy, so
that at best those weighted with them could only shuffle about, moving
two or three inches at a time as far as the sill of the window for a
breath of air.

A still sharper recompense was to be their portion. It was decided to
remove them to another prison, Bitche, a gloomy fortress adjudged as the
receptacle for the turbulent and disorderly, a place so hideous that it
was commonly known as the “Castle of Tears.” En route they met fourteen
of their fellows chained together on their way to Metz for trial by
court-martial, on a charge of plotting to blow up the powder magazine of
the fort in which they were lodged. They had attempted to escape by an
underground passage leading out to the open. They had cut through the
wooden door, undermined an iron one, and in forcing the third alarmed a
sentry who gave the signal, and they were taken red-handed. Their trial
was long and patient, and ended in conviction with sentences to the
galleys for terms varying from seven to ten years. But after
promulgation the president of the court announced that as many of the
accused were British officers all would be pardoned out of respect for
their cloth.

Our prisoners proceeding to Metz were, contrary to usual custom, often
allowed to hire vehicles. The general rule was to march by
“correspondence,” passing, that is to say, from town to town, or
village, and from the headquarters of one brigade of gendarmerie to the
next at a distance of five or six leagues. The machinery existed really
for the transfer of conscripts, thirty or forty thousand of whom were
continually on the move through the country, either to join their
regiments or in durance for having already deserted. It was a common
sight to see thirty or forty of these conscripts chained in a string
like a lot of horses taken to a fair. It was a dismal procession from
brigade to brigade, and prison to prison. The long tramp by day, the
night spent under lock and key in cold damp places without fire or
special covering, or more than a scanty allowance of straw. Austrian and
Prussian prisoners were more harshly treated than the English or the
conscripts. One of the gensdarmes who had formed the escort of Prussians
into France told Mr. Ellison it was a constant practice to shoot in cold
blood any who fell down from fatigue on the road.

This fortress of Bitche which had such an evil reputation was situated
some thirty miles north of Strasburg and the same distance from Metz. It
stands upon an isolated rocky hill rising a thousand feet above a
verdant plain. It dates from the reign of Louis XIV and was so highly
esteemed as a frontier defence that vast sums were spent on its
construction. The French king, indeed, when called upon for more money,
asked whether it was being built of golden bricks. Although excavated
out of the solid rock, which was cut down perpendicularly from ninety to
a hundred and fifty feet deep, it was faced all round with masonry. The
central space was filled with barracks, store-houses and magazines. At
each end were two strong works styled respectively the Grosse Tête and
the Petite Tête, separate, but connected with the main fort by
drawbridges. Fifty feet below the Grosse Tête a mortar battery had been
built out and another battery mounting ten heavy guns commanded the
approaches to the entrance to the fort. This entrance was on the east
side where the carriage road, after winding round and round the hill,
ended in a long incline, raised upon arches, ascending to the drawbridge
and the main gate. Here began a tunnel, cut into the solid rock, blocked
by two other gates, one in the centre and one at the far end. The
garrison consisted of seventeen gensdarmes and a hundred veterans, and
the place was under the command of a Major Clement who is spoken of as
“a worthy, indulgent officer with much of the milk of human kindness in
him.” He desired to govern humanely and showed great forbearance, but
was very sorely tried by his charges, for the most part the refuse of
the other prison depots. At this place were congregated the dissolute,
the abandoned, the profligate, the drunken and the reckless.

The Grande Souterrain--the great underground cellar or main dungeon--was
a perfect pandemonium, filled with rough, savage sailors, desperate
dare-devils, rendered utterly reckless by interminable confinement,
untamable, ungovernable, a constant terror to their guardian, who
dreaded coming in contact with them. There can be little doubt that if
they could have seen their way to leave France finally they would have
risen, overpowered the garrison and walked straight out of the fort into
the country. They were ripe always for disturbance; the least thing
offended them. One of their crowd was an Englishman who bore a colonel’s
commission in the Russian service, but who had been arrested in France
on suspicion of being a spy. He was a prime favourite with the sailors
and when he was committed to the _cachot_ for some prison offence, they
combined and rescued him from arrest. Upon this the garrison of veterans
intervened, but their appearance on the scene was the signal for a
general mutiny. The prisoners tore up the guard beds to provide weapons
and armed themselves with great billets of fire wood, bidding defiance
to the old soldiers. Their leader, however, cautioned them not to be the
assailants. “Let us wait,” he cried, “till blood is drawn from any of
us; then we will fall upon the Frenchmen and murder the whole lot.”
Their attitude was so imposing, their determination so plain that the
authorities practically gave in and on being promised by the prisoners
that they would behave peaceably, withdrew their veterans.

Again, it was a standing order in the fort that all lights should be
extinguished at eight o’clock, but on occasions when fresh inmates
arrived, when drink was on tap and the spirit of rejoicing prevailed,
this regulation was openly defied. If the gensdarmes after mildly
protesting ventured down into the Souterrain they were met with a storm
of missiles, hats, shoes, and logs of wood were thrown at the lantern as
a target and then at the gensdarmes themselves, who were compelled to
beat a hasty retreat.

Boxing matches and prize fights were of constant occurrence and at first
the guards, not understanding them, desired to interfere, thinking the
prisoners might injure one another; their interference was fiercely
resented and the commandant decided to leave them alone, saying that if
they would they might kill each other; that he, for his part, would
listen to no more complaints, nor give the injured redress, and
henceforth the prisoners must govern themselves. They took him at his
word and disposed of all offences by a formal court-martial, chosen from
their own body, when accused and accuser were brought face to face and
the former, if found guilty, was forthwith flogged with a cat o’ nine
tails, which after use was entrusted for safe keeping to the brigadier
of gensdarmes. But no gendarme might raise his hand with impunity
against a prisoner. One dared to strike a sailor with the scabbard of
his sword, which the offended tar snatched out of his hand and threw
over the ramparts, adding, “There, you may go and fetch it for
yourself.”

All were determined prison breakers at Bitche; attempts at escape were
frequent, and kept the poor commandant constantly on the rack to
circumvent them. He was greatly blamed for the cruelty employed in
enforcing safe custody. One story is told of a ship’s carpenter who had
escaped from another depot but was caught and brought to Bitche, where
he was lodged in the Grande Souterrain. With active mind and practised
hands he contemplated breaking through from the underground into the
ditch of the fort and worked steadily, assisted by two more, night after
night until they had reached a last door. It was said that their
progress had been watched and regularly reported to the commandant by
his spies, and that when the final attempt was to be made the commandant
was stationed with a party of gensdarmes outside the door to meet the
fugitives as they came through. A cowardly attack was at once made on
them; they were fired upon and slashed at with sabres, so that two were
stabbed to death, but the third saved himself by jumping back into the
prison. As a warning to others, the two dead bodies were publicly
exposed next day, but so much disfigured by wounds that they were barely
recognisable.

Another nearly successful escape ended disastrously. A naval lieutenant
and five others, occupying a dungeon beneath the Grosse Tête, contrived
to loosen one of the iron bars of the grating and get through. They had
possessed themselves of a rope which they had made fast to another bar
and part of its length was left lying across the passage. Unfortunately
a sergeant with a relief of sentries, stumbled over the rope, and the
prisoners who were already outside, descended the rope in great haste
one after the other. It suddenly snapped; the lieutenant who was placed
lowest on the rope fractured his skull and the others following were
seriously injured. One strained both ankles; a second from concussion of
the brain lost his reason, and the remaining two were more or less
bruised.

On arrival at Bitche they were consigned to the Little Souterrain, only
thirty-one steps down and occupied by the better class of prisoners. Our
friends soon became habituated to their new quarters, which were less
objectionable than they had expected. They were permitted to hire beds,
bedding and linen from the town and purchase cooking utensils.
Provisions cheap and plentiful were brought for sale at the gate, but
all were marched down in turn under escort to do their shopping in the
town. They had been deprived of their watches and money on their first
arrival, but all valuables were presently restored to them. Trouble came
with the warm weather and with it intermittent fever, when the sufferers
were almost distracted with the noises around them,--dancing upon the
benches, singing, carousing. One of the party, luckily for himself, had
friends at court and was removed into a room upstairs, the inmates of
which had matured a plan for escape and were on the point of putting it
into execution. He was let into the secret, his coöperation accepted and
in a few days more he was gone; it was one of the first of the
successful escapes made.




CHAPTER X

LATER RECORDS

     Perpetual attempts to escape from Bitche--Brutal measures of
     oppression--Many casualties from accident and murderous assault by
     guards--Fresh attempt at escape by Captain Ellison and
     comrades--The majority of the party captured--All taken back to
     Bitche--Again committed to the _cachot_, then to the Grosse
     Tête--They escape through the floor above and descend to the outer
     ramparts--Painful pilgrimage to the Rhine, which they cross--They
     land in Baden and finally arrive at the Austrian frontier--They are
     passed on to Trieste where they take ship for Malta and
     England--Mr. Boys, a young naval officer, escapes with others from
     Valenciennes--Returns to the Dutch coast with a sloop of war to
     assist in bringing off other prisoners still waiting for
     rescue--Last words about Verdun--Reforms under a new governor of
     high character--The invasion of the Allies in 1813-14 breaks up the
     war depots--Prisoners are withdrawn into the interior to be finally
     released on the abdication of Napoleon.


As the winter approached, a fresh attempt at escape, this time from
Bitche, was undertaken by Mr. Seacombe Ellison and his comrades. After a
careful reconnaisance of the lay of the land, it was resolved to break
through on the far side of the barracks they occupied. After collecting
and secreting the usual materials--gimlets, pick-locks and ropes--they
eventually got through a door of communication leading on to the
ramparts. It was the 8th of December, a dark night, blowing hard with
sleet and snow. The door passed, they descended a flight of stairs into
the yard and after cautiously ascertaining that the coast was clear,
they crossed to the outer wall, where it overlooked the steep incline
leading to the main gate. Their rope was affixed to a heavy stone
brought on purpose; it was lowered on the far side, and crowding into
the embrasure, the first to descend were on the point of climbing out
when a couple of the French soldiers came up to the next embrasure and
stood there talking for a time, but they presently disappeared, having
discovered nothing. As soon as their backs were turned the drop was made
by all, but in such haste that everyone’s hands were terribly lacerated
by the rope. It seemed unlikely that any further descent was possible,
but when all were lowered and the incline reached, it was seen that the
drawbridge was down; all crossed it and proceeded on a dreary journey
beset with enemies, the wind howling in their ears, the sleet beating
their faces and the blood trickling from their finger ends.

The prisoners now broke up into parties and made for the town, on
reaching the outskirts of which they heard the gun announcing their
escape. They pressed on by any road that offered until they reached the
first wood, where they lay down to rest and await daylight, which came
about five o’clock, when they could examine their appearance and the
effect of the night’s adventures. The sight beggared description.

“I was the only one,” says Ellison, “who had the use of my fingers,
having escaped with merely two large blisters, one on the inside of my
fore-finger and the other on the inside of the middle one, both on the
right hand: but my companions were in a dreadful state; some of their
fingers were stripped to the bone and none of them had a sound finger on
either hand. Here was a situation! No plasters, no bandages, no comforts
of any sort, save a bladder of brandy that I had secured--exposed to the
elements, with no covering but the leafless trees and the canopy of
heaven. My task was an arduous one, for I had to do almost everything
for them; and began by cutting off the laps of their shirts and binding
up their fingers, which I did as well as my materials would permit,
having neither needles, nor thread, nor pins, nor anything save the
linen to keep the cold from their wounds; in fact, we were starving both
within and without. K. had charge of a ham which he was carrying down
the wall in his teeth, but unfortunately he lost it and we found
ourselves with only a piece of a loaf and the brandy. I had a new pair
of shoes and a pair of warm stockings in my pockets, which I put on,
expecting that they would have warmed my feet; but in that I was sadly
deceived, for they became much colder afterwards than they were before
and were so benumbed that I was almost uncertain during the whole day
whether I had any feet at all. I never since suffered anything like it
however wet or cold the weather. In the middle of the day the sun came
out, which by melting the snow on the trees over our heads did not add
to our comfort.

“At the edge of dark, when we were about quitting our retreat, a curious
scene took place. Some of us found great difficulty in rising we were so
benumbed; we stretched out first one limb and then another, until we
were able to set our bodies in motion, and after we had so done, it was
some time before the circulation of the blood was restored. Leaving the
wood, we saw a cottage, and hunger being importunate we went up to it. A
man was standing at the door, who told us he had nothing for himself but
potatoes. We asked him the road to Strasburg, which he pointed out and
telling us we had chosen bad weather for our journey, bade us good
night. The road we were on was bad--in many places knee deep in
mud--poor K. often crying out, ‘O Ellison, put up my shoe heel;’ and I
exerting my patience as often put it up; until at last I inadvertently
used one of my wounded fingers which tore off the blister, and then I
could not help showing some of the infirmity of my disposition. We
passed a number of foundries, which illuminated our way; and about
eleven o’clock came to the small town of Niederbrun which we at first
took for a straggling village. While considering how to proceed one of
our companions was suddenly seized with violent pain and lay motionless
in the middle of the road. What was to be done? If we left him there the
consequence would have been certain death; for it had then begun to
freeze. It was agreed that two of us should go into the town to
reconnoitre. Dacres and I volunteered and found all quiet; returning, we
went up to a window in which was a light and where we saw a tailor at
work; he came to us, but not understanding a word of French and we not
much of his provincial dialect, we were not able to obtain any
information. He pointed out to us a wine house. ‘Are there any
gensdarmes?’ we asked. ‘Nicht the gensdarmes, nichts the gensdarmes,’
was his reply. We bade him good night but staid a little to watch his
motions.

“After seeing him resume his work, we returned and found our companion
something better. We promised if he would exert himself we would stop at
the first lonely wine house we came to. He arose; and when we arrived
opposite the house which the tailor had shown us we held a consultation
if it would be safe to enter and concluded it would not. After walking
about two miles farther we came to a solitary house and seeing a light
still burning, went in and found the landlord a civil fellow,
understanding French. He asked no questions, and at our request brought
us some supper. When he observed me cutting the meat for the others, he
asked, ‘What is the matter with your hands?’ We answered that we were
conscripts, escaped from one of the Flemish fortresses and had maimed
them descending the walls. Although we were nearly famished when we
entered the house, the heat of the stove made the room so oppressively
hot that it turned us all sick and destroyed our appetites. He was sorry
for our situation and told us we were seven leagues from the Rhine. This
surprised us, to find that after walking a night and a half we had only
shortened our distance nine miles. He directed us to a neighbouring
village, where, he said, we were sure to find a faithful guide. Seeing
that he took such an interest in our welfare, we asked if he could not
provide us one. He replied, ‘There is one belonging to the village; I
will go and see if he be at home.’ He soon returned with a smart looking
young man who said if we would walk at a quick pace he would have us
across the Rhine before daylight. After making a bargain with him and
paying our worthy landlord, we started. The idea of being so soon out of
Napoleon’s grasp inspired us all with renewed vigour, especially the
invalid, and we marched with spirit. In a short time we passed round the
ramparts of Haguenau. Our guide then left the road, going through woods
and across marshes. The moon now rose beautifully bright and the frost
had been so intense that we walked, where the water was shallow, over
the ice. Occasionally I served out a little brandy, and although heated
with walking my hands became so benumbed during the operation that I
could scarcely tie the bladder up again. Proceeding onward we came to a
small rivulet where K., miscalculating the width and losing sight of the
French proverb, ‘_Il faut retirer pour mieux sortir_,’ made a spring and
reached the opposite side; but the weight of his body being behind the
perpendicular of his heels he could not keep his standing and leaped
backwards up to the middle in water. He was soon in a dreadful state,
his wounded hands smarting with cold and his pantaloons frozen stiff as
boards.

“As the day approached, the sky became overcast; a cold easterly wind
sprung up, and we felt as if it went straight through us; our guide
discovered that he had missed his way; and the bleak dreary scene around
us was altogether dispiriting. There was no wood in sight; and if there
had been the cold was so intense that we could not have borne it. At a
little distance was a village upon approaching which we came to a barn
where two men were thrashing by candle light. We offered them a crown
each, and they promised to conceal us until night. Then mounting upon
the straw we covered ourselves all over and regained some little heat.
Our guide became troublesome, wanting his pay. We told him he had not
fulfilled his contract and therefore ought not to expect it. Finding we
could not pacify him we promised to double the sum as soon as he should
put us into a boat. With this he appeared contented and we lay
unmolested until about half-past three, when we were discovered by a
man and a woman who caught hold of us and said we were thieves. We
replied that we were honest men. ‘Then,’ said they, ‘you shall not be
molested; therefore make no resistance; it will be in vain as the whole
village is aroused. Come with us into the adjoining house.’ We did so
and there found the mayor and a posse of villagers. We went to the
opposite side of the room and had no sooner faced about than the good
woman pointed with her finger to another door. We took the hint and
bolted.

“They chased us for a little distance, but we soon lost sight of our
pursuers. A little before dark we entered a wood which our fear caused
us to penetrate so far that we had great difficulty to find our way out
again. I had run with my shoes in my hand by which means I bruised one
of my feet and scratched the ankle, which afterwards laid me up. Having
regained the road, almost famishing for lack of food and perishing with
cold, we proceeded at the best pace we were able and had not gone far
ere we found ourselves so close to a man on horseback that we could not
escape him. He passed us a few yards and returning, entered into
conversation. K., seeing that he was armed, went up to him and said,
‘You are a gendarme.’ ‘No,’ said the man, ‘I am not; I am a _douanier_,’
(custom-house officer). K. said, ‘I do not believe it; you are a
gendarme and I will tell you plainly that we are Englishmen and if you
attempt to obstruct or betray us we will murder you.’ The man again
protested he was a _douanier_. ‘Then, can you get us across the Rhine?’
we asked. ‘Yes, if you will remunerate me according to the risk, for I
am,’ said he, ‘a poor man, with a wife and a large family and a little
ready money will be a great help.’ ‘What is your demand?’ ‘Fifteen
louis.’ ‘That is too much, we will give you ten.’ ‘I will not undertake
the business for anything less, seeing I run the risk of losing my
situation, and being sent to the army. Give me only my price and I will
brave the danger and have you over in half an hour.’ The man acted his
part so well and made so hard a bargain that we began to waver. The
proposal was almost irresistible in our painful state; we therefore held
a parley and put it to the vote, when K., Dacres and B. were for it; and
away they marched alongside of the man, some of them with their hands
upon the horse. In a little time we crossed a bridge and coming to a
house near it the fellow called out, ‘_Tuez-moi ces coquins-ci_’ (kill
me these rascals)--and drawing his sword, made a cut at K. Then from
behind the house started out twenty or thirty armed men, some mounted,
some on foot, and told us to surrender.

“A-d-n and myself having been rather more suspicious than our
companions, had kept a little behind and ran back in different
directions. I passed the end of the bridge and heard my pursuers, horse
and foot, scamper over it; by and by the horns were sounding in every
direction. I kept on a narrow path that led me on to a common, upon
which I rambled about for several hours and then found myself close to
the place where we had been attacked. I again took the narrow path
recollecting that I had seen a small bridge on my right. I went over it
and soon found myself on the borders of the Rhine, the current making a
tremendous noise. I proceeded along its banks until I came to a lone
house with a light in the window; I was going softly up to observe who
was inside, when I was set upon by two dogs; I ran and directly
afterwards came to a place where two boats were chained and was in the
act of stooping to cast one of them loose when two men who had been
lying in ambush suddenly sprang up, collared me and asked where I was
going. I replied, across the river, and if they would assist me I would
give them three louis. They said it was too late that night, they would
take me to my companions and we might cross together in the morning.
Whilst this was passing, three gensdarmes came up who marched me off to
a village where I found the male inhabitants armed with pitchforks,
staves, etc., keeping guard over the prison in which were secured my
unfortunate companions, all the gensdarmes having been away in search of
A-d-n and myself. In about two hours the former was brought in; he had
lain in a ditch upon the ice until he could scarcely move and was taken
as soon as he crawled out. Being all secured, we were left in charge of
the jailer, the peasantry still keeping guard outside.”

Once more the disappointed prison-breakers were marched back in great
physical suffering and still more sore at heart, trudging painfully
along mile after mile and exposed to all the weathers, to reach their
dismal night’s lodgings, drenched to the skin and starved from want of
food. A rough reception met them at Bitche from the indignant commandant
who bitterly upbraided them for abusing his lenity by breaking their
parole, and laying him open to censure in attempting their escape. No
parole had been given, as a matter of fact, but the commandant was
pleased to say so, and thought it warranted his committing them to the
underground _cachot_ although all were better fitted to become patients
in a hospital. While the hurts were still unhealed they were called upon
to proceed to Metz to appear as witnesses at a court-martial, held upon
a gendarme supposed to have connived at their escape. They chivalrously
refused to incriminate him, and drew down a reproof from the president
of the court, who declared that the English would say anything to screen
a man who had rendered them a service. But the gendarme had a wife
living at Bitche and when they returned to the fort she was their firm
friend.

Now with undefeated perseverance they cast about to contrive some fresh
means of escape. Confinement in the _cachot_ was ended, and all ten in
number were lodged above ground in a small room in the Grosse Tête.
After examination of their surroundings they found that in a room in an
upper story a window projected and was constantly left open as the room
was used to dry the linen from the laundry. If they could gain this room
above they might lower themselves to the ground on the far side of the
first rampart, but within the mortar battery mentioned. Of what lay
beyond they could form no idea. The number of walls remaining, their
weight, the nature of the ditches, whether wet or dry, their width,
whether there was any egress, the number of sentries if any,--all this
was a mystery. Nevertheless they meant to take all risks and trust to
the unknown if they could but succeed in the first step,--that of
breaking prison.

An essential preliminary was to provide rope to enable them to scale the
walls. The usual well known devices were adopted. Everything that could
serve was utilised. Sheets, blankets and shirts were torn into shreds
and woven into a cord which was covered with linen to save the hands in
slipping down it. Money was raised on bills given to an old lady in the
town; Ellison, the leader of the enterprise, was in possession of a
gimlet and a saw, invaluable instruments for penetrating doors and
barriers. Food was laid in; bread and beefsteaks were brought up from
the town below and three quarts of brandy carried in bladders. When all
was prepared, the first dark stormy night was chosen for the attempt and
the first step was to pile the mattresses on top of each other so as to
give access to the ceiling in order to break into the room above. The
floor was of oak battens so hard that the saw broke in two pieces, but
the largest was fitted into a fresh handle by these resourceful sailors,
the work proceeded, and after nine hours of toilsome labour, the passage
through was completed. It was said that when the commandant entered the
room the next morning, upon seeing the hole in the ceiling, he lifted up
his hands and exclaimed, “The devil himself could not prevent the escape
of an Englishman.”

Daylight was at hand, and when it broke they could see their way down,
see also the sentry ensconced in his box thinking more of shelter than
of keeping a good look out. In the course of a few minutes all of the
party went down and were safely landed at the bottom of the second
rampart where they thought themselves free of the fort. But alas, fifty
yards distant was a third rampart apparently of a great height, part of
the rope had been left behind at the second rampart, and there was not
enough left to reach the bottom of this third obstacle in safety. All
went down, however, dropping the last twelve feet without accident
except to one who broke his leg and had to be left behind. They were now
in the ditch and they ran along it until they reached a flight of steps
which led up to the glacis. At the top they had a full view of the
whole country and, pointing for the distant mountains, gained the
shelter of a wood where they were securely ensconced when the signalling
gun fired.

What followed was an exact repetition of the adventures encountered in
previous attempts; lying by till nightfall, a weary tramp under pouring
rain along roads knee deep in mud, skirting villages and single houses
to take refuge and seek rest in some friendly wood. A more useful friend
was met, a villager who, although he said,--“You are from Bitche, I
heard the gun yesterday morning,”--gave them food and found them a
guide. They were now in the mountains of the Voges, walking parallel to
the river Rhine, ten or twelve miles distant. One of the party was taken
exceedingly ill and they were detained to attend on him. A couple of
woodsmen next came upon the scenes and brought them wine and hot soup,
and the sick man was so far restored as to be able to continue the
arduous climb across the steep mountain country. A succession of guides
to whom they were obliged to trust, fearing treachery all the time, got
them at last to the river bank where they made a last halt in a wood,
while a guide went in search of a boat to ferry them across. The best he
could find was a species of raft made of five boards, but even now he
would not allow the fugitives to embark until they had met his
peremptory demand for more money. With freedom so near at hand, they
would have given any sum to complete their escape and were soon half way
across the river. When they landed it was on the territory of Baden,
about fifteen miles below Strasburg and on neutral ground. This was the
seventh day after their departure from Bitche, but the whole distance
traversed was only forty miles.

Their situation was still precarious, for although they were out of the
immediate grip of France, Napoleon’s authority was felt in neighbouring
countries and the people of Baden were expected to arrest all vagabonds
who carried no passports and could not satisfactorily account for
themselves. Still the Duchy of Baden was safer than that of Wurtemburg
where there was an officious police. Moreover, the French invasion of
Austria was imminent and the French armies would soon traverse this
country, calling to strict account any who had succoured the enemies of
France. Still they held on, facing many dangers, till they crossed the
Danube, not far from Ulm, and next the Iller which brought them to
Bavarian territory; then by the road from Memmingen to Munich, enduring
terrible fatigue and suffering many vicissitudes. The Bavarian police
were very inquisitive and disbelieved their story. This was at the
Austrian frontier and yet it seemed certain that they must be detained
on the Bavarian side. Yet they were allowed to pass despite their
improbable story and their suspicious appearance,--their worn and
weather-beaten countenances; their ragged clothes, their whole aspect
that of disreputable tramps and vagrants.

Austria was at the time the ally of England, and the fugitives
fearlessly entered the guard house and claimed the protection of the
Austrian government. They were politely but not too cordially received
and passed on under escort and delivered up at the police office at
Salzburg, having thus accomplished their escape after a toilsome and
harassing march of twenty-two days through by-ways and hedges, beset by
enemies on every side, exposed to the inclemency of a severe winter and
all the painful consequences attendant on light purses. From Salzburg
they eventually proceeded to Trieste where they found an Austrian brig
on the point of sailing for Malta, which, after twenty days on the
voyage, they reached, and stood once more on British soil.

I have thought the foregoing escapes sufficiently interesting to deserve
a detailed account. They are typical of numbers attempted with various
results and are inserted to show the undaunted spirit animating the
breasts of prisoners of war, chafing at their long and seemingly
hopeless captivity. Another which exhibits much the same features, if
anything more strongly developed, may also be quoted here to complete
the record. It is a narrative of about the same date, which has come
down to us, giving the thrilling personal adventures of a young British
naval officer in his escape from Valenciennes. This was Mr. Edward Boys,
at the time a master’s mate and afterwards commander, who was taken by
the French off Toulon in a recaptured prize. With other prisoners, he
made the painful pilgrimage across France from the Mediterranean to the
north-eastern frontier, and in due course reached Verdun, having
travelled a great part of the way on foot or pony back, and having spent
five months on the road. His account of Verdun tallies almost exactly
with that given in the preceding pages. He bears witness to the
oppressive misgovernment of the military authorities, the extortions
practised, the encouragement given to vice, the dissoluteness and
depravity prevailing among prisoners and civilian _détenus_, the public
gaming tables, the general looseness of morals, the debauchery and
drunkenness culminating too often in despair and suicide. It is
unnecessary to recapitulate the many atrocities perpetuated in this
remote corner of a great country where for a long time all restraints
were withdrawn and a small gang of dishonourable villains were permitted
to bring shame and disgrace upon France.

Mr. Boys ate out his heart in captivity for nearly five years without
making any attempt to escape, although a few of his comrades and
intimate friends succeeded in getting away. Meanwhile the question of a
general exchange of prisoners had been mooted more than once, but
without result. The British Government would not admit that the
_détenus_ were “prisoners of war” and refused to give up French
soldiers and sailors as the equivalent of these unjustly detained
civilians (albeit ill-used Englishmen). By this time the French forces
were seriously depleted and Napoleon was experiencing increasing
difficulty in filling his ranks, which the exchange of war prisoners
would have appreciably assisted.

The future looked black and hopeless. Imprisonment threatened to be
absolutely endless when a rift broke through the clouds and a change in
the situation seemed to favour the chance of escape. General Wirion, who
was still in the ascendant, was at enmity with the town of Verdun and
out of spite strongly recommended that the depot of prisoners should be
removed bodily to Metz. Napoleon, however, owed Metz a grudge for not
supporting him when he sought the suffrages of the city to endorse his
assumption of the Imperial Crown, and he refused to help it at the
expense of Verdun. Wirion, foiled in this direction, decided to injure
Verdun by reducing its numbers. He transferred new arrivals elsewhere;
he banished all he could condemn as offenders to Bitche, and finally
made a great sweep out of the midshipmen on the plea that they were
_trés mauvais sujets_ and that Verdun was too weak to hold them. All of
these youngsters, including Mr. Boys, were put under orders to proceed
to other prisons, Valenciennes, Givet and Sarrelouis, the two first on
the northern, the third on the eastern frontier of France.

“The northern expedition being ready,” says Boys, “we were placed two
and two upon bundles of straw in five wagons and set out escorted by the
greater part of the horse gendarmerie of the district, aided by the
infantry.... Four horse gensdarmes formed the van and four the rear
guard, one on each side of every wagon, and twenty foot soldiers in
files, with others in each carriage, made up the escort, the commander
bringing up the rear on his charger. Whenever the road passed by a wood,
which frequently occurred, we were halted to give the infantry time to
occupy its skirts; two gensdarmes on each side were posted midway while
the rest displayed their pistols somewhat ostentatiously by way of
intimidation. I have been thus minute in detailing the strength and
manner of the escort, not only to contrast it with similar detachments
in England, where twice the number of prisoners with infinitely greater
facilities of escape might be safely entrusted to the car of a
sergeant’s guard, but also to show how fully persuaded Wirion was that
some of us would make the attempt.”

All along the route the prisoners except when put upon their honour were
on the alert to jump out of their wagons and run away, but no
opportunity offered until they were safely lodged in the fortress of
Valenciennes, which was reached on the 17th August, 1808. The _trés
mauvais sujets_ were lodged apart in a small house within the citadel
where fourteen hundred seamen also occupied barracks crowded into the
space of an acre, and no one was suffered to go beyond these limits.
Escape from this citadel appeared quite impossible. It was enclosed by a
wet ditch, merely one foot of water lying over six feet of mud, and to
swim across was out of the question. The citadel had two gates, one to
the south and one to the north, with a strong guard at both. There was
another sally port in the western rampart leading into an outwork,
thence into a garden, and opening at length into the country.

For months Mr. Boys waited, reconnoitering his ground and vainly seeking
to persuade some of his comrades to join him in his bold adventure. It
seemed too hazardous and difficult of execution and the officers to whom
he opened his mind one and all declined to become concerned in the
enterprise. His desire got wind and became common gossip, so much so
that it reached the ears of the secret police, a very active and
inquisitive agency in all the French prisons, and Boys was closely
watched. To disarm suspicion he sent for all his heavy baggage and his
greyhounds which had been left at Verdun, and seemed determined to make
his home at Valenciennes. These hounds were of much assistance to him in
planning his escape. The gensdarmes were sportsmen and borrowed the dogs
but they would not work without their master, so Boys was suffered to
take part in drawing the neighbourhood and thus learned much of the lay
of the land outside the fortress. He decided now not to attempt
departure by the northern sally port but resolved to climb into the
upper citadel and scale the eastern fortifications. Companions still
hesitated to join him, but he began his preparations notwithstanding.
Tools, provisions, a map of the surrounding country,--all were laid in,
secretly obtained through a friend living in the town. A rope was still
wanting, but he bought up all the skipping lines of the French children
who were much given to this diversion, and it attracted no suspicion,
and he soon had length enough to lower him from the top of the
breastwork to the drawbridge leading to the upper citadel. The number of
courses of bricks in the wall had been counted and an approximate
calculation made. The same good friend in the town arranged to have iron
handles fixed to a pair of steel boat-hooks, which were to be used as
picklocks. A second rope was required and secured by a stratagem. There
was a draw-well in the midshipmen’s yard with a worn and nearly
unserviceable rope which was rendered utterly useless by hacking at the
straw. A subscription was opened and a new rope supplied which would be
ready for use at the supreme moment.

At length fresh overtures made to other prisoners led to the grudging
assent of two midshipmen to join in the expedition, a third after long
hesitation also agreed, and a fourth youngster becoming possessed of the
secret immediately proposed himself, thus making up a party of five. The
projected escape, although surrounded with difficulties, did not seem
impracticable. It meant scaling the inner wall, ascending the parapet
unseen by lynx-eyed sentinels and patrols ever on the alert, to chop
down two ramparts each forty-five feet in height, to cross two
drawbridges and force two or more doors with ponderous locks. The
obstacles to be surmounted might well have daunted the stoutest hearts,
yet these brave spirits chafing at their prolonged confinement, losing
sea service, and precluded from taking part in the war, were willing to
face them, resolved to surmount and persevere with unflinching constancy
to the bitter end.

The 15th November was chosen for the enterprise, a dark and stormy
night, a fresh wind blowing and not a star to be seen; the leaves were
falling in abundance, raising a rustling noise on the stones which
deadened the sound of footsteps. The fugitives met in the common room to
bid adieu to their comrades remaining behind, who seeing them equipped
for the road, knapsack on back and rope slung on the shoulder of one of
them, were disposed to jeer and laugh at their boast that they meant to
be at home within ten days’ time. But they entered into the spirit of
the thing and next morning at the regular muster when their comrades
were missing answered for them, “_Partis pour l’Angleterre_” (started
for England).

The start was made at 8 P. M. Every fugitive carried a clasp knife and a
small packet of fine pepper, the first for defence if attacked, the
latter to be thrown into the eyes of their assailants to cover retreat.
Boys and another were to go first to fix ropes and open doors, the rest
to follow after an interval of a quarter of an hour; if the leaders were
shot the rest could retire in safety; if they in their turn were
detected, the others ahead might still gain the open country. All drew
their stockings over their shoes to deaden the sound of their movements.
Those ahead carried the rope and a couple of stakes on which to fasten
it. They surmounted the first wall, passed through a garden, crossed a
road and silently climbed the bank at the back of the north guardroom on
their hands and feet. They were now at the highest point and in danger
of being seen by some of the many sentries, but these for shelter from
the bitter wind nestled close inside their boxes carefully crying aloud
every quarter of an hour, “_Sentinelle prenez garde à vous_,” the French
equivalent for “all’s well.”

The stakes, one of them a poker, were driven into the earth on the
slant, one behind the other, and the eyelet hole of the draw-well rope
slipped over, the other end being dropped into the giddy abyss till it
touched the drawbridge below. Boys, who was the first to descend, was
three parts down when a brick fell, struck against the side and
rebounded on to his chest. This luckily he caught between his knees and
carried along without noise. Then he crossed the bridge and waited for
Hunter, who descended with equal care and silence. Opposite was the
entrance to the ravelin, an arched passage ending in a massive door,
securely bolted, against which the picklock was useless, and failure
seemed imminent unless they reascended by the rope and tried elsewhere.
They thought of dropping into the canal and floating along on their
backs--an impossible feat, “there being too little water to swim and too
much mud to ford it.” Then a bright idea came to them, to undermine a
passage under the door and with their pocket knives they slowly and
painfully effected this, being reinforced at the work by the arrival of
their companions.

Creeping through the aperture, they followed the passage till they met
the drawbridge at the end. It was raised but there was room to climb
over and pass to the far side by the _garde-fous_ or bars serving as
rails for the bridge. A second arched passage led under the ravelin and
ended in another great door which, luckily for them, had been left
unlocked by the gensdarmes. They were now in the upper citadel and all
that remained was to lower themselves over the last rampart and so down
to the crown of the glacis. Two narrow escapes ensued: the stake on the
cope of the parapet holding the rope gave way, and Boys would have
fallen fifty feet had he not caught and held himself by the long grass.
One of the others nearly lost himself but Boys took his weight upon arm
and shoulder and saved him. They were now free of the fort, having
accomplished a perilous and laborious work in less than four hours.

It is needless and would be wearisome to follow their progress in
detail. They crossed the glacis, gained the high road and were brought
to a stop by the closed gates of a walled town; entering the ditch they
discovered a subterranean passage and found a secure asylum among the
rubbish of some old works. The map told them when daylight came that
this was part of the fortifications of Tournay, and after a long rest,
feeling they were quite safe for the time being, they fared forth at
dusk making for Courtrai and reached it next morning, having now
traversed twenty-five miles of the whole distance of sixty that had
interposed between them and the sea coast on starting. But the river Lys
was in front of them and could not be passed at this fortress town; it
was necessary to follow its downward course by the right bank as far as
Deynze where they lay in a wood until they mustered up courage to enter
the town. Here they gave themselves out as conscripts marching to Ghent
and found both food and shelter at a low public house. At four o’clock
in the morning, rested and fortified with supplies, they crossed the
river and took the direct road to Bruges, twenty miles distant, with
only ten miles to the coast at Blankenberg, hard by Ostend.

They found a solitary public house on the third night close to
Blankenberg, kept by a woman well disposed to the English, who
recognised and befriended them, sending them on after a good supper and
unlimited gin. Their emotion was intense on reaching the sea which they
had last left at the Mediterranean, and they rather hastily imagined
their troubles at an end. But it was an impossible task to launch a boat
from that flat beach, although many lay on the shore, and rather
despairingly they returned to the kind soul at the cabaret with whom
they soon bargained to be put across the channel. She agreed to find a
boat and a crew to man it at the price of one hundred pounds. Meanwhile
she gave them shelter while negotiations were opened with the local
fishermen, which began on the 2nd January, 1809, and were continued in
the teeth of innumerable contretemps and disappointments for nearly five
months. The Flemish seafaring folk were afraid to act, deterred by the
close watch set on all boats and the penalties that hung over all who
ventured to assist fugitive prisoners. There was endless haggling about
terms, great distrust of the methods of payment suggested, suspicion was
always rife of treachery in the agents employed, and unexpected
difficulties arose as to the choice of a place of embarkation, but at
last the island of Cadsand opposite Flushing was chosen and the party
made a last halt concealed in the ruins of the fortress of L’Ecluse.
Patrols constantly on the alert must be eluded and all movements
screened, but at last on the night of the 8th of May news came that the
boat was close at hand. At ten o’clock with the weather fierce, the
night dark, they marched down to the beach and as soon as the patrol
passed, the private signal was made and answered. The boat glided
silently inshore with muffled oars; they rushed in and in an instant
were safe afloat; each seized an oar and vigorously applying his utmost
strength they soon reached beyond the range of shot.

At daybreak the boat was under canvas going free, by three o’clock the
white cliffs of England were in sight, and by five they landed at
Ramsgate. The luck had turned for Mr. Boys. He was well received at the
Admiralty, immediately passed, promoted lieutenant and appointed to H.
M. S. _Arachne_ which sailed soon afterwards for Flushing. The
expedition to Walcheren was at that time in full swing, and although it
was fruitless, the presence of the fleet in those waters was likely to
benefit the escaped prisoners still detained on the Dutch coast. Mr.
Boys was sent for the purpose of bringing them off. He was unfortunately
called away to other duty, but the rescue was effected of several
officers who had assisted Boys to escape from Valenciennes.

A few last words about Verdun. The scandals caused by the misgovernment
of Wirion and Courcelles were summarily checked by the removal of the
chief offenders. Any repetition of them was quite prevented by the
appointment of an upright, honourable soldier, Col. Baron de Beauchène,
to the chief command. He announced his firm intention of putting an end
to all oppression in these words: “It will afford me real pleasure to
render the prisoners under my care as happy as they have been miserable
under others. I have served against the English in Spain, and am not
ignorant of their generous conduct towards my countrymen. In return I
ought to show all possible lenity,”--and he did. Captain Boys speaks of
him as the fountain of “justice and equity.” He did not live long but
died after a few days’ illness “respected and lamented by every one.”
Nearly the whole body of the English in Verdun attired in full uniform
attended the funeral. After Baron de Beauchène, a commandant of the
Courcelles stamp was in power but was speedily superseded by Major de
Meulan, a gallant soldier, honourable and just.

The depots on the north-eastern frontier were hurriedly broken up as the
tide of invasion rolled forward, and the prisoners were hurried
southward to Blois. There were more than twenty thousand, and they might
have rendered some signal service by joining forces with the allies. But
they were incapable of taking decided action. Most of them had grown
gray in captivity, extending for many over eleven years, had lost all
energy, and passed a mere animal existence indifferent to change and
callous to the chances offered to regain freedom. Their minds no longer
responded to any outside stimulus, but were torpid and inactive. Many
had grown so accustomed to prison life and were so broken by its
hardships that any exertion seemed distasteful. They marched from prison
to prison and, unlike the ardent souls whose adventures have been
described, no one made an effort to escape.




CHAPTER XI

AMERICAN WAR PRISONS

     War-prisoners in other countries--The worst in the United
     States--British prisoners during the Revolution--Prisoners during
     the Civil War--Important Confederate prisons, Libby, Belle
     Isle--Sufferings of Union prisoners--Attempts to tunnel
     out--Andersonville; situation, crowding, lack of food--Horrible
     suffering and high mortality--Conditions at Salisbury, North
     Carolina--Federal prisons--Suffering at Fort Delaware--Descriptions
     of prisoners held there--Johnson’s Island--Horrible suffering from
     cold--Dr. Wyeth’s experiences at Camp Morton--Point Lookout and
     Elmira--Mortality statistics--Responsibility for ill-treatment.


England and France are not the only countries in which prisoners of war,
and other non-criminal prisoners have suffered. Indeed the story of
those made captive by the fortune of war is so much worse in other
countries, that the hardships mentioned in the preceding chapters seem
trifling inconveniences in comparison. Strange to say the most horrible
prison pens have not been in Europe, but across the Atlantic, in the
latter half of the nineteenth century.

Imprisonment for debt was common in America during the colonial period,
and persisted after the adoption of the Constitution, but in a thinly
settled country, with no large cities, there was no great prison which
stands out like the Fleet or the King’s Bench.

During the Revolution, British prisoners were taken here and there, but
the numbers except at Saratoga, where General Burgoyne surrendered, in
1777, and at Yorktown, were not large. Generally they were treated as
well as circumstances allowed and besides were soon exchanged. The fact
that they were in a hostile country, where their power to work harm was
slight, made strict guarding unnecessary.

Burgoyne’s men under the convention signed by the British leader and
General Gates were promised transportation to England on parole, and
first were marched to the vicinity of Boston. The agreement was
repudiated, however, and Congress ordered that they be taken to
Charlottesville, Virginia. Madame Riedesel, the wife of the commander of
the Hessians, has given in her sprightly diary an interesting account of
their experiences, first at Charlottesville and then at Lancaster,
Pennsylvania. Evidently there was little suffering. Many simply walked
away and settled in the new country. Others joined the American army and
by the time peace was declared the camp had practically melted away.

Some dark pages tell of the experiences of American prisoners in New
York when the city was held by the British. Even worse were the
experiences in the British prison ships in the harbour. There
over-crowding, improper food and disease, took heavy toll of the
prisoners, but the story is the same, in its essential features, as the
account of the prison ships given in the preceding chapters. A prison
ship was a prison ship whether anchored in British or in American
waters.

With the great Civil War, we enter upon new ground. The contending
parties were not different nations, but sharers of a common heritage
joined both by tradition and by blood. War was waged upon an
extraordinary scale. Never before were so many prisoners taken and held.
While the figures are not entirely reliable, the best estimate places
the number captured by both sides at 674,045, and the number held in
prison for a longer or shorter time at 409,608, truly a stupendous army.

The proper care of such a number of men is task of surpassing
difficulty, even where the authorities are accustomed to handling men in
large masses. When they are not, the machinery must break down. Add to
the inherent difficulty the fact that prejudice was strong, that war
always brings out the petty and cruel as well as the nobler sentiments,
and that one of the contending parties was hard pressed for food for its
own soldiers, and you have the materials for tragedy.

Some prisoners were taken on both sides during 1861, and the number
increased the next year. In 1862 Edwin M. Stanton, Secretary of War of
the United States, stopped the exchanges because of a quarrel about
terms. The differences were patched up, however, and exchanges went on
until July, 1863, when Major-General Halleck again ordered exchanges to
stop. On the Federal side many negroes had been enlisted, a considerable
proportion of whom were runaway slaves. The Confederate authorities
declared that these were not subject to exchange but should be returned
to their masters. Both sides were firm, and few prisoners were exchanged
until near the close of the struggle.

An investigator has counted sixty-eight points where Confederate
prisoners were kept for a longer or shorter time, counting each town or
city as one even though several prisons were within the limits. The
number of Federal prisons was not so large as seldom was it necessary to
remove prisoners because of the approach of a Confederate army. Only a
few are important, however, on either side.

The best known Confederate prisons were Libby and Belle Isle in
Richmond, Va., Salisbury, N. C., Florence and Charleston, S. C.,
Andersonville and Millen, Ga., though at different times there were
large numbers at Danville, Va., Raleigh, N. C., Columbia, S. C., and
Savannah, Ga., but it is chiefly Libby and Belle Isle, Salisbury and
Andersonville, that have filled the popular imagination.

Libby was an old three-story warehouse 140 by 105 feet, in the centre of
Richmond. The building was divided by transverse brick walls into rooms
each about 105 × 45 feet. This was preëminently a prison for officers.
Few enlisted men were confined here, but it was so crowded at times
that it was difficult to walk among the sleeping bodies. There were no
bunks. Wrapped in the thin vermin-infested blankets the men lay upon the
hard floors. There was an abundant supply of good water for drinking and
cooking, limited bathing arrangements, and fair sanitary conveniences.
The ceiling and walls were whitewashed at intervals and the floor was
scrubbed every day. Lying upon the damp floor was, however, a cause of
much sickness.

The food in the early months of use was fair, though the Northern
stomach unaccustomed to corn meal revolted at times. Boxes from home
were promptly delivered, and the sutlers furnished dainties of a sort.
As the months went on supplies in the Confederacy grew scarcer and
rations were cut down. The portion of bread was smaller and of poorer
quality. Some prisoners declare that both cob and husk were ground with
the corn. The meat was poorer in quality and smaller in quantity. As it
was generally served raw, the prisoners cooked it badly. The supply of
vegetables was scanty and sometimes for days none was issued. Boxes were
no longer delivered promptly. Scurvy, dysentery, and severe stomach
troubles were prevalent, and hundreds died.

Yet hope was not given up. The men had resources within themselves.
Prisoners tell of dances, vaudeville performances, and attempts to give
special dinners. The hope of escape did not die. In the fall of 1863
several unsuccessful attempts to tunnel out were made. Col. Thomas E.
Rose of the 77th Pennsylvania regiment had conceived the plan of
tunnelling from the cellar under the street east of the prison into a
warehouse yard. The tunnel led through a fireplace in the cook room,
where the prisoners were permitted to go, down into the cellar. The
piles supporting the walls were cut through with pocket knives, and the
earth was attacked. The only implement was a chisel. A wooden spittoon,
to which strings were attached, brought the earth back into the cellar
where it was spread on the floor and concealed by straw.

The work went on for several weeks, when owing to a miscalculation the
tunnel came to the surface in the street. The hole was stopped, however,
and was undiscovered by sentinels or pedestrians, while the work went on
under the fence. On Feb. 8, 1864, one hundred and nine officers passed
through and fifty-three succeeded in reaching the Federal lines. Some of
the remainder died of exposure, and some preferred death to further
imprisonment. Those recaptured, among whom was Colonel Rose, were
brought back and all prisoners were more closely guarded thereafter.

Belle Isle, the prison for the enlisted men, was a wooded island in the
James, once a place of resort for pleasure. On it was constructed a
prison pen with few buildings. The supply of tents was insufficient, the
water supply not good, and the food worse than in Libby. During the
summer months the mortality was not excessive, but when the sharp winter
came on, the ill-fed, poorly-clothed, badly-sheltered prisoners suffered
terribly. On January 5th, 1864, five are said to have been frozen to
death. The general testimony seems to show that the officers were
humane, but many acts of cruelty on the part of the guards undoubtedly
occurred. Some of the prisoners were desperate characters, bounty
jumpers and the like, and they did not scruple to rob and even murder
their comrades. Many lost hope and observed no sanitary precautions. The
report of the U. S. Surgeon who received late in the war one hundred and
eighty-nine prisoners from this place, says: “Every case wore upon it
the visage of hunger, the expression of despair.... Their hair was
dishevelled, their beards long and matted with dirt, their skin
blackened and caked with the most loathsome filth, their bodies and
clothing covered with vermin.”

As the number of prisoners and the difficulty of feeding them in
Virginia increased, arrangements were made to send them southward.
Orders were given in November, 1863, to select a site for a prison in
southern Georgia. The little hamlet of Andersonville, sixty-two miles
south of Macon, was chosen and a log stockade fifteen feet high
enclosing about sixteen and a half acres was constructed. A small stream
about five feet wide and a foot deep divided the pen, and was expected
to furnish water and carry away the sewage. No shelters of any account
were constructed, and the bake house was so constructed that the waste
from it fouled the stream.

Prisoners began to arrive in February, 1864, before the work was
completed, and during August the number was nearly 33,000. Though the
stockade had been enlarged in June, to include twenty-six and a half
acres, three and a half acres of the area were too marshy to be used. In
addition a light railing fifteen feet from the wall indicated the “dead
line” across which a prisoner passed at his peril. A simple calculation
will show that only a few square feet were available for each of the
poor wretches, and the crowding if nothing else was bound to produce
sickness.

The regular Confederate ration was ordered issued at first, consisting
of one-third of a pound of pork and one and one-fourth pounds of corn
meal with beans, rice and molasses as often as practicable, but this was
soon reduced. Gen. J. H. Winder, commandant of prisons, telegraphed to
Richmond, July 25, 1864, that with 29,400 prisoners, 2,650 troops and
500 labourers, there was not a day’s ration on hand, and suggested that
at least ten days’ supplies should be always kept in reserve. He was
answered that Lee’s army could be furnished with only one day’s food at
a time, and that it was impossible to grant his request.

The quality of the food was bad, the bread was only half cooked, there
was insufficient wood for the prisoners to cook the meat, and some of
the scanty supply was appropriated by the hungry guards who fared
little, if any, better than the prisoners, so far as food was concerned.
The prison also contained many desperate characters who robbed their
fellow prisoners. These outrages became so frequent, that with the
consent of Capt. Henry Wirz, the commander of the stockade, the
prisoners themselves organised a court, tried, convicted and hanged six
of these miscreants, after which, the “raiders,” as they were called,
were more careful.

During the summer of 1864, the stockade was a hell on earth. Ten
thousand men might have lived within the enclosure with some degree of
decency. Thirty thousand could not. The stream could not carry away the
filth, and heavy rains spread it over a large part of the enclosure.

The hospital, though moved to the outside of the stockade, could not
care for the sick. Proper food, medicine, and appliances were lacking
even if the medical staff had been larger and more skilful. The United
States had made medicines contraband of war and many simple drugs could
not be had at any price. Truly the hospital was a “gigantic mass of
human misery.”

The rations issued grew smaller, and more uncertain. President Davis
declares that they were the same issued to the soldiers in the field and
that more could not be expected, particularly as the Confederacy was,
in the face of rebuffs, constantly urging an exchange of prisoners. A
visitor to the Executive Mansion in Richmond, who remained to dinner,
relates that the meal consisted of fried bacon and corn bread. In the
spring of 1864, General Lee had meat upon his table twice a week, but
his usual fare was cabbage, sweet potatoes and corn bread, while
sometimes the troops marched for days with no other food than parched
corn, which they pounded into a coarse powder and mixed with water. Yet
during all this time, there was food in some parts of the South, but
poor transportation facilities made it unavailable.

The mortality at Andersonville was fearful. During July, 1864, it was
62.7 per thousand prisoners. In all, from first to last, 49,485
prisoners were confined here, of whom more than 12,800 died, a rate of
twenty-six per cent. How many more died soon after exchange, or else
dragged out a miserable existence with shattered health and broken
spirits, can never be computed. That distinguished and impartial
historian, Mr. James Ford Rhodes, well says: “Thus insufficiently
nourished, exposed by day to the fierce Southern sun, by night to dews,
drenched with torrential rains, languishing amidst filth and stench,
breathing polluted air, homesick, depressed, desperate, these men were
an easy prey to the diseases of diarrhœa, dysentery, scurvy and
gangrene.”

In September, 1864, the near approach of General Sherman caused the
temporary abandonment of the prison. The inmates were sent to Savannah,
Ga., and Charleston, S. C., and thence to Florence, S. C., and Millen,
Ga. This last named place was soon abandoned and the prisoners sent back
to Andersonville. The place had been somewhat cleansed, by sun, wind and
rain, and as it was not again so crowded, conditions were decidedly
better.

At Florence, conditions were bad, but the officers in charge did all
that could be done with the scanty means at hand, and can not be charged
with neglect or cruelty. The same, perhaps, may be said of Salisbury, N.
C., where some of the Andersonville prisoners were sent, but this prison
deserves fuller mention.

The buildings of an abandoned cotton mill situated in a grove of sixteen
acres were purchased by the Confederate government in the fall of 1861
and at first were used as a prison for deserters and disloyal persons.
Gradually prisoners of war were sent and in March, 1862, there were
about fifteen hundred. There was abundance of room, plenty of good
water, and in spite of the coarse food there was little sickness. These
prisoners were soon exchanged, but others followed them. Still, up to
the latter part of 1864 conditions were endurable. In September of this
year, the commandant, Major Gee, was notified to expect a large increase
which arrived before he was ready for them. Early in October 5,000 came
and 10,000 more before the end of the month. Some tents were furnished,
the buildings already constructed sheltered a number, but the larger
part were left to their own resources. Many burrowed into the hillside,
built chimneys to their dugouts, and whittled shavings for a carpet.
Others built rude shelters from boxes and planks. A train was kept
running to bring fuel, but could not furnish an adequate supply. The
wells were drained by constant use and prisoners under guard brought
water from a neighbouring creek. Many of these escaped, and others broke
through the rickety fence in spite of the “dead line” which existed here
as it did at all enclosed prisons north and south.

The food was poor, the rough corn meal caused stomach trouble, and the
hospital arrangements were entirely inadequate. Preparations to build
more barracks were under way, when the officers were notified that the
prison was to be abandoned. Meanwhile Sherman’s triumphant northward
march threw everything into confusion, and conditions remained about the
same until the prisoners were released. To-day the rows of graves in the
Federal Cemetery, many of them containing unknown dead, show that here
as elsewhere disease and hardship reaped a heavy harvest.

Though much more has been written about prison horrors in the South than
in the North, conditions in the latter section were also deplorable.
Where the Federal soldier suffered from the Southern sun the
Confederate suffered from the Northern winter, and other conditions were
not so different as is generally supposed. James Ford Rhodes, quoted
above on Andersonville, says of Federal war prisons generally:[10]

“Prisons at the North were overcrowded ... bathing facilities hardly
existed, ventilation left much to be desired and the drainage was bad.
The policing was imperfect, vermin abounded.... Some of the commandants
were inefficient and others were intemperate.”

Some prisons were old forts and the prisoners occupied the barracks.
Generally they were enclosures like those at Belle Isle, or
Andersonville, though everywhere except at Point Lookout, there were
rude barracks for shelter, and at Point Lookout tents were supplied.
Conditions differed much at different places, depending somewhat upon
the officers. At Fort Warren in Boston Harbour apparently there was no
cause for complaint, while no former inmate speaks of Fort Delaware
without curses.

This last mentioned prison was built upon a small island in Delaware Bay
about two and a half miles from the mainland. Much of the island was
below low water mark and a dyke kept out the water. Canals of polluted
water crossed the prison enclosure, and poisoned any wound washed in
them. There was little or no drainage, food was scanty and bad, the
officers and guards were cruel, the mortality was high. Alexander Hunter
in “Johnny Reb and Billy Yank” says, describing some prisoners released
from that enclosure: “Scores seemed to be ill; many were suffering from
scurvy, while all bore marks of severe treatment in their thin faces and
wasted forms. They were in the dirtiest, filthiest condition imaginable,
and not a face there looked as if it had been washed for weeks. Their
clothes were torn and ragged; in fact some had not enough tatters to
cover their nakedness. Take it all in all, it was the saddest sight that
our eyes had ever looked upon and made the heart ache to witness it.” Of
one particular friend he says further: “In short, a month’s residence in
Fort Delaware had changed him from the very picture of health and
strength into a lame halting invalid whose body and mind seemed to have
received some great shock.”

Johnson’s Island in Lake Erie, near Sandusky, Ohio, was an officers’
prison, corresponding to Libby. The barracks were old wooden buildings
with many cracks and the prisoners suffered intensely from cold. Many of
them were from the far South and had never seen snow. To them, the sharp
winds from the lake represented a torture unknown, and when in January,
1864, the temperature went down to 25° below zero, the suffering was
intense. At first the food was good, but rations were cut down, sutlers
were excluded from the enclosures, and the prisoners declare that they
were always hungry. Some picked decaying food from the swill barrels, or
ate rats when they could be caught.

Camp Morton, at Indianapolis, was an old fair ground, which had been
turned first into a training camp for recruits and then into a prison.
Some of the barracks were the old stalls once used for cattle. It was
generally considered in the North one of the best managed of all the
prisons. Yet Dr. John A. Wyeth, now a distinguished physician of New
York City, who was captured when a boy of eighteen, in an article in the
_Century Magazine_ in 1891, giving his own experience and that of his
fellow-prisoners, says: “I had no disease. It was starvation pure and
simple,” and again, “No bone was too filthy or swill tub too nauseating
for a prisoner to devour. The eating of rats was common.” He further
says that the one thin blanket allowed a prisoner was sometimes covered
with snow which had sifted through the cracks, and some prisoners froze
to death. The guards are described as harsh and a few as tyrannical, and
even murderously inclined.

The prison at Point Lookout on the north shore of the Potomac River just
above the mouth is described by a Virginia officer, A. M. Keiley, in his
interesting book, “A Prisoner of War,” as consisting of two pens on land
only a few inches above water at high tide. The prisoners taken at
Gettysburg were the first to occupy these quarters. Here tents were
supplied in place of barracks, but the supply of wood was scanty, and
during the winter high winds drove water over the land, and converted
the whole pen into a sheet of ice.

The same officer was then transferred to Elmira, New York, where nearly
10,000 prisoners were confined during August, 1864. The ground had been
a receiving station for recruits. Both wooden barracks and tents were in
use. The water was good and the commanding officer was efficient and
humane, though some of his subordinates are charged with cruelty, as was
also a part of the medical staff. Though an abundance of bread was
supplied, little meat was issued, and after the sutlers were excluded,
August 18, 1864, an epidemic of scurvy followed. Speaking of some of his
fellow prisoners who were finally exchanged, he says: “On they came a
ghastly tide with skeleton bodies and lustreless eyes, and brains bereft
of but one thought, and hearts purged of all feelings but one--the
thought of freedom, the love of home ... some with the seal of death
stamped on their wasted cheeks and shrivelled limbs, yet fearing less
death than the added agony of death in the hands of enemies.”

Who was responsible for all this misery? Was this horrible suffering
deliberately inflicted by the authorities with a fixed purpose in view?
Such was undoubtedly the general belief in the North regarding the
Confederate government. Secretary Stanton as early as December, 1863,
declared that Union soldiers held captive “were deprived of shelter,
clothing and food and some have perished from exposure and famine.”
After the war, Captain Wirz, the keeper of Andersonville, was tried and
convicted by a military tribunal which returned a verdict that he had
conspired with Jefferson Davis and others against the lives of Union
soldiers. Wirz was hanged Nov. 10, 1865, and General Winder’s death
probably saved him from a similar fate.

On the other hand President Davis in a message to the Confederate
Congress in December, 1864, says the Union soldiers were given the same
rations “in quantity and quality as those served out to our own gallant
soldiers” while “the most revolting inhumanity has characterised the
conduct of the United States toward the prisoners held by them.”

Many similar official or semi-official statements were made on both
sides. Mr. Rhodes has weighed and sifted the evidence, perhaps more
thoroughly than any other historian, and his verdict is as follows:
“There was no intention on either side to maltreat the prisoners. A mass
of men had to be cared for unexpectedly. Arrangements were made in a
hurry, and as neither side expected a long duration of the war, they
were only makeshifts devised with considerable regard for economy and
expenditure. There was bad management at the North and worse at the
South owing to less efficient organisation with meagre resources. And
it plainly appears from the mass of the evidence that the prisoner at
the North was the better off of the two, as he always had food and
shelter.”

Mr. Rhodes then compares the revised statistics which show that of
194,743 Union prisoners held by the Confederacy, 30,218 or fifteen and a
half per cent. died, while of 214,865 Confederate prisoners 25,976 or
twelve per cent. died. He then declares that considering all things the
balance was nearly even and that the North has no cause to reproach the
South.

In making up this judgment he undoubtedly takes into consideration the
attitude of Secretary Stanton and General Grant. When the Confederate
authorities, burdened with the great mass of prisoners whom they could
not feed, finally and persistently besought exchange upon any terms,
General Grant said in August, 1864: “It is hard on our men held in
Southern prisons not to exchange them but it is humanity to those left
in the ranks. Every man we hold when released on parole or otherwise
becomes an active soldier against us, at once directly or indirectly. If
we commence a system of exchange which liberates all prisoners, then we
will have to fight on until the whole South is exterminated. If we hold
those caught they amount to no more than dead men.” Therefore, with iron
nerve he resisted all pressure brought to force an exchange, and was
sustained by Secretary Stanton. Both these men must share with the
Confederate authorities the responsibility for prison horrors.

Handling men in masses is always difficult. In the Crimea, just ten
years before the awful winter of 1864, the English army was reduced by
famine and disease to a mere skeleton. Here there was no animus, but
only incompetence to meet the difficulties of the situation. During the
Franco-Prussian War, in spite of the wonderful preparations on the part
of Prussia, bitter complaints of the treatment of French prisoners were
made. But the misfortunes or the failures of one nation do not excuse or
justify those of another. The treatment of the Civil War prisoners fills
some of the darkest pages of American history.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] A “fleet” in early English meant a “brook,” otherwise a “creek” or
“bay,” a term often met with in British geography in the names
Northfleet, Byfleet, Purfleet, etc.

[2] “State of Prisons,” i. 36.

[3] A free inmate who carried messages abroad.

[4] The doorkeepers and porters whose duty it was to recognise all
prisoners, and prevent them from passing through the gate.

[5] Oldys was for many years an inmate of the Fleet Prison. He was
permitted to go abroad to see his friends outside and even to spend the
whole night at large.

[6] The reader will remember Mr. Pickwick’s kindly relief of Mr. Alfred
Jingle and his faithful henchman Joe Trotter in the Fleet.

[7] The manufacture of straw plaiting was taxed and brought in a revenue
to the Exchequer.

[8] This is not correct. Compare with official report, _ante_, p. 194.

[9] Captain Stopford was an officer who had served with distinction in
the Indian Mutiny as adjutant of the 52d Light Infantry. He subsequently
became a Prison Commissioner and is now a gentleman usher to His Majesty
Edward VII.

[10] History of the United States. Vol. v, p. 487.

       *       *       *       *       *

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

the involvent debtor=> the insolvent debtor {pg 38}

que deux heros=> que deux héros {pg 79}

According to the acount there given=> According to the account there
given {pg 101}

the hospital and died there of “_langeur_,”=> the hospital and died
there of “_langueur_,” {pg 168}

detenus=> détenus {pg 234, 240, 274}

on supicion of being a spy=> on suspicion of being a spy {pg 253}

‘_Tuez moi ces coquins ci_’=> ‘_Tuez-moi ces coquins-ci_’ {pg 266}

_tres mauvais sujets_=> _trés mauvais sujets_ {pg 275, 276}