CHAPTERCXLVI.PEACE’S EXPERIENCE OF THE INTERIOR OF NEWGATE.We left Charles in charge of a prison warder who ushered him into a vaulted apartment of a gloomy cheerless description, like most others in the prison.Abutting out from this were several small rooms with baths in them, and Peace was told to perform the customary ablution.This he knew from former experience to be the usual course of procedure; so he undressed without a moment’s hesitation, whereupon his clothes were taken by his attendant and carefully examined, and all prohibited articles were removed from the pockets.An inventory of these things was taken, and our hero was informed that it was against the prison rules for him to retain possession of them; but that his wife or any of his friends, when they paid him a visit, might take them away, and “should you be fortunate enough to be acquitted,” observed the warder, “you can have them when you are discharged.”Peace nodded significantly.“Should I be fortunate enough,” he murmured to himself; “I fear there is not much chance of that. Well, you see, young man,” he said, aloud, “I don’t think there is much chance of my pulling through, ’cause, you see, the case is ugly against me.”“I have nothing to do with that; you are sent here to await your trial, and are, of course, innocent till you are proved guilty,” observed the warder, who was evidently a kindly-disposed person.Peace was informed that he could have the prison allowance of food, or order in what he required, under certain restrictions, from an eating-house on the opposite side of the Old Bailey, and that the money found upon him could be given to his relatives, who would be thereby enabled to pay for the choicest viands from the aforesaid cook-shop.All this information was conveyed to him in the set phraseology invariably adopted by wardens when addressing prisoners in similar cases.Peace was never at any time in his life a gourmand, and paid but little attention to the pleasures of the table. Nevertheless, he directed to have his meals furnished by the proprietor of the elegant restaurant outside the walls of the prison.But this only lasted a few days. From what he could see of the prison fare it was sufficiently good for his purpose, being wholesome and passably good in flavour, so he dropped the Old Bailey restaurant, and contented with the food supplied by the City authorities.After he had taken his bath, and had re-dressed himself he felt a little refreshed, and he was told to walk in front of his conductor.He ascended a flight of iron stairs into a lofty hall with a glass roof like a railway station, and on either side of this were galleries one above the other, forming tiers with cells along each, the doors of which were all numbered; a number was shouted in a loud voice by his attendant, when a warder on the first flight told Peace to come up stairs; he obeyed, and was at once ushered into his cell, which he was told must be kept as clean as he then saw it—that it would be requisite to scrub it every day. His attention was then directed to a printed list of rules, with which he was to make himself acquainted.All these formalities he had gone through on other occasions, but he did not choose to appear as if he knew anything about them; he was desirous of passing off as a green-hand, he had never been in Newgate before and none of the officials knew him—it was quite time enough for him to acknowledge that he had been convicted before upon the charge of burglary when he was recognised by other prison officials.When the door of his cell was closed, and he found himself alone in his narrow prison-house his heart seemed to sink within him; there was no telling what might be the issue of this capture.In any case, taking the most favourable view of it, he was certain to be sentenced to a long term of imprisonment.This was but a natural consequence, and this he was prepared to undergo, but if by any chance he should be identified as the celebrated Charles Peace, of Sheffield and Banner-cross notoriety, his life would be forfeited.“Oh,” he murmured, “there is that cursed woman who I have never trusted out of my sight since I first became acquainted with her. What will she do? Send me to the gallows, I expect. Oh, I wish I could see Bill Rawton; he’s the only man I can rely upon.”After these observations he fell into a reverie; then he proceeded to examine his cell and its furniture. It was much the same as the others he had been shut up in.It was a brick-arched apartment, about 12ft.by 7ft.There was the same description of wash-basin, the same flap table and wooden stool, the enamelled plate, tin mug, wooden spoon, and salt-box, he had been accustomed to in the earlier days of his prison life. At the sight of these old familiar objects his heart grew sick.“Hang it all! I have been a fool,” he murmured. “I can see that plainly enough, now that it is too late.”Oh, how he sighed for liberty at that supremely bitter moment!The window of his cell was strongly barred and escape was impossible. He climbed up to this, and from it, through a small door, some 10in.by 4in., was just able to distinguish the roofs of the houses and the majestic dome ofSt.Paul’s.The noise of the street traffic fell faintly on his ears, telling of the world outside—that dark receptacle of crime.Then he heaved a profound sigh.Should he ever again be mixing with the throng of passengers in the highways and byways of the great city?It was a query that he could not very well answer; but even at this time hope did not entirely desert him. There might be some flaw in the indictment—some legal technicality which might be used in his favour. There was no telling—such things had occurred and might again.Anyway he would hope for the best; as Mr. Micawber was wont to say, something might turn up.He remained for a long time after this a prey to agonising thoughts—the leading subject of these being Mrs. Thompson whom he now more than ever mistrusted.There was nobody now but his wife to keep watch and ward over her. It is true his friend Bill Rawton might use some little influence over the erratic woman, but then Bill knew nothing about the Bannercross murder, and he debated with himself if it was advisable even now to make the gipsy acquainted with all the circumstances attending upon that horrible crime.If this were done, Rawton might desert him at a time when he most stood in need of his service.He was anxious to drive the thoughts of his position from his mind, and so began to make an inspection of the door of his cell, the intricacies of which afforded a welcome relief by diverting his ideas from the misery of his situation.He had, throughout his life, taken great interest in mechanical appliances, and, to say the truth, it was, after all, but a poor consolation to employ his thoughts upon the solid fastenings of his door, but it was better than suffering the canker worm to gnaw at his heart. In the wall itself adjoining the door, about two feet from the top, was a something he could not make out.At first he was inclined to think it was a ventilator, but upon further examination he came to the conclusion that he was mistaken.It was no ventilator. He touched it, and immediately heard a sharp click outside. This made him start for a moment.A gong bell was sounded, the trap in the door flew open inwards, forming a little shelf, and a voice exclaimed—“Now then, what do you want?”Through the aperture Peace saw the face of a warder, not the one, however, who had shown him into the cell.He did not know very well what answer to make, and the man outside, in a still more emphatic manner said—“Can’t you say what you want? Speak, man.”“Oh,” cried Peace, “I beg your pardon for disturbing you, but I should like to have some writing paper, pens, and ink, if it not against the rules.”No reply was given to this request, but immediately the little trap closed with a click as suddenly as it had opened.“I expect Mr. Warder is a bit riled,” murmured our hero. “Well, if he is I can’t help it.”Presently he heard a key inserted in the lock, and the door was opened. Then the warder pointed to an inkstand, pen, and a sheet of writing paper, lying on the ground just outside the cell door.“I am sure you are very kind, and I beg to thank you for this favour,” said our hero, in the softest voice possible.“That will do,” cried the gaoler, closing the door after Peace had possessed himself of the writing materials.“Ah, a man of few words,” murmured the prisoner. “They are most of ’em like that. The least said the soonest mended is their motto. However, he’s given me what I asked for. I’ll write a few lines to the old woman, but I must mind how I word the letter, for I suppose it will be carefully examined before it is permitted to leave the prison.”He occupied himself in writing for some considerable time, and when the hour for bedtime arrived, he unfastened his hammock and retired to rest, sleeping soundly for the greater portion of the night.At six o’clock in the morning he was roused by the clanging of a large bell, and he knew it was time to get up.But before he had dressed, the door of his cell was thrown open by a warder, who passed on to make room for the deputy governor and another warder, who carried a book for taking notes of anything worthy of notice.Peace knew all these formalities very well, and was, therefore, quite prepared for them.He assumed a respectful manner for the nonce, and, to all appearance, he felt deeply the painful situation in which he found himself placed.He bowed submissively to the deputy-governor, who took but little notice of the obeisance.“Do you want to see the doctor?” inquired the prison official.“No, sir; I am in pretty good health. There is nothing the matter with me, beyond the fact that I am, of course, in great anxiety of mind.”“Just so. Then you don’t require medical advice?”“No, sir.”“Explain to him what he is required to do,” said the deputy-governor, turning on his heel.Two brushes were handed to Peace, and he was informed they were to be used in polishing the floor of his cell. He was also shown all the other arrangements with which, however, it is needless to say, he was already very well acquainted, but he listened to the warder’s instructions complacently enough.Every morning he had to go on his hands and knees and polish the cell floor as well as wash and scrub the table, stool, and bason, and every article in the room.After breakfast—which was served through the little trap in the door, and which consisted of a pint of gruel and a piece of bread—he was told to prepare for chapel.As we have, in a previous chapter, given a full detail of the proceedings in the chapel of a prison, it will not be necessary to repeat the same in this place.It is certain, however, that in chapel and at other places in the gaol opportunities are afforded of prisoners conversing, and it is equally certain that “old lags,” on coming into contact with first offenders, delight in polluting their minds.In due course the chaplain paid a visit to Peace. He was urbane and kind in his manner, asked the prisoner a variety of questions, and it is needless to say that Peace pretended to be contrite, and expressed his regret for having been led into error. He did not say he had been a criminal for the greater part of his life, but he assumed a sanctimonious air. But the chaplain of Newgate, although uniformly kind to those under his spiritual care, had too much penetration to be deceived by Peace’s hypocrisy.No man could by possibility be more fitted for the office than this gentleman. Few men have the gift of dropping in a few words of seasonable advice, judiciously mingled with reproof, than this gentleman.When Peace regained his cell, after the service was over, he received a visit from the governor duly attended, like any other commander-in-chief, by his aide-de-camp.He regarded Peace with a scrutinising glance, and inquired if he wanted anything.“I want to see my friends as soon as possible, and my solicitor to arrange for my defence,” said our hero.“Very well, that is but natural. Write to them and you can have an interview on the next visiting day.”“I have written,” cried Peace. “I hope the letter was sent off.”“It was,” observed the governor, sententiously. “Anything else?”“No, sir, I don’t think there is anything else, thank you.”The governor retired.His visits after this were singularly regular. He came, looked round, made one or two observations, and then departed.Peace did not dare to ask if Robinson, whom he had shot, was progressing favourably or not, but this was a question he was most anxious about.If the wounded policeman succumbed to the injuries he had received his assassin would expiate the crime he had committed on the scaffold.One day he asked one of the warders if Robinson was still alive. The question was answered with a nod only, which signified that he was. This seemed to lift a load off Peace’s heart, and hope dawned again.After the governor’s diurnal visit all the remanded prisoners were called out and marched off into a stone-paved yard surrounded by high brick walls.Peace had the strongest possible objection to this arrangement.He dreaded marching round, as, by so doing, he would run the risk of being detected, and his real identity would become known.However, he was constrained to follow the instructions given him.It was deemed necessary that prisoners should have exercise, and so there was no other course open to him than to comply with the usual regulations.He had a good opportunity of looking at his fellow-prisoners.They were of all grades of society, from the fraudulent merchant to the small boy who had been taught to pick pockets.There were forgers, embezzling clerks, housebreakers, and villains of every conceivable type.Peace glanced at them, protruding his lower jaw the while, and distorting his features in such a way as to render recognition difficult and almost impossible.“What are you in for?” whispered a youth of the Artful Dodger species.Peace made no answer.“I say, old man,” observed the precocious youth aforesaid, “you let fly at a bobby—didn’t yer? S’help me taters, I wouldn’t be in your shoes.”All this was said in a whisper, but it was loud enough for Peace to hear.“Hold your tongue, yer fool,” cried another of the group, addressing himself to the pickpocket. “Can’t yer see as how the gentleman don’t like it?”Round and round the yard in Indian file, some three yards apart, did the prisoners march for nearly an hour.Two warders were there to keep order, and check any talking between the prisoners, but a few chance observations such as we have recorded did at times take place, despite the warders’ surveillance.“Oh, strike me lucky, but the old un has a pretty mug of his own,” said the pickpocket, as he caught sight of Peace’s profile.“Now then, no talking,” said one of the warders.“I vasn’t a speakin’,” cried the pickpocket.“It was you who spoke, and if you do it again I’ll report you,” said the prison official.“Vell, all I sed vas, vat a beautiful old genelman I’ve got in front of me. There aint any harm in that, I s’pose.”“You hold your tongue. Do you hear?”“Yes, I hear. Vell I’m blest. A cove musn’t even open his mouth to get a breath of fresh air.”“Silence.”The pickpocket said no more, much to Peace’s relief, for the few chance observations he had already made naturally enough attracted the attention of most persons to our hero.Presently a batch of persons emerged from a side door of the prison, and entered the yard.They were detectives and warders from other prisons, and had come to take stock, and see if they could spot any “old friends.”Peace walked round and round without appearing to be aware of the presence of the newcomers, but he was most anxious, nevertheless.As he passed along and came within full view of them, he did not recognise any face that was known to him in the group, and hoped, therefore, that it was all right as far as that day was concerned. Nevertheless, several recognitions did take place, for one man was called to the corner of the yard to undergo a closer scrutiny, while one of the prison officials compared a photograph he drew from his pocket with the features of the man in question, and there was no denying the “soft impeachment.”No.80.Illustration: VISITING DAY AT NEWGATEVISITING DAY AT NEWGATE—PEACE’S INTERVIEW WITH HIS WIFE.The gentleman was known as an “old lag.” The acquaintances thus claimed are seldom cordially reciprocated, and in more than one instance Piper at the present moment was found to be identical with Jenkins, of Coldbath-fields, or White, of Holloway. Peace expected his turn to come.It would, indeed, have been a sore trial if the visitors to the gaol discovered that Mr. Ward, of Blackheath, or Mr. Thompson, of Peckham, was identical with Mr. Charles Peace, of Sheffield; this is what he most dreaded, but it so chanced that on this day none of his friends, either in the “force” or in gaol were present at Newgate. So much the better for him—he had a respite for a while.Those who were recognised stoutly protested that the warders or detectives were mistaken; they said they had never been in trouble before, and assumed such a virtuous tone of indignation as to somehow shake the faith of their accusers.An old and astute detective told us that it was not so much the recognising the face and figure of the individual that they depended on in the first instance, as the fact that in nine cases out of ten an “old lag” would betray himself.Artful as these men are they appear to lose presence of mind the moment the detectives come into the yard.Those whom they are seeking seem to be but too well aware of the danger that awaits them, and they invariably try to look so perfectly innocent, and slink past in such a shuffling manner, that the chances are they are bound to be “spotted.”But it must be understood that those who are in search of old acquaintances of this sort generally have a good survey of the prisoners, as they are marching round, from some dark window of the prison before they enter the yard. Thus the bearing and looks of the prisoners are undergoing a careful and rigid scrutiny when they are not aware of it.On entering, the detectives note any change in their demeanour.The new man, the green hand, is perfectly indifferent as to who sees him—indeed, in most cases, he does not even suspect what has brought the crowd of persons into the yard, his natural surmise being, if he reflects at all upon the subject, that they are mere loungers, who have been brought thither from mere idle curiosity.But with the old hand the case is altogether different. He looks upon the detectives and all prison officials as his natural enemies, and he cannot preserve his usual equanimity when they make their appearance in the exercise-yard, and hence it is that in most cases the old hand, by some sudden or indiscreet movement, is pretty sure to betray himself.Many culprits of this class would gladly avoid the customary exercise which is deemed requisite by the authorities to take, and Peace was one of this number; but to refuse would only cause them to be looked upon with suspicion, and would be attended with other evil consequences.When the customary walk-round in the yard is concluded, the general practice at Newgate is for the prisoners to partake of the mid-day meal. This generally consists of a few potatoes or other sort of vegetables, a few ounces of meat, and a tolerably good supply of bread—the last-named is generally pretty good. Although it is made of coarse flour, still as a rule it is passable enough. When their meat is not included in the list of delicacies soup is given, which is made from the liquor of the meat on the preceding day.As far as the meat is concerned, it may be good enough, though it consists of the coarsest and most inferior part of the animal, but if any care or attention was paid to the cookery of the beef or mutton it would be eatable.But this is never done. Huge junks of beef are placed in a copper, unsalted, and boiled as rapidly as possible, and when turned out it presents the appearance of horse flesh. As a rule there is very little fat to it, and it presents a most objectionable appearance.The English are not versed in the science of cookery, and have yet a great deal to learn from their Continental neighbours, but the beef at Newgate requires a very strong stomach to take to it kindly. This is the more surprising, seeing that the City gaol is under the superintendence of the Court of Aldermen and the Court of Common Council, and every member of these august bodies is supposed to have a great relish for the good things of this life.It is true that they have a great abhorrence of evil-disposed persons who are indiscreet enough to commit acts which bring them under the ban of the law—such persons must be punished, and ought not to be pampered or fed upon the fat of the land during their temporary sojourn in the City prison. And, to say the truth, they certainly are not.If the object is to make the meat as hard, unpalatable, and indigestible as possible, and at the same time to impart as little flavour and nourishment to the “soup,” the end is attained. But there is really no reason for this—with the same materials properly cooked excellent dinners could be furnished; as it is, the cooking is simply abominable—as bad as can possibly be.It is to be hoped that a change will very shortly take place in the culinary department of Newgate, for it should be remembered that many persons are sent there who in the due course of time are proved to be innocent of the crimes with which they are charged.Peace, however, never complained of the food which he partook of without a murmur, but there were others who made wry faces as the unsavoury mess was placed before them.During the afternoon he was constrained to take another turn round the yard with his companions in misfortune, or, more properly speaking, crime.On this occasion no detectives or warders paid a visit to the yard, and Peace, therefore, had no misgivings as far as that day was concerned. But he was, however, greatly relieved when he was conducted back to his cell. Anyway he would not be troubled to move out of it again till the following morning.He was most anxious to see Bill Rawton or his wife. He had more confidence in the former and would much prefer having an interview with the gipsy, but he had already sent letters to both, and expected to see them on the next visiting day.Certain days in the week are appointed for prisoners to have interviews with their friends or relatives. The friends of prisoners not convicted are allowed to come and see them and converse through wire gratings.The rules in this respect are stringent enough, and many have declared that they are unnecessarily so. It certainly does appear hard upon an unconvicted person, that he or she should not be permitted to have any private conversation with friends or relatives. But such is the present regulation.There are two gratings with a space of some three or four feet between them, in which space stands or sits a warder.Any parcels of clothes or other not prohibited articles are passed first to the warder so that he may be satisfied that there are no contraband things among them, and then, after examination they are handed by him to the prisoner.The visiting goes on for an hour. The prisoners, or such of them who have friends to see them, stand in a row against the railings with their friends opposite.Everyone is talking at once to his own friend, and the consequence is that a noise and hubbub is kept up for the whole of the time, and all present are too interested in their own individual matters to heed what is going on between his neighbour and friend, and as far as the warders are concerned they look upon the scene with perfect apathy, and in most cases do not hear anything very distinctly; or, if they do, do not bother themselves with affairs which after all do not as a general rule in any way interest them.Peace during his first few days’ incarceration in the gaol of Newgate had conducted himself in a discreet and proper manner. He was observant of the prison rules, assumed an air of passive resignation, and strove as best he could to impress everybody with the fact that he was a repentant sinner.The hyprocrisy of this man was one of his leading characteristics. One morning, when the governor had paid him his accustomed diurnal visit, he expressed himself dissatisfied with the manner in which his cell was cleaned.Peace assumed a tone of humility and said he was much pained at incurring his censure, but that he would be specially mindful of the timely warning, and take every care not to incur his censure again.At the same time he expressed his thanks for the considerate manner he had been treated by the prison officials, whose kindness he should ever be grateful for.It is said that a soft word turneth away wrath, and Peace after this was treated with the greatest possible kindness, conformable with the rules of the gaol; indeed he played his part so admirably that those about him were disposed to believe that he had fallen into error by some sudden or spasmodic influence which they were at a loss to account for.
We left Charles in charge of a prison warder who ushered him into a vaulted apartment of a gloomy cheerless description, like most others in the prison.
Abutting out from this were several small rooms with baths in them, and Peace was told to perform the customary ablution.
This he knew from former experience to be the usual course of procedure; so he undressed without a moment’s hesitation, whereupon his clothes were taken by his attendant and carefully examined, and all prohibited articles were removed from the pockets.
An inventory of these things was taken, and our hero was informed that it was against the prison rules for him to retain possession of them; but that his wife or any of his friends, when they paid him a visit, might take them away, and “should you be fortunate enough to be acquitted,” observed the warder, “you can have them when you are discharged.”
Peace nodded significantly.
“Should I be fortunate enough,” he murmured to himself; “I fear there is not much chance of that. Well, you see, young man,” he said, aloud, “I don’t think there is much chance of my pulling through, ’cause, you see, the case is ugly against me.”
“I have nothing to do with that; you are sent here to await your trial, and are, of course, innocent till you are proved guilty,” observed the warder, who was evidently a kindly-disposed person.
Peace was informed that he could have the prison allowance of food, or order in what he required, under certain restrictions, from an eating-house on the opposite side of the Old Bailey, and that the money found upon him could be given to his relatives, who would be thereby enabled to pay for the choicest viands from the aforesaid cook-shop.
All this information was conveyed to him in the set phraseology invariably adopted by wardens when addressing prisoners in similar cases.
Peace was never at any time in his life a gourmand, and paid but little attention to the pleasures of the table. Nevertheless, he directed to have his meals furnished by the proprietor of the elegant restaurant outside the walls of the prison.
But this only lasted a few days. From what he could see of the prison fare it was sufficiently good for his purpose, being wholesome and passably good in flavour, so he dropped the Old Bailey restaurant, and contented with the food supplied by the City authorities.
After he had taken his bath, and had re-dressed himself he felt a little refreshed, and he was told to walk in front of his conductor.
He ascended a flight of iron stairs into a lofty hall with a glass roof like a railway station, and on either side of this were galleries one above the other, forming tiers with cells along each, the doors of which were all numbered; a number was shouted in a loud voice by his attendant, when a warder on the first flight told Peace to come up stairs; he obeyed, and was at once ushered into his cell, which he was told must be kept as clean as he then saw it—that it would be requisite to scrub it every day. His attention was then directed to a printed list of rules, with which he was to make himself acquainted.
All these formalities he had gone through on other occasions, but he did not choose to appear as if he knew anything about them; he was desirous of passing off as a green-hand, he had never been in Newgate before and none of the officials knew him—it was quite time enough for him to acknowledge that he had been convicted before upon the charge of burglary when he was recognised by other prison officials.
When the door of his cell was closed, and he found himself alone in his narrow prison-house his heart seemed to sink within him; there was no telling what might be the issue of this capture.
In any case, taking the most favourable view of it, he was certain to be sentenced to a long term of imprisonment.
This was but a natural consequence, and this he was prepared to undergo, but if by any chance he should be identified as the celebrated Charles Peace, of Sheffield and Banner-cross notoriety, his life would be forfeited.
“Oh,” he murmured, “there is that cursed woman who I have never trusted out of my sight since I first became acquainted with her. What will she do? Send me to the gallows, I expect. Oh, I wish I could see Bill Rawton; he’s the only man I can rely upon.”
After these observations he fell into a reverie; then he proceeded to examine his cell and its furniture. It was much the same as the others he had been shut up in.
It was a brick-arched apartment, about 12ft.by 7ft.There was the same description of wash-basin, the same flap table and wooden stool, the enamelled plate, tin mug, wooden spoon, and salt-box, he had been accustomed to in the earlier days of his prison life. At the sight of these old familiar objects his heart grew sick.
“Hang it all! I have been a fool,” he murmured. “I can see that plainly enough, now that it is too late.”
Oh, how he sighed for liberty at that supremely bitter moment!
The window of his cell was strongly barred and escape was impossible. He climbed up to this, and from it, through a small door, some 10in.by 4in., was just able to distinguish the roofs of the houses and the majestic dome ofSt.Paul’s.
The noise of the street traffic fell faintly on his ears, telling of the world outside—that dark receptacle of crime.
Then he heaved a profound sigh.
Should he ever again be mixing with the throng of passengers in the highways and byways of the great city?
It was a query that he could not very well answer; but even at this time hope did not entirely desert him. There might be some flaw in the indictment—some legal technicality which might be used in his favour. There was no telling—such things had occurred and might again.
Anyway he would hope for the best; as Mr. Micawber was wont to say, something might turn up.
He remained for a long time after this a prey to agonising thoughts—the leading subject of these being Mrs. Thompson whom he now more than ever mistrusted.
There was nobody now but his wife to keep watch and ward over her. It is true his friend Bill Rawton might use some little influence over the erratic woman, but then Bill knew nothing about the Bannercross murder, and he debated with himself if it was advisable even now to make the gipsy acquainted with all the circumstances attending upon that horrible crime.
If this were done, Rawton might desert him at a time when he most stood in need of his service.
He was anxious to drive the thoughts of his position from his mind, and so began to make an inspection of the door of his cell, the intricacies of which afforded a welcome relief by diverting his ideas from the misery of his situation.
He had, throughout his life, taken great interest in mechanical appliances, and, to say the truth, it was, after all, but a poor consolation to employ his thoughts upon the solid fastenings of his door, but it was better than suffering the canker worm to gnaw at his heart. In the wall itself adjoining the door, about two feet from the top, was a something he could not make out.
At first he was inclined to think it was a ventilator, but upon further examination he came to the conclusion that he was mistaken.
It was no ventilator. He touched it, and immediately heard a sharp click outside. This made him start for a moment.
A gong bell was sounded, the trap in the door flew open inwards, forming a little shelf, and a voice exclaimed—
“Now then, what do you want?”
Through the aperture Peace saw the face of a warder, not the one, however, who had shown him into the cell.
He did not know very well what answer to make, and the man outside, in a still more emphatic manner said—
“Can’t you say what you want? Speak, man.”
“Oh,” cried Peace, “I beg your pardon for disturbing you, but I should like to have some writing paper, pens, and ink, if it not against the rules.”
No reply was given to this request, but immediately the little trap closed with a click as suddenly as it had opened.
“I expect Mr. Warder is a bit riled,” murmured our hero. “Well, if he is I can’t help it.”
Presently he heard a key inserted in the lock, and the door was opened. Then the warder pointed to an inkstand, pen, and a sheet of writing paper, lying on the ground just outside the cell door.
“I am sure you are very kind, and I beg to thank you for this favour,” said our hero, in the softest voice possible.
“That will do,” cried the gaoler, closing the door after Peace had possessed himself of the writing materials.
“Ah, a man of few words,” murmured the prisoner. “They are most of ’em like that. The least said the soonest mended is their motto. However, he’s given me what I asked for. I’ll write a few lines to the old woman, but I must mind how I word the letter, for I suppose it will be carefully examined before it is permitted to leave the prison.”
He occupied himself in writing for some considerable time, and when the hour for bedtime arrived, he unfastened his hammock and retired to rest, sleeping soundly for the greater portion of the night.
At six o’clock in the morning he was roused by the clanging of a large bell, and he knew it was time to get up.
But before he had dressed, the door of his cell was thrown open by a warder, who passed on to make room for the deputy governor and another warder, who carried a book for taking notes of anything worthy of notice.
Peace knew all these formalities very well, and was, therefore, quite prepared for them.
He assumed a respectful manner for the nonce, and, to all appearance, he felt deeply the painful situation in which he found himself placed.
He bowed submissively to the deputy-governor, who took but little notice of the obeisance.
“Do you want to see the doctor?” inquired the prison official.
“No, sir; I am in pretty good health. There is nothing the matter with me, beyond the fact that I am, of course, in great anxiety of mind.”
“Just so. Then you don’t require medical advice?”
“No, sir.”
“Explain to him what he is required to do,” said the deputy-governor, turning on his heel.
Two brushes were handed to Peace, and he was informed they were to be used in polishing the floor of his cell. He was also shown all the other arrangements with which, however, it is needless to say, he was already very well acquainted, but he listened to the warder’s instructions complacently enough.
Every morning he had to go on his hands and knees and polish the cell floor as well as wash and scrub the table, stool, and bason, and every article in the room.
After breakfast—which was served through the little trap in the door, and which consisted of a pint of gruel and a piece of bread—he was told to prepare for chapel.
As we have, in a previous chapter, given a full detail of the proceedings in the chapel of a prison, it will not be necessary to repeat the same in this place.
It is certain, however, that in chapel and at other places in the gaol opportunities are afforded of prisoners conversing, and it is equally certain that “old lags,” on coming into contact with first offenders, delight in polluting their minds.
In due course the chaplain paid a visit to Peace. He was urbane and kind in his manner, asked the prisoner a variety of questions, and it is needless to say that Peace pretended to be contrite, and expressed his regret for having been led into error. He did not say he had been a criminal for the greater part of his life, but he assumed a sanctimonious air. But the chaplain of Newgate, although uniformly kind to those under his spiritual care, had too much penetration to be deceived by Peace’s hypocrisy.
No man could by possibility be more fitted for the office than this gentleman. Few men have the gift of dropping in a few words of seasonable advice, judiciously mingled with reproof, than this gentleman.
When Peace regained his cell, after the service was over, he received a visit from the governor duly attended, like any other commander-in-chief, by his aide-de-camp.
He regarded Peace with a scrutinising glance, and inquired if he wanted anything.
“I want to see my friends as soon as possible, and my solicitor to arrange for my defence,” said our hero.
“Very well, that is but natural. Write to them and you can have an interview on the next visiting day.”
“I have written,” cried Peace. “I hope the letter was sent off.”
“It was,” observed the governor, sententiously. “Anything else?”
“No, sir, I don’t think there is anything else, thank you.”
The governor retired.
His visits after this were singularly regular. He came, looked round, made one or two observations, and then departed.
Peace did not dare to ask if Robinson, whom he had shot, was progressing favourably or not, but this was a question he was most anxious about.
If the wounded policeman succumbed to the injuries he had received his assassin would expiate the crime he had committed on the scaffold.
One day he asked one of the warders if Robinson was still alive. The question was answered with a nod only, which signified that he was. This seemed to lift a load off Peace’s heart, and hope dawned again.
After the governor’s diurnal visit all the remanded prisoners were called out and marched off into a stone-paved yard surrounded by high brick walls.
Peace had the strongest possible objection to this arrangement.
He dreaded marching round, as, by so doing, he would run the risk of being detected, and his real identity would become known.
However, he was constrained to follow the instructions given him.
It was deemed necessary that prisoners should have exercise, and so there was no other course open to him than to comply with the usual regulations.
He had a good opportunity of looking at his fellow-prisoners.
They were of all grades of society, from the fraudulent merchant to the small boy who had been taught to pick pockets.
There were forgers, embezzling clerks, housebreakers, and villains of every conceivable type.
Peace glanced at them, protruding his lower jaw the while, and distorting his features in such a way as to render recognition difficult and almost impossible.
“What are you in for?” whispered a youth of the Artful Dodger species.
Peace made no answer.
“I say, old man,” observed the precocious youth aforesaid, “you let fly at a bobby—didn’t yer? S’help me taters, I wouldn’t be in your shoes.”
All this was said in a whisper, but it was loud enough for Peace to hear.
“Hold your tongue, yer fool,” cried another of the group, addressing himself to the pickpocket. “Can’t yer see as how the gentleman don’t like it?”
Round and round the yard in Indian file, some three yards apart, did the prisoners march for nearly an hour.
Two warders were there to keep order, and check any talking between the prisoners, but a few chance observations such as we have recorded did at times take place, despite the warders’ surveillance.
“Oh, strike me lucky, but the old un has a pretty mug of his own,” said the pickpocket, as he caught sight of Peace’s profile.
“Now then, no talking,” said one of the warders.
“I vasn’t a speakin’,” cried the pickpocket.
“It was you who spoke, and if you do it again I’ll report you,” said the prison official.
“Vell, all I sed vas, vat a beautiful old genelman I’ve got in front of me. There aint any harm in that, I s’pose.”
“You hold your tongue. Do you hear?”
“Yes, I hear. Vell I’m blest. A cove musn’t even open his mouth to get a breath of fresh air.”
“Silence.”
The pickpocket said no more, much to Peace’s relief, for the few chance observations he had already made naturally enough attracted the attention of most persons to our hero.
Presently a batch of persons emerged from a side door of the prison, and entered the yard.
They were detectives and warders from other prisons, and had come to take stock, and see if they could spot any “old friends.”
Peace walked round and round without appearing to be aware of the presence of the newcomers, but he was most anxious, nevertheless.
As he passed along and came within full view of them, he did not recognise any face that was known to him in the group, and hoped, therefore, that it was all right as far as that day was concerned. Nevertheless, several recognitions did take place, for one man was called to the corner of the yard to undergo a closer scrutiny, while one of the prison officials compared a photograph he drew from his pocket with the features of the man in question, and there was no denying the “soft impeachment.”
No.80.
Illustration: VISITING DAY AT NEWGATEVISITING DAY AT NEWGATE—PEACE’S INTERVIEW WITH HIS WIFE.
VISITING DAY AT NEWGATE—PEACE’S INTERVIEW WITH HIS WIFE.
The gentleman was known as an “old lag.” The acquaintances thus claimed are seldom cordially reciprocated, and in more than one instance Piper at the present moment was found to be identical with Jenkins, of Coldbath-fields, or White, of Holloway. Peace expected his turn to come.
It would, indeed, have been a sore trial if the visitors to the gaol discovered that Mr. Ward, of Blackheath, or Mr. Thompson, of Peckham, was identical with Mr. Charles Peace, of Sheffield; this is what he most dreaded, but it so chanced that on this day none of his friends, either in the “force” or in gaol were present at Newgate. So much the better for him—he had a respite for a while.
Those who were recognised stoutly protested that the warders or detectives were mistaken; they said they had never been in trouble before, and assumed such a virtuous tone of indignation as to somehow shake the faith of their accusers.
An old and astute detective told us that it was not so much the recognising the face and figure of the individual that they depended on in the first instance, as the fact that in nine cases out of ten an “old lag” would betray himself.
Artful as these men are they appear to lose presence of mind the moment the detectives come into the yard.
Those whom they are seeking seem to be but too well aware of the danger that awaits them, and they invariably try to look so perfectly innocent, and slink past in such a shuffling manner, that the chances are they are bound to be “spotted.”
But it must be understood that those who are in search of old acquaintances of this sort generally have a good survey of the prisoners, as they are marching round, from some dark window of the prison before they enter the yard. Thus the bearing and looks of the prisoners are undergoing a careful and rigid scrutiny when they are not aware of it.
On entering, the detectives note any change in their demeanour.
The new man, the green hand, is perfectly indifferent as to who sees him—indeed, in most cases, he does not even suspect what has brought the crowd of persons into the yard, his natural surmise being, if he reflects at all upon the subject, that they are mere loungers, who have been brought thither from mere idle curiosity.
But with the old hand the case is altogether different. He looks upon the detectives and all prison officials as his natural enemies, and he cannot preserve his usual equanimity when they make their appearance in the exercise-yard, and hence it is that in most cases the old hand, by some sudden or indiscreet movement, is pretty sure to betray himself.
Many culprits of this class would gladly avoid the customary exercise which is deemed requisite by the authorities to take, and Peace was one of this number; but to refuse would only cause them to be looked upon with suspicion, and would be attended with other evil consequences.
When the customary walk-round in the yard is concluded, the general practice at Newgate is for the prisoners to partake of the mid-day meal. This generally consists of a few potatoes or other sort of vegetables, a few ounces of meat, and a tolerably good supply of bread—the last-named is generally pretty good. Although it is made of coarse flour, still as a rule it is passable enough. When their meat is not included in the list of delicacies soup is given, which is made from the liquor of the meat on the preceding day.
As far as the meat is concerned, it may be good enough, though it consists of the coarsest and most inferior part of the animal, but if any care or attention was paid to the cookery of the beef or mutton it would be eatable.
But this is never done. Huge junks of beef are placed in a copper, unsalted, and boiled as rapidly as possible, and when turned out it presents the appearance of horse flesh. As a rule there is very little fat to it, and it presents a most objectionable appearance.
The English are not versed in the science of cookery, and have yet a great deal to learn from their Continental neighbours, but the beef at Newgate requires a very strong stomach to take to it kindly. This is the more surprising, seeing that the City gaol is under the superintendence of the Court of Aldermen and the Court of Common Council, and every member of these august bodies is supposed to have a great relish for the good things of this life.
It is true that they have a great abhorrence of evil-disposed persons who are indiscreet enough to commit acts which bring them under the ban of the law—such persons must be punished, and ought not to be pampered or fed upon the fat of the land during their temporary sojourn in the City prison. And, to say the truth, they certainly are not.
If the object is to make the meat as hard, unpalatable, and indigestible as possible, and at the same time to impart as little flavour and nourishment to the “soup,” the end is attained. But there is really no reason for this—with the same materials properly cooked excellent dinners could be furnished; as it is, the cooking is simply abominable—as bad as can possibly be.
It is to be hoped that a change will very shortly take place in the culinary department of Newgate, for it should be remembered that many persons are sent there who in the due course of time are proved to be innocent of the crimes with which they are charged.
Peace, however, never complained of the food which he partook of without a murmur, but there were others who made wry faces as the unsavoury mess was placed before them.
During the afternoon he was constrained to take another turn round the yard with his companions in misfortune, or, more properly speaking, crime.
On this occasion no detectives or warders paid a visit to the yard, and Peace, therefore, had no misgivings as far as that day was concerned. But he was, however, greatly relieved when he was conducted back to his cell. Anyway he would not be troubled to move out of it again till the following morning.
He was most anxious to see Bill Rawton or his wife. He had more confidence in the former and would much prefer having an interview with the gipsy, but he had already sent letters to both, and expected to see them on the next visiting day.
Certain days in the week are appointed for prisoners to have interviews with their friends or relatives. The friends of prisoners not convicted are allowed to come and see them and converse through wire gratings.
The rules in this respect are stringent enough, and many have declared that they are unnecessarily so. It certainly does appear hard upon an unconvicted person, that he or she should not be permitted to have any private conversation with friends or relatives. But such is the present regulation.
There are two gratings with a space of some three or four feet between them, in which space stands or sits a warder.
Any parcels of clothes or other not prohibited articles are passed first to the warder so that he may be satisfied that there are no contraband things among them, and then, after examination they are handed by him to the prisoner.
The visiting goes on for an hour. The prisoners, or such of them who have friends to see them, stand in a row against the railings with their friends opposite.
Everyone is talking at once to his own friend, and the consequence is that a noise and hubbub is kept up for the whole of the time, and all present are too interested in their own individual matters to heed what is going on between his neighbour and friend, and as far as the warders are concerned they look upon the scene with perfect apathy, and in most cases do not hear anything very distinctly; or, if they do, do not bother themselves with affairs which after all do not as a general rule in any way interest them.
Peace during his first few days’ incarceration in the gaol of Newgate had conducted himself in a discreet and proper manner. He was observant of the prison rules, assumed an air of passive resignation, and strove as best he could to impress everybody with the fact that he was a repentant sinner.
The hyprocrisy of this man was one of his leading characteristics. One morning, when the governor had paid him his accustomed diurnal visit, he expressed himself dissatisfied with the manner in which his cell was cleaned.
Peace assumed a tone of humility and said he was much pained at incurring his censure, but that he would be specially mindful of the timely warning, and take every care not to incur his censure again.
At the same time he expressed his thanks for the considerate manner he had been treated by the prison officials, whose kindness he should ever be grateful for.
It is said that a soft word turneth away wrath, and Peace after this was treated with the greatest possible kindness, conformable with the rules of the gaol; indeed he played his part so admirably that those about him were disposed to believe that he had fallen into error by some sudden or spasmodic influence which they were at a loss to account for.