Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 11/An Irish convict in the Federal army
AN IRISH CONVICT IN THE FEDERAL ARMY.
It was my invariable rule, when chaplain in the large convict prison on Spike Island, to ask every new prisoner “What are you in for? I was able to obtain this information from the “sheets” which accompanied his admission—and did obtain it, and all that was known of each prisoner’s antecedents, in this way—but I wished also to get the convict’s own version of the affair, which generally differed very materially from the view of his case taken by the judge and jury, and forwarded to the prison authorities. The question, “What are you in for?”— which I generally put in an abrupt way in the vestry-room of the prison chapel—rather stunned or dumbfoundered some of my flock. An Englishman might probably answer directly, and say, “for housebreaking,” or “picking pockets,” as the case might be; a Scotchman would probably place these offences under the head of “a breach of trust;” while an Irishman would scratch his head, turn himself round in his clothes, and say, “It was just nothing at all,” or, “It was all a mistake,” or, “I’ll tell you all about it some other time, sir.”
To a prisoner from whom I received the latter reply, I said, “You promised to tell me what you are in for.”
“Well, sir, it was just a family dispute.”
“It must have been rather a serious dispute, seeing you have got fifteen years for it”—pointing to the sentence-badge on his arm.
He threw up his head in a contemptuous way, which plainly said, “It is but little you could learn from the length of the sentence.”
“But what was the offence? You need not conceal it, for you know I can find it out in the office.”
“Manslaughter, sir.”
“Manslaughter!” I exclaimed, in unfeigned surprise, for the prisoner was a remarkably quiet, decent-looking man, who had been a small farmer in the north of Ireland.
He nodded assent to my exclamation of surprise, looking out at me from beneath a pair of shaggy eye-brows, like a fox from behind a furze-bush.
“Manslaughter! May I ask you who was the man you murdered?”
“It was a woman, sir; but it was no murder.”
“A woman!”
“Yes, sir.”
“And who was the woman?”
“My wife.”
“Your wife! Oh, I see, that is why you called it a family dispute?”
“Yes, sir. The judge who tried me, and gave me fifteen years, said my crime was an ‘uncommon one.’ Now you know, sir, it is not an uncommon crime at all.”
I agreed with him that the crime was too common, and thought, on that very account, it should be visited with a severe sentence, in order to check the cruelty and tyranny of husbands towards wives.
“That’s very queer reasoning, sir. If one man gives a long sentence because a crime is common, and another does the same because a crime is uncommon, what’s a poor man to do?”
“To avoid crime altogether, and treat his wife with kindness and affection. But you have not told me how it was you killed your wife.”
“It was all an accident, sir. I got mad drunk at the fair; and when I came home I took down the gun to shoot a servant-boy, for I am an Orangeman, and he is a Papist. Besides that, he discovered some of my lodge secrets. My wife caught hold of the gun to take it from me, and in the scuffle the gun went off and shot her in the ankle, and she died that night from the bleeding.”
This, I have reason to believe, was a pretty correct account of the affair; but as this prisoner took down the gun for the purpose of committing murder, he was sentenced to fifteen years transportation, although he did not kill the person he intended. He was under my instruction for several years, and I never knew a quieter or better conducted prisoner; but I could imagine him, when under the influence of liquor, to be a very maniac or devil. He was between forty and fifty years of age.
He had a friend and fellow-prisoner, who sat by his side in the prison chapel, a young man about two and twenty, who was almost as fearfully hot when sober as M——— was when drunk; and who, conscious of his failing, and knowing the severe penalties to which his unruly temper subjected him, kept as near the side of his cool friend, the wife-killer, as the somewhat stringent rules of the prison would permit.
I took a special interest in this young man, who had also been sentenced to fifteen years transportation.
"What are you in for?" I inquired, when he first landed on Spike Island.
"For stealing seventeen gold watches."
"Seventeen gold watches! Why, you do buisness in the wholesale line."
"It is the first business of the kind I ever did," he replied, with a smile.
"How did you get that out over your eye?"
"This?"—putting up his hand to an ugly scar—"from a musket-ball in the Crimea."
"You were in the Crimean war, then?"
"Yes, I ran away from home and enlisted, when about eighteen."
"How did you get out?"
"I was purchased out."
"Well, what about these watches?"
"I got a situation in Dublin, at Messrs. ———. I was out rather late one night, when the foreman of my department, who owed me a grudge, abused me like a dog, and told me I might consider myself dismissed, and that I should be paid my wages in the morning. I don't know how I kept my hands off him, for my monkey was up; but in going to my own room, I passed by the jewellery department, when the thought struck me, like lightning, to revenge myself by robbing it, and leaving the house that night."
"And you did so?"
"I did; for I knew where the key was kept."
"Did you take anything else besides the watches?"
"Nothing else."
"What did you do with them?"
"I did not know what to do with them, for they were burning my pocket; so I walked up to the canal, intending to throw thein in."
"To cool them, or your conscience—which?"
"Well, I suppose my conscience—though I don't know that it was conscience, either."
"What, then—fear?"
"Oh, no; there is not much of that about me."
"What was it, then?"
"Shame—I was ashamed of myself. I felt I had done a regular dirty job, to revenge myself."
"But what did you do with the watches?"
"Well, I knew it would never do for the stolen property to be found on me, so I pledged them for a small sum—about what was due to me by the house—resolving to send back the tickets, that they might be released."
"Well?"
"I had scarcely returned from pledging them, when the police were in on me, and found the tickets in my possession."
"And for this you got a transportation sentence of fifteen years?"
"Yes; it was considered such a serious breach of trust."
I have reason to believe there was truth in this young man's statement; and it would appear as if his employers believed it, for they used their best efforts to get his sentence shortened. I also did my utmost to promote the same object; and in the end we succeeded in getting the sentence of fifteen years transportation reduced to six years and nine months of penal servitude. For my efforts on his behalf he was sincerely grateful, and endeavoured to show his gratitude to me in the only way in which he could show it—by curbing his unruly temper, and keeping out of trouble and the "punishment cells," and by exhibiting an attentive and becoming religious deportment. I really think he wished to be religious, for my sake, though it was sorely against his nature; but in his zeal to please me, he overdid the thing.
The prisoners have the privilege of writing periodically to their friends, and I have no doubt that a correspondence of this kind, when properly conducted and superintended, produces a humanizing, moral, and happy effect on the convict's mind. These letters are read, and if approved of, initialed by the chaplain. The first letter brought to me by this young man was written with wonderful ability, and great care, and breathed a spirit of piety throughout. It was addressed to his father, in the style of a prodigal son. I read it, wrote on the top, "Too pious" and handed it back to him. He read the words of condemnation and blushed up to the eyes, but seemed as much astonished as he was ashamed. I laid my hand on his shoulder and said, "Be natural, especially in writing to your father. Try your best to be good and pious, but don't say too much about it. Go now, destroy that letter, and write another, and only say what you think and feel." He took my advice, and wrote a simple and proper letter, to which I placed my initials.
He was liberated in Dublin about twelve months ago, but there he was too well known to have any chance of procuring employment; so, after the lapse of a few weeks, he migrated to Liverpool, by no means an exceptional practice with Irish convicts, as we have no doubt the prison roll of the borough jail of Liverpool could testify.
He remained in Liverpool for three or four months, where I heard from him and of him, through his relatives and friends; but even there he could obtain no employment. He wrote to me to say that the police followed him like his shadow, and to their interference he attributed his being so long an idle wanderer through the streets.
Under these circumstances I was not sorry to hear ho had made up his mind to go to America. Emigration, to America, or one of our colonies, is the only means of affording a convict a certain mode of commencing life de novo, or of honestly obtaining a livelihood. He is almost sure to be detected in this country by some one, and pointed out as a person to be avoided and driven from employment, and back to his former evil courses. Hence the wisdom of the directors of Irish convict prisons in inducing as many of the discharged prisoners as they possibly can to emigrate. In this consists what is styled the success of the Irish system, in the deportation, and not in the reformation—of which we can have no evidence—of Irish convicts. We are convinced that more than the half of discharged Irish prisoners are disposed of in this way. We find that in the year 1862 as many as ninety-five emigrated out of a hundred and forty-two discharged from the intermediate prisons of Smithfield and Lusk. This was, perhaps, the largest proportion of emigrants in one year, but the average is over the half.
Well, our young friend resolved to emigrate, and took his departure from Liverpool to New York, about six months ago. I heard of him soon after his arrival, and found he had done what I suspected he would do, that was, enlist in the Federal army. Perhaps it was his only chance. There is many a man in the Queen's livery who has worn the convict frieze and badge; I have known several. The Federal army contains as many Irish roughs as New York rowdies.
When I heard of his having enlisted, I said, "Well, he will make a brave soldier at any rate." What, therefore, was my surprise to learn, a few weeks ago, that he had deserted in the presence of the enemy, as his regiment was moving up to take a position in front. I found it hard to believe it, for fighting seemed so congenial to his nature; but how could I disbelieve it, with his brother's letter before me, detailing the particulars, and mentioning the prison in which he was confined, awaiting his sentence, of the nature of which there could be no doubt. "Oh, would," said his brother, "that he had died fighting the enemy, and not to be shot down, by his own comrades, in cold blood, like a dog."
I was greatly distressed on his account, and that of his family, who are respectable, and although the young man's case appeared a hopeless one, I wrote at once to Mr. Adams, the American ambassador, on his behalf, informing him of the zeal and enthusiasm with which the young deserter had lately expressed himself, in a letter to his friends, respecting the Federal army; adding, that I did not think he was always master of his own actions, and that I suspected a wound which he received in the head at the Crimea, now and then, affected his mind.
Nothing could be more kind or prompt than His Excellency's reply. The matter was altogether out of his department, but he advised me how to proceed with the proper authorities in America. I at once wrote to the deserter's friends, enclosing the ambassador's letter, with a flickering hope, burning out like the end of a candle which had dropped into the socket, that he had not yet been shot.
What was my surprise, therefore, about a month ago, to see a letter addressed to his brother, from the "Army of the Potomac, in front of Petersburg," dated the 19th of June, 1864, commencing thus:—
"You, no doubt, will be surprised and offended at not hearing from me sooner. It has caused me uneasiness not being able to send you some account of my movements. To begin at the beginning. Early in the month of May I was on detached service at Aquia Creek and Belle Plain, and consequently was not in some of the actions in which our army was engaged that month; but in lieu of such I was brought into contact with guerillas, in the above-mentioned places, never receiving a wound."
But not a word about desertion, arrest, imprisonment, or shooting. How was it to be explained? Simply enough. There was another J. P. in the American army, and all our sorrow and sympathy had been evoked for the wrong man, for our J. P. was no deserter after all. "I knew it," I exclaimed, "the fellow was too brave to run away."
As our readers by this time may possibly begin to feel some little interest in the right J. P., we shall favour them with two or three extracts from his letter. The following passage, somewhat abbreviated, gives a pretty correct picture of the fasting, marching, fighting, and plundering capacity of Irish soldiers in the Federal army:—
"Left Belle Plain on May 22, and marched to Fredericksburg, fourteen miles; next day to Bowling-Green (not Kentucky), twenty-one miles; third day, marched twelve miles, and encamped in the woods, about an hour before the whole force got orders to make a flank movement. Off we started to Byers Plan tation, our colonel shot dead just before we moved. We were told at starting to lighten ourselves by throwing away our kits, as we had a long and heavy march before us. We were at it, night and day, for four days; and as I had no food for two days before, and got none for two days after—altogether four days—you may judge what humour I was in. Well, we arrived at last, planted our batteries, and plugged Johnny with grape and canister. We afterwards charged and drove John from his trenches. I went over the field the following morning to see what was to be seen. Dead men and horses. I then started for a house situated at a short distance, plundered it, and walked off with a flitch of bacon."
The following gives an example of the severity of marches which are calculated to wear out any soldiers, were they made of iron. "Johnny," as he denominates the Confederates, "had been at their heels for some time, killing, wounding, and capturing a great number," till they get up to the Federal lines, and "then the fun began." Johnny was brought to a halt, and the Federals recommenced their march, leaving pickets consisting of 3000 men behind, in order to deceive the enemy, and give the main body a fair start. The main body moved off at nine at night, the pickets at two the next morning, "and got away without the rebs knowing it," and marched from two that morning till twelve the next night, a distance of thirty-five miles in one day. When I commenced," says our hero, "my boots were bad, but this long march knocked them all to pieces." In another place he says, "I was almost barefooted till after the first day's fight before Petersburg, when I went on the field and pulled a pair off a dead fellow, which fitted me first-rate."
The condition of the inside garments of both officers and men must be terrible, if the following be anything like a correct statement, and it bears all the marks of truth upon it.
"As it regards myself, I am first-rate in health, but very uncomfortable in many respects. It is now nearly two months since I slept with my clothes off. On some occasions we pass the night with our knapsacks on us—that is, the few who carry such a thing. Most of the men have but one shirt. I have two, and when I get a chance, not often, I wash one of them, that is, when I get too many bites. The clothes of every man—officers not excepted—are densely populated."
We shall conclude with the following graphic account of the nonchalance and reckless daring of this young man:—
"A few hours ago I felt inclined for a little apple stew, and I went about thirty yards over the pass parapet, to one of the many fruit-trees in front of us, and was favoured with about a dozen shots from Johnny, none of them touching Jemmy; and I stopped there till I filled my bag. A nice cool breeze has just sprung up, and our colours, the stars and stripes, are flying, inviting Johnny to try his skill in musketry. I belong to the 9th Army Corps, Burnside's." C. B. Gibson.
A REAL SOCIAL EVIL
Several years since the social and physical condition of the females employed in our mines and collieries formed the subject of a Parliamentary inquiry, when many painful and startling disclosures were made respecting the objectionable manner in which female labour was frequently employed in those places. Females of all ages, from the girl just entering her teens to the grey-haired matron of sixty, were found occupied in heavy drudgery in the long subterraneous passages which extended from the bottom of the pit-shafts. Of these females many were employed as miners, being furnished with lights, spades, and other necessaries of their craft, in emulation of the male workers. They still further imitated the men by working in a state of semi-nudity, and by being subjected to regulations of the most stringent nature. As a rule, the wages received by them were lower than those obtained by the men, a circumstance which sufficiently accounted for the demand for their services. When these facts became fully known to the public, much indignation was expressed on the subject, and ultimately an Act of Parliament was passed, prohibiting the employment of women and children in mines and collieries. This gave general satisfaction to the public, and from that time the whole question faded gradually out of sight, few persons, not actually residing in the colliery districts, being aware of the extent to which female labour continued to be employed outside the pits. Incredible as the fact may appear to some, it is nevertheless true that hundreds of females, habited as men, are to be found at the present day working on the pit banks in Wales, Scotland, Lancashire, and Staffordshire. In Wales it is stated by competent witnesses, that "instances of gross depravity, through the girls coming in contact with the male sex at their work, were frequent." In Scotland, we are informed, the females so employed are "as clean and tidy as the nature of their work will allow," but that "there is something abhorrent in seeing them begrimed with dust, and placed in the way of temptations which might lead to immorality."