by Barrie Jones
Chapter XVI. Henry recounts his medical examination and his transfer to Parkhurst Prison, Isle of Wight. At this time Parkhurst catered for the infirm and ‘weak minded’ convicts, consequently the prison regime was not as hard as in other penal institutions.
The Dark Side of Convict Life (Being the Account of the Career of Harry Williams, a Merthyr Man). Merthyr Express, 7th May 1910, page 9.
Chapter XVI
At a quarter past five on Tuesday the 12th of July 1904 Portland Prison bell rang out its chimes, the last chimes that I was to hear in that dreadful place. I was fast asleep in the strong cell in the hospital when the night nurse came and knocked at my door. “Are you awake, Williams,” says he. “Well, I’m not quite dead yet,” says I. “Why, your worth a hundred dead ones yet,” he replied. “Anyway,” says he. “Get ready, for you leave here at half-past six.” So up I jumped, put on my shoes, and was ready almost before he had said the last word.
My heart throbbed loudly as the bell itself, when I heard I was to be transferred to the Isle of Wight. They gave me my breakfast, which consisted of one pint of hot milk, half pound of white bread, and one ounce of butter, which I did not forget to eat, for I had forgotten all about the stomach pump. Shortly after breakfast in came the medical officer. “Well, Williams, my lad,” says he, in a kind, fatherly way, “how do you feel this morning?” “Well, just about the same as usual, sir,” says I. “Have you eaten your breakfast?” says he. “Yes, sir.” I replied. He then proceeded to examine me in order to see whether I was fit to travel. That done, he gave me a bit of his advice, saying, “Your heart is perfectly sound, Williams, and it is my opinion that if you will look after yourself when you get to Parkhurst you will very soon be better, but do not get excited, and keep perfectly calm.” I then said, “I suppose, sir, you are sending me to my last camping place.” “Oh, dear, no,” says he. “You must not think of dying yet. Your organs are all perfectly sound, and I do not see why you should not keep them sound.” “But I have a very weak stomach, sir.” says I. “Well, that may be.” Says he, “but people with delicate stomachs live to a great age sometimes. And I am sending you to the Isle of Wight because the climate is milder. Oh, you will be all right.”
With that he left me. He had not left me five minutes when in came the Chief Warder with a pair of handcuffs and a chain, which he proceeded to place upon my wrists. Having done so he led me up to the front gate, where I slipped into cab, and was driven to Portland railway station, where I got into a train for Southampton. The journey was rather a pleasant one, although I kept thinking it was my last, but I was afterwards told I was not transferred to the Isle of Wight on the grounds of any organic disease, but sent there as a weak-minded convict, and when there I should not be subjected to the prison rules but placed under medical observation. I should be allowed to converse with my fellow convicts and receive hospital diet, and be employed on light labour in the open air. Of course, this information I received in confidence on the condition I would not breath it even to my ten ounce loaf for the hospital nurse who accompanied the Chief Warder in charge of me was a very good man to me during the time I was in Portland. I owe my life to him, for if it had not been for the kindness which he placed at my disposal I should be on the hill in Portland convict cemetery, instead of transferred to the Isle of Wight. Therefore, I do not wish to place in print even his initials, but I should very much like to place him on the roll of heroes of everyday life.
After a few hours’ travel by rail I reached Southampton. I stepped out of the train into a cab, which was to take me to the pier-head, a couple of miles away. Arriving on the landing stage I was led on board ship, the Princess Beatrice, which took me across the water to the Isle of Wight, landing at a place called Cowes. I got off the ship into a cab, which was waiting to take me to Parkhurst Prison, a distance of six miles. After a pleasant little journey, passing the late Queen’s Island home, Osborne House, I at last arrived at the Prison gates, and was taken to the separate cells, searched, and then placed in a cell. My heart nearly fell from my side to my feet, and my brain swam around like the sea I had crossed when I found myself in prison again after such a beautiful sniff of sweet liberty. I was not in my cell long before the door was flung open, in came the doctor, attended by the hospital nurse, for he wore a red-cross upon his arm. “Well, my lad,” says the doctor, “Williams is your name, is it not?” “Yes, sir,” says I. “How do you feel after your journey?” “Downhearted,” I replied. “Oh,” says he, “do not make yourself ill. You must cheer up. You will be alright. I will take care of you,” says he, in his kind way. He then examined me, as is the usual custom, and ordered the nurse to take me into the hospital, and when there, I must confess, the doctor treated me with every possible custom, and he continued to do so all through my time, but I had some more trouble to go through even there, for although the doctors treat a man kindly they do not know that their orders are violated. In my next chapter I will give the account of my life in Parkhurst Prison.
To be continued……