Bidwell's Travels, from Wall Street to London Prison: Fifteen Years in Solitude
arrested, and was confined at Norwalk. He engaged as counsel for his
chum a well-known criminal lawyer of New York by the name of Stuart, and
arranged with him to go up to Norwalk to see Riley the following day.
Although Stoneman had plenty of money, he told Stuart he had none, but
Riley had. Then he gave Riley's wife $2,500, and told her to be present
at the interview between the lawyer and her husband. At the interview
Riley told him he would give him $2,500 if he cleared him or $1,000 if
he got him off with a sentence of two years or less. Stuart was hungry
as a shark to finger the money, and writing out a receipt for the full
amount inserted the conditions agreed upon. Putting the money in his
pocket he started back to New York with Mrs. Riley. Stoneman was on the
train waiting for them, and as soon as they started he joined them. It
happened the train was crowded, and they had to stand. It seems some
pickpocket saw Stuart pull out the money, and determined to get it from
him. On the arrival of the train in New York he succeeded in doing so.
Stoneman had hurried out of the station, and, of course, knew nothing of
the loss. So soon as Stuart discovered his loss he blamed him for it,
and, being in a fury, he flew to Police Headquarters, secured the
services of a friendly detective, and, going to the hotel that he knew
Stoneman frequented, had him arrested on a charge of robbing him. The
end of it all was that Stuart and the detectives got all his money, and
then, knowing him to be a daring man, one that would neither forget nor
fear to avenge his wrong, to get him out of the way they betrayed him to
the Connecticut police as one of the express robbers. He was sent to
Norwalk to stand his trial, was convicted and sentenced to five years,
and sent to Weathersfield. Being a good mechanic, he was put in the
blacksmith shop, and there, with an eye to the future, he did what is
frequently done by professional gentlemen in our prisons, made a
complete and most finely tempered set of burglar tools. They were too
bulky to be smuggled out by friendly warders, so he secreted them in the
shop where he worked and ruled. Many of the prisoners in Weathersfield
are expert workmen, and from the machine shops there a high class of
work is turned out. Among other workshops, there is one for the
manufacture of silver-plated ware. Stoneman had made chums with one of
the prisoners who held a confidential position in the silverware
manufactory. As Stoneman's sentence was the first to expire, he gave him
points, and it was plotted between them that the prison itself should be
burglarized by Stoneman on a certain night after his release. The
confidential man was to leave the way clear to the safe where the silver
bars used in the business were stored. He in due time was liberated,
with the customary injunctions from the warden and officers "not to come
back any more." He did come back, but in a way entirely unanticipated by
them.
He, of course, knew the whole routine of the place, the stations of the
guards, and that the wall after 8 p.m. was left entirely unguarded. The
second night after his liberation found him beneath the wall with no
other implements than a light ladder of the right height. In a minute he
was on top, had pulled his ladder up and lowered it inside.
Once inside, every inch of the place was familiar to him, and he had a
clear field. The shops, although inside of the boundary walls, were
quite separate from the main building, where the men, closely guarded,
were confined. He entered the familiar room where he so long had worked,
and easily placed his hands on his (to him) precious kit of tools, and
carried his jimmies, wedges, sledges, bits, braces, drills, etc., to the
wall, and then landed them safe outside. Then he returned and entered
the room where the plunder he sought lay. Thanks to his friend, the way
was easy, and his art was not required to secure it. There were 600
ounces in silver bars, a pretty good load in avoirdupois, but he only
made one journey of it, mounted the wall and speedily was over.
Stoneman was a long-headed fellow. He had taken, without the owner's
leave, one of the many boats on the banks of the near-by river. He
carried his plunder and tools down to the boat, and pulled across the
river, two miles down, to where quite a stream empties into the
Connecticut. He pulled some distance up it; then putting everything into
bags he sank them in the creek. Then drifting back into the Connecticut
River again he threw his ladder over and turned the boat adrift. At 7
o'clock the next morning he was in New York.
In due time, in the idiom of the professionals, he "raised his plant,"
and the burglar's kit manufactured in the Connecticut State Prison did
what Stoneman considered yeoman service. With all his art and cunning,
justice would not be cajoled by him, but weighed him in her balance, to
a good purpose too. His success in his particular line was great, but he
paid dearly for it all. Many times he escaped detection, but not always.
Not to escape, but to be brought to the bar, means a fearful gap in the
life of a criminal. He was, as I say, famous in certain circles for his
success in his lawless course, yet in the twenty years between 1865 and
1886 he passed sixteen years in captivity. In that year he went to
England with a confederate, and a few hours later in London they
snatched a parcel of money from a bank messenger in Lombard street. Both
were caught in the act, and sentenced at the Old Bailey to twenty years
each. To-day Stoneman is toiling under brutal task-masters, and it is
all but certain he will perish at his task, friendless, alone, unpitied.
Better so even, for should he ever be freed it will not be until the
twentieth century is well on its way to the have beens of time, then
only to find himself a battered hulk stranded on a shore from which the
tide has ebbed forever.
CHAPTER XLIV.
I FIND THE FENIANS WITH ME IN THE TOILS.
I had, of course, for many years heard much of the Fenian prisoners in
the English prisons, particularly Sergeant McCarty and William O'Brien.
Soon after my arrival at Chatham I was placed in the same party with
them. We were all three strongly drawn together, but were shy of being
the first to speak. Of course, it was strictly against the rules to
talk, but as a matter of fact the prisoners find many opportunities for
talking, particularly if they do their work. The officers are reported
and fined if their men fall behind in their task, so if a man is any way
backward in working the officer keeps his weather eye open, and reports
him for any infraction of the rules.
One day, soon after they were put in my party, I gave O'Brien a hand in
fixing his run. We spoke a few words. The ice was broken; we soon became
fast friends, and our friendship remained unbroken until their happy
release some years after. They were fine, manly fellows, and I in time
came to have a warm affection for them.
McCarty had for nearly twenty years been a sergeant in the English army.
He had come out of the Indian mutiny with a splendid record, and had
been recommended for a commission. But while wearing the British
uniform, his heart was warm for Ireland and her cause, so when, in 1867,
his battery being then stationed in Dublin, he was informed many devoted
adherents to the Fenian cause had determined to try and seize Dublin,
with a view of starting a wide revolt against English domination,
perilous as it was, he cast his lot in with them, and speedily found
sufficient adherents in his own field battery to seize it and bring it
into action against the English. The plan miscarried. Sergeant McCarty,
along with many others, was arrested and tried for treason; as a matter
of course was speedily convicted, and sentenced to be hanged, drawn and
quartered. This sentence was commuted to penal servitude for life.
O'Brien was an enthusiastic youngster of 17, and an ardent patriot. He
had enlisted in a regiment then stationed in Ireland for no other reason
than to familiarize himself in military affairs, also to win over
recruits to the Fenian cause, and when the revolt began to be in a
position to seize arms. The result of it all, so far as my two friends
were concerned--they found themselves by my side in the great Chatham
ship basin loading trucks with mud and clay, and that upon a diet of
black bread and potatoes. The cars, or trucks, held four tons, there
were three men to a truck, and the task was nineteen trucks a day, and
between the urging of officers, frightened themselves for fear the task
might not be done, and the mud and starvation, it was despairing work.
The punishments were not only severe, but were dealt out with a liberal
hand. The men, as a rule, were willing to work, but between weakness,
brought on by perpetual hunger, and the misery of the incessant bullying
of the officers, some few suicided every year, but many more did worse
to themselves; that is, the poor fellows, seeing nothing but misery
before them, would when the trucks were being shifted on the rail
deliberately thrust an arm or leg under the wheels and have it taken
off. No less than twenty-two did this in 1874. Of course, the object was
to get out of the mud. When once a man's leg or arm was off he would no
longer be able to handle a shovel, and would necessarily be placed in
an inside or cripples party and set to work picking oakum or breaking
stones, with the result that, being free from severe toil and sheltered
from the storms, they would not be so hungry. Then, again, they could
more easily escape being reported, and that meant much.
There was never anything but black bread for breakfast and supper, save
only one pint of gruel with the bread for breakfast. For dinner every
day we got a pound of boiled potatoes and five ounces of black bread;
three days a week five ounces of meat--that is, fifteen ounces a week
for a man toiling hard in the keen sea air. We were always on the verge
of starvation; our sufferings were terrible. In our hunger there was no
vile refuse we would not devour greedily if opportunity occurred.
O'Brien was a slight, delicate fellow, quite unfitted for the hardships
and toil he was subjected to, but he was a high-spirited, brave
youngster, and his spirit carried him through, while many a man better
fitted physically to endure the toil gave in and died, or became utterly
broken down, and would be sent away to an invalid station a physical
wreck. McCarty and I used to do extra work so as to shield O'Brien, and
so long as our trucks were filled on time the officer made no complaint.
The prisoners were certainly very good to each other, and usually did
all in their power to help and cheer up the weaker men.
In 1877 my two friends were liberated. I was glad to see them go, but I
missed them sadly. But McCarty had suffered too much. He only survived
his liberation a few days, dying in Dublin, to the grief of all Ireland.
O'Brien started a tobacco store in Dublin, where he still is.
I knew all of the dynamiters--Curtin, Daily, Dr. Gallagher, Eagan, etc.
However misguided, yet they meant to serve their country, and dearly
have they paid for their zeal. I pitied poor Gallagher. The strain on
his spirit was too great. He soon broke down, and his dejected, forlorn
looks, his stooping shoulders and listless walk made me and all think
his days were numbered; but he had immense vitality and still lived when
I was liberated; but he was truly a pitiable object, and if he is ever
to live to breathe the air a free man then his friends must secure a
speedy release, for he is slowly sinking into his grave.
CHAPTER XLV.