Crimes & Law Enforcement: Colonial Prisons

Anna C. Bowling

As of this date, I've been in two colonial prisons. Before anybody suspects me of time travelling misdeeds, let me state up front that the prisons were museums at the time I visited, and the purpose was research, not correction. Old Newgate Prison, built in 1775 in East Granby, CT, began its tenure as a copper mine, and when the mining proved unprofitable, became a holding facility for Tories and captured British troops during the American Revolution. This particular tidbit perked my colonial-loving ears, and throughout the tour, I kept my ears open for any future characters who might want to share their stories of time spent in such a place.

The tour included both the mine itself--very dark, very slippery and not for the claustrophobic--and the cells where the prisoners slept. Standing in the low-cielinged cells, with stone on three sides, bars on the other, I could well imagine what could have gone through the minds of the men housed there, including a desperate need to escape. Which, as our guide informed me, was extremely common at this particular facility.

The first prisoner to call Old Newgate "home" arrived in December of 1773 and escaped eighteen days later, and one prisoner, listed as Richard Steele, holds the record for escaping from this facility a grand total of three times. After the war, the prison housed serious criminals such as rapists and murderers instead of political prisoners, admitting women starting in 1824. The prison closed in 1827, and an attempt to revive the mining failed. The property served other purposes before being declared a national landmark.

Old Newgate was not my first exposure to the colonial correctional system. That came on a school field trip to the Bedford Historical Society in Bedford Village, NY,. One of two original jail cells from the 1780s remains now at the society's museum. Prisoners housed in the Bedford cell would find their walls of wood rather than stone, and escapes would be trickier, as they shared a building with the courthouse, which has also been preserved.

I have to confess making multiple trips to revisit the courthouse and jail cell over the years, which inspired similar locations in MY OUTCAST HEART, though the preserved sites date from several decades past the 1720 setting of the story. The entire town of Bedford was burned to the ground by British troops during the American Revolution. Though I have no idea if any of the soldiers involved in that were captured and housed at Old Newgate, the storyteller in me has to wonder what if....

Have you ever visited a historical prison? What prison do you think would be perfect for a historical version of Prison Break?

Writing historical romances allows Anna C. Bowling to travel through time on a daily basis and make the voices in her head pay rent. Her current release, ORPHANS IN THE STORM, is available from Awe-Struck E-books.

Greatest Hits: Life in Victorian Prisons

By Jennifer Linforth

That last pint was not a good idea.

He stared at his unraveled cravat and the ruby stains marring his vest. Flexing his hand made the wounds on his swollen knuckles split and pour fresh blood.

Yes...he definitely regretted that last drink.

The doors of 'her majesty's carriage' slammed shut in his face. Within minutes it rumbled down the cobbled road, jostling its newest prisoner. There was nothing he could do now but reflect on his foolish temper. His life was pulled down the road toward inevitable change. And changed roared around him like a hungry lion the instant he set foot on the grounds of his new home.

Bathed in water not unlike mutton broth, the newest prisoner of Kirkwood Goal began his new life with humiliation. Where was his valet now, he wondered, as his privacy was raped by men scrutinizing his naked body for distinguishing marks. His anger flared when his hair, once tangled by a woman's fair fingers, was cut to the scalp. His bloody vest and cravat were removed and bundled up, his breeches and waistcoat replaced by ill-fitting uniforms. The boots he once took such pride in were sold to a dealer and replaced by ones heavier than lead. (He tried to guess the weight. 14 pounds seemed accurate.)

He caught his reflection in a dusty window. Who he had been before was of little importance. The markings on his uniform designated his standing in the hierarchy now. He was a convict. Gone were the days of climbing social ladders in salons and country balls. Here social isolation was his dance partner. All too often he would see the dark interior of separate confinement or be forced to adhere to the strict silence rule. All because he tried to garner a bit of humanity and speak to a fellow convict.

He would find ways to break the unearthly silence imposed upon him. He tapped messages on the walls or water pipes. The chapel he found was ripe with opportunity. He was a quick student, learning to use hymns (meaningless to him before) to his advantage. Emphasizing the first word of each line then quickly dropping to a lower tone, he could carry on a conversation with his neighbor. The longer the hymn, the longer the conversation he could murmur between lines. Sign language useful as well. The isolation was a forlorn hope. Man was not designed to live alone...

Morning noon and night his belly rumbled for the succulent soups, roasts and puddings his crime denied him. Three-quarters of a pint of cocoa was his breakfast, a sludge of flaked cocoa mixed with molasses. Dinner was four ounces of meat, a half-pint of soup and one pound of potatoes. Supper: a pint of gruel sweetened with molasses with one and a quarter pounds of bread and salt.

Tired and hungry, he retreats to sleep. But the silks of his pillow are gone and the down that warmed him is a distant memory. Nothing is so aptly designed to depress than his prison cell. Thirteen by seven feet (4 by 2 meters) and nine feet high, only a tiny window offers a glimpse of freedom. But standing on a stool to look out was a punishable offence.

He was cold in the winter, hot in the summer and his eyes constantly fighting the poorly lit conditions. Why not just go blind? Maybe he would not be reminded of this hell. His isolated room seemed private, but the spy hole in the door made him uncertain as to if whether he was being watched or not.

Perhaps he could sleep? Wake up and this nightmare would be over? The year was 1865, a few months previous a new Prison Act was initiated bringing with it the hard plank bed. Part of a severe regime introduced where punishment and deterrence took precedence over reform. Not that he thought he needed reform.

When morning dawned and he choked down the cocoa, a question was poised. Was this labor he faced meant to encourage fulfillment in honest work, or break him body and spirit?

The tread wheel was an ominous beast. He would climb the wheel as if trying to summit an endless mountain. As the wheel fell way beneath his feet, he was forced to lift his body into the next step.

All this for grinding corn? He thought not.

If not at the wheel he would be at the crank, turning a handle until his shoulders ached. There was no harder or more degrading work. He would do his work, eat his meals, live in silence and fight for a small scrap of interaction with the other convicts. Prison officers were products of their own draconian regulations. They lived in a powder keg, where one spark could set off a symbiotic relationship between guards and convict. Each could make the other's life difficult.

And life would be difficult.

Staring down at calloused hands in a sweat soaked uniform, isolated, angry and questioning his "reform"...he definitely regretted that last pint.

Crime & Punishment:Life in Victorian Prisons

By Jennifer Linforth

That last pint was not a good idea.

He stared at his unraveled cravat and the ruby stains marring his vest. Flexing his hand made the wounds on his swollen knuckles split and pour fresh blood.

Yes...he definitely regretted that last drink.

The doors of 'her majesty's carriage' slammed shut in his face. Within minutes it rumbled down the cobbled road, jostling its newest prisoner. There was nothing he could do now but reflect on his foolish temper. His life was pulled down the road toward inevitable change. And changed roared around him like a hungry lion the instant he set foot on the grounds of his new home.

Bathed in water not unlike mutton broth, the newest prisoner of Kirkwood Goal began his new life with humiliation. Where was his valet now, he wondered, as his privacy was raped by men scrutinizing his naked body for distinguishing marks. His anger flared when his hair, once tangled by a woman's fair fingers, was cut to the scalp. His bloody vest and cravat were removed and bundled up, his breeches and waistcoat replaced by ill-fitting uniforms. The boots he once took such pride in were sold to a dealer and replaced by ones heavier than lead. (He tried to guess the weight. 14 pounds seemed accurate.)

He caught his reflection in a dusty window. Who he had been before was of little importance. The markings on his uniform designated his standing in the hierarchy now. He was a convict. Gone were the days of climbing social ladders in salons and country balls. Here social isolation was his dance partner. All too often he would see the dark interior of separate confinement or be forced to adhere to the strict silence rule. All because he tried to garner a bit of humanity and speak to a fellow convict.

He would find ways to break the unearthly silence imposed upon him. He tapped messages on the walls or water pipes. The chapel he found was ripe with opportunity. He was a quick student, learning to use hymns (meaningless to him before) to his advantage. Emphasizing the first word of each line then quickly dropping to a lower tone, he could carry on a conversation with his neighbor. The longer the hymn, the longer the conversation he could murmur between lines. Sign language useful as well. The isolation was a forlorn hope. Man was not designed to live alone...

Morning noon and night his belly rumbled for the succulent soups, roasts and puddings his crime denied him. Three-quarters of a pint of cocoa was his breakfast, a sludge of flaked cocoa mixed with molasses. Dinner was four ounces of meat, a half-pint of soup and one pound of potatoes. Supper: a pint of gruel sweetened with molasses with one and a quarter pounds of bread and salt.

Tired and hungry, he retreats to sleep. But the silks of his pillow are gone and the down that warmed him is a distant memory. Nothing is so aptly designed to depress than his prison cell. Thirteen by seven feet (4 by 2 meters) and nine feet high, only a tiny window offers a glimpse of freedom. But standing on a stool to look out was a punishable offence.

He was cold in the winter, hot in the summer and his eyes constantly fighting the poorly lit conditions. Why not just go blind? Maybe he would not be reminded of this hell. His isolated room seemed private, but the spy hole in the door made him uncertain as to if whether he was being watched or not.

Perhaps he could sleep? Wake up and this nightmare would be over? The year was 1865, a few months previous a new Prison Act was initiated bringing with it the hard plank bed. Part of a severe regime introduced where punishment and deterrence took precedence over reform. Not that he thought he needed reform.

When morning dawned and he choked down the cocoa, a question was poised. Was this labor he faced meant to encourage fulfillment in honest work, or break him body and spirit?

The tread wheel was an ominous beast. He would climb the wheel as if trying to summit an endless mountain. As the wheel fell way beneath his feet, he was forced to lift his body into the next step.

All this for grinding corn? He thought not.

If not at the wheel he would be at the crank, turning a handle until his shoulders ached. There was no harder or more degrading work. He would do his work, eat his meals, live in silence and fight for a small scrap of interaction with the other convicts. Prison officers were products of their own draconian regulations. They lived in a powder keg, where one spark could set off a symbiotic relationship between guards and convict. Each could make the other's life difficult.

And life would be difficult.

Staring down at calloused hands in a sweat soaked uniform, isolated, angry and questioning his "reform"...he definitely regretted that last pint.