inspection with all the prisoners standing to attention at their cell doors, Thady, who had been watching this sewed two sheets together (he was then on political [34] prisoners' treatment) one night, thus fashioning a long white nightshirt of the sheets. As soon as the Governor appeared Thady, who had slipped the thing over his head, sprinted down the corridor, the nightshirt flapping around his ankles, yelling at the top of his voice like a maniac until, finally, seized by the warders and brought back to his cell. Obviously, Governor and the warders all were convinced that the "poor lad" was completely out of his mind, except for the fat warder telling me the story. He knew that Thady was only, once again, up to one of his tricks and the memory of it still made him chuckle. One day came when I complained about the horrible mess I was offered going under the name of "porridge*' which was mostly lukewarm water and not a grain of sugar added, so, I was told to use salt instead. The fat warder then told me that some years ago, Larry Ginnell (T.D.) had made the same complaint to the Doctor. The latter, looking into the bowl, remarked "that's very fine porridge". With that, Larry threw the whole lot right into his face saying "Alright now, why don't you try and shave yourself with it then?" Another day, I remember I was given a copy of the book "The Life of St.Agnes". As I started to read, "comfortably" leaning back against the board of my cot (since none of us were allowed the luxury of a mattress), the door opened and in came an English warder with two of my companions. He had some mail bags with him and, throwing them down, he said to me, "They need to be repaired, its quite easy y'know. Just stitch the loose ends together; patch this ‘ole and that ‘ole, and so on." I just looked at him and said quite calmly, "If you think I was brought here to patch mail bags for John Bull you must be out of your mind." And with that I kicked the bags right out on the landing. The warder and the bags disappeared and so did my companions. About fifteen minutes later the door flew open and four warders burst in, one grabbing the "Life of St. Agnes" and out the four went without saying a word. Shortly after that Father Musgrave, the Prison Chaplain came in, he had never shown even the slightest friendly feelings towards us Irish political prisoners on any of his rare visits. So, he started talking to me about the nice conditions in the prison, and the good food and the warm clothes we were getting, and that it "Pity you weren't here a bit sooner, I was like the biggest victory since Trafalgar when four British "heroes' stormed in here to save St. Agnes out of my atheistic clutches. Now, as to the "warm" clothes you just mentioned let me remind you that I am an Irish political prisoner who is forced to don the garb of criminals. If that's your idea so-called British civilisation, which you not alone condone but try to praise, then you can have and enjoy it. WE only suffer it because we are not given a choice." That was the last I saw of the Chaplain! Two days later, I was again chained to Don 0"Sullivan (Cork) and Connie McNamara (Limerick), this time to be transferred to Birmingham Prison, part of the way we were taken by car, the rest by train. Before leaving Wormwood Scrubbs, and standing chained together near the Main Gate, one big warder said to me, was just up to oneself to realise all that and then be grateful accordingly. [35] I listened to him quietly for a while and then said with a big grin, “you Weeman (they never got my name right) when I see you again, I'll promise you, you will remember me!" With that he hit me a very painful blow on the back of my neck. In the presence of several other warders, I glared at him and said, “Indeed, and only too true. Let me promise you that if we ever meet again outside, prison walls, YOU will never forget ME!" At Birmingham Station some of the civilians standing around took time out to jeer at us, chained and helpless as we were. Then we were driven off to Birmingham Prison in a prison van. Once there I was taken to the second floor with my prison number C.2.25. stamped conspicuously on my garb. Our prison clothes had neither braces nor pockets, except for a small one on the coat to hold a handkerchief. First, we were taken before the Governor there to listen to the usual lecture, namely, that he was in charge, that we were strictly to follow all orders and were to obey, the letter, all prison rules and regulations, etc. etc. Later, I was to have a fight with him after I found out that he was not even British but an alien who had aided the British Intelligence in World War I, and that he had been in charge of Lincoln Jail when De Valera escaped. As this placed a black mark against him with his own authorities, he severely disliked all Irishmen.
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