Eighteen Months' ImprisonmentShaw, Donald, late captain
General
Eighteen Months' Imprisonment
Shaw, Donald, late captain
Prisons -- Great Britain
out, rolled in a blanket, and carried to the dead-house in less time than
I have taken to write it.
The washing and laying out of a corpse is too dreadful to pass unnoticed.
This necessary but revolting ceremony is performed in the kitchen. I saw
the corpse divested of all clothing, lying on the top of the bath, in the
centre of the kitchen, with the kettle boiling within a yard of it, and
surrounded by pots and pans and other paraphernalia in daily use. The
stench that pervaded the kitchen after this ceremony was so apparent (nor
could it be got rid of for days) that I was absolutely unable to eat
anything that had passed through it, and for days subsisted on the
insides of loaves and eggs, as the only places where the flavour of
potted pickpocket did not appear to have penetrated. This washing of
corpses and the “itch bath” in a hospital kitchen is as great a scandal
as ever was perpetrated by any Government.
The dead-house is a primitive establishment, and cannot even be divested
of superfluous officialism. Its entire contents consist of a slab and a
wooden block for the head of the corpse, and yet it boasted of an
inventory board. This latter absurdity is conspicuously displayed, and
reads—
“ONE TABLE.”
“ONE BLOCK.”
Another death I saw was even more awful in its suddenness. It was during
dinner when some five or six patients were devouring their chops. One
man, that was conspicuous for his habitual voracity, had left the table
whilst waiting for the pudding. As he passed his bed he toppled over and
was dead. The cook, with the characteristic officiousness of the
criminal class, rushed out of the kitchen with a saucepan full of rice
pudding in his hand, and began to assist at the ghastly manipulation. I
was within a foot of him, and saw the wretch brush off a tear from the
dead man’s eye, which he then proceeded to close; he then resumed his
culinary duties, and gave the saucepan a stir. Rice pudding, I
understand, is liable to “stick” to the pot; for my part, I made a vow to
“stick” to dry bread; indeed, I never see one now without being reminded
of this disgusting scene.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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