Peterhead (3 page)

The original accommodation, which was completed by about 1889, was for 208 prisoners. In the early years of the twentieth century the numbers held fluctuated considerably. The average was around 350, though there was a peak of 455 in 1911. These figures are not impressive compared to other famous jails in Britain and round the world. But there is a Scottish saying that “guid gear gangs in sma bulk” – maybe in the case of Peterhead the world “guid” could be substituted with three others, “misery, deprivation and violence.”

The argument on what prison is for rages on today, many years after the opening of Peterhead – is it revenge, retribution or redemption? There are still those who believe in throwing away the key, just as there are still those who thirst for the return of the rope. There is no final answer to the debate. Peterhead and Barlinnie are the two most famous places of incarceration in Scotland but there is a dramatic difference in the forces that led to the building of each prison. Peterhead, as we have seen, grew out of ideas far removed from prison reform. Safety at sea was paramount here. It was rather different in the case of the Bar-L down in the altogether far rougher environs of the east end of Glasgow.

In the city there was an early body of humanitarian laymen and women who wanted to improve the conditions in which convicts were held – so at least the two prisons were linked to some extent by humanitarian good intentions. In Peterhead it was the creation of that Harbour of Refuge, in Glasgow it was to ameliorate the horrific conditions prisoners were held in in the existing prisons in this hard city. In Glasgow the good intentions that helped create Barlinnie were of little avail – the place was overcrowded virtually from day one. Peterhead never really suffered from such chronic overcrowding but, as we will see as its history unfolds, it became a far worse place of confinement than its big brother down south.

Firearms were one of the biggest differences in the two jails. They don’t feature much in the Barlinnie story but they are an integral part of the history of Peterhead. It is easy to see why – Barlinnie prisoners were seldom let out from behind the walls but in Peterhead cons had to be moved around outside the prison on a regular basis to do the work of building the harbour. So guns of all sorts are deeply folded into the Peterhead story.

In addition to the complication of moving prisoners about outside the prison there was the added danger that the place was intended to hold in custody the toughest of the tough in Scotland. It was the home of those serving the longest sentences. This at the time when violence was commonplace and where, in the stews of the big cities, ordinary folk often walked in fear of attack from gang members or simply worried about the threat of dangerous rascals bent on highway robbery, bank robbery or burglary. Razor slashers were no newspaper fantasy. Knives were popular and to be “tooled up” was an everyday fact of life for the big-timers, especially in Glasgow which was home – if you could call it that – to most of the denizens of the bleak cells of Peterhead.

For the folk who ran the place from day one there was an imperative: ensure as far as possible the safety of warders, as well as that of the good folk who lived in the town and farmlands nearby. The convicts were mostly conscienceless men who lived a life of violence. The politicians and planners in Edinburgh and local bigwigs in the North-East, as well as the existing prison authorities, were well aware of the potential for mass violence in such a remote jail where the inhabitants were hand-picked bad guys who would have created trouble anywhere they found themselves. This was long before Hollywood would turn films of the ‘Riot in Cell Block “B”’ style into an entertainment staple – and the days of the tabloids splashing stories of cons breaking out on to prison roofs and capturing hostages, as well as showering their captors with stones and slates, were more than fifty years into the future. But the danger in the job was recognised.

Right from the start, Peterhead warders were issued with a cutlass and scabbard as part of the uniform and they were encouraged to draw the weapons whenever they felt even slightly threatened. To an unarmed man a crack across the chest with a sword blade was a considerable disincentive to misbehaviour, and the warders knew it. The blades were no ornamental comic opera pieces of weaponry. No style statement. They were used to prod and whack the guys whenever there was the slightest need. The swords were effective weapons of control in a harsh prison regime. There is no record of Errol Flynn-style sword fights, all flashing blades and men in fancy tights leaping about. But if no prisoners had their guts rearranged by a sword thrust, plenty had a whack on the head or shoulders from the side of a blade. When a warder drew his sword, a con paid attention.

As the work goes on in preparing for the eventual complete destruction of the old prison and a transfer to the new HMP Grampian being constructed nearby, the staff have been gathering together all sorts of memorabilia and in the course of this search one of the old swords has been found and in brand-new condition. It is an impressive piece of equipment, both as a beautiful example of the sword makers’ art and a valuable weapon for the prison officers. The swords ceased to be part of the prison officers’ weaponry in 1939 and this particular example, currently held in the prison, is well worth its place in any museum of criminology. A rifle is, of course, a more deadly weapon and Lee Enfields were carried until as late as 1959, when they were generally replaced with less threatening batons.

Intriguingly, one famous 1930s riot in Barlinnie was put down by use of batons rather than sword or rifles and many prisoners were injured before peace was restored to Glasgow’s Big Hoose in the east end. Naturally a court of inquiry was convened into the events, known as the Tobacco Riots, and one of the most important findings was that a heavier baton was needed by the warders since so many had broken too easily when battered against the skulls of the rioters. This might say something of the strength of the skull of a Glasgow hard man as well as the manufacturer of the batons!

Prison riots were inevitable and they could be short-lived outbreaks with the warders outfighting inmates or, as we see later, full-scale wars between captives and captors that could last for days on end. Peterhead was to have its moments in the history of prison riots in the years ahead.

The early weapons authorised by the Secretary of State for use by warders in case of attack by prisoners, or to prevent any escape, were firearms with shot cartridges. But the real fear of the prisoners turning on their guards played a role in the creation of a now largely forgotten piece of Scottish prison history – the previously mentioned Peterhead private railway. All the pieces were in place for the building of the Harbour of Refuge. The Admiralty engineers and planners were there. The stone from the quarry was there. The workforce of prisoners was there. But quarry, prison and harbour were miles apart. In particular there was the problem of security as the prisoners had to be out of the prison to work and they had to move under guard around the three sites. Much thought had to go into how this was to be done. The initial idea was to march the workforce to where it was needed with armed warders in charge. Another idea, as earlier mentioned, was to take prisoners by sea using barges to get to the harbour, but this was quickly abandoned as it was clear the winter weather (and often summer!) meant that this would be a dangerous process. The marching of desperadoes around the country did not have much appeal either, especially if it meant a handful of warders in charge of dozens of prisoners. The chances of a mass breakout were high and lives could have been lost. To move the prisoners around in this way would not have appealed to the locals either. An altogether more practical solution was the train line between the three sites. In compartments on the moving train the guards would have much more control and so a line unique in railway history came to be built.

Today there is little sign of it – traces of the odd bridge, overgrown cuttings and little else. The dedicated backpacker in stout boots and armed with a good map can find a few traces of this remarkable line, but anyone else on the wander in the area of the prison and the harbour, or the quarry, will see little sign of it. One exception is on the hill just outside the prison on the main road to Aberdeen. Travelling south just before the Stirling Hill Quarry there are some stone structures still visible, pillars of a bridge that helped the railway cross the road. The modern traveller will glance at it without an awareness of its history. But it is hard to miss.

Steam and railways have a fascination for many folk and obscure little lines are well documented in the railway press and some are even preserved by enthusiasts who are never happier than wiping an oily rag on overalls and breathing in the less than healthy smoke of a steam engine, not to mention the ashes and hot grime that sinks into clothing. What a pity that this unique railway was not preserved; it would have made a wonderful tourist attraction.

There are few alive who remember riding on it either as convicts or guards, but there is a wonderful little word picture of it that was published in
The Locomotive Magazine
in 1900. The line was only a couple of miles or so long but was described by the magazine as “A British State Railway.” The railway ran between the quarry of Stirling Hill, the prison, the harbour and the breakwater construction site; the breakwater was said at the time to be the largest in the world. It is worth recording what the magazine had to say about this part of the construction of a Harbour of Refuge. The writer of the article declaimed:

When the British government undertake any work one may as a rule depend upon that work being well done, so to convey the convicts to and from the quarries and the granite to the breakwater an elaborate little railway has been constructed. Although the total length of the line is but two and a half miles yet the whole works are of the most elaborate construction. Heavy flat-bottomed rails weighing about 72lb per yard and spiked to the sleepers in the ordinary manner form the permanent way which is firmly and compactly ballasted with granite. The line contains some engineering works of a fair size, including a massive viaduct of several spans of granite, masonry, a steel girder bridge across the turnpike road, two masonry overbridges and heavy cuttings and embankments. In general equipment, too, this railway is fully equal to a trunk line, being provided with a complete signalling system, all trains being worked on the absolute block from three cabins in electrical contact with each other.

It went on to describe how the passenger train service consisted of two trains in each direction daily to take convicts and officers travelling to their work outside the prison walls. These trains left the Admiralty Station Peterhead at 7.15am and 1pm and from Stirling Hill at 11am and 5pm. Other “mineral trains” were run as required to move the blocks of granite to the various sites. The passenger stock comprised of four corridor cars.

Despite what the magazine article called the elaborate construction of the line, this was obviously no
Orient Express
. The coaches were of substantial construction and were “
more remarkable for
utility than comfort
.” They had six windowless compartments though there were windows on the side doors. Each coach could take around thirty-five passengers and 100 could be carried on each train. There were four engines of the
Thomas
the Tank
style any child could recognise – Victoria (1892); Prince of Wales (1892), Alexandra (1892), all built in Leeds; and Duke of York (1896), built in Newcastle. All were painted a dull olive green and had polished brass domes.

There were no liveried flunkeys handing out refreshments, but the wagon in front was used for the convenience of occasional passengers who were not to travel in the convict cars. Almost all of it is gone now though one piece of rolling stock – one of the wagons that held the convicts – is rumoured to be used to this day as a henhouse on a farm in rural Lanarkshire. That may or may not be true but in a little railway museum in Maud, a village inland in the rolling farmland behind Peterhead, there is one wagon saved from life as a henhouse. The intention is to rebuild it into the condition it was in when it was making history as part of Britain’s first state railway, but though the will is there so far the cash isn’t. But it is a good excuse to tarry awhile in one of Scotland’s most attractive villages, and the cash deserves to be found to preserve this relic of a historic railway.

It has to be said that the trains served their purpose well and there are no records of escapes taking place when the prisoners were in transit. This is surprising since in recent years almost all jail “escapes” were actually convicts absconding from work parties or when being taken to and from courts or on transfer from one establishment to another. Every governor knows that the security weak link happens when moving prisoners around and that is when the system is most vulnerable.

No actual escapes from the prison express, it seems, but there is one tale you might still hear from some greybeard in a local pub. The yarn goes that on one occasion on arrival back at the prison the head count showed one person missing. The guards, in a panic, ran back up the tracks to find the prisoner walking along the sleepers back towards the prison – he had accidentally missed his train. At least, that is the story! It is something we have all done at one time or another. Maybe, however unlikely it sounds, he preferred tea in the jail with his mates rather than being hunted down like an animal by armed prison officers in a futile bid for freedom.

The little railway must have been the only one in the county where the staff were armed at all times. As were, of course, the staff in the prison itself. Right from the opening day the warders, as they were then, before they officially became “prison officers”, were armed with both swords and firearms.

Back in the years before 1900 when the prison was building up a stock of necessary equipment, “whipping implements” were on the governor’s shopping list, and the archives duly note that a cat o’ nine tails and birch rods were approved for the punishment of prisoners and delivered on 24 July 1885 – even before the building work was anywhere near complete. The Scottish prisons were constantly looking over their shoulders at what was going on in England and, as a result, in December 1888 – the year the first cons arrived – four Enfield Mk2 pistols as issued south of the border were delivered. But an oversight meant that the holsters had been forgotten. A request was then sent for four leather holsters to be provided. The colour black was the preferred choice. You can’t beat a touch of style.