In a repeat of the earlier scene in the police station, we were herded into a small, bare room, then interviewed briefly. When asked whom I would like to notify, I declined to offer any name. I would not have Mabel and Joshua involved, and I knew Griffin would find me somehow.
We spent the night in cells alone, a torment made worse because I had no knowledge of Helena’s fate. I had inquired of the police, but they either did not know or refused to tell me. I asked the two other Union members, but no one had remembered seeing Helena after the police had swarmed. I did not see Maggie Greene, a fact for which I was eternally grateful.
I spent the night alternately weeping and pacing the cell in desperation. By morning, I was near frantic with worry.
“Come along, it’s time for you to go before the magistrate,” the wardress told me.
“How many members of the Union were arrested, can you tell me?” I asked her on the way there.
“Couldn’t say, but there were several people arrested last night as a result of the riot.”
That gave me a minuscule ray of hope that public opinion was beginning to turn in our favor, but it did not answer my question of what had happened to Helena.
I made a pitiful picture for the magistrate with my skirt and shirtwaist torn and dirty. I had lost my hat, had a bruise on my jaw in addition to the ones Lord Sherringham had left on my neck, my hand was swollen and stiff, and I walked with a pronounced limp. I was, however, defiant, and refused to admit my guilt. This time I was not given the option of paying a fine, instead I was charged with assault upon a policeman and several other individuals, and sentenced to nine months in prison.
“Nine…
months
?” I gasped, stunned at the sentence.
I had assumed I would be asked to pay a fine and would be released upon the payment. Instead, in a nightmarish scene that I will remember for many years, I was driven immediately to Strangeways prison with Mrs. Knox and one other member.
Our clothes were taken from us, and we were given horrible prison dresses made of coarse material, a flannel singlet and calico chemise, stockings but no garters or drawers, and shoes of different sizes. Both of mine were too small.
I was led to a dark cell that contained only a chamber pot and a bed. The bed was merely a wooden plank with a raised object at the head, presumably a pillow. I was afraid to get near it, since it looked as if it crawled with vermin, and ended up kicking it into a corner of the cell. I was cold, my knee and hand hurt, and I was numb with shock and fear as I sat in the near-dark on the hard wooden plank.
The prison doctor came later to my cell to evaluate my wounds. After a superficial exam, he dismissed them.
“Nothing serious. The swelling will go down in time,” he said, handing his nurse his bag. “I assume you are on a hunger strike?”
“I am,” I answered with as much dignity as I could muster. I knew it was a badge of pride amongst imprisoned suffragettes not to take any food until they were released.
He made a notation on a chart. “You have three days to change your mind. After that we’ll be forced to give you hospital treatment.”
I had no idea what he meant, but I was so depressed that I did not give it much attention. I refused the evening meal, and lay on my bed, cold, hungry, and sick with worry. That I had only myself to blame for the situation did not make me feel better.
“Once again, you have created a situation that would try a saint’s patience,” I told myself. “Only this time you’ve involved Helena.”
Guilt over her mingled with my misery, both weighing heavily on me. I sat on the hard wooden cot, heart-sore and sick of myself, until I fell into an uneasy sleep.
The next morning the prison matron visited me. A short, gray-haired woman with a long face, she explained the rules, and asked if I wish to eat some fruit.
“Thank you, no. I will continue the hunger strike.”
She had brought me some water to drink. That I accepted.
“Do you have any questions?” she asked kindly. I had expected the prison matron to be a cold and harsh woman, and was surprised by her warmth.
“I have two, if you would be so kind as to answer them. Can you tell me if a friend of mine who is also a suffragette was arrested? Her name is Helena St. John.”
She thought for a moment, and said, “Yes, she is three doors down. She was injured in the arrest, but is doing better.”
My heart fell into my stomach. I had promised Griffin I would not allow harm to come to Helena, and I had failed him. He would never forgive me, of that I was sure.
“How many women were arrested, do you know?”
“I know that seven were charged, including you. Was that your second question, my dear?”
“No, my second question was about something the doctor said. He called it
hospital treatment
, and said I would undergo it in three days. What is this treatment?”
“Oh, dear. I hate to tell you, but you should know—this is why I urge you to start eating. If you will not eat in three days, the doctor will subject you to forcible feedings.”
“Forcible feedings?” I questioned suspiciously. I had heard whispers of force feedings, but had always assumed the horror of them was greatly exaggerated. “How can he make me eat if I don’t wish to?”
She told me in detail how the feedings were done. The very description made me sick, and after advising me again to think about the hunger strike, she left. I sat hunched on my bed, my feet tucked under me in an attempt to warm them outside of the binding shoes, and considered my new life. Force-feedings! Prison! The thought of Helena lying injured just a few doors down was maddening; I wanted to comfort her, but was unable to leave my cell.
The day passed slowly, with no interruptions except the wardresses coming at each meal to ask me if I would eat. I refused all food.
I thought I had reached the depths of my depression that day, but I was wrong. The following morning I was told I had a visitor. My spirits rose at the thought of Griffin, but it was Mrs. Prince, one of the Union’s head officers, who stood outside my door and talked to me through the grill.
“Is there anything I can do for you? Anyone you would like contacted?”
“Yes, I would like to see Miss St. John, who has also been imprisoned. She is in the cell a few doors down, and has been injured. She is very delicate, and should be released for medical reasons. Can you arrange it that I might see her? Or can you contact her brother, Griffin St. John, and alert him to her condition?”
“I have spoken with Miss St. John’s sister-in-law, Lady Sherringham already. Regrettably, she has washed her hands of the affair, and will do nothing to assist her.”
“But her brother—Mr. St. John—will he not help?”
“I am not aware of a brother.”
The room swam briefly. I sat down and put my head between my knees until I could think straight. Lady Sherringham? Why was she contacted instead of Griffin? Of course she would not lift a finger to help Helena, no doubt her sense of revenge was strong. But Griffin, where was he? Why was he not moving heaven and earth to get Helena and me out? The despair must have shown on my face as I turned back to the door.
“I will try and contact this brother. Do your best not to worry. Until I can find him, I will speak with the prison doctor about Miss St. John’s situation. I have not seen her yet, but I will do so next.”
“Could you please let me know how she is doing? Could you not ask the matron if I might share a cell with her?”
“I will ask, but I don’t wish to raise any false hopes.”
I closed my eyes, so great was my pain. I had failed Griffin, Helena, Robert, my sister—it was entirely due to my own obstinate ways that innocent Helena was to suffer. Although I hated it, although I dreaded what was to happen to me, the thought that I might have removed Helena from that blasted meeting hall before the trouble started haunted me throughout my waking moments.
“I am also trying to have your status raised to that of a political prisoner, rather than a criminal one.” She sighed heavily. “I don’t hold out much hope for that either, but I will try.”
She left, and I sank back onto my plank and curled up into a ball. I was crying quietly to myself when I heard voices outside my cell. I went to the door in time to see the prison doctor and four wardresses march down the hall. They stopped at the cell opposite mine where a suffragette had been transferred from another cell. I was shaking with fear, although I did not know why the sight of them should fill me with such loathing.
I soon understood the matron’s plea with me to eat some fruit. The hospital treatment was being inflicted upon the poor woman across from me. No matter how long I live, I will never forget the sounds of that horrible torture. When they left the cell, a voice from another cell banged on the door and yelled, “No surrender!”
A weak but defiant, “No surrender!” answered from the victim’s cell. The governors had ordered this inhuman treatment so the prisoners would not die martyrs. I sank to the floor, faint with terror, and wondered how I was to survive it.
The following day was the third and final day of my hunger strike. I had not heard from Mrs. Prince, but the prison matron had stopped long enough to tell me that Helena was recovering, although she too was on a hunger strike. She had refused my request to share a cell, but promised to keep me informed as to Helena’s well-being.
The days had quickly settled into a routine; I awoke from a nightmare into a waking hell. I was not allowed to leave the cell, nor had I any visitors other than the officials and Mrs. Prince. What my family must have thought I could only imagine. Griffin had warned me that he would not be able to secure our release again, and despite my conviction that he would do everything humanly possible to have us released, I feared we were beyond his help.
“No surrender!” rang out down the hallway in tormented voices as the doctor made his rounds. The screams of anguish, sounds of retching, and other torturous noises only stiffened my resolve. I had wanted to be a part of this great campaign, I had wanted to devote my body and soul to a cause, and I was solely responsible for placing Helena and myself in this position—I would take my punishment and continue my hunger strike.
I was weak with lack of sleep and food when they came for me the next day. I lifted my head from the plank as they stopped outside of my door. Dread and terror knotted up my stomach until I thought I would fall into an oblivion of darkness. The doctor and four wardresses entered the room. He asked me if I would take food. Unable to speak, I shook my head.
What followed next haunts me still. Two wardresses moved into position by taking hold of my arms. I shrank back into the pallet as one held my head, the other my feet. The doctor sat on my knees, and leaned across my chest to get at my mouth. I gritted my teeth together in an attempt to keep my mouth closed, but he had some sort of steel tool that he used to pry into my mouth.
I held my mouth closed as long as I could, but at last I could no longer bear the pain. As soon as my mouth opened, he stuffed a gap into it, turning the screw and widening it until my jaws were held wide open. I thought they would break, but the worst was yet to come.
With a brutal move, he shoved a thick tube down my throat. It was too wide and very long, and I gagged the second it hit my throat. He poured the food into the tube quickly; and yanked the tube out. As soon as it was out, I retched the food up all over him. He slapped me, and shoved the tube down again, pouring more food in it. This time I held it down until he had the gag out; as soon as it was removed, I retched all over the floor.
Exhausted and stunned with pain, I lay half on the bed, and sent a blasphemous wish that I should die.
“No surrender!” The cell door across mine clanged.
I looked up, wiping the bile from my mouth. I had survived, I had not given in to my fears. Never again would I worry that I could not triumph over adversity.
I raised my chin and as loudly and defiantly as I could, croaked, “No surrender!”