I Learn the Time When My Sentence Will Terminate
After I had been incarcerated for a few years I found out that it was usual in the case of a life convict who has earned good marks to have her sentence brought up for consideration after she has served fifteen years. A life sentence usually means twenty years, and three months is taken off each year as a reward for good conduct. In February, 1903, I was definitely informed that my case would follow the ordinary course. I have been accused of obtaining my release by “trickery,” but these facts speak for themselves.
The impression has also been given by the press that great leniency was shown in[212] my case, and that through the intervention of friends the Home Office released me before the expiration of my sentence. No exceptional leniency whatever was shown in my case. It depends upon the prisoner herself whether she is released at an earlier period or serves the full term of her sentence. By an unbroken record of good conduct I reduced my life sentence, which is twenty years, to fifteen years; this expired on the 25th of July, 1904.
The Dawn of Liberty
As a giant refreshed by sleep, the prison awakens to life, and the voices of officers, the clang of doors, the ringing of bells echo throughout the halls. What does it portend? Is it the arrival of some distinguished visitor from the Home Office? Then I hear the sound of approaching footsteps, as they come nearer and nearer and then stop at my cell door. The governor ushers in three gentlemen—one tall and[213] dark and handsome, but with a stern face; another short, with a white beard and blue eyes which looked at me somewhat coldly; of the third I have no distinct recollection. The tall gentleman conversed pleasantly for several minutes about my work and myself, then passed out on his tour of inspection. I did not know at the time who these visitors were, but learned later that the gentleman who spoke to me was the Secretary of State, Sir Matthew White-Ridley; one of his companions was Sir Kenelm Digby, and the other Sir Evelyn Ruggles-Brise, the chairman of the Prison Committee, who takes a really humane interest in the welfare of the convicts.
One morning, a week later, I was summoned to appear before the governor. It is an ordeal to be dreaded by any one who has broken the rules, but I knew I had not, and therefore concluded that I was wanted in connection with my work. When I entered the office he looked up with a kindly smile, which was also reflected in the face[214] of the chief matron. My attention was arrested. I stood silently waiting for him to speak. After searching among some papers on the table, he picked up one and read something to the following effect: “The prisoner, P 29, Florence E. Maybrick, is to be informed that the Secretary of State has decided to grant her discharge from prison when she has completed fifteen years of her sentence, conditional upon her conduct.”
For a moment I failed to grasp the full meaning of these words, but when I did—how shall I describe the mingled feelings of joy and thankfulness, of relief and hope, with which I was overwhelmed! I returned to my cell dazed by the unexpected message for which for so many long, weary years I had hoped and prayed.
How anxiously I waited for those last few months to pass!
The Release
It was Christmas Eve of 1903. I had helped to decorate the chapel with evergreens, which is the only way in which the greatest festival of the church’s year is kept in prison. There is no rejoicing allowed prisoners; no festival meal of roast beef and plum pudding, only the usual prison diet; and the sad memories of happier days are emphasized by our bare cells with their maximum of cleanliness and minimum of comfort. But to me it was the last Christmas in that “house of sorrow,” and my heart felt the dawning of a brighter day. Only four weeks more and I would have passed out of its grim gates forever! How I counted those days, and yet how I shrank from going once more into the world that had been so cruel, so hostile, so unmerciful, in spite of the fact that there was no proof that I was the guilty woman they assumed me to be! But kind friends[216] and loving hearts were waiting to greet me, to give me refuge and comfort.
On Saturday, the 23d of January, my mother visited me at Aylesbury Prison for the last time. How many weary and sad hours we had passed in that visiting-room! Our hearts were too full for much conversation, and it was with broken voices that we discussed the arrangements made for my departure on the following Monday.
The last Sunday I spent in prison I felt like one in a dream. I could not realize that to-morrow, the glad to-morrow, would bring with it freedom and life. In the evening I was sent for to say “Good-by” to the governor. Besides the chief matron and the one who was to be my escort to Truro, no one was aware of the day or hour of my departure from Aylesbury. Not a word had been said to the other prisoners. I should like to have said farewell to them, also to the officers whom I had known for fourteen years (for several had come with us from Woking Prison);[217] but I thought it best to pass into my new life as quietly as possible. At my earnest request the Home Office consented to allow my place of destination to be kept a secret. I felt that I should derive more benefit from the change of my new environment and association with others, if my identity and place of retreat were not known to the public.
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