Part 13 (2/2)

In Bontoc, for instance, there is a prison which the commissioner in charge of the province proudly called his ”university.” Its inmates are men of the mountains. In the old days they would have been sent to Bilibid prison in Manila, where few of them lived over two years. A longer term meant practically a death sentence. This provincial jail is situated in the high and healthy capital of the province, and is kept clean and sanitary by the prisoners themselves. The men are well fed and cared for, and they are taught trades, and made to work at them, too, so that they learn industry along with technical skill.

Bilibid prison is a huge inst.i.tution. It occupies several acres of land in the heart of the city of Manila, its buildings radiating from a common center, so that the guard in the high tower at the hub can overlook anything that occurs. High walls surround the whole, patrolled by watchful guards and mounted with gatling guns. It is an extraordinary inst.i.tution, inherited from Spanish rule, but, like everything else, completely changed since then. The wives of men committed there were considered widowed in those days, since so few survived a long term, and were free to marry again. There has been some confusion of late years, because most of the prisoners not only come out alive, but healthier than when they went in. So prison ”widows” who remarried found that they had not counted on American methods. Bilibid, though in many ways still rather experimental, is a great success.

There are extensive shops, and the prisoners are kept at work all the time. Some make silverware, carriages, and furniture, while others do the cooking and was.h.i.+ng for the prison, make their clothes, and run a laundry, not only for their own use, but for outside custom. Many are employed in road building and on fortifications. Each man learns a trade during his term of imprisonment, and so is better able to earn an honest livelihood than when he entered. I have been told that Bilibid ”graduates” are in demand because of their honesty and industry. No better recommendation for a prison could be desired.

Besides the shops, there is a school in which they are taught English.

The day we visited the prison we saw a teacher there who had been a guest at the Governor's table, but as he had forged a check he was paying the penalty. Most of the attendants in the up-to-date prison hospital were Spaniards who were in for life sentences and who made very good nurses. Part of this inst.i.tution is devoted to consumptives, of whom there are so many in the Islands, and they receive treatment according to the best and latest methods.

[Ill.u.s.tration: PENAL COLONY ON THE ISLAND OF PALAWAN.]

We were much interested in the kitchens, and the manner in which food was issued to several thousands in only six minutes. It was all wonderfully systematized.

Late in the afternoon we went up into the central tower to watch the ”retreat.” The prisoners' band, which had played for us as we entered the prison gates, now took its place in the courtyard below and began to play. Out of the workrooms trooped hundreds of convicts, who were searched for hidden implements and then released to take their position in military formation. The different groups marched to their quarters and, standing outside, went through a series of exercises to the music of the band. They seemed to enjoy this very much, and later, still to the music, marched gaily off to get their rations.

A long-term prisoner with two years of good conduct to his credit is given the privilege of going to the penal colony on the island of Palawan. This island is one of the more southern ones, and is the place where the Spanish sent their convicts in the old days. But the present colony, which was established by Governor Forbes, is very different from the former one. It was once a malarial jungle, but now is a healthy, thoroughly up-to-date and successful reform inst.i.tution.

Our visit to this place was one of the most interesting features of our whole trip. Palawan itself is a curiosity, for it has an underground river which has been explored for two miles beneath a mountain. But the penal settlement is unique.

Leaving the steamer at Puerto Princessa, a quaint little town with charming old Spanish gardens, we were met by a launch which took us up the Iwahig River to the colony. This launch, which was gaily decked with flags, was manned by convicts, the engineer himself being under a sentence of nineteen years for murder. After an hour's sail up the tropical river, we reached our destination. At the wharf we were greeted by Mr. Lamb, superintendent of the colony, a Dominican priest, and a crowd of prisoners who were enjoying a holiday.

We were driven to headquarters, near a pretty plaza with hedges and flowers, surrounded by several two-story barracks built of bamboo and nipa, where the prisoners live. As we walked about the plaza we visited the hospital and the chapel, as well as the main office and the superintendent's house.

The penal settlement is located on a reservation of two hundred and seventy square miles. At the time of our visit there were in all eleven hundred convicts--Filipinos for the most part, with a few Moros--and only three white men to keep them in order. The prisoners had all come from Bilibid prison.

In its management, the colony is somewhat like the George Junior Republic for boys in America. The prisoners elect their own judges and make some of their own laws, subject to the approval of the superintendent. A majority verdict will convict, but the superintendent has the right to veto any measures. Men who break the laws are locked up, but can be released on bail.

The police force is composed of convicts, of course. The chief of police when we were there was a murderer who had earned his pardon but preferred to remain in the settlement. If a prisoner tries to escape he is followed, and occasionally one is shot. The attempt is seldom made, for it is difficult to get away, and the men are, moreover, quite content to live there. Once thirty-five convicts did make a break for liberty, but beyond the confines of the settlement they found themselves in the midst of the savage Mangyans, by whom some were killed. Of the rest, those who were not captured alive returned of their own free will and were consigned again to Bilibid, which is considered a great punishment.

For good behaviour, convicts may earn the right to have a house of their own, with their family, one bull or carabao, and a little farm to cultivate. There were then a hundred and eighty of these farmers, who raised their crops on shares, the government receiving half. They had to report to headquarters by telephone every other day and undergo a weekly inspection as well. Every year they were obliged to plant cocoanuts, which in a few years were expected to bring in large returns. Already great quant.i.ties of yams were being s.h.i.+pped to Bilibid, and in a short time enough cattle would be delivered there to supply, in part at least, the meat demand of that prison. The colony suggests the possible solution of the meat question for the American army in the Philippines, as they were successfully raising calves from native cows by Indian bulls.

Although the majority of the prisoners were engaged in farming, they were often given the privilege of selecting the kind of work that they preferred, and were divided accordingly, their hats and the signs on the sleeves of their prison clothes showing what grade of convict they belonged to and what work they did. They were paid in the money of the colony, which was good nowhere else.

There were about forty women on the reservation. The men might marry if they earned the privilege, or if already married, they might have their wives and children come to live with them. There were six marriages the year we were there. After receiving their pardons, they could remain on the island if they wished, their work being credited toward the purchase of their farms, but they had to continue under the laws of the colony.

At the main office we saw four prisoners who were about to be pardoned.

Governor Forbes very kindly asked me to hand them their pardons and ask any questions I wished. One, a _bandolero_, or brigand, was small and wizened. Another, who looked much like him, when asked what crime he had committed, laughed and answered, ”Bigamy!” A third, a stolid, thickset fellow, had the best face of them all, but showed no emotion whatever when I gave him his pardon. He also had been a brigand.

The convicts gave an exhibition fire drill for us at the barracks. The natives are born climbers, and scramble down the poles with the agility of monkeys. They also play baseball, of course. They are remarkably musical and have a good band.

We had luncheon with Mr. and Mrs. Lamb in their pretty bamboo and nipa cottage. Mrs. Lamb was a frail little woman, but strong in spirit, for she did not seem at all afraid to live in this land of evil men. She told us that the three murderers whom she had as servants were very efficient, and were devoted to her little four-year-old son.

When our visit ended we were driven in a wagon to the river, accompanied by a troop of prisoners who ran alongside shouting good-bys. At the wharf they lined up while Mr. Lamb and the priest bowed us politely aboard the launch.

These intrepid countrymen of ours, who are healing and uplifting a whole people, seem to me to be true missionaries. The time may come when the work which they are doing will set a standard for us stay-at-homes to follow, that is, if we send the right kind of men out there. As the song says,

”Ah, those were the days when the best men won, The survival of those that were fit-- When the work to be done counted everything, And politics nary a bit.”

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