I have often driven up the hill that runs outside the front of the prison and fancied it was steep; that fancy has since been confirmed, and I am now in a position to assert positively that it is very steep, especially between the shafts of a “barrer.”
A duty we were about to undertake one day was the weekly overhaul of the head warder’s quarters. I was spared a share in this revolting exercise—I never knew how—but was simply told I should not be required.
I had often sympathized with these gardeners long before I joined them, when seeing them shaking the frowsy rugs and rags, carpet slippers, and other gimcracks, and dusting Mrs. Head Warder’s best Sunday willow-pattern teapot. My general ignorance, too, in the various branches of scavengering had become so apparent that I felt convinced I should be informed that I “didn’t suit”; but, thanks to the consideration of the Governor and assistant surgeon, I was retained, though otherwise employed. I was henceforth entirely detached, and turned out into various portions of the grounds, and told to do the best I could. My special instructions were to annihilate a certain weed, for which purpose I was armed with a knife, though I seldom used it for that particular purpose. The effect of this weed on the funny head gardener was very strange, and he would grind his teeth and mutter at the very sight of one. I at once took the cue, and feeling it would please him, besides showing my zeal, used the strongest language I could lay tongue to whenever I detected one. My zeal, I fear, often led me into mistakes, and valuable clover and priceless dandelions were ruthlessly sacrificed to my want of discrimination. These errors in uprooting the wrong plants generally elicited a gentle rebuke, but the “cussing” at the hated fungus condoned my offence. “It was zeal, sir, zeal,” and he began to “like that chap—he was willing, anxious like.” But the way I won the old boy’s heart was my love for old coins (as a fact, I know nothing about them, and prefer the more modern specimens). It happened one day he picked up a rusty coin—whether a button or an obsolete farthing I cannot say. I boldly, however, pronounced it to be a Henry the Seventh, said I would gladly pay five shillings for one like it, rattled along about Museum Street, my collection, etc., till he recognized a brother-collector, and a bond of sympathy was established; and as he dropped the Henry the Seventh into his pocket, he led me to understand he had many like it at home. Whether he undertook a pilgrimage to Museum Street I cannot say, but about a month later a coolness showed itself in his manner towards me, which rather led me to suspect he had.
I now found myself my own master. No one was specially interested in my movements. I was on my own hook, and so long as I appeared to be occupied when certain individuals were going their rounds, I was never interfered with; and as these rounds took place at about the same hours daily, I mapped out my occupation accordingly.
At 7.30 I was turned into a large lawn, with sloping banks on three sides and railings on the fourth; between these and the outer wall was a gravel walk that circumvented the prison. A turnkey patrolled this walk day and night, armed with a cutlass. I asked one of them one day what he should do if he found anyone scaling the wall. “Do?” he said. “If it was you, I should say, ‘Don’t be a fool; you’ll sprain your ankle dropping down t’other side.’” “And suppose it was some other chap?” I inquired. “Ah! then,” he added, “I should carve him about a foot below the waist.”
Between 8 and 9 parties of men were constantly passing to and fro to their various work. I usually, therefore, devoted that hour to contemplation, the selection of some half-a-dozen weeds for future decapitation, and a general look round. When things had settled down a bit, my knife came into requisition, and proceeding to one of my hiding-places I selected one piece of tobacco for immediate use, and sliced enough for my day’s consumption. I had some of these holes in various parts of the grounds, constructed of a slate floor about three inches square, with bricks for the roof and sides. I found them admirably adapted to resist rain, and many I daresay are still in existence. This enjoyment lasted till 11, when it became dangerous. (I was nearly choked on one occasion by foolishly having a lump of tobacco in my mouth when suddenly confronted by an official.) After dinner I had a good hour’s reading (the papers don’t arrive before; indeed, the postal arrangements are capable of considerable improvement), and so the afternoon passed comparatively pleasantly, between the daily paper, ’baccy, and the sloping bank. I often felt amused at the thought of how different all this was to what some people believed; and a conversation I “overheard” in the previous January, when one cad was explaining to his inebriated companion that imprisonment with hard labour was worse than penal servitude, came vividly to my recollection. On one of these sunny days I was much amused by an outline of the day’s telegrams as given me by a friendly turnkey. It was the day on which the news of young Vyse’s death whilst reconnoitring Arabi’s position reached England. “Them Arabians are rum chaps; ah, and can shoot too, I tell yer: that officer as was recognisizing—look at that!”
Chewing was an accomplishment I did not acquire in a day; indeed, it took me weeks. At first it made me absolutely poorly, but I persevered, and eventually found it as agreeable as smoking. I could not, however, manage the twist, and invariably used the honey-dew or negro-head. This daintiness was not unattended with inconvenience, as no shop in the neighbourhood kept such a thing, and involved journeys to the Strand or Oxford Street. I was never so foolish as to keep the tobacco about me, and my cell was as free of it as any hermit’s. In the grounds, however, it was perfectly safe; tobacco under a stone might belong to anybody, and though the suspicion would probably have cost me my staff appointment, absolute conviction would have been impossible. To say that I was free from some sort of suspicion would be hardly correct, for although I was never searched myself—except on the one occasion before mentioned—my next-door neighbour was “turned over” about twice a week. The reason that led to this was as follows:—I had found this man specially useful—he was quite a second Mike to me; anything I required he did, and in return I gave him portions of my superfluous food, and occasionally a piece of tobacco. This traffic had not passed unnoticed, and had been communicated to a warder by another prisoner, who felt himself aggrieved at the preference shown by me for his fellow prisoner. These sneakings are universally practised, and through my entire experience I had to be careful of these wretches; they watched me and hated me, and if they got the chance, always rounded on “The Swell.” Swell indeed! The swelling had long ago subsided. I only weighed, thank heavens! about fourteen stone. These sneakings never affected me, and one of these individuals was once considerably astonished at getting three days bread and water for a privileged communication about me. A circumstance that occurred one day impressed me very much on the matter of destiny, and the accidents that sometimes combine to form a link between two individuals that a month or two previously would never have been dreamed of. It was the day on which (the late) Dr. Lamson had been sentenced to death. I was standing not far from the prison van, which had lately returned after depositing him at the House of Detention, and watching two prisoners cleaning it out. The partition that he had occupied contained three or four pillows, and I was informed it was a delicate attention on the part of the Government to prevent condemned men intentionally injuring themselves. “What are those pillows for?” I asked of a turnkey. “Oh, they’re only Dr. Lamson’s,” was the facetious reply; “he was sentenced to-day, so we just put them in for fear he should chafe himself, poor fellow.” When the cleaning was over my brother reprobate led me to understand he had made a discovery. Beneath the pillows he had found three cigars; he considerately gave me one, as indeed prison etiquette demanded, it being an axiom that an uncompromised holder of a secret is never to be trusted. I certainly should not have rounded on my confrère, but was nevertheless very glad to be the recipient of a specimen of this “Marwood” brand. It was a sin to chew them, but there was no alternative, as smoking was out of the question. Half-an-hour later, as I bit off a piece, the thought forced itself upon me, “Three months ago, he at Bournemouth, and I at Brighton, had never heard of one another, and here I am chewing the condemned man’s tobacco.” Funny thing, destiny!
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE CHURCH MILITANT IN PRISON.
Religious ceremonial plays an important part at Coldbath Fields. The quantity, indeed, is lamentably in excess of the quality, and leavened with a degree of barbaric hypocrisy incapable of engendering any feeling but that of nausea. Language fails me in trying to describe it in its proper light; and though reluctant to appear as scoffing at religion—which I emphatically repudiate—what I saw and heard makes it a hopeless task to allude to the subject and yet divest it of its component parts. This cure of some 1400 (criminal) souls was vested in two chaplains, of whom one had the misfortune to be a gentleman. I say “misfortune” advisedly, for unless incapable of contamination the most charitably inclined and refined is bound to deteriorate. Their duties, in addition to those usually associated with clergymen, embraced a soupçon of the schoolmaster with a dash of the district visitor, and if they were disposed (which all were not) to throw in a slice of detective work, it was not considered a disqualification for further preferment. The spiritual welfare of the Protestant portion of the prisoners was divided between them, all fresh arrivals during this month being specially assigned to the one, and all coming in the next devolving on the other. The etiquette and punctilio that regulated this division when once made, was as marked as that usually found amongst country medical practitioners. Thus, if Sykes the burglar, who happened to be one of the Rev. Smith’s lambs, unfortunately cracked his skull, and was in immediate want of spiritual consolation, he would in all probability be requested to defer his departure till the arrival of the Rev. Robinson. I mention this in regard to the system, and not as referring to anyone in particular, although the way I was ignored (very much to my delight) some weeks later, when my particular pastor was on leave, fortifies me in the conviction that my theory is correct.