GARDENING.
I HAD at last indeed tumbled on my legs. My new duties offered a
combination of advantages—such as variety, fresh air, newspapers,
tobacco, etc.—far in excess of my fondest dreams. There are six
so-called gardeners, who are constantly employed in the grounds. At 7.30
they go out, and rarely return before dinner; and again at 2, remaining
out till 5. In fine weather this is a great relief, and I enjoyed many
an afternoon basking in the sun on a grassy bank.
[Picture: Gardening. “Something approaching.”]
The general duties of a so-called gardener are a combination of the
qualifications necessary for a dustman, carpet-beater, and agricultural
labourer. They are, in fact, the scavengers of the establishment, and
poke about all day under a curiosity of the turnkey species, and overhaul
everything and everybody. Their duties are absolutely legion, and
carpet-beating, mowing, weeding, and raking the walks are only a moiety
of their accomplishments. I was appointed to this favoured team through
the kindly recommendation of the assistant surgeon after my recent
temporary discharge from hospital; and the master gardener, not having
been consulted, as I fancy he usually was, was not by any means
predisposed in my favour. That, however, wore off; and though I found
him the most crotchety, three-cornered eccentricity I had ever met, I
soon discovered his weak point, and did pretty much as I pleased. I must
here repudiate any insinuation that by this I mean to imply he was to be
squared. I might as well have tried to square the Marble Arch. Besides
which, I did not require to, my supply being greater than my demand.
Our first duty was to proceed to the tool-house, and, armed with shovels,
wheelbarrows, baskets, etc., to commence grubbing about. As a newcomer I
was selected for the “barrer,” and a heavier “barrer” I never felt; but
having knocked some paint off a gate, and rolled it over a sacred grass
plot, my incapacity was so manifest that I was disrated to a shovel.
Here, too, I was lamentably ignorant, and out of every spoonful I
collected a third went into the “barrer” and the remainder everywhere
else. I was, in fact, trying to emulate the scavengers one sees ladling
mud on wet days. The long shots they make have always inspired me with
admiration; their revels in the oceans of mud exercised a fascination
over me, causing me till now to overlook the science that is required to
produce such apparently simple efforts.
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.
[Picture: Gardening. “The Line Clear.”]
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!