Chapter XII: Inside the Golden Prison

I went at Easter to pay a short visit to two maiden aunts who lived at Pembroke, where they kept a little millinery—shop I had almost said, but that would have vexed their gentle hearts—establishment. They were sisters of my mother, who came from this district, often called “Little England beyond Wales,” the people who live there being in fact Flemings, not Cymri, and the language they speak, being a Saxon dialect, is worth studying, not from its beauty, but from its quaintness and originality. Welsh is utterly unknown “down below,” as the North Pembrokeshire folks call the southern half of the county. My mother had great difficulty in acquiring even a superficial knowledge of Welsh, and she was always regarded as a stranger in Fishguard, though she lived there nigh upon fifty years. It was probably my early acquaintance with English (of a sort) that made my father decide to bring me up for the ministry.

However, to resume my story—which was strangely mixed up with that of the French prisoners—one of my chief pastimes during my visit to the worthy spinsters consisted in hanging about the entrance to the Golden Prison. The foreigners were allowed to employ their clever fingers in the manufacture of knick-knacks, made of straw, bones, beads, and other trifles, which they sold in order to provide themselves with anything they might require beyond the bare necessaries of life. My good aunts, Rebecca and Jane Johnson, permitted these articles to be exhibited on a little table in their show-room, where ladies while idling away their time in choosing and trying on finery, might perchance take a fancy to some little object, and bestow some of their spare cash in helping the poor prisoners. What made my aunts first think of doing this kindly act was the representations of their assistant, a pretty young girl named Eleanor Martin, a daughter of the gaoler of the Golden Prison, who had had such a sudden accession to his numbers and his responsibilities.

One day Nellie had occasion to go to the prison with the money produced by these trifles, and she asked me if I would like to accompany her and see the Frenchmen at work. My answer may be readily imagined. So we set forth, and the first person whom we saw when we reached the limbo of incarcerated bodies, if not of despairing souls, was not by any means a repulsive object, being a remarkably pretty young woman, as like Nellie as two peas are like each other.

“Is’t thee, Fan?” asked Nellie. “Where be feyther?” Then, remembering her manners, she added, “My sister Frances, Master Dan’l.”

Frances and I were speedily friends, in fact, the young woman saw too many strangers to be troubled by shyness.

“Feyther’s main busy, and mustn’t be spoke to,” she observed, with rather a knowing look at her sister. “But the turnkey’ll let us in. It’s a mort easier to get in nor to get out of this old coop, Mas’r Dan’l.”

I quite assented to this proposition, but remarked that I hoped the turnkey would not make any mistake about us.

“No fear,” said Frances, “I was born here and knows the ways on it.”

“What’s that straw for, Frances?” I asked, for I loved to acquire information.

“For the Frenchers to make hats of. I brings them this much most days,” she answered, looking down on her big bundle.

I must really have been growing up lately, for (for the first time in my life) an instinct of gallantry seized me, and I offered to carry it for her. She declined in rather a hurried manner.

“I’d liefer car’ it myself, thanking you the same. It’s no heft at all, and maybe ye’d shed it about.”

“Not I,” said I, indignantly, my gallantry gone. “Do you think I’ve never carried a truss of straw before? That’s just like a girl. But what’s that in the middle of the bundle?” I continued, eyeing it curiously. “Why, it’s a bone, I believe!”

Frances threw the corner of her apron over the bundle in a very pettish manner, and to my great surprise grew as red as a poppy. What was there to blush about in a bone? Nell struck in hurriedly—

“Yes, of course it’s a bone, Dan. And what could they make their buttons and ivory boxes out of but bone?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” I said, not liking to suggest “ivory” for fear, as tempers were ruffled, they might leave me outside.

“Then don’t go for to ax silly questions,” retorted Nell. “Can us go in, Roche?”

“Ay, my honies,” returned Roche, the turnkey, whom we had now reached. “Leastwise you and Fan can, in the coorse of natur; but who be this young crut?” {209}

“Oh, missus’ nevvy he be, as wants to see the Frenchers at work. ’Tis only a young boy, but we’d just as lief let him stay if you’d liefer not let him in.”

I did not feel grateful to my young friend for this suggestion, which, however, was probably dictated by the wiliness of woman.

“Oh, take him in there, and leave him if you’ve a mind, my beauty. I reckon one more won’t make no odds in there.”

This he seemed to consider a first-class joke, for he guffawed till we were out of hearing.

After passing through a guard-room, in which there were several soldiers smoking and lounging about, who offered no opposition to our passing, Fan and Nell being of course well known in the prison, we found ourselves in a large and very dreary hall, paved with flag-stones and almost devoid of furniture. The inmates, however, seemed pretty cheery on the whole; there were apparently about a couple of hundred of them, of whom some were working, some singing, some playing cards or dominoes—_all_ talking. Yes, even the singing ones talked between the verses. The spring sunshine came through the iron-barred, skied-up windows, and, in spite of other discouraging circumstances, these children of the South were (what we never are) gay as larks.

They clustered around my companions with every mark of respect and admiration. I naturally didn’t understand their jabber, but one remark which was, I rather think, meant for English, caught my ear. “Zay are—some angels out of—ciel!”

“They say you’re angels out of the ceiling. What on earth do they mean?” I inquired.

“We knows what they mean well enough, don’t you trouble, my honey,” answered Nell, who was more friendly to me than her sister was.

I don’t think Fan had got over her annoyance about the bone; she still carried the bundle of straw with her apron thrown over it.

We now went to the part of the room where the men were busy with their manufactures, and here I had really cause for astonishment. With no tools except some wretched little penknives, these skilful-fingered fellows were turning out most lovely work in bone, wood, and slate. Some of them executed beautiful mosaic work by letting-in pieces of various coloured stones on a bed of slate; they afterwards ground and polished the whole till it resembled the far-famed Florentine mosaic. I perceived a grindstone in the corner of the room, which the leniency of the authorities permitted them to have and to use.

Others of the prisoners were deftly plaiting the straw in many fanciful devices, these plaits again being rapidly transformed into hats for men, women, and even dolls. A great many toys were to be seen in various stages of their formation, wooden whistles, ships, dolls, windmills, and many other objects of delight to childhood.

I scanned eagerly the faces of all I saw to discover the countenances of any of my more particular assailants; but I did not succeed in recognising one of them. There was such a remarkable similarity among them, each man was as like his neighbour as could be; all haggard, all unwashed, all unshaven. They excited pity, even in a boy’s unsentimental heart; and withal, now that they were not drunk with greed and brandy, they were so lively and merry. I was quite sorry I could not understand their jokes.

Fan did not make over her straw to any of these men, as I fully expected that she would; nor did they seem to expect it. I heard a great deal of talk about Monsieur le Commissaire, and there was a good deal of pointing of fingers and something about “chambre voisine.”

As Fanny sheered off I followed.

“Can’t I come into the voisin chamber?” I asked, not knowing the meaning of the word, “and see Mounseer the Commissary?”

Fan looked at me in a startled way, but Nell interposed hastily—

“Let him come, he’s main quick and might help; he’s not a cursed boy.”

I must explain that in this dialect cursed means malicious or ill-natured; it has the meaning, in fact, which Shakespeare followed when he spoke of “Kate the curst” in his “Taming of the Shrew.”

Frances looked doubtful, but went on, Nellie and I following. As we entered the little adjoining room a young man jumped up, and, running to Nellie, took her hand and kissed it with much fervour.

“Hallo!” I cried, “what d’you let that common fellow kiss your hand for?”

“He isn’t a common fellow—he’s an engineer!” cried Nell, angrily, “and you’re nothing but a dull young boy not to know a gentleman when you sees one!

“Beg pardon, mounseer,” said I, for Frenchy was bowing to me, and I wished to show we Welsh knew manners. But though he might be a gentleman, I still hold to it, he was grimy.

“I’ve brought you the money for the things sold in missus’ shop,” continued Nell; then turning to me, “This gentleman, as is an engineer, is main clever, and manages all the accounts.”

The engineer seemed to me to have been clever enough to have managed more than accounts; however for once discretion prevailed and I held my tongue. Then Nellie and this mounseer fell to their accounts, and seemed to have a great deal to say to each other in a mixture of French and English, which, not understanding very well, I found stupid, and turned to look for Fanny and her friend, another grimy individual, who proved to be the commissary himself.

They also seemed much taken up with each other, and were conversing in the same lingo. I noticed that Fan had made over her bundle of straw to this man, and she seemed very busy talking over some arrangements. I approached, being willing to know what it was all about.

“Who ze plague is zis garçon?” asked the commissary.

“Oh, a young boy from down town—veal, savez-vous? Nong mauvais—a smart young chap obligant. Can portey kelke chose, vous savez.”

“Bon!” said the Frenchman, letting the word fly out like a shot, “we af some drifles to make car out of zis.”

I perceived at once that he had acquired his knowledge of English from Frances, as “car” for “carry” is pure Pembrokeshire.

“I shall be very glad to be of use,” I remarked. “What sort of things, Frances—gimcracks, I suppose?”

“Vat says he, là?” inquired the commissary.

“Yes, gimcracks of a sort—rather heavy, though, we find them,” said Fan, not stopping to translate. “If you’ll lend a hand, we’d get along better.”

“All right,” said I.

“Zey is kep’ in ze bockat,” remarked Mounseer, luckily indicating some pails in the corner by a gesture of his hand.

“Adoo, Pierre, I think we’d better alley,” remarked Fan. This, I must say, was the sort of French I liked.

“To nex’ time, my cabbage!” said Pierre.

Then while they were busy over the buckets I turned suddenly and beheld the engineer bestowing on Nellie an unmistakable kiss.

“Hallo!” I said.

“It’s only their foreign ways; like as if we was to shake hands,” cried Nellie, running forward and looking very rosy. “Come, catch a hoult on these pails, Dan’l; they’re main weighty for we maids.”

I did catch hold of a couple of pails, one in each hand, and found that the last part of Nell’s remark was true.

“Just feel the heft of un!” remarked Fanny.

I did feel it a good deal before I had done with it. Nellie also carried a pail, and Frances a large bundle, done up in some old sacking.

“What’s all that?” I inquired, as we made our way out of the prison.

“Dirty clothes,” said Frances, sharply. “They must have some clean linen, I suppose, though they are Frenchmen!”

It seemed to me that they managed to exist without it, but as the point was not material, and Frances appeared touchy, I held my tongue.

“This young boy has giv’ a hand with the sweepings, Roche,” said Frances, as we passed that functionary.

“Ay? Well, you and Nell be pretty well weighted too, surely,” drawled Roche.

“Oh, gimcracks, and clothes for the wash-’us (house),” answered the girl lightly, and in another moment we were in freedom—in the open air.

“Oh, poor chaps; how good it is!” said Nellie, drawing a long breath.

We went round to a piece of untidy waste land behind the prison.

“I’ll be bound your arms aches,” said Frances. “Drop the buckats, Dan’l, and thank ye.”

“Here!” said I, “drop your gimcracks on this dirty place—what for?”

“Oh, never mind what for; don’t argufy, my boy, them’s prison sweepings; the gimcracks is in Nellie’s pail.”

“Oh, I thought these were mighty heavy gimcracks. Well, let me carry Nell’s pail to the shop.”

“No, no!” cried Nell, stepping back, “I’d liefer car my own, don’t you trouble.”

“Then I’ll take your dirty linen,” said I, making a sudden grab at Frances’ bundle.

To my great surprise some bits of stone and a cloud of mortar flew out.

“Hallo!” I said.

“Look here, Dan’l,” said Fan, firmly, “we are greatly beholden for your help, but we don’t want no more at present. You go on with Dan’l, Nell, and leave me here to empt the buckats.”

Nell put down her pail, took my arm, and marched me off. I was inclined to be offended, but she soothed me down as any woman can when she chooses. She assured me that both the engineer (whom she called Jack—probably Jacques was his name) and the commissary had taken a great fancy to me, and would undertake to teach me French if I would only go often enough.

I had not the least objection to going, as I found prison experiences amusing, but I could not quite understand the bucket-carrying part of it.

However, neither flattery nor a curiosity stimulus were unpleasing to me, so I went frequently.