The Chaplain seemed to imagine that George, as the son of a clergyman, would draw his principal comfort and consolation from the practice of his religion. George did not disabuse him, and he attended chapel more willingly than most; but he knelt and sang and prayed in the same spirit as he put out his slops and folded his bedding and worked, as something to help get him through the day. Most of the prisoners went to work in the sheds, where they made mats and baskets; a star man doing three months' separate had to work in his own cell. George was given a board and bundles of heavy yarn. He was shown how to plait the yarn, using the board as a pattern. He produced, slowly and with great effort, oblongs of thick plaited material to a determined size. When he had finished six, they were taken away. Then he started another batch, and another.
After a couple of weeks, he asked a prison officer what the purpose of these shapes might be.
'Oh, you should know, 247, you should know.'
George tried to think where he might have come across such material before. When it was clear he was at a loss, the warder picked up two of the completed oblongs, and pressed them together. Then he held them beneath George's chin. When this gained no response, he put them beneath his own chin and started opening and closing his mouth in a wet and noisy fashion.
George was baffled by this charade. 'I am afraid not.'
'Oh, come on. You can get it.' The warder made noisier and noisier chomping sounds.
'I cannot guess.'
'Horses' nose-bags, 247, horses' nose-bags. Must be congenial, seeing as you're a man familiar with horses.'
George felt a sudden numbness. So he knew; they all knew; they talked and joked about it. 'Am I the only person making these?'
The warder grinned. 'Don't count yourself so special, 247. You're doing the plaiting, you and half a dozen others. Some do the sewing together. Some make the ropes for tying round the horse's head. Some put them all together. And some pack them up for sending off.'
No, he wasn't special. That was his consolation. He was just a prisoner among prisoners, working as they worked, someone whose crime was no more alarming than that of many others, someone who could choose to be well-behaved or badly behaved, but had no choice about his fundamental status. Even being a solicitor here was not unusual, as the Governor had pointed out. He decided to be as normal as it was possible to be, given the circumstances.
When told that he would serve six months' separate rather than just three, George did not complain, or even ask the reason. The truth was, he thought that what newspapers and books referred to as 'the horrors of solitary confinement' were grossly exaggerated. He would rather have too little company than too much of the wrong sort. He was still permitted to exchange words with the warders, the Chaplain, and the Governor on his rounds, even if he did have to wait for them to speak first. He could use his voice in chapel, singing the hymns and joining in the responses. And during exercise, permission was usually given to talk; though finding common ground with the fellow walking beside you was not always straightforward.
There was, furthermore, a capital library at Lewes, and the librarian called twice a week to take away books he had finished with and replenish his shelf. He was allowed to borrow one work of an educational nature and one 'library' book per week. By 'library' book he was to understand anything from a popular novel to a volume of the classics. George set himself to read all the great works of English literature, and the histories of significant nations. He was naturally permitted a Bible in his cell; though he found increasingly that after four hours struggling with board and yarn each afternoon, it was not the cadences of Holy Writ that he yearned for, but the next chapter of Sir Walter Scott. At times, shut in his cell, reading a novel, safe from the rest of the world, his brightly coloured bed-rug catching the corner of his eye, George felt a sense of order that was almost edging towards contentment.
He learned from his father's letters that there had been a public outcry at his verdict. Mr Voules had taken up his case in Truth, and a petition was being raised by Mr R.D. Yelverton, late Chief Justice of the Bahamas, now of Pump Court in the Temple. Signatures were being gathered, and already many solicitors in Birmingham, Dudley and Wolverhampton had given their support. George was touched to discover that the signatories included Greenway and Stentson; they had always been decent dogs, those two. Witnesses were being interviewed, and testimonials to George's character gathered from schoolmasters, professional colleagues, and members of his family. Mr Yelverton had even been in receipt of a letter from Sir George Lewis, the greatest criminal lawyer of the day, expressing his considered opinion that George's conviction was fatally flawed.
It was clear that some official representations had been made on his behalf, because George was allowed to receive more communications regarding his case than would normally have been allowed. He read some of the testimonials. There was a purple carbon copy of a letter from his mother's brother, Uncle Stoneham of The Cottage, Much Wenlock. 'Whenever I have seen or heard of my nephew (until these abominable things were spoken of)
As a son and a prisoner, George could not help being moved to tears by these words; as a lawyer, he doubted how much effect they would have on whichever Home Office functionary might eventually be appointed to review his case. He felt, at the same time, both keenly optimistic and entirely resigned. Part of him wanted to stay in his cell, plaiting nosebags and reading the works of Sir Walter Scott, catching colds when his hair was cut in the freezing courtyard, and hearing the old joke about bed-bugs again. He wanted this because he knew it was likely to be his fate, and the best way to be resigned to your fate was to want it. The other part of him, which wanted to be free tomorrow, which wanted to embrace his mother and sister, which wanted public acknowledgement of the great injustice done him – this was the part he could not give full rein to, since it could end by causing him the most pain.
So he tried to remain stolid when he learned that ten thousand signatures had now been gathered, headed by those of the President of the Incorporated Law Society, of Sir George Lewis, and Sir George Birchwood, K.C.I.E., the high medical authority. Hundreds of solicitors had signed, not just from the Birmingham area; also King's Counsel, Members of Parliament – including those from Staffordshire – and citizens of every political hue. Sworn statements had been gathered from witnesses who had seen workmen and sightseers trampling the ground where subsequently PC Cooper had discovered his bootmarks. Mr Yelverton had also obtained a favourable statement from Mr Edward Sewell, a veterinary surgeon consulted by the prosecution and then not called in evidence. The petition, the statutory declarations and the testimonials together formed 'the Memorials', which were to be addressed to the Home Office.
In February, two things happened. On the 13th of the month, the Cannock Advertiser reported that another animal had been mutilated in exactly the same fashion as in previous outrages. A fortnight later, Mr Yelverton submitted the Memorials to the Home Secretary, Mr Akers-Douglas. George allowed himself the full indulgence of hope. In March two more things happened: the petition was rejected, and George was informed that on completion of his six months' separate, he would be moved to Portland.