Limehouse Boys

1 ~ A Charge on the Parish

Chapter 1

A Charge on the Parish

“This is the lad, yer honours, Ned Farrier, twelve-year-old. No living relatives, an’ ’is mother died a pauper.”

“We wasn’t paupers, yer honours. Me mother ’ad money put by, but it’s gorn now.”

The slap on the side of his head sent him sprawling and provoked a protest from the clergyman sitting beside the chairman of the governors.

“Here, that is uncalled for, Mister Hewlett.” Reverend Stephen Short turned to the other members of the board. “I knew his father, a seaman gunner in the Navy who died suddenly a year ago in the West Indies. He was well liked by many of his former shipmates, I believe. I knew his mother too, a frugal and honest woman. If the boy says she had money put aside, it will be so.”

Reverend Short turned to Ned, now on his feet and struggling manfully to restrain his tears. “Do you know where she might have kept it, Ned?”

“Yus, sir, I did know, but they came and took everything from the ’ouse. They would not let me ’ave it.” He glared up at the Beadle. Slight of build, he was in fact past his thirteenth birthday, but the wrong year on his baptism certificate made him younger in the eyes of the law, a circumstance that caused him a great deal of difficulty.

“Mister ’Ewlett ’ad it all away an’ sold afore I could fetch it. ’E said it was ter pay fer Mum’s burial.”

“I see.” The Reverend’s face showed that he believed the boy, and he did not think for a moment that the Beadle had been honest. In fact, he had acquired a large body of circumstantial evidence to support that belief, but he had not yet persuaded a magistrate to take action against the Beadle.

Addressing that man now, he said, “Well, Mister Hewlett? Did the sale defray the costs?”

Glowering at the boy standing beside him, the Beadle shook his head. He had a taste for the better things in life, and through his position, he had found ways to acquire them. His clothes were good quality—far better than his official stipend supported—and he fancied himself well able to deal with those who looked askance at the way he conducted his duties. The Reverend was getting far too nosey and poking into matters where he had no business meddling.

“Jus’ barely, Reverend, jus’ barely,” he finally answered. Seeing the looks of disbelief, disinterest and discomfort on the faces before him, he added, “I wuz acting in accordance wi’ the law, yer honours. T’ law says if the deceased don’t ’ave the money, the parish may seize any possessions and sell ’em ter defray t’ cost. That is what I done.”

“Indeed,” said the chairman, though an arched eyebrow betrayed his doubt in the Beadle’s word. He disliked confrontation, and he knew that the Reverend Short wished to pursue this, which would bring on the very situation the chairman hoped to avoid.

“Well, what’s done is done,” he said finally. “We must provide for young Ned here. I think we are all agreed that he must be found a place in the workhouse.” He glanced round the table. “Good, that’s settled then. Thank you, Beadle Hewlett; see the boy is delivered to the matron, if you please.”

“As the family were resident in my parish, I will, of course, see the matron myself.” The Reverend Short left this hanging for a moment. “As the charge will fall on us, it is no less than my duty, I think.”

“Very Christian of you, I’m sure, Mister Short.”

The chairman sighed audibly. He was keen to move on. There were other supplicants to see, and he was annoyed that this new clergyman was already asking questions of a disturbing nature concerning certain activities regarding the workhouse, the management of poor relief, and the disposal of orphans through the sale of likely boys to journeymen and other trades. Until now, the chairman had found it convenient, indeed beneficial, not to enquire too deeply into these matters. Now that he was being forced to, he was uncomfortable with the scrutiny it placed on him.

He turned to the clerk. “What other business do we have?”

Ned walked beside the Beadle, the man’s firm grip on his scrawny shoulder painfully inescapable. He considered several actions, including kicking his assailant and breaking free, but realised this would only raise a cry of “Stop, thief!” which would bring the constable and anyone else who fancied catching another of East London’s countless street children. Anyway, where could he run to? Until he worked that out, the workhouse at least offered food and shelter. So he allowed himself to be hustled toward the forbidding entrance to the Shadwell Workhouse.

“The boy is admitted, Matron.” Thrusting Ned forward, the Beadle blocked the escape route.

Matron Smith was a thin, waspish woman. A Non-Conformist, she took the view that all afflictions visited upon anyone were a judgement for wrongdoing. Thus, to her way of thinking, anyone in difficult circumstances must be a desperate sinner and deserving of God’s wrath and hers as well.

She studied Ned with an expression of loathing. His quiet demeanour and respectful bearing, and his clothing, cleaner and neater than most, did nothing to soften her attitude. She regarded sympathy for the poor and the destitute a weakness to be resisted and defeated at all cost.

“You have the admittance papers?” she asked tersely.

“Yeah, they’re right here somewhere.” After much digging in the pockets of his greatcoat, the Beadle handed over the admittance form, crumpled and somewhat dirty. The matron took it between arched thumb and forefinger as if she were picking up a dead mouse. She scowled and sniffed as she smoothed it against her skirt with the back of her hand then perused it.

“’E’s a likely lad for the trade up west, though a tad young yet,” said the Beadle, keeping his voice low. “I’ll make a few enquiries. I reckon ’e’ll be ’ere at t’ workhouse a year at most.”

She glanced at the boy. “A year? I should think not, with his good looks. We’ll see about that when the time comes.” She sniffed as if to say her word was final.

“I’ll be round in t’ morning abaht them others we discussed. I’ve a party interested in two boys an’ a new girl. Tonight I’ve other fish to fry once we’ve done with this one.”

The matron sniffed again. She didn’t approve of what the Beadle called “the trade”—in fact, she condemned those who practiced it, but she had to admit that the commission the Beadle shared with her ensured she would have a comfortable nest egg for her eventual retirement. In her view, their fate was their just punishment for the sins of their parents, and she, a righteous woman, was entitled to a small reward for her care of them in the meantime.

She opened her ledger. “The charge on the parish will be as usual. Has he any possessions beside his clothes?”

The Beadle laughed. “Nary a feather to fly with this one—not anymore.” He winked, tapping his nose. The matron ignored his smirk, pretending not to gather his meaning.

The registration process proceeded with Ned not being spoken to as the Beadle and the matron discussed his fate. Once his details were entered into the thick register, he was propelled by the matron’s thin but firm hand at the back of his neck into a second room where he was ordered to remove his clothes.

“Everything, Mistress?”

“Don’t argue—remove your clothes. First you must be bathed, then you’ll be examined by the doctor, and then you’ll wear the workhouse uniform.” She glowered at him. “Get on with it.”

Reluctantly he obeyed, keeping a watchful eye on the switch dangling from her apron, ready for use at any moment. Folding his clothes neatly, he would have placed them on the table, but she snatched them and flung them in a basket.

“They’ve to be washed before they can be stored,” she snapped. “Probably full of lice. This way, then.”

Numb with a mixture of embarrassment and anger at the unfairness of his situation, Ned walked through the curtained door she indicated. His humiliation had only just begun.

The Reverend Mr Short was, as the wags in the parish described him, short by name and short by nature. Just over five feet tall, he was stocky in build, bald as a billiard ball and much stronger than he appeared.

He’d served as a chaplain aboard HMS Inflexible before coming ashore to serve his title as an assistant curate, and now had secured his own parish. St Anne’s was the perfect place for a man used to seafarers and their ways.

Since its founding as a parish in 1730, it had the honour of being the place of registry for all births, deaths and marriages that took place at sea on British flagged ships. The new incumbent took great pride in being a part of this history, and in his work ministering to the men from the ships and their families who resided in Limehouse.

As a result, unbeknownst to him as well as the Beadle and his cronies, a number of men watched out for the Reverend, keeping an eye on his safety. It would have surprised him to know this, though he did sometimes wonder at the number of former shipmates he encountered as he went about his work.

He had been well liked by those in the lower deck during his time aboard the Inflexible, largely due to his always being sympathetic, never condescending, and ever ready to give assistance in cases of genuine hardship.

He knew the Beadle and one or two other officers of the parish wished him elsewhere, as his interest in education and the welfare of the poor in his parish seriously inhibited some of their activities—and their potential for profit.

Walking home past Limehouse Basin through the gathering dusk, the Reverend was deep in thought. The filth on the pavements made them as hazardous to one’s shoes as the copious deposits of horse droppings on the street itself. The rank odours of the cesspits mingled with the smell of coal smoke, cooking oil and the ever-present stench of the river. As he passed the warehouses, the smell of tea, spices and other cargoes assailed his nostrils.

His thoughts ranged over the disturbing intelligence he had gleaned on his latest visit to the workhouse. There was something very unpleasant and untoward occurring there; he just needed to convince the authorities—the chairman in particular—to investigate it properly. Beadle Hewlett was involved, that went without saying, but in what capacity? Was he the mastermind or the facilitator for some other figure?

Reverend Short was so preoccupied that he failed to notice the pinched face of the man peering furtively from a narrow alley three buildings ahead of him.

Another man walking ten yards behind him saw it all, and he signalled a third man lounging in a doorway on the other side of the street who in turn made a gesture, drew himself to his feet and lurched with a surety and speed at odds with his drunken appearance across the road into the path of the Reverend.

Further along, another man slipped down an alley, broke into a run as soon as he was out of sight then doubled round the rear of the warehouse and carefully peered into the alley leading back to the main road on the other side.

“Mister Short, zur. I knew it be ’ee.”

Stephen Short stepped back in surprise as the “drunk” weaved into his path. “Good evening,” he said with his usual brisk good manners then stopped and stared in surprise. “Good heavens—Blake, is it not? Discharged, I take it?”

“Aye, zur, discharged from duty, like many others, zur.” The man swayed, adding quietly, “Don’t look now, zur, but there be un as is up to no good waiting on thee, zur.” He continued in a louder tone before Stephen could respond. “Gunner’s Mate, I were, zur, but there’s little fer t’ likes o’ me in a merchantman.”

“Oh?” Stephen said, feeling somewhat confused. Realising the man’s unspoken meaning, he quickly added, “Oh, I see! I remember you well, Mister Blake. And I am sure I can assist you, but you must call on me at the rectory.” He fished in his fob pocket and produced a card. “Present this at my door.” He smiled. “Old shipmates are always welcome.”

His interlocutor smiled as he accepted the card. “Thank ee, Mister Short.” He knuckled his forehead in salute then stepped aside and resumed his drunken walk along the street.

Stephen continued his way homeward, alert to possible danger. He glimpsed a man carrying something at the far end of an alley, but nothing else seemed out of the ordinary.

“Fingers” Floyd heard the soft footfall a moment too late. Even his lightning-fast reflexes weren’t enough to save him as the stocking, loaded with wet sand, struck his temple. His assailant, another of Inflexible’s former seamen, well muscled and strong as an ox, bundled the fallen man over his shoulder and hurried down the alley.

“Never you fear, me lovely. Newgate an’ Tyburn won’t see ye this time, but someplace else might.”

Few would miss Fingers Floyd, and they were unlikely to report his absence.

At his favourite haunt two blocks from Limehouse Basin, Beadle Hewlett waited for Fingers’s arrival. The Reverend Mr Short was becoming a threat to a lucrative trade and needed to be frightened off.

Each time the door opened, Hewlett looked up in expectation. Fingers had instructions not to approach him, but simply to walk past and order a pint at the tap.

Many men came and went, but Fingers was not among them. Eventually the Beadle drained his mug, returned it to the bar and stepped out into the street. He failed to note the shadow that fell into step a little distance behind him, slipping into a doorway to watch as he let himself into his house.

Removing his heavy coat and hat, Beadle Hewlett hung them on the hooks then fished out a stout purse from his inner pocket. That Ned Farrier brat had been telling the truth. The widow had managed to put by quite a tidy sum, more than enough to provide for the boy and her burial, and when he added to that the money he’d got from the “sale” to his cronies of the widow’s possessions, there was a useful amount. He glanced at himself in the entranceway mirror, his expression smug. He had no qualms about what he was doing.

The purse joined other valuables and money in a strongbox that he kept in a well-concealed place beneath the floor. Pushing the heavy chest of drawers over the compartment, he straightened and sighed heavily. He would have to do something before that damned parson ruined everything.