Limehouse Boys

2 ~ To the Workhouse

Chapter 2

To the Workhouse

Ned entered the refectory feeling lost, alone and humiliated. He stopped just inside the door. It was crowded for the evening meal, but only the sound of spoons scraping wooden bowls disturbed the silence.

The inmates sat on benches flanking row after row of long tables. Ned quickly deduced that everyone was segregated into groups: men, women, girls and boys. They all sat staring at their bowls or their hands, avoiding each other’s eyes.

“Collect a bowl of food and your bread ration,” ordered a severe young woman in the uniform of the staff. “Then sit with the boys over there. And remember, no chattering.”

“Yes, Mistress.” Following the pointed finger, Ned made his way to the serving hatch where a young woman ladled a meagre portion of gruel into a bowl, dumped in a spoon and pushed a wedge of bread toward him. It was so dry that it left a trail of crumbs behind.

“Bring the bowl an’ spoon back when yer done,” she added as he took them. “If yer don’t, yer’ll not get fed t’ next meal.”

Nodding, he remembered his manners. “Thank you.” Glancing round, he located the table occupied by the boys and made his way to it. There was no free space on the benches when he arrived, but two boys scooted over to make a space for him, and he sat.

In a whisper, the taller of the pair said, “I’m George, ’n ’e’s Ben.”

“I’m Ned.”

“No talking!” snarled one of the men, a member of the staff if his clothing was an indication. “If you’ve time to talk, ye’ve no need of food.”

“Bastard,” muttered George, slurping his gruel noisily. He kept his head down and his voice barely audible as he added, “Watch out fer ’im. Fond o’ usin’ the cane or the strap, ’e is.”

“Aye, an’ a few other things if’n ’e gets you alone.” Ben cried out when the man administered a stinging blow across his shoulders with the cane.

“No talking!” He touched Ned’s cheek with the tip of his cane. “New boy, eh? Well, mind yer manners or ye’ll larn fast enough t’ do as yer tol’. Nah eat yer grub!”

“A most curious thing happened this evening, my dear,” the Reverend Stephen Short said to his wife as he absentmindedly handed his hat and gloves to the maid. He shed his greatcoat and handed it to her as well.

“Thank you, Molly.”

After the maid departed, he kissed his wife’s cheek and linked arms with her, and together they strolled into the drawing room. “I encountered a man from the Inflexible, a fellow named Blake, a gunner’s mate when we were on board ship together.” He chuckled. “Pretended to be a little the worse for drink, for some strange reason I can’t quite work out.”

“Aren’t most seamen drunken when they’re ashore?” his wife asked with a tinge of humour.

“A great many of them are,” the Reverend conceded with a squeeze of her hand on his arm, “but this one clearly was not drunken, yet made it seem so.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Now that I think on it, the father of the boy we took into the workhouse this afternoon will have been known to him as well. Farrier is the boy’s name; his father was a seaman gunner. He died of the yellow fever just last year while posted on the West Indies station. A tragedy; he was due to come home, and planned to retire here to take up a waterman’s trade, I was told.”

Rachel Short smiled. Her husband had a soft spot for seafarers, particularly those he’d served with in his brief career as a ship’s chaplain. “Did you say the name was Farrier, dearest? I think there was a seamstress of that name in the parish. She took in private sewing and did fine work, always neat, and very reasonable.” She paused, her brow knit in recollection. “She had a son—he attended the free school in the parish.”

“That is the woman, I believe. I shall keep a careful eye on his situation. Something very odd is going on with the orphans sent to the workhouses. According to the register, several boys have recently been apprenticed to tradesmen in the borough, but I met one, a shipwright, who seemed surprised when I complimented him on having taken a boy under his care to learn his trade. When I named the boy, he denied having an apprentice at all, yet according to the entry, the Beadle oversaw the boy’s being articled to the man. Either I have the name wrong or the register has been incorrectly filled in. The alternative is that it has been falsified in order to hide something unlawful.”

“Have a care, my love. If it is falsified for some unlawful matter, you may place yourself in danger if you pursue it.”

He accepted a cup of tea and nodded his thanks. “I know, my dear. I think I must take someone I trust into my confidence and see what they may discover. Sadly, I suspect that Matron Smith is aware of this, and may be involved.” He saw a frown crease his wife’s brow. She worried about the children in the workhouses. Not wanting to disturb her, he smiled and said, “I shall be very careful in case she alerts her co-conspirators.”

Rachel brightened somewhat. “A wise precaution, but now you mention it, I believe Maggie, our cook, may know a great deal of what is happening there. She disapproves of both the Beadle and the matron, but she has not confided her reasons. Perhaps I can persuade her to provide some insight on the matter.”

Lounging in his usual seat in the pub the next evening, Beadle Hewlett kept an eye on who came and went. He looked up from his beer as the door opened to admit several new customers. That damned parson was still poking around, and still unmarked. There was no sign of Fingers Floyd, though that was not unusual. Floyd was not above vanishing for several days when he’d done something that might attract the attention of the constable.

Hewlett studied the newcomers. They looked like seamen, the way they moved, and the easy manner with which they made themselves comfortable once they had their ale suggested long familiarity with one another, most likely as former shipmates. One he recognised. The man was new to the borough, an ex-Royal Navy Master’s Mate, not a man to trifle with.

He studied the group surreptitiously, assessing them, planning their fate without their knowledge. If they followed form for many seafarers, they would end up in the workhouse where he and his cronies held sway.

Draining his mug, he rose to fetch a refill. The publican would be able to tell him more about these men. It paid to know as much as possible about those who might be rivals, or who might cause him trouble.

“Another pint.” He pushed the mug across the bar. “An’ one fer yersel’.” Positioning himself so he could see the other occupants and the publican, he played with the coins for his pint. “See you got some new custom.”

“Aye. Some’s frum ’round ’ere original-like. T’ big fella were a lad ’ere. ’Is Da’ worked the river an’ were a waterman in t’ pool, an’ ’e’s took a share in some lighters. Word is ’e’s a share in a couple o’ t’ barges as well. T’ young fella this end, ’e were one o’ t’ work’ouse brats—mus’ be three, four year ago. ’E’s t’ big fella’s youngest bruvver.”

A spark of recognition flared in the Beadle’s mind. The vaguest of memories stirred, and he had a moment of worry. He’d been Beadle to the parish council for twenty years. Many brats had passed through the doors of the workhouse in that time, and he’d made a tidy profit placing likely lads and girls with the right people for the nefarious trade he was involved in. It paid a good deal better than the normal fee for placing apprentices. Could this young man be one of those he’d arranged to place up river? It seemed likely. But clearly, from his dress and his appearance, he was no longer a part of it. The Beadle relaxed. “Been a tidy few brats through the work’ouse in my time. Can’t say as I remember ’im. Three, four year ago? I remember most, but I can’t place ’im.”

“’E were t’ Widder ’Owell’s brat. T’ father drowned shootin’ t’ arches o’ Lunnon Bridge in t’ high water o’ t’ year eighteen eighteen.” He winked. “Lef’ ’is widder provided they said—but when she died in twenty-eight, there were naff-all ter bury ’er, an’ nuffing fer t’ lad.”

“’Owell, you say? A waterman? Can’t say as I recall ’im.”

Memory sharpened, and the Beadle had to suppress his concern. The Widow Howell had not been penniless; in fact, she’d had a tidy sum tucked away. It had taken him some time and effort to find it and to convince the lad—a mere nipper then—that his mother had no money put by. That had been the tricky part. He’d finally managed it by escorting the youngster back to the boy’s former home on the ruse that they needed to retrieve her cashbox. He’d had to place a handful of coins in it and some of the cheaper trinkets to make it seem convincing to the boy that everything was exactly as his mother had left it. It had been a difficult moment. Now the boy was back in the borough along with his older brother, who had some money to spend by the sound of it.

He took a few swigs, nodded to the publican and carried his tankard back to his seat. This Howell fellow would need watching. Where the hell was Floyd? If he didn’t show up, the Beadle would have to recruit some of the less reliable pickpockets and scamperers who owed him favours.

Ned joined George in the laundry. Their task was to drag the laden baskets of wet clothes from the boiling coppers to the lye baths. Ben and several more of the smaller boys marched in a circle to drive the capstan that provided power to the mechanical paddles that churned the water in the tanks. The steam from the coppers made the atmosphere damp, and the lye suds made their eyes burn.

They’d started at seven o’clock, filling the great copper pots and the tubs, fetching the bars of lye soap, pumping the water into the tanks for rinsing. Then there was coal to fetch for the fires heating the coppers, and ash to be collected and dumped.

“I hates this,” George mumbled as they struggled to carry another heavy basket of uniforms and socks so tattered one could hardly recognize them as such.

Ned grunted in silent acknowledgement. He’d already had a taste of the cane for being slow, and didn’t want another beating. His arms ached with fatigue, and his legs felt wobbly. His wet clothes chaffed his chapped skin, red and raw from damp, cold, and lye burns. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, a breakfast of lumpy oat porridge, a chunk of stale bread and a mug of tea now hours in the past. He kept a wary eye on the woman overseeing the task as they reached the tanks and struggled to hoist the basket onto the shelf.

“Don’t dawdle, you two! Get a move on,” she scolded. “They’s waitin’ fer yer at t’ coppers.”

“Aye, missus,” Ned replied, adding beneath his breath as they hurried away, “Awd bat!”

“’Nother hour at least afore we gets a break fer tea,” George muttered, and a supervisor’s switch stung his backside.

“That’s what you get fer bein’ cheeky, you filthy brat. I’m watchin’ yer.”

George and Ned scampered back to the copper pots and the next loaded basket, not daring to meet the supervisor’s eyes.

That last hour of work was stretched into an hour and a quarter, and the supervisor finally called the tea break, a miserable affair of ten minutes of silence as the children and women drank their tea, their stomachs rumbling for food, though none would be given until the dinner hour.

“That’s it, you slackers, back to work, the lot o’ yez!” called the supervisor, walking along the heads of the rows of tables in the refectory rapping her cane on each to summon the inmates to stand and wait until she gave the order to walk single file back to the laundry.

In time, Ned learned that George and Ben were skilled at picking locks and acquiring extra (and better) food from the stores reserved for the staff. Ned found himself drawn into their circle when he let it slip out one day that before he came to the workhouse, he had done a fair amount of mudlarking along the wharves when the tide was out.

“Did yer find ought valuable?”

“A fair bit. Enough t’ make it worth t’ effort.” Ned grinned. “I got some bits put by as well. Hidden fer when I gets out o’ here.”

“Doan let t’ Beadle ’ear o’ it. ’E’ll find et an ’ave et afore yer kin say Jack Robinson—thievin’ ol’ git!” The speaker stopped and groaned as a hand bell clamoured. “We’ll be late fer t’ schoolroom. C’mon, we better run fer it.”

Galvanised, the group raced for the door. Running along the corridor to the schoolroom, George kept pace with Ned. “’Ere, you kin read and write better ’an all o’ us. Wuz you in t’ free school in Poplar?”

“Nah, t’ one in Saint Anne parish, Limehouse.” He hesitated at the door to the schoolroom. “Why?”

“Might be useful is all.”

Ned followed him into the schoolroom wondering what his friend meant by that cryptic utterance. He halted in his tracks at the angry voice of the teacher.

“You, boy, and you, Turnbull,” he added, addressing George. “I’ll have no dilly-dallying. Time is precious and not to be wasted.” Flexing the cane he held, he indicated the desk. “Bend. Three strokes each as a reminder to you scallywags, and a warning to the rest of you!”

The unfairness of the beating made Ned angry, but he had learned very quickly to guard his tongue and his responses to this sort of treatment. When he took his seat, he bit his lip and resisted the impulse to wince in pain. One day, he’d even the score, but for now, he bent his head to his slate and concentrated on the lesson as best he could.

The room was hot and crowded, with the children divided into five groups by age. Only the older boys were taught by the teacher; the four younger groups were cared for by older girls, and the youngest group was learning their letters at a table adjacent to Ned’s seat.

One of the smallest distracted him; she was evidently terrified of everything, particularly the teacher. An older girl was showing her how to shape her letters, and no matter how soothingly she spoke, the little one trembled and shook, and kept dropping the chalk.

Ned heard the teacher’s voice, and responded, “Sir?”

“Pay attention, boy, or you’ll get another dose of the cane. What is the answer to this sum?” The teacher rapped his cane against the chalkboard.

Ned looked. It was a simple addition, and he did a quick calculation in his head. “Forty-two, sir.”

“How the devil . . .?”

The teacher frowned then held out the chalk.

“Come here and show the rest of them how you arrived at that.”

Reluctantly, Ned eased himself out of his seat, accepted the chalk and worked the problem, adding the numbers by columns. When he had finished, the others were staring at him in admiration, but the teacher had a hard look on his face.

“Sit down, boy. You’re a clever one, eh? Where did you learn that?”

“The free school by Saint Anne’s, sir.”

The teacher looked thoughtful. “I see. Well, if you’re so clever, you can help the dunce seated beside you with the next exercise, though why they waste money on educating the likes of you, I cannot understand.”

Once a week the children received instruction in the Christian faith. This was the Reverend Mr Short’s opportunity to teach the children, and he enjoyed it. His bishop would not have approved of his departure from the strict parameters of the Catechism, but the children loved it when he told them stories of faraway places and distant times. He spoke of love, hope, and faith. He spoke of a God who loved the children, the weak, the suffering, and those who endured unfairness and abuse. He assured them that despite their dire circumstances, God could give them hope and strength.

In the bleak surroundings of the workhouse amid the beatings and threats, the angry voices and strictures, and the backbreaking work, the Reverend’s lessons were a welcome relief that the children looked forward to each week.

Ned pondered one of those lessons as he stood turning the cranks for the rollers to squeeze water from the laundered clothing. It was so difficult to forgive those who had wronged him, as the Reverend had instructed when teaching them the Lord’s Prayer.

His thoughts looped through the bit that said, “Deliver us from evil.” He sighed and vowed to stay strong no matter what they did to him. He decided to use the hours spent in the laundry as an opportunity to listen to the overseers’ conversations and to think.

In the next several days and weeks, he spent a lot of time listening and thinking about escaping, and wondering how he would survive when he did.

And then one day, he began to hatch a plan. He couldn’t wait to tell George and Ben their part in it.