Limehouse Boys

3 ~ Setting the Scene

Chapter 3

Setting the Scene

The schoolmaster singled out Ned, George, Ben and Billy when he dismissed the rest of the class to their supper.

“Remain here, you lot. Mr Cole and his friends require you as models for their drawing class.”

The sweep of Mr Fleet’s hand indicated the smartly dressed man and his companions who’d sat to one side of the schoolroom throughout the lessons, watching the children, sketching on large pads as they worked, assessing them in a way that made them feel nervous.

“But we’ll miss supper,” protested Billy, his dark eyes smouldering with anger over a recent scuffle with the schoolmaster, an act that evidenced itself by the smear of blood beneath his nose. He was nearly sixteen, but he passed for a boy of about thirteen or fourteen because he hadn’t had his growth spurt yet. Many years of inadequate nutrition had taken their toll.

“You’ve not earned it,” snapped the schoolmaster, his cane swishing across the boy’s shoulders. “You’ll stay here and pose for the gentlemen like I tell you.”

“I say, Mr Fleet, could we have them grouped together in a row—just so.”

The artist indicated the position he wanted. “Perhaps you would stand behind the boys. And that one—yes, you, boy,” he said to Ned, gesturing. “You stand on the right—no, my right. That’s it.”

Reluctantly, Ned took the place Mr Cole indicated at the end of the group, thinking of how his mum would have scolded him for not running a comb through his thick dark hair. I’m glad she isn’t here to see me like this. That thought tapped a well of tears that he struggled to suppress, but he couldn’t hide the pain in his eyes.

The artist placed George next to Ned then Ben in front of the teacher since Ben was the smallest. He stood Billy, a long-time resident of the workhouse, so that Mr Fleet could keep him under control with a grimy hand that gripped the boy’s shoulder a little too firmly and in a way that seemed strangely protective.

The boy’s surly expression and resigned compliance spoke of a long suppressed sense of injustice broiling within him.

Mr Cole also noticed the matching bloodied and bruised noses of the schoolmaster and the boy with the smouldering eyes, but he said nothing to draw attention to this. It gave the boy panache, he told himself, pleased with his artistic eye. It would lend a certain realistic flair to the sketching, he decided.

“Sketch them exactly as they are,” Mr Cole instructed his artists, who set up their easels and drawing pads then arranged the lamps to provide suitable lighting.

“Now, no fidgeting—you must stand absolutely still,” Mr Cole reminded the group, regarding them critically, his head to one side. “Oh yes. Yes, I think I shall want to use that one on the right—Ned was the name, I think. Yes—he is perfectly suited for a life study. I know a number of parties interested in such a good-looking subject . . . or rather, interested in such studies, I should say.”

Mr Fleet smirked then controlled his grin, tilted his head in a pose that seemed overly confident, especially considering his rumpled and dirty clothing, and readied himself for the portrait.

Seating himself carefully, Mr Cole and the artists sketched the boys and the schoolmaster with quick, deft strokes.

Young Ben shifted his weight uneasily, his stomach growling with hunger, his thin shoulders shaking with cold in the draughty room. His eyes round as saucers reflected the fear mixed with fortitude that one so young often felt when trying to be brave in confusing circumstances.

“No moving, boy,” snarled the schoolmaster. “And control your noise.”

Ben was trembling visibly now, and the others knew he’d be punished later. They would have to hide him and cover for him somehow to spare him the sting of the switch across his thin back.

The artists continued their work, oblivious to the boys’ discomfort, finally releasing them as the bell rang for the children’s bedtime.

Hurrying to their dormitory, George complained, “Bastards—no supper, and I’m so hungry I could eat a river rat.”

“Aye, me too, but Fleet i’n’t sufferin’ any ’ardship ’sides t’ bloody nose he were askin’ fer,” said Billy. “Glad I give it to ’im. Wot ’e gets fer puttin’ his hands on me. ’Sides, that drawin’ master paid him near on a week’s wage ter keep us’n there.”

The question in Ned’s mouth was cut off by the angry demand of the supervisor to “move yerselves afore I gives yer a beatin’ fer bein’ laggardly.”

The feeling of outrage threatened to overwhelm the Reverend Stephen Short. His interview with the chairman of the Workhouse Board had not gone well. The man was, in the clergyman’s view, a bigoted, pompous ass. Stephen felt guilty for thinking such un-Christian thoughts, but it was true. When he had given a presentation of the hardship suffered by the workhouse inmates, the chairman had peremptorily cut him off with a lengthy diatribe against the sufferers, castigating them for being idle, feckless wastrels who, if they had any moral fibre, could fend for themselves.

“With trade depressed and businesses struggling, many skilled men and women cannot find work, sir,” Stephen implored.

“Rubbish, sir! Had these idlers any gumption, they could easily find the means to improve themselves. No, sir, I disagree heartily. It is well known that any kindness, any easing of the regime, results purely in abuse of the charity shown. As you well know, the Bible says the poor are always with us, and in this day and age, there can be only one reason. They are feckless drunkards and idlers with no desire to work and no desire to improve themselves. As for the condition of the food—just look at the expense we already incur. Why, just this morning the treasurer presented me with the latest accounts. They’re eating their heads off. We must be feeding half the population of the borough!”

“Not from what I have seen served in the refectory, sir!” Stephen’s temper was being sorely tried. “I have seen these accounts you speak of, and I say they are false. The supposed meat supplied to the inmates is nothing that you and I would even feed to a dog. I have seen it myself—bones stripped of everything edible tossed into the cooking pots along with vegetables that are so spoiled as to be rotten. It’s a wonder we do not have deaths from poisoning.” He took a steadying breath and adopted a softer tone. “Would you not accompany me on a visit and verify with your own eyes what I am telling you?”

“No need for that, Reverend . . . no need at all. I have every confidence in Matron Smith and Beadle Hewlett.” The chairman swelled with pride. “Both are prime examples of how anyone may rise from penury to comfortable living, with the right incentive, of course. Both began as workhouse orphans, and both have worked ceaselessly to become owners of certain properties in this and the neighbouring boroughs.”

Stephen saw his opening. “Indeed they have—the one through falsifying the ledgers for the workhouse, the other by robbing those he is supposed to have a care for. I have the evidence, and I have laid it before you many times.”

“Lies, all of it, lies of the envious.” The chairman steepled his fingers. “Your Christian charity does you credit, Reverend sir, in so far as you are concerned for the welfare of the unfortunates in our charge, but you fail to see the virtue in the efforts of the Beadle and the matron to improve the unfortunate situations of these derelicts through effort. No, no! Allow me to finish. Your eagerness to champion the inmates does you great credit, sir, great credit. But it blinds you to the truth of the matter. All your evidence comes from those the Beadle or the matron have taken such pains to assist. Can you not see they generate these lies and falsehoods out of spite? Their envy blinds them with malice. They see people they consider no better than themselves making good, and they seek to drag them down again. No, Mister Short, the evidence you have laid before me does not stand and will not stand in my court or any other.”

Sensing it was pointless to continue, Stephen rose to take his leave. “Then I shall continue to strive to find something more acceptable for you, sir. Good day.”

Mick Howell had his own plans for the Beadle. The fate of that man’s lackey, Fingers Floyd, would probably be a kindness compared to what Mick wanted to do to him, which his companions were now discussing. Mick had served in the Navy from his boyhood, rising to hold a warrant as a Master’s Mate on a 74-gun ship of the line and then the 44-gun frigate Inflexible. It was during that commission that he’d heard of his mother’s death and his brother’s incarceration in the workhouse. When the news arrived, the Reverend Short had helped him overcome his anger, but he’d sworn he would have his revenge on the thieving Beadle. He sealed his determination when news of his brother Jeremiah reached him. He glanced at the youth now—Jem, he called him—and felt a fresh wave of anger toward all of them when he saw the withdrawn look in the boy’s eyes. It tore into his heart and renewed his determination to make them pay in full measure.

The others grinned. The Beadle might wonder why so many of the Inflexible’s former seamen were now living in the borough, but there was a reason for it. These men were troubled by the fate of the Widow Howell and her youngest, a mood reinforced by the fact that Mick Howell, by nature a shrewd businessman, had persuaded them to pool their resources and allow him to invest on their behalf. The Beadle would have been very surprised to know they now owned the leases on his two favourite public houses, and that the former captain’s clerk from the Inflexible now worked as a law clerk in the Registry Office.

Had he known, he might have taken warning.

The group drained their tankards and Matt gathered the empties.

Mick scraped back his chair and shrugged into his coat. “Matt, did ye pass t’ lad as was laying in wait fer t’ parson? T’ China bound ship—’ad she sailed afore we got ’im?”

“Shipped him to Noo Sarf Wales. Me mate on t’ Deal Castle ’ad a nice little slot fer ’im in t’ ’old wit’ them as were being shipped.” He grinned as the others laughed. “By t’ time ’e convinces anyone ’e weren’t on t’ manifest fer shippin’ out, ’e’ll be there and wit’ nought to pay ’is way ’ome agin.”

“Good ’un,” Mick said with a clap on his shoulder. “And now I’ve a trim little ship to visit an’ some business to attend.”

“Time I were gettin’ back to the wharf,” Matt replied. “T’ lighters don’ unload theyselves.”

“Too right, an’ the thieving gits as works ’em will ’ave ’alf t’ cargo away by now!”

“Not if Big Sven ’as done ’is job they won’t.”

The publican watched them leave. He had overheard the remark about someone laying in wait for the parson. These were not men to have against you. He had to admit things were changing; perhaps he should wait to see which way the wind might blow. The Beadle would be tricky, but he could keep him happy with snippets of unimportant gossip.

Wiping the tankards, he considered the letter he’d had from the lawyer this last week. Written using complicated legal terminology that he’d had to get some help reading, it had informed him that the lease on the premises had changed hands. The rental would not be increased, but the terms of his tenancy would be reviewed in twelve months’ time when it became due for renewal.

Yes, he decided, caution was advisable. A licensee who did not own the premises or the lease needed to play his cards very carefully indeed.

Stephen Short looked up from his stall in the chancel of his church. As was his custom, he read the Offices of Morning and Evening Prayer daily at the same time in the morning and in the late afternoon. Like the Wesley brothers, he believed the Lord’s Supper should be celebrated daily, though he generally did this in the rectory with his wife and any servants who wished to join them.

At first, he had been alone for the Offices, but over the months, he’d been aware of a few figures seated here and there in the pews, some standing, some kneeling as he read the service. Today there was a new figure in the church, one he recognised with some pleasure. Master’s Mate Howell had been a staunch ally on the Inflexible and had now returned to his home and roots in Limehouse. By all accounts, he was setting himself up in business as well.

Finishing the Office with a blessing offered in the direction of the nave and the scattered folk in it, he left his stall and made his way to where Mick Howell stood.

“Mister Howell, what a pleasant surprise. I had hoped to meet you since you returned. All is well, I trust.”

The big seaman smiled. “Can’t complain, Mister Short, can’t complain at all.” Waving a hand round the church, he added, “’Spect this is a bit different to the old ship, sir.”

“That it most certainly is.” Making a quick decision, Stephen said, “I am about to join my wife for a cup of tea. Would you join us? I know she would wish to meet a member of my former flock, and I would like to hear your tale since the ship paid off.”

Mick Howell hesitated, surprised at this gesture of hospitality. “Aye, I take that kindly, Mister Short, very kindly. Thankee, sir, if’n you’re certain your lady will not object.”

“Nonsense, she will be delighted. Now, tell me what brings you to Saint Anne’s.”

The man had the airs of a gentleman, though Beadle Hewlett knew he was no better in breeding than himself, and possibly worse. The difference, or so he supposed, was his companion had good looks and the gift of being able to adapt to any situation. He spoke like a toff and dressed like one to the unpractised eye, and lived well somewhere off the Brompton Road.

“You have some new merchandise for us?” said the man, unconsciously glancing about, wary of someone overhearing, though no one was in the vicinity.

“Yeah. Several girls will be old enough ter be indentured next month.” Beadle Hewlett winked knowingly. “An’ I’ve my eye on a new lad who’ll take the fancy o’ some, I’m thinking, though he needs a few months yet ter be properly shaped fer it.”

An expression of distaste crossed the man’s face at the wink, but he showed interest at the mention of a youth. “Good looking? Our clientele likes the angelic look. I take it he’s healthy and biddable.”

“He will be when we’ve done wi’ ’im. The schoolmaster takes pleasure in beating him and others, and the overseer uses the strap freely. Yeah, in a few months ’e’ll be beggin’ fer anythin’ tha’ get’s ’im out o’ t’ work’ouse. ’E’ll be biddable, we’ll see ter it.”

“Very well.” The visitor hesitated. “Make sure the beatings don’t mark him; we’ve no use for damaged goods. And take care this boy has no . . . ah . . . family entanglement. It’s taken a lot of effort and favours to keep the affair with that Howell fellow from the scandal mill. As it is, all manner of rumours are flying about making our trade very wary.” The pained expression was back. “We have four MPs, a peer and a high court judge enjoying our hospitality free of charge to keep it all quiet. We cannot afford another.”

The Beadle nodded. “There won’t be. This ’un is an only son; father died in the West Indies, mother lies in t’ Limehouse paupers’ plot. There’ll be no trouble, an’ if there is—well, who’ll miss ’im?”

“Don’t be so sure. We have word of several nosey types sniffing around our business, and the workhouses are under scrutiny by some powerful lobbies.” Watching his companion’s face, he added, “Make sure there is no slip-up with the registers—nothing that can leave a trace of where they are, and don’t get fancy about it.”

“I’ll place the usual papers before the Board, an’ the chairman will sign ’em. T’ girls will be of age to be indentured servants, so provide me some letters of engagement when I gives t’ names. An’ fer Pete’s sake, not wi’ a town address on ’em. Make it somewhere out o’ t’ city—maybe sarf o’ t’ river down Chertsey way, or maybe Epsom. Less chance o’ anyone checkin’ on it, see.”

Scratching his unshaven chin, he paused. “Fer t’ lad, I’ll think o’ something else. P’r’aps as a ’prentice in a yard down river.” Tapping his nose, Hewlett winked again. “A turrible accident, yer ken. A neat death certificate an’ a pauper burial notice. No trace if any start lookin’, an’ he’s all yours.”

“I’ll leave it to you. Send me the names of the girls, and I’ll arrange letters from suitable households—houses no one will think to question.” He drained his glass. “Time I was away. Send a message with one of your runners.” Standing, he gathered his greatcoat and shrugged into it, then picked up his hat and gloves. “I hear there is an absence of a certain Fingers Floyd. I trust he is in no position to spill the beans to anyone.”

“He don’t know anything worth spillin’.” Hewlett shook his head. “As to where ’e is—prob’ly on ’is way ter Noo Sarf Wales. ’E were on a little job, then ’e vanished. Two week ago I ’eard Tommy Long swears ’e were aboard t’ transport Deal Castle when she sailed. ’E was stowed in t’ ’old.”

Placing his hat carefully on his head, the Beadle’s visitor permitted himself a small smile. “Fitting, considering his line of work—but there’s been nothing reported of his capture and trial. Watch your step, my friend. If someone can make Floyd disappear, he may have no qualms doing that to you or anyone else.”