Limehouse Boys

6 ~ Bedlam

Chapter 6

Bedlam

Ned was puzzled. The beatings had stopped a month ago, but he still endured other punishments. He was sent to bed without supper or locked in the cellar while the others were allowed to eat.

He cast about in his mind for a plausible reason as to why he was being singled out like this, he, George and a few others. Unlike most, he made such an effort to be polite, to say yes sir and no ma’am and do exactly as he was told, just like his Mum had taught him, God rest her soul.

He saw other boys getting away with all sorts of mischief, and wondered why their punishments were meted out on him. In the dark hours of the night, he felt utterly alone and filled with despair. That was when he shed the tears that he struggled all throughout the day to hold in so as not to earn another beating just for crying.

And now he was locked in the cellar again. He overheard the Beadle cursing a meddlesome clerk who had refused to accept an apprenticing order because it was not signed correctly, or some such trifle. Why it affected him, Ned wasn’t sure, since no one had told him that he was being apprenticed to anyone. He sighed and decided it was no use trying to figure it out. Nothing made sense anymore. By this point, he was used to being punished just for breathing.

“Pssst.”

Ned was startled by the sudden sound.

“Who’s there?” he said, and was surprised to hear his voice echoing back at him.

“Not so loud. We has ter spring yer. T’ Beadle ’as plans fer yer, an’ yer ain’t goin’ ter like ’em.” A glimmer of light showed under the door, and he heard a faint rattle as something was inserted into the lock. “Ben’ll get yer out o’ there. I’m goin’ ter make sure we can get past t’ night porter.”

The faint scratching in the lock was finally rewarded with a click and the grating of the levers as they withdrew the lock tongue. The door swung open to reveal a grinning Ben holding a candle. “These old locks is easy. Come on, outa there—I still has ter lock it up agin. They’ll think yer walked through t’ wall.”

“Thanks.” Ned watched his friend lock the door. “What’s ’appening? What’s goin’ on?”

“This way.” Steering Ned by the arm, Ben guided him to the far end of the cellar. He was small but brave, and his early childhood on the streets had given him uncommon energy and sharp wits. “Up ’ere.” He clambered onto some old washtubs and very carefully raised a hatch. “We got to go through t’ laundry. George’ll cover t’ front door.”

Confused, Ned followed his companion. “Where we goin’?” he asked in a whisper. “Why do we need t’ go out t’ front door?” A thought struck him. “If’n they finds me gone from the cellar, they’ll come lookin’. Where’m I goin’ to go?”

“We’re all goin’. T’ Beadle an’ ’is chums’ll ’ave us stitched up proper if we stay, you particular.” He carefully closed the hatch, and, with Ned’s help, moved a large wringer over it. “We got your fings an’ ours. This way they can’t accuse us’n o’ thievin’ their clothes, see? C’mon, we gotta move it. George ’as our stuff an’ we gotta change.” They froze in the shadows as footsteps sounded in the corridor. “Bugger. Quick, under t’ tub.”

The footsteps passed, and the crunch of boots on the stones spoke of a heavy man with a purposeful gait. Waiting until they heard a door open and close, they scrambled from hiding.

“C’mon. That weren’t t’ porter. We better get outa ’ere fast afore they finds yer gorn.”

Frightened now, Ned stayed close to Ben whose small body wove in and out of the shadows along the corridor through a side entrance and into the courtyard. One of the shadows detached itself from the wall.

“Abaht time,” George whispered in greeting. “Summats ’appening. The cully frum t’ city’s ’ere wi’ ’is mates.” Thrusting a bundle at Ned, he added, “Get t’ workhouse rags off’n an’ yer own on. T’ devil’s goin’ t’ be loose in a minute.”

It took Ned no time at all to open the bundle and pull on his old drawers, shirt and trousers that George had recovered from the cupboard in the store room where the inmates’ personal property was kept. Snatching another bundle, Ben stripped out of his workhouse-issued shirt, trousers, and drawers, and dressed in the old clothes he’d been wearing on committal.

Ned suppressed a laugh at the comical sight of George squeezing himself into trousers far too small. In fact, the clothes in his bundle were for a small boy, not a growing teenager.

Ned saw a solution. “George, you an’ Ben switch clothes since ’e’s small, an’ what ’e’s wearin’ is too big for ’im.”

George tossed Ben his trousers and shirt, and Ben did the same.

When they had the clothes sorted, they realised that Ned’s boots were too big for George, Ben’s were too tight for Ned, and George’s boots didn’t fit Ben, but that was the least of their worries.

Just as Ned finished tying his boots, lights appeared in several windows accompanied by the sound of angry voices calling for a search party.

“Now t’ fat’s in t’ fire.” George sounded frightened. “This way. Quick now—afore they gets enough light ter see us.”

The trio hugged the wall and stayed in the shadows as they hurried toward the innermost side of the quadrangle. “There’s no way out from ’ere,” Ned exclaimed.

“There be if’n you knows.” Ben was lifting a grating. “Get in, quick now. Watch where you step. Use t’ staples on t’ sidean’ get movin’ fer t’ luv o’ God. ’Ere they come.”

Ned dropped, grazing his knees and elbows as he descended about six feet. Slightly winded, he moved aside just as George dropped next to him.

They heard a grating sound, and the clatter of small stones and a cloud of dust announced Ben’s arrival.

“’Old on ter me and keep up. Some o’ they may know t’ sewer.”

“’Ope t’ tide’s out,” gasped George. “Or we’re trapped.”

“We’m not. River’s behin’ us. This’n’s t’ drain frum t’ Commercial Road.”

In silence they followed, each clinging to the next boy’s waistband. The darkness was oppressive, especially because the tunnel amplified the sounds of their own movements and the squeaking and rustling of rats. The sound of water trickling from side passages and the occasional waft of fetid air told of other openings.

Finally, Ben stopped.

“Tide mus’ be makin’. T’ wind’s at our backs. Al’ays does that when t’ water pushes up t’ tunnel. We’ll ’ave ter git out.” He groped along the walls. “This way.”

Now that Ben had explained it, Ned realised the wind coming up the tunnel smelled and felt different.

“Will t’ river come up ’ere?” he asked, worried.

“Nah, but t’ water goin’ out’ll back up a bit, see.” Ben turned into a side tunnel then slowed. “Reckon this be as good as any. Gi’e us a leg up.”

Mick Howell was out of his bed and on his feet, fully alert at the first tap on the door.

“Mick, yer was right. The gent frum Piccadilly showed wi’ ’is ’eavies.”

Recognising the low voice of his informant, Mick relaxed and uncocked the pistol he held. He opened the door and admitted his visitor.

“Good work, Tom. Did they take t’ boy?”

Tom chuckled. “Nah . . . place looks like Bedlam. T’ yonker an’ two more got away afore the snatchers arrived.” Hesitating while Mick lit a candle, he added, “Beats me ’ow.” He looked thoughtful. “Could be on t’ roof, o’ course, or in a chimney.”

Mick nodded, pulling on his boots and tucking his shirt into his hastily donned trousers. “Did one o’ the lads follow that cove from Piccadilly?” He nodded when this was confirmed. “Good. I want that bastard for myself when the time is right. An’ the Beadle?”

“Looks as sick as a dog, an’ that matron biddy—bad pair that.”

“Serves ’em right.” Frowning, he stood. “Those lads are resourceful. I like that. If we find them, I’ve a place for them. We all ’ave. Now then, Tom, find me a tosher—one we can trust.”

Tom grinned and made for the door. “Right yer are. Those lads knows a bit alright. They even left t’ workhouse rags behind, right in t’ open where no one could miss ’em. Shoulda heard the ol’ biddy goin’ on abaht it.”

Mick smiled. “Capital. No accusing them o’ theft then.” He pulled on his coat and snatched up his broad brimmed hat. “I’ve a call to make.”

Surfacing in a yard off Commercial Road, the main thoroughfare linking the London Docks, the West India Docks and the Isle of Dogs with the city to the west, the trio took stock. “I reckons we should ’ead fer t’ Lime’ouse Basin. We kin ’ide in t’ lighters, an’ mebbe on a barge headin’ out on t’ Regent’s Canal.”

“Mebbe. Depends if’n t’ watchmen are awake in t’ Basin.” George considered. “Better ter ’ide on a lighter in t’ stream. They’ll not look fer us there.”

Ben agreed. “Then we best get movin’. C’mon, Ned, an’ keep yer peepers open. T’ Beadle’s got chums everywhere, ’specially this time o’ night, all out thievin’ while honest folks sleep.”

Finally over his fright, and now experiencing the rush of excitement at being a runaway, Ned grinned in the darkness. “I know just the place. There’s Barge Blocks this side o’ Lime’ouse Pier an’ the Cut. There’s always at least two barges there. We can use their mooring to reach the lighter trot.”

“I fergot yer knows the river frum the mudlarkin’ you done. Show us t’ way then.”

Happy to be contributing, Ned led them out and turned to the east after checking for any sign of people in the street. At this time of night, the only movement was from scavenging rats and cats on the prowl, though the occasional bark of a dog warned the three boys that they had better not take any shortcuts through private property.

Turning off the thoroughfare, he led them down a narrow alley between the huddled warehouses to emerge onto Brooke Street east of the workhouse, which was lit up brighter than usual for this time of night. They could see movement around its entrance.

“They’s got t’ constable outa bed.” George chuckled. “’E’ll be ’appy. We best be quick crossin’ ’ere.”

Studying the group arguing at the entrance to the workhouse some hundred or so yards along the street, Ben nodded.

“If we go one at a time an’ don’t rush it, we can do it quietly, an’ I don’t think they’ll notice.” He looked at George and Ned, who nodded their understanding. “Just watch where you step, an’ don’t make a noise.”

“We’ll go through the cut, just there,” Ned told them. “It goes to Broad Street an’ the start o’ Narrow Street along the quay.”

George peered at the darker patch that marked the cut indicated. “You go fust, then me, then Ben. Remember—don’t run, it makes too much noise, an’ you could trip or kick summat an’ get them lookin’.”

With a glance at the gathering in the workhouse entrance, Ned set out, his heart pounding by the time he reached the entrance to the alley. He had an anxious wait until George joined him, and then they waited as Ben crossed. They set off down the alley, taking care not to make a sound, no easy task in a street foul with all manner of noisome rubbish. Ned started as a cat hissed then leapt aside as he approached, its low growl warning that it wasn’t happy with Ned’s intrusion in its territory.

Broad Street was quiet and deserted as they repeated their crossing, and within a few more yards, they were on the quayside. Ned breathed a sigh of relief. The tide was full, and four large sailing barges lay in a trot close by, with two more beyond. Better, a raft of the shallow-draft flat-bottomed lighters lay directly in front of them, empty of cargo.

“The bargemen keeps dogs aboard. If we disturb ’em, they’ll start everyone after us. This way.” Leading his friends to the lighter farthest from the first barge, Ned hauled himself up the mooring lines then keeping low, hissed, “’Tis empty. There’s a space under the foredeck we can hide.”

“Three boys have run away, you say, Beadle?” His expression incredulous, the chairman betrayed his annoyance at having the even flow of business disrupted. “If they absconded with workhouse property, then they are thieves. The constable must deal with it. This is too much; they’ve abused our charity and stolen civic property. Transportation is too good for such ingrates.”

“It may be premature to brand them thieves, chairman.” Stephen Short waited until he had everyone’s attention. “I believe the boys took care to leave the workhouse’s property, neatly and tidily, in a prominent place in the courtyard, or so Matron Smith informed me with, I may say, some reluctance when I enquired. It seems only their own bundles have been removed.” Turning his gaze on the Beadle, he asked, “Is that not correct, Mister Hewlett?”

Swallowing his anger at this intervention, the Beadle sniffed. “That’s right enough. But they’d been signed as apprentices, an’ now they’ve run frum their masters. That’s an offence, that is.”

Before the chairman could respond, the Reverend Mr Short shot back, “So it would be—had any of the three boys been present to declare their acceptance of their apprenticing when the documents were signed. Were they present, Chairman? No? Furthermore, I believe those documents were signed in your presence, were they not?”

The chairman flushed angrily. “I’ve no time for such nonsense. Of course the boys weren’t present. The Beadle assured me all was in order, and I signed and formalised the indenturing. Absolute nonsense the boys having to be present—wasting my time with the brats objecting and arguing about their being given a trade. Nonsense!”

Stephen had done his research thoroughly.

“Then I’m sure you are aware that in the past four years, one of these masters has had no less than twelve boys apprenticed to his care, and not one of them has survived. He seems to have some very careless boys assigned to him, or perhaps he is very careless of their welfare.”

He let this sink in, gauging the faces around the table. “The law is very clear, I believe, that such a master must be investigated, and if found unfit, shall not be given the charge of any boy.”

The chairman looked as if he was about to have a seizure, his mouth opening and shutting like a fish’s, while the Beadle glared at the clergyman with murder in his eyes.

With an effort, the chairman managed, “Damn you, sir. You’ve no business lecturing me on the law, prying into matters that are no concern of yours. Damme, sir, I shall have you from your living for this.”

“I have no doubt you will make that attempt, sir.” Stephen Short stared him down. “I shall be fascinated to know what grounds you intend to apply to, and I should inform you that the Archdeacon is aware of my research on this and other matters related to the workhouse. Our Member of Parliament is taking an interest, and my Lord Bishop of London has asked to be kept informed.”

Leaning back, he watched the man struggle with his temper. “I did bring my concerns to you some time ago, and you refused to consider the evidence. Now I rather suspect others will.” He rose from his seat. “Good day, Chairman.” He nodded to the furious officer. “Beadle.”

“This meeting is not finished.” The chairman spat the words. “I have not closed it.”

“Then by all means do so, but let the minutes show that the Beadle brought, by default, the suggestion of a criminal act on the part of the absconders, when, in fact, the law permits the inmates of the workhouse to self-discharge as long as they take nothing of the parish’s property on doing so. Let it also show that the indenturing procedure was irregular, and therefore, according to the legal advice I have taken, invalid. These boys have committed no offence, no offence at all.”

Stephen watched as the clerk scribbled in the minute book, his gaze followed by the chairman.

“Strike that out!” The chairman was beside himself. “Strike that out! I have not authorised any such record, nor will I!”

The other members of the Board erupted in argument, most siding with the clergyman. The clerk hesitated, and in a pause in the argument, said quietly, “I cannot, sir. The minutes must reflect exactly what is discussed, or we should all be guilty of falsification of a legal record.”

The chairman slumped. “Oh, have it your way. The meeting is closed.”

Trembling with anger, the Beadle hurried home, for once so wrapped in his own affairs that he failed to notice he was being followed. That damned parson would pay dearly for this. It was time to call in some favours from some of his murkier contacts. As for the runaway brats, they’d resurface, and he’d have them. By the time he’d finished with them, they’d wish they’d never attempted to escape—especially that Ned Farrier brat.

He’d barely shut the door when he saw it. The chest had been moved! His heart raced. Who would dare rob him? Dragging the chest aside, he fumbled the concealed fastenings and lifted the boards. Clumsily, he inserted the key and opened it. Relief flooded through him when he saw that everything appeared intact, though he had already disposed of the items that could most easily have incriminated him.

He closed the box, and after a moment’s hesitation, replaced it, fastened the boards and pushed the chest back into place. His heart still pounding, he sank into his chair and stared at the unlit fire. Someone had been in his house—someone who knew what lay beneath the chest. It was a warning that perhaps it was time he retired. Magistrate Biddulf had been a useful dupe, but he was clearly shaken from the revelations of this morning, and a frightened magistrate was a dangerous man.

The Beadle weighed the odds of his situation. He’d used an assumed name on the legal documents, and the magistrate was elderly and prone to forgetfulness. If the old fool remembers half the things he signs . . . well, it is too late now. They are mine. If anyone is on the hook, it’s Biddulf. He should know what he’s putting his signature to.

His decision made, he clumped up the stairs. He could set up his trade in other places now, and he held titles to some properties outside of this borough. He’d lay low for a bit while he recruited some friends to deal with that damned clergyman. That Howell fellow would have to be dealt with as well, but that could wait. The man was too well protected; let him relax his guard a little. Let him think he’d won and was safe. That would be the time to strike.

Big Sven, as his friends and employers called him, had lived in England since the end of hostilities in 1815. A prisoner of war captured in an engagement when his gunboat had been taken in a heated action, he’d volunteered as a seaman in the Royal Navy rather than spend time in the hulks. It was there he encountered and eventually befriended Joe and Matt—Joseph Hudsmith and Matthew Ring according to their entries in the books of various ships—and through them, Master’s Mate Howell. Originally from the North Sea coast of the Danish province of Holstein, he was German by parentage, his family coming from the great Hansastadt of Hamburg farther up the Elbe. It amused him that his companions called everyone from that part of the world, and the Baltic in particular, a Swede. Everyone else seemed to be a Frenchie or a Dutchman irrespective of his homeland.

On this early morning, his eyes were on a trail of muck showing on the short foredeck of one of his lighters. With the tide now falling, he looked down into the hold, deep in shadow in the early light of dawn. Whoever had made those tracks was still aboard and likely beneath the foredeck, he reasoned.

He glanced at the barges, smoke curling from their chimneys as their crews prepared for work. The outer pair, already loaded, were preparing to cast off their lines and slip down river on the tide.

He looked again at the marks on the deck; small feet, belonging to more than one by the look of it, and the muck trail was probably from one of the alleys.

Very lightly, despite his size, he stepped onto the foredeck of the lighter. “Ve can hide until my mates come, or you can tell me vhy you’re ’ere.” The sound of frightened scrambling beneath him told him what he needed to know. “Zo, wot ’ave you stolen?”

There was a whispered conversation, after which a frightened Ned emerged and peered up at the big man.

“Please, sir, we’ve run from t’ work’ouse. They was going ter send us away. We’ve stolen nothing. Please don’t take us back there.”

His expression became determined when he remembered what George had told him was the reason they’d had to pose for all those artists’ sketches. “I won’t go. I’ll drown mesel’ first.”