Limehouse Boys

By Patrick G. Cox

Step into the gritty streets of London's East End in the 1830s as three boys resist the system that would confine them to a life of misery in the workhouse. Just when they think they've made it to freedom, an underground scheme run by the Beadle and his cronies nearly destroys them. Limehouse Boys by Patrick G. Cox is a thrilling tale of hardship, criminal activity, determination and courage, and an exceptional work of authentic 19th century British historical fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: IndieGo Publishing LLC
• Release date: Jul 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9780986095351

Book preview

fruition.

Table of Contents

Background Information

1 ~ A Charge on the Parish

2 ~ To the Workhouse

3 ~ Setting the Scene

4 ~ Mr Short Finds Support

5 ~ Discovery at the Registry Office

6 ~ Bedlam

7 ~ Leave It to Mick

8 ~ A Robbery

9 ~ Mr Hewlett Entertains

10 ~ Mr Hewlett Puts out the Word

11 ~ Standing into Danger

12 ~ First Moves

13 ~ Kidnapped

14 ~ Gone to Ground

15 ~ Search

16 ~ A Picture Emerges

17 ~ Pain of the Past

18 ~ Consequences

19 ~ Bargemen to the Rescue

20 ~ Complications

21 ~ House of Cards

22 ~ Mr Hewlett Fears the Worst

23 ~ On the Run

24 ~ Mr Howell Is Troubled

25 ~ Innuendo

26 ~ An Attempt Is Made

27 ~ Ned Proves His Mettle

28 ~ Taken

29 ~ Change of Wind

30 ~ Fresh Start

31 ~ Mr Howell Returns

32 ~ Exonerated

33 ~ Reckoning

34 ~ Bright Future

Workhouse History

Background Information

The story in this book is set around 1830 in the East End of London in an area known as Tower Hamlets, specifically Limehouse and the parish of St Anne’s, which is where all births, deaths and marriages that occur on British flagged ships anywhere in the world are recorded, then and now. Some of the major characters in the book are the bargemen who plied their barges loaded with cargo up and down the Thames Estuary.

The Thames sailing barge is a flat-bottomed sailing vessel of up to 250 tons’ burden with two masts carrying a unique rig. It is said to be designed to be sailed by two men, a boy and a dog. Sailing barges are very seaworthy, though designed for coastal and river work, not the open ocean, and were the heavy hauliers of the east coast of England well into the 1950s.

This map depicts the Thames Estuary on the east coast of England, and the map below depicts the Thames River winding its way through the London Environs and their boundaries in 1830. Both maps depict key locations mentioned in the book.

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.

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