Read Online The Hangman's Child by Francis Selwyn - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Francis Selwyn
Tags: Mystery, Historical Novel
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Lights still burnt in bow-fronted little shops under the colonnade. Cabs waited outside, drivers nodding on their boxes, hats and whips askew, the warm tawny glow of the carriage-lamps glimmering like the riding-lights of distant ships.
He went down narrow steps from the station plateau into Tooley Street, warehouses behind the Bermondsey wharves rising high on either side, crowds at the doors of ramshackle oyster-bars and drinking shops with their grimy and uncurtained windows.
Outside the tap-room of The Green Man, two sparring 'snobs' in loud check jackets let him pass, grinning at him. Then they put their heads together and shouted with laughter. One of them entered the tap-room and touched Strap Mulligan on his elbow to draw attention. The sporting gent whispered in his patron's ear. And Strap's jaw dropped in a panting-dog grin that might have been mistaken for pure good humour. He beckoned a green-aproned pot-boy, dropped a penny in his hand, and gestured towards the street.
At the tall dock gates, off the commercial length of the Ratcliff Highway, a solitary figure sat on a bench by the high wall, a woman in shabby black. The new cooking-tins at her feet marked her as a pauper emigrant preparing for her voyage. The high wooden gates were bolted back against the walls. From the yard came a subdued murmur of many voices. Verity stood in the gateway, feet astride, one hand in the other behind his back, the stance of an officer on duty, scowling a little as he waited for Samson.
He had done duty at the hiring-yard a dozen times during his surveillance with 'H' Division. The high-walled space divided the steamer berths from a street of tall brick repositories and the attic workrooms of weavers or cabinet-makers. By half-past seven the yard was packed by 2,000 men. Most came from the unpaved alleys of Wapping and Shadwell, the tenement-courts or lodging-houses of Shoreditch and Whitechapel, some from the hovels under river bridges or embankment arches. As they pressed forward to the row of bookmaker-stands, where the 'calling-foremen' were ranged, the very number of faces made it impossible to pick one from another. Still the Private-Clothes Detail made regular visits at the morning call. The yard was a common refuge for thieves and fugitives, even for men who had killed by accident or intent. It was one of few places where a man could get work without a character or a recommendation.
The first men through the gate were close under the stands where day-labourers might be hired for eightpence or a shilling. The foremen opened their books and began to call names. Verity watched the scuffling and scrambling, the stretching of countless hands high in the air, to catch the caller's eye. Now and then a foreman would look up from his list towards the hungry strugglers and give one of them a nod. The man would break away and join the file of those collecting passes for a day's work.
As the number of waiting men dwindled, the names were called more slowly, no longer from the books. Men who were left jumped up on the backs of others, lifting themselves above the rest to attract notice. The shouting grew more intense as the chance of work ebbed. The shouts reached the level of a scream. Some called the foremen by surnames or Christian names. Others shouted their own names. Their eyes protruded grotesquely in the fury of their need to work.
After ten minutes the calling had stopped. The foremen had news of another ship that might need a gang of hands, if favourable wind and tide brought it to a berth. A few minutes later, they closed their books and stepped down. The gangs were complete. Several hundred men must wait until the following morning for their chance to work, eat, and feed such families as they had.
Verity turned away from a sight he never witnessed without despair on behalf of those who were left.
'Poor devils,' said Sergeant Samson close behind him now.
Before Verity could reply, an obscure struggle began in a far
He went down narrow steps from the station plateau into Tooley Street, warehouses behind the Bermondsey wharves rising high on either side, crowds at the doors of ramshackle oyster-bars and drinking shops with their grimy and uncurtained windows.
Outside the tap-room of The Green Man, two sparring 'snobs' in loud check jackets let him pass, grinning at him. Then they put their heads together and shouted with laughter. One of them entered the tap-room and touched Strap Mulligan on his elbow to draw attention. The sporting gent whispered in his patron's ear. And Strap's jaw dropped in a panting-dog grin that might have been mistaken for pure good humour. He beckoned a green-aproned pot-boy, dropped a penny in his hand, and gestured towards the street.
At the tall dock gates, off the commercial length of the Ratcliff Highway, a solitary figure sat on a bench by the high wall, a woman in shabby black. The new cooking-tins at her feet marked her as a pauper emigrant preparing for her voyage. The high wooden gates were bolted back against the walls. From the yard came a subdued murmur of many voices. Verity stood in the gateway, feet astride, one hand in the other behind his back, the stance of an officer on duty, scowling a little as he waited for Samson.
He had done duty at the hiring-yard a dozen times during his surveillance with 'H' Division. The high-walled space divided the steamer berths from a street of tall brick repositories and the attic workrooms of weavers or cabinet-makers. By half-past seven the yard was packed by 2,000 men. Most came from the unpaved alleys of Wapping and Shadwell, the tenement-courts or lodging-houses of Shoreditch and Whitechapel, some from the hovels under river bridges or embankment arches. As they pressed forward to the row of bookmaker-stands, where the 'calling-foremen' were ranged, the very number of faces made it impossible to pick one from another. Still the Private-Clothes Detail made regular visits at the morning call. The yard was a common refuge for thieves and fugitives, even for men who had killed by accident or intent. It was one of few places where a man could get work without a character or a recommendation.
The first men through the gate were close under the stands where day-labourers might be hired for eightpence or a shilling. The foremen opened their books and began to call names. Verity watched the scuffling and scrambling, the stretching of countless hands high in the air, to catch the caller's eye. Now and then a foreman would look up from his list towards the hungry strugglers and give one of them a nod. The man would break away and join the file of those collecting passes for a day's work.
As the number of waiting men dwindled, the names were called more slowly, no longer from the books. Men who were left jumped up on the backs of others, lifting themselves above the rest to attract notice. The shouting grew more intense as the chance of work ebbed. The shouts reached the level of a scream. Some called the foremen by surnames or Christian names. Others shouted their own names. Their eyes protruded grotesquely in the fury of their need to work.
After ten minutes the calling had stopped. The foremen had news of another ship that might need a gang of hands, if favourable wind and tide brought it to a berth. A few minutes later, they closed their books and stepped down. The gangs were complete. Several hundred men must wait until the following morning for their chance to work, eat, and feed such families as they had.
Verity turned away from a sight he never witnessed without despair on behalf of those who were left.
'Poor devils,' said Sergeant Samson close behind him now.
Before Verity could reply, an obscure struggle began in a far
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