Читать книгу The Dreaded Workhouse - Danny McFaul - Страница 5

The members of the Workhouse Board of Guardians were very sage, deep, philosophical men; and when they turned their attention to Workhouse matters, they found out at once, what ordinary people would never have discovered; the poor pauper inmates actually liked the Workhouse they thought. After all it was a regular place of public entertainment for the poorer classes; a Guesthouse where there was nothing to pay; a public breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper all the year round; a brick and mortar heaven, where it was all play and best of all no work.

‘A’ha’ said the Board Chairman; ‘We are the fellows to put this to rights; we will stop it all in no time.’ So they made a rule, that all paupers should have an alternative (they would not compel anybody not the Board). The alternative was; being starved by a gradual process inside the Workhouse, or by a quick one out of it. With this in view, they contracted with the water suppliers to lay on an unlimited supply of water; and with a corn factory to supply periodically small quantities of oatmeal; then to issue three meals of thin gruel a day, with an onion twice a week, and half a roll on Sundays. They intended also to make a great many other wise and humane regulations. One of these regulations made reference to the ladies which it is not necessary for me to repeat. But they kindly undertook to divorce those paupers who were married family inmates; because of the great expense of a separate room and instead of compelling a man to support his family, as they had previously done, they took his family away from him and made him a Bachelor.

Ordinarily there is no telling how many applicants for relief under these last two Rules might start up in all classes of society, if it had not been implemented by the Workhouse Board; but the Board were long-seeing men and had provided for this difficulty as the relief was inseparable from the Workhouse and the gruel. This frightened people. It was rather expensive at first, because of the increase in the undertaker’s bills, and the necessity of altering the clothes of all the paupers, which fluttered loosely on their wasted, shrunken bodies, after a week or two on gruel. But as the number of Workhouse inmates got thin so did the paupers; and the board were delighted with the expense and the savings that were made.

One fine morning Kirk had not been at the breakfast table of the Workhouse a quarter of an hour and had scarcely completed the demolition of a second helping of Gruel when one of his lesser liked Beadles Mr. Browning informed him that the Board had said he was to appear before it forthwith. Not clearly understanding what a live Board is Kirk was not quite certain whether he ought to laugh or cry. He had no time to think about the matter, however; for Mr. Browning gave him a clout on the ear, with his cane and another on the back to make him take notice at the same time bidding Kirk to follow him. He was led into a large whitewashed room where seven rather fat gentlemen were sitting round a table. At the top of the table, seated in an arm-chair rather higher up than the rest, was a particularly fat gentleman with a very round, red face. ‘Bow to the Board,’ Browning roared at Kirk, at the same time cuffing his ear with his cane. Kirk brushed away two or three tears that were lingering in his eyes; and seeing no Board but the table, fortunately bowed to that. ‘What’s your name, boy?’ said the gentleman in the high chair. ‘Kirk Sir’ replied Kirk a little frightened at the sight of so many gentlemen and more so about why they had summoned him. These two alarming causes made him answer in a very low and hesitating voice; whereupon a gentleman in a Red Robe said he was a fool. ‘Boy’ said the gentleman in the high chair, ‘listen to me. You know you’re an orphan, I suppose?’ ‘What’s that sir?’ inquired Kirk. ‘The boy is a fool as I thought he was,’ said the gentleman in the Red Robe. ‘Hush!’ said the gentleman who had spoken first. ‘You know you’ve got no father or mother and that you were brought up all these years by the parish don’t you?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Kirk as he didn’t know what else to say. ‘I hope you say your prayers every night,’ said another gentleman in a gruff voice; ‘and pray for the people who feed you, and take care of you like good Christians.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ stammered Kirk. ‘Well! You have come here to be educated and taught a useful trade, you are Fourteen years old and your next step is to work at something useful and suitable’ said the red-faced gentleman in the high chair. ‘So you’ll be leaving the Workhouse to live with your new master from tomorrow morning at six o’clock’ added the surly gentleman. Kirk again bowed low in the direction of the table and was then hurried away to a large ward; where, on a rough, hard bed, he sobbed himself to sleep. Poor Kirk! Little did he know as he lay sleeping in happy unconsciousness, that the Board had that very day arrived at a decision which was to influence his future fortunes. But they had and that was it: It was the practice of the Board that when a young man in Kirk’s situation who is growing up in a Workhouse, to look at the possibility of sending him to sea by shipping him off in some small trading vessel bound for a distant port and the probability being that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being as is pretty generally known, favourite recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board the more the advantageous the step appeared to be. So they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Kirk effectually, was to send him to sea without delay. At an earlier date a Parish Beadle Mr. Crossmoor had been dispatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of seeking out some Captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and had returned his findings to the Board to communicate the result of his mission, which revealed that there was no urgent call for a Cabin Boy. However as Mr. Crossmoor approached the Workhouse gate he encountered no less a person than Mr. Campbell, the parochial shoemaker. Mr. Campbell was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, who was dressed in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. He resembled an undertaker more than a shoemaker Mr. Crossmoor thought and to add to this Mr. Campbell’s features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather of a playful joking disposition as he advanced to Mr. Crossmoor and shook him cordially by the hand. ‘I have just sold three pairs of bespoke shoes Mr. Crossmoor,’ said the shoemaker. ‘You’ll make your fortune one day, Mr. Campbell,’ said the Beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the snuff-box of the shoemaker’s: which was an ingenious little model of a patent child’s shoe. ‘I say you’ll make your fortune, Mr. Campbell,’ repeated Mr. Crossmore tapping the shoemaker on the shoulder in a friendly manner with his cane. ‘Think so?’ said the shoemaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. ‘The prices allowed by the board are very small for shoes, Mr Campbell, ‘So are the shoes,’ replied the Beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as an official ought to indulge in. Mr. Crossmore was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. ‘Well, well, Mr. Campbell,’ he said at length, ‘there’s no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the shoes are something much narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Crossmoor. Well seasoned Leather is an expensive article sir and bows and buckles have to be bought from the City of Belfast. ‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Crossmoor, ‘every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable.’ ‘Of course, of course,’ replied the shoemaker; ‘and if I don’t get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see, he! he! he!’ ‘Just so’ said the Beadle. ‘Though I must say Mr. Crossmoor,’ that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the thin and skinny people go off the quickest. The people who have paid rates and taxes for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the Workhouse; and let me tell you, Mr. Crossmore that one or two shoe sizes less than one’s calculation makes a great hole in one’s profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir.’ As Mr. Campbell said this, with the air of an ill-used man; and as the Beadle felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Kirk Hansen being uppermost in his mind. ‘By the bye,’ said Mr. Crossmoor, ‘You don’t know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial ‘aprentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms Mr. Campbell, liberal terms?’ As the Beadle spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words ‘five pounds’: which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size. ‘Gadso!’ said the shoemaker taking Mr. Crossmoor by the gilt-edged lapel of his official coat; ‘That’s just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Crossmoor! I never noticed it before.’ ‘Yes, I think it rather pretty,’ said the Beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. ‘The die is the same as the parochial seal the Good Samaritan healing the sick. The board presented it to me on New Year’s morning, Mr. Campbell. I put it on I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that Street Urchin, who died in a doorway at midnight.’ ‘I recollect that event,’ said the shoemaker. ‘The jury brought it in. Died from exposure to the cold and want of the common necessaries of life didn’t they?’ The Beadle nodded. ‘And they made it a special verdict, I think,’ said the shoemaker, by adding some words to the effect that ‘if the relieving officer had‘- ‘Tosh Foolery!’ interposed the Beadle. ‘If the board attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they’d have enough to do.’ ‘Very true,’ said the shoemaker; ‘they would indeed.’ ‘Juries,’ said Mr. Crossmoor, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when working into a passion: ‘jury is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches. ’‘So they are’ said the shoemaker. ‘They haven’t any more philosophy or political economy about them,’ said the Beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously. ‘No more they have,’ acquiesced the shoemaker. ‘I despise ‘em,’ said the Beadle, growing very red in the face. ‘So do I’ added the shoemaker. ‘And I only wish we’d a jury of the independent sort, in the Workhouse for a week or two,’ said the Beadle; ‘The rules and regulations of the Board would soon bring their spirit down for ‘em.’ replied the shoemaker. So saying, he smiled, approvingly: to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer. Mr Crossmoor lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the inside of the crown; wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered; fixed the cocked hat on again; and turning to the shoemaker, said in a calmer voice: ‘Well; what about the boy?’ ‘Oh!’ replied the shoemaker; why, you know, Mr. Crossmoor, I pay a good deal towards the poor’s rates.’ ‘Hem!’ said Mr. Crossmoor. ‘Well?’ ‘Well,’ replied the shoemaker, ‘I was thinking that if I pay so much towards ‘em, I’ve a right to get as much out of ‘em as I can, Mr. Crossmoor; and so I think I’ll just take the boy myself.’ The Beadle grasped the shoemaker by the arm and led him into the building. Mr. Campbell was closeted with the board for five minutes; before it was arranged that Kirk should go to him that evening and that ‘upon liking’—a phrase which means, in the case of a parish apprentice, that if the master finds upon a short trial, that he can get enough work out of a boy without putting too much food into him, he shall have him for a term of ten years, to do what he likes with.

When fourteen year old Kirk was taken before ‘the gentlemen’ that evening; and informed that he was to go, that night, as general house-lad to a shoemaker; and that if he complained of his situation, or ever came back to the parish again, he would this time definitely be sent to sea, there to be drowned, or knocked on the head, as the case might be, Kirk showed so little emotion because of his innocence, that the Board by common consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and ordered Mr. Crossmoor to remove him forthwith. Now, although it was very natural that the Board, of all people in the world, should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror at the smallest tokens of want of feeling on the part of anybody, they were rather out, in this particular instance.

The simple fact was that Kirk, instead of possessing too little feeling, possessed rather too much; and was in a fair way of being reduced, for life, to a state of brutal stupidity and sullenness by the ill usage he had received. He heard the news of his destination, in perfect silence; and having had his luggage put into his hand—which was not very difficult to carry, in as much as it was all comprised within the limits of a brown paper parcel, about half a foot square by three inches deep, he pulled his cap over his eyes; and once more attaching himself to The Beadle’s coat cuff and was led away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering. For some time, Mr. Crossmoor drew Kirk along, without notice or remark; for the Beadle carried his head very erect, as a Beadle always should: and it being a windy day, young Kirk was completely enshrouded by the skirts of the Beadle’s coat as they blew open and disclosed to great advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush knee-breeches.

As they drew near to their destination, however, Mr. Crossmoor thought it expedient to look down, and see that the boy was in good order for inspection by his new master before they arrived at Kirk’s new home, which he accordingly did, with a fit and becoming air of gracious patronage. ‘Kirk’ said Mr. Crossmoor. But there was no reply. ‘Kirk’ he bellowed but it was too late Kirk had fled into the night under cover of the flapping skirts of the Beadle. He was on his way to Belfast.

Belfast that great place. Nobody, not even Mr. Crossmoor could ever find him there! Kirk had often heard the old men in the day room of the Workhouse say that no lad of any spirit need want in Belfast; and that there were ways of living in that large city, which those who had been reared in country parts had no idea of. It was the very place for a country homeless boy, to die on the streets unless some one helped him. As these things passed through his thoughts, he jumped to his feet, the stone that he had been sitting on told him that to the right was Larne 5 miles and to the left was Belfast 15 miles as he again walked forward towards his destination.

After five days and nights on the streets of Belfast Kirk was found lying on a Park Bench by a kindly old lady who offered him shelter. The old lady contacted the Salvation Army who found a new home for Kirk in the City where after some investigation it was revealed that he had a Brother called Alan who was a resident in the City and where Kirk for the first time in his young life found a sense of belonging. With the help of his Brother and his Foster Parents Kirk went to college and got a Degree before joining the Army.