Eat the Poor

XXVIII

The black iron gate stood tall and proud, sharp finials gleaming with drops of rain. In the center of the street, a vast building loomed over the neighboring shops and houses.

Two brown hogs circled each other in a wooden enclosure, snorting and flapping their stringy tails in the mud. The weather had worsened - the night sky seemed more angry than sad, spitting out its wet with a particular savagery.

"Home for Lost Children," Philip read off the sign.

"Behave," I reminded him.

A man lifted a lantern to our faces at the gate. He staggered closer, as if drunk, his broad hat sagging down about his ears. "Ev'ning!" he called out. "You men from the workhouse?"

Philip opened his mouth, then looked to me uncertainly. "Aye," I said.

The man scratched the tip of his nose with one finger. "Lads lookin' scrawnier than ever. Not many prospects, I dare say." He moved to unlock the gate, lantern swinging. "The girls now. Them little fingers sew a clean stitch."

Mud pooled beneath our feet as we tramped past the pen. For years, orphans had been lured off the street and offered food and warm beds by kind-eyed women from the Home. Most were sold to workhouses by the month's end.

The man threw open the heavy doors of the black building. "Goody Camborne! Workhouse men are 'ere."

A scuffle of footsteps marked the maid's approach. She wore a stark white coif and high collar that covered her throat up to her sharply pointed chin. "Thank you, Mr Camborne."

Her husband dipped his head to us and let the door swing shut before returning to his post at the gate.

Philip's eyes wandered up and down the long hallway. The walls were damp and stained, the ceilings chipped in some places. A rat hunched over a pile of crumbs in the corner.

"Pardon me, sirs. We were not expecting visitors till the morrow." Goody Camborne kept her hands clasped together before her as she walked. "I shall show you to the children. They are taking their evening meal."

The stench of sweat and rot carried up from the end of the hall. A man leaned against the wall, half-concealed by shadows, smoking a pipe. He watched us with glassy eyes before blowing a puff of smoke into the air.

"It is our dearest hope that you find some of the children strong and fit for labor," Goody Camborne continued. "We do our best to keep them fed, but more and more arrive each month..."

She turned us toward an open room. Long wooden tables seated rows of children, girls on one side, boys on the other. The little girls wore small caps similar to Goody Camborne, though notably more gray than white.

Philip hesitated. He shrank close to me as if they were rats that would bite him.

"Go on then, have your look," Goody Camborne said.

Candles lit the tables as the children ate hastily, scraping their bowls with wooden spoons and dabbing at the last bit of mush with a crust of bread. A chicken flapped its wings in the center of one table. On the floor, more chickens crowded, pecking at crumbs.

The stench was nearly insufferable, though it was nothing I hadn't smelled before. Sweat. Sick. Rotten food.

Philip inhaled a small breath as his eyes circled the room. The children were quiet for the most part, eyes on their bowls, squinting to ensure they hadn't missed any last morsel. Rags hung from their gaunt bodies, layers of grime darkened their faces.

"This is how they live?" he whispered.

I thought of the letters Geoff had found, addressed to the King. Stacked in the back corner of an empty office, never opened. Countless voices that likely died unheard.