Bread or blood — Littleport, 1816
The year after Waterloo was the hungriest in living memory. Wheat prices had collapsed and then soared, demobilised soldiers flooded the labour market, the drained and newly enclosed fens had stripped away the commons that once let a poor family keep a cow or cut fodder — and wages would not buy bread. On the evening of 22 May 1816 the labourers of Littleport, many of them fresh from a benefit-club meeting at the Globe Inn, took up guns, cleavers and fowling pieces, mounted a punt-gun on a farm wagon, and sacked the houses of the villagers they blamed; the next day they marched the five miles to Ely and forced the magistrates to promise higher wages and cheaper flour. The promises lasted a day. Troops — dragoons and yeomanry — retook Littleport on 24 May in a running fight through the yards and fen lanes; around eighty men and women were committed to Ely gaol, and in June a Special Commission of two judges tried them in a week. Twenty-four were condemned to death. Nineteen were reprieved to transportation or prison, and on the morning of Friday 28 June 1816 five Littleport men — William Beamiss, shoemaker; George Crow, John Dennis the publican, Isaac Harley and Thomas South, labourers — were carted from Ely gaol and hanged together, their bodies buried in one grave in St Mary's churchyard, where a memorial names them today 'condemned to death for crimes occasioned through an unjust and oppressive system'. Thomas Crabb was forty-six that May, a Littleport field labourer with young children — the exact man the riot rose from. His family's names are on none of the charge sheets; the hanged were their neighbours and their kin by marriage; and the world that made the riot — field wages, sold tenements, the poor law — is the world every Crabb of the next two generations was born into.
Historical context Evidence
Background composed for this site from published history. It frames the family’s world; it is not one of Mum’s records.