Chapter Three - Giblin Brothers Slogging Gang. Welch/Walsh/Welch Family’s
- Andy Yarwood
- 6 days ago
- 38 min read
Water Street: A Dark Heart of Birmingham in the 1860s
Water Street in the mid-19th century was not unlike dozens of others nearby—rows of back-to-back houses, overworked courts, and narrow alleys filled with families doing what they could to survive. Nestled between Livery Street and Snow Hill, it was part of a dense patchwork of working-class neighbourhoods in central Birmingham, where life was defined more by exhaustion than infamy.
The families who lived there—Giblins, Morans, Welches, Walshes, Bateses—were Irish, poor, and hard-pressed. Men worked as labourers or bricklayers, taking whatever employment they could find. Women often shouldered both household and wage-earning burdens. All bound by the same hardships. Poverty, overcrowding, and the constant pressure of making ends meet, the daily grind of work to keep near starvation at bay shaped their destinies. Children grew up fast, knowing early the meaning of hunger and what it took to keep a roof overhead.
If Water Street is remembered today for the Giblins and the slogging gangs, it’s not because the street was especially criminal, but because life there demanded strength—and the Giblins had it in spades. Patrick Giblin, the patriarch, had been known to frequent illegal drinking dens and his own criminal behaviour whose children—John and Thomas, raised in those courts, became figures of local power, not just through violence, but through the networks of friendship, kinship, and shared hardship that defined the area.
The same names appeared over and over in the records—Moran, Welch, Bates—not because they were born to crime, but because poverty pushed many to the margins. Petty theft, drunkenness, fighting—these were sometimes survival tactics, other times the inevitable result of a life with few other options. A stolen loaf, a lost temper, a night spent in the cells after a brawl—it was not always the making of a criminal life, but it often marked the beginning of one.
The Welch family was another influential force in the neighborhood. Thomas Welch was recorded at Court 2, House 3, Water Street in 1881, while his brother Michael Welch lived in Court 3, House 12 in 1861. Michael’s sons, John and James, would later gain their own criminal reputations, further cementing the family’s legacy of violence. The Bates family, residing in 3 Court House Water Street in 1881, also played a significant role in the area's criminal activities. William Bates would go on to be a key figure in Water Street’s criminal history.
Water Street wasn't exceptional for its criminality. It was exceptional because of how ordinary its suffering was. Families lived cheek by jowl, many in the same court for generations, linked by marriage and history. What emerged from those cramped homes was a shared culture—resilient, combative, sometimes lawless, often misunderstood.
The violence that did exist was rarely premeditated—it was reactive, born of desperation, frustration, or the social pressure to be seen as strong. It was not destiny that shaped these children into gang members, but circumstance. And in Water Street, those circumstances were never far from the surface.
A Life Shaped by Poverty and Violence
Living in Water Street was hard. The families of the area—many of Irish descent—knew no comfort. Their homes were cramped, often tiny back-to-backs of one up and one down, with a cellar and attic. If a tenant was behind on their rent, Landlords would take the slates of the roof one by one until the arrears were cleared. The streets were full of dangers both real and imagined. But it was the poverty that truly defined their lives. Children like Ann Kelly, who had been working as a button maker since the age of nine, were sent out to work early, just to help pay for rent and food. In families like the Duggans, with parents scraping by on small wages, it was clear that every penny counted. Thomas Duggan, a cordwainer, earned a meager living, while his children worked in various trades—from coffin furniture blacking to brass casting, all trying to make ends meet.
But there was little room for hope. For some, the brutality they saw around them seemed like the only path to survival. Samuel Duggan, a 14-year-old jeweller from the Duggan family, was charged with the vicious stabbing of Joseph Wilson, a boy from Brearley Street West, in March 1865. What began as a petty street fight escalated into something far darker, as Samuel Duggan used a knife to inflict a fatal wound on Wilson. In a place like Water Street, it was not uncommon for a trivial disagreement to quickly spiral into bloodshed. And for the Duggans, whose lives were marked by the cruelty of poverty, violence was often a consequence of the environment.
John Siddons, a cooper from Court 6, House 7, Water Street, was another man whose life had been shaped by the streets. In November 1861, after a night of heavy drinking, he turned his violent tendencies on his wife, Sarah. After beating her, he threw her out of the house into the cold night, leaving her half-naked in the streets. When Police Constable Packwood attempted to intervene, Siddons violently attacked him with a cooper's hammer. Yet, despite the severity of the assault, Siddons faced little punishment. His wife failed to testify, and the only consequence was a small fine for the officer’s assault. The silence of his wife, perhaps born of fear or resignation, was a sad reflection of the indifference with which domestic violence was often met in these neighborhoods.
Even when the violence wasn’t as personal, it was a constant feature of life on Water Street. The Duggan family, for example, wasn’t the only one involved in bloody incidents. The Farrell brothers, Thomas and James, residents of Court 3 House Water Street, were involved in the brutal assault of a woman named Sullivan in 1867. Though they were discharged due to lack of evidence, this incident foreshadowed the violent patterns that would later emerge in their families, notably in the case of James and John Welch, who would later take on leadership roles within the Slogging Gang.
Crime as Survival
Theft wasn’t just an act of crime—it was often an act of survival. Charles Godfrey, a 19-year-old packer from Court 6 House Water Street, was caught in 1869 after stealing two revolvers from a shipment of firearms meant for export. Though not a crime of necessity like those of the Duggans or Kellys, Godfrey’s theft was still born from desperation—a desperate need to escape the confines of his life. His crime was quickly discovered when he pawned the stolen revolvers, and he was sentenced to six months in prison.
Similarly, Ann Kelly, a woman from Court House 8 Water Street, was charged in 1864 with stealing four pairs of boots from a shoe manufacturer on Hockley Hill. Ann’s crime was a reflection of the harsh realities of life in the courts. Like many others, she had turned to theft as a means to survive. Her family was no better off: her father, James, was a widow, and her siblings were all employed in various trades, including as a hinge maker and button maker. Crime was a way of life for many of Water Street’s residents—something that was learned from an early age and passed down through generations.
Friendship, Loyalty and Banter
The Brummie banter was and still is a unique blend of dry wit, playful teasing, and self-deprecating humour, conversations were jovial and friendly, the language could be coarse. The courts often misunderstood the rough-and-ready language of working-class Birmingham lads, especially Irish immigrant children, interpreting their everyday street banter as something far more serious. What was just playful, if rather crud , banter among children—full of cheek and bravado—was taken by the authorities as outright offensive or threatening.
Charges like "Bad and Offensive Language" were common, but for these boys, swearing wasn’t necessarily meant as aggression; it was just part of how they communicated. It reflected their environment, where strong words weren’t shocking but simply the norm. To them, calling each other names or throwing around a few choice words wasn’t malicious—it was just how they talked.
But to the courts, especially middle-class magistrates unfamiliar with street life, this was seen as evidence of delinquency. In reality, these boys were being criminalised for something they learned from their surroundings. It wasn’t about moral corruption; it was about survival and fitting in.
Children played hopscotch or marbles in the street or yard, neighbours would pop into each other's house, nobody locked their front doors. “Some said it was because the people were poor but honest, others said it was because they didn’t have anything worth pinching”
The streets and courts were a place of squalor, with tough hardened people. Violence was common, whether from older boys, rival gangs, or even the police. Loyalty to a group wasn’t just about belonging—it was about safety. If you had a set of mates, you weren’t alone in fights, whether against rival street gangs or an unfair system.
Poverty meant that children often had to fend for themselves from an early age. Parents were either too overworked, absent, or struggling with their own problems. Friends became a second family—someone to rely on when money was tight or when there was nothing to eat.
The general view by those who lived in the more wealthier districts, these areas were a black mark on the city’s otherwise thriving industrial landscape—to some, a festering sore of crime and poverty, best left ignored.
“where the poor are huddled together, and beyond whose well defined limits they do not stray! Is there, as it were, merely a black abscess on anotherwise fair body, or is it the disease general, and are the symptoms to be found everywhere! In other words, is there simply a “poor quarter: in Birmingham, which we have designated as SlumLand, and is as all the rest of the city fair and goodly to look upon, rich, comfortable, and free from the miseries which penury and crime breeds”
The establishment viewed everyone from the slums with the same lens—criminal, untrustworthy, doomed to fail. The police, courts, and social reformers treated these children as if they were already lost causes. But within their own circles, they weren’t just “slum kids” or “criminals”—they were mates, brothers, and survivors.
But to those who lived within its crumbling courts, slumland was home, a place where existence itself was a struggle against hunger, disease, and the ever-looming presence of destitution. A warren of narrow courts and alleys, rows of back-to-backs houses stacked tightly together, built cheaply and without care. The streets were sodden with the remnants of yesterday’s waste, and the air reeked of human refuse, rotting food, and coal smoke. The walls of the houses, cracked and blackened by factory smog, dampness inside and out, while the inhabitants, coughed and wheezed from the poor ventilation and the choking air. Inside these dwellings, entire families were crammed into a single room, sleeping in shifts, their few belongings piled in corners alongside mice-riddled bedding.
Children, both boys and girls hungry-eyed and ragged, many of them working before they are teenagers—in factories, workshops, or out on the streets selling scraps for pennies. sometimes up to 67 hours a week Those who found no work took to thieving, begging, or scouring the gutters for anything worth selling. They grew up without education, their days dictated by desituition and the relentless grind of survival. Those who fell ill, left to wither away in damp rooms, the lucky ones receiving basic charity care, the unlucky ones buried in cheap pine coffins, mourned as their families continued to struggle on.
The Welch/Walch/Welsh families were a complex, confusing, sprawling group of individuals that may or may not have been related; brothers, cousins, sons or daughters that often lived with one family group but actually were a blood relative to another. Their roots in Ireland, arriving and settling in Birmingham’s Gun Quarter of Water Street, Brearley Street, Hospital Street and Rope Walk with some moving to Dale End and Allison Street. Here, multiple generations of Welch, Walsh, Welsh, Moran, Giblins, Prendergast and Morans lived by side, their names appearing repeatedly in census records, crime reports, and newspaper articles, where surnames were often miswritten or changed deliberately, making their relationships even more complex. Sometimes as neighbours, sometimes as friends or allies in criminal activities, and once or twice as perpetrators of violence against each other.
Among the many Welch families that I researched, I concentrated on four key households in Water Street, living side by side. These families appear to be connected in various ways—through blood, marriage, or long-standing friendships, their lives intertwined in a tight-knit web. The close proximity of their residences, the overlapping names in census records, and the repeated appearances of certain individuals in crime reports suggest a deep familial connection, even if exact relationships are sometimes unclear.
All four families lived next door to each other on Water Street,
Court 3 House 12 - Michael & Catherine Welch
Court 3 House 01 - John Welch & Mary Welch
Court 3 House 10 - John Walsh & Catherine Walsh
Court 2 House 07 - Patrick & Ellen Welch/Walsh
The census records in each decade as well criminal records often used, the surname; Welch. Walsh or Welsh for the same person. For example, Patrick & Ellen Walsh son's birth certificate lists his mother as Ellen Phenacy, a name that was likely mis-scribed and meant to be Feeney, as Ellens Sister is recorded living with them in the 1861 census as Catherine Feeney Sister-in-law Widow (26)
Michael & Catherine Welch are either recorded as Welch or Welsh. In 1871 their next door neighbour was another James Feeney and his family, reinforcing the likelihood of a familial link. Many of these families originated from Roscommon, Ireland, strengthening the case for a shared background and suggest family ties.
Ellen Welch (Feeney) born 1831 ID:EF1831
Tuesday, 10th October 1876. Ellen Welch has been admitted to Birmingham General Hospital. At forty-six, her weathered face tells the story of a life endured rather than lived. Her pale skin is lined with deep-set wrinkles, each one tracing years of hardship. Her expression, stern and unsmiling, hints at quiet resilience. Beneath an elaborate Victorian bonnet adorned with feathers and lace—an effort at modest dignity—her dark hair, streaked with silver, is neatly pinned up.
Born in 1831 in Ireland, Ellen likely arrived in England full of hope and expectation. Her husband, Patrick, a year older, appears in the 1851 census as a lodger in Macclesfield. It was probably there, in the early 1850s, that they met and married, with their first child, Catherine, born in Macclesfield in 1854. A few years later, they moved on, passing through Smethwick before settling in Birmingham.
At 5ft 4”, Ellen dresses in the modest yet practical fashion of a working-class Victorian woman, her clothing chosen as much for necessity as for appearance. A long, heavy woolen cloak, deep brown in colour, drapes over her shoulders, its edges lined with worn black fur that has lost its softness. Fastened high at her throat with a simple clasp, it shields her from Birmingham’s damp, soot-filled air. Beneath the cloak, a dark green or deep blue bodice peeks through, its high neckline neatly fastened with a small brooch or button—a reflection of Victorian modesty. Her full sleeves taper at the wrists, where black lace or frayed trim adds a touch of detail. A long, heavy skirt, dark and worn at the hem, falls in stiff pleats to her ankles, bearing the marks of years spent walking Birmingham’s rough, cobbled streets. Her hands, likely covered in dark leather or wool gloves, are well-worn but still serve their purpose against the cold. Yet, beneath this exterior, her body bears the marks of unspeakable cruelty.
That strength of character, tested as she stands in the Hospital Ward, Ellen suffers from severe burns on her side and lower body—the result of her husband Patrick’s latest drunken rage. That night, seeking refuge at her daughter’s house on Hospital Street, Patrick arrived intoxicated, knocking on the door to demand money. When Ellen refused, an argument ensued, but she still allowed him to stay for a while. As she dozed on the sofa, Patrick, seething with anger that he could not go to the pub, took a piece of paper, lit it from a candle, and set fire to her dress. Flames engulfed her clothing, her screams alerting the household. The other members of the household rushed to help, extinguishing the fire. Patrick, meanwhile, unconcerned, went to sleep. The next morning, before leaving, he rifled through Ellen’s Purse, stealing what little money she had—a sum she had saved to feed their children.
Patrick, a bricklayer’s labourer, often kept his wages for booze and left little if anything to hand over to Ellen. That night, as Ellen recovered from her injuries, he returned drunk again, this time setting fire to the very sofa she was resting on. Again, it was the children who saved her from being burned alive. These were not isolated incidents—Patrick had often threatened to cut her throat and burn her to death.
Despite everything, Ellen did not press charges. Though she admitted to living a very unhappy life, she feared what might happen if she spoke out. In a world where the law rarely protected women like her, she had little choice but to endure.
Thomas Welch born 1860 ID:TW1860
Fifteen year old Thomas Welch stood before the camera, his frame was slight—4ft 9½ inches tall, his brown hair falling unevenly over a forehead marked by a scar at the centre. His grey eyes stared ahead, wary yet defiant, and when he spoke, the impediment in his speech made his words falter. He was already a boy of the streets, his hands gripping the slate that bore his name and prisoner number. His face, though young, carried a hardened expression, lips slightly parted as if caught mid-thought. He had the look of a boy who had long since abandoned childhood, his dark eyes fixed with a defiant glare, framed by thick brows that only deepened the severity of his gaze.
Dressed in the worn but formal attire of the time, his dark woolen jacket was slightly too large, its lapels fraying at the edges, the fabric stiff with years of use. Beneath it, a buttoned waistcoat sat snugly over his narrow frame, a striped collar peeking out from underneath, neatly fastened with a cravat. His hands, rough and reddened from the streets, clutched the board firmly—fingers that had learned to take what they could in a city that offered little to boys like him.
That summer, he was caught stealing four brooches from a shop and sentenced to 14 days’ imprisonment, followed by a term in Stoke Reformatory School. He was released on 27th July 1874, but just days later, on 25th July, he was back before the courts—this time for failing to report to the reformatory as required. The same details were recorded again: a brassfounder by trade, a boy with a speech impediment, and a scar on his forehead. His punishment was harsher—21 days in prison, followed by three years in a reformatory school.
Born in 1860 to Patrick and Ellen Welch, Thomas had known nothing but hardship. His father, a labourer given more to drink than work, had little to offer his children beyond a name that shifted between Welch, Walsh, and Welsh, depending on who was writing it down. His mother, hardened by years of poverty and her husband's violence, had done what she could to keep her family together
By the time Thomas was fourteen, he had already followed the well-trodden path of many before him—petty theft, street brawls, and trouble with the law. The courts saw him as another Irish boy from the slums, indistinguishable from the rest, another name in the register.
The reformatory did little to change him. By 7th September 1875, now seventeen, he had followed the path set before him. That night, he was found drunk and disorderly on Water Street, shouting obscenities at passersby. When Police Constable Burgess intervened, Thomas refused to leave and turned violent, kicking the officer repeatedly as he was being taken to the station. He called to his companions, possible a Giblin, Bates, Fenney or a Prendergast—urging them to “pull the steel out and give it them.” It was the language of the street gangs, of boys who knew that knives settled scores. He was fined 5 shillings and costs.
Just two years later, in June 1877, violence found him again. The Welch family had been moving from Water Street to Brearley Street, shifting between overcrowded tenements. That summer, both Thomas and his father, Patrick Welch, were hospitalised after a brutal street fight. Thomas had been kicked repeatedly while on the ground, leaving him with severe scalp wounds. His father, Patrick, suffered a deep head wound from a heavy blow. The details of the attack were murky, but the pattern was clear—Thomas was fighting not just for survival, but for status and standing in the slogging gang.
The Hammer Attack – Left for Dead in Water Street
There were two kinds of fights in places like Water Street —the ones where men walked away, and the ones where they didn’t.
On Sunday, October 29, 1882, Thomas Welch barely made it out alive.
The yards had seen its share of brawls. It was the kind of place where grievances weren’t settled with words, but with fists, boots, and whatever was close at hand. That night, it was a hammer.
Thomas, now twenty two, had clashed with James Bragg, a 32-year-old engineer and fitter. The details were murky. Some said it was an argument turned violent, others claimed Welch and his friends, the Giblin gang, had been throwing bricks at Bragg’s door, taunting him until he came out to face them.
Whatever the cause, Bragg came out swinging.
He didn’t waste time with threats or warnings. He picked up a hammer, raised it high, and smashed into the face of Thomas, onto his left eye.
The force of the blow sent him crumpling to the cobbles, unconscious before he even hit the ground. Blood poured from his head as his body lay still.
By the time the police arrived, Bragg was still standing there, hammer in hand, the head of it covered with blood. He didn’t run. Didn’t even try. “I hit him in self-defense,” he told the officer as they took him away.
Meanwhile, Thomas was rushed to the General Hospital, he had not lost his sight but the surgeon stated the injuries were far worse than they first appeared. His upper jaw had been fractured, his skull cracked. The doctors feared he wouldn’t last the night.
By the time Bragg stood in front of the magistrates, Thomas was still in a hospital bed, barely able to speak. His face was swollen beyond recognition, his eye dark and sunken.
The court’s ruling? Two months of hard labour for Bragg.
A mere eight weeks for caving in a man’s skull with a hammer.
For Thomas though, this was the price of life for him and his gang of friends—a world where men fought to survive, and sometimes, they didn’t.
John Welch born 1861 ID:JHW1861 & ID:JW1861
John Welch and John Welch appear in separate records, but there is strong evidence to suggest they are the same person. This confusion likely stems from variations in surname usage—Welch, Walsh, and even Welsh—common among Irish immigrant families in Birmingham. Despite the differences in official records, the patterns in census data, addresses, and criminal associates strongly suggest these are not two individuals, but one person whose surname changed due to phonetic spelling, clerical inconsistencies, or deliberate misrepresentation. Given the close associations between the Giblin, Welch, and Walsh families, and the overlapping addresses, it is highly probable that both criminal records belong to the same individual.
John Welch’s first recorded crime occurred in 1873 when he was just 12 years old. Caught attempting to steal a pound of iron, he was sentenced to three days’ imprisonment and as often seen so many times the obligatory whipping given by the brutal judicial system that always awaited working-class youth.
Growing up in an impoverished area where survival often meant bending or breaking the law. His early offenses—stealing coal and lead—were typical crimes of necessity. Alongside his close ally, Thomas Giblin, of the ‘Giblin Brothers Slogging Gang' John & Thomas were caught stripping lead from rooftops.
Youngsters, especially boys, often had more freedom to roam the streets unsupervised. With limited access to education or organised activities, some turned to crime for excitement, peer pressure, or In poverty-stricken households, children often took on a significant role in supplementing the family income, even if it meant resorting to theft. Policing was still developing in the 19th century, and many areas of cities were poorly monitored. This made crimes like stealing lead from roofs a relatively low-risk endeavor, especially at night. Stealing lead a lucrative yet dangerous theft common in industrial cities
Lead was highly valuable, easy to sell, and could be accessed with relative ease, especially during the winter when financial hardship was at its worst. The courts were unrelenting in their punishments, viewing such crimes not as survival tactics but as serious offenses against property owners. Lead theft had consequences—damaged roofs, leaks, and costly repairs. It affected homeowners and institutions like churches or schools.
Between 1873 and 1878, John was sent to an Industrial School, a fate that paralleled his brother Thomas Welch, who was placed in a Reformatory School in 1873. As explained in my opening dialogue, These institutions were meant to rehabilitate wayward children, but in reality, they were often brutal environments that did little to prevent further criminality. Many boys who passed through their doors emerged more hardened than before. John was no exception—by the time he was 17, he had escaped from the Industrial School, leading to a harsher five-year sentence in a Reformatory School.
By 1881, John was 19 years old and still entrenched in crime. He was convicted of stealing sacks and a horse cloth, earning himself nine months’ imprisonment and two years of police supervision. His physical description from this time—brown hair, green eyes, an oval face, and distinctive tattoos including an anchor on his left forearm, a cross on the back of his left hand, and ‘U.W’ on his right forearm—suggests he had fully embraced a street identity, possibly even gang affiliations.
Were There Two John Welchs, or Just One?
Even if JHW1861 and JW1861 were separate individuals, they were likely close relatives. The Welch/Walsh/Welsh families lived in the same courts on Water Street for years, making it highly probable they were connected as cousins or extended family members.
Whether one person or two, John’s fate was ultimately shaped by the same forces—poverty, neglect, and a harsh justice system that punished survival tactics as crimes. His trajectory, like that of many others in Birmingham’s slums, was dictated by the circumstances of his birth, rather than any real opportunity to escape them.
James Welch born 1863 ID:JW1863
James Welch was born in 1863, the eldest child of Patrick Welch and Mary Walsh. His childhood was shaped by the same harsh realities that defined life for many of his neighbours and friends—overcrowded courts, relentless poverty, and the daily battle to put food on the table. He grew up in; in Water Street, Livery Street, and Hospital Street and unlike some of his peers, James Welch’s criminal record was minimal, yet his encounters with the police suggested he was viewed as a violent figure. But was he really dangerous, or was he simply another young man drowning under the weight of misery, with alcohol as his only escape?
Between 1863 and 1877, Patrick and Mary had ten children. Mary must have endured unimaginable physical and emotional hardship after bearing so many children, a child nearly every year. The toll on her body would have been severe, particularly in the crowded, unsanitary conditions of Water Street and Livery Street. Chronic malnutrition, iron deficiency, and repeated pregnancies would have left her physically weakened, prone to infections, and likely suffering from long-term conditions such as anemia and pelvic organ prolapse.
Frequent childbirth without proper medical care also increased the risk of a hemorrhage, sepsis, and complications from poorly healed births. Given the extreme poverty of her household, Mary probably lacked access to adequate food, rest, or medical attention, making her even more vulnerable to these dangers.
Beyond the physical toll, the emotional and psychological strain of raising so many children in poverty must have been crushing. With no time to recover between pregnancies, Mary would have had to care for newborns while also managing a growing number of young children, all in an environment where hunger and illness were constant threats. Her inability to work meant she was entirely dependent on Patrick’s earnings, and when that wasn’t enough, her children were forced into work to keep the family afloat.
From childhood, James carried a burden far heavier than most. The eldest of his nine siblings, meant that from a young age, he was expected to contribute to the family’s survival. By the time he reached his late teens, he had already seen firsthand what awaited him—a life of endless work, exhaustion, and hunger. Perhaps that was why, by the age of 18, he had turned to drink.
A Family on the Edge – The Reality of Large Families in Poverty
The common belief that large families would eventually become a financial asset—since older children would bring in wages—was tragically misguided. In truth, my 1881 ‘Poverty Line’ thesis demonstrated, large families remained trapped in destitution, unable to feed themselves. Being in absolute Poverty meant not being able to feed the family with the equivalent of a workhouse diet. For the Welches, there was no escape.
In 1881 in Water Street 81.1% of households were in Poverty or Very Poor. Out of the 69 Households, only two had a rating of 'B' or 'A'
The Stabbing Case – A Glimpse into Gang Violence?
At 16 years old, James Welch stood trial for a stabbing incident—an offense serious enough to mark him for life. The altercation was almost certainly a gang fight, suggesting that James was either associated with the Giblin brothers and their Slogging Gang or was caught in the violence of their world.
However, unlike many young men in his position, James was found not guilty. The details of the case remain unclear, but whether he was truly guilty or simply a victim of the brutal streets he grew up on, the incident placed him firmly within the police’s sights.
Was this a sign that James Welch was part of the world of gang violence, or was he just another young man navigating the dangers of Water Street?
A Miserable Future – The Desperation of Drink
James’s only other known crime took place at 18 years old, when he was arrested for drunkenly throwing stones at the police. It was an act of frustration, defiance—or perhaps just misery.
James did not become a repeat offender. His criminal record, despite police claims of violence, consisted of just two incidents—one in which he was acquitted, and one drunken outburst. The police viewed him as violent, but the records tell a different story.
He had already been working for years, helping his family to buy the bare necessities needed to survive. But what did he see ahead of him? A life of endless, punishing labour, poverty, and hunger. Perhaps he was never truly a criminal—just another young man born into a world that offered him nothing.
Thomas Welch born 1865 ID:TW1865
Not all criminals are born violent. Some are made, shaped by their surroundings and circumstances, the same pattern of recorded criminality. Thomas Welch followed a familiar path and the same pattern of recorded criminality—one that many others from his world had walked before him. Crime did not begin with bloodshed; it began with words.
At 15 years old, he was nothing more than another mouthy youth, standing on street corners in Hospital Street and Summer Lane, shouting obscenities at passersby and the police, the normal language he was brought up on. He was sentenced to seven days and over the next few months, he was in and out of prison, a few days sentence for the same offence of using obscene language.
In the following years, the sentences grew longer—ten days for another outburst, then a full month behind bars for assault. Whether he had struck another man in a drunken rage or lashed out at an officer, the details are lost, but one thing was certain—Thomas Welch was growing in anger. The minor offences and the time spent in Prison had hardened him, and by 17, he had fully embraced violence.
Publican, a Tavern, and an Unprovoked Attack
In May 1882, Thomas had already been arrested for multiple assaults, but his violence was becoming more reckless. That month, he found himself at St. George’s Tavern in Harford Street, drinking heavily among the Saturday night crowd.
The manager, James Clarkson, had seen it all before—drunken, unruly men spoiling for a fight. When he ordered Welch to leave, he expected some resistance. But Thomas struck Clarkson in the mouth, a single, sharp blow that sent him to the floor. The police were called and dragged him out back to the Police Station—a fine of 20 shillings, or one month of hard labour was the judgment handed by the magistrates
Thomas, likely trying to ease the financial burden that weighed heavily on his older brother James and the rest of the family, believed he was doing his part when he was caught stealing a pair of trousers.
In December 1882, Thomas had found himself in West Bromwich, wandering the streets of Smethwick. He was jobless, angry, and desperate. At James Clay’s shop in Rolfe Street, trousers were hanging outside, ready for customers to inspect. For Thomas, they were an opportunity. He reached out, grabbed a pair, and walked away. A small theft—just six shillings and eleven pence worth of clothing—but the law saw it differently.
He was caught, tried, and sentenced to two months of hard labour and found himself walking through prison gates yet again
Tearing Down the Burgess List – An Act of Rebellion?
April 1883 marked a turning point for Thomas. He had grown angrier, bolder, and more reckless. He was no longer just fighting in taverns—he was challenging authority itself. That month, he was arrested for tearing down the Burgess List outside Bond Street Chapel.
The Burgess List was a public document that listed those eligible to vote in municipal elections—typically property owners, business owners, and men of social standing. In a city like Birmingham, where working-class men had little political power, seeing the names of wealthy electors pinned up in public spaces was a stark reminder of their exclusion.
Why did Thomas Welch tear it down?
Maybe it was a political act—an outburst of frustration against a system that ignored men like him. Maybe it was a drunken act of rebellion, a way to lash out at those who had always looked down on him.
Or maybe it was pure vandalism, an impulsive act from a man who was always spoiling for a fight.
Whatever his reason, the punishment was swift—10 shillings or 14 days in prison
A Brutal Assault in the Streets of Birmingham
No longer just a street brawler, he was a young man capable of serious, unprovoked violence.
On the night 6th August 1883, the streets of Summer Lane and Hospital Street were loud with drunken voices. A fight had broken out, and shouts of “Murder!” and “Police!” filled the air.
When Police-constables Hall and Pittaway arrived at the scene, they found Thomas at the centre of the chaos, fists flying, striking and kicking anyone who came near him. Without provocation he turned on a woman and kicked her. Hard. She fell to the ground, lying on the footpath, P.C. Pittaway picked her up.
When Hall and Pittaway moved to arrest him, he fought back viciously, knocking Hall to the ground and biting Pittaway’s finger so severely that he had to be taken to hospital.
Welch was eventually dragged to Kenion Street Police Station, where he punched another officer in the face as he was being placed in the dock.
The magistrates sentenced him to three months of hard labour.
The Price Street Attack – The Crime That Nearly Killed a Man
Thomas was fully immersed in street violence by September 1883. On August 9th, James Corcoran, a polisher, found himself on the receiving end of one of the most brutal gang attacks of the year.
It began as a personal dispute—an argument between Corcoran and John Donelan, a known thug. But Donelan was not a man to settle things alone.
That night, Donelan gathered his allies, including Thomas Welch, and waited.
At 11 p.m., Corcoran saw them coming. He knew what was about to happen, and he ran—desperate for safety, he took refuge in a house on Price Street.
But the gang kicked the door down and dragged him into the street. Welch struck first, attacking Corcoran before he could even run. Donelan ripped off his belt—the buckle heavy in his hands—and began beating Corcoran’s head.
By the time it was over, Corcoran lay unconscious, his skull fractured, bleeding into the cobbled street.
He was taken to the General Hospital, where he barely survived.
Welch and Donelan fled the city, heading south to Winchester, but justice caught up with them.
At their trial, Corcoran, his head still bandaged, identified Welch and Donelan as his attackers. The court heard how Corcoran had been beaten until he was nearly dead, and that he suffered lasting injuries from the attack.
The sentence? Twelve months of hard labour in Warwick Prison.
Patrick Welch born 1845 ID:PW1845 "The Cripple of Livery Street"
James and Thomas’s father, Patrick Welch, was a well-known figure in the courts and streets of Birmingham, notorious not just for his crimes but also for the physical disability that shaped both his identity and his survival tactics. Dubbed "The Cripple of Livery Street," His disability did not deter him from engaging in his own criminal activity—if anything, it seemed to play a role in both his notoriety and the legal leniency he occasionally received.
In 1860 before any of his children were born, eighteen year old Patrick was charged for stabbing another boy, Michael Brenman in the leg. Patrick was trying to steal “a penny” from another small boy, Brenman interfered to prevent the theft, for which Patrick stabbed him in the leg. The wound was so severe, Brenman spent nearly three weeks being an inmate of the General Hospital. Patrick also assaulted the policeman who took him into custody.—His defence was that street boys often teased him, and that having just suffered from an epileptic fit, he did not know what he was doing.
Patrick worked when he could, but his income was never enough to support his large family. With Mary unable to contribute financially, James and his siblings were forced to take on responsibility long before they should have.
This desperation was exposed in 1884, when Patrick was convicted for illegally employing his young son, William Welch, in street selling. William was under twelve years old, far too young to work legally, yet Patrick had no choice but to risk breaking the law.
William was caught in Snow Hill selling Newspapers at 11.55 at night. A person who knew Patrick, confronted him the next day and asked him how it was that he allowed his child to be out so late. To which, he replied that he did not know he was out at that time and selling newspapers. In court, Patrick testified that he was sometimes away from home from 2pm in the afternoon until midnight, that having he said eight children, (in-fact ten) employed three of his children who assisted him in his business. After the children came home from school, they would take wood to his customers. The Judge remarked that it was a lamentable thing that a boy so young should be out so late at night. Patrick promised to strictly look after William in the future and the case was dismissed.
It is likely however, that other Welch children were also working illegally, just never caught and these were actions of a Person trying his best to support his family. Even so, their efforts were never enough. The family’s struggle was relentless, and as the eldest, James would have felt this more than anyone.
John Welch born 1859 ID:JW1859 A Life Without Redemption
Unlike the other Welches of, this John Welch had no known family connections—at least, none that can be traced. He must have had parents, yet no census records, household listings, or sibling associations tie him to any of the families in Water Street or Livery Street. In a world where families often clung together for survival, John appears to have been alone from the start.
What is clear, however, is that his life followed a relentless pattern of crime and punishment, far exceeding any other Welch. While many young men in the slums turned to crime out of necessity or gang loyalty, John was different—a loner, with no known associates. His occupations—metal roller, mounter, tube welder—suggest he attempted to work at times, but the courts knew him only as a thief, a vagrant, and, eventually, as a man who had lost all hope.
A Boy Marked for Prison
John’s descent into crime began early. At just 11 years old, he was caught stealing a can of sweetmeats. The punishment was swift and brutal: three days in prison and a whipping.
By the time he was 12, he was arrested again—this time for stealing 56 pounds of iron. This was no childish impulse but an early sign of someone learning to navigate Birmingham’s black market for scrap metal. He was sentenced to three months of hard labour, a sentence that did nothing to deter him.
The following year, at just 13 years old, he was convicted for vagrancy and sentenced to one month’s imprisonment—followed by five years in a reformatory school. By now, the authorities had written him off as a boy beyond reform, shuffling him from one institution to the next.
Seven Years for Stealing Beef
On December 23rd, 1876, at the age of 17, John Welch made the decision that would define the rest of his life. A grocer’s porter, William Gallant, was on his way home when John rushed out of an alleyway, snatched his basket of beef and groceries, and ran. The total value? Just three shillings.
For this, John Welch was sentenced to seven years of penal servitude in Pentonville Prison.
Standing in the dock, hearing his sentence, he uttered a haunting statement:
"You might as well have sent me to Warwick to be tried, for I cannot endure it."
It was the plea of a young man who knew what awaited him. Four years in one of England’s most notorious prisons, followed by four years under strict police supervision. It was a punishment far harsher than that given to men convicted of violent crimes.
For stealing food.
Released But Never Free
When John Welch emerged from prison in 1881, he was not the same boy who had entered. His discharge records list him as 5ft 5in tall, with dark brown hair and green eyes. He had tattoos—an anchor on his right arm, a birthmark on his right seat, a scar on his left belly.
He returned to 92 Lancaster Street, a lodging house, not a home. He had no family waiting for him.
One month later, in November 1881, he was arrested again. This time for stealing lead—a crime of desperation, committed by men with no other way to make money. Police caught him in Weaman Row, running from the scene.
In 1883, he was arrested again for assaulting his former employer, throwing a stone at a man who refused to pay him wages he believed he was owed. This time, he was let off, warned that next time, he would not be so lucky.
The Breaking Point – 1884
By June 1884, John Welch had nothing left. Homeless and starving, he walked to Corporation Street, where the city’s wealthier residents shopped and dined. In a final act of defiance—or perhaps simply a desperate cry for help—he smashed a shop window worth £60.
When asked why he had done it, his answer was simple:
Destitution.
He told the court that after being released from prison, he had tried to rebuild his life, but employers refused to hire him. His criminal past followed him wherever he went. Unable to survive, he had deliberately committed a crime to be arrested once again.
A Life Doomed from the Start?
John Welch’s story is one of institutional failure. Unlike many others, he was not part of a gang, nor did he have known criminal associates. He was alone.
From a child whipped for stealing sweets to a man sent to prison for years over scraps of food, he was never given a chance to escape the cycle of punishment. Every sentence made it harder for him to live honestly. By 1884, he no longer even tried.
Was he ever truly dangerous? Or just another forgotten boy, cast aside by a system that gave him no way out?
The families at the heart of this story—Welch, Giblin, Cain, Feeney, Moran, Walsh, Prendergast, Cunningham and Bates and many others—were part of a larger wave of Irish migration that transformed Birmingham’s inner districts in the 19th century. By the mid 19th Century, they had clustered into a tight network of streets, —where they lived side by side, worked the same gruelling jobs, and raised the next generation in the shadow of poverty.
Most of the men were labourers or bricklayers’ labourers, taking whatever backbreaking work they could find. Their presence in Birmingham was no accident. Some may have arrived directly from Ireland, but many likely passed through other English towns first—Liverpool, Manchester, or even London—before winding up in Birmingham when other opportunities dried up. In my first Giblin blog, I explain in more detail the Irish connection but after the Great Famine (1845–1852) that drove millions out of Ireland, many crossing the Irish Sea in search of survival. By the 1850s, Birmingham had established itself as an industrial hub, and though Irish migrants faced hostility, they found work in the city’s booming construction and manufacturing trades.
The twenty five families I have researched into, twenty three came from Ireland, all settling in a triangle of the same streets. Whether they arrived together or gradually drew one another in, the result was the same: an Irish enclave within the very poor districts of Birmingham. Here, their children grew up surrounded by familiar surnames, where neighbours were cousins, in-laws, or old acquaintances from the journey over.
For most, this migration was not a path to prosperity but to survival. The labouring jobs they took were unstable, seasonal, and exhausting. Many of the men drank heavily, their sons and in some cases, daughters following in their footsteps, destined for the same hard life—or worse, the courts and prisons that loomed ever closer.
James Welch born 1859 ID:JAW1859 From Street Gangs to Tragedy
James Welch’s life was written in hardship long before he had a chance to shape it himself. Along with three of his siblings, he was born in Bilston in Staffordshire. Bilston was a significant destination for Irish migrants after the Great Famine, primarily due to its booming iron and coal industries. Many Irish families moved there in the mid-19th century in search of work in mines, foundries, and brickworks. The town was part of the Black Country, an area heavily industrialised by the 1850s, and it attracted a large Irish workforce.
His oldest Sister; Mary, was born in Newcastle-under-Lyme (Newcastle, Staffordshire) also had an Irish presence, though on a smaller scale. It’s associations with pottery and general manufacturing rather than the heavy industry of Bilston. It's possible that James parents moved from Newcastle to Bilston as job opportunities shifted or as they followed relatives.
Their journey from Ireland to Staffordshire before settling in Birmingham wasn’t unusual—many Irish families moved from industrial town to industrial town before finding a place to settle. In James Welch’s case, his family’s movement suggests they were following work opportunities before eventually joining the Irish community in Birmingham’s inner-city districts.
From the age of fourteen, James was in and out of courtrooms, his name appearing in police reports for minor offences: obscene language, petty theft, and slogging-related stone throwing. These early brushes with the law were little more than rites of passage for boys raised in the courts, where the police were viewed as adversaries and survival depended on alliances within the street gangs. Like many of his peers, James was sentenced to a reformatory at fourteen for stealing a handkerchief—five years of institutionalisation for a crime of little consequence.
A Path Set in Stone
James’s criminal trajectory was one of escalation. By the mid-1870s, he had graduated from street crime to violent offences. In 1875, at the age of nineteen, he and his associates—Patrick Giblin (12) and Walter Prendergrast (17)—attacked an elderly boatman, William Rayson. The assault was particularly vicious:
It was a bitterly cold Sunday evening on January 8, 1875, when William Rayson, an aging boatman of 64, docked his narrowboat along the Birmingham Canal near Snow Hill. A lifelong boatman employed by the Grand Junction Canal Company, he had spent decades navigating the waterways, ferrying goods and coal between Coventry and Birmingham. That evening, after a long, laborious journey, he sought only a few hours of rest in his cramped cabin before setting off again at dawn.
As the city’s gas lamps flickered in the distance and the sounds of drunken revelry echoed from nearby alehouses, Rayson lay back in his bunk, listening to the gentle lapping of the canal against the hull. The air was still—until the first stone thudded against the wooden deck. Then another.
At first, he thought it was a prank, a few mischievous boys amusing themselves along the towpath. But as the stones continued to pelt the boat, he realised this was something more menacing. Pushing aside the heavy canvas covering the cabin’s entrance, he climbed out and stepped onto the towpath.
There, silhouetted against the dim glow of the city beyond, stood a group of five or six young men, their breath clouding in the cold air. Among them were James Welch, Patrick Giblin, and Walter Prendergrast.
"Be off with you, lads," Rayson said, his voice weary but firm.
"Go home before you get yourselves in trouble." One of them, likely Welch, sneered.
"We want money for beer, old sod. Hand it over." Rayson sighed, shaking his head.
"I’ve got no money to spare, and by the looks of you, you’ve had enough drink already."
"Kill the old sod!" Welch barked.
A stone whistled through the air and struck Rayson square on the forehead, and he crumpled to the ground, he saw James kicking him in the ribs, the others surrounded him, their voices jeering and slurred with drink. Rayson curled into himself, trying to protect his head as another blow struck his side.
A short distance away, Thomas Pilgrim, another boatman, watched in horror as the gang turned on him next. He backed away, but they advanced. "Give us your money, or we’ll throw you in the cut!" one of them threatened.
Before they could make good on the threat, Rayson called for the Police causing the gang to scatter and flee into the darkness.
Bleeding and dazed, Rayson was helped to his feet by the officers and taken to the General Hospital, where a surgeon examined his injuries. His eye was swollen shut, his ribs bruised, and he would be unable to work for weeks.
At the magistrates’ court, Mr. Tanner, representing the Canal Company, pressed the charges, ensuring the assault on Rayson would not go unpunished. Thomas Cheston, a defense lawyer well-acquainted with the men of Birmingham’s courts, attempted to argue on Welch’s behalf, but the magistrates were unmoved.
James Welch and Walter Prendergrast were committed for trial, bail refused. Patrick Giblin, though identified at the scene, was discharged due to lack of evidence against him.
At trial, Welch & Prendergast were sentenced to four months of hard labour.
A Violent Resistance: The Arrest of the Welch Brothers
The crowd was jammed in the yard, leaning against the stacked crates of empties, the stale scent of spilt beer and sweat thick in the warm July air. The gate to the street was open, offering a clear view of the passing traffic of pedestrians and constables alike. A few sharp-eyed men near the entrance kept a casual but knowing watch—coppers never came alone, not on a Saturday night. It was never just one; always two, sometimes three. And if they were coming, it meant trouble.
Police-constable Howe knew this as he moved through the throng, his warrant clenched tightly in his hand. He wasn’t here for a raid or a street brawl. He had a name, a crime, and a warrant—John Welch, wanted for stabbing a woman named Catherine Collins.
He found him just as expected, among his own, standing near the crates, with his oldr brother John deep in conversation. "John Welch, I’ve a warrant for your arrest."
Knowing the game was up as the lookouts had missed this one—the copper had come in alone. With a sharp twist, Welch yanked his arm free. “You’ve got no bloody right!” he spat, sending a barrel rolling as he swung at Howe.
Shouts erupted. Glass shattered. The open gate gave the perfect escape route, John attempted to rescue his brother from the custody of the constable With a well-placed punch, James struck Howe in the side of the head, sending him staggering into the crates. The constable barely had time to recover before James made another move—grabbing his rattle, the wooden alarm police used to call for backup.
But now there were shouts from outside. Their time was running out. The coppers were coming.
Police-constable Kane was first to arrive, bursting through the yard entrance to see Howe struggling against the two brothers. Without hesitation, he threw himself into the fight, dragging James away by the collar. But the Welch brothers weren’t going down easy.
The brawl spilled into the street. Both officers were knocked to the ground, boots and fists hammering down on them. The lookouts had scattered, unwilling to get involved. And when those reinforcements arrived, the fight was over.
John and James Welch were dragged, bruised and bloodied, to Kenion Street Police Station.
At General Hospital, the constables had their wounds dressed—Kane’s face swollen and cut, Howe’s ribs aching from the beating.
At their trial, John Welch was sentenced to four months of hard labour for resisting arrest. James Welch, who had struck the officers and broken the rattle, received six months.
The Overcoat Theft – A Desperate Act
By 1882, James Welch was not the same young man who had battled the police in the yard of a beer house. He was 24 years old, homeless, and desperate.
The High Street pulsed with life on that cold Monday evening, gaslights flickering over shopfronts as the hum of trade carried through the damp air. Castle Passage, just off the Bull Ring, was a place of wealth and commerce—watchmakers, jewellers, printers, and booksellers lined the narrow street. There were gunmakers, wine merchants, and even a surgeon and a dentist among the residents. The presence of six newspaper offices spoke to its importance, while the nearby police station ensured that law and order was never far away.
James knew this. He also knew that Thomas Morgan’s clothier shop had a fine display of heavy winter coats hanging just outside the door. At 79 years old, Morgan was no doubt a frail man—perhaps an easy target. James had no money, no steady work, and no coat to keep out the biting cold.
He hovered near the shop, blending into the evening crowd. Boots tramped over wet cobblestones, voices rose and fell in the background, and the gaslight cast long shadows along the passageway.
A quick glance around. No one watching.
James reached out, snatched the coat from its hook, and turned on his heel, slipping into the crowd.
But he wasn’t fast enough.
From across the road, Police-constable Dowling had been watching, took chase and closed the distance in moments, grabbing Welch before he could disappear into the alleys.
There was no fight this time. No brother to come to his aid. Just James, cold, tired, and caught red-handed.
At the magistrate’s court, the judge didn’t waste time. Two months of hard labour.
Six years earlier, James Welch had smashed a police rattle across a constable’s face. Now, he was stealing coats just to keep warm.
The Death of Sarah Barnett – A Life Stolen Away
For the first time in years, James Welch was beginning to find stability. He was still young—just 25 years old—but his reckless teenage years were behind him. The fights with the police, the street brawls, the petty thefts that had landed him in prison time and again—all of it seemed to be fading into the past. He was no longer sleeping in lodging houses or on the streets. He had a home, 7 Court, Northwood Street, where he had lived for over a year with Sarah Barnett, a woman ten years his senior but someone who, for the first time, had given him a glimpse of a better life.
Sarah had already seen hardship—she was a widow, a survivor, and like James, she understood what it meant to scrape by with nothing. But their life together, however modest, was beginning to take shape. She was pregnant, and James was about to become a father. It was a chance to settle down, to step away from the life of crime and violence that had defined his youth.
But on the night of November 11, 1883, everything changed.
The Night Everything Went Wrong
Sarah’s labour pains began late that night. James rushed to fetch the man they had trusted—Joseph Lawson, an unlicensed medical practitioner from Tower Street. They had no money for a proper doctor, and Lawson had agreed weeks before that he would handle the delivery when the time came.
“Take care I am sent for in proper time,” Lawson had told them when Sarah first visited him in October.
She had done as he asked. Now, it was his turn to do what he had promised.
When Lawson arrived, he seemed calm, assessing Sarah before leaving again to fetch a ‘draught’—a common remedy to ease the pain of childbirth. James waited anxiously, watching Sarah, her face pale and twisted in agony. But the minutes stretched on, and Lawson did not return.
James left the house, searching the dimly lit streets of Northwood Street and beyond, finally spotting Lawson hurrying back along Edgbaston Road.
“She’s in pain,” James told him urgently.
“It will ease,” Lawson said. But then, almost casually, he muttered, “I can do nothing for her.”
James stared at him in disbelief. Nothing?
“Then we need to fetch a doctor,” Lawson said
They ran through the cold night, searching for anyone who could assist, but by the time they returned, Sarah was gone.
A Preventable Death
The inquest into Sarah’s death was devastating. She had not died instantly. The post-mortem examination found that she had suffered severe hemorrhaging, leading to syncope—her body simply shut down due to extreme blood loss. It was not an uncommon complication in childbirth, but one that, with proper care, could have been prevented.
A doctor from Queen’s Hospital testified that Sarah’s life might have been saved had she been given timely medical attention. Another expert, a Professor of Midwifery, reinforced the point—any competent practitioner should have known to call for a doctor immediately.
But Joseph Lawson had done nothing.
Lawson had been practicing for years without a license, and now, his incompetence had cost a woman her life. He had abandoned Sarah when she needed him most.
His defence lawyer tried to argue that it was just a mistake—an “error in judgment.” But the jury was not swayed. Their verdict was clear: Manslaughter.
Yet, when it came time for sentencing, the punishment was an insult. Six months imprisonment. No hard labour. Just six months for taking a woman’s life.
James had seen his friends sent away for seven years with hard labour for stealing food. And yet, a man who had caused the death of Sarah Barnett was given just six months.
The Aftermath – James Lost Everything
James did not stay at 7 Court, Northwood Street after that. His home, his future, his child—everything was gone.
The magistrates handed down their ruling, and life carried on for everyone else. But for James, who had fought to rise above a past of crime, slogging gangs, and grinding poverty, Sarah’s death was more than just a tragedy. It was proof that, in the eyes of the law, people like them did not matter.
Five years later, James Welch would be found stripped and drunk in the streets, challenging strangers to fight. His final crime. His final act of defiance. A man who had once dreamed of a different life but had been beaten down too many times to believe in it anymore.
Sarah Barnett was gone. And with her, James Welch’s last chance at redemption.
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