Chapter Two - Giblin Brothers Slogging Gang. The Morans & Bates
- Andy Yarwood
- 2 days ago
- 31 min read
Patrick Moran born 1865 ID:PM1855
First Offences: Crimes of Necessity (1863–1872)
The sound of horses’ hooves clattered against the cobbled streets of Bennett’s Hill, mixing with the distant hum of market traders calling out their wares. The street, lined with businesses and shopfronts, was where Birmingham’s wealthier residents passed through on their way to Colmore Row and the town’s grander establishments. It was no place for eight-year-old Patrick Moran, the eldest child of Thomas Moran and his second wife, Mary Cain—thin, second-hand boots, and dressed in ragged clothes, he had been sent out that morning with one simple task, to bring something home. His mother had likely pressed a hand to his shoulder as he left, there was no money for food. There was no work.
At first, Patrick hesitated, watching as well-dressed men strolled past, their walking sticks tapping against the pavement. Patrick spotted a woman stepping out of a bakery, the warm scent of fresh bread drifting toward him. He edged forward, pulling at her sleeve. “Please, miss—just a crust.”
She recoiled, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders, and moved away without a word.
They tried again. Some people ignored them. Others shooed them away. A few threw coins to the ground, not stopping to look at the small hands scrambling to pick them up.
They had begged before. It was nothing new. But this time, they had been seen.
Police-constable Harris had been watching the boys for some time. He knew these types of boys—too young to work, too poor to learn a trade, and sent out to beg by their idle parents, as the authorities so often assumed. He crossed the street and caught Patrick and his accomplice John Cope by the arms.
Dragged before the magistrates, Chief-Superintendent Glossop addressed the bench, stating that begging in the streets had become an “intolerable nuisance” and that upon further investigation, it had been discovered that the parents of these children deliberately sent them out to beg each day, making, so they thought “a good living” while doing little work themselves.
Patrick did not argue. Who would believe him? That his family barely had enough to eat? That his father, Thomas Moran, a bricklayer’s labourer, took work whenever he could get it, breaking his back for pennies? That his mother, Mary Cain, did what she could, but there was never enough?
Magistrate James did not hesitate.
“The most effective way to stop this nuisance,” he declared, “is to remove the children from the parents who send them out.”
Four years.
That was Patrick’s sentence—four years at Penn Street Industrial School. The court framed it as an act of mercy, an opportunity for him to be removed from the “bad influences” of his home, to be taught a trade, to be given an “honest start in life.”
But in reality, it was a punishment.
For Patrick, at eight years of age, it meant four years away from his family, four years of strictness and control, four years stripped of his home and family.
And in the end, did it change his fate? Or did it only harden him for what was to come?
By his teenage years, Patrick had begun resisting institutional control. In 1870 and 1871, at ages fourteen and fifteen, he absconded from the Industrial School twice, each time receiving additional hard labour as punishment. By 1872, at age seventeen, he was convicted of stealing a coat and sentenced to one month in prison and now five years in the reformatory school. This marked the beginning of a pattern of institutionalisation, from the age of eight, Patrick had now spent nine years away from his family in state-run facilities.
Escalation: Alcohol & Street Violence (1875-1877)
From the years 1875 onwards and his teenage years behind him, Patrick’s offences escalated. He was convicted multiple times throughout the year for drunkenness and riotous behavior (in June, August, October, and November), indicating a shift where alcohol-fueled crimes became a recurring issue. That same year, he was convicted of stealing sixty pounds of cheese—a crime that would have serious consequences.
The Birmingham Daily Post reported:
Patrick Moran (20), a shoemaker, and John Gargon, a labourer, both residing in a court off Snow Hill, were charged with stealing sixty pounds of cheese, valued at 30 shillings, from the shop of Michael Durkin, a grocer on Hospital Street. The theft occurred on Saturday evening, when the two men, accompanied by a third individual who later escaped, were spotted carrying the stolen goods along Water Street. Their movements were observed by Mr. Mee, a licensed victualler, who, noting their suspicious behavior, followed them at a distance. As the men entered an entryway, he quickly alerted a policeman, who soon apprehended them. The stolen cheese was traced back to Mr. Durkin’s shop, confirming the crime.
Both were sent for trial, and Patrick was sentenced to seven years of penal servitude, followed by five years of police supervision. At this time, the courts were deeply concerned about the rise of slogging gangs and sought to make examples of repeat offenders—especially those who had already passed through juvenile institutions and prison for crimes such as begging, absconding from industrial schools, theft, and riotous behavior. The system had little tolerance for those perceived as habitual criminals.
Penal servitude was far harsher than regular imprisonment, involving years of hard labour, while police supervision ensured that Patrick remained under watch even after his release. This case fits a broader pattern where working-class offenders faced severe sentences, while wealthier criminals often received fines or short jail terms. More than anything, it highlights the criminalisation of poverty—Patrick likely stole out of necessity, yet the system punished him as though he were a hardened career criminal.
James Moran born 1857 ID:JM1857
James, just a year younger than his brother Patrick, grew up in the same harsh environment but took a different path. While Patrick's early crimes were driven by necessity, James quickly became involved in gang activity.
Six years after Patrick was sent to Industrial school, James was caught stealing a glass. Even though it was his first offence, he was sent to gaol for seven days and whipped. Two months later, he was caught stealing again, along with accomplices twelve year old Walter Prendergast ID:WP1857 and another friend, eleven-year-old John Flanagan. They entered Louisa Hopper’s tobacco shop on Great Hampton Street and stole three pistols. One of the three boys distracted Louisa by asking for “a ha’penny wheel,” while the other stole the pistols. The following day, Police Constable Baker apprehended them and discovered that the stolen pistols had already been given away or sold to another boy. The court took a harsh stance. Flanagan, who already had three prior convictions, was sentenced to five weeks in gaol. Moran and Pendergast each received one month’s imprisonment before being sent to reformatory schools for five years.
1871 (Age 14) – Fined for bathing in the canal
Probably absconding from reformatory school, James was caught bathing in the canal near Snow Hill. During much of the 19th century, access to private bathing facilities was limited, especially among the working class, children often would seek out bathing opportunities in canals and rivers. However, these practices often conflicted with emerging public health concerns and reforms raised concerns about indecent exposure. The theme of boys bathing in natural settings was captured in contemporary art. An example is Paula Modersohn-Becker's 1901 painting, "Three Boys Bathing by a Canal,"
Escalation: Gang-Related Crimes & Violence (1875-1880)
1875 (Age 18) – Assault on Mary Golding & her daughter Elizabeth Belford during a gambling dispute.
Given the limited recreational options available, gambling emerged as a common pastime for the working-class youth. The communal courtyards of the back-to-back houses provided an ideal setting for these informal gatherings. However, as with drinking, gambling came inevitable disputes, losses, and, more often than not, violence. On 10th May 1875, eighteen year old James, was found gambling with his companions behind the home of Mrs. Mary Golding in Hospital Street. Annoyed by the rowdy gathering outside her house, Mrs. Golding attempted to intervene, only to be met with verbal abuse. However, the situation quickly escalated when Moran and another gambler forced their way into her home and violently assaulted her, blackening her eyes. Her daughter, Elizabeth Belford, bravely stepped in to defend her mother, but she too suffered a beating at the hands of Moran. The attackers soon fled the scene, leaving their victims bruised and battered. Detective Barratt was soon on their trail, and by the evening, Moran was arrested. At his trial, it was revealed that he was a member of the ‘Giblin Slogging Gang’, terrorising the neighbourhood. He was sentenced to six months of hard labour—three months for each assault.
Retaliation and the Hospital Street Riot
The violence did not end with Moran’s imprisonment. His associates, angered by Mrs. Golding’s testimony and his subsequent conviction, sought revenge. Over the following weeks, they harassed the household, culminating in a full-scale riot on Hospital Street. On a fateful Tuesday morning, a group of young men and women, including Catherine Biggins (17), Annie Kilcoyne (17), Annie Lamb (18), and Thomas McCoy (18), initiated a campaign of terror against Mrs. Golding and her daughter, Rose Belfort. The initial confrontation began with insults and threats, but as the tension rose, the mob forced their way into the house, smashing furniture, breaking windows, and ransacking the rooms. The police were summoned, causing the rioters to scatter temporarily. However, by noon, they regrouped in even greater numbers and renewed their assault. The second attack was even more devastating. The mob stormed the property, wrecking the brew house and hurling stones and bricks through every window. The destruction was so extensive that hardly a single item remained intact in the house. The police were overwhelmed by the scale of the riot. When they finally arrived in force, the rioters fled, dispersing into the labyrinthine alleys of Birmingham’s back streets. However, Detectives Barratt and Alvey managed to identify and apprehend the ringleaders after a prolonged chase through Blew Street and Newtown Row. The arrested individuals, still defiant, admitted to their involvement but denied causing damage. One of the women chillingly remarked to the constables, "Revenge is sweet."
At the subsequent court hearing, it was revealed that the damage to Mrs. Golding’s furniture alone exceeded £12—a significant sum for a working-class household. The prisoners were committed to stand trial at the next Quarter Sessions, and additional warrants were issued for the arrest of two more women identified as ringleaders.
The incident highlighted the fragility of law and order in Birmingham’s crowded working-class districts. The violence surrounding gambling and gang activity was symptomatic of deeper social tensions brewing in the city’s slums, minor disputes could rapidly spiral into major public disturbances. The authorities’ response—harsh prison sentences and relentless pursuit of ringleaders—was an attempt to maintain control. Yet, the persistence of such incidents suggested that poverty and lack of opportunities were the real culprits.
House-Breaking of Israel Solomon
Israel Solomon was born in 1825 Kizipitz Poland, arrived in the UK as a refugee from Poland. By 1861 he was a self employed tailor employing four men and four women and lived at 105 Lancaster Street. He became a British Citizen, obtaining Naturalisation on the 18th February 1863. a well-respected figure in Birmingham’s growing Jewish community, Solomon contributed to local welfare efforts. In 1869, a committee of resident Jews was formed to aid poor and destitute Jewish families, ensuring that no one in their community would be forced into a workhouse or left without basic needs. Solomon’s reputation as a trusted businessman and a charitable man made him a target for thieves who believed he kept valuable stock.
Nineteen year old James, a twenty one year old Walter Prendergast and James Burns saw an opportunity, broke into Solomon’s shop in 1876, stealing jewellery and other valuables. Unlike a simple theft, this was an act of house-breaking—a more serious offence that signaled an escalation in James’s criminal career.
At this point, James Moran had already built a record of petty theft and disorderly conduct, but this incident pushed him deeper into serious offences. It’s unclear whether the group had specifically targeted Solomon or if his shop was simply a convenient victim. What is clear is that Moran, Prendergast, and Burns were no longer just opportunistic thieves—they were now organised burglars, working together to steal high-value goods.
Israel Solomon’s History with Theft & Crime
Solomon was no stranger to crime in Birmingham. His name had appeared in the Birmingham Daily Post several times, either as a victim of theft or as a pawnbroker rejecting stolen goods:
1870: He exposed a pair of thieves attempting to pawn stolen silver spoons, showing his vigilance against criminal activity.
1872: He donated £1 to Queen’s Hospital, further cementing his role as a respected community figure.
1878: His domestic servant stole tablecloths and towels, but he did not press for harsh punishment, showing his leniency toward minor offenders.
1880: He was the victim of an assault in his own shop, when a drunken labourer threw a box at his chest and attacked a police constable.
In 1884, Solomon had sold his goods at auction, perhaps indicating a decline in business after years of operating in an area riddled with crime.
By 1877, James Moran had escalated from petty theft and house-breaking to larger-scale robbery. On the 6th March 1877, he was convicted of stealing sixty yards of wincey fabric, a durable wool-cotton blend used for working-class clothing. This was seen as not a minor theft—sixty yards of fabric was a significant quantity, likely stolen for resale rather than personal use. The judge remarked that his five years in reformatory school had done him no good. Patrick openly challenged the court’s belief in reform, saying:
"It does nobody any good."
The Judge though was having none of it, “My experience is very different from that. If a young boy will only take the trouble, after he comes out, to follow the trade he has been taught, he may become an honest man.
And with that, the Judge sentenced James, like his brother to seven years' penal servitude and three years' police supervision marking the beginning of long-term incarceration.
Upon entering prison, detailed discharge records documented James physical appearance. He stood at 5ft 7½ inches, with brown hair, blue eyes, and a round face. His body bore numerous scars: one on the top of his head, three on his back, two on the right side of his neck, another on his forehead, and several more on his right hand. Notably, he had no nail on his left big toe—a sign of either a serious injury in prison or a past workplace accident.
These scars tell a story of a life marked by violence, whether from street fights, gang disputes, or clashes with the police. When James was finally released on 14th July 1881, he returned to Birmingham under police supervision—a restriction that often led to immediate re-arrest for even the smallest infractions.
Three years after his release from prison, James, at just 27, had reached a new low. No longer an active gang member or serious offender, he was now listed simply as a pauper, dependent on the Borough Workhouse for survival.
On 7th October 1884, James was charged with escaping from the workhouse. When brought before the court, he openly admitted to breaking out—not to commit a crime, but to visit friends and get drunk. He claimed this was a common practice among inmates, but the prosecution dismissed his version of events.
Moran insisted he had simply walked out through an open door, but the workhouse witness refuted this, stating the escape likely involved climbing over palisades—suggesting desperation, recklessness, or a final attempt to reclaim some control over his life.
From a teenage reformatory school inmate to a convicted burglar, violent gang member, and eventually a destitute workhouse pauper, James Moran’s life followed the all-too-common path of Birmingham’s Irish immigrant youth. His final recorded offence was not a violent crime, nor a grand theft—it was an act of defiance, breaking out of the institution meant to control him.
Catherine Moran born 1865 ID:CM1865
Catherine was the second youngest in the Moran household, growing up in Livery Street and Northwood Street. Unlike her brothers, she faced gendered challenges, with her offences often tied to public disorder, drunkenness, and theft.
The proliferation of pubs and beer houses saw working-class men—often labourers—finishing most days heavily drinking in these establishments, making it inevitable that many of the young members of the Giblin gang committed crimes linked to drunkenness and violence. Catherine Moran, younger sister of Patrick and James, soon became entangled in street-level crime. By her late teens, she was frequently involved in theft, public disorder, and violence—both as a perpetrator and a victim.
In November 1880, at age 16, Catherine was involved in extorting money from William Cockayne, a gardener. Alongside Thomas Giblin ID:TG1863 (16) and James Canlon, she entered the Bull’s Head pub on the corner of Water Street and Snow Hill, targeted Cockayne. After receiving his beer paying half a crown for it, the Landlord told Cockaynen to look after his money — but when he was about to leave, Catherine and another woman grabbed him, demanded money, and poured beer into a jug. They were soon joined by a gang who threatened and robbed him. Despite his compliance, Cockayne faced further demands until a policeman arrived. He eventually gave more money to Canlon and Giblin. Cockayne reported the crime, leading to the suspects’ arrests.
Thomas Giblin’s involvement in this crime is significant, as his path to reformatory school mirrored that of Catherine’s brothers. In 1876, at just 13 years old, Thomas was sentenced to a reformatory school for stealing coal. The harsh sentencing of young offenders, particularly from Irish immigrant families, often led to deeper criminal involvement. Catherine, having seen both her brothers and now Thomas Giblin sent away to reformatories, would have been directly influenced by this environment, reinforcing her own descent into crime.
1881 (Age 18) – Assaulted by James Boyne in Water Street
Catherine stood on the corner of Water Street and Livery Street — a place she knew well. This narrow stretch was lined with grimy brick buildings, many packed with families living ten to a room. The stench of ale and sweat drifted from the nearby beer houses, mingling with the acrid smoke from foundries where men laboured from dawn till dusk. Costermongers' carts, loaded with wilting vegetables, stood idle, their owners shouting over the din of surrounding noise.
On nights like this, the street came alive with drinkers spilling out of The White Swan and The Bell's Inn, staggering between shadowy courts where lodging-house keepers turned a blind eye to stolen goods and drunken brawls. Somewhere in the distance, a woman’s voice screeched at a husband too deep in his cups, while children played barefoot in the gutter, their faces smudged with soot. This was a street where survival meant toughness, and reputation was everything.
It was here, under the dim glow of a gas lamp, that seventeen year old James Boyne approached Catherine. She was notorious and known in the local community for having fun, accusations were made—words she had or hadn’t said about him. She denied it, but words meant little in a place where fists spoke louder. Before she could react, Boyne struck her, his fist landing hard across her face. She stumbled, the impact drawing the attention of a few nearby onlookers—none of whom stepped in. Violence was an unremarkable sight in Water Street. A few women whispered, but no one dared challenge Boyne, a boy who already had seven prior convictions to his name. He kicked her before stalking off, leaving Catherine humiliated in the dirty, rain-slicked street. Moments later, the police arrived, their presence enough to scatter the lingering drunks and hawkers.
Before she had even turned twenty, Catherine Moran had racked up multiple convictions for drunkenness and obscene behaviour. In 1884, on the very day she was released from prison, she went straight to the White Swan in Water Street, where she got heavily drunk again, shouting obscenities and having a wild time. Her antics drew a large crowd, who encouraged her to sing and dance. Eventually, someone alerted the police, and officers quickly arrived to break up the commotion. Catherine was arrested once again, earning herself yet another jail sentence.
Her cycle of arrests continued throughout 1884, culminating in her twenty-eighth conviction for being drunk and disorderly. This time, however, she dragged her younger sister, sixteen-year-old Jane, into trouble with her. By then, the Moran family had moved to New Summer Street, and on November 25th, the two sisters went out drinking. Catherine, as usual, became heavily intoxicated, and when the police attempted to take her into custody after warning her to go home quietly, Jane intervened. She created a disturbance and incited a crowd to try and rescue her sister, escalating the situation even further.
Final Years & Redemption?
Yet, Catherine Moran was not simply a habitual troublemaker—she was a product of her environment. The streets she lived in, the company she kept, and the lack of societal support for women in her position all played a role in shaping her life. By her late twenties, with multiple convictions to her name, she was a well-known figure in Birmingham’s courts, likely seen by authorities as beyond reform. Her story is one of hardship, resilience, and social failure—a case study in how poverty, addiction, and crime intertwine.
And yet, she did find a path forward. In 1887, at the age of 22, she married Thomas Chalmers, had two children, and moved to Lennox Street. However, despite her marriage, records show that her offences continued well into her late twenties, suggesting she struggled to break free from the cycle of crime.
As Patrick, James and Catherine grew up, their father’s volatile reputation cast a long shadow over their lives. Thomas had already lost his first wife, Mary Quincy, in 1851, leaving behind four children—Bridget (b. 1842), John (b. 1844), Michael (b. 1838), and Thomas (b. 1850). That same year, he remarried Mary Cain at St. Chad’s Cathedral, with Patrick Moran—likely his brother—standing as a witness. Their second marriage produced five more children, including Patrick, James, and Catherine, Oin (1853) and Jane (1868)
As we have uncovered, life in the Moran household was one of chaos and survival. Thomas’ drinking and frequent street brawls, coupled with the family’s deep ties to the Irish community, placed them at the heart of Birmingham’s working-class Irish struggle. As the children grew older, they found became entangled in the same cycle of hardship, defiance, and crime that defined their father’s life.
Their elder half-brother, John Moran, ID:JM1845 would soon be embroiled in a shocking act of violence that left the family in disbelief.
The Flying Horse, a public house on the corner of Great Hampton Street and Upper Tower Street was known for hosting the No. 3 Branch of the Bricklayers' Labourers' Benefit and Burial Society. The Pub was a regular gathering spot for local workers, particularly on Saturday nights when men came to pay their weekly dues. It was here, on the evening of August 7th, 1875 amid the clatter of tankards and the murmur of conversation, that Patrick Donoghue met his untimely and brutal end. The killing that sent shockwaves through the Irish community and the working-class districts of the city. His murder was not only an act of violence but became entangled with the political tensions of the time, as it occurred within the walls of a public house known for its association with Irish nationalism.
The Flying Horse had long served as a meeting place for Birmingham's Irish working-class community. More than just a drinking establishment, it was an informal gathering spot for discussions on Home Rule and Irish identity. Though the landlord had only recently taken over, he was himself an Irishman, and the pub was home to an active branch of the Birmingham Home Rule Association. A bill found inside the establishment read:
“Home Rule. All good and true Irishmen residing in Birmingham who have the welfare of dear old Ireland at heart, and the unity of her sons, are respectfully invited to attend meetings of the Birmingham branch of the Home Rule Association, which will be held at Thomas Stephen’s, Flying Horse, Little Hampton Street, the first three Sundays during the month of August.”
However, while many of its patrons were staunch Home Rulers, the society itself had no formal political affiliation.
Patrick Donoghue, a 48-year-old labourer, lived at 67 New Summer Street and had arrived at the pub that evening accompanied by his younger cousin, also named Patrick Donoghue. Their purpose was simple—to pay their society dues and enjoy a drink. However, the night took a sinister turn when the two men who hardly had time to order their ale, were confronted by Michael Caulfield and John Moran, both known figures within the Irish community. Caulfield, harbouring an old grievance against the older Donoghue, wasted no time in starting an altercation.
"Now, are you good as a man as you were two months ago"
And without warning, he struck the older man in the right eye, sending him to the floor. As Donoghue scrambled to his feet, another blow followed, landing on his left eye with brutal force. Recognising the danger, the younger Donoghue fled the pub, seeking the intervention of the police.
What transpired in the moments after his departure would prove fatal. Witnesses later recounted that a violent brawl erupted inside the Flying Horse, with Patrick Donoghue at the centre of a brutal attack. He was struck repeatedly and, once down, subjected to vicious kicks as he lay on the sawdust-covered floor. His cries for mercy were met with more blows, and by the time the violence subsided, he was unresponsive, his face bloodied and swollen.
When the younger Donoghue returned with a police officer fifteen minutes later, he found his cousin’s lifeless body lying in the smoke room. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth, and his face bore the unmistakable marks of a severe beating. Yet, despite the obvious signs of trauma, the officer dismissed the incident as mere drunkenness and refused to take action. The body was eventually transported back to New Summer Street in a cab, where Dr. Jackson was called. His pronouncement was grim—Patrick Donoghue was dead, his life extinguished by the ferocity of the attack.
The investigation into the murder quickly led to the arrests of Caulfield and John. Detective officers apprehended Caulfield at his residence in Church Street at 2am, finding bloodstains on his trousers, while Moran was taken into custody hours later at a lodging house in Tramway Buildings, Charles Henry Street.
As news of the crime spread, the Flying Horse became a focal point for discussion. Locals gathered outside, debating the details of the assault and the police’s failure to act promptly. Meanwhile, further evidence surfaced. Bloodstains on the pub floor, hastily scrubbed in an attempt to conceal the crime, and a blood-soaked cloth found discarded in the yard painted a gruesome picture of what had transpired.
The case came before the magistrates at the Birmingham Public Office on March 21st, where Caulfield and Moran stood accused of causing Donoghue’s death. The court heard testimony from multiple witnesses, including James Delaney, the deceased’s lodger; the younger Patrick Donoghue; William Newcomb, a jeweller from St. George’s Street; the landlord of the Flying Horse, Thomas Stephens; and Police Constable Henry French. Their statements corroborated the accounts of the brutal beating.
William Newcomb testified that he did not see Donoghue being kicked but observed him clutching his head and complaining of feeling unwell. He confirmed that Donoghue had been sober when he arrived at the pub, contradicting suggestions that his death was caused by intoxication. Dr. Jackson, who had examined the body, provided a crucial medical perspective, explaining that Donoghue had suffered extensive internal bleeding in the brain, most likely caused by severe blows or kicks. The pressure on his brain had resulted in a fatal coma, though the empty state of his heart suggested that he may have died instantly from syncope, a sudden cardiac failure triggered by the trauma.
Additional damning testimony came from George Faulkner, a young man residing in St. George’s Street. He recounted passing the Flying Horse at around 9pm and glancing through the door, where he saw a group of eight or nine men attacking someone on the floor. The victim, unable to defend himself, was repeatedly kicked as he attempted to rise. Faulkner distinctly remembered hearing a voice call out, “John Moran!” While he could not definitively identify any of the attackers in court, he confirmed that the landlord had been present, struggling in vain to quell the violence.
Another witness, 16-year-old Robert Green of Lower Camden Street, provided a chillingly similar account. Hearing a commotion from inside the pub, he peered in and saw Donoghue on the ground, being struck and kicked by multiple assailants. He recalled one of the attackers shouting,
“Trip him and kick him!”
Most crucially, when asked if he could identify anyone from that night, he pointed directly at John Moran, confirming that he had seen him delivering kicks to the helpless victim.
With such overwhelming evidence, the case against Caulfield and Moran appeared strong. The magistrates listened as the prosecution laid out the brutal details of the attack, while the defence sought to cast doubt on the precise sequence of events. Yet the facts remained undeniable—Patrick Donoghue had entered the Flying Horse that evening a healthy man and left as a lifeless body.
As the legal proceedings unfolded, the case became a stark reminder of the unchecked violence that plagued the streets of the gun and jewellery quarter. The Flying Horse, once a place of community and fraternity, was now synonymous with bloodshed. The failure of the police to immediately intervene and the attempted cover-up within the pub only fuelled public outrage. The courts and the Judge, however, expressed “his disgust at the brutality of the Prisoners” sentenced both Caulfield and John to:
Ten years penal servitude.
John muttered, as he left the dock, “Oh, dear !” Caulfield clasped his hands, and seemed astounded. On leaving the dock he nodded a farewell to his friends.
During my research, I discovered multiple families with the same surnames living in close proximity, many of Irish descent. Some were likely related, while others were not. One such individual was another Patrick Moran, who lived in Wolverhampton during the 1860s (incidentally, my town of birth—well, Cosford, actually).
The Duke of York Inn on Church Street was known for its home-brewed ale and regularly hosted boxing nights. On 30th December 1859, the pub was packed with both Irish and English patrons. Loud, boozy conversations quickly escalated into heated arguments and, inevitably, brawls, often rooted in nationalistic and religious differences. One such altercation saw Patrick Moran, an Irish labourer, attacked by two Englishmen, William and John Roberts. The fight ended with Moran being struck with a sledgehammer, dislocating his jaw.
This incident highlights the tensions between the Irish and English communities at the time. Most of the parents of all the Giblin brothers' friends were Irish, and their close-knit living conditions fostered a strong sense of solidarity among them.
In 1863, Patrick was involved in another altercation, this time with John Walsh (from a family we’ll examine later) in Wolverhampton. The two had traveled from Ireland for seasonal work and were staying in Codsall. After drinking and arguing at a village pub, the dispute continued outside. While heading toward Codsall Wood, Moran was attacked by Walsh, who was later fined 2 shillings and 6 pence, plus costs.
Reformatory and Industrial Schools were intended to rehabilitate young offenders by instilling discipline and teaching them trades. In reality, as we have established, they were often harsh, prison-like institutions where physical punishment was routine, conditions were dire, and many boys saw absconding as their only escape.
Patrick Moran, the teenage son or brother of the Wolverhampton Patrick Moran, had already become a repeat escapee by 1862. On at least three occasions, he had fled from the reformatory, determined to return home—despite the risks.
His most daring escape took place when he evaded capture in Wolverhampton. Inspector Thomas, acting on a tip-off, attempted to arrest him in a house on Middle Row. But Patrick was not about to go quietly. Bolting out the back door, he scaled a wall with the agility of a street thief, balancing on its summit before sprinting across the rooftops. Witnesses later described how he moved with the confidence of a cat, navigating the heights like a boy who had nothing to lose.
But his luck ran out when he dropped down into a yard—straight into the path of a fierce bulldog. With nowhere to run, he faced a fate worse than the police: being mauled by the animal, had the owner not been nearby to call it off. His capture was inevitable. The magistrates, unimpressed by his daring escape, ordered his return to the reformatory—reinforcing the cycle of imprisonment, escape, and recapture that so many boys endured.
William Bates (16) and his younger brother Thomas (15), are working at an iron foundry, the year is 1871. A physically gruelling job of long hours, hazardous conditions and minimal safety measures, forced into harsh labour to help support their family. Their mother, Juliet Price Oliver, an abandoned wife, had gone from a life of relative comfort to barely scraping by as a laundress. Her neighbour Sarah Wright, a widowed Mother of five, also worked as a Laundress, suggesting that the two women worked together. In my ‘Poverty Line’ study of Birmingham families in 1881, the weekly earnings for a Laundress was just 9.65 shillings —an income that meant constant struggle, hunger, and uncertainty.
The family’s descent into poverty had not been sudden—it had been a slow and painful collapse, triggered by William Bates Sr.’s disappearance sometime between 1868 and 1871. With no criminal record to suggest he had been transported or imprisoned, his fate remained unknown. What was certain, however, was that his absence left the family in turmoil.
Juliet's Life Before Poverty
Juliet had not always known struggle. She grew up in a household that, while not wealthy, had a secure foundation. Her father, William Blainey Oliver, originally from Ludlow, Shropshire, settled in Birmingham, where he married Elizabeth Ann Inshaw. They had seven children, including Juliet, and by the early 1840s, the family was living on Moland Street.
When Juliet was still young, her father passed away, but her mother soon remarried a gunmaker, Thomas Leach (Loach), and the family moved to Aston. This new marriage provided a degree of stability—Thomas earned a solid income, and Juliet, then a teenager, found work as a burnisher, a respected and skilled role in Birmingham’s thriving metal industry.
By the time she married William Bates in 1852, she likely expected a stable and secure future. He worked in an iron factory, a hard but a steady job. Their first three children—William, Thomas , and Herbert, were born into a household that, while not wealthy, had two working parents, food on the table, and a roof over their heads.
The Collapse into Poverty
Between 1863 and 1868, Juliet had given birth to three more children. Then, everything changed. William Bates Sr. vanished without a trace, deserting his wife and leaving her to fend for their six children alone. They moved to Court 2 House 5 on Summer Lane, where Juliet scrubbed and boiled garments from dawn till dusk, earning what little she could to keep her family from falling into destitution. Her 73-year-old mother, Elizabeth, was also part of the household—another mouth to feed in a home already stretched to breaking point.
With her neighbour Sarah Wright, the grim reality for abandoned and widowed women, with children to feed and an income barely enough to survive, Juliet had gone from a comfortable life in a tradesman’s household to living in a court surrounded by other struggling women and six children.
For William Bates Jr., the eldest son, the pressure to provide was inescapable
William Bates born 1855 WB1855
With eight people living in a back-to-back house and the only weekly income minimal, on a cold and damp February day in 1871, William was caught in an act of desperation and with friend’s John Giblin ID:JG1854 and Patrick Cooney, both seventeen and fourteen year old Edward Cunningham ID:EC1857 were caught stealing four pounds of cheese from a grocer’s shop on Goode Street. For William, this was not an act of greed or opportunistic mischief—It was not greed, but hunger and hardship that forced the crime.
The shop belonged to Richard Scott, though it was likely his wife, Jane, who ran the day-to-day operations. Jane had married young, at just 18, and had moved to Goode Street with her husband. She was managing the shop herself, as well as raising her children. On the day of the theft, she was in a back room when she saw William Bates enter, snatch the cheese, and flee. She chased him into the street, where he joined his accomplices, but they did not get far. The authorities swiftly caught up with them, and they were brought before the courts.
Court Room - Victorian and Edwardian Birmingham from old photographs; By by McCulla, Dorothy
The justice system was unforgiving. All but Giblin pleaded guilty, and the sentences were handed down swiftly: William received three days of hard labour, while John Giblin, who had a previous convictions, was sentenced to three months’ imprisonment. The fines and punishments seemed severe for what was essentially a stolen meal, but theft, regardless of the circumstances, was met with severe consequences for working class children.
Richard Scott: A Man with a Darker Side
Though the robbery of the cheese was quickly punished, the man who owned the shop was far from innocent himself. Just months earlier, in September 1870, Richard Scott had been convicted of a brutal assault. After a dispute at the Hydraulic Inn, Lodge End, over work he had done, Scott viciously attacked James Reading, knocking him down and gouging out his left eye. It took another man’s intervention to press the eye back into place. For this horrifying act of violence, Scott was sentenced to two months in prison.
It is telling that Jane Scott, a young mother and businesswoman, worked hard to maintain the grocer’s shop while her husband was engaged in violent disputes and criminal acts. Her life was tragically short—she died in 1873 at just 32 years old. Perhaps the burden of managing a household, a shop, and a troubled husband took its toll.
By 1879, Scott had left Birmingham behind, emigrating to the United States at the age of 38. Whether he sought a fresh start or was running from his past, we can only speculate.
Poverty, Crime, and Consequence
This goes beyond petty theft—it highlights the harsh realities of life in 19th-century Birmingham. William, who took the cheese, was no career criminal; he and his brother worked in a brass foundry. His actions were likely driven by hunger, dire economic conditions, and a desperate need to support his mother. It was a crime of desperation, all too common in a city where many families teetered on the brink of destitution.
Ironically, the same legal system that swiftly punished hungry children was slow to address the violence of men like Richard Scott. This serves as a stark reminder that justice in the 19th century was often uneven—swift for the poor, but more lenient for those with means and status.
1873: Theft Turns to Mugging
At 18, William's criminal behaviour had shifted from petty theft to acts of calculated violence. In October 1873, he was charged alongside Michael Coffee and Daniel Cunningham with stealing 32 shillings from Michael Malarkey. The theft wasn’t a moment of opportunity—it was outright robbery, as the money was forcefully torn from Malarkey’s waistcoat pocket. Malarkey pleaded for a portion of his money back, receiving only five shillings in return.
Rather than deny the theft, along with his accomplices Bates justified it by claiming Malarkey had won the money gambling and taunted them with his winnings. The case descended into farce when their mothers attempted to avoid prosecution by offering the court a sovereign as compensation and proposing a joint IOU, causing laughter in the courtroom. The magistrate, unimpressed, fined them 20 shillings each for assault, with a default penalty of one month’s imprisonment. It was a telling moment—the court still viewed them as unruly youths rather than serious criminals. That perception would soon change.
By November of the following year, Bates had transformed from a petty thief into a far more dangerous figure on the streets. The charge was violent assault—this time against William Lloyd, a porter from Hospital Street. On a Saturday night, Lloyd was returning home when William followed him into his house and, without provocation, struck him in the face with a brickbat. A brickbat is a piece of broken brick or a chunk of brick, often used as a weapon. This unprovoked, vicious attack was part of a troubling pattern. Bates was no longer stealing to survive—he had begun using violence to assert dominance over others.
At this point, Bates was no longer just a lone figure. He had become a key member of the ‘Giblin brothers' slogging gang. A group known for their use of intimidation and violence. The court acknowledged this, with the magistrate remarking on the seriousness of the offence. This time, there was no leniency—he was sentenced to two months in prison and ordered to find two sureties of £10 each to keep the peace. Failure to do so would mean an additional three months behind bars.
However, Bates showed no sign of reform. In March 1875, he was back before the courts, this time alongside William Dainton and John Wilkins, charged with assaulting Thomas Lees outside a public house. The attack was brutal—Lees was knocked to the ground, severely beaten, and struck with a belt buckle by Bates. The court heard witness testimony that clearly implicated them. Lees suffered serious injuries and was hospitalised, yet although Wilkins, was clearly involved, was discharged due to a lack of direct evidence.
By 1878, Bates’ criminal activity had evolved even further—no longer simply a street thug—he was actively confronting authority figures. Standing alongside Thomas Feeney ID:TF1862 and John Giblin, ID:JG1854 he was charged with inciting a riot at the Flying Horse pub on Little Hampton Street. When police arrived to remove the gang from the premises, they were knocked down and kicked by the group. This direct attack on law enforcement resulted in a six-month hard labour sentence for all three men.
1879: Violence Turns Inward
William’s violence was no longer just directed at strangers, police, or rival gangs—it had turned inward, against his own family. Sympathy or understanding for William’s previous escalation of criminality and behaviour due run out. In September 1879, he was charged with assaulting his grandmother, now 81 who was still living with the family, now living on Ludgate Hill.
The evidence against him was damning—he knocked his grandmother down, threw a basin of water over her, and when his mother tried to intervene, he assaulted her as well. His grandmother, in court, revealed that this was not the first time she had been attacked but admitted she had never reported him before. This time, however, she had had enough—his violence, paired with his use of foul language, led her to finally seek justice.
The magistrate had no sympathy. Calling Bates’ conduct “base in the extreme,” he sentenced him to three months’ hard labour.
Herbert Bates born 1856 TB1856
On a brisk November evening in 1880, the bustling streets of Carrs Lane were alive with the clatter of carriage wheels and the murmur of hurried footsteps. Among the throng was a young woman, Louise Goston, wrapped in the latest fashion—a fitted jacket with a small, discreet pocket at the back. Unbeknownst to her, the placement of that pocket had caught the eye of a seasoned thief.
Herbert Bates, a wiry seventeen-year-old with sharp features and sharper instincts, had been watching from the shadows. Unlike his brother William, who had taken the path of brute violence, Herbert had learned the delicate art of theft. The streets were his classroom, the crowd his cover. He had spent years refining his craft, moving unseen, his fingers quick as whispers. He knew the rhythm of a mark’s movements, the weight of a purse by sight, the slack of a pocket by feel.
With practiced ease, he drifted closer. His hand slipped into the back of Miss Goston’s jacket, closing around a small, worn purse—no more than a few shillings inside, but enough to mean a meal, a bed, or a drink to dull the ever-present tension of survival.
But this time, fortune turned against him. A sharp-eyed young man named Lovesay had seen the theft and raised the alarm. Within hours, Herbert was back in the dock, standing before a magistrate who had grown weary of his face.
The assistant barrister, looking over the charge sheet, saw the familiar pattern—nine previous convictions, five of them for robbery. There was little sympathy left to give. A fashionable jacket, he noted dryly, was an open invitation to the city’s thieves. He was handed down twelve months' imprisonment and three years of police supervision. But his warning was clear: “The next time you appear before this court, the sentence will be penal.”
And the next time came swiftly.
A year later, Herbert was caught again, this time lifting a purse containing six shillings. The sentence was as promised—five years' penal servitude.
A Criminal Trajectory
Herbert’s path had followed the well-worn route of many street thieves. His first recorded crime, at the age of 12, was for wilful damage, earning him fourteen days of hard labour. By 13, he was stealing iron and coal, serving three-month sentences in quick succession. When he attempted to steal a gun later that year, the court predictably dragged to the Reformatory with a sentence of five years.
Upon release, reformatory had done little to change the path of criminality for Herbert, as it did for all the young men I am writing about, he returned to theft, stealing a timepiece, corkscrews, purses—whatever he could slip into his pockets unseen. His sentences grew longer. He moved from short terms of hard labour to extended prison stints, until the inevitable five years’ penal servitude in 1880.
For many of his peers, this would have been the start of a downward spiral. The slogging gangs of Birmingham—violent street thugs—were filled with men who had once been petty thieves before finding a taste for bloodshed. But Herbert never followed them. His crimes had always been about survival, never brutality.
When Herbert emerged from prison, he took a different path. In 1886, at the age of 22, he married Mary Ann Keen, a woman seven years his senior. They lived in Legge Street, where he made his living as a hawker—a meagre but honest trade. There is no further record of his criminal activity.
In 1891, he had four children, and his younger brother Charles had moved in with him, working in a brass foundry. The family also took in a lodger, no doubt to make ends meet. A decade later, they had moved to 22 High Park Street, and Herbert’s eldest son, 15-year-old Herbert Jr., had also become a hawker.
Come 1911, now living in 16 Park Street, Nechells, Herbert had transitioned to the role of a general dealer, a step up from the uncertain trade of a street seller. He had settled into a quiet, working-class life—a stark contrast to the boy who once darted through Birmingham’s alleys, lifting purses and dodging the law.
Unlike many of his peers, he did not die in prison, nor in a fight, nor in the workhouse. He lived to the remarkable age of 91, passing away in March 1951.
Perhaps, as a hawker, he still had a hustler’s edge, finding ways to turn a quick profit on the side. But if he did, there’s no record of it. His name never appeared in court again. Whatever had driven him to pickpocketing as a youth, it no longer defined him as a man.
The Diverging Paths of the Bates Brothers
Herbert’s life stood in stark contrast to that of his brother William Bates. William, driven by desperation and later by a taste for violence, followed the path of gang culture—escalating from theft to robbery, violent assault, and domestic brutality. He was a man who fought the world with his fists.
Herbert, however, had chosen skill over force. His was the life of the quick-fingered thief, the professional pickpocket who honed his craft in the crowds of Birmingham. But whether it was a shift in circumstance or a decision of his own making, he did something so few of his contemporaries managed—he walked away from crime and built something different.
His life ended far better than it began.
Part One Map of the Giblin Slogging Gang
Next Chapter to follow - Cunningham, Welch, Walsh, & Welch Families...
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