Did Not Go to His Wife in Nova Scotia but Made a Tour Committing
Various Depredations—Is Seen in Portland, Maine—Is Heard of at
Boston and New York and Then at New Haven Where He Robbed a
Hotel—Arrest and Escape, Recapture and Conviction.
After having made his appearance in different parts of Nova Scotia, he
called at a certain house one morning, on a bye-road, and ordered
breakfast, and asked for a towel also, and a piece of soap that he might
wash at a small brook that was near the house. The woman of the house,
and a maid, were the only persons in the house at the time. Smith left a
large bundle, which he carried, on a chest which was standing in the
room, and went out to wash. The bundle presented rather a singular
appearance, and attracted the young woman’s notice, so that she said to
the other: “I wonder what he has in that bundle. If you will keep watch
at the window while he is washing at the brook, I will open and see what
is in it.” They did so and found a great number of watches, of which
they counted fifteen, with many other valuable articles.
She tied up the bundle again, and placed it where he had left it and
said, “This man has stolen these watches.” When he came in, he handed
the towel to the young woman, and said, “There were just fifteen
watches, were there?” and with such an expression of countenance, that
she could not refrain from answering, “Yes.” “But,” said he, “you were
mistaken about my stealing them, for I came honestly by them.” Upon
which the young woman instantly recognized him to be Henry More Smith,
and concluded that he was collecting his “hidden treasure,” which he had
deposited while he was in Roden.
This information I received from Mrs. Beckwith, a respectable lady from
Nova Scotia, who resided at the time in that neighborhood, who also said
it was not known that he had ever seen his wife at that time, from the
time of his release from confinement. The next account I heard of him
stated that he had been seen on board of a plaster vessel at Eastport,
but he was not known to have been on shore during the time she remained
there. He employed himself while on board engraving a number of small
articles, some of which he made presents of to young ladies who chanced
to come on board.
He was next seen at Portland, by a gentleman who had known him at
Kingston; nothing, however, transpired there concerning him, only that
he was travelling with considerable weight of baggage through the State
of Maine, which gave rise to the following ludicrous story, which I saw
published at Eastport, of a Mysterious Stranger travelling in a stage.
One cold and stormy night, the bar-room of an hotel was filled with
sturdy farmers surrounding a cheerful fire, and discussing the affairs
of state over a mug of flip. The night having been tremendously stormy
and wet, the wind whistling all around the house, and making every door
and window rattle, the landlord expressed much fear for the safety of
the stage coach; but suddenly the sound of a distant stage-horn
announced the approach of the coach and removed the landlord’s anxiety.
He replenished the fire, that the approaching travellers might have as
warm a retreat as possible from the unusual inclemency of the night.
Some time passed, and yet the expected coach did not come up. The
landlord’s fears grew up anew, and with an expression of concern he put
the question around, “Did not some of you hear a horn?” and added, “I
have expected the stage a long time, and I thought that a few minutes
ago I heard the horn near at hand; but I fear that something has
happened in the gale that has caused it to be thus belated.” “I thought
I heard the stage-horn some time ago,” answered the arch young farmer
Hopkins; “but then you must know that ghosts and witches are very busy
on such nights as this, and what kind of pranks they may cut up we
cannot tell. You know the old adage,—“Busy as the devil in a gale of
wind.” Now who knows but they may have——” Here he was interrupted by the
sudden opening of the door, accompanied by a violent gust of wind and
the dashing of rain, when in rushed from the fury of the storm, drenched
with wet from head to foot, a tall stranger, dressed in a fur cap and
shaggy great coat.
From an impulse of politeness and respect, not unmingled with fear, all
arose on his entrance,—the expression “The devil in a gale of wind,”
rushing upon their minds with a signification to which a profound
silence gave expressive utterance. The stranger noticed their reserved
yet voluntary respect with a slight nod, and proceeded to disencumber
himself of his wet clothes and warm his fingers by the fire. By this
time the driver entered bearing the baggage of his passenger. “The worst
storm I was ever troubled with blowing right in my teeth, and I guess
the gentleman there found it the same.” Here a low whisper ensued
between the driver and the landlord, from which an unconnected word or
phrase dropped upon the ear of the inmates. “Don’t know,—came in the,—as
rich as a mine,” &c. Upon this information the landlord immediately took
his wet garments and hung them carefully before the fire. “I hope that
your wetting will not injure your health, sir.” “I hardly think it will,
my good friend; I am no child to catch cold from a ducking.” “Shall I
show you a room, sir?” said the landlord. “We can let you have as good a
room and as comfortable a supper as any in the country.”
The stranger was immediately conducted into a handsome parlor, in which
blazed a cheerful fire; and in a short time a smoking supper was placed
on the board. After supper was over, he called the landlord into his
room, and sent for his trunk. “I like your accommodations,” accosting
the landlord, “and if you like my proposals equally well, I will be your
guest for some time, though I know not how long. Nay, I shall stay at
any price you please—but remember, I must have my rooms to myself, and
they must not be entered without my leave; and whatever I do, no
questions to be asked. Do you consent to these terms?” “I do sir,”
replied the landlord, “and you shall not have cause to complain of your
treatment.” “Very well,” rejoined the stranger, “then the agreement is
completed. You may go now.” “Yes, sir,” replied the landlord, “but what
may I call your name, sir?” “Beware, you have broken the bargain
already,” replied the stranger. “I forgive you for this once only; now
ask no more questions, or you will certainly drive me from your house.”
After this the landlord returned to his bar-room, from which the merry
farmers had not yet withdrawn, but were endeavoring to penetrate the
mystery that hung around the stranger. “Well, landlord,” said the arch
Hopkins, “what do you make him out to be?” “That is a question I dare
hardly answer. He is a gentleman, for he does not grudge his money.” “I
would not think he should,” replied Hopkins, shaking his head
mysteriously. “And why not?” exclaimed several of the company. “Ah, just
as I thought,” returned Hopkins, with another shake of the head and
significant look at the landlord. “What, in the name of all that’s
silly, is the matter with you, Hopkins?” exclaimed the landlord. “What
on earth can you know?” “I know what I know,” was his reply.
“Rather doubtful, that,” rejoined the landlord.
“You doubt it,” returned Hopkins, rather warmly; “then I will tell you
what I think him to be; he is nothing more or less than a pirate; and
you will all be murdered in your beds, Smith, (which was the landlord’s
name,) you and your whole family, before morning. Now what think you of
your guest?”
All the company stood aghast, and stared at each other in silence for
some time, until the landlord again ventured to interrupt the silence by
asking Hopkins “How do you know all that?” Hopkins answered, in rather a
silly manner, “I guessed at it,” which did away with the effect produced
by his previous assertions; and the landlord dismissing his fears,
exclaimed, “As long as he pays well, be he man or devil, he shall stay
here.” “A praiseworthy conclusion,” proceeded from a voice at the back
part of the room, and at that instant the mysterious stranger stood
before them. All started to their feet, seized their hats and waited to
ask no questions, nor make additional comments, but went home and told
their wives of Smith’s guest, and Hopkins’ opinion of his character.
Every woman fastened her door that night with suspicious care, and the
mysterious stranger, and the delineation of his real character by
Hopkins, became a subject of general conversation and comment throughout
the village, and gradually became the received opinion among all the
settlers, so that they set down the mysterious stranger for what Hopkins
guessed him to be, and concluded that the articles which composed his
baggage could not have been obtained honestly.
The stranger, finding now the conversation turned upon him, did not
think it prudent to protract his stay in this place, and proceeding to
Boston in the coach, was known from that time by the name of Maitland.
He reached Boston about the 1st of November, where it was supposed he
must have, in some way, disposed of much of his treasures. From thence
he proceeded for New York; on the 7th November arrived at New Haven in
the Boston stage coach, by the way of New London, with a large trunk
full of clothing, a small portable desk, and money in his pockets. He
was dressed in a handsome frock coat, with breeches, and a pair of top
boots, and remained at the steamboat hotel several days. While he
remained there, he always ate his meals alone, and preferred being alone
in different parts of the hotel at different times, every part of which
he had an opportunity of becoming acquainted with, while he remained
waiting for the arrival of the steamer from New York.
The hotel was then kept by Mr. Henry Butler; and, as it afterwards
appeared, the traveller found his way by means of keys, into Mr.
Butler’s desk and sideboards, as well as every part of the house. He
left New Haven in the steamboat at 5 a.m. on the 10th November, 1815.
After his departure from New Haven, Mr. Butler’s servants discovered
that their whole quantity of silver spoons, to the number of four or
five dozen, which had been carefully put away in a side-board was
missing, and not to be found on the premises; and it was found, upon
further search by Mr. Butler, that a watch and several other articles,
with money from the desk, had sympathetically decamped with the spoons.
Mr. Butler imagined that the theft must be chargeable on some lodger in
the hotel, and immediately fixed his suspicions upon Smith, whose
appearance and movements about the house furnished suspicions too strong
to pass unnoticed.
Mr. Butler, without loss of time, set out for New York, and arriving
there before the boat that carried the adventurer, he furnished himself
with proper authority, and boarded the boat in the stream. After Mr.
Butler had made some enquiries of Captain Bunker, who could not identify
the traveller among all his passengers, Smith made his appearance from
some part of the engine room and was immediately ordered by Mr. Butler
to open his trunk, with which he complied unhesitatingly; but the trunk
did not disclose the expected booty. There was, however, in the trunk a
very neat portable writing desk, which he refused to open, and Mr.
Butler could not find out how it was fastened. However, he called for an
axe to split it open, upon which Smith said, “I will show you,” and,
touching a spring, the lid flew open. The desk contained a set of neat
engraving tools, with old silver rings and jewelry, amongst which Mr.
Butler perceived a small ear-ring, which he supposed belonged to a young
lady that had slept in his house, and laid her ear-rings on a stand at
the head of her bed, which were missing the next morning. After her
departure one of the rings was found at the door of the hotel. Upon the
evidence of this single ear-ring, he was arrested and put into the
Bridewell in the city of New York.
The keeper of the Bridewell at that time was Archimial Allen, an old
friend of mine, and a man of respectable character. On my visit to New
York afterwards, I called on Mr. Allen, and enquired the particulars
concerning W. H. Newman, (for this was the name he had assumed then)
while in his custody. He informed me that when he was put in he behaved
for some time very well; that he offered him a book; but he could
neither read nor write a word. He soon began to complain of being sick
from confinement, raised blood, and seemed so ill that a doctor attended
him, but could not tell what was the matter with him. However, he kept
up the farce of being ill until he was removed from Bridewell to New
Haven, there to take his trial at the Supreme court in January.
His change of situation had the effect, as it would seem, of restoring
his health, which brought along with it that display of his ingenuity
which the peculiarity of his new situation seemed to call forth. During
the period of his confinement at New Haven, he amused himself by carving
two images—one representing himself, and the other Butler, in the
attitude of fighting. And so mechanically had he adjusted this
production of his genius, that he would actually cause them to fight,
and make the image representing himself knock down that of Butler, to
the wonder and amusement of many that came to see him. By his
insinuating manner and captivating address, he not only drew forth the
sympathies of those who came to visit him, but even gained so far upon
their credulity, as to induce a belief that he was innocent of the crime
with which he was charged.
The lapse of a few days, however, made impressions of a different
nature. The January Court term drew nigh, at which our prisoner was to
receive his trial, but on the very eve of his trial, and after the Court
had been summoned, he, by the power of a mind which seldom failed him in
the hour of emergency, contrived and effected his escape in the
following curious and singular manner. And here it will be necessary to
give some description of the prison, with the situation of the
apartments, which the writer was himself, by the politeness of the
keeper, permitted to survey. There was a wide hall leading from the
front of the County House, and from this hall, two separate prisons were
entered by their respective doors; between these doors a timber
partition crossed the hall, having in it a door also, to allow an
entrance to the inner prison. The object in having this partition, was
to prevent any intercourse between the two prison doors, and it was so
placed as to leave a distance of about two feet on each side between it
and the prison doors respectively. Newman, (for this it will be
remembered is the name by which our prisoner is now known); was confined
in the inner prison.
The doors of the prison opened by shoving inwards, and when shut were
secured by two strong bolts, which entered into stone posts, with clasps
lapped over a staple, to which were fixed strong padlocks. These
padlocks, our prisoner, by some means, managed to open or remove, so
that he could open the door at pleasure, and fix the padlocks again in
so geniously, that it could not be detected from their appearance. On
the night of the 12th January, at the usual time of feeding the
prisoners, Newman, availing himself of these adjustments, opened his
door, came out, and replacing the locks, took his stand behind the door
of the partition, which, when open, would conceal him from observation.
The prisoners in the other apartments received their supply first, and
the instant when the servant was proceeding from the door to go and
bring Newman’s supper, he stepped through the partition door, which had
been first opened and not shut again, and followed the servant softly
through the hall to the front door, and walked away undiscovered! When
the servant returned with his supper to the wicket, she called him, but
receiving no answer, placed his supper inside of the wicket, saying,
“you may take it or leave it; I am not going to wait here all night.”
She then secured the outer door, and so the matter rested till the
morning.
The next morning, finding that the prisoner had not taken his supper,
the servant observed to the keeper, that she feared Newman was dead, for
he had not taken his supper; and she called him, but could not hear or
see anything of him. Upon this, the keeper came with his keys to unlock
the door, and to his utter astonishment, found both locks broken and the
prison empty. The keeper made known the matter to the sheriff, and on
the 13th, the day subsequent to his escape, the following notice was
inserted in the Connecticut Journal:
“BEWARE OF A VILLAIN!—One of the most accomplished villains that
disgraces our country, broke from the jail in this city on Friday
evening last, between the hours of five and six o’clock, and succeeded
in making his escape. The fellow calls himself Newman, and was bound
over for trial at the sitting of the next Supreme Court, on the charge
of burglary, having robbed the house of Mr. Butler, of plate, money,
etc. He is supposed to be an Englishman, and is undoubtedly a most
profound adept in the arts of knavery and deception. He speaks the
English and French languages fluently, and can play off the air of a
genteel Frenchman with the most imposing gravity. He is of middling
stature, slender and active, and appears to possess an astonishing
variety of genius. He is sick or well, grave or gay, silent or
loquacious, and can fence, box, fight, run, sing, dance, play,
whistle, or talk, as occasion suits. He amused himself while in
prison, by making and managing a puppet show, which he performed
apparently with such means as to excite the wonder of the credulous,
having a piece of an old horse-shoe, whetted on the wall of his
dungeon, as the only instrument of his mechanism, and complaining only
of the scarcity of timber to complete his group. He had the address,
by an irresistable flow of good humor and cheerfulness, to make some
believe that he was quite an innocent and harmless man; and excited
sympathy enough in those who had the curiosity to see him, to obtain
several gratifications which prisoners do not usually enjoy; yet the
depth of his cunning was evinced in accomplishing his means of escape,
which he effected by sawing a hole in the prison door, which is
several inches thick, so neatly, that the block could be taken out and
replaced without any marks of violence. Through this hole he could
thrust his arm, and by wrenching off strong padlocks, and shoving back
the bolts, at the hour of supper, when the person who waited on the
prisoners was giving them their food, found a free passage to the hall
of the counting house, and thence to the street.”
The saw which he used in cutting the door of the prison, is supposed to
have been one which he stole on board the steamboat Fulton, on his
passage from New York to New Haven, and so artfully did he conceal the
saw, though repeatedly searched both before and after his confinement,
at the suggestion of Capt. Bunker, that he retained it about his person
until by its means he effected his escape.
About the time that Newman made his elopement, Mr. Butler happened to be
in New York, and on his return by land, he met Newman travelling
leisurely along, a few miles distant from the city. Mr. Butler readily
recognized him, and immediately instituted a pursuit, but he baffled his
attempt to apprehend him and made his retreat into the woods. Upon this
Mr. Butler engaged a party of men, with dogs and fire-arms to ferret him
out if possible, but he had vigilance and art sufficient to elude their
efforts to take him.
The next morning after the chase, he made his appearance at a certain
house, where he found the table placed for the family breakfast, and
without invitation or ceremony, sat down at the table and began to eat.
While he was eating he observed to the family, that he would not let
them take him yesterday—referring to his pursuers. “Was it you they were
after?” enquired some of the family. “Yes, but I would not let them find
me.” “How came you from New Haven?” was next enquired. “I staid a great
while,” he replied, “but they did not find anything against me, only
that a young woman pretended to say that I had an ear-ring of hers which
belonged to my wife, which was not worth waiting for, and so I came
away.”
Here, however, he was apprehended, and sent again to Bridewell; but when
he came there, he denied being the man, and had so altered his
appearance and dress, that no one knew him, until Mr. Allen, the keeper
of the prison at New Haven, came and recognized him. He took him in
charge at the Bridewell and returned with him to New Haven in the
steamboat. On his arrival at the county house, the sheriff had him
closely searched, to see that he had no saws, or any other instruments
by which he might effect another escape. After the search, he was
confined in the criminal’s room, handcuffed, with a shackle about one of
his legs, to which was attached a long iron chain firmly stapled to the
floor, and in company with two negro boys who were confined for
stealing.
In this situation he was left in the evening; and the next morning, when
the keeper came to the door of his prison, he found him walking the room
smoking his pipe, with the chain on his shoulder, and the handcuffs in
his hand, which he presented to the keeper, saying, “you may take these,
they may be of use to you, for they are of no use to me.” The keeper, on
attempting to open the door, found that he had not only drawn the
staple, but had raised the floor also, which was of strong plank firmly
fastened to the sleepers with spikes. The heads of some of the spikes
were drawn through the planks which he had taken up, and with which he
had so barricaded the door that the keeper attempted in vain to enter.
Upon this, he called upon the sheriff, who came and ordered the prisoner
to open the door, to which he replied from within, “My house is my
castle, and none shall enter alive without my leave.” The sheriff then
ordered the two colored boys (who stood trembling with fear) to come and
remove the fastening from the door, but the prisoner told them that
death would be their portion if they attempted it.
The sheriff finding him determined not to open the door, and having
attempted in vain to get in by other means, sent for a mason, and
ordered him to break an opening through the brick partition which
divided the lower room. When the mason commenced operations on the wall,
Newman said to the sheriff, “It is no use to make a hole through the
wall, for I could kill every vagabond as fast as they put their heads
in, but if the sheriff will bring no one in but gentlemen, I will open
the door for him.”
The door was then opened, and the sheriff went in and secured him; and
soon after, more strongly, with additional irons and chains. Finding
himself now overpowered, and another escape rather hopeless, he had
recourse to his old scheme of yelling and screaming like anything but
the human voice, and seemingly in every part of the house. This he kept
up all night, until the whole town was literally alarmed. A special
court was therefore immediately called, and in a few days he was brought
to his trial.
The trial was brought on as a case of burglary, the prisoner having
entered a chamber of Mr. Butler’s, and stole an ear-ring belonging to a
young lady then lodging at the house. Newman obtained counsel to plead
his case; but not being satisfied with the manner in which the trial was
conducted, he pleaded his own case, in which he maintained that the
ear-ring did not belong to the lady, but to his own wife; that very
_like_ was not the same, and that the evidence before the court did not
establish the charge. He was found guilty, however, and sentenced to
three years confinement in the Newgate, Simsbury Mines, which was
considered rather a stretch of power, on account of his infamous and
notorious character. He was consequently sent off next day to the place
of his future confinement and labor, ironed and chained, and in a wagon
under a strong guard.
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