down the steps. At once the fugitives flung themselves upon him, and
downed him as he shouted "Stop thief!" The cry was heard, and by the
time the Westons had emerged upon the street, they were followed by
a "runner," John Owens by name. The brothers very cleverly separated;
Owens following George, who ran into Newgate Street, doubled into
Warwick Lane, and made for Newgate Market. Here, however, he was felled
by the fist of a market-porter, but struggled again to his feet, and
desperately resisted until Owens and a crowd of excited spectators
arrived and dragged him back to Newgate.
Joseph was not more fortunate, and had only reached Cock Lane when his
flight also was stopped by a market-porter, one John Davis, who flung
down a sack of peas in his path. This Joseph easily avoided, but Davis
then laid hold of him by the collar.
"Let go!" said the highwayman, "or I will shoot you."
The porter did not let go, and Joseph fired and hit him in the neck.
But Davis held on until the crowd closed in, and Joseph also was soon
in his cell again.
So, too, was Lepierre, who was taken in Newgate Street. Storey was more
successful, and escaped altogether, although he had fetters on his
legs. The crowd, seeing him calmly walking along, thought he was being
re-conducted to gaol, and so did not interfere with him.
The brothers were brought to trial on July 6th, 1782, charged with
robbing the Bristol mail near Cranford Bridge, on January 29th, 1781.
Over a hundred witnesses appeared for the prosecution, among them,
people who had been given stolen notes by them. But the postboy,
Samuel Walker, having died, the prosecution failed.
They were then charged with forgery in respect of the notes and bills
stolen: George being convicted and sentenced to death. Joseph was
acquitted, but was then charged in the third instance with maliciously
wounding John Davis, for which he was found guilty and condemned. They
were executed at Tyburn on September 3rd, 1782.
Clothed quietly but fashionably in black, they went to the place
of execution in two carts, in company with several other condemned
criminals, but held themselves haughtily apart, as "gentlemen" should.
They refused the ministrations of the Ordinary, declaring themselves
to be Roman Catholics; and died firmly, and without any appearance of
contrition.
JACK RANN: "SIXTEEN-STRING JACK"
John Rann, better known as "Sixteen-string Jack," was born in the
neighbourhood of Bath, midway in the eighteenth century. As a boy he
earned a meagre but honest living by peddling articles of everyday
household consumption in the villages round about. He and his
donkey were well remembered in after years, and aroused the envious
anticipations of other small boys who, reckless of the appointed end
of highwaymen, looked forward to some happy day when they too might
perhaps blossom out from such obscure beginnings into such fame as his.
He was but twelve years of age when his handsome face attracted the
attention of a lady prominent in the neighbourhood. She offered him
a situation, and he gratefully accepted. A little later we find him
in London, occupied as a stable-helper in Brooke's Mews. From that he
became a postilion, and then an officer's servant. About the year 1770
he was coachman to a gentleman living in the neighbourhood of Portman
Square, and was at one time in the service of the Earl of Sandwich.
In this situation he obtained the nickname of "Sixteen-string Jack,"
from the bunches of eight parti-coloured ribbons he gaily wore at the
knees of his breeches; but by some intimates it was supposed that these
"sixteen strings" were a covert allusion to his having been sixteen
times arrested and charged, but on as many occasions acquitted. Such
were the legends that enwrapped the career of him whom Dr. Johnson
described as "above the common mark" in his line.
It was this love of finery that led to the undoing of Jack Rann,
but before it sent him down into the company of those who lived by
their wits, employed in unlawful enterprises, it raised him to better
situations. For Rann was a tall, smart fellow, and good clothes well
became him.
But flowered-satin waistcoats, and full-skirted damasked coats of silk,
elaborately embroidered, are not paid for out of a coachman's wages,
and Rann soon found himself deeply in debt. And, moreover, of what
possible use are brave costumes, but to flaunt and flourish about in?
And when you do so flourish, you must needs go the pace altogether.
There were excellent companions in those places to which Rann most
resorted, as a gentleman of fashion, at Vauxhall, and elsewhere; and
there were the card-tables, where he had a passing run of luck; and
there were the women. In spite of being pitted somewhat with the
small-pox, he was still a handsome fellow, and he played the very Cupid
with the girls.
All these items totted up to a very costly sum-total, and the
gaming-tables did not long stand him in good stead. At the moment when
he was in the sorest straits, he became acquainted with three men:
Jones, Clayton, and Colledge (this last known as "Eight-string Jack"),
in whose company he very speedily grew more and more reckless, and at
last was dismissed from his situation with a long-suffering nobleman,
and refused a character. Thus turned adrift upon the world, he began,
with those three companions, a career of pocket-picking, and thence
drifted by easy stages into the society of highwaymen and of receivers
of stolen goods.
In these circles there moved at that time a certain Eleanor Roche,
originally a milliner's apprentice, but who, from a somewhat
unfortunate friendship with an officer of the Guards, had declined upon
the condition of "fence," and generally, the fair friend and ally of
the nimble-fingered, and the speakers with travellers on the highways.
Jack Rann was a free-lover. Pretty faces, rosy lips, infallibly
attracted him, and although he loved his Nelly best, he scarce knew the
meaning of faithfulness.
But to Ellen Roche, "Sixteen-string Jack" was her own Jack, her hero;
and when once she had met him, she had eyes for none other.
Rann was first in custody in April 1774, at the Old Bailey, in
company with two others, named Clayton and Shepherd, on a charge of
robbing William Somers and Mr. Langford on the highway. All three
were acquitted, but on May 30th Rann was at Bow Street, charged
with robbing Mr. John Devall of his watch and money, near the ninth
milestone on the Hounslow Road. It was the watch brought him there.
The gallant Rann had brought it back with him from the road—just as
the hunter, home from the hill, returns with the day's spoil to his
domestic circle. He handed it to Ellen, who in turn sent out a certain
Catherine Smith to offer it in pledge with the nearest pawnbroker. The
pawnbroker, distrustful man, sent for the police, who, seeing at once
that Catherine Smith was merely an intermediary, apprehended Rann and
Ellen.
"Sixteen-string Jack" made a proud, defiant figure in the dock before
Sir John Fielding. He was dressed not only in, but in advance of
the fashion. He was in irons, but the grimness of those fetters was
disguised in the blue satin bows in which they were tricked out, and in
his fine coat he carried a nosegay as big as a birch-broom. Beside him,
but not so collected as he, stood Ellen, charged with receiving.
Ellen Roche had, indeed, lost her nerve altogether when Catherine Smith
deposed to having been told by her how Rann was expected home that
evening with some money; that he returned about ten o'clock, when Roche
told her he had brought ten guineas and a watch, and that she was sent
out to pawn the watch. Crying, and hardly aware of what she was doing,
Ellen at the first hearing owned that Rann had given her the watch, and
the two were thereupon committed.
At the trial, after having had plenty of time for reflection, she
stoutly declared that she never before had set eyes upon him, and that
her former evidence was a mistake!
Jack himself carried it off bravely, and, indeed, insolently. "I know
no more of the matter than you do," he replied to Sir John Fielding,
and added impudently, "nor half so much, neither."
The prosecution, on some technicality, broke down, and the pair were
released. They celebrated the happy occasion by dining extravagantly
and then spending the evening at Vauxhall, where Rann was the gayest of
the gay, and returned home with two watches and three purses.
An absurd burglary charge brought him into the dock again, that July.
The watch discovered him half-way through the window of a house in
which lodged one Doll Frampton, and not only hauled him out, but
marched him off to prison; but it appeared that he was only keeping an
appointment to supper with the weary Doll, who, tired of waiting for
him, had gone to bed. The Bench, assured of as much by the shameless
minx herself, dismissed the charge, and, in addition to some pertinent
remarks about this unconventional method of entry, gave him some
excellent advice on conduct. Although Rann had escaped so far, Sir John
Fielding said, his profession was perfectly well known, and he urged
the prisoner to leave his evil courses while yet there was time.
So far from paying attention to this well-meant discourse, Rann put
in an appearance the next Sunday, not with Doll, but with Ellen, at
Bagnigge Wells, then a famous place for dining and drinking. They
drove thither in a carriage and dressed—in the slang phrase—"up to the
nines." Jack was splendid in a scarlet coat, tambour waistcoat, white
silk stockings, and a laced hat. Of course there flew at his knees the
already famous sixteen strings.
[Illustration: JACK RANN.]
He was by nature boastful, and when the drink was in him bragged
without restraint or ordinary prudence. On this occasion he drank
freely, and, with an oath, declared himself a highwayman. Rather more
of a pickpocket, perhaps. The company trembled: some sought the way
out. "No fear, my friends," quoth he, "this is a holiday." Then he
fell to quarrelling, and presently lost a ring from his finger, and
declared those present had stolen it. Then again his mood changed.
"'Tis no matter," he exclaimed; "'tis but a hundred guineas gone,
and one evening's work will replace it." Then, growing more drunken
and incapable, they threw him out, and he was not in a fit condition
to resist. So, Ellen—the gentle Ellen—scratching the faces of the
foremost, as they were put out, they drove back to their lodgings near
Covent Garden.
"Fine treatment for a gentleman!" he hiccupped; and indeed a gentleman
he considered himself. But his highwayman's takings, large though they
occasionally were, did not keep pace with his gentlemanly expenses.
Debts accumulated, and sheriff's officers dogged his footsteps. He was
arrested for a debt of £50, and thrown into the Marshalsea prison; but
so much of a hero had he already become among those of his calling that
they clubbed together and liquidated the debt; and handsome Jack was
again free.
The sheriff's officers he affected to regard as low, churlish fellows,
but they would not be denied. His creditors were soon after him again,
and he was arrested when drinking in an alehouse in the then suburban
Tottenham Court Road. He shrank with horror from the touch of the two
"vulgar" bailiffs, but there was little help for it. He must pay up, or
be taken up. His drinking-companions found between them three guineas,
and he gave up his watch. Together, these involuntary contributions
made up more than the amount due. The bailiffs, on their part, agreed
to refund the balance when Rann was sufficiently in funds to redeem the
ticker; and cordiality then reigned. "Lend me five shillings," said
Rann to the bailiffs, "and I will treat you to a bowl of punch." They
fell in with the proposal, and a merry carouse ensued. Such were the
manners and customs of about a hundred and forty years ago.
Still, in the course of this merry evening, the subject of the manner
peculiar to bailiffs recurred to our Jack and rankled. "You have not,"
he grumbled, "treated me like a gentleman. When Sir John Fielding's
people come after me, they only hold up a finger, beckon, and I follow
like a lamb. There's your proper civility!"
It was soon after this that he visited Barnet races, fashionably
dressed; with waistcoat of blue satin trimmed with silver, and other
finery to match. Crowds followed him, eager to set eyes upon so
famous a person. Shortly afterwards, with perhaps some melancholic
foreshadowing of approaching doom, he attended a public execution at
Tyburn. In spite of opposition, he thrust through the ring formed by
the constables round the gallows. "For," said he, "perhaps it is very
proper I should be a spectator on this occasion." Why, he did not say,
but the inference was understood by some of the crowd.
In September 1774 he was arrested, together with one William Collier,
for a robbery on the Uxbridge road, and brought the next Wednesday
before Sir John Fielding, when Dr. Bell, chaplain to the Princess
Amelia, gave evidence that, between three and four o'clock in the
afternoon of Monday, when taking horse-exercise near Ealing, he
observed two men of mean (!) appearance and suspicious looks, who rode
past him. Presently, one of them—he thought it was Rann—turned his
horse's head and demanded his money. "Give it me," he said, "and take
no notice, or I'll blow your brains out!"
Dr. Bell handed over one shilling and sixpence, all he had about him,
and a common watch in a tortoiseshell case. So much tremendous bluster,
so paltry a booty: so poor a thing for which to throw away a life. For
that day's doings served to bring Rann to the gallows.
That evening, Ellen Roche and her servant took the watch to pawn
with one "Mr. Cordy," in the Oxford Road, or, as we should now say,
Oxford Street. Cordy was a suspicious man. He communicated with the
watchmaker, Grigman by name, of Russell Street, Covent Garden, who had
made it for Dr. Bell, who, when called upon, told how he had parted
with it.
The next day, Jack Rann and his doxy were arrested, and with them
Collier and Ellen Roche's servant, Christian Stewart. They all figured
in Bow Street dock, and later appeared on trial at the Old Bailey.
[Illustration: "SIXTEEN-STRING JACK" AND ELLEN ROCHE IN THE DOCK.]
Handsome Jack was no less a dandy on this occasion than he had been on
others, and he took the centre of the stage in his drama with a fine
air. To be sure, there were none who envied him the principal part. He
was dressed in pea-green coat and waistcoat, with unblemished white
buckskin breeches, and again his hat was silver-laced. He stood
there with every assurance of acquittal, and had taken thought to order
a splendid supper, wherewith to entertain his friends that evening,
to celebrate his release. But, as the grey day wore on, he grew less
confident. Dr. Bell's evidence was again taken, and a Mr. Clarke told
how, going to Miss Roche's lodging on that Monday night of the robbery,
he found two pairs of men's boots there, in a wet and dirty condition,
having evidently been worn that day. A Mr. Haliburton also swore that
he had waited at Miss Roche's lodgings that night until Rann and
Collier arrived.
William Hills deposed that he was servant to the Princess Amelia. He
had observed Rann, whom he knew well by sight, ascend the hill at
Acton, about twenty minutes before the robbery was committed.
This spot would be about where the Police Station now stands, in the
main road: less troubled nowadays with highwaymen than with electric
tram-cars.
In the end, Rann was found guilty and sentenced to die. Collier was
also found guilty, but recommended to mercy, and was afterwards
respited. Ellen Roche was sentenced to fourteen years' transportation,
and her servant was acquitted.
Thus the supper grew cold and was not eaten. The brave figure moved in
pea-green glory to his prison cell, and hoped there for a rescue that
never came. His last days were full-packed with the revelry the lax
prison regulations of the age permitted, and on Sunday, October 23rd,
he had seven girls to dine with him in gaol; and he the gayest of the
party. "Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die." Or, at
any rate, in a month's time. So, with an air and a jest, behold him
on the fatal day, November 30th, 1774, the most admired figure in the
three-miles' journey from Newgate to Tyburn. Was it the cold November
air made him shiver, or the shadow of death, as, ladies' man to the
last, he raised his hat to the crowded windows lining Holborn and
thought how he would never come back? Whatever it was, it was no more
than involuntary: for, arrived at the fatal tree, he ended manfully in
his finery and his famous sixteen strings.
ROBERT FERGUSON—"GALLOPING DICK"
Robert Ferguson, who in after life became famous as "Galloping Dick,"
was a native of Hertfordshire. His father, a gentleman's servant,
proposed a like career for him, and had a mental picture of his son
gradually rising from the position of stable-boy, in which he was
placed, to that of coachman. In such respectable obscurity would Robert
have lived and died, had his own wild nature not pioneered a career
for him. He had proved a dull boy at school, but proud, and out of
school-hours showed a strange original spirit of daring, so that he was
generally to be found captaining his fellows in some wild exploit.
As a stable-boy, however, he proved efficient and obedient, and was
found presentable enough to take the postilion's place when the regular
man had fallen ill, on the eve of the family's journey to London in
their chariot. He performed that task to the satisfaction of every one,
but the other servant recovered, and the lad was obliged to return to
his stables and work in shirt sleeves or rough stable-jacket, instead
of titupping in beautifully white buckskin breeches, silk jacket, and
tall beaver hat, on one of the leading horses that drew the carriage
to town. The return to an inferior position through no fault of his
own was a bitter disappointment, and he determined to seek another
situation.
Oddly enough, at this juncture of affairs, a neighbouring lady who was
in want of a postilion chanced to ask the family who employed young
Robert what had become of their smart young man, and, when informed of
the situation, engaged him.
At this time he was close upon twenty years of age. Described as being
by no means handsome, he was of a cheerful and obliging temperament,
and might have long retained the post, had his employer not discovered
him in a discreditable love-affair with one of the maid-servants.
He was dismissed, but soon found another situation: but he never
afterwards kept a place for any length of time. Roystering companions
unsettled him and made him undesirable as a postilion.
[Illustration: "GALLOPING DICK."]
Coming up to London, he found employment in a livery-stable in
Piccadilly, but presently his father died and he found himself the
owner of his savings, amounting to £57. Alas! poor Robert. He had never
before possessed at one time the half of what he had now, and he acted
as though the sum of £57 was an endowment for life. He threw up the
Piccadilly livery-stable, and came out upon the world as a "gentleman";
or in other words, ruffled it in fine clothes in fashionable places.
He frequented theatres in this novel character, and seems to have
impressed a number of perhaps not very critical people. Amongst these
was a dissolute woman whom he met at Drury Lane. She believed him to
be a man of wealth, and sought to obtain a share of it. Ferguson flung
away all his money on her. It could not have been a difficult task,
one would say, nor have occupied him long. And when all the money
was gone, he went back, sadder possibly, but still not wiser, to his
livery-stable situation in Piccadilly, as postilion. It was in this
employment that he observed the debonair gentlemen who had been his
rivals in the affections of this woman calling upon her, and received,
where he had been thrust forth with contumely when his money was at an
end, and when she discovered that he was no man about town, but only
one who got his living in the stables. False, perfidious Nancy!
It was some time before the true character of those visitors was
revealed to him; but one day, acting as a postilion on the Great
North Road, the chaise he was driving was stopped by two highwaymen,
duly masked. One stood by the horses, while his companion robbed the
occupants of the chaise. It was a windy day, and a more than usually
violent gust blew the first highwayman's mask off. Instantly Ferguson
recognised the man who stood by the horses as one of his Nancy's
visitors.
Seeing this, the unmasked robber perceived, clearly enough, that the
situation was peculiarly dangerous, and, when he had galloped off with
his companion, laid the facts before him. They agreed that there was
nothing for it but to await Ferguson's return at a roadside inn, and
to bribe him to silence. There, accordingly, they remained until the
chaise on its return journey drew up at the door.
Two gentlemen, said the landlord, particularly desired to see the
postilion. He entered and accepted a price for his silence; further
agreeing to meet them that night at supper in the Borough. Meeting
there, according to arrangement, Ferguson was persuaded to throw in his
lot with the highway blades. His imagination took fire at the notion
of riding a fine horse, and, dressed in handsome clothes, presenting a
figure of romance; but his new-found friends were cool men of business,
and had nothing of that kind in view for their fresh associate. To cut
a fine figure was, no doubt, all very well, but the more important
thing was to know which travellers were worth robbing, and which were
not. If they could be reasonably well advised on that point, much
useless effort, and a considerable deal of risk, would be avoided, in
not stopping those whose pockets were so nearly next to empty as to
be not worth "speaking to" on the road. Their idea was that Ferguson
should continue in his employment of postilion, and, as a confederate,
keep them well informed of the movements of his clients.
Ferguson was disappointed in not being allowed a spectacular part, but
the profitable nature of the scheme appealed to him, and he agreed to
this distinctly well-conceived plan. So a long series of unsuspecting
travellers driven by him owed their extraordinary ill-luck on the road
entirely to the agency of their innocent-looking postilion, who was so
professionally interested in their movements, who was so obliging with
the portmanteaus and valises, and who secretly kept a keen eye upon the
contents of his customers' purses. Quite often it would happen that a
trace would be broken in some lonely situation, and then, strange to
say, while it was being mended, a couple of highwaymen would infallibly
appear, and threatening the postilion with horrid oaths when he
pretended to show fight, would at their leisure ransack all the luggage
and coolly request all money and personal adornments to be handed over.
Wine, women, and cards were Ferguson's downfall. Success in his new
line of life brought reckless conduct, and he grew so impossible
that the livery-stable, without in the least suspecting his honesty,
dismissed him for general unreliability. He then took to the road for a
while as a highwayman, and thus indulged his natural liking for finery.
He was an excellent horseman, and daring to the verge—or beyond the
verge—of recklessness. On one occasion, he and two companions "spoke
to" and were robbing two gentlemen on the road to Edgeware, but were
interrupted by the appearance of three other well-mounted travellers,
who gave chase. Ferguson escaped, but his two companions were caught,
brought to trial, and executed. It was this exploit that first procured
him the name of "Galloping Dick," although his name was Robert.
Complimented by admiring friends on his escape, he declared he would
gallop a horse with any man in the kingdom.