Of the military men, the most prominent was a certain Captain C., who belonged to an excellent family, but who had fallen very low, going by degrees from bad to worse. He was long known as a notorious gambler and loose liver. At length, unable to earn enough money to gratify his vices by fair means, he sought to obtain it by foul, and became allied to a mob of ruffians who styled themselves “Men of the World.” In other words, he took to obtaining goods under false pretences. Captain C. was principally useful as a respectable reference to whom his accomplices could apply when they entered a strange shop and ordered goods. “Apply to my friend Captain So-and-so, of such-and-such a square; he has known me for years.” Reference is made to a house gorgeously furnished, an establishment in every way bien monté, the master thereof a perfect gentleman. “Do I know Mr. ——? Oh, dear, yes; I have known him for a long time. He is one of my most intimate friends. You may trust him to any amount.” Unhappily the pitcher goes often to the well, but it is broken at last. And at this game of fraud the circle of operations grows naturally ever narrower. At length the whole conspiracy became known to the police, and Captain C. found himself ere long in Millbank. He seems to have been treated there rather too well for an idle, good-for-nothing rascal, who would do no work, and who expected—so said the officers—to be always waited upon. Undoubtedly he was pampered, had his books from the deputy-governor’s own library, and extra food. More than this, his wife—a lady once, also of good family, but fallen with her husband to an abyss of infamy and depravity which made her notorious for wickedness even in this wicked city—was frequently admitted to visit him, coming always in silks and satins and flaunting attire, which was sadly out of keeping with her husband’s temporary abode.
Another ex-military officer was Mr. P., whose offence at the time created wide-spread and righteous indignation. This was the gentleman who for some occult reason of his own, committed the atrocity of striking our young Queen in the face just as she was leaving the palace. The weapon he used was a thin cane, but the blow fell lightly, as the lady-in-waiting interposed. No explanation was offered, except that the culprit was out of his mind. This was the defence set up by his friends, and several curious facts were adduced in proof of insanity. One on which great stress was laid, was that he was in the habit of chartering a hansom to Wimbledon Common daily, where he amused himself by getting out and walking as fast as he could through the furze. But this line of defence broke down, and the jury found the prisoner guilty. He himself, when he came to Millbank, declared that he had been actuated only by a desire to bring disgrace on his family and belongings. In some way or other he had seriously disagreed with his father, and he took this curious means to obtain revenge. The wantonness of the outrage called for severe punishment, and Mr. P. was sentenced to seven years’ transportation; but the special punishment of whipping was omitted, on the ground of the prisoner’s position in life. Whether it was that the mere passing of this sentence was considered sufficient, or that the Queen herself interposed with gracious clemency, this Mr. P. at Millbank was treated with exceptional leniency and consideration. By order of the Secretary of State he was exempted from most of the restrictions by which other prisoners were ruled. He was not lodged in a cell, but in two rooms adjoining the infirmary, which he used as sitting and bedroom respectively; he did not wear the prison dress, and he had, practically, what food he liked. He seems to have awakened a sort of sympathy on the part of the warders who attended him; probably because he was a fine, tall fellow, of handsome presence and engaging manners, and because also they thought his offence was one of hot-headed rashness rather than premeditated wickedness. Eventually Mr. P. went to Australia.
These are a few of the most prominent of the criminals who belonged to the upper or professional classes. Others there were, and will be, always; but as a rule such cases are not numerous. Speaking in general terms of the “gentleman convict,” as viewed from the gaoler’s side, he is an ill-conditioned, ill-conducted prisoner. When a man of energy and determination, he wields a baleful influence around and among other prisoners if proper precautions are not taken against inter-communications. His comrades look up to him, especially if he is disposed to take the place of a ringleader and to put himself forward as the champion of insolence and insubordination. They render him too, a sort of homage in their way, scrupulously retaining the titles which have been really forfeited, if indeed they were ever earned. Mr. So-and-so, Major This and Captain That, are the forms of address used by Bill Sykes when speaking of or to a gentleman convict. For the rest, if not openly mutinous, these “superior” felons are chiefly remarkable for their indifference to prison rules, especially those which insist on cleanliness and neatness in their cells. Naturally, by habits and early education they are unskilled in sweeping and washing, and keeping bright their brass-work and their pewter utensils. In these respects the London thief or hardened habitual criminal, who knows the interior of half the prisons in the country, has quite the best of it.
Somewhat lower in the social scale, but superior also to the common burglar or thief, are those who occupy positions of trust in banks or city offices, and for whom the temptation of an open till or slack administration are too strong to be resisted. A good instance of this class was Mr. B., who was employed as a clerk in the Bank of England. With the assistance of a confederate who personated a Mr. Oxenford—there was no special reason for selecting this gentleman, in preference to any other Smith, Brown or Jones—he made over to himself stock to the amount of £8,000 standing in Mr. Oxenford’s name. His accomplice was a horse jobber. The stock in question was paid by a cheque on Lubbock’s for the whole sum, whither they proceeded, asking to have it cashed—all in gold. There were not eight thousand sovereigns available at the moment, but they received instead eight Bank of England notes for £1,000 each, which they promptly changed at the bank for specie, taking with them a carpet-bag to hold the money. The bag when filled was found to be too heavy to lift, but with the assistance of the bank porters it was got into a cab. They now drove to Ben Caunt’s public in St. Martin’s Lane, and there secured a room for the night; the money was transferred to their portmanteaus, several in number, and next morning they took an early train to Liverpool en route for New York. The steamer Britannia, in which they took passage, started almost immediately, and they soon got clear out of the country. But the detectives were on their track: within a day or two, officers followed them across the Atlantic, and landing at Halifax found the fugitives had gone on to Boston and New York. They were followed thither, and on, also, to Buffalo and to Canada. Thence back again to Boston. Here the culprits had taken up their residence—one on a farm, the other in a public-house, both of which had been purchased with the proceeds of the fraud; £7,000 had been lodged also in the bank to their credit. One of them was immediately arrested, and hanged himself. The other escaped in a boat, and lay hid in the neighbouring marshes; but the reward that was offered led to his capture, and he was brought home to England, where he was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to transportation for life.
There were many other criminals who came in these days to Millbank who belonged to the aristocracy of crime, if not to the great world of fashion. Some of them, to use their own language, were quite top sawyers in the trade. None in this way was more remarkable than old Cauty, who was called the “father of all the robbers.” Few men were better known in his time and in his own line than Cauty. He was to be seen on every race course, and he was on friendly terms with all the swells on the turf. He had a large acquaintance also among such of the “best” people in town as were addicted to gambling on a large scale. He was in early life a croupier or marker at several west-end hells; but as he advanced in years he extended his operations beyond the Atlantic, and often made voyages by the West Indian packets. He liked to meet Mexicans and rich Americans; they were always ready to gamble, and as Cauty travelled with confederates, whose expenses he paid, he seldom lost money on the cards.
These, however, were his open avocations. “Under the rose” for many years he devoted all his abilities and his experience to planning extensive bank robberies, which were devised generally with so much ingenuity, and carried out with so much daring, that a long time elapsed before the culprits could be brought to justice. He had many dexterous associates. Their commonest plan of action was to hang about a bank till they saw some one enter whom they thought likely to answer their purpose. They followed and waited till the victim, having opened his pocket-book, or produced his cheque, was paid his money over the counter. At that moment a button dropped, or a slight push, which was followed by immediate apology, took off attention, and in that one instant the money or a part of it was gone—passed from hand to hand, and removed at once from the building.
Cauty came to grief at last. Of course he was known to the police, but the difficulty was to take him red-handed. The opportunity arrived when, with an accomplice, he made an attempt to rob the cashier of the London and Westminster Bank of his box. They were both watched in and out of the bank in St. James’s Square day after day. The police kept them constantly in sight, and the cashier himself was put on his guard. The latter admitted that the cash-box was at times left unavoidably within the reach of dishonest people, and that it contained property sometimes worth £100,000 or more. But if the police were patient in the watch they set, the thieves were equally patient in waiting for a chance. Once at the moment of fruition they were just “sold” by the appearance of a police-sergeant, who came in to change a cheque. But at length, almost as a conjuror does a trick, they accomplished their purpose. Cauty went into the bank first, carrying a rather suspicious-looking black bag. Three minutes afterwards he came out without it, and raised his hat three times, which was the signal “all right” to his accomplice. The latter, Tyler, a returned convict, thereupon entered the bank in his turn, and almost immediately brought away the bag. The two worthies were allowed to go without let or hindrance as far as the Haymarket, and then secured. The black bag was opened—inside was the cash-box.
This brought Cauty’s career to an end. He got twenty years, and then it came out how extensive was the business he had done. Through his hands had passed not a little of the “swag” in all the principal robberies of the day—all the gold from the gold-dust robberies, all the notes and bills stolen from big banking houses. It was said that in this way he had touched about half-a-million of money.
Some years afterwards another leader and prince in the world of crime was unearthed in the person of a Jew—Moses Moses—whose headquarters were in Gravel Lane, Houndsditch, and who was discovered to be a gigantic receiver of stolen goods. He was only detected by accident. A quantity of wool was traced to his premises, and these were thereupon rigorously examined. In lofts and in many other hiding-places, were found vast heaps of missing property. Much was identified as the product of recent burglaries. There was leather in large quantities, plush also, cloth and jewelry. A wagon-load of goods was, it was said, taken away, and in it pieces of scarlet damask, black and crimson cloth, doeskin, silver articles, shawls, and upwards of fifty rings. An attempt was made to prove that Moses was new to the business, and had been led astray by the wicked advice and example of another man. But the Recorder would not believe that operations of this kind could be carried on by a novice or a dupe, and he sentenced Mr. Moses to transportation for fourteen years.
For unblushing effrontery and insolence, so to speak, in criminal daring, the case of King the police-officer and detective, is almost without parallel. Although supposed to be a thief-taker by profession, he was really an instigator and supporter of crime. He formed by degrees a small gang of pickpockets, and employed them to steal for him, giving them full instruction and ample advice. He took them to the best hunting-grounds, and not only covered them while at work, but gave them timely warning in case of danger, or if the neighbourhood became too hot to hold them. His pupils were few in number, but they were industrious and seemingly highly successful. One boy stated his earnings at from £90 to £100 a week. King was a kind and liberal master to his boys. They lived on the fat of the land. Reeves, who gave information of the system pursued by King, said he had a pony to ride in the park, and that they all went to theatres and places of amusement whenever they pleased. The rascally ingenuity of King in turning to his own advantage his opportunities as an officer of the law savours somewhat of Vidocq and the escrocs of Paris. King got fourteen years.