Although murder by insidious methods had become more common, cases where violence of the most deadly and determined kind was offered had not quite disappeared. I will mention two cases of this class, one accompanied with piracy on the high seas, the other perpetrated in a railway-carriage, and showing the promptitude with which criminals accept and utilize altered conditions of life, more particularly as regards locomotion.
The first case was that of the ‘Flowery Land,’ which left London for Singapore on the 28th July, 1863, with a cargo of wine and other goods. Her captain was John Smith; the first and second mates, Karswell and Taffir; there were two other Englishmen on board, and the rest of the crew were a polyglot lot, most of them, as was proved by their subsequent acts, blackguards of the deepest dye. Six were Spaniards, or rather natives of Manilla, and men of colour; one was a Greek, another a Turk; there were also a Frenchman, a Norwegian (the carpenter), three Chinamen, a “Sclavonian,” and a black on board. Navigation and discipline could not be easy with such a nondescript crew. The captain was kindly but somewhat intemperate, the first mate a man of some determination, and punishment such as rope’s-ending and tying to the bulwarks had to be applied to get the work properly done. The six Spaniards, the Greek, and the Turk were in the same watch, eight truculent and reckless scoundrels, who, brooding over their fancied wrongs, and burning for revenge, hatched amongst them a plot to murder their officers and seize the ship. The mutiny was organized with great secrecy, and broke out most unexpectedly in the middle of the night. A simultaneous attack was made upon the captain and the first mate. The latter had the watch on deck. One half of the mutineers fell upon him unawares with handspikes and capstan-bars. He was struck down, imploring mercy, but they beat him about the head and face till every feature was obliterated, and then, still living, flung him into the sea. Meanwhile the captain, roused from his berth, came out of the cabin, was caught near the ‘companion’ by the rest of the mutineers, and promptly despatched with daggers. His body was found lying in a pool of blood in a night-dress, stabbed over and over again in the left side. The captain’s brother, a passenger on board the ‘Flowery Land,’ was also stabbed to death and his body thrown overboard.
The second mate, who had heard the hammering of the capstan-bars and the handspikes, with the first mate’s and captain’s agonized cries, had come out, verified the murderers, and then shut himself up in his cabin. He was soon summoned on deck, but as he would not move, the mutineers came down and stood in a circle round his berth. Leon, or Lyons, who spoke English, when asked said they would spare his life if he would navigate the ship for them to the River Plate or Buenos Ayres. Taffir, the second mate, agreed, but constantly went in fear of his life for the remainder of the voyage; and although the mutineers spared him, they ill-treated the Chinamen, and cut one badly with knives. Immediately after the murder cases of champagne, which formed part of the cargo, were brought on deck and broached; the captain’s cabin ransacked, his money and clothes divided amongst the mutineers, as well as much of the merchandise on board. Leon wished to make every one on board share and share alike, so as to implicate the innocent with the guilty; but Vartos, or Watto, the Turk, would not allow any but the eight mutineers to have anything. The murders were perpetrated on the 10th September, and the ship continued her voyage for nearly three weeks, meeting and speaking one ship only. On the 2nd October they sighted land, ten miles distant; the mutineers took command of the ship, put her about till night-fall, by which time they had scuttled her, got out the boats, and all left the ship. The rest of the crew were also permitted to embark, except the Chinamen, one of whom was thrown into the water and drowned, while the other two were left to go down in the ship, and were seen clinging to the tops until the waters closed over them.
The boats reached the shore on the 4th October. Leon had prepared a plausible tale to the effect that they belonged to an American ship from Peru bound to Bordeaux, which had foundered at sea; that they had been in the boats five days and nights, but that the captain and others had been lost. The place at which they landed was not far from the entrance to the River Plate. A farmer took them in for the night, and drove them next day to Rocha, a place north of Maldonado. Taffir, the mate, finding there was a man who could speak English at another place twenty miles off, repaired there secretly, and so gave information to the Brazilian authorities. The mutineers were arrested, the case inquired into by a naval court-martial, and the prisoners eventually surrendered to the British authorities, brought to England, and lodged in Newgate. Their trial followed at the Central Criminal Court. Eight were arraigned at the same time: six Spaniards, Leon, Blanco, Duranno, Santos, and Marsolino; Vartos the Turk, and Carlos the Greek. Seven were found guilty of murder on the high seas, and one, Carlos, acquitted. Two of the seven, Santos and Marsolino, were reprieved, and their sentences commuted to penal servitude for life; the remaining five were executed in one batch. They were an abject, miserable crew, cowards at heart; but some, especially Lopez, continued bloodthirsty to the last. Lopez took a violent dislike to the officer of the ward in charge of them, and often expressed a keen desire to do for him. They none of them spoke much English except Leon, commonly called Lyons. After condemnation, as the rules now kept capital convicts strictly apart, they could not be lodged in the two condemned cells, and they were each kept in an ordinary separate cell of the newly-constructed block, with the “traps,” or square openings in the cell door, let down. A full view of them was thus at all times obtainable by the officers who, without intermission, day and night patrolled the ward. On the morning of execution the noise of fixing the gallows in the street outside awoke one or two of them. Lyons asked the time, and was told it was only five. “Ah!” he remarked, “they will have to wait for us then till eight.” Lopez was more talkative. When the warder went in to call him he asked for his clothes. He was told he would have to wear his own. “Not give clothes? In Russia, Italy, always give chaps clothes.” Then he wanted to know when the policemen would arrive, and was told none would come. “The soldiers then?” No soldiers either. “What, you not afraid let us go all by ourselves? Not so in Russia or Spain.” The convicts were pinioned one by one and sent singly out to the gallows. As the first to appear would have some time to wait for his fellows, a difficult and painful ordeal, the seemingly most courageous was selected to lead the way. This was Duranno; but the sight of the heaving mass of uplifted, impassioned faces was too much for his nerves, and he so nearly fainted that he had to be seated in a chair. The execution went off without mishap.
In July 1864 occurred the murder of Mr. Briggs, a gentleman advanced in years and chief clerk in Robarts’ bank. As the circumstances under which it was perpetrated were somewhat novel,[126] and as some time elapsed before the discovery and apprehension of the supposed murderer, the public mind was greatly agitated by the affair for several months. The story of the murder must be pretty familiar to most of my readers. Mr. Briggs left the bank one afternoon as usual, dined with his daughter at Peckham, then returned to the city to take the train from Fenchurch Street home, travelling by the North London Railway. He lived at Hackney, but he never reached it alive. When the train arrived at Hackney station, a passenger who was about to enter one of the carriages found the cushions soaked with blood. Inside the carriage was a hat, a walking-stick, and a small black leather bag. About the same time a body was discovered on the line near the railway-bridge by Victoria Park. It was that of an aged man, whose head had been battered in by a life-preserver. There was a deep wound just over the ear, the skull was fractured, and there were several other blows and wounds on the head. Strange to say, the unfortunate man was not yet dead, and he actually survived more than four-and-twenty hours. His identity was established by a bundle of letters in his pocket, which bore his full address: “T. Briggs, Esq., Robarts & Co., Lombard Street.”
The friends of Mr. Briggs were communicated with, and it was ascertained that when he left home the morning of the murderous attack, he wore gold-rimmed eye-glasses and a gold watch and chain. The stick and bag were his, but not the hat. A desperate and deadly struggle must have taken place in the carriage, and the stain of a bloody hand marked the door. The facts of the murder and its object, robbery, were thus conclusively proved. It was also easily established that the hat found in the carriage had been bought at Walker’s, a hatter’s in Crawford Street, Marylebone; while within a few days Mr. Briggs’ gold chain was traced to a jeweller’s in Cheapside, Mr. Death, who had given another in exchange for it to a man supposed to be a foreigner. More precise clues to the murderer were not long wanting; indeed the readiness with which they were produced and followed up showed how greatly the publicity and wide dissemination of the news regarding murder facilitate the detection of crime. In little more than a week a cabman came forward and voluntarily made a statement which at once drew suspicion to a German, Franz Müller, who had been a lodger of his. Müller had given the cabman’s little daughter a jeweller’s cardboard box bearing the name of Mr. Death. A photograph of Müller shown the jeweller was identified as the likeness of the man who had exchanged Mr. Briggs’ chain. Last of all, the cabman swore that he had bought the very hat found in the carriage for Müller at the hatter’s, Walker’s of Crawford Street.
This fixed the crime pretty certainly upon Müller, who had already left the country, thus increasing suspicion under which he lay. There was no mystery about his departure; he had gone to Canada, by the ‘Victoria’ sailing ship, starting from the London docks, and bound to New York. Directly the foregoing facts were established, a couple of detective officers, armed with a warrant to arrest Müller, and accompanied by Mr. Death the jeweller and the cabman, went down to Liverpool and took the first steamer across the Atlantic. This was the ‘City of Manchester,’ which was expected to arrive some days before the ‘Victoria,’ and did so. The officers went on board the ‘Victoria’ at once, Müller was identified by Mr. Death, and the arrest was made. In searching the prisoner’s box, Mr. Briggs’ watch was found wrapped up in a piece of leather, and Müller at the time of his capture was actually wearing Mr. Briggs’ hat, cut down and somewhat altered. The prisoner was forthwith extradited and sent back to England, which he reached with his escort on the 17th September the same year. His trial followed at the next sessions of the Central Criminal Court, and ended in his conviction. The case was one of circumstantial evidence, but, as Sir Robert Collyer the Solicitor-General pointed out, it was the strongest circumstantial evidence which had ever been brought forward in a murder case. It was really evidence of facts which could not be controverted or explained away. There was the prisoner’s poverty, his inability to account for himself on the night of the murder, and his possession of the property of the murdered man. An alibi was set up for the defence, but not well substantiated, and the jury without hesitation returned a verdict of guilty.
Müller protested after sentence of death had been passed upon him that he had been convicted on a false statement of facts. He adhered to this almost to the very last. His case had been warmly espoused by the Society for the Protection of Germans in this country, and powerful influence was exerted both here and abroad to obtain a reprieve. Müller knew that any confession would ruin his chances of escape. His arguments were specious and evasive when pressed to confess. “Why should man confess to man?” he replied; “man cannot forgive man, only God can do so. Man is therefore only accountable to God.” But on the gallows, when the cap was over his eyes and the rope had been adjusted round his neck, and within a second of the moment when he would be launched into eternity, he whispered in the ear of the German pastor who attended him on the scaffold, “I did it.” While in the condemned cell he conversed freely with the warders in broken English or through an interpreter. He is described as not a bad-looking man, with a square German type of face, blue eyes which were generally half closed, and very fair hair. He was short in stature, his legs were light for the upper part of his body, which was powerful, almost herculean. It is generally supposed that he committed the murder under a sudden access of covetousness and greed. He saw Mr. Briggs’ watch-chain, and followed him instantly into the carriage, determined to have it at all costs. His crime under this aspect of it was less premeditated, and less atrocious therefore, than that of Lefroy.
One other curious murder may be added to the two foregoing. Christian Sattler was by birth a German. He had led a wild life; had left his native land and enlisted first in the French army in Algeria, afterwards in the British German Legion raised for the Crimean War. At the disbandment of the force, as he was without resources, he turned his attention to hotel robberies, by which he lived for some years. He at length stole a carpet-bag containing valuables, and fled to Hamburgh. Thither he was pursued by a detective officer, Inspector Thain, who, being unable to obtain his extradition legally, had him inveigled on board an English steamer, where the arrest was made. Sattler was ironed for safe custody, a proceeding which he vehemently resented, and begged that they might be removed, as the handcuffs hurt his wrists. The inspector said that they could not be removed till he reached England. This reply of his contained no promise of immediate release. Sattler probably misunderstood, and he declared that the police officer had broken faith with him, having, moreover, stated that while at sea the captain of the ship was responsible for the security of the prisoner. As Sattler brooded over his wrongs, his rage got the upper hand, and he resolved to wreak it upon Thain. Although manacled, he managed to get a pistol from his chest and load it. The next time Thain entered his cabin he fired at him point-blank, and lodged three bullets in his breast. The unfortunate man survived till he landed, but died in Guy’s Hospital. Sattler was tried for murder and convicted; his defence being that he had intended to commit suicide, but that, on the appearance of this officer who had wronged him, he had yielded to an irresistible impulse to kill him.
Sattler was a very excitable although not an ill-tempered man. While in Newgate awaiting trial he frequently tried to justify his murder by declaring that the police officer had broken faith with him. He would shoot any man or any policeman like a dog, or any number of them, who had treated him in that way. His demeanour immediately preceding his execution I have referred to in the last chapter.