Returning to England at last, and, sailor-like—or at any rate, like sailors of those times—falling at once into abandoned company, he met, at Lichfield on February 1749, a dissolute set of persons living disreputably upon their wits; among them a certain John Brown, alias Dawson, who, with an experience of the highway trade, easily persuaded the adventurous Poulter to join him and his associates.
Brown, Poulter, and company, fully armed, then set out to prey upon all and sundry; devoting themselves more particularly to thefts from houses. At Lichfield, while one diverted the attention of the landlord of the "George" inn, another rifled a chest and stole a sum of money and many valuable articles. At Chester, Poulter distinguished himself by stealing some black plush that he fancied might make him a fine stylish waistcoat; and sent off at once to a tailor, to call at the "Black Dog" inn, where he and the gang were lodging, that he might be measured, and enabled to appear forthwith as a person of elegance and distinction. We may here fitly pause a moment to admire, or to be astonished at, the child-like vanity and delight in fine clothes displayed by nearly all the highwaymen at that time. They could not resist seizing every and any opportunity that offered, of dressing themselves in the best that could be obtained.
Unfortunately, the manners of a highwayman were not exactly those of a gentleman. There was something overdone in the affected elegance of deportment, a certain exaggeration and a decided "loudness" that made reflective people suspicious. Thus, the tailor to whom Poulter sent for his stolen plush to be made up was not altogether satisfied with his strange customer, and when a pistol that Poulter carried in his pocket went off accidentally during the process of measurement, he was convinced that a person who carried loaded firearms in this manner was not only a dangerous, but also a suspicious, person. The bullet had harmlessly sped into the ceiling, but the tailor was unnerved by the incident, and Poulter, rather lamely apologetic, endeavoured to explain away this concealed armoury by accusing Brown of putting crackers in his pockets. As for the tailor, he hurried off to the Mayor with the story that a dangerous person, evidently a highwayman, had taken lodgings in the city, and was one of a queer gang, whose suspicious movements had already attracted attention. The Mayor sent some trusty emissaries to examine Poulter and his associates, but they had already taken the alarm, and had embarked at Parkgate for Ireland.
Poulter had already had enough of this criminal life, and, tired of adventure of all kinds, desired nothing better than to settle down to some business. He accordingly, in the name of Baxter, took a small alehouse in Dublin, and, entirely dissociating himself from his companions for a time, did a comfortable and fairly prosperous trade, averaging five barrels a week. Here he might have continued, and would have been glad to do so, only for a most unfortunate circumstance.
There were at that time a number of Irish rogues in London, obtaining a hazardous livelihood, chiefly by picking pockets, but not disdaining any form of villainy that might promise to be profitable. General Sinclair was robbed of a gold watch by one or other of this gang, as he was leaving a party at Leicester House, and William Harper and Thomas Tobin, two suspicious characters, were arrested for being concerned, and taken to the Gatehouse at Westminster, whence they were presently rescued by their gang, to the number of a couple of dozen; all of them making off to Ireland.
This affair would not appear to concern Poulter in any way, engaged as he was at Dublin in earning an honest livelihood; but it had a very tragical result on his fortunes. Among the fugitives was one James Field, who had known Poulter in London; and he, as ill-fortune would have it, chanced one day to walk down that Dublin Street where Poulter's inn was situated. By the accursed malevolence of fate, Poulter himself happened at that moment to be standing at the door of his house. Field immediately recognised him and stopped to enquire what his old confederate was doing. He drank there and wished him good day, but soon after brought all that escaped gang of scoundrels to the spot; and there, much to Poulter's dismay, they established themselves, day by day, making his inn, once so respectable and well-conducted, a byword for riotous drinking, and the haunt of characters that it would be flattery to describe as merely "suspicious." Field and others were actually taken into custody there. Decent trade deserted the inn, and, despairing of being rid of the scoundrels, whom he dared not forbid the house, lest they should turn upon and denounce him, he absconded across Ireland to Cork, where he at first contemplated taking another inn. He at last, however, settled upon Waterford, and took an inn there, remaining for six months, when he was induced to return to Dublin by his former brewer, who, sorry to have lost a good customer by Poulter's enforced flight, wanted him back.
He eventually settled two miles outside Dublin, at an inn called the "Shades of Clontarf," looking upon the sea; and became part innkeeper, part fisherman, and led a very happy, honest, and contented life, making, moreover, an average profit of £3 a week.
But here he was found towards the close of 1751 by Tobin, who foisted himself and a dissolute woman companion upon the unfortunate man. Poulter generously received them, but earnestly implored Tobin not to bring his evil associates into the neighbourhood. He wanted, he declared, to live an honest life, and to be done with the past. Tobin assured him he would not appear in the neighbourhood again; but in a few days he was back at Clontarf, with a select company of rascals, and from that time the unhappy Poulter knew no peace. His determination to lead a respectable life they took as a direct challenge to, and slur upon, themselves. There is nothing that so greatly enrages the habitual criminal as the reclamation of one of his own kind, and it is doubtless the influence of hardened evil-doers that prevents many a criminal, really disgusted with crime, from reforming. These wretches set themselves deliberately to ruin Poulter. They practically lived at his house, and, as had been done before, they soon changed the character of it from a decent alehouse to a thieves' boozing-ken, to which the police-officers came at once when they wanted to find some bad character, or to trace stolen property. Poulter was a mere cipher under his own roof.
But they were not content with wrecking his trade: they must needs blast that good character he had been so patiently acquiring. They did it by making him out a smuggler. Six pounds of tea and twelve yards of calico and muslin placed secretly in his boat, and information then lodged with the Revenue officers, was sufficient. Poulter's boat was seized and condemned, and Poulter himself, convinced that he would not be able to establish his innocence, fled from the scene and hurried aboard a vessel bound for Bristol, where he landed penniless. There, in Bristol streets, he met two early criminal acquaintances, Dick Branning and John Roberts, and as there seemed to be no likelihood of being allowed to live within the law, he agreed to take part with them and a number of confederates, whose headquarters were at Bath, in a campaign of highway and other robberies.
Their operations were of the most roving description. By way of Trowbridge, they made for Yorkshire, raiding the country as they went with all manner of rogueries. Nothing came amiss. At Halifax they netted twenty-five guineas from a clergyman by an eighteenth-century ancestor of the thimble-rigging fraud, called "pricking in the belt." At last they found themselves at Chester: place of evil omen for Poulter. There, at the house of a confederate, they heard on the evening of their arrival of a train of pack-horses laden with Manchester goods, due to pass that night. Watch had been kept upon them, said the confederate, and a man would point out to our friends which, among all the animals of the pack-horse train, was best worth robbing of his load. It would be best, he said, to do the work on the country road, and to take the horse into a field.