Travellers, who looked upon being robbed once upon a journey as the inevitable thing, very soon discovered this overcrowded state of affairs, and resented it. Once upon a time, after the gentry who plied their occupation on Hounslow Heath and Finchley or Putney Commons had taken toll of purse and pocket, travellers had gone their way chuckling at the store of notes and gold still safe in their boots and the lining of their coats; but when every reckless blade and every discharged footman or disbanded soldier took to the road, the polite highwayman of the recognised robbing-places had no sooner been left behind with a “good-night to you”—mutual good wishes and a hearty au revoir! from Du Vall or one of his brethren—than the territory of an unsuspected set of ruffians was entered; rough-and-ready customers, who were not content until they had got the passengers’ boots off, or had ripped up the linings of coats and waistcoats, and then, having taken the last stiver, bade those unhappy passengers, with a curse, begone. There was an even deeper depth of misery—when, thus shorn and stripped, they encountered a yet more rascally, more provincial and hungrier crew, who in their exasperation at getting nothing, would sometimes resort to personal violence, to vent their disappointment and ill-humour.
At this overcrowded period, when the ordinary course of business failed, the highwaymen were even known to practise upon one another, like the Stock Exchange brokers of to-day, who, when the public hold aloof, sharpen their wits and fill their pockets by professional dealings.
In 1758 the monotony of highway robbery was broken by a burglary at the “Bull and Mouth” coach-office, at 3 o’clock one morning, when 47 parcels, chiefly containing plate and watches, were stolen. The booty was valued at £500. The thieves carried the parcels away in a cart, and left behind them a lighted candle, which would have burned the place down had it not been discovered in time by a coachman.
This was followed in May 1766 by an incident standing out in highly humorous relief. The Public Advertiser in that month announced:—“A few nights ago, among the passengers that were going in the stage from Bath to London, were two supposed females that had taken outside places. As they were climbing to their seats it was observed that one of them had men’s shoes and stockings on, and upon further search, Breeches were discovered also: this consequently alarming the company, the person thus disguised was taken into custody and locked up for the night. The next day he was brought before a magistrate, and upon a strict examination into matters, it appeared that he was a respectable tradesman who, having cash and bills to a large amount on him, thus disguised himself to escape the too urgent notice of the ‘Travelling Collectors.’”
Turnpike Trusts at this time encouraged Sabbatarian feeling by charging double on Sundays; but “knowing” travellers sometimes travelled on that day, and submitted to that imposition as the cheaper of two evils. The one they thus escaped was the imminent risk of being molested by highwaymen and stripped of all their valuables; for those gay “Collectors,” as they delighted to style themselves, did not attend to business on the Sabbath. We are not, from this, to suppose that the highwaymen were at church, or at home, reading improving literature. Not at all: they did not expect wayfarers, and so took the day off. The Sunday Trading Act for many years forbidding Lord’s Day employment, prevented coaches running then, and so helped to give the hard-worked nocturnal gentlemen of the road their needed weekly rest, and ensured them from missing very much. Yet anxious travellers did sometimes go on Sundays, and risk an information. When at last the mail-coaches were started, to go seven times a week, and the Post Office itself set the example of Sunday travel, away went the highwayman’s week-ends and the travellers’ respite from wayside “Stand and deliver!” The stages then plied on Sundays also.
As for the mails, they were immune from attack. The Post Office early issued a warning against sending gold by them; but it did so, not from fear of the highwaymen, but “from the prejudice it does the coin by the friction.” Highwaymen were, in fact, little feared either by the Department or by the mail-passengers, for not only did the guard’s embattled condition secure them from attack, but the Post Office introduced enactments dealing very severely with highway robbery applied to the mail-coaches. The standing reward offered the liege-subjects of the king for arresting an ordinary highwayman was raised to £200 in the case of an attack on the mail, further augmented by another £100 if within five miles of London. Mail-coaches, by consequence, were left severely alone by the Turpins, Abershaws, and others of their kind; and it has been said that a mail-coach, unlike the old postboys carrying the mail-bags, was never attacked.
Although this is very likely true, it must not be supposed that the mails were never robbed. The distinction drawn is clear. Violence was not shown, but robberies were frequent, often on a sensational scale. One February night in 1810, some unknown persons wrenched off the lock of the hind-boot on one of the mails and made away with no fewer than sixteen North-Country bags. Where was the guard? Probably kissing the pretty barmaid. Again, on November 9th, in that same year, nine bags were stolen from a mail at Bedford; and so frequent grew robberies of all sorts that in January 1813 the Superintendent of Mails was constrained to issue a warning notice to his officials:—“The guards are desired by Mr. Hasker to be particularly attentive to their mail-box. Depredations are committed every night on some stage-coaches by stealing parcels. I shall relate a few, which I trust will make you circumspect. The Bristol mail-coach has been robbed within a week of the bankers’ parcel, value £1000 or upwards. The Bristol mail-coach was robbed of money the 3rd instant to a large amount. The ‘Expedition’ coach has been twice robbed in the last week—the last time of all the parcels out of the seats. The ‘Telegraph’ was robbed last Monday night between the Saracen’s Head, Aldgate, and Whitechapel Church, of all the parcels out of the dicky. It was broken open while the guard was on it, standing up blowing his horn. The York mail was robbed of parcels out of the seats to a large amount.”
Many of these robberies cited by Hasker were, it will be noticed, from stage-coaches. Despite this warning note, small thefts continued. Then, in 1822, came the classic instance—the robbery from the Ipswich Mail, when notes worth £31,198 mysteriously disappeared. A month later the bulk of them, to the value of £28,000, was returned, only a few, worth £3000, having been successfully negotiated. On the night of June 6th, 1826, seven bags were taken from the Dover Mail between Chatham and Rainham; and in the following year a new sensation was provided by the Warwick Mail being robbed of £20,000.
But the closing great robbery of the coaching age was that of £5000 in notes from the “Potter” (Manchester and Stafford) coach, October 1839. The notes, in a parcel addressed to a bank at Hanley, were extracted from the hind-boot when the coach was near Congleton.
Adventures, says the proverb, are to the adventurous; but in coaching times they befell those who desired a quiet life, equally with the seekers after sensation and experience. Fortunately for the peace of mind of our grandfathers, the startling adventure that befell the up Exeter Mail at Winterslow Hut, on the night of October 20th, 1816, was unique. The coach had left Salisbury in the usual way, and had proceeded several miles, when what was thought to be a large calf was seen trotting beside the horses in the darkness. When the lonely inn of Winterslow Hut was reached, the team had become extremely nervous, and could scarcely be kept under control. At the moment when the coachman pulled up, one of the horses was seized by the supposed calf, and the others of the terrified team began to kick and plunge violently. The guard very promptly drew his blunderbuss, and was about to shoot this mysterious assailant, when several men, accompanied by a large mastiff, came on the scene; and it appeared that this ferocious “calf” was really a lioness, escaped from a travelling menagerie, and these men come in pursuit. The dog was holloaed on to the attack, and the lioness thereupon left the horse, and, seizing him, tore the wretched animal to pieces.