The Worst Street in London: Foreword by Peter Ackroyd (4 page)

A Seedier Side/Jack Sheppard

Despite its newfound fortune and thriving industry, early 18th century Spitalfelds did have its seedier side. The wealth of many residents made the area very popular with thieves, pickpockets and housebreakers, many of whom set up shop in the locality so as to be close to their victims. In fact Jack Sheppard, one of London’s most notorious criminals, was born in New Fashion Street (now White’s Row) in 1702. Jack’s father died when he was just six years old and the young lad was sent to Bishopsgate Workhouse as his impoverished mother could no longer afford to keep him.

At the time, Workhouses tried to place children in their care in apprenticeships, taking the view that once their training was completed, the child would become self-sufficient. However, Jack’s initial placements were beset with bad luck. After two disastrous apprenticeships with cane-chair manufacturers he eventually found work with his mother’s employer – the wonderfully titled Mr Kneebone – who ran a shop on The Strand. Kneebone took Jack under his wing, taught him to read and write and secured him an apprenticeship with a carpentry shop off Drury Lane.

Jack showed an aptitude for carpentry and for the first five years of his seven-year indenture, he progressed well. However, as he reached adulthood, he developed a taste for both beer and women and began to regularly frequent a local tavern named The Black Lion. The Black Lion was a decidedly unsavoury place, its main clientele being prostitutes and petty criminals, but Jack seemed to enjoy its edgy atmosphere and before long, became involved with a young prostitute called Elizabeth Lyon, known to her clients as ‘Edgworth Bess’. Now with a girlfriend to impress, Jack decided it was time to supplement his paltry income by stealing.

At first, he concentrated on shoplifting, no doubt fencing the goods he stole at his local. However, as his confidence increased, Jack moved on to burgling private homes. At first the burglaries were very successful but in February 1724, the inevitable happened. Jack, Bess and Jack’s brother, Tom, were in the throes of escaping from a house they had just burgled when Tom was discovered and caught. Fearful that he may be hanged for the crime, Tom turned informer and told the authorities his accomplices’ whereabouts. Jack was duly arrested and sent to the Roundhouse Gaol in St Giles. It was from the top floor of this prison that Jack began to earn the dubious reputation as an expert escapologist; a reputation that would eventually bring him national notoriety. Employing his knowledge of joinery and making full use of his slender, 5’ 4” frame, Jack managed to break through the Roundhouse’s timber roof. He then lowered himself to the ground using knotted bed linen and silently disappeared into the crowd.

Although Jack had proved adept at escaping from gaol, he was less talented when it came to pulling off robberies undetected. By May 1724, he was in trouble again, this time for pickpocketing in Leicester Fields. He was sent to New Prison in Clerkenwell on remand and soon got a visit from Edgworth Bess. Bess allegedly claimed to be Jack’s wife and begged the gaoler to allow them a little time in private. The sympathetic (and rather stupid) gaoler agreed and the couple immediately got to work filing through Jack’s manacles, presumably using tools that Bess had concealed about her person. The couple worked quickly and soon managed to break a hole in the wall through which they clambered, only to find themselves in the yard of a neighbouring prison! Somehow, the pair managed to scale a 22-foot high gate and made off back to Westminster.

By now, Jack Sheppard’s reputation was beginning to cause a stir and the subsequent publicity caught the attention of Jonathan Wild, an unpleasant character with strong links to the criminal underworld. Wild was a shrewd operator and consummate self-publicist, who had manufactured himself as London’s ‘Thief-taker General’ by shopping his cohorts to the authorities whenever it suited him. Wild was keen to fence goods stolen by Jack, but Jack was not so enthusiastic about the proposed partnership and refused, thus prompting Wild’s wrath. From that moment on, Jonathan Wild began plotting Sheppard’s downfall.

One summer evening, Wild chanced upon Edgworth Bess in a local inn. Knowing Bess’s fondness for liquor, Wild plied her with drink until she was so inebriated that she revealed Jack’s whereabouts without realising what she had done. Jack was caught and once again imprisoned, this time at Newgate Gaol. At the ensuing trial, Jonathan Wild testified against him and Jack was sentenced to hang on 1 September 1724.

Although Newgate Gaol was more secure than the previous two, the threat of having his life cut short was enough to ensure that Jack effected a means of escape. During a visit from a very repentant Bess and her friend, Poll Maggot, Jack managed to remove a loose iron bar from his cell, and while Bess and Poll distracted the lustful guards, he slipped through the gap to freedom. As a final insult to prison security, he left the gaol via the visitor’s gate, dressed as a woman in clothes provided by Poll and Bess.

By now, Jack’s escapades had attracted nationwide attention. This was a disaster for Jack because it meant there were very few places he could go without fear of being recognised. Just nine days after his escape, he was found hiding in Finchley and taken straight back to Newgate.

This time, the authorities were taking no chances and placed him in a cell known as the ‘castle’, where he was literally chained to the floor. During his incarceration, Jack (who by now had become something of a folk hero), was visited by hundreds of Londoners curious to meet the notorious gaol-breaker. This, of course, gave him the opportunity to acquire various escape tools donated by well-wishers. Unfortunately, these tools were found by guards during a routine search of the cell. Many men would have accepted defeat at this stage, but Jack Sheppard was made of stronger stuff. In fact he was on the verge of accomplishing his greatest escape.

On the 15 October, the Old Bailey was thrown into chaos when a defendant named ‘Blueskin’ Blake attacked the duplicitous Jonathan Wild in the courtroom. The ensuing mayhem spilled over into the adjacent Newgate Prison and Jack saw his chance. Using a small nail he had found in his cell, he managed to unchain his handcuffs but failed to release his leg irons. Undaunted, he tried to climb the chimney but found his way blocked by an iron bar, which he promptly ripped out and used to knock a hole in the ceiling. Jack managed to get as far as the prison chapel when he realised that his only route of escape was down the side of the building – a 60-foot drop. Showing incredible nerve, he decided to retrace his steps back to his cell to retrieve a blanket with which he could lower himself down the wall, onto the roof of a neighbouring house. He did this and after breaking through the house’s attic window, walked down the stairs and out into the street, once again a free man.

This time, Jack managed to evade capture for two weeks until his fondness for drink proved to be his downfall. He was arrested on 1 November and sent back to Newgate for a third time. This time, the authorities were determined not to let him out of their sight and so Jack was put on permanent watch, weighed down with 300lb-worth of ironmongery. During his brief stay at Newgate, he was once again visited by all manner of inquisitive Londoners and even had his portrait painted. A petition was raised appealing to the court to spare his life, but the judge was not prepared to comply unless he informed on his associates, which he was not prepared to do. Jack’s execution date was set for 16 November at Tyburn.

On the day of the hanging, Jack made one final escape attempt, hiding a small pen-knife in his clothing but unfortunately it was found before he was put onto the condemned man’s cart. 18th century hangings were macabre, curious and ultimately barbaric affairs. They were regarded as public spectacles and were attended by hundreds of spectators. The general atmosphere was similar to that of a modern-day carnival and well-wishers cheered Jack on his way down the Oxford Road while men, women and children jostled for the best seats on the gallows’ viewing platforms.

As Jack made his final journey, he had one last plan up his sleeve. He knew that the gallows were built for men of a much heavier build than he, so it was unlikely that his neck would be broken by the drop. If he managed to survive the customary 15 minutes hanging from the rope without being asphyxiated, then his friends and associates could quickly cut down his body, whisk it away ostensibly for a quick burial and take him to a sympathetic surgery where he could be revived. Jack’s final plan may have worked, had it not been for the heroic reputation he had acquired during his escape attempts. Sadly, once his body was cut down from the gallows, it was set upon by the baying mob of spectators, who by now had worked themselves into mass hysteria. Word got around that medical students were in the crowd, waiting to take Jack’s body for medical experiments. Jack’s new found fans crowded round his body to protect it from the student dissectors, making it impossible for his friends to reach him in time to revive him. By the time the crowd dispersed, Jack was dead.

With the exception of Jack the Ripper, Jack Sheppard has over the centuries become Spitalfields’ most notorious son. His daring exploits have provided inspiration for numerous books, films, television programmes and plays, the most famous being
The Beggar’s Opera,
which in turn formed the basis of
The Threepenny Opera
by Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht.

That said, the punishment he received for his crimes seems extreme to our modern sensibilities. The early 18th century was not a good time to be caught committing an offence in London. During Jack’s last year of escapades, no less than 41 other criminals were sentenced to death at the Old Bailey, while over 300 more were condemned to endure humiliating corporal punishments or exile. A wide variety of crimes were reported in the Old Bailey Proceedings for 1724: Simple Grand Larceny (the theft of goods without any aggravating circumstances such as assault or housebreaking) was by far the most common offence; 39% of convicted prisoners were found guilty of this crime. This was followed by shoplifting and pickpocketing (just under 12% and just over 9% of all prisoners respectively) and burglary (5% of convicted prisoners). Violent crime was relatively rare: five defendants were found guilty of robbery with violence, four were found to have committed manslaughter and just three were found guilty of murder. Other crimes brought to trial that year included bigamy, coining (counterfeiting coins), animal theft and receiving stolen goods.

Punishments for defendants who were found guilty varied enormously. In cases of theft and fraud, the strength of the sentence was usually commensurate with the amount of money involved. On 26 February 1724, Frederick Schmidt of St Martins in the Fields was brought up before the judge accused of coining. As the trial unfolded, it became apparent that Schmidt had been caught changing the value of a £20 note to £100. His accuser, the Baron de Loden, deposed that Schmidt erased the true value from the bank note then ‘drew the Note through a Plate of Gum-water, and afterwards having dried it between Papers, smooth’d it over between papers with a box iron, and afterwards wrote in the vacancy (where the twenty was taken out) One Hundred, and also wrote at the Bottom of the Note 100 pounds.’ The Baron also added that Schmidt boasted to him that ‘he could write 20 sorts of Hands and if he had but 3 or 400 pounds he could get 50,000 pounds.’

The Baron’s accusation was supported by Eleanora Sophia, Countess of Bostram, who had also seen Schmidt altering the note. It appears that Schmidt’s boastful ways caused his downfall. The jury found him guilty of coining and, as this was a capital offence, he was sentenced to death. In contrast, later that year, John and Mary Armstrong were prosecuted for the lesser but potentially very lucrative offence of passing off pieces of copper as sixpences. One witness deposed that ‘the People of the Town of Twickenham (where the Armstrongs resided) had been much imposed upon by Copper Pieces like Six Pences’ and when the defendants were apprehended, ‘several Pieces of Copper Money, and a parcel of tools were found upon the man.’ Fortunately for the Armstrongs, the jury did not consider their offence to be worthy of capital or even corporal punishment; both were fined three Marks for their misdemeanour.

Theft also carried a very wide range of punishments. On 17 January 1724, Edward Campion, Jonathan Pomfroy and Thomas Jarvis of Islington stood trial for feloniously stealing three geese. On 9 December the previous year, the prisoners were stopped by a night watchman who was understandably curious to find out why the men had geese under their arms. The men admitted to the watchman that they had taken the birds out of a pond. However, once they realised they were going to be prosecuted, they changed their story and said they found the geese wandering around in the road. The jury felt inclined to believe the night watchman’s account and found the trio guilty as charged. The judge, no doubt hoping that a bit of public humiliation might make them see the error of their ways, sentenced them to be whipped.

While being publicly flogged was hardly a pleasurable way to spend an afternoon, it was infinitely preferable to the fate of another animal thief, who had appeared at the Old Bailey in January of the same year. The case was reported succinctly in the Court Proceedings, which in a way makes it all the more shocking to 21st century minds. The entry read, ‘Thomas Bruff, of the Parish of St Leonard Shoreditch, was indicted for feloniously stealing a brown mare, value 5 pounds, the property of William Sneeth, the 25th of August last. The Fact being plainly proved, the jury found him guilty of the Indictment. Death.’

Throughout the 18th century, the death penalty was meted out for all manner of offences, from murder to pickpocketing. Hanging was by far the most common method of carrying out the sentence and mercifully most convicts did not have to wait more than a few weeks for their appointment at Tyburn. By the 18th century many of the more horrific, medieval methods of execution had long since been banned. However, for a few unfortunate individuals found guilty of Treason, two truly appalling relics from the Middle Ages remained. Women found guilty of either Treason or Petty Treason could be sentenced to be burned alive at the stake. Amazingly, coin clipping (filing or cutting down the edges of coins so more could be forged) was included in the offences for which being burned was punishment; three women were burned alive in the 1780s for this very crime. However, many other women who suffered this most dreadful of ends had been found guilty of murdering their husbands (which was considered Petty Treason).