by James Moore
WHERE HANGING JUDGE JEFFREYS WAS CAUGHT … AND CAPTAIN KIDD EXECUTED, 1688 AND 1701
The Town of Ramsgate, The Prospect of Whitby and Captain Kidd, Wapping, London; The George Inn, Norton St Philip, Somerset
George Jeffreys, first Baron Jeffreys of Wem, has gone down in history as brutal and heartless, handing out scores of death sentences during the Bloody Assizes of 1685. Many of the verdicts that Judge Jeffreys passed on the rebels who had taken part in the Monmouth Rebellion of the same year were said to have been given in the surroundings of an old inn, The Antelope in Dorchester, Dorset, which is now part of a shopping arcade. So it was perhaps fitting that when Jeffreys was himself on the wrong end of the law, three years later, the location for his arrest was another hostelry.
Back in the seventeenth century, The Town of Ramsgate in Wapping was known as The Red Cow. It was one of a host of alehouses that lined the shoreline, serving the sailors and tradesmen in the bustling, seedy district. The Red Cow, then in Anchor and Hope Alley, was run by a Mr Porter. And, in December 1688, it had a customer who looked ostensibly like any other member of its regular clientele. He was said to be ‘dressed in fur cap a seaman’s neckcloth and a rusty coat’. In fact, this was no seafarer but Jeffreys, who had become the most reviled man in England. Now a desperate fugitive, he had resorted to wearing a disguise as he waited for help to flee the country.
Jeffreys was born a Protestant in 1645, but by the time James II, the Catholic brother of Charles II, had come to the throne in early 1685, he had already worked his way up to Solicitor General and Lord Chief Justice, thanks to James’ patronage. Known for his bombastic style in court and ruthless application of the law, Jeffreys presided over some famous cases including that of Titus Oates, a man tried for fabricating a Popish Plot in 1678, whom he had flogged. And when the Duke of Monmouth’s rebellion was quashed in July 1685, Jeffreys demonstrated his loyalty to James by leading the prosecution of 1,000 rebels, pursuing the heaviest sentences possible with ruthless vigour. The Bloody Assizes, as they became known, were conducted across the West Country in several locations including Winchester, Taunton, Salisbury, Wells and Dorchester. The case that caused the most outrage was Jeffreys’ treatment of 70-year-old Lady Alice Lisle. She was an aristocratic woman who had harboured some of those who had taken part in the rebellion. Although she wasn’t directly involved in treason herself, Jeffreys nevertheless pronounced the death sentence, ordering Lady Lisle to be burnt at the stake. Pleas for mercy resulted only in her being granted a beheading instead of a pyre. The execution was carried out at Winchester that September.
Preparing to hear cases in Dorchester, Jeffreys ordered the Oak Room of the Antelope Inn, which was to be the courtroom, hung with scarlet curtains. On the first morning of the terrible proceedings, 5 September, he sent twenty-nine of the thirty who had been accused to be hanged, drawn and quartered. During the course of the assizes, several hundred more people were condemned to death and many others transported overseas. A number of existing inns claim to have been visited by Jeffreys during this process including the ancient George Inn at Norton St Philip in Somerset. Here twelve unfortunate souls executed on the village green. Jeffreys was rewarded for his ruthless efficiency by being given the powerful post of Lord Chancellor. However, in 1688 his fortunes changed almost overnight when James II was forced from power by William of Orange in what became known as the Glorious Revolution.
The king fled the country and Jeffreys, inextricably linked to the old regime, began planning his own escape. On 12 December, as mobs roamed London, he headed to Wapping, and it was while waiting for a passage out of the country on a ship moored nearby that he was apprehended. It was no surprise that he sought refuge in drink while he waited nervously for the craft to be ready. By now Jeffreys, whose vile temper had always been put down to kidney stone trouble, was a confirmed alcoholic.
In one version of the story of his arrest, an old defendant who had once appeared before Jeffreys in court happened to recognise the judge in the alehouse, beneath his sailor’s disguise. He then tipped off the authorities. In another, the captain of the ship he was meant to be travelling on gave him away. Either way, constables arrived at the alehouse to find Jeffreys wearing his sailor’s outfit while hiding beneath some blankets in a room above the hostelry. He had even shaved off his famously prominent eyebrows in the hope of avoiding capture. They asked the man if he were the Lord Chancellor and Jeffreys, peering from beneath the bedclothes, admitted, ‘I am the man.’
Jeffreys was immediately taken to the Lord Mayor’s house in a coach, but word soon got out of his arrest and crowds gathered to hurl mud and stones at it as he went past. A terrified Jeffreys broke down and begged to be saved from the mob. He was swiftly thrown into prison at the Tower of London. To the chagrin of many of his victims, the judge did not go to the gallows. Instead he was to die of kidney disease on 18 April 1689.
Just along from the Town of Ramsgate in Wapping was Execution Dock where, for 400 years, pirates were traditionally hanged from a gallows set up near the ebbing waters of the Thames. The felons would first be hanged, then their bodies would be taken down and tied to a post, which was left beside the river until three tides had washed over them. It’s claimed that Jeffreys used to watch some of these executions while he relaxed in a local alehouse. One of these was almost certainly the Prospect of Whitby, a pub that has stood by the Wapping foreshore since 1520. It was also frequented by the diarist Samuel Pepys and was originally known as The Pelican, or Devil’s Tavern.
The Prospect of Whitby, next to Execution Dock in Wapping. (Courtesy of the Prospect of Whitby)
In this era, such public executions were conducted in an alcoholic haze. Not only were the baying crowds fuelled by booze but even the condemned men were allowed to guzzle a final quart of beer at an appointed alehouse before the noose was put round their neck. When it came to pirates, this spectacle would usually occur at the Turk’s Head Inn, which used to stand at No. 30 Wapping High Street before succumbing to bombing during the Second World War.
It was at Execution Dock that the famous pirate Captain Kidd would meet his end. Kidd, born in Dundee, Scotland, and in the same year as Jeffreys, first came to prominence as a privateer around the time of the hanging judge’s death. At first his exploits raiding French settlements in the Caribbean were sanctioned by the English government and he became a prominent ship-owner based in New York. Then in, 1696, he was given a mission to attack pirates in the Indian Ocean. But Kidd and his ship, the Adventure Galley, were soon in difficulties. A third of his crew died from cholera, and his efforts to defeat the buccaneers were floundering. To cover his costs, Kidd ditched his allegiances to the crown and joined the ranks of full-blown pirates himself. At one point his crew became mutinous and, on 30 October 1697, Kidd killed a disobedient gunner called William Moore by bludgeoning him over the head with a heavy iron bucket.
After a series of further escapades in which Kidd and his crew captured a merchant ship called the Quedagh Merchant, he was denounced as a pirate by the English government. He was finally arrested in July 1699 when he arrived back in New York, trying to maintain his innocence. Kidd was sent back to England where he was tried at the Old Bailey and found guilty of piracy as well as murdering Moore. Supposedly the treasure Kidd had amassed during his adventures, amounting to some £100,000, was never found.
On 23 May 1701, Kidd was taken from Newgate Gaol to Wapping. There, a little worse for wear, he stood before the crowd and warned other captains to learn from his fate before the noose was put round his neck. Executions were rarely carried out with precision and the first rope used to hang Kidd snapped. Dragged out of the mud, the 56-year-old was hanged again – this time successfully. Dragged out again, Kidd was hanged a second time, this time successfully. His body was then taken to hang in a gibbet at Tilbury Point where it remained for several years. Today there is a modern pub bearing his name, The Captain Kidd, located between the Prospect of Whitby and the Town of Ramsgate.<
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LOCATIONS: The Town of Ramsgate, No. 62 Wapping High Street, London, E1W 2PN, 020 7481 8000, www.townoframsgate.co.uk; The George Inn, High Street, Bath, Somerset, BA2 7LH, 01373 834224, www.georgeinnnsp.co.uk; The Prospect of Whitby, No. 57 Wapping Wall, Wapping, London, E1W 3SH, 020 7481 1095, www.taylor-walker.co.uk. Captain Kidd, No. 108 Wapping High Street, London, E1W 2NE, 020 7480 5759
KILLED AS HE KNELT TO TOAST A QUEEN, 1714
The George, Stamford, Lincolnshire
The George at Stamford is one of the oldest inns in the country, believed to date back to AD 947. The ancient hostelry, now a hotel, is set upon the old Great North Road and has served everyone from pilgrims to royalty during its illustrious history. The current building dates back to 1597 when the inn was rebuilt by Lord Burghley. His coat of arms can still be seen over the front entrance and the stone mullioned lattice windows in the upper storey on the north side of The George still date to Elizabethan times.
By the eighteenth century, The George had achieved a reputation as a comfortable resting place for travellers making their way up and down the busy north-south route. It was during this time that it got the famous gallows sign bearing its name that still extends across the whole road outside. At a time when highwaymen were still a peril, it provided both an advertisement and warning that only the best guests were wanted. During this era, forty stagecoaches passed through Stamford every day and The George was their main stopping point.
Over the centuries The George has seen its fair share of drama and given its age it was inevitable that one day tragedy would strike, though it is, perhaps, surprising that it has been the scene of only one murder. The sudden and shocking demise of Mr Bolton was no run-of-the-mill killing. It reflected the political unrest which gripped Britain in the early years of the eighteenth century.
When the last Stuart monarch, Queen Anne, died in August 1714, she passed away without a direct heir. George I was a mere 52nd in line to the throne, but he succeeded because he was the only Protestant. Under the provisions of the 1701 Act of Settlement he became king, being crowned in October 1714. Almost immediately, however, George was faced with the threat of a Jacobite uprising. James Edward Stuart, son of James II and nicknamed the ‘Old Pretender’, laid claim to the throne, and there was widespread sympathy for him, not just in Scotland but throughout England too, particularly in the north.
The George, Stamford, Lincolnshire, where a murder was committed in 1714. (Courtesy of The George Hotel)
Many of Stamford’s citizens were supporters of the Jacobites, and after Queen Anne’s passing there was unrest in the town. Being a symbol of the Hanoverian claim, a Presbyterian chapel was burned down despite the efforts of the mayor to intervene. Keen to quash rebellion, a troop of dragoons was stationed in Stamford which, given its situation on the road to Scotland where the rebellion against George was gathering pace, was also highly strategic.
At the time a William Wildman ran the George, but a more humble tap room in the building was rented to a Mr Bolton. This served ale to locals as well as staff at the inn. Bolton was known to have Jacobite sympathies but he might have done better to keep them to himself with cavalrymen loyal to King George camped out in the town. It was occasionally the unusual custom of Jacobites to drink to the memory of Queen Anne by kneeling with their legs bared. On one night, Bolton was found taking part in this ritual in the tap room by a member of the dragoons. Without warning, the enraged soldier pulled out his sword and plunged it directly into Bolton’s heart. Death was instant.
Word quickly spread of what had happened and a mob surrounded The George demanding justice. An 1822 history of Stamford, written by the radical journalist John Drakard, recounts the scene: ‘An innumerable concourse of people immediately surrounded the inn, armed with all sorts of domestic weapons: they broke all the windows and threatened the utter demolition of the house unless the delinquent was given up.’ Surely helped by his fellow soldiers, the terrified culprit appears to have outwitted those demanding justice and escaped out of the back of the inn.
The following year a full-scale Jacobite uprising was defeated, and with the country now at peace, there seems to have been little appetite to track down Bolton’s murderer. Nobody was ever convicted of the crime, and by 1746 the Jacobite bid to win the throne finally died too with the defeat of Charles Edward Stuart, the Young Pretender, at the Battle of Culloden. Interestingly, in the year preceding George II’s son, the Duke of Cumberland, had stayed at The George before masterminding that victory over the Scots.
LOCATIONS: The George Hotel, No. 71 High Street St Martin’s, Stamford, Lincolnshire, PE9 2LB, 01780 750750, www.georgehotelofstamford.com
DICK TURPIN – A LIFE AND DEATH IN TAVERNS, 1739
The Bluebell Inn, Hempstead, Essex; The Blue Boar, York; The Beverley Arms Hotel, Beverley, Yorkshire; Three Houses Inn, Sandal Magna, Wakefield, Yorkshire; Ferry Inn, Brough, North Humberside; Green Dragon, Welton, North Humberside; White Hart, Drury Lane, London; O’Neills’, Leytonstone, East London
On Saturday 7 April 1739, the body of Dick Turpin was laid out in the Blue Boar tavern on York’s Castlegate. The 33-year-old had been executed at Knavesmire, where the city’s racecourse is today, and was buried the next day – though his corpse had to be reburied after it was dug up by grave robbers and eventually turned up in the garden of a local surgeon. The original Blue Boar closed in 1775. But a modern pub nearby, previously known as The Little John, has recently changed its name to the Blue Boar in memory of the event. Such is the draw of Turpin that, across the land, there is no shortage of pubs laying claim to a link with the famous highwayman. Indeed there are several named after him, including one in York not far from the sight of his hanging. There are over 100 more that have Turpin stories associated with them. Many of these tales are no doubt apocryphal. But the fact that so many pubs and hotels claim an attachment to Turpin is testament to our romantic vision of a man whose actual life is shrouded in myth.
The truth is that Turpin was a cunning horse thief, a callous murderer and a man who was either so dispirited or arrogant by the time he was finally caught that he did not even attempt to escape. Much of the legend of Turpin, involving the frock-coated gentleman highwayman holding up rich folk whilst riding trusty Black Bess, has come down to us through the fictionalised account in Harrison Ainsworth’s 1834 novel, Rockwood. Indeed the most famous tale about Turpin – his supposed 150-mile ride to York to establish an alibi – was in fact not carried out by Turpin at all. This nigh on impossible feat was originally attached to another highwayman called John Nevison half a century earlier. In 1676 ‘Swift Nick’ committed a robbery in Kent and was said to have ridden to York in time to play a game of bowls with the city’s Lord Mayor that very evening. When he was arrested and tried for the crime, the Lord Mayor supported his alibi and Nevison was acquitted. In the end Nevison, who operated mainly from the Talbot Inn at Newark, was no luckier than Turpin. On 6 March 1684 he was arrested at the Three Houses Inn at Sandal Magna near Wakefield in Yorkshire, now in a slightly different location to the original inn. He was tried for killing Darcy Fletcher, a constable who had earlier tried to arrest him, and was hanged two months later in York.
What is certain about Richard Turpin is that he had humble beginnings. He was born in September 1705, the son of a man who was both an innkeeper and butcher in Hempstead, Essex. His father ran the sixteenth-century Blue Bell, which, during the course of its history, became the Rose and Crown and has now reverted back to being called The Bluebell Inn. Dick, who initially took up his father’s trade as a butcher, soon became involved with the Gregory Gang, a group of deer poachers in Essex. His career as a thief appears to have begun in 1734, not primarily as a highway robber, but as a burglar in the county, carrying out raids on the homes of the well-to-do with his gang. Their victims were often brutally beaten and the gang would meet at taverns in and around London to plan attacks, share out their booty and fence their ill-gotten gains. The White Hart in Drury Lane is belie
ved to have been one of their haunts.
The Bluebell Inn, Hempstead, Essex, where highwayman Dick Turpin is believed to have been born. (Courtesy of the Bluebell Inn)
In February 1735, three of the gang finally came a cropper when the same horses they had used in an earlier robbery were noticed outside an alehouse called The Punch Bowl in King Street, Bloomsbury. A parish constable was called and the trio were caught. One of them, a 15-year-old boy called John Wheeler, betrayed his fellow criminals, and while Turpin remained at large, a description of the now notorious villain was circulated. He was described thus:
Richard Turpin, a butcher by trade, is a tall fresh coloured man, very much marked with the small pox. About 26 years of age, about 5ft 9in high, lived some time ago in Whitechapel and did lately lodge somewhere about Millbank, Westminster. Wears a blue grey coat and a natural wig.
It was at this point that Turpin turned his attention to holding up stagecoaches and travellers. He teamed up with a series of other highwaymen, always managing to evade capture. Then, in May 1737, he and an accomplice called Matthew King stole a horse belonging to Joseph Major near Waltham Forest to the north of London. Major distributed descriptions of the man, whom he named as Turpin, to local inns. Richard Bayes, keeper of The Green Man, now an O’Neill’s pub in Leytonstone, helped him track the horse to a pub called the Red Lion in Whitechapel, East London, where there was a gun battle and King was killed. Again Turpin escaped, this time to a hideout in Epping Forest. He was, however, spotted by a gamekeeper called Thomas Morris. When challenged, Turpin drew his pistol and shot Morris down. Turpin was now a murderer as well as a thief, and a £200 bounty was offered for his capture.