Some Distinguished Victims of the Scaffold

Gentle Mr Baker, the white-haired layman of the map office in the Tower, whose work in the foul dungeon was scarcely less admirable than that of Elizabeth Fry, seems to be more successful in winning the affections of the condemned man than Ordinary Cotton; and the efforts of this good Samaritan are aided by a clergyman from Peckham, named Springett, to whom Fauntleroy had been introduced by a friend. These two are his constant companions during the remainder of his imprisonment. Most of his old associates prove loyal, in spite of his infamy and disgrace, for the fearful penalty of the forger is thought to atone for the greatest of frauds.

Meanwhile, exertions for a reprieve continue. The condemned banker is not included in the Recorder’s report on the 20th of November at a meeting of the Council, over which the King is said to have presided, and the case is argued twice before the Judges on the 23rd and 24th of the month. George IV., the only one of the four who was a gentleman, a scholar, or a man of artistic taste, the only one whose foolish egotism did not embroil the country in a costly and bloody war, was also the only one with a merciful heart. His first great fault, for which neither contemporaries nor posterity have forgiven him, was infidelity to a dull, silly, uncleanly wife, whom he was compelled to marry against his will, and who was nothing loth to pay him back in his own coin. His next, that, like the Duke of Wellington and his brother William, he was a lion among the ladies. George IV. is inclined to save Fauntleroy from the scaffold, just as he wished to save all except the murderer.

Every effort fails, however, and on Wednesday night, after a meeting of the Privy Council, the Recorder sends his report to Newgate. At half-past six the Rev. Cotton, whose duty it is to break the news of their fate to the prisoners, proceeds to Fauntleroy’s room. The banker, who is reading, looks up as the Ordinary enters, and, observing that he is deeply affected, “Ah, Mr Cotton, I see how it is,” he exclaims. “I expected nothing less than death, and, thank God, I am resigned to my fate.” During the rest of the day he seems more concerned for the doom of Joseph Harwood – a lad of eighteen, condemned to die the next morning for stealing half a crown from the pocket of a drunken Irishman – than for his own dismal situation. Worn out with suspense, he does not awake until a late hour on Thursday, and thus sleep spares him the anguish of hearing the awful bell that is added to the torments of those who go to the scaffold innocent of murder.

On Friday, Miss Fox comes to bid him farewell, bringing with her, so The Times reports, “two lovely babes, both girls, of the ages of eighteen months and three years, and both also in deep mourning.” Another occasion, indeed, for the modern reader to exclaim – “Cruel, like the grinding of human hearts under millstones.” One of that time thinks so – Edmund Angelini, a crazy teacher of languages, who the same day makes application to the Lord Mayor that he may be allowed to mount the scaffold instead of Fauntleroy.

On Saturday, the miserable wife pays her last visit. Previously she has made a desperate attempt to reach implacable Peel – fainting in his hall – which brings from the Home Secretary “a kind message.” Afterwards she strives to speak with Lady Conyngham, who pleads inability to assist, conscious, no doubt, that although she can mould divine right, her charms are powerless against the incorruptible calico-printer. Angelini, still filled with lust for the rope, but whose logic has made no impression on the Lord Mayor, comes hammering at Newgate door, and succeeds in gaining an interview with Ordinary Cotton, whom, perhaps, he regards – judging by appearances – as Jack Ketch’s commanding officer.

With the Sabbath comes gala-day and the ‘condemned sermon’ The partners of Jaggers Harmer, by name Forbes and Mayhew, are humane enough to sit with Fauntleroy in the ostentatious sable pew reserved for doomed convicts, and the good Samaritans Baker and Springett, supporting their charge with kind hands, take their seats with the dismal company. Abductor Wakefield has left a graphic picture of an entertainment similar to this. The rude, unsightly chapel, near akin in more than appearance to the dissecting-room in Old Surgeons’ Hall, and with no more semblance of holiness than the court at Bow Street, is packed with prisoners, gay and careless sight-seers, the pomp of sheriffdom and attendant lackeys. Hymns are bellowed, in hideous blasphemy, beseeching divine mercy to show good example to the creatures it has moulded in its own image. Prayers are mumbled, and heeded as little by the gallows-gazing throng as the showman’s horn by children who pant eagerly for the puppet-show. The hangman’s prologue – the sermon – is what all desire, and everything else is of no account. At last the Rev. Cotton, smug and resolute in white gown, mounts the lofty pulpit, and the Sheriffs attempt to screw their courage to face the ordeal. The Ordinary is in his finest form. On the previous Sunday he had shattered the nerves of the boy Harwood, and had sent ‘a female’ – condemned to die for a paltry theft – into hysterics a fortnight ago. Scenes like these make the condemned sermon attractive. To-day the discourse is a stupid plagiarism of the Jacobite doctrine of passive resistance, but the bank’s charter, and not divine right, is Cotton’s fetish. While lauding the humanity of “the greatest commercial establishment in the world,” he displays his want of accuracy and legal knowledge by praising the directors for having replaced the stolen investments, as they had not yet done, but were bound by law to do. “I deprecate that feeling,” he declaims, “which is artfully and improperly excited in favour of those who have no extraordinary claim to mercy. When monstrous crimes have been committed we have a right to call for judgment on criminals, and to consign them to the fate the law demands. Offences are sometimes brought to light which require the most severe chastisement the law can inflict, and discoveries of such a nature have been made in reference to the unhappy individual to whom I shall more particularly address myself,” etc., etc. Upon the limp, shrinking figure in the large black pew, whose poor throbbing brain is pierced through and through by the barbed words of the holy man, all eyes are turned, save a few blinded with tears, or those wretches of both sexes who testify by sobs and howls that a like fate is their portion. Even in the leathern faces and soulless eyes of the grim turnkeys there glimmers a tiny spark of emotion. It is pleasant to remember that the Rev. Cotton, harmless and worthy gentleman in other respects, received strong censure from those in authority for his eloquence at the expense of Fauntleroy, and was accused of “harrowing the feelings of the prisoner unnecessarily.” Still, it would have been wiser to have attacked the system rather than the man.

Less gruesome even than the loathsome chapel is the condemned cell on the fatal night. All day the doomed banker has been calm and resigned, bidding adieu to his brother and his son, and explaining to his solicitors intricate details in the books of the bank. Late in the evening Mr Wontner comes to visit him as usual, and tries to persuade him to take something to eat, but the wretched man protests he ‘loathed food’ For hours he continues to pace the room, leaning on the arm of Mr Springett. Although he declares that he shall never sleep until after that ‘awful moment’ about three o’clock he is induced to lie upon the bed. The clergyman, who leaves the chamber for a few moments, finds him, when he returns, sitting by the fire and greatly terrified. Early in the morning he is able to accept a cup of tea and a biscuit. Before six o’clock Baker has resumed his work of mercy, and a little later conscientious Ordinary Cotton joins the sad company. Neat and precise as ever, the forger has made as careful a toilet as if he was to attend a social gathering, attired in a suit of black, with knee-breeches, silk stockings and dress shoes, and a white handkerchief around his neck. To Mr Baker he gives a few pounds to distribute among the needy people in the prison, and leaves a ring for Mrs Harris, the wife of the turnkey, to whom, and also to her husband, he gives thanks for their kindness.

Fauntleroy is spared a visit to the Press Yard, or to the adjacent apartment, where the manacles of prisoners are knocked off previous to the march to the scaffold. About 7.30 they conduct him to the ‘Upper Condemned Room’ and here his favourite hymn is sung – “God moves in a mysterious way” – and he partakes of the sacrament. From the numerous conflicting reports it may be gathered that Sheriff Brown and his ghastly train – for Alderman Key did not care to be present – attend their victim at a quarter to eight. At the end of the long stone chamber, dimly lighted by two candles, a small group is huddled before the fire – the Rev. Cotton administering platitudes, Baker and Springett on each side of the prisoner with their arms linked in his. Fauntleroy is standing firmly in easy pose, although his senses seem benumbed as if under the influence of a narcotic, and he bows slightly to the Sheriff, who addresses him in a few kindly words. The Ordinary – clever stage-manager – seizes the opportunity to draw the criminal a pace or two apart, and the officers, taking the signal, come behind, and commence to place their ropes around his arms. For a moment he seems terrified, and like a hunted animal shrinks for refuge to his two faithful friends, who gently place his hands across his breast, while the attendants pinion his elbows with their cords.

The clock of St Sepulchre – ominous name! – strikes the hour. With a solemn inclination of his head towards the convict the Sheriff moves forward, followed by the white-robed Cotton. Then comes the hapless banker, supported by Baker and Springett. With tightly closed eyes and mechanical steps, as though his nerves were dead and his senses steeped in torpor, he moves almost as an automaton. Through the long vaulted passages, where the tread of footsteps seem to beat a funeral march to the grave, down cold, steep stairs and along damp, cavernous windings, amidst a gloom made more fearful by the red glare of scanty lamps, the procession crawls onward. As it reaches the gate of the long corridor leading into the high, square lobby, from whence the Debtors’ Door opens upon the street, the Ordinary commences the service for the dead. At the sound of the harsh words the wretched sufferer starts, and clasps and unclasps his hands. No other sign of emotion marks his bearing; and even when the boom of the passing bell smites the startled ears of his companions, and their footsteps, as though stayed, pause for a moment involuntarily, he shows no sign of consciousness.

Across the lofty stone hall, and under the gate of the slaughter-house, the Sheriff and the Ordinary pass onward. There is a rush of chill, moist air through the open door, the bare wooden stairs reverberate with the tread of feet, and in another moment Fauntleroy, still supported by his friends, is standing upon the platform in the open street beneath the frowning wall of Old Bailey. Instantly every head in the dense crowd is uncovered. Yet this is not a token of respect for a dying man, but a time-honoured custom, so that the view of those in the rear may not be obscured. With eyes still closed, and his face turned towards Newgate Street, Fauntleroy moves under the cross-bar. Physical exhaustion is fast conquering him, and the officials hasten their task. In a moment the cap is slipped over his head, while Baker, accustomed to these scenes, speaks to him in earnest prayer. The halter is placed round his neck, and the loathly creature, whose expert hands have finished pawing their victim, glides swiftly from the scaffold. The Rev. Cotton continues to read from his book, but his eyes steal sideways furtively, and he throws a glance of meaning upon the man who has descended. An instant later, the Ordinary passes a handkerchief across his lips. It is the signal! There is a crash of falling timber, and to those in the street Fauntleroy appears to drop through the platform as far as his knees, and hangs swaying from the strong black beam which holds the cord that is gripping him by the throat. The bowstring of the unspeakable Turk is a more artistic but not a more cruel death.

The performance was an immense success, for a more stupendous throng had never gathered round the black walls of Newgate. Over one hundred thousand persons were said to have witnessed the entertainment, and reserved seats in the houses commanding a view of Debtors’ Door had been booked far in advance. At the ‘King of Denmark’ in the Old Bailey the sum of fourteen shillings was charged for a place; while at Wingrave’s eating-house and at Luttman’s, which were exactly opposite ‘the drop’ the price was as high as one pound. “Many respectable-looking females,” says the Morning Post, “were present at the windows, all attired in deep black.” A line of large waggons, hackney-coaches and cabriolets, all of which reaped a rich harvest, stretched from the corner of Giltspur Street and Newgate to Skinner’s Street, Snowhill, and every housetop was overflowing with holiday-makers.

It was a bitterly cold morning, with icy rain-storms and a chill mist, so the resolute thousands thoroughly deserved the enjoyment for which they set at defiance all the ills of the flesh. Most careful precautions were taken to avoid a repetition of the Haggerty-Holloway tragedy, when the mob saved James Botting – that worthy soul whose latter days were distressed by visions of ‘parties’ in nightcaps with their heads on one side – an infinite deal of trouble by trampling to death some fifty of its fellows. Six huge barriers stretched across Newgate Street at the corner of the prison, and there were two intermediate ones, to break the press, between that place and the scaffold; more were erected at the Ludgate Hill termination of Old Bailey, and within the barricade around the fatal platform were four hundred constables.

Sad to relate, the object-lesson was a failure in one instance, for Henry Norman, a fine-looking lad of fifteen, was charged at the Guildhall the next morning with picking a pocket, the owner of which was gloating over the spectacle of the strangled banker. It speaks highly for the integrity of our modern police force that, in these days of exclusive hangings, a nimble-fingered Robert has never tried to filch the watch of an impressionable Under-Sheriff. Or if he has, the public has not heard of it.

In these record-breaking times it is a common occurrence for a trusted attorney to embezzle half a million pounds, but before the achievements of Henry Fauntleroy all previous forgeries sink into insignificance. Poor Dodd surrendered all he stole, and Wynne Ryland’s fraud was, in its way, as artistic a performance as those of Thomas Chatterton, while a brief career of crime – as in the case of Henry Savary of Bristol, who was lucky enough to escape the gallows – ruined the brothers Perreau. James Bolland and John Rouvelett were low-born fellows; and although the public welcomed each as a first-class criminal, neither gained the same prestige as a forger of gentle birth. In a small way, Henry Cock, the lawyer, anticipated the Berners Street frauds, and two other cases bear some resemblance. Henry Weston, a man of good family and social position, who was hanged at the Old Bailey on the 6th of June 1796, disposed of stocks amounting to twenty-five thousand pounds in a similar manner to Fauntleroy; and Joseph Blackburn, one of the most respected of Leeds attorneys, who suffered a lingering death at York on the 8th of April 1815, committed innumerable frauds for a great number of years by transferring and altering the denominations of the old familiar blue stamps.

“Fauntleroy’s doom was so thoroughly recognised as well merited,” writes Mr Thornbury, sternly, about forty years after the event, “that although in 1832 every other kind of forger was exempted by law from the gallows, the hands of the hangman still hovered over the forger of wills and powers of attorney to transfer stock.” Yet, since the penalty was never inflicted, this argument appears superfluous.

Fauntleroy certainly is the prince of forgers, as truly as Jack Sheppard is the greatest of prison-breakers and George Barrington the finest genius among pickpockets. Although driven to crime in the first instance by moral cowardice and craving for self-indulgence, he must have possessed an almost Napoleonic confidence that his abilities would conquer misfortune. Too proud to surrender the terrible struggle, he refused to adopt the easy alternative of flight to France with his ill-gotten gains. When one tries to realise the stupendous task of manipulating figures of such magnitude for so many years, the brain reels. The regular payment of huge dividends lest the victims should become aware of their loss, the constant replacement of stock when discovery seemed to threaten, the repeated buying and selling in order to rob Peter to-day to pay Paul to-morrow, the daily juggling with the books, and adjustment of balances, added to the incessant vigilance lest the errors of a few figures should mean betrayal to partners or clerks – all these wonderful transactions show an example of mathematical legerdemain such as the world has seldom seen. When it is borne in mind that the man was playing for nearly ten years with sums amounting in the aggregate to half a million sterling, his title to the incomparable forger of all time cannot be challenged. But like many another who has contributed to the public amusement, his memory soon faded from the minds of all save his creditors. Scarcely had the curtain been rung down on the tragedy of Fauntleroy, when it rose again upon the entrancing drama of accommodating Miss Foote and wayward Mr ‘Pea-green’ Hayne.

Occasionally, but not often, we hear mention of the banker’s name, and there was a recent reference to it in one of the delightful novels of Anthony Hope.

“It is no longer a capital offence,” declares ribald Arty Kane, referring to forgery, and addressing charming Peggy Ryle; “you won’t be hanged in silk knee-breeches like Mr Fauntleroy.”

Part II. – Some Details of the Forgeries

The Berners Street bankruptcy.

No complete balance-sheet of the Marsh-Stracey bankruptcy appears to exist. The books of the firm seem to have baffled both the Commissioners and the assignees; and so artfully had Fauntleroy concealed his frauds, that even skilled accountants did not succeed in unravelling the whole of their mysteries. Contemporary newspapers furnish many important clues, but their statements, when not conflicting, are neither lucid nor exhaustive. Yet, although many details must remain obscure, it is possible to form a rough conception of the result.

The position of the bankrupts.

Since we know that the first dividend of 3s. 4d. in the pound (distributed to the creditors on the 7th of February 1825) absorbed a sum of £92,486, it is clear that Messrs Marsh, Stracey & Company required a grand total of £554,916 to pay twenty shillings in the pound. Practically these figures are substantiated by the preliminary accounts presented at the meeting of the Commissioners on the 18th of December 1824, which state that the claims against the firm – excluding any liability to the Bank of England – amount to £554,148.

This estimate, however, is the only one of any accuracy made at the time, for the assets expected to be realised fell very short of the original calculation. A second dividend of 3s. 4d. was received by the creditors on the 30th of August 1825, and between that date and the appointment of the official assignee a further sum of £46,243 was distributed. Thus the total of the first three dividends – which were equivalent to 8s. 4d. in the pound – amounts to £231,215.

The bankruptcy return of Patrick Johnson (official assignee), published in 1839, shows that assets were collected subsequently amounting to £160,930, and thus the creditor side of the Berners Street ledger appears to have reached a total of £392,150.

From this balance of £160,930 – realised by the official assignee after the payment of the first three dividends – further distributions of 5d. and 1s. (being 9s. 9d. in the pound in all) were made respectively on the 23rd of December 1833 and the 9th of September 1835, and absorbed further sums of £11,560, 15s. and £27,745, 16s.

During September 1835 the claim of the Bank of England against Messrs Marsh, Stracey & Company was compromised for a payment of £95,000 in cash; and a further sum of £11,000 for the expenses of working the Commission of Bankruptcy from the 16th of September 1824 to the end of the year 1833 must also be deducted. Therefore a balance of £15,628 – less any further costs – appears to have remained for payment of a final dividend. Although many of the newspapers state that this was made on the 7th of October 1837, unfortunately none of them give any particulars. Yet it may be conjectured that the unfortunate customers of the Berners Street Bank, after waiting for thirteen years, could not have received more than 10s. 6d. in the pound.

The following rough balance-sheet will explain the above account: —

The private estates of the partners.

The private estates of Messrs Stracey and Graham paid twenty shillings in the pound before the end of 1833; and upon that of Mr Marsh, the senior partner, who appears to have been indebted to the firm for a loan of £73,000, excluding his overdraft on his private account, a distribution of 17s. 6d. had been made before 1834. Little was received on Fauntleroy’s estate, as it was claimed almost entirely by the creditors of the Berners Street Bank.

Losses under Fauntleroy’s management.

It is now possible to form an estimate of the extent to which Messrs Marsh, Stracey & Company were defaulters, and what were the losses under the Fauntleroy régime. The total receipts set against the claims of the creditors and the money stolen from the Bank of England, show a deficiency of £522,980. Thus: —

How the losses were incurred.

Although it would be difficult, with any degree of accuracy, to apportion under the separate charges this adverse balance of over half a million pounds, and although much must be left to conjecture, it is possible to explain some of the ways in which this vast sum was dissipated. At the outset, the suggestion – arising out of one of the pleas of Fauntleroy, and believed at the time – that the overdraft on loans to two of the partners was responsible for a deficit of £100,000, is refuted by the fact that both Messrs Marsh and Graham refunded eventually their obligations to the full extent. In like manner, the belief that large sums were lost owing to the necessity of reinvesting constantly the various stocks sold by Fauntleroy in order to avoid detection, overlooks the fact that, on the other hand, these transactions must have afforded similar opportunities for making a profit. It is probable that many such losses did occur; but since we may believe that the Berners Street Bank prior to the forgeries was earning an income of £7000 a year, it is likely that such an astute manager as Henry Fauntleroy would be able to cancel many of these losses through reinvestment by the profits he earned on the immense capital he had secretly appropriated.

(a) Loss of £160,000 in building speculations.

(b) £90,000 lost by paying dividends on the stolen stocks.

Although the forger’s estimate of the result of his building speculations is extravagant, the newspapers of the 20th of December 1824 make it clear that the Berners Street house must have lost in this manner £160,000. It is certain also that immense sums were absorbed by the payment of dividends to the proprietors whose stocks had been stolen. Nearly £7000 per annum must have been required for this purpose from the year 1816, and the sum would accumulate at compound interest, until, as some say, an annual fund of £16,000 was required. Setting aside all excessive calculations, we have the great authority of the historian of the Bank of England that £9000 to £10,000 a year was thus expended during the progress of the forgeries. Further than this, notwithstanding that the partners in the bankrupt firm were not entitled to any fraction of profit, the testimony of almost the entire press credits each of them with receiving an income of over £3000. At the examination of William Marsh, reported in the newspapers of the 1st of March 1825, it was proved that he was indebted on his private account for an overdraft of £26,000. As there is no reason to believe that Mr Stracey or Mr Graham had enjoyed a smaller income, a further deficit of nearly £80,000 is the result. And finally, as will be shown, there is an overwhelming weight of evidence to prove that the iniquitous Henry Fauntleroy, during the nineteen years he was a partner, dissipated at least £100,000. In addition, the repayment of the capital of Sir James Sibbald (who died the 17th of September 1819), which formed a large portion of £64,000 – the capital of the firm in 1814 – would swell the adverse balance still further. Leaving this out of the question, the facts stated above explain the deficit of £430,000; and with the material at our disposal any further solution would involve a more elaborate use of the methods of conjecture.