By Jennifer L. Wright
Billy the Kid. Jesse James. Butch Cassidy (and his Sundance Kid).
Here in America, we know no shortage of celebrity outlaws, those men whose daring deeds both condemn and endear them to the public’s heart. It’s an unusual fascination that carried all the way from the Old West to the Public Enemy days of the 1930’s, where criminals such as Pretty Boy Floyd and Bonnie and Clyde still manage to sell books today, almost one hundred years after their deaths (such as my hopeful take on the fugitive lover story, The Girl from the Papers). But where did this fascination come from? And why?
I’m no psychologist or sociologist, and I am in no way qualified to pick apart the nuances of our culture or minds to give you an answer to these questions. What can I tell you, however, is that the obsession with outlaws has been around long before United States began breeding its own. In fact, it existed even before the United States was the United States
Richard “Dick” Turpin was born in Essex, England in 1705 to a butcher and an innkeeper. By all accounts, Dick was set to follow in his father’s footsteps; there are reports that he not only apprenticed as a butcher but also opened his own shop in Essex around 1725.
But, somewhere along the way, everything went wrong. Or right, depending on your view.
Turpin became involved with an Essex gang of deer thieves, known as the Gregory Gang, in the early 1730s. Deer poaching had become such a problem within the royal forests during that time that the government began offering a £50 (equivalent to over £10,000 today) for information leading to the arrest of those responsible. Quick processing and disposal of any illegally gained carcass, therefore, and it is believed Dick, as a butcher, provided just that.
But, whether because the heat became too intense or the meager rewards too small, the Gregory Gang soon moved on to bigger and better heists. In late 1734, they began robbing homes and businesses, with each attack subsequently growing bolder and more violent. It wasn’t long before the group caught the attention of authorities, who quickly put out a reward for their arrests. In February 1735, gang members John Fielder, John Wheeler, and William Saunder were apprehended, with the young Saunders quickly giving up names and descriptions of the other members. Spooked, the gang quickly disbanded.
But a life of crime, as it is, is not so easily abandoned. Rather than lay low, Turpin turned his attention from residential to highway robbery. First identified for such crimes in April 1736, Dick soon made a name for himself robbing both coaches and unsuspecting pedestrians in the countryside surrounding London. His legend as an outlaw grew as he continued to evade capture, culminating in a £200 reward offered after Turpin allegedly shot and killed Thomas Morris, a servant of one of the Forest's Keepers. In October 1738, posing as a horsetrader by the name of John Palmer, Turpin set up residence in a boarding house in Yorkshire, only to soon become entangled in an argument about the shooting of another’s man’s chicken. The constables were alerted, who immediately became suspicious; Turpin was soon committed to the House of Correction at Beverly. Though Dick maintained he was merely a butcher who had fallen into debt, the local authorities did not believe it, and he was soon transferred to York Castle. While there, he wrote his brother asking for help. His brother, however, refused to pay the sixpence due on the letter, and it was returned to the local post office – where James Smith, Turpin’s old schoolmaster, recognized his handwriting. His identity revealed, Turpin was soon sentenced to death.
On this day back in 1739, followed by five professional mourners whom he had paid, Turpin was taken through York by open cart to the gallows. It was reported that he bowed to the crowd as he passed and “behaved in an undaunted manner; as he mounted the ladder, feeling his right leg tremble, he spoke a few words to the topsman, then threw himself off, and expir'd in five minutes” (The Gentleman's Magazine, April 7, 1739).
And that was the end Richard Turpin.
Or, rather, it should have been.
Soon afterwards, Richard Bayes published The Genuine History of the Life of Richard Turpin, a mixture of fact and fiction hurriedly put together in the wake of the trial. In it, Bayes embellished tales of Turpin’s crimes, often making some of them up completely, and romanticized his exploits as a sort of anti-hero, larger than life and misunderstood. And Turpin was larger than life—the book was a raging success, and his fame after death far exceeded that of his while living. By the nineteenth century, author William Harrison Ainsworth featured Turpin in his 1834 novel Rookwood, where the highwayman embarks on a legendary ride from London to York to establish an alibi, with his horse, Black Bess, ultimately dying from the stress of the journey. Ainsworth’s Turpin was likeable, compelling, and lively, a modern day “Robin Hood,” and soon his exploits were repeated and reimagined in penny dreadfuls, short stories, and books all across the country.
And maybe, much like the Billy the Kid and Jesse James stories of old, it’s better than way. For what is history without a little bit of legend to keep the mystery alive?