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Originally posted by Captain Hook
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Hi all,
This is from Walter Dew's "I Caught Crippen":
I was standing in Commercial Street with a fellow detective named Stacey, when my attention was attracted by a young man standing close to the entrance to Dorset Street. I recognized him 'at once as a young scoundrel nicknamed "Squibby ", who had given the police a lot of trouble at one time and another, and was now " wanted " for assault on a child.
"Squibby " was an associate of notorious young thieves, and although short of stature he was stockily built, and so powerful that we used to call him the Pocket Hercules.
Whenever this " charming " young fellow was arrested it took six or eight policemen to get him to the station, and by the time he was brought in he was usually devoid of every stitch of clothing, and the policemen pretty well hors de combat.
This " mighty atom " of the East End was covered from head to foot with tattoo designs.
Some time previously "Squibby " had engaged in one of his periodical battles with the police. It was as a result of this that the child was injured. The assault on the girl was not deliberate. "Squibby" was amusing himself by throwing bricks at a policeman. One of the missiles was badly aimed and hit the child.
Knowing he would be "wanted" for that, the miniature giant went into hiding, and the morning following the Hanbury Street murder was the first occasion following the offence that he had come under the eyes of a police officer. I have a shrewd suspicion that it was not mere curiosity that caused " Squibby " to mix among that throng of morbid sightseers. He was not the type of fellow to let an opportunity like that pass.
Unfortunately for me, " Squibby's " eyes were as sharp as my own. Recognition was mutual. He knew I would be after him, and was determined to give me a hard chase. He made a sudden dash, dived between the legs of a horse,', crossed the road, and ran as fast as his short legs could carry him along Commercial Street, in the direction of Aldgate.
Stacey and I gave chase, drawing our truncheons - plain-clothes men carried truncheons during the Ripper murders - as we went.
The sight of a man running away from the scene of a Ripper crime with the police officers in hot pursuit sent the crowd wild with excitement. They jumped to the conclusion that the man on the run was a murder suspect.
"Jack the Ripper ! Jack the Ripper ! Lynch him!" The cry was started by a few and taken up by hundreds.
Behind us as I ran I could hear the tramp of hundreds of feet.
As I was passing Fashion Street a great, burly brute did his best to trip me by thrusting his legs in front of mine. He possibly thought I was the man the crowd was chasing, but more probably knew me as a police officer. I dealt him a heavy blow with my truncheon and he fell back into a baker's window.
Meantime our quarry had reached Flower-and-Dean Street, and realizing that he was bound to be caught if he continued running, he entered the front door of a house, jumped over a low wall, and entered the adjoining house.
Stacey and I dashed in after him. He led us up the stairs and into a bedroom where we grabbed him just as he was making his way through a back window.
I was done in. So was Stacey. Now for a rough time, I thought. "Squibby " had never been known to be arrested without the most violent resistance.
But this was a different "Squibby ". Instead of finding, as we expected, an animal of a man, foaming at the mouth and ready to fight to the last breath, his face was of a ghastly hue and he trembled violently.
In a flash I saw the reason. It was not of Stacey or myself that the wanted man was afraid but of the howling mob outside.
They were crying for his blood. Their cries reached us.
" Lynch him. Fetch him out. It's Jack the Ripper," came from a thousand throats. The crowd now stretched to Commercial Street.
"Squibby " saw the danger, and so now did I. His life wouldn't have been worth twopence once that mob got their hands on him.
I told him we would do what we could, but I have often wondered what would have happened had not a number of uniformed police officers followed and, as I discovered afterwards, with great difficulty held the door of the house in which we were marooned.
Precautions had also been taken against a demonstration of mob law. Urgent messages had been sent to the surrounding police stations-Leman Street and Commercial Street -and soon reinforcements of uniformed police arrived on the scene.
The baffled crowd became more bloodthirsty than ever. The very precautions the police were taking confirmed them in their conviction that the man whose life they were demanding could be none other than the East End Terror.
The cries of "Get him ! Lynch him!" " Murder him !" became more insistent than ever, and I am sure little "Squibby " was convinced that his last hour had come. No policeman who had previously had the unpleasant task of arresting him would have believed that such a change could come over a man. Abject terror showed in his eyes as again and again he appealed to me for protection.
I myself wouldn't have given much for " Squibby's " life at that moment, and I was not at all happy as to what might happen to Stacey and myself if the mob reached us.
Presently, however, the yells of the crowd became more subdued, and I ventured down to the front door of the hovel into which our prisoner had led us. The sight I saw filled me with relief. Scores of lusty policemen were clearing a space in front of the house.
Never in all my life have I more warmly welcomed the sight of the blue uniform.
Several officers came into the house, and it was only with their assistance that our scared prisoner could be induced to descend the stairs and face the street.
On emerging into Flower-and-Dean Street I realized that our dangers were far from over. At the sight of the little man being shepherded by a posse of police officers the mob seemed to go mad.
They made one mad, concerted rush which threatened for a time to break down the police barrier. Their cries became louder than ever, filthy epithets being intermixed with the demands for " Squibby's " summary execution.
We gained Commercial Street, but beyond that, despite the strong force of police, we found it impossible to go.
One thoughtful young constable solved our immediate problem by getting a four-wheeled cab from Aldgate into which we bundled our prisoner and proceeded with the police forming a " guard of honour ".
At last it seemed that our troubles were over. But, oh dear, no! Several ugly rushes were made at the cab, and more than once it came within an ace of being over-turned.
A big, burly inspector named Babbington came to our rescue. He suggested that we should be much safer on foot than in our precarious vehicle, and with this I agreed. So out we scrambled, just along Spitalfields Market.
The whole of Commercial Street was now packed by a yelling, hooting mob of frenzied people. Some, I have no doubt, regarded the opportunity as a heaven-sent one to have a go at the police.
A lane was formed all the way to Commercial Street police station, and after what seemed to me an interminable time, and likewise I am sure to "Squibby ", we fought our way into the grimy-looking building which for once looked really beautiful to me.
This station is, or was, an island. It was immediately surrounded by the mob, now more infuriated than ever because the man they believed to be the " Ripper " had been delivered safely at the police station.
Even now they did not abandon hope of taking the law into their own hands. The police station was attacked again and again, and it was only the indomitable pluck of the men in blue which prevented an innocent man being crucified. There were many sore heads in Commercial Street that day.
I was told afterwards that from the very first police officers shouted to the crowd to say that the man who had been taken in custody had nothing whatever to do with the Ripper murders. They would have none of it. Their blood was up.
For a long time the shouting crowd surrounded the police station. A few seconds after a space had been cleared it was filled again.
Inspectors went to the upper windows of the police station and tried to explain who the prisoner was, and why he had been arrested. Several other ruses were adopted in order to induce the people to go to their homes. But nothing would convince them they had made a mistake, and it was not until many hours after " Squibby " had been placed under lock and key that the streets in the vicinity of the police station reverted to their normal peacefulness.
The moment he was put in a cell "Squibby " began to regain his composure. Much as he hated policemen he had confidence in their ability to protect him in their own police station. Eventually he was sentenced to three months' imprisonment and was quite happy about it.
" I shall be much safer in Pentonville for a bit," he said with a smile.
After this experience "Squibby " was a changed man. Whenever he met me he never failed to thank me for " saving his life ", and as far as I know he never again gave trouble to police officers whose duty it was to arrest him.
I have seen many riotous crowds in my career, but none quite like the one I have described. Every man and woman in that mob was ready to tear a fellow-creature to pieces because some fool, seeing a man pursued by police officers, had shouted "Jack the Ripper "
.................................................. .................................................. .....
Cheers
Hook
This is from Walter Dew's "I Caught Crippen":
I was standing in Commercial Street with a fellow detective named Stacey, when my attention was attracted by a young man standing close to the entrance to Dorset Street. I recognized him 'at once as a young scoundrel nicknamed "Squibby ", who had given the police a lot of trouble at one time and another, and was now " wanted " for assault on a child.
"Squibby " was an associate of notorious young thieves, and although short of stature he was stockily built, and so powerful that we used to call him the Pocket Hercules.
Whenever this " charming " young fellow was arrested it took six or eight policemen to get him to the station, and by the time he was brought in he was usually devoid of every stitch of clothing, and the policemen pretty well hors de combat.
This " mighty atom " of the East End was covered from head to foot with tattoo designs.
Some time previously "Squibby " had engaged in one of his periodical battles with the police. It was as a result of this that the child was injured. The assault on the girl was not deliberate. "Squibby" was amusing himself by throwing bricks at a policeman. One of the missiles was badly aimed and hit the child.
Knowing he would be "wanted" for that, the miniature giant went into hiding, and the morning following the Hanbury Street murder was the first occasion following the offence that he had come under the eyes of a police officer. I have a shrewd suspicion that it was not mere curiosity that caused " Squibby " to mix among that throng of morbid sightseers. He was not the type of fellow to let an opportunity like that pass.
Unfortunately for me, " Squibby's " eyes were as sharp as my own. Recognition was mutual. He knew I would be after him, and was determined to give me a hard chase. He made a sudden dash, dived between the legs of a horse,', crossed the road, and ran as fast as his short legs could carry him along Commercial Street, in the direction of Aldgate.
Stacey and I gave chase, drawing our truncheons - plain-clothes men carried truncheons during the Ripper murders - as we went.
The sight of a man running away from the scene of a Ripper crime with the police officers in hot pursuit sent the crowd wild with excitement. They jumped to the conclusion that the man on the run was a murder suspect.
"Jack the Ripper ! Jack the Ripper ! Lynch him!" The cry was started by a few and taken up by hundreds.
Behind us as I ran I could hear the tramp of hundreds of feet.
As I was passing Fashion Street a great, burly brute did his best to trip me by thrusting his legs in front of mine. He possibly thought I was the man the crowd was chasing, but more probably knew me as a police officer. I dealt him a heavy blow with my truncheon and he fell back into a baker's window.
Meantime our quarry had reached Flower-and-Dean Street, and realizing that he was bound to be caught if he continued running, he entered the front door of a house, jumped over a low wall, and entered the adjoining house.
Stacey and I dashed in after him. He led us up the stairs and into a bedroom where we grabbed him just as he was making his way through a back window.
I was done in. So was Stacey. Now for a rough time, I thought. "Squibby " had never been known to be arrested without the most violent resistance.
But this was a different "Squibby ". Instead of finding, as we expected, an animal of a man, foaming at the mouth and ready to fight to the last breath, his face was of a ghastly hue and he trembled violently.
In a flash I saw the reason. It was not of Stacey or myself that the wanted man was afraid but of the howling mob outside.
They were crying for his blood. Their cries reached us.
" Lynch him. Fetch him out. It's Jack the Ripper," came from a thousand throats. The crowd now stretched to Commercial Street.
"Squibby " saw the danger, and so now did I. His life wouldn't have been worth twopence once that mob got their hands on him.
I told him we would do what we could, but I have often wondered what would have happened had not a number of uniformed police officers followed and, as I discovered afterwards, with great difficulty held the door of the house in which we were marooned.
Precautions had also been taken against a demonstration of mob law. Urgent messages had been sent to the surrounding police stations-Leman Street and Commercial Street -and soon reinforcements of uniformed police arrived on the scene.
The baffled crowd became more bloodthirsty than ever. The very precautions the police were taking confirmed them in their conviction that the man whose life they were demanding could be none other than the East End Terror.
The cries of "Get him ! Lynch him!" " Murder him !" became more insistent than ever, and I am sure little "Squibby " was convinced that his last hour had come. No policeman who had previously had the unpleasant task of arresting him would have believed that such a change could come over a man. Abject terror showed in his eyes as again and again he appealed to me for protection.
I myself wouldn't have given much for " Squibby's " life at that moment, and I was not at all happy as to what might happen to Stacey and myself if the mob reached us.
Presently, however, the yells of the crowd became more subdued, and I ventured down to the front door of the hovel into which our prisoner had led us. The sight I saw filled me with relief. Scores of lusty policemen were clearing a space in front of the house.
Never in all my life have I more warmly welcomed the sight of the blue uniform.
Several officers came into the house, and it was only with their assistance that our scared prisoner could be induced to descend the stairs and face the street.
On emerging into Flower-and-Dean Street I realized that our dangers were far from over. At the sight of the little man being shepherded by a posse of police officers the mob seemed to go mad.
They made one mad, concerted rush which threatened for a time to break down the police barrier. Their cries became louder than ever, filthy epithets being intermixed with the demands for " Squibby's " summary execution.
We gained Commercial Street, but beyond that, despite the strong force of police, we found it impossible to go.
One thoughtful young constable solved our immediate problem by getting a four-wheeled cab from Aldgate into which we bundled our prisoner and proceeded with the police forming a " guard of honour ".
At last it seemed that our troubles were over. But, oh dear, no! Several ugly rushes were made at the cab, and more than once it came within an ace of being over-turned.
A big, burly inspector named Babbington came to our rescue. He suggested that we should be much safer on foot than in our precarious vehicle, and with this I agreed. So out we scrambled, just along Spitalfields Market.
The whole of Commercial Street was now packed by a yelling, hooting mob of frenzied people. Some, I have no doubt, regarded the opportunity as a heaven-sent one to have a go at the police.
A lane was formed all the way to Commercial Street police station, and after what seemed to me an interminable time, and likewise I am sure to "Squibby ", we fought our way into the grimy-looking building which for once looked really beautiful to me.
This station is, or was, an island. It was immediately surrounded by the mob, now more infuriated than ever because the man they believed to be the " Ripper " had been delivered safely at the police station.
Even now they did not abandon hope of taking the law into their own hands. The police station was attacked again and again, and it was only the indomitable pluck of the men in blue which prevented an innocent man being crucified. There were many sore heads in Commercial Street that day.
I was told afterwards that from the very first police officers shouted to the crowd to say that the man who had been taken in custody had nothing whatever to do with the Ripper murders. They would have none of it. Their blood was up.
For a long time the shouting crowd surrounded the police station. A few seconds after a space had been cleared it was filled again.
Inspectors went to the upper windows of the police station and tried to explain who the prisoner was, and why he had been arrested. Several other ruses were adopted in order to induce the people to go to their homes. But nothing would convince them they had made a mistake, and it was not until many hours after " Squibby " had been placed under lock and key that the streets in the vicinity of the police station reverted to their normal peacefulness.
The moment he was put in a cell "Squibby " began to regain his composure. Much as he hated policemen he had confidence in their ability to protect him in their own police station. Eventually he was sentenced to three months' imprisonment and was quite happy about it.
" I shall be much safer in Pentonville for a bit," he said with a smile.
After this experience "Squibby " was a changed man. Whenever he met me he never failed to thank me for " saving his life ", and as far as I know he never again gave trouble to police officers whose duty it was to arrest him.
I have seen many riotous crowds in my career, but none quite like the one I have described. Every man and woman in that mob was ready to tear a fellow-creature to pieces because some fool, seeing a man pursued by police officers, had shouted "Jack the Ripper "
.................................................. .................................................. .....
Cheers
Hook
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