Fraudsters and Charlatans E-Book

Linda Stratmann

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2010

Beschreibung

In 1817 a young woman of exotic appearance was found wandering near Bristol. She spoke in a language that no one could understand except, seemingly, a Portuguese sailor. He claimed that she was a Sumatran princess from the island of Javasu. Princess Caraboo, as she was known, became a national celebrity and lived in a grand style, entertaining many distinguished visitors. A few weeks later, however, she was exposed as Mary Baker, the daughter of a cobbler from Devonshire. Mary's deception is one of several intriguing stories of nineteenth-century fraudsters brought to light in Linda Stratmann's entertaining look at some of history's greatest rogues. From bankers who forged share certificates, ruining hundreds of small investors, to 'Louis de Rougemont' whose tales of high adventure branded him The Greatest Liar on Earth', these riveting tales of true crime expose the seedy side of life in which corruption, avarice and scandal hold sway.

Leseprobe

Fraudsters

and

Charlatans

A PEEK AT SOME OF HISTORY’S GREATEST ROGUES

LINDA STRATMANN

Dedication

This book is dedicated with great affection to the memory of Janet Shepherd Figg (1957–2005), who sadly never saw it completed, but was always a good friend and an inspiration.

Previously published as The Crooks who Conned Millions in 2006

This edition published in 2010

The History Press

The Mill, Brimscombe Port

Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

This ebook edition first published in 2012

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© Linda Stratmann, 2006, 2010, 2012

The right of Linda Stratmann, to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

EPUB ISBN 978 0 7524 8695 6

MOBI ISBN 978 0 7524 8694 9

Original typesetting by The History Press

Contents

Acknowledgements

Introduction

One

The Price of Omnium

Two

The Princess of Javasu

Three

The Viscount of Canada

Four

The Sting

Five

The Bank with No Scruples

Six

A Racing Certainty

Seven

The Grappler

Eight

The Greatest Liar on Earth

Nine

The Juggler with Millions

Ten

The Double Duke

Notes

Bibliography

Acknowledgements

I would like to extend my grateful thanks to everyone who has helped me in the considerable research required for this book. The staff at the British Library, Colindale Newspaper Library, the Family Record Centre and the National Archives have, as always, all been enormously helpful. Many thanks also to Sarah Colbourne of the Hallward Library, University of Nottingham, Professor Paul Johnson of the London School of Economics and Sorrel Cittadino. A special thank-you is due to Eamon Dyas for his fascinating tour of The Times archives and Mary of the delightful www.missmary.com for unearthing a wonderful article about Mlle Lenormand. The unsung hero of all my work is my husband, Gary, who tolerates with good humour the many hours I spend sitting behind a door marked ‘Go Away!’

Introduction

The nineteenth century was a time of optimism, with public confidence in the rewards of trade and exploration, and excitement at new inventions and discoveries. Never before had ordinary members of society had such a variety of opportunities to invest their humble savings in banks and businesses, and never before had rogues and charlatans of all kinds had a larger or richer field in which to perpetrate their frauds. Improvements in communications and travel brought a hunger for knowledge of the world, but this very eagerness sometimes led to uncritical acceptance of any story that seemed fresh and sensational. It is tempting to assume that people then were more gullible than we are today, but society encouraged an admiration of and implicit trust in the nobility, the educated and those with a conspicuous outward show of success. These figureheads were the heroes and superstars of the day, lauded by the popular press, respected by the masses, and their names alone were sufficient to lend credibility to any enterprise.

I have gathered ten stories, arranged chronologically, of some of the most audacious and extensive frauds of the nineteenth century. All had a disastrous impact on large numbers of people, and for some resulted in financial ruin, political disgrace, imprisonment, intellectual humiliation or suicide. All examine the crucial interface between the fraudster and the victim, since inevitably each wanted something from the other. The driving forces were money and celebrity. The methods of perpetrating the fraud may have differed – word of mouth, masquerade, public announcements, pamphlets, official documents and outright forgery – but all did no more than invite the victim into the snare. Entrapment occurred sometimes through trusting innocence and a need for financial security, sometimes from greed, often in the face of dire warnings from observers who were not swept along in the tide of enthusiasm. Those with a desire for fame and respect tried to boost their own standing by attaching themselves to an individual who had gained sudden publicity, and when the story was a good one, people just wanted it to be true. All these scenarios illustrate not only the depths to which people will sink to defraud others, but the scale of human credulity that provided them with so many victims.

In the stories that follow it is sometimes unclear who the hoaxer actually was. There can be no doubts about Whitaker Wright, whose personal control over an empire worth millions enabled him to falsify company accounts when he gambled away investors’ funds in shady Stock Exchange deals, but did George Hollamby Druce really mastermind his claim to the £16 million Portland estate or was he himself the tool of a crooked solicitor? Naval hero Thomas Cochrane went to prison for a colourful and complex fraud worthy of one of his great victories; but was he the victim of a miscarriage of justice?

A fraudster can often become his own victim. What starts as a carefully designed plot can develop into a personal obsession, until the boundary between falsehood and reality blurs. Fraudsters can come to believe passionately in the truth of their claims, and feel wronged and cheated of their rights to the end of their days, sometimes even passing the torch to their children. Alexander Humphrys undoubtedly knew exactly what he was doing when he forged documents showing he was the Earl of Stirling, but his later rantings speak of self-delusion and paranoia.

Most fraudsters refuse to admit guilt even in the face of overwhelming evidence of their crimes. Even Ernest Terah Hooley, who cheerfully stated that many of his deals were extremely dubious, still managed to convince himself that on balance he was a benefactor to society. Thousands of small investors would no doubt have disagreed with him.

Not all these fraudsters are unmitigated rogues. It is hard not to admire Mary Baker, the high-spirited shoemaker’s daughter who overcame her humble upbringing and conned the intellectuals of her day into believing she was a foreign princess. Others are less attractive, such as John Sadleir, the cold-hearted schemer who brought untold misery to the small farmers he represented in parliament.

We may hope that by studying past frauds we can protect ourselves in future, but there will always be fraudsters and there will always be victims: only the methods change. People still need to believe.

Linda Stratmann

ONE

The Price of Omnium

At 1 a.m. on Monday 21 February 1814, John Marsh, keeper of the Packet Boat public house in Dover, was enjoying a quiet pipe with local hatter Thomas Gourley when he heard a violent and insistent knocking at the door of the Ship Inn opposite and a loud voice demand that a post-chaise and four be brought at once. The night was dark, bitterly cold and misty, yet Marsh left his warm fireside to see what was happening, calling to Gourley to follow him with candles. His curiosity was understandable, since Dover was on constant alert for news from the Continent.

This was a critical period in European history and a time of agonising public suspense. Following his disastrous Russian campaign of 1812, Napoleon was in retreat but far from beaten. Rejecting attempts by Britain and her Allies to negotiate a peace in November 1813, he concentrated his forces in France. In January and February 1814 Napoleon’s armies won a series of victories, which were eagerly followed in the British press. While the spectre of invasion had vanished, Napoleon – alive, free and at the head of an army – remained a potent threat. The peace of Europe depended on the fate of one man, and in Britain news of his final defeat was awaited with breathless expectation.

Outside the Ship Inn was a stranger in a grey military greatcoat and fur cap. The Ship’s servants opened the door and admitted him: Marsh and Gourley followed, not wanting to miss the excitement. Soon the landlord, Mr Wright, appeared. In the candles’ glimmer the stranger looked agitated, his bewhiskered and pock-marked face reddened by the cold. Under the greatcoat, which was very wet, he wore an unfamiliar-looking scarlet uniform trimmed with gold, much dirtied as if from battle, with a silver star on the breast and a medallion around his neck. He announced that he had just arrived from France, was the bearer of the most important dispatches that had been brought to the country in twenty years, and demanded that, in addition to the post-chaise for himself, an express messenger be provided at once, as he wished to send an urgent letter to Port-Admiral Foley in Deal. Everyone scattered to attend to his demands without question. A closer look might have revealed that the dirt of battle had been simulated with boot-blacking, while the observers would have been surprised to know that a few minutes earlier their visitor had been standing by the nearby millstream throwing hatfuls of water over his coat to give the impression of a dousing with sea-spray.

William St John, an agent for a London newspaper who was staying at the Ship, found the stranger pacing impatiently about the coffee room. St John approached and asked about a messenger he had been expecting, but the officer said he knew nothing about that, and dismissed him brusquely, saying that he wanted to be left alone as he was extremely ill. The agent did as requested, just as pen, ink and paper were brought.

The letter, addressed ‘To the Honorable J. Foley, Port Admiral, Deal’, revealed the officer to be Lieutenant-Colonel du Bourg, aide-de-camp to the distinguished military commander Lord Cathcart. Saying that he had just landed in Dover from Calais, the news he brought was explosive. The Allies, he wrote, had obtained a final victory over Napoleon, and, most importantly: ‘Bonaparte was overtaken by a party of Sachen’s Cossacks, who immediately slaid [sic] him, and divided his body between them. – General Plastoff saved Paris from being reduced to ashes. The Allied Sovereigns are there and the white cockade is universal; an immediate peace is certain.’1

It was what everyone had been hoping for. Wright’s servant William Ions drew up to the front door on a pony, was handed the letter and set off at once for Deal. But this was not the only express sent from Dover that night. Even at that late hour the news spread rapidly, and hastily prepared messages were dispatched to London. Du Bourg offered to pay Mr Wright in gold napoleons, but the landlord was unsure how much these coins were worth and was unwilling to accept them. Reluctantly, the supposed messenger from France pulled some English pound notes from his pocket, explaining that they had been there for some months. His task done, du Bourg took his seat in a post-chaise bound for Canterbury, and sped away into the frosty night.

It was 3 a.m. before William Ions arrived in Deal and delivered the letter to Admiral Foley’s servant. The Admiral read the letter in bed, then rose to question Ions about its origins. His suspicions may have been aroused by the letter being addressed to ‘J. Foley’, since his name was Thomas. The sender must have anticipated that Foley would at once transmit the news by telegraph (a system of moving wooden shutters mounted on towers) to the Admiralty offices in London, but here the plan foundered, thanks to that great unpredictable, the English weather. Even as it grew light, the fog remained so thick that it was impossible to use the telegraph. Neither was Foley as gullible as had been hoped, since he dispatched his own messenger to Dover to check the credentials of du Bourg.

It was several hours before the galloping expresses brought the news to London, and when they did few people could have been more interested in its ramifications than the members of the Stock Exchange.

By 1814 the London Stock Exchange had acquired most of the features we would recognise in it today. The present-day building had been opened in 1802; there was an official code of rules, first printed in 1812, and an authorised price list. Dealing was a specialised profession, though not a popular one with the public. Samuel Johnson’s dictionary famously described the stock-jobber as ‘a low wretch who gets money by buying and selling shares in the funds’.2 One type of deal, time-bargains, was especially frowned upon – indeed they had been made illegal in 1734, but despite this remained common. Speculators would agree to buy stocks at a fixed price at some future date, but without actually paying for or taking possession of their purchases, gambling on a rise in price before payment was due, which would enable them to sell at a profit. Anyone who held, even briefly, important news unknown to other speculators could make a fortune in just a few hours. To control these bargains, the Stock Exchange Committee had established eight regular settlement days in each year, when the promised payments and deliveries had to be made.

The main stocks dealt in were government securities, a popular investment since the establishment of the national debt in the reign of William III. These funds were subject to great fluctuations in price, and their value was dependent not only on the economy but on whether the country was at peace or war. One important fund for speculators – Omnium – was an especially sensitive barometer of news. In 1802 the commentator Simeon Pope, addressing investors in Omnium, stated:

It seems . . . somewhat paradoxical that while the immense funded property of the country rests on a foundation which is cemented with its greatest and dearest interests, that it should be subject to be operated on by almost every tide of vague opinion, and agitated by fluctuations of rise and fall, by the mere fleeting rumour of the day – the too common offspring of scheming manoeuvres and venal fabrication.3

Since communication from abroad could be slow and uncertain, news reports causing sudden changes in the market were impossible to correct quickly, and great efforts were made by the Stock Exchange to establish a reliable system of messengers.

The business of the Stock Exchange opened each weekday morning at 10 a.m., but on Monday 21 February 1814 messengers from Dover and Northfleet had started to pour into London before that hour, each one confirming Napoleon’s defeat, and dealers were seized with excitement at the prospect of substantial gains. Some may have been wary at first, but soon most were caught up in the tide of greedy expectation, and the floor of the Exchange opened in a scene of noise and confusion. There was a particular sense of urgency, since the next settlement day was the following Wednesday.

Omnium opened at 27½ (all prices were quoted in pounds sterling) but quickly rose since everyone in the know clamoured to buy; it soon soared to 29. In the midst of the flurry the Stock Exchange dispatched messengers to government offices to obtain confirmation of the rumour. Had Foley been able to send his telegraph, it would have set an official seal on the news, rapidly forcing prices still higher, but this was not to be. The poor weather did mean, however, that no further information of any kind was available.

The news flew around London and soon the City was in a state of great agitation. People ran to shops and offices, looking in and shouting out what they had heard, one man claiming to have seen a letter from the Lord Chancellor confirming the report. As the tidings passed so they received embellishments, which added to the believability of the tale:

it was boldly stated that two Messengers had, in the course of the morning, arrived at the Foreign Office, decorated with the white cockade, the favourite colour of the BOURBONS, and worn by all the military under the former government.4

In one story, Napoleon had been murdered by his own troops; in another, the Cossacks had marched into Paris with the tyrant’s head on a pike. Citizens who could leave their businesses and homes poured out onto the streets determined to celebrate in a spirit of universal joy. Public offices were besieged with eager enquirers, and all businesses in London seemed to come to a standstill, save one – the Stock Exchange, where the price of Omnium was still climbing, and appetite for the stock seemed insatiable. Still more profits were anticipated by the springing-up of a thriving business in side bets on Napoleon’s fate.

While London remained in a state of feverish excitement, other remarkable scenes were being enacted in Dartford, where Phillip Foxall, landlord of the Rose Inn, had received a note at 7 a.m. from an acquaintance, Ralph Sandom, asking him to send over a chaise and pair to him in Northfleet and have ready four good horses to go on to London. The chaise was duly sent and it returned quickly, driving at a furious pace. The occupants were Sandom and two strangers dressed in blue coats and cocked hats with white cockades. Sandom revealed that the men were French officers and were very tired as they had been in an open boat all night and had news of the very greatest consequence. Foxall gave them a fresh chaise and they dashed away at speed. He failed to notice that the officers’ coats, which were not even identical, were not of a military cut, that their hats were such as could be bought anywhere and the white cockades had been home-made by sewing ribbon on to paper.

Before Sandom and his companions entered London, which they reached in the late morning, the horses and carriage were decorated with boughs of laurel. The three men entered the heart of the city, driving over London Bridge, down Lombard Street, along Cheapside, over Blackfriars Bridge, and down the New Cut. As they went they cried out slogans such as Vive le Roi! and Vivent les Bourbons! and distributed slips of paper with similar messages. The occupants of the chaise, believing that they were the first to bring the glad tidings to the city, were surprised to be greeted by crowds in the streets who already seemed to know the news and who mobbed their vehicle so that they were frequently obliged to stop. The post-boys naturally anticipated that their important passengers would alight at some government office, but to their surprise the journey finally came to an end at the Marsh Gate hackney coach stand, where the men got out, took off their military hats, put on round ones, and calmly walked away.

During the morning, lack of confirmation of the news from Dover had caused the price of stocks to slide, but at the new sensation brought by Sandom’s French officers, prices soared even higher than before, eventually reaching 33, bringing a fresh frenzy of buying. As late as 2 p.m. the London Chronicle reported that it was still believed that Napoleon was dead and the Allies in possession of Paris, although it denied the rumour that the guns of the Tower of London had been fired. Meanwhile, large crowds had gathered outside Mansion House waiting impatiently for the Lord Mayor to appear with an official announcement.

The announcement never came. There was no news. Napoleon, as messengers were able to confirm by the afternoon, was very much alive. Admiral Foley’s enquiries had revealed that the pound notes supposed to have been in du Bourg’s pockets for months had been endorsed in London only six days previously. Du Bourg was an impostor, and so, it appeared, were the two French officers who had ridden so triumphantly through London and carefully avoided any contact with government offices.

To this scene of joy and of greedy expectation of gain, succeeded in a few hours, that of disappointment, shame at having been gulled, the clenching of fists, the grinding of teeth, the tearing of hair, all the outward and visible signs of the inward commotions of disappointed avarice in some, consciousness of ruin in others, and in all, boiling revenge, so strongly and beautifully, or rather so horribly depicted by the matchless pencil of Hogarth.5

It was not only wealthy speculators who suffered, but many humbler investors who could ill-afford a loss. Purchases had also been made that day on behalf of the official trustee who managed the assets of charities devoted to the relief of the poor.

As the crowds dispersed and the turbulent day ended, the Stock Exchange Committee quickly concluded that this was not simply a rumour that had got out of control but a conspiracy to defraud investors. The profits made that day were placed in the hands of trustees, and a subcommittee of ten men was assembled to investigate the affair. One of its first actions was to follow the trail of the mysterious Lt-Col du Bourg. This was easy enough, as he had travelled by post-chaise all the way to London, scattering the glad news and gold napoleons as he went. From the Ship Inn at Dover he had driven via the Fountain in Canterbury, the Rose, Sittingbourne, the Crown, Rochester, and the Granby at Dartford. Once in London du Bourg became suddenly less willing to draw attention to himself, and transferred to a hackney coach, in which he drove to 13 Green Street. After making some enquiries of the servant there, he was admitted, taking with him only his sword and a small leather case. His greatcoat was now buttoned firmly up to his chin, so only the dark collar and not the scarlet breast of his uniform was visible. Later enquiries revealed that 13 Green Street was the home of one of the greatest naval heroes in British history, Lord Thomas Cochrane.

Thomas Cochrane was the eldest son of the 9th Earl of Dundonald. Born in 1776, Cochrane had established a naval career of outstanding brilliance in combat and command. A distinctive, rather than handsome, man, he was well over six feet in height, with red hair and a prominent nose. Popular both with the general public and the men who served with him, he had, however, made some dangerous enemies in high places by his bluntly outspoken efforts to expose corruption in the Admiralty. On the morning of 21 February 1814 he had been engaged in two important projects, the fitting-out of his new command, the Tonnant, and work on the invention of a new naval signalling lamp, for which he intended to register a patent.

He had breakfasted at the Cumberland Street residence of his uncle, Andrew Cochrane Johnstone, a tall elegantly dressed man in his late forties with long powdered hair. Also at the table was 38-year-old Richard Gaythorne (sometimes spelt Gathorne) Butt, their stockbroker, a tall thin man in his late thirties with light hair and a florid complexion. At 10 a.m. the three men took a hackney carriage, but Thomas Cochrane alighted at Snows Hill to visit the workshop of Mr King, a lamp-maker, while the other two, as was their habit on weekdays, proceeded to the Stock Exchange. Shortly before 11 a.m., Cochrane’s servant Thomas Dewman arrived at Mr King’s with a barely legible note, saying that a military-looking gentleman had called on a matter of great urgency. Cochrane’s brother, William, who had been serving in Spain, was dangerously ill, so bracing himself for bad news and abandoning all thought of his lamp, Cochrane hurried home. To his surprise, he was met not by a messenger from abroad but a man he was already acquainted with, Charles Random de Berenger. (In Cochrane’s affidavit made three weeks later he stated that he had not expected the visit. De Berenger, on the other hand, claimed in 1816 that it was a pre-arranged visit and that Cochrane was a part of the conspiracy, but this was after he had unsuccessfully tried to extort money from Cochrane. De Berenger’s account of the meeting should therefore be regarded as suspect.)

De Berenger was born in Prussia in 1772. His father, Baron de Beaufain, had owned lands in America worth over £30,000 (about £1.5 million today), but being a Loyalist opponent to the revolutionary war, his assets were confiscated by the State. In 1788 father and son came to England to try to obtain indemnity from the British Government. The Baron’s efforts failed and he died six years later, leaving his son with a worthless title and a strong sense of having been cheated of his inheritance. De Berenger was a man of many talents – a clever self-taught artist, amateur scientist and excellent rifle shot. In 1814 he had for some years been serving as an officer with the Duke of Cumberland’s sharpshooters, whose uniform included a dark green jacket. Always anxious to make money, he bombarded anyone he could think of with plans for improved methods of conducting warfare and inventions he was convinced would make his fortune. An attempt to start a charity for distressed artists had resulted in large personal losses and some bitterness, as an existing charity took the view that his intentions were untrustworthy. He had recently been making architectural drawings for Andrew Cochrane Johnstone, and as a result had dined at the latter’s house, where he had been introduced to Lord Cochrane.

De Berenger’s new acquaintances had given him the prospect of better fortunes. Admiral Alexander Cochrane, another of Thomas Cochrane’s uncles, had offered to take him to America and had recommended him for the rank of lieutenant-colonel; but de Berenger had recently learned that, because of his status as an alien, the plan had not been approved. He was currently in debt to the tune of some £350 and had been committed to the King’s Bench debtors’ prison, although he was able to live within the ‘Rules’, that is, instead of being incarcerated he was permitted to lodge within a 3-mile radius of the prison itself. Despite these setbacks, he was still hopeful of being able to settle his debts and go to America. On 25 January Admiral Alexander had sailed without him, but he had recently approached Lord Cochrane suggesting that he might go out with him on the Tonnant instead.

De Berenger, despite having waited indoors for some time, was still wearing his grey military greatcoat buttoned to his chin. His face was red with cold when he arrived, making his pock-marked skin appear blotchy, but both this and the redness had faded by the time Cochrane saw him. The only visible part of his uniform was the dark collar and drab breeches encased in dark-green overtrousers. He began with great uneasiness to apologise profusely to Cochrane for taking the liberty of summoning him, saying that only his personal difficulties and distressed state of mind had induced him to do so. To Cochrane’s astonishment he then launched into a tale of woe, saying that his last hope of obtaining an appointment in America had gone, that he had no prospects but only debts he was unable to pay. He hoped that with Cochrane’s approval he could at once board the Tonnant, where he could find honourable employment exercising the sharpshooters. Cochrane, still reeling with relief that his brother was not dead, was more inclined to be sympathetic than he might otherwise have been. He said that he would do everything in his power to help, but it was not possible for his visitor to go immediately to the Tonnant, where the cabin had no furniture, nor even a servant. De Berenger tried to brush this difficulty aside, but Cochrane added that he could not take a foreigner without permission from the Admiralty. If de Berenger could get that permission he would be pleased to take him. De Berenger was deeply disconcerted at this response. He said he had not anticipated any objections, and indeed had come away fully prepared to board the Tonnant that day. Dressed as he was, he could neither return to his lodgings nor approach anyone he knew in official positions who might help him. He asked for a civilian hat to wear instead of his military cap. Cochrane lent him one, and when trying it on de Berenger commented that his uniform was visible under his greatcoat. Cochrane, who was some eight inches taller than de Berenger, was obliged to lend him a long black coat of his own. According to Cochrane, de Berenger removed the grey coat and put the black one on in a back room while he was not present. With the greatcoat and green overtrousers tied up in a bundle, de Berenger at last departed, clearly in some emotional distress.

Cochrane gave no more thought to this strange visit, and during the next week completed his preparations, joining the Tonnant on 1 March. Meanwhile, the Stock Exchange Committee had been compiling a list of those it wished to interview. The trading records for 21 February were examined to see which substantial investors had made money by disposing of Omnium and other government stocks early that day. It was soon apparent that, while most investors had been eagerly buying up Omnium, only three had made large disposals. One of these was Thomas Cochrane; the others were his uncle, Andrew, and Richard Gaythorne Butt.

Andrew Cochrane Johnstone, son of the 8th Earl of Dundonald, was born in 1767. He must have had considerable personal charm, enabling him to combine his military career with a series of successful schemes aimed at lining his pockets at the expense of others. In 1793 he married an heiress, Lady Georgiana Hope-Johnstone, and added her surname to his own. Four years later he became Governor of the Island of Dominica. His rule, according to the Dictionary of National Biography, ‘was marked by tyranny, extortion and vice’.6 He was recalled and court-martialled, but because of the complexities of the case he was given the benefit of the doubt and acquitted. His next move was to bribe his way into parliament as MP for the rotten borough of Grampound, a position he knew would exempt him from criminal prosecution. Georgiana had died in 1797, leaving him with a daughter, Elizabeth, and in 1803 he married a widow who was a cousin of Josephine Bonaparte. Two months later the resumption of hostilities with France necessitated a separation. His letters to his wife were returned unopened, and he never saw her again. Returning to the West Indies he was appointed auctioneer and agent to the Navy for its conquests there, which gave him ample opportunity to carry out some major financial swindles. Placed under house arrest, he escaped, returned to England and in 1812 was again elected to parliament. There he made a substantial sum of money offering to sell rifles to the Spanish allies. The rifles were never shipped, and his creditors found themselves barred from suing him: it must have stung somewhat when they found that the frigate they had placed at his disposal had been used for a lucrative sideline in smuggling. During his infamous career Cochrane Johnstone acted with supreme self-interest and a callous indifference to the fate of those unfortunate enough to cross his path, although he seems to have had both affection and admiration for his nephew Thomas.

It was natural that Cochrane Johnstone should have been attracted to the Stock Exchange as a means of making money. With no expertise of his own, he engaged Richard Gaythorne Butt, a former naval clerk turned successful speculator, to manage his affairs. Thomas Cochrane, on the other hand, took little interest in the Stock Exchange, and it was not until October 1813 that he became a speculator. Butt had tried to induce him to invest in government securities, saying he could make gains without advancing any principal. Cochrane declined to enter into speculations he did not understand, but a few days later Butt brought him the sum of £430, saying it was the gain on investments he had made on Cochrane’s behalf. Cochrane still refused to take the offer seriously and told Butt to sport with the money until he lost it. Over the next few months Butt placed £4,200 to Cochrane’s account, and ultimately Thomas Cochrane, seeing that Butt could be as good as his word, and believing him to be an honourable man, agreed to let him handle his investments.

On the day of the Stock Exchange fraud, Thomas Cochrane, Andrew Cochrane Johnstone and Richard Gaythorne Butt held between them stocks valued in excess of one million pounds, an amount which at today’s prices would be equivalent to £45.5 million. Selling virtually all their holdings on that day, they had netted profits of £10,500 (equivalent today to about half a million) in the course of one hour. Had the weather been fine and Admiral Foley more trusting, they might have gained up to ten times that amount.

Of the three, Thomas Cochrane had been the smallest investor. The whole of his Omnium holdings at 21 February was valued at £139,000. He had bought it on 12 February and left a standing order for it to be sold if the price rose by 1 per cent. On the day of the fraud he had not attended the Stock Exchange, given any orders to sell, or indeed shown any interest in the markets. By contrast, Cochrane Johnstone and Richard Butt were enthusiastic players, their accounts showing numerous transactions through three different brokers.

On 8 March, Cochrane discovered that his name was on the list of those men the Stock Exchange Committee wished to interview. Also on the list were his uncle Andrew, Richard Butt and three men who were unknown to him, John Peter Holloway, Ralph Sandom and Alexander McRae. Cochrane obtained leave to attend to his affairs in London and hurried home, where he made an affidavit describing to the best of his recollection all that had passed on 21 February.

John Peter Holloway was a small investor, a wine and spirit merchant with stocks valued at £40,000. He had given instructions to his broker to sell on 21 February, but not until the afternoon. Questioned by the Stock Exchange Committee, he assured them he knew nothing of the fraud. He was allowed to depart. Ralph Sandom, who had accompanied the supposed French officers in the post-chaise, had no investments, and explained that he was an agent for a newspaper and had been duped like everyone else. He too, was not questioned further. Alexander McRae, a poor man with no interest in the Stock Exchange, had been accused by an informant of involvement in the post-chaise masquerade. He declined to come forward.

The Stock Exchange list of suspects was supposed to be seen only by the Committee, but somehow it found its way into the popular press. Butt and Cochrane Johnstone immediately announced that they were innocent and were preparing to take action for libel, presumably against the newspapers, although neither of them did so. Lord Cochrane, believing that his affidavit would settle the matter, remained convinced that de Berenger and du Bourg could not be the same man, as du Bourg had been described by witnesses as having a red blotchy face. De Berenger was already a wanted man: a warrant had been out for his arrest for some days since he had been reported missing from the Rules of the King’s Bench.

To an unprincipled rogue such as Andrew Cochrane Johnstone, Charles Random de Berenger was an ideal tool for one of his money-making schemes. A man of action, down on his luck and with a monstrous chip on his shoulder about his lost fortunes, de Berenger was flattered by the favour of the Cochrane family and hopeful that the connection would lead to advancement. Early in February 1814, an unfounded rumour of Napoleon’s death had set the Stock Exchange in a flurry and the Cochranes and Butt had all bought heavily in government stocks. With settlement day approaching, there was an urgent need for good news. According to de Berenger’s account of the plot,7 Cochrane Johnstone began sounding out de Berenger, taking care to introduce the fraudulent scheme in the guise of a joke. He said how easy it would be to bring a pretend messenger to London, laughingly suggesting a bearded Cossack warrior with a pike. De Berenger, failing to see the humour in this, only commented that such a figure would not be believed. Cochrane Johnstone persisted, asking de Berenger what he might propose, and after further conversation the idea emerged of an officer arriving at Dover. The subject was dropped, but the next time they met Cochrane Johnstone, all pretence of humour abandoned, asked de Berenger to draw up a plan of how the deception might be accomplished, representing it as a ‘stratagem . . . daily practised, never punished, never looked into and above all, one that could save Lord Cochrane and himself from ruin’.8

De Berenger objected that it would ruin his prospects in America if he was found out, whereupon Cochrane Johnstone bit his lip, looked displeased and pointedly accused him of refusing to help those who had helped him, reminding him that it was to the Cochranes he owed the opportunity in America. Over the next few days, Cochrane Johnstone, who was adept at changing his tactics from oily persuasion to emotional blackmail without missing a beat, openly displayed great anxiety over his investments, claiming that he and his nephew stood to lose £150,000 (about £7 million today). De Berenger, still not convinced that his benefactor was serious, reluctantly agreed to draw up a plan. He was quite unaware that Cochrane Johnstone had already assigned him the role of the impostor.

Invited to a meeting at the stockbroker’s office in Sweetings Alley on 19 February – at which de Berenger claimed that Cochrane Johnstone, Thomas Cochrane and Butt were all present (Cochrane and Butt were to deny they had been there) – there was much despondency and talk of serious losses. De Berenger, according to his own account, succumbed to an emotional appeal from Butt. ‘Baron, cannot YOU help us in some way or other: if you do not, WE ARE ALL RUINED.’9 Believing that he alone could save the Cochranes, to whose fates his own advancement was so closely connected, de Berenger consented. Provided with funds, he purchased the gold napoleons, a leather dispatch case and the military clothing he required, including an aide-de-camp’s uniform in scarlet with dark-blue collar and cuffs, and for decoration a Russian medal and a Masonic emblem. He travelled to Dover on 20 February with his costume in a trunk, and took a room at an inn, where, after careful preparation, he set out to play his part.

When de Berenger left Cochrane’s home in Green Street after the uncomfortable interview of 21 February, he hurried back to his lodgings, where he washed and shaved. Later he went out to dine. All the talk at the table was of the hoax that morning. The diners ‘rejoiced that for once the tables had been turned on a nest of wasps, that had grown grey in practices of deceit and iniquitous gain’.10 The efforts of the three men in the post-chaise, about whom de Berenger knew nothing, came in for some ridicule. On the following day, however, Cochrane Johnstone was in sombre mood and revealed that great pains were being taken to discover and punish those connected with the plot. The greatest vengeance, he added gloomily, was to fall on the sham du Bourg. De Berenger failed to take the hint, saying he thought it would all blow over and that he was very unlikely to meet the people who had seen him on his journey. Nevertheless, he did take Cochrane Johnstone’s advice that it would be wise to dispose of the scarlet uniform, which he cut up, tied in a bundle with some lead, screws and coal, and dropped in the Thames.

On 26 February Cochrane Johnstone brought a note to de Berenger’s lodgings to arrange a meeting, which took place the following morning. Cochrane Johnstone said that he had been told by the Lords of the Admiralty that they knew who the messenger was. As he depicted his own terrible fate, his eyes filled with tears. If discovered, the bargain would be cancelled and he would lose his seat in the House – the only thing that prevented his being put in prison. He spoke movingly of his nephew’s gallant deeds and the great and brilliant prospects that awaited him. Lord Cochrane was a brilliant gem lost to his family, a hero whose name would be blotted from the proud lists of his country. Seeing that his listener’s sympathy was now thoroughly engaged, he drew a picture of his nephew as wretched, despairing and contemplating suicide. His own daughter, he said, was in delicate health, and dangerously ill. He was by now sobbing so hard he was almost unable to speak, gulping that his only uncertainty was whether he would first hear of his daughter’s death or his nephew’s self-destruction. He then dramatically revealed that it lay in de Berenger’s power alone to avert this misery – he must fly and fly at once. De Berenger hesitated. He said that he would flee the next day but that he needed to settle with his creditors first.

Alarmed, Cochrane Johnstone insisted de Berenger depart that very night, even offering to arrange for the settlement of his debts. There was no time for him to put his affairs in order; they would all be ruined if de Berenger did not leave immediately. Cochrane Johnstone tried to increase the pressure by adding that when he had called to leave the note he had seen Bow Street officers lurking about de Berenger’s lodgings looking for him. (Even the gullible de Berenger did not swallow this one.) Reassuringly, he said that he and Lord Cochrane and Butt had all decided they would provide for him for life. He must travel to Amsterdam, where he, Cochrane Johnstone, would join him and hand him funds which would enable him to go to Paris or America.

De Berenger, still anxious about the remaining fragments of his reputation, hesitated, then said he would still prefer to leave on the following day. Cochrane Johnstone, almost frantic, exclaimed: ‘Then you are BENT on our ruin?’11 He assured his dupe that his very first business the next day would be to call on de Berenger’s creditors and settle the outstanding amount, only he must go, to save the lives of Lord Cochrane and his daughter, and himself from an agony of imprisonment. At last de Berenger agreed. He left London that night. On 17 March a warrant was issued for his arrest.

On 24 March, George Odell, a waterman, was dredging for coals in the Thames and brought up the bundle containing the scarlet uniform and medals worn by du Bourg, which he handed to the Stock Exchange.

The investigative committee had still failed to trace the elusive Alexander McRae. McRae was later described as ‘a person in most desperate circumstances’,12 to which he took great exception, although he never revealed how he made a living. His name had come to the notice of the Stock Exchange because he had been unwise enough to believe that an accountant called Thomas Vinn, a friend who could speak French, would be happy to be involved in a ‘very particular interesting business’.13 The two men had met by appointment in the Carolina Coffee House on 15 February, where McRae enthusiastically offered Vinn the opportunity to make his fortune. Vinn was suspicious, and asked if there was anything illegal in the proposal, but McRae assured him there was not – it was something practised daily by men of consequence and affluence. Failing to read Vinn’s mood, McRae revealed that the plan was for men to dress as French officers and drive into London from Dartford. He was happy to take credit for the idea, but McRae was in fact no more than the hired minion of the real brains behind the enterprise, whose identity he did not reveal. Vinn soon stopped him, indignant that anyone who knew him would even imagine he might have anything to do with such a scheme. The meeting broke up with some awkwardness, and Vinn hurried off to tell others what he had heard, but, reflecting that he had no proof of his allegations, decided to obtain some and returned to McRae, asking him to meet him later in the Jamaica Coffee House, where he would introduce him to a young man who might help him. They met as planned, but McRae, perhaps sensing that this was a trap, declined at the last moment to be introduced. He did, however, obtain from Vinn the French phrases that were later used by the two sham officers. Soon afterwards Vinn told contacts in the Stock Exchange and some companies he visited about the proposed fraud, but it seems that in the exuberance of the following Monday his warnings were forgotten. After the fraud had been made public, ties of friendship did not prevent Vinn telling all he knew to the Stock Exchange investigators.

McRae had been keeping out of the way of the authorities, but once the fraud was exposed in the newspapers he saw the opportunity to make a large sum of money. He and his confederates were not involved in the du Bourg plot, but recognised that this was a much bigger game played for far higher stakes than the scheme in which he had played a part. On 12 April he sent a letter to Cochrane Johnstone offering to reveal who was behind the Dartford fraud, exonerating the Cochranes and Butt, calculating that they might well be willing to pay handsomely to rescue their good names. No sum of money was mentioned in the letter, but the bearer, who was probably McRae, discussed the arrangements with Cochrane Johnstone. The sum payable was, according to McRae, £3,000 on demand and another £2,000 in instalments (he was no doubt gambling on being able to disappear with the funds before he could be arrested). McRae was, without realising it, becoming enmeshed in the schemes of a man who had been swindling money for far longer and better than he. Cochrane Johnstone had no intention of paying McRae anything. He wrote to the Stock Exchange, enclosing McRae’s letter asking for the sum of £10,000. To McRae’s dismay copies of the letter were printed with his name on and affixed in every conspicuous place around the Stock Exchange; some were even sent to the Continent. Quite who arranged this is unknown, but it seems probable it was Cochrane Johnstone in an attempt to demonstrate his own innocence.

When Cochrane Johnstone realised the Stock Exchange had declined to reply to his letter, he wrote to them again asking what they intended to do about it. He added that he, Lord Cochrane and Butt were all willing to subscribe £1,000 each towards the reward (which would, if he had been able to extract £2,000 from the others, have left a nice profit of £4,000 for himself). Somehow the Stock Exchange was not inclined to pay, and soon afterwards the scheme crumbled. Mr Holloway, the vintner, went to see the Committee together with a Mr Henry Lyte. Incensed at McRae’s attempt to make money by betraying them, they confessed everything. The Dartford escapade had been dreamed up by Holloway, and the two men in the post-chaise with Sandom had been Lyte and McRae. They denied all knowledge of the Dover plan. Holloway and Lyte may have thought that their confession would earn them immunity from prosecution, but they were wrong.

On 4 April a government agent, with a warrant to arrest de Berenger under the Aliens Act, headed north to Sunderland, where a stranger calling himself Major Burne had been trying to get passage to Amsterdam. Burne had moved on, leaving behind him banknotes which were later traced to the hands of Mr Butt and Cochrane Johnstone, but he was finally run to ground in Leith and taken back to London. There the post-boys who had driven du Bourg from Dover to London were brought in to identify him. De Berenger spent much of his time complaining about his treatment and whining that he was so ill as to be on the point of expiry, but he was not taken seriously.

Lord Cochrane questioned his uncle carefully about the plot and received assurances that it was all a great misunderstanding. Not only were his uncle and Butt innocent of any conspiracy, but, said Cochrane Johnstone, de Berenger was not du Bourg, a fact that could be proved by the production of an alibi. On 27 April Lord Cochrane sent a letter to de Berenger asking him to explain publicly his reasons for coming to see him on 21 February. The reply received that same day stated ‘nothing could exceed the pain I felt, when I perceived how cruelly, how unfairly my unfortunate visit of the 21st February was interpreted (which with its object, is so correctly detailed in your affidavit)’.14

On the same day the London Grand Jury assembled and found a true bill against Lord Cochrane, Cochrane Johnstone, Butt, de Berenger, Sandom, McRae, Holloway and Lyte. They were all committed for trial.

Lord Cochrane, who was probably one of the few people in the country who still did not believe that de Berenger was du Bourg, continued to be confident of acquittal. Believing that his innocence would be his protection, he did not trouble to read his own brief but left the whole affair in the hands of his solicitor and retired to his house in the country, not returning to London until two days before the trial. The only instruction he gave was that his case was to be tried separately from the others. While in the country he received a letter from his solicitor saying that he was to be tried jointly with Mr Butt, and since he believed in Butt’s innocence, he consented, adding that he wished no further union with the other defendants. He cannot have been ignorant of his uncle’s past and must have been suspicious that if there was a villain in the affair it was he, yet Cochrane remained loyal throughout, and if there was anything he knew to the detriment of his uncle, he said nothing. One possible reason was his fondness for his cousin Elizabeth, who to the end of her life remained convinced that it was for her sake Cochrane chivalrously refrained from placing the blame on her father. It must have been to his great astonishment and dismay when Thomas Cochrane discovered that he was to be tried jointly not only with Butt, de Berenger and his uncle but also with the men of the Dartford conspiracy.

The trial opened on 8 June, and from the start it was assumed by the prosecution that there had been a single conspiracy with two branches, although no connection could be proven. Sandom had once lived within the ‘Rules’, but there was no evidence that he and de Berenger had ever met. Given the immediately preceding events, and the approach of the crucial settlement date, it is not as unlikely as it may seem at first glance that two people could have had a similar inspiration at the same time.

The crucial question was whether de Berenger was indeed du Bourg. De Berenger’s alibi soon crumbled under the strong suspicion that his servants had been bribed to say he had been at his lodgings when du Bourg was in Dover. This sealed the fate of both Cochrane Johnstone and Butt, as the currency paid to de Berenger to finance his escapade could be traced directly back to them. The case against Lord Cochrane was flimsy in the extreme, and mainly rested on his sale of Omnium and the colour of the coat de Berenger was wearing when he arrived at Green Street. Neither Cochrane nor his servants had seen the body of de Berenger’s scarlet uniform, and were left only with the impression of a dark collar, which they were all convinced was green. Cochrane had sworn the uniform was green when making his affidavit and never swerved from that opinion. The court chose to believe the testimony of the cab driver Crane, who had deposited de Berenger at Cochrane’s door, and swore that the uniform was red, implying therefore that Cochrane had lied. The defence could only suggest that since the uniform of the sharpshooters was green, Cochrane, trying to recall the colour weeks after the event, had simply assumed that de Berenger had worn green. This was weak indeed, for no one could believe that had de Berenger appeared before Lord Cochrane in a foreign scarlet uniform with a medallion and star, it would not have made a very profound impression. The question of whether the scarlet body of the coat was hidden by the greatcoat was not addressed. The trial judge, Lord Ellenborough, was convinced of Cochrane’s guilt and summed up for a conviction, stating that when de Berenger visited Cochrane he ‘must have appeared to any rational person, fully blazoned in the costume of that or of some other crime, which was to be effected under an assumed dress, and by means of fraud and imposition’.15

All eight defendants were found guilty. As they awaited sentencing, de Berenger wrote a letter to Lord Cochrane. He expressed surprise that he had received no message or letter from His Lordship. He complained that he had experienced hardships and ruin on account of his anxiety for the Cochranes’ welfare, yet no one had shown any feeling for him: ‘fate is not so cruel towards you as it is to me,’ he continued, ‘for with your means you can live any where, but my want of means forces me to seek a living, which every where will be opposed by my debts, and by the disgrace I suffer under, CERTAINLY on your account. . . . What is your intention to me, – how do you mean to heal my wounds.’16

By now Lord Cochrane was all too cruelly aware that he owed his current plight to de Berenger. He must scarcely have been able to believe that the man who had caused his downfall was trying to extort money from him. He ignored the letter.

Shortly afterwards, de Berenger received a note from Cochrane Johnstone:

My dear Baron, I have been as Mr Tahourdin [his solicitor] will inform you, dreadfully low, and have never been out of the house, when I do I SHALL CALL ON YOU. An application will be made tomorrow for a new trial, what the result will be God knows – the prejudice is great in the public mind – my poor daughter is almost at death’s door. Adieu. I am ever yours, A.C. Johnstone17

As with so many of his promises, Andrew Cochrane Johnstone merely said what he believed the other person wanted to hear. The ink had scarcely dried on his letter when he left England, never to return. Two more of his dupes, Donithorne and Tragear, who had been involved in another of his shady schemes, went to Calais to meet him, and bumping into him by chance were told to go to Paris, where he would join them. Naturally he did not appear there, and after some hardship they were obliged to return to England, sadder, wiser and very much poorer men.

De Berenger tried an old tactic to postpone being sentenced, his counsel claiming that his state of health made it impossible for him to attend. Lord Ellenborough had heard such ploys before. He said he had observed de Berenger after the long trial and remarked at the time that ‘a more lively and active man he had never beheld’.18 The application was refused.