Canadian Transport Sourcebook

Chapter XIII

Dick Turpin

We came across some extraordinary characters in those days. I remember once meeting an amateur highwayman who had been most successful in plundering a stage coach.

He was certainly not a typical Dick Turpin. He was an ordinary, smooth shaved, pale faced, undersized cadaverous-looking, insignificant robber, the day I first saw him, but he evidently had some nerve concealed about his person. He was coupled up to a stalwart Royal Northwest Mounted Policeman on a C.P.R. train, bound East and he was about to pay a fifteen year visit to the Stony Mountain Penitentiary.

I learned that he was a highwayman, and discovered incidentally the facts relating to his crime. His name sounded something like Matthew MacGillicuddy, but of this I am not positive, and they said he came of a good family, being the son of an Archdeacon of the Church. He had served as a private in the "Midland Regiment" during the 1885 rebellion and subsequently took to the more precarious occupation in which we now find him. One fine Summer morning he rode over the Salt Plains on his "Cayuse" and when near the western extremity of that desolate region, came across the lonely camp of a respectable old Hudson Bay officer. This gentleman having refreshed himself with the good things of civilization, not neglecting to pay his respects at the shrine of old Bacchus during his short stay in Winnipeg, was en route to his post at Edmonton, accompanied by a faithful servitor in the person of a French-Canadian half-breed, and no doubt accompanied too by a small keg of good old Jamaica Rum.

These two worthies after many miles of travel, a good supper of Buffalo Pemmican, several pipes and a few "night caps," slumbered peacefully beneath their blankets, sheltered by their little white tent sticking up above the horizon, the only object upon the landscape.

Up comes my bold highwayman. Bang! Bank! Bang! He fires three shots through the tent, dismounts, opens the flap, and demands the accumulated earnings of a hard life-time. The much astonished Hudson Bay Factor awakes, alarms his faithful henchman, and after much search manages to unearth two dollars, which the robber promptly rejects with scorn, cursing their impecuniosity. The old Factor (of Scottish descent) then offers a cheque on the Bank of Montreal, which is of course refused, and the bold highwayman gallops off, leaving the two half-fuddled travellers to rest in peace.

Success attended our hero in his next venture. He crossed the bleak Salt Plains and at daylight arrived at the Western end where little groves of poplars are dotted over the prairie. The sun is about to illuminate the landscape when he remembers that the Prince Albert stage is due to pass that way, and hies him to an adjacent bush. He has not long to wait before the day breaks and soon he hears the creaking of the wheels and the hoof-beats of four horses. Behind his cover he counts five men on the waggon, but undismayed, out rides our bold warrior, points his gun at the driver and commands him to "Halt!" and to hold up his hands, which the man does at once. He then orders the passengers, four in number, to dismount, and at the point of the pistol makes them stand up in a row.

He then proceeds to tie their hands behind their backs all the time talking to imaginary accomplices, "Keep that fellow covered, Charlie," "Never mind the driver, Bill, I've got him," "Stay there, Ned, don't shout till I tell you," "Keep your gun on that chap, Harry, if he moves," etc., etc.

By this time our highwayman had impressed these poor citizens with the idea that the woods were full of desperadoes. He then announced that he wanted a knife to open the mail bags; the gentleman on the extreme right of the line had a knife, but could not well get at it, as sit was securely tied up. He also had a wad of six hundred dollars in the same pocket, but no doubt being much impressed by the nervy little robber and thoroughly scared to death he weakly indicated his right hand trousers pocket.

In extracting the knife, the gentlemanly footpad inadvertently pulled out the six hundred dollars, which he immediately replaced, remarking: "I don't want any of your money." He then proceeded to slash open the mail bags and went through the registered letters. He took a bottle of whiskey from under the seat, gave all his helpless victims a drink, took one himself, and gaily trotted away, leaving them to untie themselves as best they could.

He was caught a year afterwards and arrested. Strange to say the person who recognized and identified him was the very man whose money had been returned.

I saw the prisoner when he was serving his sentence in the Stony Mountain Penitentiary. The Warden of that Institution being a particular friend of mine, I suggested that he should introduce me to Number 149, whom by this time I could not help regarding as a modern hero, and, if not a leader, certainly a controller of men. He was somewhat paler than when I had seen him before, although his ashen grey complexion, nearly always so noticeable amongst convicts, only seemed to emphasize his clear-cut Napoleonic features. His glittering steel-blue eyes seemed as calm, steady and fearless as ever, and as he related the details of that memorable morning, when one little man held up five of his fellows single-handed at the point of the gun, I could not but admire his consummate coolness and courage, particularly when at the close of his recitation he casually remarked: "And, Mister, I don't mind telling you a remarkable thing, that gun I had wasn't even loaded."