Between Abergavenny and Monmouth, Stephen Gardiner forced the casement of a house that appeared untenanted and carried away nothing more than a gown. This felony did not bring him to Tyburn; it merely preceded other seized opportunities, among them an abandoned scheme of murder, before the linen of Dorcas Roberts brought about his final capture.
Gardiner was born in Moorfields, of parents in middling circumstances. The chronicle makes this quarter the first link in a chain of moral causality: as a child, he is said to have squandered his hours in gaming, preferring skittles and cudgels to any useful employment. At about fourteen years of age, his kinsfolk bound him apprentice to a weaver. His conduct soon earned him the chastisements of his master and the rancour of the neighbourhood. The chronicler relates that the neighbours complained incessantly, some even taking it upon themselves to beat the lad when the master proved too slow to strike. The account presents these severities as the natural consequence of his own misdeeds—a judgment proper to the moralising severity of the text.
Exhausted by such treatment, Stephen took to flight, persuaded that he might subsist upon the dexterity he had acquired at play. Within a month, he lacked even bread. Compelled to return to his family, he implored their aid in finding some livelihood. They received him and placed him as a cabin boy aboard a vessel laden with corn, trading with Holland and France. The oaths, quarrels, and brawls of the mariners terrified him. Upon his return, he besought his kin to suffer him to remain in England, pledging that he would work. He was placed in another trade; this too he soon abandoned.
He returned to Moorfields, where he gamed so long as money or garments remained to him. When his pockets were drained, he sought to pick pockets or win a few farthings at chuck-farthing with the boys. An initial attempt at theft miscarried: a gentleman permitted him to draw a periwig from his pocket, then seized him, raising the hue and cry. Gardiner dropped the wig and kicked it aside; a bystander took his part, and the matter ended without grave consequence. A month later, apprehended once more, he was abandoned to the fury of the mob. The blows were so unmerciful, says the chronicle, that they very nearly killed him. Upon his knees, he begged to be brought before a magistrate and committed to Newgate, yet the crowd paid no heed. Gardiner later affirmed that this ordeal had cured him forever of picking pockets.
He subsequently fell in with two youths, Garraway and Sly, who invited him to join their nocturnal rambles. For a considerable time he refused. Then, having lost all his money and even the clothes upon his back, he sought them out. They welcomed him into their company. Garraway’s first project was aimed against his own brother. The three men broke into the house and came away with a quantity of wearing apparel belonging to the brother and sister. Garraway bade them take heart: his father possessed a house far better furnished. From this second dwelling they carried off silver spoons, mugs, salts, and other valuable plate.
A swift pursuit led to their arrest. Gardiner, being the youngest, was admitted as evidence against his two confederates, who were subsequently convicted. A few weeks later, he regained his liberty. The chronicle does not depict this reprieve as a lasting return to honest industry: he straightway returned to theft. At the lodgings of an acquaintance’s father upon Addle Hill, he crept stealthily into the garret and purloined several suits of valuable men’s apparel.
His path presently crossed that of Richard Jones. Mounted together upon a stout gelding, they rode into Wales to practice the knavish art known in the canting tongue as the “Passing Lay.” The cheat depended upon a concerted performance between the two confederates. Accosting country folk at an inn under colour of discussing cattle sales, a pack of cards was brought out as if by chance. The two rogues would play against one another until one had staked a considerable sum. He would then secretly show his hand to the dupe, offering to share the winnings and persuading him that the venture was infallible. As soon as the stranger had advanced his money, the sharpers decamped with the spoil. According to the chronicle, Gardiner practiced this fraud with great success in the Welsh counties, where the inhabitants were little versed in such artifices.
Jones had abandoned his wife. At Bristol, he had acquired a gold watch with its chain, suits laced with silver, and other costly goods. He was also possessed, according to the narrative, of nearly a hundred guineas. Gardiner conceived the design of securing the whole booty by dispatching his companion. In an alehouse, he stole a heavy brass pestle and concealed it in his boot, intending to dash out Jones’s brains as they rode through the woods. Twice he drew the weapon from his boot, yet shrank from striking the blow. The heavy instrument at length slipped from his leg; Gardiner was obliged to recover it without exciting suspicion. On the following day, it fell a second time. Fearing that Jones might guess his design and anticipate him out of distrust, Gardiner abandoned the enterprise.
A day or two thereafter, the two men parted company. Jones called after him, declaring that he was riding up to London only to be hanged. The parting words bore the air of a jest or a tavern taunt; the subsequent course of Gardiner’s life gave them a sinister precision. Between Abergavenny and Monmouth, he forced the casement of a poultry-house and took a gown from among the apparel kept in the chests. He left the title-deeds untouched, choosing not to burden his journey further.
Shortly after his return to London, he committed the robbery that brought about his ruin. He broke into the dwelling of Dorcas Roberts, a widow, and carried off a great quantity of linen. He was soon apprehended in bed, wearing one of the fine shirts upon his back; the remainder of the goods lay concealed beneath the bedstead. Brought before the justice, he alleged that one Martin had delivered the articles to him, giving him two shirts as a recompense for harbouring the plunder in his brandy-shop. The magistrate and the jury deemed this tale utterly incredible. Gardiner was found guilty. The chronicle records him as an old offender who entertained no hope of reprieve.
Under sentence of death, he applied himself diligently to prepare for his end. He recalled an incident that had occurred some twelvemonth before, when, being detained for some trifling disorder, he had been brought to the watch-house of St. Sepulchre. The constable had discharged him. Before he could depart, the parish bellman entered; the constable thereupon warned the young man that he feared the bellman would soon be reciting his verses over him. Gardiner declared that he had been so struck by these words that he was rendered well-nigh speechless. In his narrative, this recollection served to account for the dread that had momentarily checked his course.
The chronicle states that he kept a strict fast while under condemnation, and went to the place of execution clad only in his shroud, despite the biting cold. At Tyburn, he entreated the spectators not to cast any reproach upon his parents, who had remained wholly ignorant of his crimes. Espying several of his former associates among the multitude, he exhorted them to look upon his end and amend their lives. Stephen Gardiner was turned off on February 3, 1724. The chronicle thus concludes an existence marked by chronic flight, card-sharping, housebreakings, an aborted murder, and the linen of Dorcas Roberts discovered beneath his very bed.