An Ingenious Excuse: The True Story of Patrick Lyon and the First Great American Bank Robbery

By John and Nancy Lankenau

On the morning of September 2, 1798, just after first light, the back door to Carpenters' Hall is discovered ajar. Gold, silver, banknotes-the vast riches of a well-guarded bank vault-all of it gone without a trace. Frantic bankers secure an arrest warrant for the clever blacksmith who worked on the vault doors, a young Scot who crossed the ocean like thousands of others on America's promise of liberty and opportunity. Bankers know him to be innocent but lock him up anyway, then leave him to die in their fever-ridden jail. An incredible true tale of history about the first big bank robbery in America. It's a David and Goliath story about a recent immigrant who must uncover the truth about a robbery he didn't commit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Little Creek Press
• Release date: Aug 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781942586838

Book preview

PART

I

(THREE WEEKS LATER)

—the horror of such a thing, none but an innocent man can feel.

—Patrick Lyon

FASTENED IN THE NET

SEPTEMBER 21, 1798

Akey glistened in the sky as soft grasses and fresh air of the countryside faded into memory. Chattering hooves moved briskly along the road to the deserted city of Philadelphia. It was a short two-mile ride from the country estate of John Stocker on Irish Track Lane.

Most businesses in town were closed on account of yellow fever. A wagon, draped in black, grimly made its way along the quiet street. Patrick closed his eyes in prayer. The constable clicked the reins, gently hurrying his horse along.

Patrick sat next to Constable Haines in a horse-drawn chair. Heavy charges had been leveled against him. In his old country, robbery was a hanging offense. As the horse slowed on the turn into Walnut Street, Patrick’s hands clenched tightly against his breeches.

The rough-hewn stone walls of Walnut Street Jail loomed just ahead. Cold and conspicuous, the jail stood apart from the warm, red brick buildings of Philadelphia. A gilded copper weathervane, shaped like a key atop the cupola, flickered ominously in the bright sunlight.

Constable Haines stopped the horse at the prison gate. His orders were to leave Patrick in the hands of the head jailor. Writhing inside with anguish, Patrick got out of the chair. In his words, "This to me was like fronting the lines of an enemy, exposed without a possible means of defence."

The commitment was entered into the jailor’s docket. With convicts clothed in dreary prison linen looking on, the keeper then took Patrick through to the west wing of the jail. Charred timbers in the prison yard were a stark reminder of the disturbing violence at the jail earlier that summer.

The keeper stopped in a secluded north corner of the west wing.

Orders are to keep you here, he said, unlocking the heavy iron door. The bars of it were closely edged; not even a hand could fit through them.

Reluctantly, Patrick stepped inside. The keeper shut the door and fastened the lock with his key. Patrick later writes, "I myself never expected to come out alive."

There he stood, holding a bucket and a blanket, in a small, drab room. What light there was entered through a barred window. Hampers of potatoes sat against one wall, while stacks of manufactured shoes and other prison stores lined the other. The cell was normally used as a storeroom.

The mannerly voice of Bank Director John Stocker lingered in his head.

We have proof against you, Lyon! Stocker declared at the inquiry that morning.

Pushing his body back against the iron door, Patrick slumped to the floor.

I am innocent! Patrick cried defiantly. You say you have proof! What proof?

No one could hear his cry. The hallway outside was quiet. It would be hours before a keeper came to open his door.

Tormented by the strange accusations made by the priggish cashier, Patrick cradled his head in his hands and let out a deep and angry moan.

Why do you put me here? Patrick cried out.

The blacksmith was locked away in Walnut Street Jail on nothing more than vague suspicions. The once-friendly gentlemen of Philadelphia now treated the young immigrant with old-country ways as if he were a stranger. Goodwill and trust, suddenly gone.

Patrick squeezed his eyes shut and tightened the cradled grip on his head. Wanting to rid himself of his surroundings, Patrick consoled himself with prayer. He pulled his thoughts inward and rocked himself against the door. As the hours passed, exhaustion slowly overtook his fears.

PART

II

(FIVE YEARS BEFORE)

—if ever there was a mechanical volunteer came into America, I certainly have a fair claim to the title …

—Patrick Lyon

COME TO AMERICA

NOVEMBER, 1793

After weeks of being tossed about on the mighty Atlantic Ocean, jubilant immigrants saw the coastline of North America resting unmistakably on the horizon. They had gathered on the deck of the Mohawk, a merchant ship sailing from London, England. The severe conditions on a small vessel were nearly over for the fifty-one passengers aboard the ship.

Patrick Lyon, a master blacksmith from London, was one of many passengers, eager to get a glimpse of land. A vigorous young man of about twenty-four years, Patrick had a ruddy complexion and sandy hair that glimmered red in the sunlight. His husky shoulders and brawny forearms dominated a sturdy frame, trim of waist, that stood five feet, seven inches tall in boots.

Born of Scottish parents, Patrick grew up working in the factories of London. The son of a blacksmith, Patrick began his mechanical studies as an eleven-year-old boy. Smart in both his head and his hands, Patrick progressed steadily from apprentice to master blacksmith.

Skilled blacksmiths were the backbone of eighteenth-century communities. Tradespeople and aristocrats alike came to rely on master blacksmiths as pillars of commerce and beacons of coming industrial change. Patrick’s novel ideas for tools and machines were taking shape in his workshop.

So why did Patrick leave behind a solid foothold in the blacksmith trade of Great Britain? Well, we don’t know for sure because Patrick doesn’t write specifically about his circumstances. He writes simply, "I resolved to come to America."

Perhaps like many people of the time, Patrick’s eyes turned westward to find a new country offering enthusiastic promises of liberty. Immigrants came to America by the thousands. Benjamin Franklin, with stirring words of advice, inspired young tradespeople everywhere.

We know only that Patrick’s decision to emigrate came with personal sacrifice. In Patrick’s words, "the enterprize … displeased my relations and friends in a great measure." The bright and gifted young blacksmith crossed an ocean to start a new life in America. His mother and father, an uncle, and other family and friends stayed behind in Great Britain.

As the Mohawk neared the end of its long voyage across the Atlantic Ocean, Cape Henlopen to the south and Cape May to the north shaped a grand entrance to the shores of America. Philadelphia, the nation’s capital, sat in Pennsylvania about 150 miles to the northwest on the Delaware River. Only the final passage through the Delaware Bay and up the river lay ahead of the Mohawk.

Comforting sights of land faded one last time into the mists of the sizable Delaware Bay. Passengers rejoiced when the waters narrowed again to form the Delaware River. The ship glided slowly through its deep channels, sometimes powered only by the tides. Attentive crew evaded shallow waters of its flats.

Villages and farmhouses on the Delaware side dotted the left bank. Thick woods of New Jersey covered the right bank. With land bewitchingly close, tired passengers yearned to be ashore. The Mohawk proceeded up the Delaware River, every minute getting closer to Philadelphia.

The welcoming views of land trumpeted an end to the arduous journey. Unfortunately, they also signaled the beginning of new and uncertain adventures. As the Mohawk verged upon the mouth of the Schuylkill River, an alert crew member spotted an approaching jolly boat.

Ahoy, the ship!

A small vessel hailed the Mohawk.

Back the sails! Captain Allen ordered.

The Mohawk slowed to a stop.

Hold fast! Captain Allen commanded.

Passengers could do nothing but watch as health officers boarded the Mohawk. The excitement of arrival was muted by fear. Passengers strained to listen, but the captain’s grim face said it all. The news was horrifying. People by the thousands had died that summer, perhaps even one out of ten in Philadelphia.

Some called it the plague, and others more rightfully called it yellow fever. Inspection of passengers and cargo on arriving ships was deemed a necessary precaution for stopping the spread of the deadly disease. Health officials quarantined entire ships when sickness was aboard.

As officials from Philadelphia went about their duties inspecting the crew, passengers, and cargo, anxious thoughts swept over the Mohawk. Tensions eased considerably when no sign of disease was detected. The Mohawk was approved to proceed into the Port of Philadelphia. Once the ship docked, passengers were free to disembark.

With paperwork complete, Patrick and other Mohawk passengers made their way onto Water Street, hastily and instinctively moving away from the stench of the stagnant water near the wharves. Some walked with family, and some walked alone. All had to wonder just what lay in store.

Happily, for passengers arriving in late November, the colder temperatures meant the worst of the yellow fever was over. One writer observes, "Disease is checked by the frost

THE MECHANIC

NOVEMBER 1793 – JULY 1795

Blacksmith shops were here and there on the streets of Philadelphia. Some were larger than others; most were nothing more than rough sheds with dirt floors. Blackened with soot inside and out, the shops were illuminated by fires in the forges that burned brightly. Hot, molten iron glowed in bright, vivid reds. To an aspiring immigrant riveted by dreams, these were the fires of imagination.

Inventive notions ignited like fiery sparks in Patrick’s head. All he needed was capital to open his own shop. He didn’t have enough money, so Patrick walked the streets in search of a job. As a master blacksmith, he figured it would take him no time at all to find suitable employment in a fast-growing city like Philadelphia.

Samuel Wheeler, an established blacksmith responsible for much of the ironwork on the city’s buildings, hired Patrick immediately to work in his busy shop. A frugal young Scot, Patrick saved nearly every dollar he earned. With signs of prosperity all around him, he was determined to forge his own path in America.

Magnificent carriages dazzled the cobble-paved streets of Philadelphia. Most belonged to the well-born, but one, in particular, was prominent and hard to miss. It belonged to a successful shipsmith. Each panel of Peter Brown’s four-wheeled carriage boldly displayed an image of two stout arms striking upon a large anvil. The motto underneath read, "By this I got ye."

Patrick did not build ships like Peter Brown, but he did design and build engines. In his spare time, Patrick worked on a hydraulic engine to fight fires. According to one observer, "About 1794 he invented an improved engine, which he claimed would throw more water and with greater force than any other."

Horrific fires were all too common in cities. Within minutes, flames could be deadly, wiping out a family’s home and business, or worse yet, an entire block. Mechanical advancements in firefighting were needed in Philadelphia. Merchants took an interest in Patrick’s innovative ideas.

Although the city swelled with money, finding suitable introductions to the business community was a challenge for Patrick. One visitor to Philadelphia writes, "different classes very rarely mingle together." Philadelphians were reserved and distant with those they deemed strangers.

Since he couldn’t afford to open his own workshop, Patrick thought it wise to stay employed with Samuel Wheeler. Long respected for his role in the Revolutionary War, Wheeler was well-connected in the community. He was an ironmaster in the Continental Army who helped General George Washington build a massive chain to block the passage of British warships up the Hudson River.

Unfortunately, over time, Patrick found it difficult to work for the preeminent blacksmith of Philadelphia. Patrick had very little patience for Wheeler’s old and cumbersome methods of solving problems. While his ironwork was beautiful, Wheeler’s mechanical abilities couldn’t match Patrick’s remarkable skills.

Sometimes the two blacksmiths disagreed about fair wages, but more often, they argued over the best way to do a job. Repeated incidents at Wheeler’s shop established a rift between the two smiths that would later have rippling effects. Finally, Patrick decided it was time to leave and go to work for another blacksmith.

People in Philadelphia were taken by his methods and new gadgets. Patrick used tools he brought from the old country, some of which he invented or perfected for himself. As word spread about a new and resourceful mechanic, Patrick’s life in America took root.

Patrick met a young woman named Ann Brindley. When and how did they meet? What did they enjoy about one another? We don’t know what brought them together. What we do know is that Patrick and Ann decided to marry.

Saturday, July 4, 1795, was the young couple’s wedding day. The three previous days had been rainy, but on July 4, the sun came out. Bells rang loudly, glasses clanked in tribute, and soldiers paraded in the streets. Were these celebrations part and parcel of a wedding? Well, maybe not all of them. It was, after all, Independence Day.

Ann Brindley and Patrick Lyon stood together within the grand pillars and arches of the red-bricked Christ Church. Light flooded the pulpit through the large windows. The minister, Reverend James Abercrombie, read and instructed from the Book of Common Prayer.

Reverend Abercrombie looked to Patrick and asked, "Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

I will, Patrick answered.

Reverend Abercrombie asked the question again, this time turning to Ann.

I will, Ann answered.

The minister finished the simple ceremony by joining the couple’s hands in matrimony. The wedding party enjoyed food, frolic and, drink, while the country celebrated, in the words of one historian, its "birthday of Liberty." Guns fired, and rockets lit the joyous summer sky.

Patrick and Ann were, in Patrick’s words, part of "the rising greatness of America.

BUSINESS FOR MYSELF

1796 – 1797

The new blacksmith shop on Lombard Street was near the Delaware River, between Front Street and Second Street. Its forge was built up with bricks. A large anvil sat upon a sturdy tree stump. Hammers, chisels, tongs, and even pen and paper lay on the workbench.

Patrick used the paper and pen to work out challenging problems before cutting his iron. Tacked to a board near the workbench was a well-worn piece of paper. On that paper was a diagram of the Pythagorean theorem. Patrick studied Euclid’s Elements and other principles of, in his words, the grand science. In the late eighteenth century, there were few, if any, how-to-do-it books on metalworking.

To attract business for his new shop, Patrick posted a notice in a Philadelphia newspaper and let it run for several days. Patrick advertised himself as a "BLACK and WHITE SMITH," a blacksmith because he forged objects and a whitesmith because he polished and finished his work. Besides screws of any description, Patrick made smoke-jacks, iron doors, bookcases, and chests for banking houses.

A prominent and well-connected merchant, John Clement Stocker, came into his shop one day and hired Patrick to do a small job. Stocker was impressed with the young mechanic from Scotland. As a director of the Bank of Pennsylvania, he vouched for Patrick as a clever smith and an honest worker. On his word, notable merchants began using Patrick’s services.

The shop on Lombard Street turned a profit. Money couldn’t come any too soon because, in June 1796, Ann gave birth to a baby girl. Her parents named her Clementina. Several pieces of furniture were purchased. Plenty of firewood was laid in for the winter. It was a busy young household with a new baby.

Sadly, baby Clementina fell sick with a fever. Infections and other illnesses were common, robbing countless families of precious loved ones. One Philadelphian dolefully remembers, "Colds, hooping-coughs and disorders of the throat, take off a great quantity." Babies weaned from their mother’s milk were particularly at risk.

Clementina was just nine months old when she died. Patrick and Ann buried her at St. Peter’s Churchyard. The expense of the large gravestone placed in her memory suggests the great love Patrick and Ann must have felt for their baby daughter. The stone reads, "In memory of CLEMENTINA, Daughter of Patrick and Ann Lyon, who departed this Life March 7th, 1797, Aged 9 months."

Nothing could lift away the deep sorrow of a young child taken, but life had its own way of pushing ahead. Months before Clementina’s death, Patrick petitioned the courts to become a citizen. By affidavit, Patrick renounced all allegiances to the King of Great Britain and swore his support to the Constitution of the United States.

Thomas Dobson, a printer on South Second Street, agreed to stand up in court and swear to Patrick’s good moral character. An appearance was scheduled, and on May 25, 1797, the Court of Common Pleas in Philadelphia approved his petition for naturalization. Patrick was a citizen of the United States of America.

With Patrick’s exceptional abilities and hard work, the workshop on Lombard Street thrived. In April 1797, the young couple deposited an impressive $860 in the Bank of North America. The deposit represented almost two years of an artisan’s wages. Economic times were good, and Patrick took full advantage of it. His skills were extraordinary.

As the wet spring of 1797 turned into a muggy, hot summer, the heartache of more disease lay ahead for Philadelphians. A sweeping epidemic would once again terrify the city. Physicians could not agree on diagnoses or treatments of the sickness they called yellow fever.

Dr. Benjamin Rush, a leading authority, observed as early as 1793, "Moschetoes (the usual attendants of a sickly autumn) were uncommonly numerous." A causative link between mosquitoes and yellow fever remained elusive. Such a connection would take more than a hundred years for scientists to understand.

Those with means fled to the countryside, away from stagnant water and waste where the insects festered and multiplied. Others less fortunate had no choice but to stay put in the city, as they depended upon their daily labors to make ends meet. Work in the country was scarce, and rents were high.

Trying to satisfy customers despite the fever, Patrick kept the shop on Lombard Street open. The Bank of Pennsylvania, located in Lodge-Alley, employed Patrick to construct two heavy iron doors for the book vault. Book vaults were used to keep papers safe from fire. Patrick welcomed the bank’s work, but keeping the shop open meant staying in the city during another outbreak of yellow fever.

How bad the fever would get that year was anyone’s guess, but by August, the numbers started to mount. One who lived through it writes, "On every road from Philadelphia were seen wagons conveying families and effects to the country." At least 20,000 Philadelphians, approximately one-third of the population, deserted the city that year. One traveler describes the fear in the Philadelphia as profound terror.

City officials placed small, brightly colored flags on the doors of the houses where victims of the fever died. As days passed, more and more flags appeared. A visitor in the city at the time writes, "We could count twenty of them within a musket shot of my house." Philadelphians became desperate to ward off the fever.

People chewed bark, tobacco, and garlic as preservatives. Others stuffed garlic in their shoes or tied bags of camphor about their necks. Because most believed the disorder was contagious, houses of the afflicted were washed and cleaned.

The rapidity with which the disorder attacked was shocking. Eyes and skin rapidly tinged yellow. Pains, accompanied by fever, were often sudden. If the fever did not ease, delirium took hold, and death was quick, usually in five to eight days. Black vomit came on near the end.

By September, burial grounds in Philadelphia were overwhelmed. Authorities buried the poor without ceremony. In all, over 1,000 Philadelphians died during the outbreak of 1797. The terrifying malady was known only by its two symptoms: yellow fever. The fever afflicted young and old alike.

Patrick’s young wife, Ann Lyon, was one of the many who died. Unfortunately, we don’t have any of the details of her death. How long was Ann sick? Was she attended to by doctors? Were Patrick and Ann even in Philadelphia when she died?

St. Peter’s burial records list Ann’s death as decay. The sexton mistakenly records Ann’s death as, "Clementine Loyons, wife of Patrick Loyons–decay

PART

III

(ONE YEAR LATER)

STOP THE WORK

AUGUST 1 – AUGUST 8, 1798

Samuel Robinson, the carpenter, employed by the Bank of Pennsylvania, stopped by Patrick’s noisy workshop on Lombard Street. Journeymen smiths, hired by Patrick because shop trade was rapidly expanding, attended to their tasks. Several iron pieces, ordered by the Bank of Pennsylvania, were yet to be finished.

The Bank of Pennsylvania, then housed in a Free Mason Lodge, planned to expand its business into an adjoining building in Lodge-Alley.* The expansion was necessary to accommodate the bank’s immediate need for more space. Long-term plans for a new, prodigious building were in the works, but construction was yet to begin.

The adjoining building in Lodge-Alley was previously used as a boardinghouse for young women. Numerous changes were necessary to combine the spaces and make it all suitable for the Bank of Pennsylvania. These modifications created considerable work for Patrick’s shop.

James M’Ginley, Patrick’s apprentice lad, offered Mr. Robinson refreshment that morning and suggested that he wait. Patrick had gone out on an errand but was due to return shortly. The bank’s carpenter took the drink but