Devonshire December 16 January 17

Gypsy fraternities - to the rich
pickings to be had at London’s
Bartholomew’s Fair.
Here, as fate would have it, the
old Gypsy King, one Clause Patch
died and Carew - who by now not
only held their first class honours
degree in flim-flammery - but was
also versed in Latin and Greek -
was voted King of the Gypsies.
But uneasy lies the head that
wears the crown, for within a
few months he was back in
Devon, caught, imprisoned and
convicted an idle vagrant, and
sentenced, at Rougemont Castle,
Exeter, to be taken to Bideford
to be transported to Maryland.
(Most Devon ports did a good trade
in those days importing tobacco and
exporting convicts).
As he tells it he managed to escape
immediately on his arrival at
the quayside in America as the
planters were casting an eye over
the latest arrivals. He made it
into the woods but was quickly
recaptured, whipped and had an
iron ring fastened round his neck.
Fielding (above), immortalised
Carew in his book 'Adventures of
Tom Jones'
A second escape brought him
to a village of friendly Native
Americans who - rather than
turn him in to claim their reward
they must have fallen under his
charms because, he tells us, they
set him free. He then made for
Pennsylvania, swam the Delaware
river and eventually reached
Boston harbour via Philadelphia
and New York - in an assortment
of disguises, including that of a
Quaker.
Here he signed up on a British
man-of-war, homeward-bound. On
his arrival at Bristol he escaped
the clutches of re-enlistment (or
indeed imprisonment) by having
The churchyard at Bickleigh where Bampfylde-Moore Carew is buried
first pricked his hands and face
with the point of a dagger and
rubbing in a mixture of salt and
gunpowder - one of the many
tricks in his repertoire - to feign
smallpox.
He then set about tracing his
wife (and daughter) he said, but
leaving them in Bath found
himself in Scotland (1745) where
he joined forces with - wait for
it - Bonnie Prince Charlie himself
- accompanying him to Carlisle
and Derby. Well, well.
But when things got tough for
the Young Pretender -as well as
our young pretender - Carew
suddenly became both lame and
insane and limped back to the
South West where he pursued
a long and profitable career. He
disguised himself variously as
a Presbyterian preacher, a shipwrecked
sailor, a ruined farmer,
a penniless widow (he often
told fortunes disguised as an
old woman), a rat catcher, a
woman whose daughter had
been killed in a fire, ʻMad Tom’
and countless other characters
all designed to bring on tears
the easier to extract money
from the good people of Devon.
All went well until, on a visit
with his wife and daughter to
Exeter one day - where they
were “visiting friends” - he found
himself, alone, taking the air along
the front at Topsham, doubtless
thinking what he might steal
or whom he might dupe when
suddenly his gypsy luck ran out.
Quicker than one might cry, “Grab
that villain!” he was recognised by
a merchant called Davey who had
been defrauded by him. As ill-luck
would have it, an ancient mariner
by name Captain Simmonds was at
that very moment about to shove
off for a sea voyage and being an
opportunist he had Carew bound
and bundled into the bottom of his
boat and rowed out to the good
ship Phillory, then at anchor off
Powderham Castle, waiting for
a fair wind.
Here the hapless Carew, now
known throughout the West
Country as “King Gypsy” was
added to its cargo of prisoners
bound for transportation to the
Colonies. Eleven weeks later he
found himself once more, back
in Maryland.
This time he escaped in a canoe,
slipping off unnoticed during
the convict sales. He travelled
by night, stealing food from empty
homes in the day. He crossed the
Bampfylde-Moore Carew was transported
to Maryland not once, but twice!
Delaware again, this time on the
back of a stolen horse, making
a bridle with his handkerchief.
(All escaping convicts at the
end of eleven week long sea
voyages carried very, very long
handkerchiefs with them for just
such a purpose).
Back in Boston he was able
to secure his passage back to
England. Fast forward through
the mists of time and Carew’s
yarn spinning - to the good Sir
Thomas Carew of Haccombe,
Devon, a distant relative, who
offered to provide for him if he
would only give up his wicked
wandering ways.
Apparently he refused the offer,
but then had a change of heart
“after winning a fortune in a
lottery”. Amazing. It certainly
sounds as though the old gypsy
luck had returned - and what a
wonderful way to finish the last
chapter..
He bought a house in Bickleigh
and settled down. His daughter
made a good marriage and he
had grandchildren, His final years
were spent “idly” in retirement,
writing his books. The first of
them, was first published in
1745 the contents were "noted
by himself during his passage
to America”.
Although Carew ʻthe author’
almost certainly poured out
a stream of ʻfacts’, the author
was more likely to have been
one Robert Goadby, a printer in
Sherborne, Dorset, who published
the book. But if that is the case it
is much more likely that Carew
first dictated it to what we would
nowadays call a “ghost writer’ - in
this instance to the literate and
enterprising Mrs. Goadby, one
who not only knew which side
her bread was buttered but was
also well qualified to know
what made a best seller
when she wrote one.
Bampfylde-Moore Carew
outlived his wife and died
on 27 August 1759 and
is buried in Bickleigh
churchyard, where may he
rest in peace. Last word on
the subject of our story is
best left, perhaps, to an
equally worldly-wise author,
Henry Fielding, the man
who met the ʻKing of the
Gypsies’. and also wrote
so vividly of fate and fortune and
morals in Georgian England.
“A rich man without charity is a
rogue: and perhaps it would be
no difficult matter to prove that
he is also a fool.”
JOHN FISHER
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