at Cirencester, Richard Savage, Lord Colchester, son and heir of the
Earl Rivers, and father, by a lawless amour, of that unhappy poet whose
misdeeds and misfortunes form one of the darkest portions of literary
history, came with between sixty and seventy horse to Exeter. With him
arrived the bold and turbulent Thomas Wharton. A few hours later came
Edward Russell, son of the Earl of Bedford, and brother of the virtuous
nobleman whose blood had been shed on the scaffold. Another arrival
still more important was speedily announced. Colchester, Wharton, and
Russell belonged to that party which had been constantly opposed to
the court. James Bertie, Earl of Abingdon, had, on the contrary, been
regarded as a supporter of arbitrary government. He had been true to
James in the days of the Exclusion Bill. He had, as Lord Lieutenant of
Oxfordshire, acted with vigour and severity against the adherents of
Monmouth, and had lighted bonfires to celebrate the defeat of Argyle.
But dread of Popery had driven him into opposition and rebellion. He was
the first peer of the realm who made his appearance at the quarters of
the Prince of Orange. [520]
But the King had less to fear from those who openly arrayed themselves
against his authority, than from the dark conspiracy which had spread
its ramifications through his army and his family. Of that conspiracy
Churchill, unrivalled in sagacity and address, endowed by nature with
a certain cool intrepidity which never failed him either in fighting
or lying, high in military rank, and high in the favour of the Princess
Anne, must be regarded as the soul. It was not yet time for him to
strike the decisive blow. But even thus early he inflicted, by the
instrumentality of a subordinate agent, a wound, serious if not deadly,
on the royal cause.
Edward, Viscount Cornbury, eldest son of the Earl of Clarendon, was a
young man of slender abilities, loose principles, and violent temper. He
had been early taught to consider his relationship to the Princess Anne
as the groundwork of his fortunes, and had been exhorted to pay her
assiduous court. It had never occurred to his father that the hereditary
loyalty of the Hydes could run any risk of contamination in the
household of the King's favourite daughter: but in that household
the Churchills held absolute sway; and Cornbury became their tool. He
commanded one of the regiments of dragoons which had been sent westward.
Such dispositions had been made that, on the fourteenth of November, he
was, during a few hours, the senior officer at Salisbury, and all
the troops assembled there were subject to his authority. It seems
extraordinary that, at such a crisis, the army on which every thing
depended should have been left, even for a moment, under the command of
a young Colonel who had neither abilities nor experience. There can
be little doubt that so strange an arrangement was the result of deep
design, and as little doubt to what head and to what heart the design is
to be imputed.
Suddenly three of the regiments of cavalry which had assembled at
Salisbury were ordered to march westward. Cornbury put himself at their
head, and conducted them first to Blandford and thence to Dorchester.
From Dorchester, after a halt of an hour or two, they set out for
Axminster. Some of the officers began to be uneasy, and demanded an
explanation of these strange movements. Cornbury replied that he had
instructions to make a night attack on some troops which the Prince
of Orange had posted at Honiton. But suspicion was awake. Searching
questions were put, and were evasively answered. At last Cornbury was
pressed to produce his orders. He perceived, not only that it would
be impossible for him to carry over all the three regiments, as he had
hoped, but that he was himself in a situation of considerable peril. He
accordingly stole away with a few followers to the Dutch quarters. Most
of his troops returned to Salisbury but some who had been detached
from the main body, and who had no suspicion of the designs of their
commander, proceeded to Honiton. There they found themselves in the
midst of a large force which was fully prepared to receive them.
Resistance was impossible. Their leader pressed them to take service
under William. A gratuity of a month's pay was offered to them, and was
by most of them accepted. [521]
The news of these events reached London on the fifteenth. James had been
on the morning of that day in high good humour. Bishop Lamplugh had just
presented himself at court on his arrival from Exeter, and had been most
graciously received. "My Lord," said the King, "you are a genuine old
Cavalier." The archbishopric of York, which had now been vacant more
than two years and a half, was immediately bestowed on Lamplugh as the
reward of loyalty. That afternoon, just as the King was sitting down
to dinner, arrived an express with the tidings of Cornbury's defection.
James turned away from his untasted meal, swallowed a crust of bread and
a glass of wine, and retired to his closet. He afterwards learned that,
as he was rising from table, several of the Lords in whom he reposed the
greatest confidence were shaking hands and congratulating each other
in the adjoining gallery. When the news was carried to the Queen's
apartments she and her ladies broke out into tears and loud cries of
sorrow. [522]
The blow was indeed a heavy one. It was true that the direct loss to the
crown and the direct gain to the invaders hardly amounted to two hundred
men and as many horses. But where could the King henceforth expect to
find those sentiments in which consists the strength of states and of
armies? Cornbury was the heir of a house conspicuous for its attachment
to monarchy. His father Clarendon, his uncle Rochester, were men whose
loyalty was supposed to be proof to all temptation. What must be the
strength of that feeling against which the most deeply rooted hereditary
prejudices were of no avail, of that feeling which could reconcile a
young officer of high birth to desertion, aggravated by breach of trust
and by gross falsehood? That Cornbury was not a man of brilliant parts
or enterprising temper made the event more alarming. It was impossible
to doubt that he had in some quarter a powerful and artful prompter.
Who that prompter was soon became evident. In the meantime no man in the
royal camp could feel assured that he was not surrounded by traitors.
Political rank, military rank, the honour of a nobleman, the honour of a
soldier, the strongest professions, the purest Cavalier blood, could no
longer afford security. Every man might reasonably doubt whether every
order which he received from his superior was not meant to serve the
purposes of the enemy. That prompt obedience without which an army is
merely a rabble was necessarily at an end. What discipline could there
be among soldiers who had just been saved from a snare by refusing to
follow their commanding officer on a secret expedition, and by insisting
on a sight of his orders?
Cornbury was soon kept in countenance by a crowd of deserters superior
to him in rank and capacity: but during a few days he stood alone in
his shame, and was bitterly reviled by many who afterwards imitated his
example and envied his dishonourable precedence. Among these was his
own father. The first outbreak of Clarendon's rage and sorrow was highly
pathetic. "Oh God!" he ejaculated, "that a son of mine should be a
rebel!" A fortnight later he made up his mind to be a rebel himself. Yet
it would be unjust to pronounce him a mere hypocrite. In revolutions men
live fast: the experience of years is crowded into hours: old habits of
thought and action are violently broken; novelties, which at first sight
inspire dread and disgust, become in a few days familiar, endurable,
attractive. Many men of far purer virtue and higher spirit than
Clarendon were prepared, before that memorable year ended, to do what
they would have pronounced wicked and infamous when it began.
The unhappy father composed himself as well as he could, and sent to ask
a private audience of the King. It was granted. James said, with more
than his usual graciousness, that he from his heart pitied Cornbury's
relations, and should not hold them at all accountable for the crime of
their unworthy kinsman. Clarendon went home, scarcely daring to look his
friends in the face. Soon, however, he learned with surprise that the
act, which had, as he at first thought, for ever dishonoured his family,
was applauded by some persons of high station. His niece, the Princess
of Denmark, asked him why he shut himself up. He answered that he had
been overwhelmed with confusion by his son's villany. Anne seemed not
at all to understand this feeling. "People," she said, "are very uneasy
about Popery. I believe that many of the army will do the same." [523]
And now the King, greatly disturbed, called together the principal
officers who were still in London. Churchill, who was about this time
promoted to the rank of Lieutenant General, made his appearance with
that bland serenity which neither peril nor infamy could ever disturb.
The meeting was attended by Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Grafton, whose
audacity and activity made him conspicuous among the natural children
of Charles the Second. Grafton was colonel of the first regiment of Foot
Guards. He seems to have been at this time completely under Churchill's
influence, and was prepared to desert the royal standard as soon as the
favourable moment should arrive. Two other traitors were in the circle,
Kirke and Trelawney, who commanded those two fierce and lawless bands
then known as the Tangier regiments. Both of them had, like the other
Protestant officers of the army, long seen with extreme displeasure the
partiality which the King had shown to members of his own Church; and
Trelawney remembered with bitter resentment the persecution of his
brother the Bishop of Bristol. James addressed the assembly in terms
worthy of a better man and of a better cause. It might be, he said, that
some of the officers had conscientious scruples about fighting for him.
If so he was willing to receive back their commissions. But he adjured
them as gentlemen and soldiers not to imitate the shameful example of
Cornbury. All seemed moved; and none more than Churchill. He was the
first to vow with well feigned enthusiasm that he would shed the last
drop of his blood in the service of his gracious master: Grafton was
loud and forward in similar protestations; and the example was followed
by Kirke and Trelawney. [524]
Deceived by these professions, the King prepared to set out for
Salisbury. Before his departure he was informed that a considerable
number of peers, temporal and spiritual, desired to be admitted to an
audience. They came, with Sancroft at their head, to present a petition,
praying that a free and legal Parliament might be called, and that a
negotiation might be opened with the Prince of Orange.
The history of this petition is curious. The thought seems to have
occurred at once to two great chiefs of parties who had long been rivals
and enemies, Rochester and Halifax. They both, independently of one
another, consulted the Bishops. The Bishops warmly approved of the
suggestion. It was then proposed that a general meeting of peers should
be called to deliberate on the form of an address to the King. It was
term time; and in term time men of rank and fashion then lounged every
day in Westminster Hall as they now lounge in the clubs of Pall Mall
and Saint James's Street. Nothing could be easier than for the Lords
who assembled there to step aside into some adjoining room and to hold
a consultation. But unexpected difficulties arose. Halifax became first
cold and then adverse. It was his nature to discover objections to
everything; and on this occasion his sagacity was quickened by rivalry.
The scheme, which he had approved while he regarded it as his own, began
to displease him as soon as he found that it was also the scheme of
Rochester, by whom he had been long thwarted and at length supplanted,
and whom he disliked as much as it was in his easy nature to dislike
anybody. Nottingham was at that time much under the influence of
Halifax. They both declared that they would not join in the address
if Rochester signed it. Clarendon expostulated in vain. "I mean no
disrespect," said Halifax, "to my Lord Rochester: but he has been a
member of the Ecclesiastical Commission: the proceedings of that court
must soon be the subject of a very serious inquiry; and it is not fit
that one who has sate there should take any part in our petition."
Nottingham, with strong expressions of personal esteem for Rochester,
avowed the same opinion. The authority of the two dissentient Lords
prevented several other noblemen from subscribing the address but the
Hydes and the Bishops persisted. Nineteen signatures were procured; and
the petitioners waited in a body on the King. [525]
He received their address ungraciously. He assured them, indeed, that he
passionately desired the meeting of a free Parliament; and he promised
them, on the faith of a King, that he would call one as soon as the
Prince of Orange should have left the island. "But how," said he, "can a
Parliament be free when an enemy is in the kingdom, and can return near
a hundred votes?" To the prelates he spoke with peculiar acrimony. "I
could not," he said, "prevail on you the other day to declare against
this invasion: but you are ready enough to declare against me. Then you
would not meddle with politics. You have no scruple about meddling now.
You have excited this rebellious temper among your flocks, and now you
foment it. You would be better employed in teaching them how to obey
than in teaching me how to govern." He was much incensed against his
nephew Grafton, whose signature stood next to that of Sancroft, and said
to the young man, with great asperity, "You know nothing about religion;
you care nothing about it; and yet, forsooth, you must pretend to have
a conscience." "It is true, sir," answered Grafton, with impudent
frankness, "that I have very little conscience: but I belong to a party
which has a great deal." [526]
Bitter as was the King's language to the petitioners, it was far less
bitter that that which he held after they had withdrawn. He had done,
he said, far too much already in the hope of satisfying an undutiful and
ungrateful people. He had always hated the thought of concession: but
he had suffered himself to be talked over; and now he, like his
father before him, had found that concession only made subjects more
encroaching. He would yield nothing more, not an atom, and, after his
fashion, he vehemently repeated many times, "Not an atom." Not only
would he make no overtures to the invaders, but he would receive
none. If the Dutch sent flags of truce, the first messenger should be
dismissed without an answer; the second should be hanged. [527] In such
a mood James set out for Salisbury. His last act before his departure
was to appoint a Council of five Lords to represent him in London during
his absence. Of the five, two were Papists, and by law incapable of
office. Joined with them was Jeffreys, a Protestant indeed, but more
detested by the nation than any Papist. To the other two members of this
board, Preston and Godolphin, no serious objection could be made. On
the day on which the King left London the Prince of Wales was sent to
Portsmouth. That fortress was strongly garrisoned, and was under the
government of Berwick. The fleet commanded by Dartmouth lay close at
hand: and it was supposed that, if things went ill, the royal infant
would, without difficulty, be conveyed from Portsmouth to France. [528]
On the nineteenth James reached Salisbury, and took up his quarters in
the episcopal palace. Evil news was now fast pouring in upon him from
all sides. The western counties had at length risen. As soon as the news
of Cornbury's desertion was known, many wealthy landowners took
heart and hastened to Exeter. Among them was Sir William Portman of
Bryanstone, one of the greatest men in Dorsetshire, and Sir Francis
Warre of Hestercombe, whose interest was great in Somersetshire. [529]
But the most important of the new comets was Seymour, who had recently
inherited a baronetcy which added little to his dignity, and who, in
birth, in political influence, and in parliamentary abilities, was
beyond comparison the foremost among the Tory gentlemen of England. At
his first audience he is said to have exhibited his characteristic pride
in a way which surprised and amused the Prince. "I think, Sir Edward,"
said William, meaning to be very civil, "that you are of the family
of the Duke of Somerset." "Pardon me, sir," said Sir Edward, who never
forgot that he was the head of the elder branch of the Seymours, "the
Duke of Somerset is of my family." [530]
The quarters of William now began to present the appearance of a court.
More than sixty men of rank and fortune were lodged at Exeter; and the
daily display of rich liveries, and of coaches drawn by six horses,
in the Cathedral Close, gave to that quiet precinct something of the
splendour and gaiety of Whitehall. The common people were eager to take
arms; and it would have been easy to form many battalions of infantry.
But Schomberg, who thought little of soldiers fresh from the plough,
maintained that, if the expedition could not succeed without such help,
it would not succeed at all: and William, who had as much professional
feeling as Schomberg, concurred in this opinion. Commissions therefore
for raising new regiments were very sparingly given; and none but picked
recruits were enlisted.
It was now thought desirable that the Prince should give a public
reception to the whole body of noblemen and gentlemen who had assembled
at Exeter. He addressed them in a short but dignified and well
considered speech. He was not, he said, acquainted with the faces of all
whom he saw. But he had a list of their names, and knew how high
they stood in the estimation of their country. He gently chid their
tardiness, but expressed a confident hope that it was not yet too late
to save the kingdom. "Therefore," he said, "gentlemen, friends, and
fellow Protestants, we bid you and all your followers most heartily
welcome to our court and camp." [531]
Seymour, a keen politician, long accustomed to the tactics of faction,
saw in a moment that the party which had begun to rally round the Prince
stood in need of organization. It was as yet, he said, a mere rope of
sand: no common object had been publicly and formally avowed: nobody was
pledged to anything. As soon as the assembly at the Deanery broke up, he
sent for Burnet, and suggested that an association should be formed, and
that all the English adherents of the Prince should put their hands to
an instrument binding them to be true to their leader and to each other.
Burnet carried the suggestion to the Prince and to Shrewsbury, by both
of whom it was approved. A meeting was held in the Cathedral. A short
paper drawn up by Burnet was produced, approved, and eagerly signed. The
subscribers engaged to pursue in concert the objects set forth in the
Prince's declaration; to stand by him and by each other; to take signal
vengeance on all who should make any attempt on his person; and, even
if such an attempt should unhappily succeed, to persist in their
undertaking till the liberties and the religion of the nation should be
effectually secured. [532]
About the same time a messenger arrived at Exeter from the Earl of Bath,
who commanded at Plymouth. Bath declared that he placed himself, his
troops, and the fortress which he governed at the Prince's disposal. The
invaders therefore had now not a single enemy in their rear. [533]
While the West was thus rising to confront the King, the North was all
in a flame behind him. On the sixteenth Delamere took arms in Cheshire.
He convoked his tenants, called upon them to stand by him, promised
that, if they fell in the cause, their leases should be renewed to their
children, and exhorted every one who had a good horse either to take the
field or to provide a substitute. [534] He appeared at Manchester with
fifty men armed and mounted, and his force had trebled before he reached
Boaden Downs.
The neighbouring counties were violently agitated. It had been arranged
that Danby should seize York, and that Devonshire should appear at
Nottingham. At Nottingham no resistance was anticipated. But at York
there was a small garrison under the command of Sir John Reresby. Danby
acted with rare dexterity. A meeting of the gentry and freeholders of
Yorkshire had been summoned for the twenty-second of November to address
the King on the state of affairs. All the Deputy Lieutenants of the
three Ridings, several noblemen, and a multitude of opulent esquires and
substantial yeomen had been attracted to the provincial capital. Four
troops of militia had been drawn out under arms to preserve the public
peace. The Common Hall was crowded with freeholders, and the discussion
had begun, when a cry was suddenly raised that the Papists were up, and
were slaying the Protestants. The Papists of York were much more likely
to be employed in seeking for hiding places than in attacking enemies
who outnumbered them in the proportion of a hundred to one. But at that
time no story of Popish atrocity could be so wild and marvellous as not
to find ready belief. The meeting separated in dismay. The whole city
was in confusion. At this moment Danby at the head of about a hundred
horsemen rode up to the militia, and raised the cry "No Popery! A free
Parliament! The Protestant religion!" The militia echoed the shout. The
garrison was instantly surprised and disarmed. The governor was placed
under arrest. The gates were closed. Sentinels were posted everywhere.
The populace was suffered to pull down a Roman Catholic chapel; but
no other harm appears to have been done. On the following morning the
Guildhall was crowded with the first gentlemen of the shire, and with
the principal magistrates of the city. The Lord Mayor was placed in the
chair. Danby proposed a Declaration setting forth the reasons which had
induced the friends of the constitution and of the Protestant religion
to rise in arms. This Declaration was eagerly adopted, and received in a
few hours the signatures of six peers, of five baronets, of six knights,
and of many gentlemen of high consideration. [535]
Devonshire meantime, at the head of a great body of friends and
dependents, quitted the palace which he was rearing at Chatsworth, and
appeared in arms at Derby. There he formally delivered to the municipal
authorities a paper setting forth the reasons which had moved him to
this enterprise. He then proceeded to Nottingham, which soon became the
head quarters of the Northern insurrection. Here a proclamation was put
forth couched in bold and severe terms. The name of rebellion, it was
said, was a bugbear which could frighten no reasonable man. Was it
rebellion to defend those laws and that religion which every King of
England bound himself by oath to maintain? How that oath had lately been
observed was a question on which, it was to be hoped, a free Parliament
would soon pronounce. In the meantime, the insurgents declared that they
held it to be not rebellion, but legitimate self defence, to resist
a tyrant who knew no law but his own will. The Northern rising became
every day more formidable. Four powerful and wealthy Earls, Manchester,
Stamford, Rutland, and Chesterfield, repaired to Nottingham, and were
joined there by Lord Cholmondley and by Lord Grey de Ruthyn. [536]
All this time the hostile armies in the south were approaching each
other. The Prince of Orange, when he learned that the King had arrived
at Salisbury, thought it time to leave Exeter. He placed that city and
the surrounding country under the government of Sir Edward Seymour, and
set out on Wednesday the twenty-first of November, escorted by many of
the most considerable gentlemen of the western counties, for Axminster,
where he remained several days.
The King was eager to fight; and it was obviously his interest to do
so. Every hour took away something from his own strength, and added
something to the strength of his enemies. It was most important, too,
that his troops should be blooded. A great battle, however it might
terminate, could not but injure the Prince's popularity. All this
William perfectly understood, and determined to avoid an action as long
as possible. It is said that, when Schomberg was told that the enemy
were advancing and were determined to fight, he answered, with the
composure of a tactician confident in his skill, "That will be just as
we may choose." It was, however, impossible to prevent all skirmishing
between the advanced guards of the armies. William was desirous that
in such skirmishing nothing might happen which could wound the pride or
rouse the vindictive feelings of the nation which he meant to deliver.
He therefore, with admirable prudence, placed his British regiments in
the situations where there was most risk of collision. The outposts
of the royal army were Irish. The consequence was that, in the little
combats of this short campaign, the invaders had on their side the
hearty sympathy of all Englishmen.
The first of these encounters took place at Wincanton. Mackay's
regiment, composed of British soldiers, lay near a body of the King's
Irish troops, commanded by their countryman, the gallant Sarsfield.
Mackay sent out a small party under a lieutenant named Campbell,
to procure horses for the baggage. Campbell found what he wanted at
Wincanton, and was just leaving that town on his return, when a strong
detachment of Sarsfield's troops approached. The Irish were four to one:
but Campbell resolved to fight it out to the last. With a handful of
resolute men he took his stand in the road. The rest of his soldiers
lined the hedges which overhung the highway on the right and on the
left. The enemy came up. "Stand," cried Campbell: "for whom are you?" "I
am for King James," answered the leader of the other party. "And I for
the Prince of Orange," cried Campbell. "We will prince you," answered
the Irishman with a curse. "Fire!" exclaimed Campbell; and a sharp fire
was instantly poured in from both the hedges. The King's troops received
three well aimed volleys before they could make any return. At length
they succeeded in carrying one of the hedges; and would have overpowered
the little band which was opposed to them, had not the country people,
who mortally hated the Irish, given a false alarm that more of the
Prince's troops were coming up. Sarsfield recalled his men and fell
back; and Campbell proceeded on his march unmolested with the baggage
horses.
This affair, creditable undoubtedly to the valour and discipline of the
Prince's army was magnified by report into a victory won against great
odds by British Protestants over Popish barbarians who had been brought
from Connaught to oppress our island. [537]
A few hours after this skirmish an event took place which put an end to
all risk of a more serious struggle between the armies. Churchill and
some of his principal accomplices were assembled at Salisbury. Two of
the conspirators, Kirke and Trelawney, had proceeded to Warminster,
where their regiments were posted. All was ripe for the execution of the
long meditated treason.
Churchill advised the King to visit Warminster, and to inspect the
troops stationed there. James assented; and his coach was at the door
of the episcopal palace when his nose began to bleed violently. He
was forced to postpone his expedition and to put himself under medical
treatment. Three days elapsed before the hemorrhage was entirely
subdued; and during those three days alarming rumours reached his ears.
It was impossible that a conspiracy so widely spread as that of which
Churchill was the head could be kept altogether secret. There was no
evidence which could be laid before a jury or a court martial: but
strange whispers wandered about the camp. Feversham, who held the chief
command, reported that there was a bad spirit in the army. It was hinted
to the King that some who were near his person were not his friends, and
that it would be a wise precaution to send Churchill and Grafton under
a guard to Portsmouth. James rejected this counsel. A propensity to
suspicion was not among his vices. Indeed the confidence which he
reposed in professions of fidelity and attachment was such as might
rather have been expected from a goodhearted and inexperienced stripling
than from a politician who was far advanced in life, who had seen much
of the world, who had suffered much from villanous arts, and whose own
character was by no means a favourable specimen of human nature. It
would be difficult to mention any other man who, having himself so
little scruple about breaking faith, was so slow to believe that his
neighbours could break faith with him. Nevertheless the reports which he
had received of the state of his army disturbed him greatly. He was now
no longer impatient for a battle. He even began to think of retreating.
On the evening of Saturday, the twenty-fourth of November, he called a
council of war. The meeting was attended by those officers against whom
he had been most earnestly cautioned. Feversham expressed an opinion
that it was desirable to fall back. Churchill argued on the other side.
The consultation lasted till midnight. At length the King declared that
he had decided for a retreat. Churchill saw or imagined that he was
distrusted, and, though gifted with a rare self command, could not
conceal his uneasiness. Before the day broke he fled to the Prince's
quarters, accompanied by Grafton. [538]
Churchill left behind him a letter of explanation. It was written with
that decorum which he never failed to preserve in the midst of guilt and
dishonour. He acknowledged that he owed everything to the royal favour.
Interest, he said, and gratitude impelled him in the same direction.
Under no other government could he hope to be so great and prosperous as
he had been: but all such considerations must yield to a paramount duty.
He was a Protestant; and he could not conscientiously draw his sword
against the Protestant cause. As to the rest he would ever be ready
to hazard life and fortune in defence of the sacred person and of the
lawful rights of his gracious master. [539]
Next morning all was confusion in the royal camp. The King's friends
were in dismay. His enemies could not conceal their exultation. The
consternation of James was increased by news which arrived on the same
day from Warminster. Kirke, who commanded at that post, had refused to
obey orders which he had received from Salisbury. There could no longer
be any doubt that he too was in league with the Prince of Orange. It
was rumoured that he had actually gone over with all his troops to
the enemy: and the rumour, though false, was, during some hours, fully
believed. [540] A new light flashed on the mind of the unhappy King. He
thought that he understood why he had been pressed, a few days before,
to visit Warminster. There he would have found himself helpless, at the
mercy of the conspirators, and in the vicinity of the hostile outposts.
Those who might have attempted to defend him would have been easily
overpowered. He would have been carried a prisoner to the head quarters
of the invading army. Perhaps some still blacker treason might have
been committed; for men who have once engaged in a wicked and perilous
enterprise are no longer their own masters, and are often impelled, by a
fatality which is part of their just punishment, to crimes such as they
would at first have shuddered to contemplate. Surely it was not without
the special intervention of some guardian Saint that a King devoted
to the Catholic Church had, at the very moment when he was blindly
hastening to captivity, perhaps to death, been suddenly arrested by what
he had then thought a disastrous malady.
All these things confirmed James in the resolution which he had taken
on the preceding evening. Orders were given for an immediate retreat.
Salisbury was in an uproar. The camp broke up with the confusion of a
flight. No man knew whom to trust or whom to obey. The material strength
of the army was little diminished: but its moral strength had been
destroyed. Many whom shame would have restrained from leading the way to
the Prince's quarters were eager to imitate an example which they never
would have set; and many, who would have stood by their King while
he appeared to be resolutely advancing against the invaders, felt no
inclination to follow a receding standard. [541]
James went that day as far as Andover. He was attended by his son in
law Prince George, and by the Duke of Ormond. Both were among the
conspirators, and would probably have accompanied Churchill, had he
not, in consequence of what had passed at the council of war, thought it
expedient to take his departure suddenly. The impenetrable stupidity of
Prince George served his turn on this occasion better than cunning would
have done. It was his habit, when any news was told him, to exclaim in
French, "possible?" "Is it possible?" This catchword was now of great
use to him. "Est-il-possible?" he cried, when he had been made to
understand that Churchill and Grafton were missing. And when the ill
tidings came from Warminster, he again ejaculated, "Est-il-possible?"
Prince George and Ormond were invited to sup with the King at
Andover. The meal must have been a sad one. The King was overwhelmed by
his misfortunes. His son in law was the dullest of companions. "I have
tried Prince George sober," said Charles the Second; "and I have tried
him drunk; and, drunk or sober, there is nothing in him." [542] Ormond,
who was through life taciturn and bashful, was not likely to be in high
spirits at such a moment. At length the repast terminated. The King
retired to rest. Horses were in waiting for the Prince and Ormond,
who, as soon as they left the table, mounted and rode off. They were
accompanied by the Earl of Drumlanrig, eldest son of the Duke of
Queensberry. The defection of this young nobleman was no insignificant
event. For Queensberry was the head of the Protestant Episcopalians of
Scotland, a class compared with whom the bitterest English Tories might
be called Whiggish; and Drumlanrig himself was Lieutenant Colonel of
Dundee's regiment, a band more detested by the Whigs than even Kirke's
lambs. This fresh calamity was announced to the King on the following
morning. He was less disturbed by the news than might have been
expected. The shock which he had undergone twenty-four hours before
had prepared him for almost any disaster; and it was impossible to be
seriously angry with Prince George, who was hardly an accountable being,
for having yielded to the arts of such a tempter as Churchill. "What!"
said James, "is Est-il-possible gone too? After all, a good trooper
would have been a greater loss." [543] In truth the King's whole anger
seems, at this time, to have been concentrated, and not without cause,
on one object. He set off for London, breathing vengeance against
Churchill, and learned, on arriving, a new crime of the arch deceiver.
The Princess Anne had been some hours missing.
Anne, who had no will but that of the Churchills, had been induced
by them to notify under her own hand to William, a week before, her
approbation of his enterprise. She assured him that she was entirely in
the hands of her friends, and that she would remain in the palace, or
take refuge in the City, as they might determine. [544] On Sunday the
twenty-fifth of November, she, and those who thought for her, were under
the necessity of coming to a sudden resolution. That afternoon a courier
from Salisbury brought tidings that Churchill had disappeared, that he
had been accompanied by Grafton, that Kirke had proved false, and that
the royal forces were in full retreat. There was, as usually happened
when great news, good or bad, arrived in town, an immense crowd that
evening in the galleries of Whitehall. Curiosity and anxiety sate
on every face. The Queen broke forth into natural expressions of
indignation against the chief traitor, and did not altogether spare his
too partial mistress. The sentinels were doubled round that part of the
palace which Anne occupied. The Princess was in dismay. In a few hours
her father would be at Westminster. It was not likely that he would
treat her personally with severity; but that he would permit her any
longer to enjoy the society of her friend was not to be hoped. It could
hardly be doubted that Sarah would be placed under arrest and would be
subjected to a strict examination by shrewd and rigorous inquisitors.
Her papers would be seized. Perhaps evidence affecting her life might be
discovered. If so the worst might well be dreaded. The vengeance of the
implacable King knew no distinction of sex. For offences much smaller
than those which might probably be brought home to Lady Churchill he had
sent women to the scaffold and the stake. Strong affection braced the
feeble mind of the Princess. There was no tie which she would not
break, no risk which she would not run, for the object of her idolatrous
affection. "I will jump out of the window," she cried, "rather than be
found here by my father." The favourite undertook to manage an escape.
She communicated in all haste with some of the chiefs of the conspiracy.
In a few hours every thing was arranged. That evening Anne retired to
her chamber as usual. At dead of night she rose, and, accompanied by her
friend Sarah and two other female attendants, stole down the back stairs
in a dressing gown and slippers. The fugitives gained the open street
unchallenged. A hackney coach was in waiting for them there. Two men
guarded the humble vehicle. One of them was Compton, Bishop of London,
the Princess's old tutor: the other was the magnificent and accomplished
Dorset, whom the extremity of the public danger had roused from his
luxurious repose. The coach drove instantly to Aldersgate Street, where
the town residence of the Bishops of London then stood, within the
shadow of their Cathedral. There the Princess passed the night. On the
following morning she set out for Epping Forest. In that wild tract
Dorset possessed a venerable mansion, which has long since been
destroyed. In his hospitable dwelling, the favourite resort, during,
many years, of wits and poets, the fugitives made a short stay. They
could not safely attempt to reach William's quarters; for the road
thither lay through a country occupied by the royal forces. It was
therefore determined that Anne should take refuge with the northern
insurgents. Compton wholly laid aside, for the time, his sacerdotal
character. Danger and conflict had rekindled in him all the military
ardour which he had felt twenty-eight years before, when he rode in
the Life Guards. He preceded the Princess's carriage in a buff coat and
jackboots, with a sword at his side and pistols in his holsters. Long
before she reached Nottingham, she was surrounded by a body guard of
gentlemen who volunteered to escort her. They invited the Bishop to act
as their colonel; and he consented with an alacrity which gave great
scandal to rigid Churchmen, and did not much raise his character even in
the opinion of Whigs. [545]
When, on the morning of the twenty-sixth, Anne's apartment was found
empty, the consternation was great in Whitehall. While the Ladies of
her Bedchamber ran up and down the courts of the palace, screaming and
wringing their hands, while Lord Craven, who commanded the Foot Guards,
was questioning the sentinels in the gallery, while the Chancellor was
sealing up the papers of the Churchills, the Princess's nurse broke into
the royal apartments crying out that the dear lady had been murdered by
the Papists. The news flew to Westminster Hall. There the story was that
Her Highness had been hurried away by force to a place of confinement.
When it could no longer be denied that her flight had been voluntary,
numerous fictions were invented to account for it. She had been grossly
insulted; she had been threatened; nay, though she was in that situation
in which woman is entitled to peculiar tenderness, she had been beaten
by her cruel stepmother. The populace, which years of misrule had made
suspicious and irritable, was so much excited by these calumnies that
the Queen was scarcely safe. Many Roman Catholics, and some Protestant
Tories whose loyalty was proof to all trials, repaired to the palace
that they might be in readiness to defend her in the event of an
outbreak. In the midst of this distress and tenor arrived the news of
Prince George's flight. The courier who brought these evil tidings was
fast followed by the King himself. The evening was closing in when James
arrived, and was informed that his daughter had disappeared. After all
that he had suffered, this affliction forced a cry of misery from his
lips. "God help me," he said; "my own children have forsaken me." [546]
That evening he sate in Council with his principal ministers, till
a late hour. It was determined that he should summon all the Lords
Spiritual and Temporal who were then in London to attend him on
the following day, and that he should solemnly ask their advice.
Accordingly, on the afternoon of Tuesday the twenty-seventh, the Lords
met in the dining room of the palace. The assembly consisted of nine
prelates and between thirty and forty secular nobles, all Protestants.
The two Secretaries of State, Middleton and Preston, though not peers
of England, were in attendance. The King himself presided. The traces of
severe bodily and mental suffering were discernible in his countenance
and deportment. He opened the proceedings by referring to the petition
which had been put into his hands just before he set out for Salisbury.
The prayer of that petition was that he would convoke a free Parliament.
Situated as he then was, he had not, he said, thought it right to
comply. But, during his absence from London, great changes had taken
place. He had also observed that his people everywhere seemed anxious
that the Houses should meet. He had therefore commanded the attendance
of his faithful Peers, in order to ask their counsel.
For a time there was silence. Then Oxford, whose pedigree, unrivalled in
antiquity and splendour, gave him a kind of primacy in the meeting, said
that in his opinion those Lords who had signed the petition to which His
Majesty had referred ought now to explain their views.
These words called up Rochester. He defended the petition, and declared
that he still saw no hope for the throne or the country but in a
Parliament. He would not, he said, venture to affirm that, in so
disastrous an extremity, even that remedy would be efficacious: but he
had no other remedy to propose. He added that it might be advisable to
open a negotiation with the Prince of Orange. Jeffreys and Godolphin
followed; and both declared that they agreed with Rochester.
Then Clarendon rose, and, to the astonishment of all who remembered
his loud professions of loyalty, and the agony of shame and sorrow into
which he had been thrown, only a few days before, by the news of his
son's defection, broke forth into a vehement invective against tyranny
and Popery. "Even now," he said, "His Majesty is raising in London a
regiment into which no Protestant is admitted." "That is not true,"
cried James, in great agitation, from the head of the board. Clarendon
persisted, and left this offensive topic only to pass to a topic still
more offensive. He accused the unfortunate King of pusillanimity. Why
retreat from Salisbury? Why not try the event of a battle? Could people
be blamed for submitting to the invader when they saw their sovereign
run away at the head of his army? James felt these insults keenly,
and remembered them long. Indeed even Whigs thought the language of
Clarendon indecent and ungenerous. Halifax spoke in a very different
tone. During several years of peril he had defended with admirable
ability the civil and ecclesiastical constitution of his country against
the prerogative. But his serene intellect, singularly unsusceptible of
enthusiasm, and singularly averse to extremes, began to lean towards the
cause of royalty at the very moment at which those noisy Royalists who
had lately execrated the Trimmers as little bettor than rebels were
everywhere rising in rebellion. It was his ambition to be, at this
conjuncture, the peacemaker between the throne and the nation. His
talents and character fitted him for that office; and, if he failed, the
failure is to be ascribed to causes against which no human skill could
contend, and chiefly to the folly, faithlessness, and obstinacy of the
Prince whom he tried to save.
Halifax now gave utterance to much unpalatable truth, but with a
delicacy which brought on him the reproach of flattery from spirits
too abject to understand that what would justly be called flattery when
offered to the powerful is a debt of humanity to the fallen. With many
expressions of sympathy and deference, he declared it to be his opinion
that the King must make up his mind to great sacrifices. It was not
enough to convoke a Parliament or to open a negotiation with the
Prince of Orange. Some at least of the grievances of which the nation
complained should be instantly redressed without waiting till redress
was demanded by the Houses or by the captain of the hostile army.
Nottingham, in language equally respectful, declared that he agreed with
Halifax. The chief concessions which these Lords pressed the King to
make were three. He ought, they said, forthwith to dismiss all Roman
Catholics from office, to separate himself wholly from France, and to
grant an unlimited amnesty to those who were in arms against him. The
last of these propositions, it should seem, admitted of no dispute. For,
though some of those who were banded together against the King had acted
towards him in a manner which might not unreasonably excite his bitter
resentment, it was more likely that he would soon be at their mercy than
that they would ever be at his. It would have been childish to open a
negotiation with William, and yet to denounce vengeance against men whom
William could not without infamy abandon. But the clouded understanding
and implacable temper of James held out long against the arguments
of those who laboured to convince him that it would be wise to pardon
offences which he could not punish. "I cannot do it," he exclaimed.
"I must make examples, Churchill above all; Churchill whom I raised so
high. He and he alone has done all this. He has corrupted my army.
He has corrupted my child. He would have put me into the hands of the
Prince of Orange, but for God's special providence. My Lords, you are
strangely anxious for the safety of traitors. None of you troubles
himself about my safety." In answer to this burst of impotent anger,
those who had recommended the amnesty represented with profound respect,
but with firmness, that a prince attacked by powerful enemies can be
safe only by conquering or by conciliating. "If your Majesty, after all
that has happened, has still any hope of safety in arms, we have done:
but if not, you can be safe only by regaining the affections of your
people." After long and animated debate the King broke up the meeting.
"My Lords," he said, "you have used great freedom: but I do not take
it ill of you. I have made up my mind on one point. I shall call a
Parliament. The other suggestions which have been offered are of grave
importance; and you will not be surprised that I take a night to reflect
on them before I decide." [547]
At first James seemed disposed to make excellent use of the time which
he had taken for consideration. The Chancellor was directed to issue
writs convoking a Parliament for the thirteenth of January. Halifax was
sent for to the closet, had a long audience, and spoke with much more
freedom than he had thought it decorous to use in the presence of
a large assembly. He was informed that he had been appointed a
Commissioner to treat with the Prince of Orange. With him were joined
Nottingham and Godolphin. The King declared that he was prepared to
make great sacrifices for the sake of peace. Halifax answered that great
sacrifices would doubtless be required. "Your Majesty," he said, "must
not expect that those who have the power in their hands will consent to
any terms which would leave the laws at the mercy of the prerogative."
With this distinct explanation of his views, he accepted the Commission
which the King wished him to undertake. [548] The concessions which a
few hours before had been so obstinately refused were now made in the
most liberal manner. A proclamation was put forth by which the King not
only granted a free pardon to all who were in rebellion against him, but
declared them eligible to be members of the approaching Parliament. It
was not even required as a condition of eligibility that they should lay
down their arms. The same Gazette which announced that the Houses were
about to meet contained a notification that Sir Edward Hales, who, as a
Papist, as a renegade, as the foremost champion of the dispensing power,
and as the harsh gaoler of the Bishops, was one of the most unpopular
men in the realm, had ceased to be Lieutenant of the Tower, and had been
succeeded by his late prisoner, Bevil Skelton, who, though he held
no high place in the esteem of his countrymen, was at least not
disqualified by law for public trust. [549]
But these concessions were meant only to blind the Lords and the nation
to the King's real designs. He had secretly determined that, even in
this extremity, he would yield nothing. On the very day on which he
issued the proclamation of amnesty, he fully explained his intentions to
Barillon. "This negotiation," said James, "is a mere feint. I must send
commissioners to my nephew, that I may gain time to ship off my wife
and the Prince of Wales. You know the temper of my troops. None but the
Irish will stand by me; and the Irish are not in sufficient force to
resist the enemy. A Parliament would impose on me conditions which I
could not endure. I should be forced to undo all that I have done for
the Catholics, and to break with the King of France. As soon, therefore,
as the Queen and my child are safe, I will leave England, and tale
refuge in Ireland, in Scotland, or with your master." [550]
Already James had made preparations for carrying this scheme into
effect. Dover had been sent to Portsmouth with instructions to take
charge of the Prince of Wales; and Dartmouth, who commanded the fleet
there, had been ordered to obey Dover's directions in all things
concerning the royal infant, and to have a yacht manned by trusty
sailors in readiness to sail for France at a moment's notice. [551]
The King now sent positive orders that the child should instantly be
conveyed to the nearest continental port. [552] Next to the Prince of
Wales the chief object of anxiety was the Great Seal. To that symbol of
kingly authority our jurists have always ascribed a peculiar and almost
mysterious importance. It is held that, if the Keeper of the Seal should
affix it, without taking the royal pleasure, to a patent of peerage or
to a pardon, though he may be guilty of a high offence, the instrument
cannot be questioned by any court of law, and can be annulled only by
an Act of Parliament. James seems to have been afraid that his enemies
might get this organ of his will into their hands, and might thus give a
legal validity to acts which might affect him injuriously. Nor will
his apprehensions be thought unreasonable when it is remembered that,
exactly a hundred years later, the Great Seal of a King was used, with
the assent of Lords and Commons, and with the approbation of many great
statesmen and lawyers, for the purpose of transferring his prerogatives
to his son. Lest the talisman which possessed such formidable powers
should be abused, James determined that it should be kept within a few
yards of his own closet. Jeffreys was therefore ordered to quit the
costly mansion which he had lately built in Duke Street, and to take up
his residence in a small apartment at Whitehall. [553]
The King had made all his preparations for flight, when an unexpected
impediment compelled him to postpone the execution of his design. His
agents at Portsmouth began to entertain scruples. Even Dover, though a
member of the Jesuitical cabal, showed signs of hesitation. Dartmouth
was still less disposed to comply with the royal wishes. He had hitherto
been faithful to the throne, and had done all that he could do, with a
disaffected fleet, and in the face of an adverse wind, to prevent
the Dutch from landing in England: but he was a zealous member of the
Established Church; and was by no means friendly to the policy of that
government which he thought himself bound in duty and honour to defend.
The mutinous tamper of the officers and men under his command had caused
him much anxiety; and he had been greatly relieved by the news that a
free Parliament had been convoked, and that Commissioners had been named
to treat with the Prince of Orange. The joy was clamorous throughout
the fleet. An address, warmly thanking the King for these gracious
concessions to public feeling, was drawn up on board of the flag ship.
The Admiral signed first. Thirty-eight Captains wrote their names
under his. This paper on its way to Whitehall crossed the messenger
who brought to Portsmouth the order that the Prince of Wales should
instantly be conveyed to France. Dartmouth learned, with bitter grief
and resentment, that the free Parliament, the general amnesty, the
negotiation, were all parts of a great fraud on the nation, and that in
this fraud he was expected to be an accomplice. In a pathetic and manly
letter he declared that he had already carried his obedience to the
farthest point to which a Protestant and an Englishman could go. To put
the heir apparent of the British crown into the hands of Lewis would be
nothing less than treason against the monarchy. The nation, already
too much alienated from the Sovereign, would be roused to madness. The
Prince of Wales would either not return at all, or would return attended
by a French army. If His Royal Highness remained in the island, the
worst that could be apprehended was that he would be brought up a member
of the national Church; and that he might be so brought up ought to be
the prayer of every loyal subject. Dartmouth concluded by declaring that
he would risk his life in defence of the throne, but that he would be no
party to the transporting of the Prince into France. [554]
This letter deranged all the projects of James. He learned too that
he could not on this occasion expect from his Admiral even passive
obedience. For Dartmouth had gone so far as to station several sloops at
the mouth of the harbour of Portsmouth with orders to suffer no vessel
to pass out unexamined. A change of plan was necessary. The child must
be brought back to London, and sent thence to France. An interval of
some days must elapse before this could be done. During that interval
the public mind must be amused by the hope of a Parliament and the
semblance of a negotiation. Writs were sent out for the elections.
Trumpeters went backward and forward between the capital and the Dutch
headquarters. At length passes for the king's Commissioners arrived; and
the three Lords set out on their embassy.
They left the capital in a state of fearful distraction. The passions
which, during three troubled years, had been gradually gathering force,
now, emancipated from the restraint of fear, and stimulated by victory
and sympathy, showed themselves without disguise, even in the precincts
of the royal dwelling. The grand jury of Middlesex found a bill against
the Earl of Salisbury for turning Papist. [555] The Lord Mayor ordered
the houses of the Roman Catholics of the City to be searched for arms.
The mob broke into the house of one respectable merchant who held the
unpopular faith, in order to ascertain whether he had not run a mine
from his cellars under the neighbouring parish church, for the purpose
of blowing up parson and congregation. [556] The hawkers bawled about
the streets a hue and cry after Father Petre, who had withdrawn himself,
and not before it was time, from his apartments in the palace. [557]
Wharton's celebrated song, with many additional verses, was chaunted
more loudly than ever in all the streets of the capital. The very
sentinels who guarded the palace hummed, as they paced their rounds,
"The English confusion to Popery drink,
Lillibullero bullen a la."
The secret presses of London worked without ceasing. Many papers daily
came into circulation by means which the magistracy could not discover,
or would not check. One of these has been preserved from oblivion by the
skilful audacity with which it was written, and by the immense effect
which it produced. It purported to be a supplemental declaration under
the hand and seal of the Prince of Orange: but it was written in a style
very different from that of his genuine manifesto. Vengeance alien from
the usages of Christian and civilised nations was denounced against
all Papists who should dare to espouse the royal cause. They should be
treated, not as soldiers or gentlemen, but as freebooters. The ferocity
and licentiousness of the invading army, which had hitherto been
restrained with a strong hand, should be let loose on them. Good
Protestants, and especially those who inhabited the capital, were
adjured, as they valued all that was dear to them, and commanded,
on peril of the Prince's highest displeasure, to seize, disarm, and
imprison their Roman Catholic neighbours. This document, it is said,
was found by a Whig bookseller one morning under his shop door. He made
haste to print it. Many copies were dispersed by the post, and
passed rapidly from hand to hand. Discerning men had no difficulty
in pronouncing it a forgery devised by some unquiet and unprincipled
adventurer, such as, in troubled times, are always busy in the foulest
and darkest offices of faction. But the multitude was completely duped.
Indeed to such a height had national and religious feeling been excited
against the Irish Papists that most of those who believed the spurious
proclamation to be genuine were inclined to applaud it as a seasonable
exhibition of vigour. When it was known that no such document had
really proceeded from William, men asked anxiously what impostor had
so daringly and so successfully personated his Highness. Some suspected
Ferguson, others Johnson. At length, after the lapse of twenty-seven
years, Hugh Speke avowed the forgery, and demanded from the House of
Brunswick a reward for so eminent a service rendered to the Protestant
religion. He asserted, in the tone of a man who conceives himself to
have done something eminently virtuous and honourable, that, when the
Dutch invasion had thrown Whitehall into consternation, he had offered
his services to the court, had pretended to be estranged from the Whigs,
and had promised to act as a spy upon them; that he had thus obtained
admittance to the royal closet, had vowed fidelity, had been promised
large pecuniary rewards, and had procured blank passes which enabled
him to travel backwards and forwards across the hostile lines. All these
things he protested that he had done solely in order that he might,
unsuspected, aim a deadly blow at the government, and produce a violent
outbreak of popular feeling against the Roman Catholics. The forged
proclamation he claimed as one of his contrivances: but whether his
claim were well founded may be doubted. He delayed to make it so long
that we may reasonably suspect him of having waited for the death of
those who could confute him; and he produced no evidence but his own.
[558]
While these things happened in London, every post from every part of
the country brought tidings of some new insurrection. Lumley had seized
Newcastle. The inhabitants had welcomed him with transport. The statue
of the King, which stood on a lofty pedestal of marble, had been pulled
down and hurled into the Tyne. The third of December was long remembered
at Hull as the town taking day. That place had a garrison commanded by
Lord Langdale, a Roman Catholic. The Protestant officers concerted
with the magistracy a plan of revolt: Langdale and his adherents
were arrested; and soldiers and citizens united in declaring for the
Protestant religion and a free Parliament. [559]
The Pastern Counties were up. The Duke of Norfolk, attended by three
hundred gentlemen armed and mounted, appeared in the stately marketplace
of Norwich. The Mayor and Aldermen met him there, and engaged to
stand by him against Popery and arbitrary power. [560] Lord Herbert of
Cherbury and Sir Edward Harley took up arms in Worcestershire. [561]
Bristol, the second city of the realm, opened its gates to Shrewsbury.
Trelawney, the Bishop, who had entirely unlearned in the Tower the
doctrine of nonresistance, was the first to welcome the Prince's troops.
Such was the temper of the inhabitants that it was thought unnecessary
to leave any garrison among them. [562] The people of Gloucester rose
and delivered Lovelace from confinement. An irregular army soon gathered
round him. Some of his horsemen had only halters for bridles. Many of
his infantry had only clubs for weapons. But this force, such as it was,
marched unopposed through counties once devoted to the House of Stuart,
and at length entered Oxford in triumph. The magistrates came in state
to welcome the insurgents. The University itself, exasperated by recent
injuries, was little disposed to pass censures on rebellion. Already
some of the Heads of Houses had despatched one of their number to assure
the Prince of Orange that they were cordially with him, and that
they would gladly coin their plate for his service. The Whig chief,
therefore, rode through the capital of Toryism amidst general
acclamation. Before him the drums beat Lillibullero. Behind him came a
long stream of horse and foot. The whole High Street was gay with orange
ribands. For already the orange riband had the double signification
which, after the lapse of one hundred and sixty years, it still retains.
Already it was the emblem to the Protestant Englishman of civil and
religious freedom, to the Roman Catholic Celt of subjugation and
persecution. [563]
While foes were thus rising up all round the King, friends were fast
shrinking from his side. The idea of resistance had become familiar to
every mind. Many who had been struck with horror when they heard of
the first defections now blamed themselves for having been so slow to
discern the signs of the times. There was no longer any difficulty or
danger in repairing to William. The King, in calling on the nation to
elect representatives, had, by implication, authorised all men to repair
to the places where they had votes or interest; and many of those places
were already occupied by invaders or insurgents. Clarendon eagerly
caught at this opportunity of deserting the falling cause. He knew that
his speech in the Council of Peers had given deadly offence: and he
was mortified by finding that he was not to be one of the royal
Commissioners. He had estates in Wiltshire. He determined that his son,
the son of whom he had lately spoken with grief and horror, should be
a candidate for that county; and, under pretence of looking after the
election, he set out for the West. He was speedily followed by the Earl
of Oxford, and by others who had hitherto disclaimed all connection with
the Prince's enterprise. [564]
By this time the invaders, steadily though slowly advancing, were within
seventy miles of London. Though midwinter was approaching, the weather
was fine; the way was pleasant; and the turf of Salisbury Plain seemed
luxuriously smooth to men who had been toiling through the miry ruts
of the Devonshire and Somersetshire highways. The route of the army lay
close by Stonehenge; and regiment after regiment halted to examine
that mysterious ruin, celebrated all over the Continent as the greatest
wonder of our island. William entered Salisbury with the same military
pomp which he had displayed at Exeter, and was lodged there in the
palace which the King had occupied a few days before. [565]
His train was now swelled by the Earls of Clarendon and Oxford, and by
other men of high rank, who had, till within a few days, been considered
as jealous Royalists. Van Citters also made his appearance at the Dutch
head quarters. He had been during some weeks almost a prisoner in his
house, near Whitehall, under the constant observation of relays of
spies. Yet, in spite of those spies, or perhaps by their help, he had
succeeded in obtaining full and accurate intelligence of all that passed
in the palace; and now, full fraught wrath valuable information about
men and things, he came to assist the deliberations of William. [566]
Thus far the Prince's enterprise had prospered beyond the anticipations
of the most sanguine. And now, according to the general law which
governs human affairs, prosperity began to produce disunion. The
Englishmen assembled at Salisbury were divided into two parties. One
party consisted of Whigs who had always regarded the doctrines of
passive obedience and of indefeasible hereditary right as slavish
superstitions. Many of them had passed years in exile. All had been
long shut out from participation to the favours of the crown. They now
exulted in the near prospect of greatness and of vengeance. Burning
with resentment, flushed with victory and hope, they would hear of
no compromise. Nothing less than the deposition of their enemy would
content them: nor can it be disputed that herein they were perfectly
consistent. They had exerted themselves, nine years earlier, to exclude
him from the throne, because they thought it likely that he would be
a bad King. It could therefore scarcely be expected that they would
willingly leave him on the throne, now that he had turned out a far
worse King than any reasonable man could have anticipated.
On the other hand, not a few of William's followers were zealous Tories,
who had, till very recently, held the doctrine of nonresistance in the
most absolute form, but whose faith in that doctrine had, for a moment,
given way to the strong passions excited by the ingratitude of the King
and by the peril of the Church. No situation could be more painful
or perplexing than that of the old Cavalier who found himself in arms
against the throne. The scruples which had not prevented him from
repairing to the Dutch camp began to torment him cruelly as soon as he
was there. His mind misgave him that he had committed a crime. At all
events he had exposed himself to reproach, by acting in diametrical
opposition to the professions of his whole life. He felt insurmountable
disgust for his new allies. They were people whom, ever since he
could remember, he had been reviling and persecuting, Presbyterians,
Independents, Anabaptists, old soldiers of Cromwell, brisk boys of
Shaftesbury, accomplices in the Rye House Plot, captains of the Western
Insurrection. He naturally wished to find out some salvo which might
sooth his conscience, which might vindicate his consistency, and which
might put a distinction between him and the crew of schismatical rebels
whom he had always despised and abhorred, but with whom he was now in
danger of being confounded. He therefore disclaimed with vehemence all
thought of taking the crown from that anointed head which the ordinance
of heaven and the fundamental laws of the realm had made sacred. His
dearest wish was to see a reconciliation effected on terms which would
not lower the royal dignity. He was no traitor. He was not, in truth,
resisting the kingly authority. He was in arms only because he was
convinced that the best service which could be rendered to the throne
was to rescue His Majesty, by a little gentle coercion, from the hands
of wicked counsellors.
The evils which the mutual animosity of these factions tended to produce
were, to a great extent, averted by the ascendency and by the wisdom of
the Prince. Surrounded by eager disputants, officious advisers, abject
flatterers, vigilant spies, malicious talebearers, he remained serene
and inscrutable. He preserved silence while silence was possible. When
he was forced to speak, the earnest and peremptory tone in which he
uttered his well weighed opinions soon silenced everybody else. Whatever
some of his too zealous adherents might say, he uttered not a word
indicating any design on the English crown. He was doubtless well aware
that between him and that crown were still interposed obstacles which no
prudence might be able to surmount, and which a single false step would
make insurmountable. His only chance of obtaining the splendid prize
was not to seize it rudely, but to wait till, without any appearance
of exertion or stratagem on his part, his secret wish should be
accomplished by the force of circumstances, by the blunders of his
opponents, and by the free choice of the Estates of the Realm. Those who
ventured to interrogate him learned nothing, and yet could not accuse
him of shuffling. He quietly referred them to his Declaration,
and assured them that his views had undergone no change since that
instrument had been drawn up. So skilfully did he manage his followers
that their discord seems rather to have strengthened than to have
weakened his hands but it broke forth with violence when his control was
withdrawn, interrupted the harmony of convivial meetings, and did not
respect even the sanctity of the house of God. Clarendon, who tried to
hide from others and from himself, by an ostentatious display of loyal
sentiments, the plain fact that he was a rebel, was shocked to hear
some of his new associates laughing over their wine at the royal amnesty
which had just been graciously offered to them. They wanted no pardon,
they said. They would make the King ask pardon before they had done
with him. Still more alarming and disgusting to every good Tory was
an incident which happened at Salisbury Cathedral. As soon as the
officiating minister began to read the collect for the King, Barnet,
among whose many good qualities selfcommand and a fine sense of the
becoming cannot be reckoned, rose from his knees, sate down in his
stall, and uttered some contemptuous noises which disturbed the
devotions of the congregation. [567]
In a short time the factions which divided the Prince's camp had an
opportunity of measuring their strength. The royal Commissioners were
on their way to him. Several days had elapsed since they had been
appointed; and it was thought strange that, in a case of such urgency,
there should be such delay. But in truth neither James nor William was
desirous that negotiations should speedily commence; for James wished
only to gain time sufficient for sending his wife and son into prance;
and the position of William became every day more commanding. At length
the Prince caused it to be notified to the Commissioners that he would
meet them at Hungerford. He probably selected this place because,
lying at an equal distance from Salisbury and from Oxford, it was well
situated for a rendezvous of his most important adherents. At Salisbury
were those noblemen and gentlemen who had accompanied him from Holland
or had joined him in the West; and at Oxford were many chiefs of the
Northern insurrection.
Late on Thursday, the sixth of December, he reached Hungerford. The
little town was soon crowded with men of rank and note who came thither
from opposite quarters. The Prince was escorted by a strong body of
troops. The northern Lords brought with them hundreds of irregular
cavalry, whose accoutrements and horsemanship moved the mirth of men
accustomed to the splendid aspect and exact movements of regular armies.
[568]
While the Prince lay at Hungerford a sharp encounter took place between
two hundred and fifty of his troops and six hundred Irish, who were
posted at Reading. The superior discipline of the invaders was signally
proved on this occasion. Though greatly outnumbered, they, at one onset,
drove the King's forces in confusion through the streets of the town
into the market place. There the Irish attempted to rally; but, being
vigorously attacked in front and fired upon at the same time by the
inhabitants from the windows of the neighbouring houses, they soon lost
hart, and fled with the loss of them colours and of fifty men. Of the
conquerors only five fell. The satisfaction which this news gave to
the Lords and gentlemen who had joined William was unmixed. There was
nothing in what had happened to gall their national feelings. The Dutch
had not beaten the English, but had assisted an English town to free
itself from the insupportable dominion of the Irish. [569]
On the morning of Saturday, the eighth of December, the King's
Commissioners reached Hungerford. The Prince's body guard was drawn
up to receive them with military respect. Bentinck welcomed them, and
proposed to conduct them immediately to his master. They expressed a
hope that the Prince would favour them with a private audience; but
they were informed that he had resolved to hear them and answer them
in public. They were ushered into his bedchamber, where they found him
surrounded by a crowd of noblemen and gentlemen. Halifax, whose rank,
age, and abilities entitled him to precedence, was spokesman. The
proposition which the Commissioners had been instructed to make was that
the points in dispute should be referred to the Parliament, for which
the writs were already sealing, and that in the mean time the Prince's
army would not come within thirty or forty miles of London. Halifax,
having explained that this was the basis on which he and his colleagues
were prepared to treat, put into William's hands a letter from the King,
and retired. William opened the letter and seemed unusually moved. It
was the first letter which he had received from his father in law since
they had become avowed enemies. Once they had been on good terms and had
written to each other familiarly; nor had they, even when they had begun
to regard each other with suspicion and aversion, banished from their
correspondence those forms of kindness which persons nearly related by
blood and marriage commonly use. The letter which the Commissioners had
brought was drawn up by a secretary in diplomatic form and in the French
language. "I have had many letters from the King," said William,
"but they were all in English, and in his own hand." He spoke with a
sensibility which he was little in the habit of displaying. Perhaps
he thought at that moment how much reproach his enterprise, just,
beneficent, and necessary as it was, must bring on him and on the wife
who was devoted to him. Perhaps he repined at the hard fate which had
placed him in such a situation that he could fulfil his public duties
only by breaking through domestic ties, and envied the happier condition
of those who are not responsible for the welfare of nations and
Churches. But such thoughts, if they rose in his mind, were firmly
suppressed. He requested the Lords and gentlemen whom he had convoked on
this occasion to consult together, unrestrained by his presence, as to
the answer which ought to be returned. To himself, however, he reserved
the power of deciding in the last resort, after hearing their opinion.
He then left them, and retired to Littlecote Hall, a manor house
situated about two miles off, and renowned down to our own times, not
more on account of its venerable architecture and furniture than an
account of a horrible and mysterious crime which was perpetrated there
in the days of the Tudors. [570]
Before he left Hungerford, he was told that Halifax had expressed a
great desire to see Burnet. In this desire there was nothing strange;
for Halifax and Burnet had long been on terms of friendship. No two men,
indeed, could resemble each other less. Burnet was utterly destitute of
delicacy and tact. Halifax's taste was fastidious, and his sense of the
ludicrous morbidly quick. Burnet viewed every act and every character
through a medium distorted and coloured by party spirit. The tendency of
Halifax's mind was always to see the faults of his allies more strongly
than the faults of his opponents. Burnet was, with all his infirmities,
and through all the vicissitudes of a life passed in circumstances
not very favourable to piety, a sincerely pious man. The sceptical
and sarcastic Halifax lay under the imputation of infidelity. Halifax
therefore often incurred Burnet's indignant censure; and Burnet was
often the butt of Halifax's keen and polished pleasantry. Yet they
were drawn to each other by a mutual attraction, liked each other's
conversation, appreciated each other's abilities, interchanged opinions
freely, and interchanged also good offices in perilous times. It was
not, however, merely from personal regard that Halifax now wished to see
his old acquaintance. The Commissioners must have been anxious to know
what was the Prince's real aim. He had refused to see them in private;
and little could be learned from what he might say in a formal and
public interview. Almost all those who were admitted to his confidence
were men taciturn and impenetrable as himself. Burnet was the
only exception. He was notoriously garrulous and indiscreet. Yet
circumstances had made it necessary to trust him; and he would
doubtless, under the dexterous management of Halifax, have poured out
secrets as fast as words. William knew this well, and, when he was
informed that Halifax was asking for the Doctor, could not refrain from
exclaiming, "If they get together there will be fine tattling." Burnet
was forbidden to see the Commissioners in private; but he was assured
in very courteous terms that his fidelity was regarded by the Prince as
above all suspicion; and, that there might be no ground for complaint,
the prohibition was made general.
That afternoon the noblemen and gentlemen whose advice William had asked
met in the great room of the principal inn at Hungerford. Oxford
was placed in the chair; and the King's overtures were taken into
consideration. It soon appeared that the assembly was divided into two
parties, a party anxious to come to terms with the King, and a party
bent on his destruction. The latter party had the numerical superiority:
but it was observed that Shrewsbury, who of all the English nobles was
supposed to enjoy the largest share of William's confidence, though a
Whig, sided on this occasion with the Tories. After much altercation the
question was put. The majority was for rejecting the proposition which
the royal Commissioners had been instructed to make. The resolution of
the assembly was reported to the Prince at Littlecote. On no occasion
during the whole course of his eventful life did he show more prudence
and selfcommand. He could not wish the negotiation to succeed. But he
was far too wise a man not to know that, if unreasonable demands made
by him should cause it to fail, public feeling would no longer be on his
side. He therefore overruled the opinion of his too eager followers, and
declared his determination to treat on the basis proposed by the King.
Many of the Lords and gentlemen assembled at Hungerford remonstrated: a
whole day was spent in bickering: but William's purpose was immovable.
He declared himself willing to refer all the questions in dispute to the
Parliament which had just been summoned, and not to advance within forty
miles of London. On his side he made some demands which even those who
were least disposed to commend him allowed to be moderate. He insisted
that the existing statutes should be obeyed till they should be altered
by competent authority, and that all persons who held offices without a
legal qualification should be forthwith dismissed. The deliberations of
the Parliament, he justly conceived, could not be free if it was to sit
surrounded by Irish regiments while he and his army lay at a distance
of several marches. He therefore thought it reasonable that, since his
troops were not to advance within forty miles of London on the west, the
King's troops should fall back as far to the east. There would thus be,
round the spot where the Houses were to meet, a wide circle of neutral
ground. Within that circle, indeed, there were two fastnesses of great
importance to the people of the capital, the Tower, which commanded
their dwellings, and Tilbury Fort, which commanded their maritime trade.
It was impossible to leave these places ungarrisoned. William therefore
proposed that they should be temporarily entrusted to the care of
the City of London. It might possibly be convenient that, when the
Parliament assembled, the King should repair to Westminster with a body
guard. The Prince announced that, in that case, he should claim the
right of repairing thither also with an equal number of soldiers. It
seemed to him just that, while military operations were suspended, both
the armies should be considered as alike engaged in the service of
the English nation, and should be alike maintained out of the English
revenue. Lastly, he required some guarantee that the King would not take
advantage of the armistice for the purpose of introducing a French force
into England. The point where there was most danger was Portsmouth. The
Prince did not however insist that this important fortress should be
delivered up to him, but proposed that it should, during the truce, be
under the government of an officer in whom both himself and James could
confide.
The propositions of William were framed with a punctilious fairness,
such as might have been expected rather from a disinterested umpire
pronouncing an award than from a victorious prince dictating to a
helpless enemy. No fault could be found with them by the partisans of
the King. But among the Whigs there was much murmuring. They wanted no
reconciliation with their old master. They thought themselves absolved
from all allegiance to him. They were not disposed to recognise the
authority of a Parliament convoked by his writ. They were averse to
an armistice; and they could not conceive why, if there was to be an
armistice, it should be an armistice on equal terms. By all the laws of
war the stronger party had a right to take advantage of his
strength; and what was there in the character of James to justify any
extraordinary indulgence? Those who reasoned thus little knew from how
elevated a point of view, and with how discerning an eye, the leader
whom they censured contemplated the whole situation of England and
Europe. They were eager to ruin James, and would therefore either have
refused to treat with him on any conditions, or have imposed on him
conditions insupportably hard. To the success of William's vast and
profound scheme of policy it was necessary that James should ruin
himself by rejecting conditions ostentatiously liberal. The event
proved the wisdom of the course which the majority of the Englishmen at
Hungerford were inclined to condemn.
On Sunday, the ninth of December, the Prince's demands were put
in writing, and delivered to Halifax. The Commissioners dined at
Littlecote. A splendid assemblage had been invited to meat them. The old
hall, hung with coats of mail which had seen the wars of the Roses, and
with portraits of gallants who had adorned the court of Philip and
Nary, was now crowded with Peers and Generals. In such a throng a
short question and answer might be exchanged without attracting notice.
Halifax seized this opportunity, the first which had presented itself,
of extracting all that Burnet knew or thought. "What is it that you
want?" said the dexterous diplomatist; "do you wish to get the King into
your power?" "Not at all," said Burnet; "we would not do the least harm
to his person." "And if he were to go away?" said Halifax. "There is
nothing," said Burnet, "so much to be wished." There can be no doubt
that Burnet expressed the general sentiment of the Whigs in the Prince's
camp. They were all desirous that James should fly from the country: but
only a few of the wisest among them understood how important it was
that his flight should be ascribed by the nation to his own folly and
perverseness, and not to harsh usage and well grounded apprehension. It
seems probable that, even in the extremity to which he was now reduced,
all his enemies united would have been unable to effect his complete
overthrow had he not been his own worst enemy: but, while his
Commissioners were labouring to save him, he was labouring as earnestly
to make all their efforts useless. [571]
His plans were at length ripe for execution. The pretended negotiation
had answered its purpose. On the same day on which the three Lords
reached Hungerford the Prince of Wales arrived at Westminster. It had
been intended that he should come over London Bridge; and some Irish
troops were sent to Southwark to meet him. But they were received by a
great multitude with such hooting and execration that they thought it
advisable to retire with all speed. The poor child crossed the Thames at
Kingston, and was brought into Whitehall so privately that many believed
him to be still at Portsmouth. [572]
To send him and the Queen out of the country without delay was now the
first object of James. But who could be trusted to manage the escape?
Dartmouth was the most loyal of Protestant Tories; and Dartmouth
had refused. Dover was a creature of the Jesuits; and even Dover had
hesitated. It was not very easy to find, an Englishman of rank and
honour who would undertake to place the heir apparent of the English
crown in the hands of the King of France. In these circumstances, James
bethought him of a French nobleman who then resided in London, Antonine,
Count of Lauzun. Of this man it has been said that his life was stranger
than the dreams of other people. At an early age he had been the
intimate associate of Lewis, and had been encouraged to expect the
highest employments under the French crown. Then his fortunes had
undergone an eclipse. Lewis had driven from him the friend of his youth
with bitter reproaches, and had, it was said, scarcely refrained from
adding blows. The fallen favourite had been sent prisoner to a fortress:
but he had emerged from his confinement, had again enjoyed the smiles
of his master, and had gained the heart of one of the greatest ladies in
Europe, Anna Maria, daughter of Gaston, Duke of Orleans, granddaughter
of King Henry the Fourth, and heiress of the immense domains of the
house of Montpensier. The lovers were bent on marriage. The royal
consent was obtained. During a few hours Lauzun was regarded by the
court as an adopted member of the house of Bourbon. The portion
which the princess brought with her might well have been an object
of competition to sovereigns; three great dukedoms, an independent
principality with its own mint and with its own tribunals, and an income
greatly exceeding the whole revenue of the kingdom of Scotland. But this
splendid prospect had been overcast. The match had been broken off.
The aspiring suitor had been, during many years, shut up in an Alpine
castle. At length Lewis relented. Lauzun was forbidden to appear in the
royal presence, but was allowed to enjoy liberty at a distance from the
court. He visited England, and was well received at the palace of James
and in the fashionable circles of London; for in that age the gentlemen
of France were regarded throughout Europe as models of grace; and many
Chevaliers and Viscounts, who had never been admitted to the interior
circle at Versailles, found themselves objects of general curiosity and
admiration at Whitehall. Lauzun was in every respect the man for the
present emergency. He had courage and a sense of honour, had been
accustomed to eccentric adventures, and, with the keen observation
and ironical pleasantry of a finished man of the world, had a strong
propensity to knight errantry. All his national feelings and all his
personal interests impelled him to undertake the adventure from which
the most devoted subjects of the English crown seemed to shrink. As the
guardian, at a perilous crisis, of the Queen of Great Britain and of
the Prince of Wales, he might return with honour to his native land;
he might once more be admitted to see Lewis dress and dine, and might,
after so many vicissitudes, recommence, in the decline of life, the
strangely fascinating chase of royal favour.
Animated by such feelings, Lauzun eagerly accepted the high trust which
was offered to him. The arrangements for the flight were promptly made:
a vessel was ordered to be in readiness at Gravesend: but to reach
Gravesend was not easy. The City was in a state of extreme agitation.
The slightest cause sufficed to bring a crowd together. No foreigner
could appear in the streets without risk of being stopped, questioned,
and carried before a magistrate as a Jesuit in disguise. It was,
therefore, necessary to take the road on the south of the Thames. No
precaution which could quiet suspicion was omitted. The King and Queen
retired to rest as usual. When the palace had been some time profoundly
quiet, James rose and called a servant who was in attendance. "You will
find," said the King, "a man at the door of the antechamber; bring
him hither." The servant obeyed, and Lauzun was ushered into the royal
bedchamber. "I confide to you," said James, "my Queen and my son;
everything must be risked to carry them into France." Lauzun, with a
truly chivalrous spirit, returned thanks for the dangerous honour which
had been conferred on him, and begged permission to avail himself of the
assistance of his friend Saint Victor, a gentleman of Provence, whose
courage and faith had been often tried. The services of so valuable an
assistant were readily accepted. Lauzun gave his hand to Mary; Saint
Victor wrapped up in his warm cloak the ill fated heir of so many Kings.
The party stole down the back stairs, and embarked in an open skiff.
It was a miserable voyage. The night was bleak: the rain fell: the wind
roared: the waves were rough: at length the boat reached Lambeth; and
the fugitives landed near an inn, where a coach and horses were in
waiting. Some time elapsed before the horses could be harnessed. Mary,
afraid that her face might be known, would not enter the house. She
remained with her child, cowering for shelter from the storm under the
tower of Lambeth Church, and distracted by terror whenever the ostler
approached her with his lantern. Two of her women attended her, one who
gave suck to the Prince, and one whose office was to rock his cradle;
but they could be of little use to their mistress; for both were
foreigners who could hardly speak the English language, and who
shuddered at the rigour of the English climate. The only consolatory
circumstance was that the little boy was well, and uttered not a
single cry. At length the coach was ready. Saint Victor followed it on
horseback. The fugitives reached Gravesend safely, and embarked in the
yacht which waited for them. They found there Lord Powis and his wife.
Three Irish officers were also on board. These men had been sent thither
in order that they might assist Lauzun in any desperate emergency; for
it was thought not impossible that the captain of the ship might prove
false; and it was fully determined that, on the first suspicion of
treachery, he should be stabbed to the heart. There was, however, no
necessity for violence. The yacht proceeded down the river with a fair
wind; and Saint Victor, having seen her under sail, spurred back with
the good news to Whitehall. [573]
On the morning of Monday the tenth of December, the King learned that
his wife and son had begun their voyage with a fair prospect of reaching
their destination. About the same time a courier arrived at the
palace with despatches from Hungerford. Had James been a little more
discerning, or a little less obstinate, those despatches would have
induced him to reconsider all his plans. The Commissioners wrote
hopefully. The conditions proposed by the conqueror were strangely
liberal. The King himself could not refrain from exclaiming that they
were more favourable than he could have expected. He might indeed not
unreasonably suspect that they had been framed with no friendly design:
but this mattered nothing; for, whether they were offered in the
hope that, by closing with them, he would lay the ground for a happy
reconciliation, or, as is more likely, in the hope that, by rejecting
them, he would exhibit himself to the whole nation as utterly
unreasonable and incorrigible, his course was equally clear. In
either case his policy was to accept them promptly and to observe them
faithfully.
But it soon appeared that William had perfectly understood the character
with which he had to deal, and, in offering those terms which the Whigs
at Hungerford had censured as too indulgent, had risked nothing. The
solemn farce by which the public had been amused since the retreat of
the royal army from Salisbury was prolonged during a few hours. All the
Lords who were still in the capital were invited to the palace that
they might be informed of the progress of the negotiation which had been
opened by their advice. Another meeting of Peers was appointed for
the following day. The Lord Mayor and the Sheriffs of London were also
summoned to attend the King. He exhorted them to perform their duties
vigorously, and owned that he had thought it expedient to send his wife
and child out of the country, but assured them that he would himself
remain at his post. While he uttered this unkingly and unmanly
falsehood, his fixed purpose was to depart before daybreak. Already he
had entrusted his most valuable moveables to the care of several foreign
Ambassadors. His most important papers had been deposited with the
Tuscan minister. But before the flight there was still something to be
done. The tyrant pleased himself with the thought that he might
avenge himself on a people who had been impatient of his despotism by
inflicting on them at parting all the evils of anarchy. He ordered the
Great Seal and the writs for the new Parliament to be brought to his
apartment. The writs which could be found he threw into the fire. Those
which had been already sent out he annulled by an instrument drawn up
in legal form. To Feversham he wrote a letter which could be understood
only as a command to disband the army. Still, however, the King
concealed his intention of absconding even from his chief ministers.
Just before he retired he directed Jeffreys to be in the closet early on
the morrow; and, while stepping into bed, whispered to Mulgrave that the
news from Hungerford was highly satisfactory. Everybody withdrew except
the Duke of Northumberland. This young man, a natural son of Charles the
Second by the Duchess of Cleveland, commanded a troop of Life Guards,
and was a Lord of the Bedchamber. It seems to have been then the custom
of the court that, in the Queen's absence, a Lord of the Bedchamber
should sleep on a pallet in the King's room; and it was Northumberland's
turn to perform this duty.
At three in the morning of Tuesday the eleventh of December, James rose,
took the Great Seal in his hand, laid his commands on Northumberland not
to open the door of the bedchamber till the usual hour, and disappeared
through a secret passage; the same passage probably through which
Huddleston had been brought to the bedside of the late king. Sir Edward
Hales was in attendance with a hackney coach. James was conveyed to
Millbank, where he crossed the Thames in a small wherry. As he passed
Lambeth he flung the Great Seal into the midst of the stream, where,
after many months, it was accidentally caught by a fishing net and
dragged up.
At Vauxhall he landed. A carriage and horses had been stationed there
for him; and he immediately took the road towards Sheerness, where a
boy belonging to the Custom House had been ordered to await his arrival.
[574]