A Fugitive Englishman

by Roy Lewis

  Ha . . . yes, May 1860 was the pinnacle of my career, now I look back on it. Professionally, and socially. The legal lion of the day. The darling of society. . . .

  That position was confirmed later that week by another invitation from Viscount Palmerston to join him for a Friday-to-Monday at Broadlands. At dinner each evening I was able to regale the aristocratic gathering with my account of the Heenan case and others. By that time I had become a favourite of Lady Palmerston. She had had her own lively past, of course: one of the notorious Lamb family, she was sister to Lord Melbourne and she had been Palmerston’s mistress for years before she was widowed and they were able to marry. Being a husband failed to inhibit Old Pam from continuing his amatory nocturnal amblings thereafter; she knew about it of course, and though she herself was now beyond such caperings, she had early detected in me opportunities for second-hand enjoyment of illicit relations. In other words, she knew my reputation as a coureur de jupes and she enjoyed cornering me at her salons for whispered accounts of my escapades, and gossip about others in the Temple. She also liked me seated beside her at dinner, where she was mischievously inclined to indulge in the occasional testicular squeeze; I did not object. It was a small-enough price to pay for political preferment, after all. She had the ear of the Prime Minister, as well as my cojones. Ah, yes . . . she was a sporty old dame, even at her advanced age.

  On that occasion, I recall she asked me again about the eccentric Lord Windham’s stained bed sheets in the Windham lunacy hearing and she wanted details of the notorious public copulations on a billiard table by the Reverend Mr Prince after hymns and prayers in the chapel. She was also eager to hear about Sarah Potter’s ‘educational establishments’ in Wardour Street – which I never attended personally since I was never interested in being whipped for pleasure – and demanded to be regaled yet again by my recounting the crim.con. cases in which I had been briefed, notably recalling Lord Cardigan’s creaking boots while he copulated with Lady Paget on the sofa, the rocking gondola in the Admiral Codrington case and stories of spyholes bored in bedroom doors, with astonished maids giving witness that they ‘had never seen it done in that position before!’

  My conversations with Viscount Palmerston himself over those few days were of a more elevated nature, of course. We went riding on the Sunday morning, side by side: I was always somewhat stout but I enjoyed riding and accounted myself a tolerable horseman. Always took the opportunity to ride in the London parks at eight in the morning, no matter how late I had been carousing the previous night. On this occasion, as the Prime Minister and I clipped our way along the stoned rides in the Broadlands park and sidestepped under the cool shade of the trees, Palmerston drew rein and took a deep breath.

  ‘It’s good, is it not, to get away from the overheated atmosphere of Westminster?’

  I nodded. ‘Legislature and courtrooms.’

  Palmerston laughed. ‘Though you clearly enjoyed the Heenan affair. Of course, you’ve always had the reputation of being a sporting man.’

  ‘It was one reason why the Benicia Boy retained me, my lord.’

  ‘That . . . and because he wanted to win.’ Palmerston paused, took off his hat, wiped a gloved hand over his high, perspiring forehead. He eyed me slyly. ‘And you clearly whipped the Law Officers of the Crown. But that would have been your intention, wouldn’t it?’

  He was aware I was still smarting at being overlooked in favour of Atherton for the position of Solicitor General and knew that in representing Heenan against the Law Officers of the Crown I had another point to make. I made no reply, but merely smiled.

  ‘I also, James, like a winner. It’s why I supported your place as election agent at Horsham years ago, approved of your efforts at Marylebone, and since your arrival in the House I have been appreciative of your backing for the Party. I have to admit your radical opinions sometimes cause me a certain uneasiness, but . . . well, I know your heart is in the right place, and you are loyal. But that’s not enough, at the moment. You’re aware I approached the Queen some time ago about your elevation to Solicitor General. I fear Prince Albert was not pleased. He persuaded Her Majesty to reject the proposal.’

  I felt as though a dead weight had settled in my chest at the reminder. I had been confident that with Palmerston’s support I would get my foot on the ladder of legal preferment at last.

  Sourly, I muttered, ‘Prince Albert will still be sore about my impassioned defence of Dr Bernard.’

  ‘And what he regarded as support for assassins who would murder the crowned heads of Europe.’ Palmerston nodded, reined back his mount as the animal began to skitter impatiently, sniffing the breeze. ‘However, your time will come. And soon. Which is why I wanted to have a quiet word with you this morning. Not about legal preferment. About foreign policy.’

  It was Palmerston’s forte, of course: his strength had always been in that area of government. ‘I am flattered, my lord.’

  ‘No need to be. As in cricket, James, I like to play to my strengths. I believe you visited Italy in 1848?’

  ‘That is correct, my lord.’

  ‘It’s rumoured you met Orsini there,’ Palmerston remarked almost casually. ‘Was he a committed assassin even then?’

  ‘It was a brief meeting only,’ I replied evasively.

  ‘Well, Felice Orsini and his co-conspirator Gomez have paid Madame Guillotine for their failed attempt to assassinate Napoleon III; you saved the other conspirator, Dr Bernard, with your inspired, rabble-rousing speech at the Old Bailey . . . which caused me certain embarrassment, I admit, but things move on, James, and we have new preoccupations now.’ He pulled his mount’s head around and began to move away from under the trees. I dug in my heels and followed him, warily.

  ‘When you met Orsini in 1848, did you also meet Guiseppe Garibaldi?’

  ‘I had that honour. Again, it was a brief conversation only.’

  ‘And you remain a supporter of his efforts to unify Italy?’

  ‘Indeed. I have spoken openly on the matter.’

  We cantered towards the longer grass and the dew glittered under the hooves of our horses. It was a fine spring morning and I had the feeling, an exhilarated, excited feeling that something important was about to happen in my life. We slowed after a short while, drew up our horses, allowed them to crop a little as Palmerston sat stiffly in the saddle, staring ahead of him as though peering into the future, lost in contemplation. I waited, silently. At last Palmerston glanced at me and nodded.

  ‘You’ve spoken of your support for Garibaldi and the Risorgimento. In my position, I, of course, cannot.’

  ‘I am aware, my lord, that as a Minister of the Crown you cannot make pronouncements that might prove embarrassing for government policy.’ It hadn’t stopped him in the past of course: he was well known for pursuing an independent and forceful line on foreign affairs, whatever others in the Cabinet might feel.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Exactly. The present situation in Italy is delicate. I cannot openly speak my mind. But there are assurances I would like to make. Privately. To accomplish that I would have need of a person who holds my views, and in whose discretion I can trust.’ He turned to hold me firmly with unblinking eyes. ‘The Long Vacation lies ahead of you.’

  The Long Vacation. My work in the courts would come to an end. Parliament would not be sitting. Lords would be heading for their country seats, young aristocrats would seek the delights of Parisian bordellos, financially embarrassed lawyers like me would scurry to the sea airs of Le Havre and Boulogne, out of reach of dunning creditors.

  ‘I would be greatly obliged, James, if you could find time to go to Italy during that period.’

  ‘On your behalf, my lord?’ I enquired, taken aback.

  ‘Not in so many words,’ Palmerston replied carefully. ‘There would be no diplomatic announcement. You would hold no ambassadorial status, there would be no diplomatic rank conferred on you. But you would go with certain private messages from me, to be conveyed to the
leaders of the insurrection in Italy.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I would like you to meet Prime Minister Cavour, and then seek a private interview with Guiseppe Garibaldi.’

  He tugged at the reins, brought his horse’s head up and turned for home. I reined in by his side, thigh to thigh.

  Lord Palmerston cleared his throat. ‘In six months’ time I will be presenting myself before Her Majesty once again, with new proposals for the appointments of Solicitor General and Attorney General. And on that occasion I will not permit her, or the Prince Consort, to refuse my recommendations. . . .’

  I took a deep breath. An assignment in Italy. . . . It would bind Palmerston even more closely to me. I had won his trust by never uttering a word about his corridor-wandering to ladies’ chambers, and he had been impressed by my work as an election agent – and my saving of Sir John Jervis from a claim of corruption – at Horsham in addition to my support in the House of Commons.

  ‘The thing is, James, Garibaldi can be a bit . . . impulsive. He needs to know he has my full support in his attempt to unify Italy, but we can never permit a bombardment of Naples, if that is his intention. You can quote me on that matter. Privately. And you should also make it clear to Count Cavour that the British government will support the annexation of Naples.’ He turned his baby face towards me and grimaced. ‘I can never make such statements publicly, as you will understand. We cannot be seen to be interfering in the matter of a popular uprising against a head of state. Even such a one as the Bourbon. Imagine what the Queen would say! She hates me enough as it is!’

  As much for his scandalous renown as a skirt-chaser as for his politics.

  So that’s how it came about. My visit to Italy, to meet Count Cavour and join Garibaldi on his march to Naples. Palmerston arranged that I should be accompanied by his Private Secretary Evelyn Ashley – later Lord Shaftesbury, you know – and I carried letters of introduction from my fellow MPs Sir James Duke and Tom Duncombe. So I was well supported. I carried out the planned interview with Count Cavour in Turin and passed on Palmerston’s messages, after which Cavour arranged for a Sardinian corvette called the Authion to be placed at my disposal. I used it to steam with Ashley to Salerno, and a meeting with Count Arrivabene, who seemed somewhat miffed that proper diplomatic channels were being ignored. And I mingled with the numerous other foreigners who were thronging to be part of the Garibaldian campaign. Alexandre Dumas was there, on his yacht Emma, and he invited me on board. He introduced me to the most important member of his retinue: his cook, Jean Boyer, who excelled himself, so Dumas reckoned, by serving us petites timbales a la Pompadour, though I’d have preferred an honest steak, or mutton. But Dumas entertained us with his stories, his olive-skinned features sparkling with bonhomie, scratching enthusiastically at his frizzy grey hair, his great bon vivant belly spreading comfortably in the massive easy chair at the end of the table. A great entertainer . . . but you know, I could never understand how he persuaded Adah Menken to become his lover, some years later. I mean, she was thirty and he was in his sixties. . . . She’d turned me down but then cavorted with Dumas!

  What? Yes, all right, I’m wandering again. The Italian campaign. Well, after the encounter with Dumas, we moved on – Evelyn Ashley, Lord Llanover and I – now joined by Frank Vizetelly, sketch artist of the Illustrated London News – he published an engraving of me in my Garibaldian costume, complete with a brace of pistols in my belt which I still have here somewhere. Or did I pawn them some years ago? No matter. . . . The engraving caused envious sneering comment at the time in London, but I’ve always been a decent shot, you know, as well as a competent horseman. However, from there it was on in a commandeered carriage to Eboli where I finally came face to face again with the brave liberator of Italy. I found him in his private room, combing his long, thinning hair before a mirror, in his red shirt and neckerchief, a dirty pair of jean trousers and worn-out boots. I’d first met him in 1848, and he remembered me well.

  Ashley and Llanover stood silently by while I passed on Palmerston’s verbal messages and Garibaldi then shook hands and gave us permission to accompany his troops. I won’t relate the story of my adventures thereafter – they were published to acclaim in The Times – but suffice to say I saw action when my carriage, which I was sharing with Frank Vizetelly, was shot out from under me by a stray cannonball that tumbled me into a ditch. A narrow escape! I was also at the retreat outside Caserta when I recommended that some cowardly deserters should be summarily shot . . . and I was with Garibaldi on the train that took us into Naples where the whole population seemed to be there to welcome us: bands, banners, bandiere, National Guards, carriages, ladies of rank and station in their white dresses adorned with Garibaldian red, pink and white, thousands of lazzaroni in procession to the Palazzo d’Angri. Ah, they were great scenes and great days!

  And it was in his private chamber that the tired but happy Garibaldi welcomed me again with a glass of Madeira wine, settled back in his chair and thanked me for my support. We conversed happily for a while, and it was then he gave me advice regarding matrimony.

  ‘You are still a gay bachelor, Mr James.’

  ‘The life suits me well.’

  ‘But I have heard rumours also that you are occasionally short of funds.’

  I was silent for a little while, as I sipped my Madeira thoughtfully. Just before leaving London for Italy, I had received a strongly-worded missive from Mr Tallents, the solicitor to the Earl of Yarborough. He was demanding that I gave an account of my indebtedness to his son Lord Worsley. I had not replied to the letter, but I would have to face the situation on my return to England. I had no doubt I could persuade my young acolyte that all would be well, but with the Earl employing his legal adviser I was feeling somewhat uneasy. Garibaldi was watching me with a slight smile on his bearded features.

  I shrugged. ‘These things happen. To be truthful I have never been free of debt since I was a young man on the stage.’

  ‘Ha, the follies of youth. But your earnings these days, they must be enormous.’

  It was true. At that time I was receiving more than £10,000 a year. But the seat at Marylebone had cost me a fortune, the money I’d got from that fraudster John Sadleir had gone and the damned moneylenders were forever clamouring at my heels. . . .

  ‘You know, James,’ Garibaldi said with a twinkle in his eye, ‘you have come to me with good recommendations from your Prime Minister. And you have brought me important information regarding Viscount Palmerston’s views. In return, the best recommendation I can give you is that you should look to your future. You should seek out a comfortable lady, a respectable lady with a little property, someone perhaps in the lodging-letting way, and marry her, against a rainy day.’

  We laughed then. . . . I related the story to Charlie Dickens later, you know, when he consulted me on the dispute between Edmund Yates and Thackeray, and he had the gall to use it when he caricatured me in A Tale of Two Cities in the person of the lawyer Mr Stryver. But the advice from Garibaldi was sound. It was still on my mind when I made my way back to England.

  Of course, although I was carrying out a diplomatic mission for Lord Palmerston I saw no reason why I shouldn’t also take advantage of the opportunity to enjoy myself en route. Politics, blood and the thunder of guns were all very well, but a man requires occasional relaxation. My first stop after leaving England on the way out had been Paris, of course, where I knew a certain lady who lived in the Bois de Boulogne. She was remarkably endowed with the most sensual, supple fingers, ample bosoms and thighs like the haunches of a horse. She had a remarkable capacity for clamping those iron-muscled thighs in such a manner that once in, escape was impossible – even if desired. I enjoyed her attentions for a few days. . . . After Paris, during my peregrinations in Italy I took opportunity to enjoy some of the dark-eyed beauties of Turin and Salerno also, en route to Garibaldi’s camp, but from these encounters I emerged with my private parts scarred with red blotches . . . not the result of excessive romping b
ut a legacy of the infernal fleas in the beds of the wretched albergos frequented by the Italian ladies of the night.

  But Garibaldi’s words about marriage . . . yes, they did come to my mind when I was back in Paris on the way home.

  The city was crowded that autumn. When I rode along the tourist track through the Rue Vivienne to La Madeleine and thence to the Champs Elysées I was among a steady stream of tourists, fine, high-stepping horses, flamboyant carriages, well-dressed men and elegant women with twirling parasols. Foreigners abounded, Englishmen in particular but I was headed for a repeated assignation with the lady with the muscular thighs – Henriette, she was named, I now recall. I was meeting her not with a view to marriage, I hasten to add, but my mind was drifting down a list of unattached ladies in London among whom I might find an appropriate mate along the Garibaldian lines. The trouble was, the available ladies back in English society knew me too well, having already advanced to me considerable sums of money during our previous romantic attachments. Gratitude is a wonderful thing as a reward for sexual vigour but even with the most enamoured lady it has its financial limitations.

  However, my renewed assignation with Henriette proved as satisfying – and exhausting – as I could have desired and I found it necessary afterwards to relax at the Café de la Paix in the Champs Elysées with a glass of red wine and a biscuit. I was seated there, watching the beau monde pass by, a pleasant feeling of satiety in my weakened loins when I became aware that someone was standing beside my left shoulder, and I heard a slight gasp of surprise.

  ‘Mr James!’

  I started, looked up and stumbled to my feet, almost upsetting my table. It was Marianne Hilliard.

  It’s one of those strange things, Joe, but as I told you I’d known Marianne for years and since she had separated from her husband – deceased some years ago now after seven days of delirium tremens – I had crossed her path but twice. On each occasion I had become aware of a mutual attraction but was unable to do anything about it; the first time because of Lord Palmerston’s nightly corridor-wandering, the second because I was suffering from a dose of Haymarket clap. And here she was again, and I weakened by the rigour of an exhausting romp with the athletic, horse-haunched Henriette!