by Jean Plaidy
There were wails of protests from the gay gallants of the court when they saw the boarded-up pew but this was something they could not blame on the Hanoverians. This was their own Bishop Burnet who had decided to hide the pretty creatures from sight. The whole object of going to church was spoilt; for it was small consolation to hear the giggles of Sophia Howe, always louder than the rest, behind the high wooden wall.
They didn’t go to church to be bored by Bishop Burnet or any preacher; and the amusement the King had at first caused with his snores and loud conversation during sermon time had worn thin.
Soon the lampooners were busy.
‘Bishop Burnet perceived that the beautiful dames
Who flocked to the chapel of hilly St James
On their lovers alone their kind looks did bestow,
And smiled not on him while he bellowed below.’
There followed more verses to explain what had happened and these ended with:
‘The Princess, by rude importunity pressed,
Though she laughed at his reasons, allowed his request;
And now Britain’s nymphs in a Protestant reign
Are boxed up at prayers like virgins of Spain.’
The King read copies of the lampoon and saw for the first time that these English could mock their own kind, if they thought they deserved it, as readily as any stranger. He saw too that they were no respecters of persons.
He felt a little warmer towards them and was more than usually disturbed when reports of new Jacobite riots were brought to him.
His unpopularity increased with the passing of the months. His two German mistresses were loathed by the people and jeered at whenever their coaches were seen in the streets. Schulemburg, who remained his first favourite, had proved herself to be of a very avaricious disposition and was continually seeking to enlarge her fortunes. George knew this and made no effort to stop her. The English, he said, were the most grasping people he had ever met. He was constantly being pestered by those about him for posts for this and that relation or friend. Therefore he was sardonically amused that Ermengarda should get what she wanted from them.
She came to him one day in a state of some agitation. She had been riding through the streets of London when the crowd had stopped her carriage and shouted insults at her.
‘They call me Maypole,’ she said.
‘There’s nothing new in that,’ replied George. ‘It’s the name they gave you when they first saw you.’
For once Ermengarda could not be placated; her face under her red wig was sweating with indignation.
‘I look from the window and I spoke to them in English,’ she explained. ‘I said this: “Good pipple, why you abuse us? We come for all your goots.” And what do you think they shouted at me? “Yes, damn you,” they cried, “And for all our chattels too.”’
When George understood the meaning of this he laughed sardonically. They were a garrulous lot, his new subjects. They seemed in love with words; no wonder the lampooners were so effective.
He told Ermengarda that she must not take the matter to heart.
‘For,’ he said gloomily, ‘we are here, and here we must try to stay.’
‘And you think they will not send us back to Hanover?’ she asked, little lights of fear shooting up in her eyes. If they returned to Hanover, what would happen to her plans for amassing future wealth? England was a great milch cow and her dear George Lewis, whom she had truly loved for so long that she was as a wife to him, would help her to the milking.
‘I think some may try,’ said George, ‘but they won’t succeed.’
‘No, we must stop them. It could never be that they should turn you out. Silly people. Do they not know you come for their good.’
‘And their chattels?’ added George with a rare touch of humour.
The King was thoughtful while being dressed by the only two servants whom he allowed into his bedchamber. This in itself was a complete disregard of royal etiquette, for the ceremony of dressing the King had been one of the most important in the household, and those courtiers who took part in it consequently of high standing. And that these two servants should be Turks was yet another insult to English custom.
Mustapha and Mahomet might be a pair of rogues, but they were no more avaricious than the fine ladies and gentlemen who surrounded him. He doubted they had ever learned the art of peculation as thoroughly as the great Duke of Marlborough, a man whom George would never trust. Oh, he was friendly enough now and he had his uses, but there was a man who could turn his coat with more rapidity than most. George had heard that even while he accepted office with him he was in secret communication with James Stuart, just in case the Jacobites should succeed in bringing him back.
Life was very different here from in Hanover. There it had been far less complicated. There, although he had been Elector of a small community, he had received more respect than he did as King of this great country. The Germans were by nature more disciplined than the English. He wished he were back.
These people had no respect for anyone. Only recently, on the occasion of his birthday he had, because he had been told it was the custom, provided his Guards with new clothing. He was not a man who cared to waste money and naturally he had given the commission to the company which had given the cheapest estimate. It seemed that the shirts were much coarser than those previously supplied and as a result the Guards had marched through the City throwing off their jackets to show the quality of what the lampooners were soon calling ‘Hanoverian shirts’.
That brought Marlborough to the King. One could not, said the Duke, afford to upset the soldiery. It was possible that a small affair like the cheap shirts could be the very spark to set off a munity.
Marlborough, George reflected cynically, must be of the opinion that the House of Hanover was in a stronger position than that of Stuart, for he immediately ordered a double supply of shirts and jackets of the very best quality and added to it an extra donation of beer.
Such incidents made the King aware of the insecurity of his position.
Then again he enjoyed walking but he had no desire to be followed by a crowd who watched him and laughed and talked about him in a language he could not understand.
St James’s Park was beautiful but, in his opinion, spoilt by the people who crowded there and used it as their own. It belonged to the King. Why, he wanted to know, should not the King reserve it for his own special use?
He had talked of this to his Secretary of State, Lord Townsend, who had taken over that office on the dismissal of Bolingbroke; the latter, being a Jacobite, naturally could not retain his position when George came to England.
‘I want to know,’ George had said, ‘how much it would cost to shut up St James’s Park and keep it for my private use.’
Townsend had hesitated only for a second and then replied: ‘It would cost you three crowns, Sire.’
A witty remark such as these English loved – but very much to the point, this one. And it brought home to him yet once more how very precariously he sat on the throne of England.
Mahomet was placing his wig on his head, and George looked at the reflection of the dark face close to that with the heavy, sullen jaw which was his own.
Bolingbroke! he thought. There was a man who could make trouble. And it was not long ago that he had fled to France.
He was an ambitious man, that Bolingbroke; in the last reign he had aspired to lead the government. He had quarrelled with Harley and, helped by that woman of devious character, Lady Masham, might have succeeded very well indeed if Anne had not died, or if he had been able to bring James Stuart to England. He was too confirmed a Jacobite to change coats with sufficient alacrity and naturally he was dismissed – but dismissal was not all he had to fear. Walpole had wanted to impeach him and impeached he would have been had he not taken action. He had known this so he had artfully assumed an indifference he was far from feeling.
‘I shall devote myself to literature,’ he had declar
ed; and had gone to the opera, where he had greeted all his friends and generally called attention to himself by making appointments to see them in the following weeks. But when he left the opera he had gone to his house, put on a large black wig, dressed himself as a valet and made for Dover; and once there he crossed to France.
It was obvious to whom he was now offering his services.
The throne was very shaky.
Well, thought George, if I lose it, I shall go back to Hanover. Herrenhausen would be very beautiful now; it would be good to smell the sausages and sauerkraut cooking in the old kitchens of the Leine Schloss.
And yet…
Was he beginning to have a little affection for this adopted country? Scarcely affection. But he must think of the generation to come – the future Kings arid Queens of England.
Shortly afterwards on a bright September day, Lord Townsend and the Duke of Marlborough called on the King.
Prince James Francis Edward Stuart had landed in Scotland and had been welcomed there as King James III of England, Scotland and Ireland.
Rebellion
ALARM SPREAD THROUGH the capital. Civil war seemed imminent. There was no longer secret drinking in the cafes. The Jacobites were singing their songs in the open; in every tavern they were drinking their toasts to the King who would soon no longer be the King over the Water but in his rightful place; in the streets fighting constantly broke out between Catholics and Protestants.
‘Down with the Pretender!’ cried the Protestants.
‘Damn George!’ responded the Jacobites. ‘Send the German back to Hanover.’
News from Scotland filtered through, but none could be sure how much was rumour, how much was truth. James had already been crowned at Scone. James had not yet crossed the sea. James came with arms and men supplied by the French. James came with nothing but a few miserable followers.
Ormonde and Bolingbroke who had both fled from England on the accession of George, were fighting to restore the fortunes of James – and their own. Toasts were drunk to ‘Job’ – the combined initials of James and these two men. There was tension and rising excitement everywhere.
None was calmer than the King. Ermengarda wanted to go back to Hanover, but George just waved her aside. It was only in moments of panic that she would have dared to advise.
The Prince of Wales was in despair. He came to his wife and she had never seen him so perturbed.
‘My father is von fool,’ he lamented. ‘These pipple do not him vant.’
‘It is not important for the pipple to him vant so much as it is for him to stay.’
‘The English pipple will have vat they vant and they vant this Stuart. There are riots in the Park this day. I vas nearby. I heard them shout: “Damn George!” They cheer for James.’
‘It is von mob,’ replied Caroline scornfully.
‘And two mob… and three mob. All over London there are these mob.’
‘Ve vill stand strong.’
‘And be sent back to Hanover?’
‘God forbid.’
‘Ah, ve are of von mind, my Caroline. I fear… I fear very much.’
‘Let us take a valk. Let us valk in the Mall. Let us show this pipple that ve love them.’
‘And you think that vill make them love us?’
‘I am sure of this,’ replied Caroline.
So he walked with her in the Park which his father had wanted to make private; and they chatted together and with their attendants; they showed no fear; they only expressed their affection towards the English people.
‘I vould rather on a dunghill live,’ declared Caroline, ‘than go back to Hanover.’
Even as she spoke the shouts of a Jacobite mob could be heard in the distance; but Caroline, smiling at her husband, made no sign that she heard.
‘At least,’ said the spectators, ‘these Germans have courage.’
Caroline knew she was right to have suggested the walk in public.
As they returned to their rooms George Augustus was flushed and happy.
‘It vas good this idea of mine… to show ourselves, eh?’
Caroline was about to protest that the idea had been hers. She stopped herself in time and nodded.
‘An excellent idea,’ she agreed.
From her maids of honour Caroline learned what was going on in the streets outside the Palace. They were uneasy, many of them, wondering, she knew, whether the end of the Hanoverian reign was in sight. Girls like Molly Lepel and Mary Bellenden chatted freely and in the highest of spirits. Caroline made no attempt to restrain them, for she realized the importance of learning all she could.
‘The Chevalier de St George is very handsome!’ sighed Mary Bellenden. ‘At least so I’ve heard.’
‘A trifle melancholy, I believe,’ whispered her companion.
‘But women love him.’
‘They love all Stuarts…’
‘Different from…’
Suppressed laughter. Yes, different from the Guelphs, thought Caroline, who – though none the less fond of women – managed to be graceless in their manners towards them.
She called to the girls. ‘You speak of the Pretender,’ she said.
They admitted it, just a little defiantly, she thought. How many of those who now called themselves her friends, wondered Caroline, would support the Stuart if he were successful.
‘I think of the battle of Oudenarde,’ she said.
‘Oudenarde, Your Highness?’
‘Yes. At this battle the Prince my husband is on the side of the English. The Pretender he fights for the French.’
The girls did not answer.
‘It is forgotten, you think?’ asked Caroline. ‘I do not think so. The English are the most grateful pipples in the vorld. They do not forget their friends, I think.’
‘No, Your Highness,’ murmured Molly. ‘They don’t forget these things.’
Caroline nodded: and the girls noticed later how often she introduced Oudenarde into the conversation, and the honours the Prince had won there. Others began remembering Oudenarde; and it was talked of at Court. And as what was discussed at court spread to the streets it was soon remembered throughout the City how bravely the Prince had fought for the English at Oudenarde and that the man who now desired to be their King had fought against them.
During the vital months that followed, luck proved to be on the side of the Hanoverians.
Bolingbroke, exiled from England, and therefore joining with the Stuart cause, was appalled by the character of the man who would set out to capture a kingdom. There was no fire in him; he was a pessimist through and through; and although he had made elaborate plans, first for the capture of Scotland and then that of England, his natural melancholy always overcame his belief in his success.
‘The time is not yet,’ Bolingbroke urged him. ‘A rebellion now would have little hope of success.’
But James, at heart feeling certain of failure, yet wanted to make the attempt. Ever since the accession to the throne of England of the Hanoverian branch of the family, messengers had been going back and forth to Scotland. The Earl of Mar assured him that the whole of the Highlands were with him; there were riots in England – and in London the Jacobites were secretly drinking his health and awaiting the signal to rise against George and acclaim James III King.
Bolingbroke continued to advise. He had recently left England; he knew the temper of the people; they were Protestant at heart; a few riots in riverside taverns did not alter that. They liked the thrill of secretly plotting against the reigning monarch but did they want a civil war? Did they want to plunge themselves into bloodshed for the sake of replacing a German by a Frenchman – for his upbringing in France had made James that in their eyes? In the place of the Maypole and the Elephant there would be James’s mistresses – French, elegant and beautiful. More pleasant to look at, certainly, than those German ladies, but were the English prepared to go to war for that?
James turned from Bolingbroke; he was not the man
to listen to advice he did not want to take.
When Louis XIV had died they had lost their best friend, Bolingbroke pointed out.
James retorted that the French would always support him against the German; for one thing he was a Catholic and the German a Protestant. But Bolingbroke was unsure of the Due d’Orléans, who was acting as Regent for the little Louis XV, and continued in his belief that this was not the moment to make the attempt.
Meanwhile John Erskine, Earl of Mar, a man who at the accession of George had been prepared to throw in his fortunes with that king but had not been favourably received by him, was eager to set up the standard for James in Scotland and rally the clans to his help.
Even in this fate was against the Stuart, for when Mar, with a small company of sixty men, set up the flagpole, an ornament fell from the top, and the suspicious Highlanders, looking at each other gravely, declared it was an ill omen. The Stuarts were notoriously unfortunate. This poor James’s father had lost a crown; even his brother, the gay and charming Charles, had had to wander in penury on the Continent of Europe for years before he attained his; and one only had to mention the name of their ill-fated father to recall how he had lost his head.
No, the Stuarts’ luck had not changed; and the incident with the flagstaff was certainly an omen.
Those who had watched the moving ceremony, even as they saluted the flag when it fluttered nobly in the breeze, crossed their fingers, and wives implored their husbands to wait a wee while and not become too embroiled in the Stuart cause until the German was sent back to where he belonged.
Even so Mar marched South, and nobles and their followers joined them; and the band of sixty who had watched the planting of the flagstaff had grown to five thousand when they came marching into Perth.
Now there was alarm at the Court. Mar and his followers were preparing to march south. In London some bold men and women were actually wearing the white cockade.
Ermengarda was in despair.
‘You must leave at once,’ she told the King. ‘It is unsafe for you to stay here.’
But George only told her to be quiet.