by Alan Gold
But Sir Francis and Mr. Hopeful, secretly and much better known as the American diplomat Mr. Benjamin Franklin, kept up a lively correspondence, and whenever Mr. Franklin was on one of his covert missions in London gathering intelligence for the increasingly temperamental Americans against the government of the awful George from Hanover, he would gleefully attend meetings and have a wonderful time.
Truth to tell, Sir Francis was a source of much information about the mendacity and parsimoniousness of the pumpernickel king, of the inefficiency of the government and of the stupidity of his eldest estranged son who would be king on the death of his father. But Sir Francis was most eloquent when he was writing to Mr. Franklin about the barbarity of King George’s second son who was spending all his time killing Scots.
He supplied all of this information gleefully and freely to Mr. Franklin in the hope of embarrassing the Hanoverians, and Mr. Franklin had told him how useful it was to the Americans. Franklin hoped that there wouldn’t be a declaration of independence and was certainly working hard to maintain an accommodation with Britain, but he was predicting that in a dozen or so years, Americans would no longer accept that London had a right to rule a colony as far away and as vast as their nation if they weren’t allowed to be a part of the governance of the new and lusty country. Being a diplomat, Mr. Franklin was always trying to ameliorate both sides, but it was becoming more and more difficult.
Sir Francis knew that if America did declare its independence of the British crown, as seemed increasingly likely, then he would be sorry to lose such a valuable colony. Many highborn Englishmen were making fortunes out of the trade in African slaves and the growing and sale of tobacco. The advantage of America breaking away from England, though, was that it would be a good stick in the eye to the damnable Hanoverians, and might even see a revolution in England itself against the damned sausage eaters.
As the evening drew on, and the George and Vulture Inn filled with costermongers and fishermen and other tradesmen who had finished their daily chores as well as gentlemen from the business houses of central London who called in for a jar of ale before returning to their homes, Sir Francis reviewed the annals of the first meeting of the club, which was held in this same inn in May in order to discuss the name and purpose of the hellfires. Some of the original members had objected to the name he’d chosen, but he personally liked the idea of Hellfire. Others had voted for it to be called, mockingly, after Sir Francis’ country estate and decided upon the Brotherhood of St. Francis of Wycombe or the Order of Knights of West Wycombe, but nobody could agree and it was now becoming generally known as the Hellfire Club and to hell with anybody who thought differently.
It had been decided that the club would discuss politics, indulge in speculation in investments, and purchase stocks in companies or the proposed cargoes of trading clippers when the club met in the coffee houses in Change Alley. But the intended effect of these clever frauds was designed to ruin certain moneymen in London whom everybody detested. And the main purpose, the reason it had been dubbed the Hellfire Club, was to enable its members to enjoy orgies, saturnalia, and celebrate the rites of Bacchus and Ariadne and Venus. For this latter occupation, willing women were needed, and once he’d spread the word in the salons of the Aristocracy, there was no shortage of well-bred ladies who had expressed an overwhelming interest in attending and fully participating in the meetings. Indeed, one, the wife of the Duke of Ashfordbury, had said that she personally would bring along four other titled ladies, their sisters, and, in one case, her ladyship’s two married daughters whose husbands were both insufficient and inefficient, as she delicately put it.
First to arrive in the private room atop the Inn was Mr. Paul Whitehead who came with Mr. Edward Thompson. They greeted each other with their secret handshake, alternate winks, and tickling the palm. When their membership had been formally acknowledged, they sat to wait and drink while the others were arriving.
A waiter served the men beer, and as they drank from their pots, each said the motto of the Hellfire Club, Fay ce que vouldras. It was a suitable motto, “Do what you will,” because in opposition to the German Georges, there were early signs that London was starting to become a city that was willing to devote itself to the pursuit of pleasure. It was some time since the threat to London’s safety from the Prince of the Stuarts had been nullified in Derby of all places and not by an English army but by a revolt within his own ranks. The Scots, it seemed, were overwhelmed by the sophistication of England and turned on their tails and retreated to the bogs and caves of the Highlands.
And since that little scare of the previous year, all had been fairly quiet in England. The wars in Europe kept going on and on, of course, with France fighting Austria and with Spain fighting everybody else and the pope issuing demands for obedience and the Scots being deported to America. But Scotland wasn’t all death and destruction, because recently some really clever Scots had made a name for themselves, like Mr. Adam Smith and Mr. David Hume who were now the greatest thinkers in all of Europe in the new Enlightenment Movement. So long as King George didn’t fund any more European adventures, England could continue to thrive and survive, and damn the rest of the foreigners.
It was so confusing if all you wanted to do was to have fun. And that was the other serious intent of the Hellfire Club—for its members to cause havoc in London and the provinces, to cause scandals, to infuriate the clergy by holding satanic rituals, and to enjoy themselves carnally and gastronomically by guzzling food and quaffing drink and having knowledge of as many women as was humanly possible on the same night.
As they waited and chatted amiably about recent events in politics and society, as well as who had enjoyed a scandal with whom, the door to their private meeting room opened, and a plump gentleman entered. He was introduced by the waiter, and the party stood to greet the new arrival. He was known and greeted warmly by others, but Sir Francis, surprised at seeing him, walked over and embraced him as though he was a long-lost brother.
“My dear Mr. Josiah Hopeful. How wondrous good to see you, sir. What on earth are you doing in London? Why didn’t you write and tell me you were arriving? When did you get in?”
Benjamin Franklin sat down and took the pot of beer offered by the waiter, quaffing a large draft to refresh himself. He had put on weight since the last time they had met and appeared to be suffering from the gout. “I took a packet from New York Harbor last Tuesday and arrived just this morning. I’m here to act as agent for the Hudson Bay Company with a commission to trade beaver furs. I sent a letter to your house by messenger informing you of my arrival this morning, but I assumed that you’d be at some gathering, so when your butler sent back word that you were attending a meeting of the Hellfire Club, and unless you’d unexpectedly changed the venue, I concluded that this must be the time and the place. And so here I am. If I was wrong, I would have enjoyed a quiet pot of ale and retired to my lodgings.”
“And right welcome you are, Mr. Hopeful. Sit down, and let me tell you of the club’s activities since your last visit in May.”
As they talked, more and more of the club’s members arrived until the meeting room was crowded and full of amiable chatter and laughter. The group was called to order at a suitable time and communally intoned the solemn oath that Sir Francis had circulated, committing each member to indulge in promiscuity, licentiousness, and unbridled immorality whenever the occasion arose.
They drank, they sang, they connived, they made suggestions, and in the main, their suggestions were rejected with much laughter and the drinking of more beer, and they agreed to meet again in September to further plan the activities. In the meantime, Sir Francis promised that he would arrange a lewd and disgusting sexual orgy at his home in West Wycombe, with numerous willing and able ladies and food and drink aplenty. The date was set for the last week of August, and the members began to drift away as the night watchman called out the hour of eleven o’clock.
By half past the hour, the room was empty,
and Sir Francis offered Benjamin Franklin a ride home in his carriage.
“After such an evening of drinking I think I’d prefer to walk so that my mind will be alert in the morning,” he said.
“Then let me accompany you and I’ll have my carriage follow in our footsteps,” Sir Francis said.
They gathered their cloaks, Sir Francis paid the bill for the food and ale, and they left to walk out into the streets of London. Although it was a warm night, those without homes, gangs of children, incapable falling-down drunks, pamphleteers, threepenny whores, and chestnut sellers still inhabited the misty and smoke-filled streets, some huddled around braziers and open fires on the roadside, making the air pungent and heavy with their choking stench. Sir Francis’ servant walked a few paces ahead carrying a lantern on a pole so that the two men could negotiate their way around the mud and animal dung that lay in their path, while his horse and carriage clopped over the ruts in the street. They turned right out of Lombard Street into Cornhill, then onto Cheapside walking toward the Old Bailey and Newgate Prison.
As they walked, ensuring that nobody could hear their conversation, Sir Francis said quietly, “Well, Mr. Franklin. What’s your real purpose in coming to London? Somehow, I can’t envisage you wearing a beaver hat, let alone selling the damn things.”
Franklin chuckled. “It was a poor excuse, but the best one I could think up in the time, bearing in mind that I was only here a few months ago, and few in America know that I’ve left the country. No, Sir Francis, I’m here because of the uprising of Prince Charles Stuart.”
“A bit late, if you’ll forgive me saying so, my dear Sir. You surely know already that he was soundly defeated by the Duke of Cumberland in the wilds of Scotland. That uprising is no more, I’m afraid.”
“Of course I know of his failure. But what interests me is the reaction of King George to the Scottish people. I’ve come here to find out whether or not the barbarity we’ve been learning about is as true and indeed as widespread as the informants are saying. We have slave ships filled with Scots men, women, and children arriving at our Boston port, and we’re expected to supply them with land without so much as a ‘by your leave’ from His Royal Highness. It appears that the duke is intending to use America as a penal colony of the Scots and to denude their land in favor of placing these hapless souls in ours. Is that true, to your knowledge?”
“Who knows what’s in the heart or the mind of that hideous man. He’s commander in chief of the king’s army, and if George had his way, the Duke of Cumberland would succeed him to the throne. Unfortunately for the king, his successor, the Prince of Wales, has set up a rival household in Leicester House and is acting like a prince regent. The king is infuriated and regularly wishes his son dead. He says so loudly and often and in public. He calls his son a scoundrel and a wastrel, which augurs well for his reception as our next glorious monarch. Hail and welcome King Whatever your Name, Scoundrel and Wastrel of England.
“Of course, what this means is that King George showers all his love and benefices on his younger son, the Duke of Cumberland, who has proven himself to be a brave and intelligent soldier. He’s beloved by his troops and is able to follow almost any adventure, including the annihilation of the Scottish Highlanders. It’s nothing short of barbarism, but it’s what we have to live with,” said Sir Francis.
“How have Londoners taken to the news of the barbarism in Scotland?” asked Mr. Franklin.
“Londoners are barbarians themselves. They most enjoy a public hanging or flogging. But those with Jacobite sympathies are bereft at the failure of the uprising, and not just the Catholics, either. Many eminent people, like Dr. Samuel Johnson for example, although himself no lover of the wild Scotsmen, hate and detest the Hanoverians, and have refused to sign any oaths of loyalty to King George. If you ask my opinion, Londoners were pleased that the Stuart prince’s march of conquest failed, for they feared an invader, yet they show no love for the king and his family. But as to how the English have been affected by the news from Scotland, I’d have to say they don’t give a twopenny damn.”
“And how badly have the Jacobites been affected. Have any been brought to trial?”
“Two Scottish lords who rebelled against the Crown, the Earl of Kilmarnock, and Lord Balmerino have been tried and will face beheading in the Tower next month. No doubt, we’ll see many more Scottish lords and nobles brought to trial and their lives extinguished. But the real battle is the hunt for the Young Pretender. The duke and his generals are scouring the Highlands seeking him everywhere. The last report I received was that he had somehow managed to escape from the mainland and was living in caves in the islands on the western coast of Scotland, waiting for a French ship to meet him and transport him back to Paris. God help the poor soul if he’s caught. He’ll be hung, drawn, and quartered if the duke is given a free hand.”
They continued to walk westwards until the cupola of the Old Bailey could be seen in the far distance, outlined in ghostly form against the lights of London illuminating the fog and smoke that rose from the myriad fires in the streets.
Franklin said, “You knew him, didn’t you. When you were traveling some years ago in Italy.”
“Yes. And I admired him greatly. A keen intelligence, a man of charm and wit, brave to boot, and with a superb understanding of military matters. Had the perfidious French only done what they promised to do, then a French and Scottish army would have defeated the damned Hanoverians and a Stuart would be on the throne of England.”
“I also met him once,” said Franklin. “In Rome. I spent a couple of hours with him. I found him somewhat vainglorious on matters to do with his place in the hierarchy of royalty, but much more interesting when we got to talk about the rights and privileges of birth. While I disagree with him about the divine rights of kings, I must say that he made his points articulately and passionately. I came away impressed with the young man. Very impressed indeed. I thought then, just as I think now, that one day, when the circumstances are right, great events will circulate around that young man. I thought that his assault on London would be such a great event, but circumstances proved me wrong. However, he’s young, and there’s a great deal of time for it to happen.”
“I don’t know,” said Sir Frances. “The lad’s been kicked in the arse and if he flees England with his tail between his legs, he might find all Europe shuns him. If I were King Louis and he came begging for more money and an army, I’d look at his failures and wonder whether or not I’d invest in him.”
Franklin remained silent, listening and judging Sir Francis’s words carefully. But the American’s thoughts were interrupted by Sir Francis, who suddenly said, a mite too loudly for Franklin’s comfort, “So that’s what this visit is all about. My God, sir, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it. You espouse the Jacobite cause. You want American colonists to come to the aid of Prince Charles. That’s it, isn’t it?”
But Franklin simply walked onward, in silence, carefully avoiding the horse droppings in his path. Sir Francis knew not to say anything further. His American friend was much too sharp and intelligent to give away too many details of the purpose of his very secret visit to England.
After a minute, Franklin asked, “Tell me, Sir Francis, what measures will the king and the government take against the Jacobites now that the revolt of the Scots is well and truly over?”
“It’s put about in government circles, as well as among the aristocracy, that the king is demanding the enactment of laws which will bring the clans of Scotland to an end forever. A Disarming Act has been introduced into the Parliament that will remove the rights of all Scotsmen to bear arms and forbid military service. They’re taking away the right to wear the traditional Highland dress, and no clan chieftain will be able to claim heritable jurisdiction following the introduction of English laws and justices. They’re also enacting legislation that will confiscate the estates of many of the rebels who rose with Prince Charles.”
“So they’re intent on b
reaking the back of the clans and of Scotland itself,” said Franklin.
Sir Francis nodded.
Softly, so softly indeed that Sir Francis had to listen carefully so as not to miss a word, Benjamin Franklin asked, “And in your opinion, do you think that this will be the reaction of the king and his government if America at some point in the future, decides that it cannot abide being ruled from London when the needs of London are to rape our wealth, whereas we are intent upon building a great nation? I ask this not because we are contemplating a revolution, but because the monarchy and the English government are draining America of its lifeblood. What, sir, do you think will happen if America, like Scotland, takes a stance against the rapacity of the monarchy? For if ever it does, Sir Francis, then America must arm itself with more than broadswords and muskets in order to repel such as the Duke of Cumberland. We must begin the training of something more than a regular militia; we must begin thinking of our very own standing army of American patriots to defend ourselves against the rapacity of the Mother Country.”
“Matricide?” said Sir Francis, but again, Franklin remained silent. Sir Francis too decided to remain silent, realizing that at this moment, any contribution he might make to Franklin’s monologue was unnecessary.
Mr. Franklin continued, “You mustn’t misconstrue what I’m saying, Sir Francis. God forbid that I’m advocating independence or revolution. But kick a dog too often, and it’ll turn and snap at your heels. I’m a diplomat, sir, and it’s my intention to find a negotiated path down which both of our great nations can walk hand in hand. But if that path is wide enough for only one of us, then the other is entitled to take a different course.”