Castles, Customs, and Kings: True Tales by English Historical Fiction Authors

by English Historical Fiction Authors

  Charles’ father, General Sir Charles Stuart, a distinguished soldier, could not rely on official sources for intelligence as the Army had no official intelligence service until 1803 when the Depot of Military Knowledge was set up. He learned the ways and means of intelligence-gathering when he saw active service in the American War of Independence.

  Young Charles was at Eton until sixteen years of age in 1795. Two years later he went up to Christ Church, Oxford. During those two years he traveled with his father and kept a journal: Travels in Germany and the Imperial Hereditary States, 1795-1797. At Weimar he sat at the feet of German thinkers, Goethe and Schiller, and penned descriptions of these great men in letters. His letters to his father revealed his burgeoning interest in the political situation:

  …the Prussians are exceedingly busy in fortifying all their frontier places towards Galacia in the newly acquired part of Poland. Some people say war is declared; I must confess it appears to me very odd that the House of Austria should take such a step after being so weakened as she certainly has been in the French war. Everything in this country has a very war-like appearance though few people seem to know how it will turn out.

  His travels left him restless. After a year at Oxford, he moved to Glasgow University. In 1801 his father died. Admitted to Lincoln’s Inn, Charles began to read for the Bar, but was unable to settle. He considered politics and proposed himself as Member of Parliament for Poole, in Dorset, a borough that his father had represented for many years. But Lord Hobart found him a place as a diplomat under the auspices of the Foreign Office. He was to be Secretary of Legation at Vienna, seat of the Austrian Empire, but he had time to spare and decided to see something of Russia.

  It was the summer of 1801, and Europe was in a state of suspended animation—the French Revolution was over, Napoleon was First Consul, but the Peace of Amiens had not yet come into being.

  When the Second Coalition against France crumbled in 1801, England was alone. Charles set out in July traveling through Prussia, Berlin, a partitioned Poland, and on to St. Petersburg. In Vienna, he kept a journal again, Journal, Northern Europe 1801, and this time he recorded what he saw and heard as a budding diplomat, rather than a student or the dutiful son of a British officer.

  Between 1810 and 1814 he served as Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to Portugal and Brazil. In 1812 he was appointed a Knight of the Order of Bath (KB) and was sworn into the Privy Council in 1814.

  In 1815 he was made Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Bath and appointed British Ambassador to France. Stuart is suspected of having been involved in the escape of the Comte de Lavalette from the prison of the Conciergerie in Paris, the day before he was to be executed.

  During Napoleon’s Hundred Days, he left Paris and was in Brussels at the start of the Waterloo Campaign. After the fall of Napoleon he returned to Paris as the Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to Portugal and Brazil. One of the English visitors to Paris, Lady Granville, observed of him: “He discovers what others are about or would be about to a degree that must be very useful to him in his present situation.”

  Sir Charles Stuart felt some responsibility for the safety of the Duke of Wellington and Viscount Castlereagh, the Foreign Secretary—which was made more difficult due to the fact that neither man was over-concerned for himself. There were at least two attempts on Wellington’s life during this period, and others may have been prevented by Stuart’s vigilance. Nobody was punished for either of the best-known attempts on Wellington’s life.

  One attempt was carried out by an old soldier, devoted to Napoleon. He was arrested, but was not convicted, despite the fact that there was no doubt of his guilt. The court held that the evidence was not strong enough. Stuart suspected a political motive and sent one of his agents, a man called Darby, to the trial. He took notes, which were sent to Castlereagh, and whether or not on the Foreign Secretary’s instructions, he lodged an official complaint.

  Two events, one in England and one in France, dominated Stuart’s private and secret work during the second half of his first term as ambassador at Paris. In January 1820, George III died, and the accession of the Prince Regent as George IV made his wife, Caroline, Queen of England; in February 1820, the Duc de Berri, second in line of succession to the French throne, was assassinated, and public reaction brought the ultra-royalists to power. Stuart also had to contend with Castlereagh’s death in 1822, when George Canning became Foreign Secretary again. Neither George IV nor Canning was well known or trusted by the sovereigns and statesmen of Europe.

  The Prince of Wales’ marriage to Caroline of Brunswick had been a disaster from the first, and the Princess had been living a peripatetic existence in Europe for several years. Now that they were king and queen, George wanted to divorce her, but his ministers were anxious to avoid a divorce—as much mud would stick to him as to her, and the Monarchy would suffer. Sir Charles was drawn into the affair officially as one of the King’s ministers abroad, and unofficially as a private investigator.

  When Caroline returned to England and proved to be more popular than the king, Stuart worked to bring to light Caroline’s sexual relationship with her servant, Pergami, but he failed. He had several agents working on the case, and there was no doubt that Pergami had lived with the lady, but they found no evidence that she had provided him with more than board and lodging. The trial duly took place, but it had an inconclusive ending. The bill was withdrawn; Caroline was never given the recognition that she craved, and she died less than a year later.

  Charles was created Count of Machico in 1825 and Marquess of Angra in Brazil in 1825.

  In 1825, the Portuguese King John VI named Stuart his plenipotentiary with powers to negotiate and sign with Brazil a Treaty on the recognition of that country’s independence. Invested with those powers, Stuart signed the treaty recognizing Brazilian independence on 29 August 1825, and on 15 November of the same year the Portuguese King ratified the treaty.

  In January 1828 he was once again appointed Ambassador to France and was raised to the peerage as Baron Stuart de Rothesay of the Isle of Bute at the same time. He continued as Ambassador to France until 1831. In 1841 he was made Ambassador to Russia, a post he held until 1844.

  Lord Stuart de Rothesay married Lady Elizabeth Margaret, daughter of Philip Yorke, 3rd Earl of Hardwicke, on 6 February 1816. They had two daughters: the Hon. Charlotte Stuart (1817-1861), wife of Charles Canning, 1st Earl Canning; and the Hon. Louisa Anne Stuart (1818-1891), wife of Henry Beresford, 3rd Marquess of Waterford.

  Between 1831 and 1835 Lord Stuart de Rothesay constructed Highcliffe Castle at Highcliffe, Dorset.

  With his wife at his side, de Rothesay died there, most likely from cerebro-vascular disease in November 1845, aged 66, when the barony became extinct. Lady Stuart de Rothesay remained a widow until her death in June 1867.

  Source

  Franklin, Robert. Private & Secret: The Clandestine Activities of a Nineteenth-Century Diplomat. Book Guild, 2005.

  11 May 1812: The Death of a Statesman

  by M.M. Bennetts

  It had been a hellish kind of a day already. And it was only gone five in the afternoon.

  First on the agenda had been the bruising debate over the Conduct of the War in the Peninsula, with the Whigs and Radicals joining forces like some verbal artillery unit.

  And in less than an hour, there would be yet another stormy session in the Royal Chapel of St. Stephen, where the House of Commons met—this time over the repeal of the Orders in Council, which the Government had announced they intended to do on 29 April. That at least ought to please the pro-American radical factions on the opposition benches. And one trusted it would stop this silly to and fro-ing with the Americans over impressment. Because what England did not want was a war with the Americans. Not at this time. Not when they were utterly dependent on wheat and flour from New Eng
land to feed Wellington’s troops in the Peninsula.

  But the debate finished, Brougham having finally closed his gob for the moment, and MPs were pouring out through the lobby doors and into the stone hallway...many of them on their way to the necessary chamber, no doubt. It was the usual crowd. Lord Osborne, General Gascoyne, Smith, the MP for Norwich...and emerging from a side door which stood adjacent to a stone staircase, known chiefly for its worn treads, the Prime Minister and Chancellor of the Exchequer, Sir Spencer Perceval, deep in conversation with Lord Osborne.

  It was just a normal Monday afternoon. The afternoon of 11 May 1812.

  John Bellingham had been a merchant and, with his wife, had travelled to Russia. There, his business had failed and he, owing many roubles, had been placed under house arrest. He’d finally been freed and the debt forgiven on the understanding that he would leave Russia.

  Upon his return to England, he’d taken to writing letters to various Government officials accusing the Russian envoy of ruining his business and demanding restitution—which letters had eventually all been passed to the Treasury to be handled by the Chancellor. But over a period of three years, the Chancellor had given him no joy—despite the hundreds of letters and petitions he’d written.

  Angry and resentful over his ill-treatment, for the past several months, he’d taken to sitting in the gallery of the House of Commons, assessing its weak points, learning to identify the various Honourable Members. He’d also sent threatening letters informing the Chancellor that as he’d failed to dispense justice, Bellingham felt at liberty to execute justice himself. But no one paid much heed—it’s doubtful his letters were even read. Most probably they were just added to the already overladen pile of his ceaseless correspondence.

  Now, armed with a pair of pistols, at just gone five in the afternoon, as the members were streaming from the chamber, he had hidden himself in the shadow of the stone stairs, just behind the folding doors. And as the Prime Minister emerged into the lobby, Bellingham stepped forward, aimed for Perceval’s heart, and fired.

  The shot reverberated through the closed stone corridor, deafening all.

  The Prime Minister, his hand clutched to his breast, reeled backwards and fell, murmuring, “Murder!” (Or as other eyewitness accounts have it, “I am murdered!”)

  Smith, with Osborne’s help, struggled to raise the fallen man. Someone cried, “Oh my God! It’s the Prime Minister!”

  Someone else called for a doctor.

  Smith, Osborne, and a few others lifted him to carry him to the closest chamber, that of the Speaker’s Secretary, and there laid him on a sofa.

  Back in the hallway, chaos had broken out. There were calls to seal off the doors, shouts that it was a conspiracy and a French conspiracy at that.

  A black-coated doctor from Great-George-street arrived and was shown to the small room. He searched Perceval’s neck and wrists for any sign of a pulse, then said what they’d all been fearing for the past quarter of an hour: “It is too late, gentlemen. I am sorry, he is dead.”

  (The shot, fired at point-blank range, had passed through Perceval’s heart.)

  In the hallway, the MPs were milling and congregating in a fury of concern, and there were loud cries of “Shut the doors, let no one out!” Then, as the reality of what they had witnessed dawned upon them all, there were exclamations of “Where’s the murderer? Where’s the rascal that fired?”

  From out the shadows of the stone staircase, John Bellingham, dressed in an overlarge and worn brown coat, stepped forward and loudly proclaimed, “I am the unfortunate man!”

  If it had been chaos before, now it became a scene from bedlam. Instantly, Bellingham was seized and searched—in his pockets another primed and loaded pistol, an opera-glass, and a number of papers and bundles of letters. The spent pistol was not found. Upon being questioned why he had done such a thing, he replied, “Want of redress and denial of justice.”

  To which there were calls for him to be hanged or taken out and shot. Clerks were racing through the corridors, locking doors—for if this was part of a conspiracy, who or what was next?

  The Speaker of the House banged and banged with his gavel, desperate in his attempts to bring the House to order. But to no avail. Finally, fearing for Bellingham’s safety—for the honourable members were now a mob of angry, murderous men—he had no choice but to order that he be removed by the Sergeant of the House to the prison room, by means of a secret passage.

  With many doubting that Bellingham had acted alone, and given the Napoleonic state’s record in dispossessing European countries of their legitimate rulers, an emergency Cabinet Council was called.

  Over the fraught course of that evening, they arrived at a series of measures to prevent further disturbance and panic, and to flush out fellow-conspirators and/or French spies. Sharpshooters were installed atop government buildings and on the roof of 10 Downing Street. The mail was stopped and all foreign letters opened and scrutinised at the Foreign Letter Office. The Household Cavalry guarding the King and Queen at Windsor and the Prince Regent in London was trebled. The Thames River police were put on high alert and ordered to search vessels for possible conspirators. And the militia was called out to patrol the streets of the capital in force. It was as full-on as any modern government’s response to a terror attack.

  Taken before the Magistrates that evening, Bellingham denied any personal enmity towards Perceval, expressing great sorrow for his death and insisting he had only taken away the life of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Despite, or perhaps because of, Bellingham’s obvious mental derangement, a verdict of “wilful murder” was returned by the Coroner. At last bound over for trial, at 1.00 a.m., Bellingham was escorted, manacled, from Westminster to Newgate Prison by a company of the Light Horse.

  The next day, 12 May, the Foreign Secretary, Viscount Castlereagh, addressed the Commons on the proposal to award Perceval’s widow and children a handsome annuity in recognition of the great sacrifice he had made on behalf of his country. But as he paid tribute to his friend and colleague, Castlereagh broke down, sobbing, before the assembled MPs and had to be helped back to his seat—to strong sympathy from the House.

  John Bellingham was tried for murder on 15 May at the Old Bailey before Lord Chief Justice Mansfield, with the Duke of Clarence, the Marquis Wellesley, and almost all the aldermen of the City of London occupying the bench. The jury took fourteen minutes to return a guilty verdict.

  The following Monday, the 18th, Bellingham was hanged before the Debtor’s Door of Newgate Prison.

  Sir Spencer Perceval was buried in the family vault of St. Luke’s, Charlton on 16 May. A memorial to him was placed in Westminster Abbey in June 1812.

  Spencer Perceval remains the only Prime Minister to ever have been assassinated in British history. Though that’s not the only reason he should be remembered. He had been a good man and a good Prime Minister and Chancellor of the Exchequer, respected by his contemporaries to a remarkable degree. He had steered the country through a most volatile and dangerous period, both domestically and abroad.

  Yet saddest of all, like his mentor, the great William Pitt, he did not live to see the fruition of his work to defeat Napoleon. Indeed, he didn’t even know that at the moment of his death, the tide was at last turning against the Napoleonic juggernaut.

  His murder, although generally overlooked today, summoned up the same fears for national security as we have suffered in our generation. This is perhaps best seen in a letter written by his step-mother to Lord Castlereagh shortly afterwards:

  What a catastrophe, my dearest Castlereagh, are you condemned to witness, and what privation has the country suffered in this tragedy of Mr Perceval’s murder. Never since the Duke of Buckingham has such a daring assassination been attempted in England; but what a difference in men; one justly an object of public jealousy and contempt; the other admir
able in all his attributes and every day obtaining more confidence. Some deep plot must be at the bottom of this desperate act. I can never credit that a lunatic alone conceived and executed it. I now tremble for your life.... There is a conspiracy against everything good and great. I hope you do not despise caution in your own person.

  Perceval’s assassination and the subsequent private and political turbulence form the cornerstone of my novel, May 1812. The above account, as well as that in the book, is drawn from several eye-witness accounts found in the newspapers and journals of the day.

  London in the Early 19th Century

  by M.M. Bennetts

  We like to think of London in the early 19th century—at the time of Jane Austen or the Regency—as this almost magical place. One where the traffic-less streets and squares are lined with graciously proportioned brick or Bath stone mansions, inside which ladies clothed in beautiful muslins and gentlemen in cravats flirted discreetly while sipping their ratafia. Right? And it all ends happily in marriage.

  Whereas dramas purporting to shew mid-18th century London offer a robust, even rambunctious, view of the city with all classes and trades rubbing coat-tails in a Hogarthian panorama, the early years of the 19th century are presented as one of an ordered, elegant, static society operating within this hermetically-sealed neo-classical environment of pristine paintwork and pilasters...with, if I may say so, nary a sniff of reality.