Outside the drums grew fainter as the procession advanced, slowly, towards the Abbey. The door to the chamber opened and Somerset Herald appeared, his tabard on top of his robes. ‘The coffin is ready. Are you prepared?’ The silence that followed was broken only by the whine of trumpets and a suppressed sob from Mulgrave. ‘In that case, follow me.’
The coffin awaited them in Westminster Hall, carried by a detachment of Foot Guards and covered with a black velvet pall. Four members of the highest ranks of nobility stood at each corner, including the Duke of Rutland, son of John’s long-dead friend. John himself took up position behind the banner showing the family crest.
At a signal from Somerset Herald the procession began to move. John’s military training came back to him and he fell effortlessly into step. It was almost ridiculously easy to detach himself from the process. All these people surrounding him looked like play-actors in their close mourning, their black velvet cloaks sweeping the ground as they walked.
They descended the steps of Westminster Hall and crossed New Palace Yard. The path had been gravelled and cordoned off with railings, watched over by detachments of the 3rd Regiment of Foot Guards. Temporary seating had been erected, and, as the procession came out onto Parliament Street, the crowds began to make themselves seen. Despite the cold rain, they lined the whole route, down Union Street, across the Broad Sanctuary, right up to the West Door of Westminster Abbey, which was surrounded on both sides by the 47 poor men with their hats and crested gowns. Here the procession was met by the Dean of Westminster, his prebendaries, and the choirs of the Abbey, St Paul’s Cathedral and the Chapel Royal, who fell into step behind the great banner. As soon as the coffin entered the church the choir began to sing, and John had to blink back the tears that rose to his eyes.
How he got through the short burial service he did not know. He sat at the head of the coffin, in front of a table bearing the heraldic trophies, directly under the outstretched hand of his father’s statue. Beside him the flags covering his family crypt had been removed and John could see the shadowy oblong forms of other coffins down below. He tried not to look at them, or at the new coffin being winched down to join them.
At last the choir stopped singing. Garter King of Arms stepped out, each slow step echoing from the high vaulting in the breathless silence. His voice rang out solemnly: ‘Thus it hath pleased Almighty God to take out of this transitory life unto his Divine Mercy, the late Right Honourable William Pitt, one of His Majesty’s most honourable Privy Council, First Lord Commissioner of the Treasury, Chancellor of the Exchequer, Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, one of the Representatives in parliament for the University of Cambridge, the character to whose memory is inscribed, Non sibi sed patriae vixit: “He lived not for himself, but for his country”.’
William’s secretaries, Joseph Smith, John Carthew and William Dacre Adams, each representing the ancient medieval offices of Comptroller, Steward and Treasurer in William’s household, stepped to the edge of the grave. They snapped the short white staves they carried and handed them to the herald, who threw them into the crypt. The pieces bounced off the coffin lid with a hollow thud.
It was over; the funeral service was finished. The heralds collected the trophies. The banners that had been laid on either side of the coffin were taken up again, and the choir began to sing its final anthem. John rose from his chair. Immediately he saw Camden approaching to offer assistance, but John waved him away. He had one last duty to perform.
He moved to the side of the grave. There was William’s coffin, and Papa’s and Mama’s, and Harriot’s a little further away. Hetty was buried at Chevening; James Charles lay on the island of Antigua. Only John now remained above ground, the last of the Pitts.
Past and present merged in his mind. He saw, as vividly as though he had been there, young William shrouded in black velvet, white-faced and choking back tears as another coffin was lowered into the depths of this grave. William had spoken of his feelings on that occasion only once, and in anger, but John could still hear his words, as though they had been spoken only moments ago. I could never rely on you when it truly mattered. Never.
John had allowed those words to shatter their brotherly bond, yet he knew, now, how easy it was to wound, how hard to make amends. Mary had been right. Forgiving oneself was the hardest thing of all, and now he would never get the chance to tell William how sorry he was. He could only let the grief surge through him, each throb more painful than the last, and wait for it to be over. He did not know if it ever would be.
Outside the rain still fell. Hardly any light filtered through the tiny rose window above the North Transept’s enormous wooden doors. A cold draft rippled the folds of John’s cloak around his feet. Someone was calling for him; it was time to say goodbye. He shivered against the chill and looked down, one last time, into his family’s grave.
‘I did not leave you at the very end,’ he said, whispering into the depths of the gloom. ‘I hope you know it.’
He waited a few moments longer, although he could not have said precisely for what; then he raised his head. Drawing his mourning cloak more closely about him he turned, straight-backed and dry-eyed, to take his place in William’s funeral cortege.
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Author’s Note
After his brother’s death, the Earl of Chatham continued for a while in public political life. He served as Master General of the Ordnance under the Duke of Portland and Spencer Perceval, and in July 1809 was appointed to command an amphibious expedition to capture the French fleet, reduce the island of Walcheren, and destroy the defences of Antwerp.
The expedition ended in complete failure, and Chatham disappeared almost completely from domestic politics. He remained in the army, however, and was appointed Governor of Gibraltar in 1820. He died in 1835, 29 years after his brother, and 14 years after his wife Mary. Upon his death, the Earldom of Chatham became extinct.
****
My book The Late Lord: the life of John Pitt, 2nd Earl of Chatham (Pen and Sword Books, 2017) is likely to remain the only biography of Chatham for a long while. Chatham’s brother and father are much better served in the literature, and I drew most of my initial research leads from biographies of them. The best are:
John Ehrman, The Younger Pitt (3 vols.)
Michael Duffy, The Younger Pitt
Robin Reilly, Pitt the Younger
Marie Peters, Pitt the Elder
Brian Tunstall, William Pitt, Lord Chatham
Stanley Ayling, Pitt the Elder
William Hague’s 2004 biography of Pitt the Younger is an excellent and highly readable introduction to the politics of the era.
All characters and events described in the novel are historical; I confess I elevated Mary’s father to the peerage a couple of years early for simplicity’s sake. All letters quoted are from originals (but I have occasionally condensed them for the sake of readability).
Acknowledgments
I have accumulated many debts in writing this novel. The internet has connected me with more like-minded individuals than I ever dreamed existed. Many friends have read and commented on the work in progress: Maggie Scott; Stephen Bishop; Catherine Curzon; Geraldine Porter; Lillah Irwin; Lynn Robb; Angela Filewood; Helen Pinches; Ashley Wilde; Chris Sorensen; Malcolm Mendey; Lindsay Ryan; Mary Tickel; Piers Bearne; and Cherry Bowen. Huge thanks to Philip Ball, the only person who has managed to work out what John was doing during the Battle of Castricum. Alice Grice and Helen Pinches have been hugely helpful in putting several sources my way. I would also like to thank my Yummy Mummies, who have followed this project for years and kept me (sort of) sane. Thank you, ladies, each and every one.
Finally, there are not enough words to
express my gratitude to Stephenie Sverna and Therese Holmes, my spiritual sisters-in-research. Both have read this book from its earliest drafts, and this would be a much poorer novel without Therese’s input in particular. I owe them more than I can ever repay. This book belongs properly to them.
About the author
Jacqueline has a PhD in late 18th century British history from Cambridge University. She has been researching the Pitt family for many years, focusing particularly on the life of the 2nd Earl of Chatham, whose nonfiction biography she has also written. She lives in Cambridge with her husband and their two young children, both of whom probably believe Lord Chatham lives in their house.
If you enjoyed Earl of Shadows check out Endeavour Press’s other books here: Endeavour Press - the UK’s leading independent publisher of digital books.
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Earl of Shadows: A moving historical novel about two brothers in 18th century England Page 35