by Jean Plaidy
With Nelson gone and orders to report to the nearest commanding officer William was suddenly in revolt.
Why should he be ordered here, there and everywhere and have no say in his own actions? It was bad enough not to be able to marry where he would. Every common sailor had that right. He wanted to be home. He wanted to see his brother George and discuss his situation with him. George was the most sympathetic person in the world for while William was fond of and greatly admired Nelson, the sailor had rigid ideas of duty which the Prince of Wales lacked. George knew how to get what he wanted from life. He had captured Maria Fitzherbert and was extremely happy with her. Everybody seemed to be able to do what they wanted except William.
On impulse, instead of obeying orders and reporting to the nearest ship, he set sail for Halifax.
Here he was received with dismay and when he could give no satisfactory explanation of his arrival there when he was expected in Jamaica was sent to Quebec there to remain for the winter.
This was not what he wanted and still in rebellious mood he set sail for England.
When his unexpected arrival was reported to the First Lord of the Admiralty a message was sent to the King without delay telling him of William’s action.
The King heard the news in horror. He went to the Queen; he was confiding in her more than he ever had and the reason was that he was sometimes afraid of talking to his ministers because he was apt to lose the thread of what he was talking about and ramble on vaguely of other matters.
The Queen had noticed disturbing signs during the last months and she was worrying more about the King than ever.
There were rumours about George and Maria Fitzherbert and the question of whether or not they were married was being raised everywhere. Frederick was home from the Continent and no sooner had he returned than George had grown more wild than he had been recently, for the influence of Mrs Fitzherbert had been a good one and for a time he had appeared to live a quiet and domestic life with her; but with the return of Frederick there had been wild parties, practical jokes, drinking and gambling – the sort of activities to set the King worrying.
And now William. She had thought William had settled down; he had had his wild moments, of course, and had at times been uncomfortably involved with women. She remembered a time when he had deserted his ship to come home and tell her that he had fallen in love with a young woman in Portsmouth – was it Portsmouth? some such place! – and pleaded with her to intercede with his father to allow him to marry this young woman. The King had quickly had William transferred to Plymouth, she believed. The places were unimportant. It had only been necessary to remove him from the young woman.
Now here he was back again, disobeying orders, having forgotten that lesson which they had once believed that he had learned so well – that as a sailor he was no different from any other man.
What a trial the boys were! She would make sure – and so would the King – that the girls did not give their parents the same sort of trouble.
‘You hear this. You hear this?’ demanded the King. ‘The young fool. Deserted his ship. Come home… without permission. What next, eh, what?’
‘Where is he?’ asked the Queen fearfully.
‘In Cork Harbour. He’s to sail to Plymouth without delay. Young jackanapes. What does he think, eh? Who does he think…? Sons! Who’d have them? Fred’s the best of the bunch. Hope of the house. As for George…’ The King’s face grew more scarlet merely to think of his firstborn. ‘Arrogant young dandy! Prancing about. That woman…’
‘She seems to be having a good influence.’
‘Good influence! Aping at marriage. Disgusting. Nice woman. Too good for him. Fine state of affairs.’
‘Your Majesty should calm yourself.’
He looked at her quickly. What was she suggesting, eh? But he knew. She was frightened of what would happen if he continued with his tirade. She thought he might start to rave, and was afraid that he might do something… violent.
So was he.
William had committed a grave indiscretion for which any other captain of a vessel would have been court-martialled.
When he brought the Pegasus into Plymouth badly damaged, for on the way from Ireland they had encountered a bad storm and the mainmast had been struck by lightning, he found orders awaiting him there. He was to remain in Plymouth, supervise repairs to the Pegasus and await orders to sail again.
The trip to London which he had no doubt promised himself was not to take place. If he had thought to have a pleasant reunion with his family he was mistaken.
He was depressed and angry. For the first time in his life he was in revolt, but when he considered what he had done he was appalled. He had been eight years in the Navy during which time he had conformed to discipline and now some spirit had got into him and he had flown straight into the face of authority.
What would they do to him? He did not care much. Perhaps he was tired of never being at home for long; perhaps he wanted an end to the wandering life. He had seen a great deal of the world. Was he to roam all his life?
And now here he was confined to Plymouth with none of the amusements he had promised himself. It was as bad here as it would have been in Quebec. He might as well have stayed there and prevented all the fuss.
While he was brooding on his wrongs and studying the accounts of the damage to the ship one of his men came to tell him that visitors had arrived and were asking to see him.
He grimaced. No doubt Lord Chatham, the First Lord; or some such dignitary come to lecture him, or worse still.
‘Bring them in,’ he said.
They came. He stared; then he gave a cry of joy; he flung himself into their arms.
‘If you could not come to London,’ said the Prince of Wales, ‘there was only one thing for Fred and me to do. So we did it, didn’t we, Fred? We came to Plymouth.’
The brothers were laughing and hugging each other. William felt suddenly emotional, and seeing this the Prince produced his ever-ready tears.
‘Of course we came. We weren’t going to let you be bored to death in Plymouth. Have you forgotten the old motto?’
‘I haven’t,’ cried William.
Frederick grinned. ‘United we stand,’ he said.
There were gay occasions in Plymouth. Surely it was a time for celebrations with three princes in the city, and one of them the heir to the throne.
The Prince of Wales with his brothers made a tour of the dockyards much to the delight of the people of the town who flocked out in their thousands to welcome them.
In the suburb of Stonehouse where the assembly rooms were situated gala balls and banquets were arranged. Wherever the Prince of Wales appeared there was elegance, and Plymouth wanted to show it could entertain royalty as well as Brighton or Cheltenham, Worthing or Weymouth. In the Long Room at Stonehouse the Prince danced with the ladies, and Frederick and William did their duty with him. There was racing and gambling and for three days Plymouth was as gay and famous as Brighton and London.
William, happy to gain what he had come home for and what he had feared would be denied him – his brothers’ company – was full of high spirits. He was more at home in Plymouth than his brothers were, being the sailor of the family. He could talk of ships in a manner which amused the Prince of Wales while it won his admiration.
Accompanied by his brothers George drove his phaeton through the town and into the surrounding country and it was touching to see how delighted the people were to have a glimpse of their future King. George was in his element, gracious, charming, courteous and witty.
They were three exciting days.
During them William fell in love. She was a pretty girl named Miss Wynn and they immediately called attention to their feeling for each other because at the Long Room they were together throughout the ball and neither danced with anyone else.
The poet Peter Pindar who invariably brought out verses to suit every occasion wrote:
‘A town where, exiled by the
higher powers
The Royal Tar with indignation lours;
Kept by his sire from London and from sin,
To say his catechism to Mistress Wynn.’
The verses were circulated and everywhere the revelries of the three brothers were being discussed. When they were brought to the King’s notice he ground his teeth in anger and wept with frustration. His sons flouted him, he complained; and he could not sleep at night for worrying about them. It seemed to the Queen that he was moving towards some fearful climax.
The Prince of Wales and Duke of York were accorded a royal salute as they rode out of Plymouth, and when they had left Captain Horatio Nelson sailed into the harbour where to William’s delight he spent a few weeks.
It was very pleasant to be in the company of this brilliant sailor, though it was very different from that of the Princes. With Nelson to listen to, William’s friendship with Miss Wynn began to wane; he became very interested in the Navy once more and was fired with enthusiasm to follow Horatio Nelson.
The Admiralty thought it was high time some action should be taken and William was transferred to the Andromeda and ordered to sail for Halifax.
The Queen was growing more and more worried about the King’s health although she sought to hide her fears from him and everyone else. While he was aware of his affliction he could to some extent control it but the Queen’s dread was that he would become unaware of it and be unable to hide his growing aberrations.
He was in a continual state of anxiety. Ever since the loss of the American Colonies he had been fretful; he blamed himself for this colossal blunder – and not without reason; the conduct of his sons was a perpetual source of worry. He would wake in the night and cry out: ‘Is he married to that woman? Is it true that she’s a Catholic, eh, what?’ Almost everything he said was in the form of a question ending in ‘eh, what?’ which his listeners found most disconcerting for they never could be sure whether or not an answer was expected.
The Queen thought that it might relieve the King to see a good play but she hesitated to suggest a visit to the theatre. She was terrified every time the King appeared in public; but some diversion was necessary so she hit on the idea of inviting a few actors and actresses to Windsor Castle to perform for the King.
The leading actress at Drury Lane was Mrs Siddons and she would suggest to Mr Sheridan that a little troupe headed by this lady should come to perform before herself and the King.
Mr Sheridan with his usual grace declared that nothing could be simpler and that Mrs Siddons and her fellow actors and actresses would be overwhelmed by the honour.
The actors came and the play was performed. The King sat through it smiling, applauding, and when it was over he asked that Mrs Siddons be brought to him for he had something to say to her.
Sarah entered the anteroom in which he was to receive her as only Sarah could. She made a drama of the most insignificant happening, but no one could say that being personally thanked by the King – which she was sure this was to be – was insignificant.
She prepared to declaim in her wonderful voice the speech which she had prepared – and rehearsed – when the King began to mumble something she could not understand and thrust a paper into her hand.
‘For you,’ he said. ‘For you. For you. Very good, eh? Gratitude, what? Very good.’
She was dismissed clutching the paper and when she looked at it she found it was blank except that he had signed it.
She stared at it in amazement for some moments and then she said aloud as though it was the last line of a scene before the curtain fell: ‘The King is mad.’
The Queen sat holding the piece of paper. Mrs Siddons had brought it to her with a display of distress, declaring that she believed it her duty to do so.
‘I have wrestled with myself,’ said the actress, striking her left hand against her breast. ‘I have asked myself what I should do. And my conscience tells me that I should bring this to Your Majesty. His Majesty presented it to me as though it were some insignia of honour. Your Majesty, I greatly fear that the King is ill.’
The Queen thanked Mrs Siddons. She had done right in bringing the paper to her, she said. There was some mistake, of course. At a convenient time she would ask His Majesty what his intentions were.
And when Mrs Siddons had gone she sat down wearily.
Was this the end of her endeavours to hide the state of his health? Was the truth to be betrayed at last?
It seemed so, for events moved quickly after that. The King was acting strangely and the whole royal household knew it. The Princesses whispered together and sat silent in the presence of their mother, working at their embroidery, filling her snuff boxes and taking care of the dogs – which was, they complained bitterly to each other, all their lives consisted of.
But something was about to happen.
Frederick sent urgent messages to the Prince of Wales in Brighton; he should be at hand, for the King was very ill indeed – not only physically ill, although he had high temperature and a chill, but strangely ill.
The Prince came at once, driving his phaeton from Brighton at a great speed; and that night at dinner the King rose suddenly from his seat and approaching his eldest son seized him by the throat and tried to strangle him.
There could be no disguising the fact.
The King was mad. His doctors must be called and the almost certainty of a Regency discussed.
The struggle over the Regency Bill began, with the Queen and the Prince of Wales in opposing camps. The Queen who had doted on her eldest son, who had had a wax image made when he was a baby so that she might remember for ever his perfections and gaze on them every day – for it stood on her dressing table – had been consistently flouted by him and shut out of his life. Because of this her love had changed. If he had given her the slightest consideration she would have been ready to love him; but hurt and humiliated by his neglect she forced herself to hate him. Her emotion towards him – love or hatred – was the strongest in her life.
Pitt, who had stood with the King, found himself in opposition to Fox who stood for the Prince. Fox declared in Parliament that since the King was unable to govern, the heir to the throne must be Regent. Pitt brought all his powers to oppose this, knowing that a Regency in the hands of the Prince of Wales could mean the fall of the Tories and the substitution of the Whigs under Fox.
Pitt sought the help of the Queen by offering her something which all her life she had been denied: Power. The country was split between those who supported the Prince of Wales as Regent and those who wished for a Regency committee. The royal family was divided. The Queen and her daughters (who dared do nothing else) for Mr Pitt and the constitution, and the Prince and his brothers for a single Regent who would be the Prince of Wales.
The Prince had strong backing in Fox, Burke and Sheridan, but Fox made the tactical error in the House of Commons of referring to the Prince’s right to the Regency which gave Pitt his opportunity to challenge the right of any to such a post in a constitutional government and asked slyly whether Mr Fox had not meant ‘claim’.
Because of this unfortunate choice of a word Pitt had his opportunity to play a game of delaying tactics which infuriated the Prince and his supporters and widened the rift between Fox and George. Twice Fox had offended him; once when he had denied his marriage to Mrs Fitzherbert in the House – and Mrs Fitzherbert had been so incensed that she had broken off her relationship with the Prince and had never forgiven Fox – and now by the use of this word ‘right’.
As Fox said to his mistress Mrs Armistead, perhaps he was getting too old for politics and should retire. He did not blame himself for that denial in the House because in view of the circumstances there had been nothing else he could do, but the use of the word ‘right’, in the hearing of a brilliant politician like Pitt, was a terrible blunder.
So Pitt had his opportunity to present his Regency Bill which restricted the powers of the Prince Regent so that he would be no more than a cipher;
but no sooner had it passed through a fevered House of Commons that the King’s doctors declared that he had recovered and the conflict had all been unnecessary.
When William came back to England he found a state of war in the family.
The King – a changed man – nervous, uncertain, often incoherent, clearly relied on the Queen to whom previously he had denied all say in matters outside the domestic circle – and even there he had laid down his laws. The change was obvious. Mr Pitt during the King’s aberration and the conflict over the Regency Bill had allied himself with the Queen and any ally of Mr Pitt was a person to be considered.
The Queen accepted her new role with restrained pleasure but the change in her was as apparent as that in the King.
She had lost no time in acquainting the King of the villainies of their sons, and in particular the Prince of Wales who had sought to get power into his hands and would, of course, as soon as it was possible, have replaced dear Mr Pitt with that villain Fox, while Frederick had been staunchly behind him and the other boys, she regretted to say, had stood firmly with the Prince.
William! Well, William was at sea, but she had no doubt – knowing his devotion to George – that had he been at home he would have been every bit as disloyal to his father as his brothers had been.
William heard the story from George and Frederick.
There was madness in the King, said the Prince. Didn’t they know it! He might have made some semblance of recovery but he would go mad again. The Prince of Wales was twenty-seven years old. Wasn’t that old enough to be a ruler? The King had been King long before he was that age; and surely if their simple old father was capable, it was an insult to say that the brilliant, erudite Prince of Wales was not.
‘That devil Pitt,’ said the Prince. ‘He’s the real enemy. You can be sure our mother would not have had the wit to stand against us if she had not had his support.’
William joined whole-heartedly with his brothers and declared war on that devil Pitt.
The King sent for William and when he was ushered into his presence and saw the change in him William felt a twinge of pity. The King embraced him and there were tears on his cheeks.
