The Pretender's Lady

by Alan Gold

  “Why begin with those who oppose you, Majesty. Better to let me begin,” said Athol O’Malley, one of the Irishmen who was supporting his cause, “by congratulating you on your brilliant strategy so far. Who would have believed that an army of loyalists could have succeeded in coming within a hundred and twenty miles of London with such speed and economy? Nary a man-jack lost, nor more than a couple of bullets spent, and already we’ve got the English in such a flapdoodle that they’re hiding in their rooftops and under their beds. Since our brilliant victory at Carlisle, we Catholics . . . we loyal Jacobites . . . have encountered almost no resistance, and we’ve taken Penrith, Kendal, Lancaster, Preston, and Manchester. Majesty, it’s the greatest act of military genius since the Roman Emperor, Julius Caesar himself, landed in England and quelled the rebellious Druids.”

  His sycophancy had been predictable, and none of the military men raised a voice in argument.

  “I thank you, Athol, but I’d also like to hear your opinion of what should happen to the campaign now,” he said to the Irishman.

  “Now? What does now mean, your Majesty? Is there a difference between yesterday, now and tomorrow? We’re marching ahead of six thousand of the toughest and most skilled men against an opposition that dares not show its face. We’ve won breathtaking victories against the English usurpers in Prestonpans, in Carlisle and elsewhere along the way. What is to stop us from reaching the outskirts of London within two weeks and putting the boot up Georgie’s arse? Where’s his mighty army? Still bogged down in Flanders or dealing with the issue of the succession in Austria? I tell you, Majesty, that there is no English army that dares oppose us. The Black Watch is watching for the French and if the English had withdrawn troops from Europe why haven’t they stopped our assault on London? The fact of the matter is, Majesty, that King George is more concerned about what’s happening in Hanover than he is in safeguarding his English throne . . .”

  Lord George Murray banged his fist on the table, shocking all around. “The fact of the matter is that you’re a fool and a knave and downright dangerous, and you should be locked up in the stocks and have housewives throw rotten cabbages at your rotten head,” he shouted at the Irishman.

  Shocked by the outburst, Athol O’Malley stopped talking, and the prince looked up in surprise that his normally polite and gentlemanly commander in chief had made such a crude and uncharacteristic statement.

  In silence, knowing that everybody was looking at him, Lord George Murray said, “The man’s a fool, Prince Charles. Old King Henry VIII paid his jester Will Somers two shillings a month to give him such advice and make him laugh. This arse-licking dog-hearted codpiece of a ne’er-do-well is not clever enough to be a jester, but he’s a damned sight more dangerous to you than a regiment of crack English artillery. He’ll spin words around your head until you’re blinded by flattery, and if you’re of a mind, you’ll believe him. Then we’ll all be killed and the whole of England will wonder at your stupidity.”

  The prince stood from his chair intent on scalding the general, but Lord Murray continued, “I don’t care whether you like what I’m going to say or not. If you don’t, I’ll happily resign your commission and return as a volunteer to the ranks. But before I go, you’ll listen to what I have to say and then we’ll take a vote as your council, so that everybody here will be absolutely clear as to what I believe.

  “It was folly to cross the border with England. You should have stopped in Scotland, defended Edinburgh, and drawn a line so that the Stuarts would be kings of the North. We could have spent the next five years ensuring the support of Ireland and Wales, and maybe even France, which would have given muscle to a proper Jacobite uprising. Then, ahead of an army of twenty thousand or more, you could have attacked England and thrown the Hanoverian off the throne. But no, Charles, you’re an impetuous youth, and against my advice, you’ve marched south expecting the Catholics to rise up and join you. Well they haven’t! And there’s no sign that they will, nor that Wales or France will come to your rescue. The French have sent a token handful of men and supplies, but not enough to engage in real warfare.

  “We’ve thundered south like wild-eyed stampeding cattle with barely a thought to arms or supplies or what the English Army will mount against us, and now we’re in the midlands of England with a force of men a third the enemy’s size, hundreds of miles from safety, with three-pounder cannon that wouldn’t even put a dent in a crofter’s hut, no rifles, and our only arms are muskets with no ammunition.

  “General Wade is marching down the Pennines with six thousand men to try to cut off our march forward. The Duke of Cumberland is fast bringing up the advance with five thousand soldiers should we try to group on the Welsh border, and there are at least six thousand men marching up from the South Coast, and God only knows what other troops and militia are being raised against us. And this arse-licking catchpenny toad of an Irish ninny,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at Athol O’Malley, “this shite-stirring fistle of a mankie drool, is pressing us onwards to London. What? Does he think that London is quaking in fear at our advance? They must be sitting in their coffee houses, rejoicing on our imminent destruction, laughing at our naivety for thinking that we could have caused England’s Catholics to rise up and fight for us. I tell you, Charles, that if we don’t turn around immediately and head back to Scotland, there’ll be six thousand Scottish widows cursing the name Stuart from here unto eternity.”

  The Lord Murray breathed deeply and sat down on a chair. He had said his piece. He had planted his flag firmly in the soil. If the meeting went against him, he would be destroyed as a military commander. But in all good conscience, it was a risk he had to take. For the sake of Scottish men and women everywhere.

  THE PALACE OF ST. JAMES, LONDON

  DECEMBER 4, 1745

  Prime Minister Henry Pelham set out early with his brother, the Duke of Newcastle, on a long walk from Whitehall to St. James’s Palace, taking in a large swathe of central London in order to find out how the hearts of Englishmen and women were beating.

  The two men could have taken a carriage, but Pelham insisted that they walk so that they could more accurately enter the crowds in the streets and enable them to gauge the mood of their fellow Londoners. They walked into a couple of coffee houses on their way and found the mood in both to be unusually somber. Normally beehives of gossip, noisy establishments full of laughter and banter, today everybody was talking about the coming invasion and the slaughter that would undoubtedly take place when the wild Scottish men with their claymores and daggers entered the city and raped and pillaged as they’d done up and down the length and breadth of England. As they left the first coffee house, the duke had commented to his brother on the quiet of the establishment. “It’s more like a damnable Quaker’s Meeting House than a coffee shop.”

  In case it was an aberration and to gain further information, Pelham had insisted that they visit a coffee house on Tyburn Road. But this shop too was patronized by people who also spoke in subdued tones and speculated on whether or not they could sleep safely in their beds that or any other night. Even though they had only visited two establishments, from these and the tenor of people in the streets, it was obvious that the stampede of the marauding Highland cattle had caused London to panic. People were speaking openly and in confident tones about the thousands of English women and girls dragged out of their homes and raped by a dozen or more Scotsmen, who then rejoiced in inflicting the most horrendous death by skewering them with pikes and swords. And all this while their menfolk in chains were forced to watch the degradation of their womenfolk before themselves being butchered. Prime Minister Pelham knew from first-hand reports that it was all nonsense, of course. It was even said that the prince insisted on paying for food and lodging as he progressed south. But that didn’t stop the rumors.

  The two men continued to walk past Tyburn Gallows where five cutpurses were swinging in the wind and then south down Park Lane, into St. James’s Park and then on to the
palace where courtiers opened the doors to admit them. The king’s equerry nodded for the two men to enter, which surprised Pelham.

  “Aren’t you going to announce us, General von Hinton?” asked Pelham.

  “For what purpose?” asked the Equerry, his heavy German accent more pronounced than the prime minister remembered hearing it in recent months. “There’s almost nobody in the Audience Hall; they’ve all scurried away like frightened mice to their country estates. There’s only the king and a few others, and they’re so busy packing up and deciding with what to flee that they won’t even hear me if I announce you. Just go in, Mr. Prime Minister, and announce yourself.”

  “Extraordinary,” said the Duke of Newcastle and opened the door for his prime ministerial brother.

  When they entered the Audience Hall, normally hissing with the sound of courtiers whispering behind their hands or their fans, there was only the sound of their footsteps echoing against the walls. It wasn’t until they were halfway along the room that the king looked up from his writing desk and noticed them. They were shocked by his appearance. Normally resplendent in a different military uniform every week, bejewelled and bemedalled, today the king was dressed in little more than his trews and nightshirt and was devoid of his wig, even though it was already the middle of the morning. His hair was ruffled, and most surprisingly of all, his face was completely un-made-up. He looked more like an elderly barrow boy than a king of England.

  “Ah, Prime Minister. I can’t decide which of my English crowns to take with me. And shall I take the Sceptre with the Dove or the Sceptre with the Cross. Or both? What do you think? And the rest of the royal jewels. What’s your opinion?”

  “My opinion, Majesty?”

  “Yes, Mr. Pelham, what should I take?”

  “But where are you going, sir?”

  The king looked at Pelham as though he were deranged.

  “To Hanover.”

  “But . . .”

  “London is besieged, and the monarchy must continue. I shall be in Hanover until these barbarians are defeated.”

  “You’re leaving?” said the Duke of Newcastle, barely able to speak the words.

  “Of course. Now, gentlemen, your opinion. What jewels should I take with me to protect it from the Scotsmen?”

  “None,” said Pelham. “You mustn’t go. This is madness. Majesty, what you are about to do is an act of rashness and great folly. To think of leaving London now would be an evil mistake. Sir, a king should lead his people in time of woe. To even contemplate leaving the capital at a moment such as this sends a signal to your people that all is lost. People will think that you’re a coward, despite the great courage Your Majesty showed not two years ago when you led your armies against the French at the Battle of Dettingen. Yet now you seek to leave your people and travel back to Germany. How could Your Majesty think of such a thing? All London is frightened of the advancing Scots, and so this is no time for the king to leave his nation. Unless, Majesty, you truly believe that Hanover is where your heart lies and the seat on which the royal buttocks should reside. If that is the case, Sire, please inform me, and I’ll travel to the north of London and welcome Prince Charles Edward Stuart who will prepare the throne for his father who will, by your abdication, become king of England.”

  The Duke of Newcastle was stunned at the impertinence of his brother, whom he’d always considered more of a shopkeeper than a prime minister. He looked at him with new respect. But the king felt no such respect!

  “Kindly remember, Mr. Pelham, to whom you’re speaking.”

  “I remember only too well, sir, that I am addressing the king of England, the inheritor of a throne on which sat the greatest of all monarchs our world has ever known, true leaders of their people whose Houses bore such great names as Plantagenet and Tudor. Men and women such as Henry II, Henry VIII, and Queen Elizabeth, who, I might remind you, stood alone and in peril against Spain and defeated the armada. There was a true monarch. Indeed, all three and many more were the stoutest hearts of this country, monarchs who would never have contemplated sailing away when their nation needed them.”

  “But unlike them, Mr. Prime Minister, I am not just the king of England, but I’m also the Duke Brunswick-Lünenburg of Hanover and the Arch-treasurer and Prince-Elector of the Holy Roman Empire! My lands and titles are far greater than just being the king of England. Is it wrong for a monarch to be kept safe from harm when he is heir to such august offices? Am I to put myself in the front line of every battle? If I’m killed, who then will rule in my place? I have a duty to my people.”

  “Your Majesty put himself in the front line against the French at Dettingen,” said Newcastle.

  “And standing beside me were the Hanoverian army and the Austrians. Safety in numbers, my Grace of Newcastle. But who can countenance standing against pillaging wild men in skirts who rape and plunder. Madmen who carry terrible weapons that can tear a man in two and rip out his innards. What kind of a weapon from hell is that, Mr. Pelham? This isn’t an army come to take London; this is a force of wild beasts. An army is composed of gentlemen and other ranks who are trained to fight gentlemen like gentlemen; they march in precise formations and fire their weapons only when ordered. But what army can fight against these . . . these . . . wild brutes from the north who have red beards and red eyes and arms and legs covered in thick untamed hair like those of a Bavarian mountain bear. The stories coming to me concerning these men and what they do to prisoners are terrifying . . . when I fought the French, I knew what I was fighting, and what would happen to me. The worst would be a bullet through my heart or a mortal wound in a saber fight. But these men from Scotland. They’re not men, Mr. Pelham. They’re animals. Who can tame them? Eh? Answer me that, Prime Minister.”

  “Your brave son, the Duke of Cumberland, sir. And other generals who are currently racing the length and breadth of England to do battle. My own beloved brother, the Duke of Newcastle who stands by my side and who will leave this very afternoon to lead his army. These are the men, sir, who will defeat our enemy.

  “And as to these reports of murder and rape and pillage, they are untrue. False. Hateful lies to slander the Young Pretender. He may be our enemy, Majesty, but he is a gentleman. Stories of rape and pillage are coffee house gossip and tittle-tattle. And yes, they may be hirsute and wear kilts, but these are Highlanders. They live a crude life in crofts and huts. But not all Scotland is like that. There is great intellect in Scotland, and the officers who lead these men would, I’m sure, be gentlemen of courage and wisdom. Men who probably live and thrive in the cities of Scotland, such as Edinburgh, which are replete with cultured gentle men and women.

  “This Scottish army under the Pretender has fought a few engagements in Scotland and on the border of England, and they’ve not only fought well, but fairly.”

  “Fairly,” shouted the king. “Fairly? How can you say that when in the battle outside of Edinburgh, they crept up like cowards and dogs in the middle of the night, and shot our Englishmen in the back? What’s fair about that, Mr. Pelham?”

  “It was a tactic that I’m sure the English generals would have employed, had they known to. Sir, there has been no question that the Scotsmen have behaved like barbarians. Yes, they are right at this moment in the town of Derby, but they will soon be met, maybe around Leicestershire, by General Wade or your son, the duke himself. We have vastly superior numbers, superior artillery, cavalry, rifles, and equipment. Our men are fresh, whereas the Pretender’s troops have marched themselves into exhaustion. They’re ill-equip, and almost nobody in England has risen to join them. They came here anticipating a mass uprising of Catholics, and your loyal subjects have rejected Prince Charles Edward Stuart and all of his vaunted ambitions to put his father on the throne.

  “Yet Your Majesty is filling up your royal ship in the Thames with the treasury and heritage of England in order to desert his country, just when you should be standing firm and showing the people your bravery.”

  “
My treasury, Mr. Pelham! I am England and England belongs to me. I am taking the crown and the jewels with me for safekeeping. The very last thing I want is for the damned Pretender to capture the crown and place it on his unworthy head,” King George said, his voice raised almost to a shouting pitch.

  And Pelham shouted back, “His head will be worthy of your crown, sir, if the throne is empty and he occupies it by right of conquest. Then the crown truly will be his, for he will have fought and won and deserve to be crowned king of England.

  “It beggars my understanding and defies my belief in the divine right of kings and our heritage in the ancient monarchy of England that Your Majesty could even contemplate leaving your people at such a time, just when the battle is about to commence? Especially when in all likelihood Prince Charles will be soundly thrashed by the sturdy oaks who are your loyal subjects and who will lay down their lives for you!

  “But what will your subjects say when they discover that you have scurried off to Hanover to protect yourself? You’ll be a laughingstock. When you return in disgrace, you’ll be mocked and hated in the inns and coffee shops and salons in London and the provinces. It won’t do, sir. It truly won’t.”

  The king stood from his chair and came to the edge of the plinth, his face puce with anger, his body shaking in rage. The only time he’d ever been spoken in this manner had been by his detested and long-dead father. “They hate me now, Mr. Pelham, just like they hated my father, and they hate my son. So what’s the difference? They hate anybody who wasn’t born in England. I can’t help the fact that I was born in Hanover. Is that a reason to scorn me and my family? It seems that the only friends I have in this damnable country are my courtiers, and they’ve all deserted me at the first sign of trouble. All England lets me know how much they hate me. I’m mocked in the newspapers and on the stage and in the streets. So why should I stay and defend these people who are my subjects?”