11
THE BLOODY ASSIZES
The Duke of Monmouth and Judge Jeffreys 1685–6
Most people are familiar with the saying, ‘Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ But sometimes, even constitutionally controlled power can get out of control if a few evil people conspire to subvert the course of justice. When King Charles II died without a legitimate heir in 1685 the struggle for his throne very nearly sparked off another civil war and brought the course of British justice to its knees.
Once the grim, austere, puritanical rule of Oliver Cromwell ended in 1659, the restoration of the monarchy under Charles II must have seemed like a breath of fresh air for the people of England. After ten years without a king, the Stuarts were back on the throne and although, inwardly, King Charles’s court was riddled with intrigue aimed at restoring a Catholic monarch, and court life was notoriously debauched, outwardly the realm was peaceful and relatively well ordered. But for all his philandering, a string of mistresses and thirteen illegitimate children, King Charles and his wife failed to produce an heir. Consequently, only two men held any substantial claim to the throne: Charles’s brother James, Duke of York, and his eldest illegitimate son, James Scott, Duke of Monmouth.
The king’s brother had never been popular, nor does it seem that he made much of an attempt to curry favour in high places. He was secretive, cruel, cowardly and mildly paranoid, in part because he knew his Catholic faith was unpopular among the people, the court, and the Whig-led parliament. To make matters worse, James habitually wore an expression that made people think he had just smelled something nasty. As early as 1697 the largely anti-royalist Whig party attempted to have James removed from the official line of succession, but without ever explaining his reasons King Charles adamantly refused to consider the request.
In stark contrast to his uncle, the king’s eldest son, the illegitimate James, Duke of Monmouth, was a young man with a quick wit, an easy smile and just enough arrogance to make him appear completely self-assured. To add to these impressive attributes, Monmouth was, by the standards of the day, very handsome. Small wonder he was popular among the noble classes as well as with members of parliament and the common people – an achievement to be envied by the politically ambitious of any period. But his biggest attraction at court and in parliament was probably not his personal charm, rather it was his status as the Protestant who stood the strongest chance of preventing the throne from reverting to his staunchly Catholic uncle James. Repeatedly, Protestant leaders and members of both political parties tried to convince the king to legitimise his natural son and name him successor to the throne. But just as Charles would not rule out the possibility of his brother assuming the throne, neither would he consent to name his son as legitimate heir.
The Duke of Monmouth’s mother was Lucy Walters, a former mistress of Charles II, who had turned to prostitution after the king had tired of her. Despite his neglect of Lucy, Charles saw to it that his eldest son was well cared for. When young James reached the age of thirteen, his father called him to court – a move which should have provided him with the benefits of a fine education and a chance to learn the graces of a courtier. Unfortunately, Monmouth’s education turned out to be a bit more comprehensive than it should have been. Charles placed the boy in the care of his latest paramour, Lady Castlemaine, who exposed him to the worst influences of a morally and sexually debauched court. With his natural charm and wit Monmouth quickly became the darling of the court and developed some serious deficiencies of character that were bound to bubble to the surface sooner or later. Even Samuel Pepys, Secretary of the Admiralty and noted diarist, referred to him as ‘profligate’ – strong words for the time.
Within three years of coming to court, King Charles officially acknowledged the young duke as his son, and arranged a marriage with Anne Scott, Countess of Buccleuch and the wealthiest heiress in Scotland. Following the marriage, James officially adopted his wife’s surname, becoming James Scott, Duke of Monmouth. Advancing himself through the political and social ranks of his father’s court with astonishing speed, at the tender age of twenty Monmouth was appointed captain-general of all the king’s forces, both regular army and cavalry. Amazingly for one so young, he seems to have acquitted himself well. He was admired by common soldiers and senior officers alike and judged to be a fearless and clever commander, who always led from the front. Tragically, the young duke seems not to have been quite as bright as he was charming and bold.
When threats of anti-Catholic riots rumbled across England in 1680, King Charles decided it would be best if his brother James, Duke of York, left the country for his own protection. The wily James agreed but insisted that Monmouth should leave as well. Finally, Charles acquiesced, ordering his son to the court of his Protestant sister Mary and her husband (and cousin) William of Orange, ruler of Holland. Monmouth went as ordered, but in less than two months he returned, uninvited, to England. The king was furious, insisting that the thirty-year-old duke leave the country at once. Monmouth refused. Finally, the two compromised. Monmouth would stay away from court and out of the limelight until he was called for.
So he left court, but he hardly remained out of the public eye. For months Monmouth and some of his closest supporters toured the country on what can only be called an ‘image-building’ campaign, where his startling good looks and charm won him thousands of ardent fans and supporters. When his father demanded he return to London, a violent argument broke out between the two, which ended with the king stripping his son of his titles. Monmouth insisted it had not been his fault, that he had been led astray by followers who wanted to see him on the throne. It was a poor excuse but Charles believed it (as fathers are wont to do). He forgave his son but ordered the arrest and execution of some of Monmouth’s closest followers. The Duke of Monmouth had sent his friends to the block to disguise his own ambition and save his titles.
As part of the reconciliation, Charles insisted that to avoid a conflict with the succession and quell any lingering rumours as to the exact nature of the ill-conceived publicity tour, Monmouth return to the court of the Netherlands and stay there until he was called for. This time, the 35-year-old Monmouth obeyed his father.
Separated by the English Channel, relations between Charles and Monmouth seem to have improved greatly over the next few months. It is even possible that, in time, Charles might have made his son heir to the throne. Unfortunately, on 6 February 1685, just over a year after Monmouth left England, King Charles suffered a stroke and died. When news of his death reached the Netherlands, Monmouth was overcome with grief. His aunt, Queen Mary, reported that he went to his bedroom and mourned so piteously that those in nearby rooms could hear him weeping. Meanwhile, Monmouth’s uncle James (Duke of York) hurried to London to claim the throne as King James II.
For all the strange and convoluted plots to return a Catholic to the throne of England, it must have come as a surprise to nearly everyone when James ascended the throne with complete legitimacy. Even less expected was the fury with which he set about ousting Protestants from high office and replacing them with Catholics. As though attempting to make himself unpopular, the new king openly encouraged foreign Catholics and English Catholics in exile to move to England. To Catholics foreign and domestic he handed out important civil and military positions more on the basis of their religious beliefs than on any real qualifications. The move was unprecedented, unconscionable and of highly suspect legality. James had not even had his coronation and he was turning his kingdom on its head. Within weeks of taking the throne, nobles and parliament alike were looking for a way to replace the new king.
Meanwhile, back in the Netherlands, King William and Queen Mary feared their nephew would become a target for his uncle’s religious pogroms. His presence at their court might even spark an open war between Holland and England. Consequently, no matter how genuinely fond of him they were, they told Monmouth he had to leave. Seeking advice from his friends and supporters, Monmouth
finally came to the conclusion that his best course of action was to go to England, rally his old followers and friends from his time as captain-general of the army, and drive James from the throne. But like so many good plans, Monmouth was plagued by lack of funds. The most he could raise was £9,000, hardly enough to man and equip a mighty insurrection.
On the evening of 11 June 1685, three ships sailed into the English port of Lyme; on board were a mere eighty-three soldiers and a few horses. It was such a strange sight that it drew crowds of spectators. Only when they saw the Duke of Monmouth being rowed to shore did their silent stares turn to cheers and their numbers swell to thousands. People flocked to see him and hear him speak. At Lyme and Taunton he openly claimed that his uncle, whom he referred to as the Duke of York rather than James II, had constantly plotted against the Protestant religion and finally poisoned the king in order to take the throne. In short order Monmouth had attracted more than two thousand soldiers and nearly eight thousand civilian followers. All were anxious to take on the king’s army and put their hero on the throne.
Obviously, Monmouth believed that far greater numbers of soldiers would soon desert the crown and take up his banner; but people are fickle, and a known terror is always preferable to an unknown terror. The anticipated wave of followers and trained soldiers never appeared and those already with him slowly ebbed away through desertion and losses in a string of minor skirmishes with King James’s troops. By the time Monmouth’s army clashed with the royal forces at Sedgemoor on 5 July 1685, he had no more than seven thousand followers, more than five thousand of them untrained civilians.
Despite putting up a brave fight, Monmouth and his troops were no match for the king’s army. Within hours the rebels were routed, arrested, or killed. Monmouth himself had remained with the cavalry as long as possible, but in the end was forced to flee the field. At around 7 on the second morning after the battle, a detachment of soldiers discovered the Duke of Monmouth hiding in a ditch disguised in the smock of a common shepherd. As he huddled there, the captain read the arrest warrant: ‘James Duke of Monmouth . . . for High Treason in levying war against the King and assuming title to the Crown . . .’
If the outcome of Monmouth’s ill-fated coup is no great surprise, we are left with this question: if no one in the government supported the new king, who did he find to issue the arrest warrant for his nephew and force the bill through parliament? Obviously, even before coming to the throne James knew just how unpopular he was and how desperately he would need powerful support to prop up the questionable legality of his radical programmes. He also needed someone in a position of adequate power to keep the populace and parliament in line. The ‘someone’ who could do all these things was the barbarically cruel George Jeffreys, Lord Chief Justice of England.
Jeffreys’ early years had hardly been promising. He had spent most of his time at Cambridge’s law school drinking in local taverns where he bought endless rounds of drinks for the best and most influential of his classmates, amusing them with crude jokes and bawdy songs. Eventually, despite his feeble knowledge of the law and failure to complete his degree, his powerful classmates saw to it that Jeffreys was admitted to the Bar. By the time he took his place there in 1668, Jeffreys was either perpetually drunk, in a rage, or both, though it has to be admitted that his constant drinking was partly to relieve the pain of bladder stones that would only grow worse with the passing years. Taller than average, with a heavily pock-marked face and piercing eyes set beneath massive, bushy eyebrows, Jeffreys’ furious temper and razor sharp invective made him a master of scathing cross-examination, often reducing witnesses to tears in a matter of minutes by giving them what he called ‘a lick with the rough side of his tongue’. In court, Jeffreys harangued juries, twisted the rules and raged at defendants and witnesses whose testimony did not suit him.
Thanks to his peculiar talents, Jeffreys quickly made a name for himself and rose to national prominence towards the end of Charles II’s reign. Despite Jeffreys’ notoriety, King Charles never trusted him, saying that he had ‘no learning, no sense, no manners and more impudence than ten whores’. But Jeffreys served the crown doggedly both to please the king and the Bar and, most importantly, to advance himself. Eventually Charles bowed to pressure from the Bar and allowed Jeffreys to be made Lord Chief Justice of England in 1683. Long before attaining the highest legal post in the land Jeffreys had been busy making enemies in parliament by impeding the implementation of one law after another, and even attempting to prevent parliament from coming into session. As early as November 1680 parliament had passed a resolution stating, in part: ‘Sir George Jeffreys, by traducing and obstructing . . . the sitting of Parliament . . . [so] that the king should be requested to remove him out of all public office.’
Once effectively in control of the British legal system, Jeffreys instituted a reign of terror the likes of which had not been seen since the rule of Bishop Bonner under Queen Mary Tudor well over a century earlier. Even members of the nobility went to the block without the benefit of a proper trial. In June 1684, he condemned Sir Thomas Armstrong to the block for treason with no trial whatsoever. When Armstrong demanded a trial to prove his innocence, Jeffreys snapped: ‘That you shall have, by the Grace of God.’ Then turning to the bailiff, said: ‘See that execution be done on next Friday.’
When James became king in March 1685 he undoubtedly recognised a kindred spirit in the vicious Judge Jeffreys and immediately gave him a seat in the House of Lords, making him the first Chief Justice since the thirteenth century to be so honoured and blatantly integrating the power of the judiciary with that of Parliament. With this new honour, Jeffreys’ power and access to the king surpassed that of both the Corporation of London and the Lord Mayor, making him the virtual dictator of the capital. Now, anyone who voiced even the mildest criticism of the new Catholic regime would answer to Jeffreys and his production-line justice. In September of the same year, King James appointed him Lord Chancellor, giving him control of the nation’s treasury.
To instil a proper sense of terror in defendants and witnesses alike, Jeffreys hung the walls of his court with scarlet tapestries. At his bench there was only one acceptable plea to any charge – guilty. Anything else was a waste of the court’s precious time. At criminal trials, there was only one verdict – guilty, and one sentence – execution. Defendants appearing before him were routinely sentenced to death without being allowed to present a defence and sent to their execution without being given time to meet a clergyman, make confession or even say their prayers.
Throughout the country fear and panic rose to a fever pitch as people began to fear a return to the public puritanical witch trials of the Commonwealth. Obligingly, Jeffreys did everything he could to confirm their fears. When the Duke of Monmouth attempted to wrest control of the country from King James, it was Judge George Jeffreys who signed the arrest warrant and forced it through parliament. It was a perfect opportunity to prove once and for all the effectiveness of justice under King James II.
After Monmouth’s arrest he was taken to London and locked in the Tower where his wife and three children were waiting for him, having been arrested four days earlier, on 9 July. At his arraignment, Jeffreys informed Monmouth that having attempted to seize the crown negated his right to a trial; his execution would take place in two days. Monmouth begged his uncle for an audience and, amazingly, James agreed. It was a shameful affair. Monmouth attempted to blame the entire rising on those around him, saying, ‘my misfortune was such as to meet with some horrid people that made me believe things of your Majesty, and gave me so many false arguments that I was fully led to believe it was a shame and a sin before God not to do it.’ He added that if his life were spared he would show James ‘how zealous I shall ever be in your service’. He even offered to convert to Catholicism. For all his own cruelty, the king was disgusted by this display of cowardice. The execution would take place in two days’ time.
At 10 a.m. on 15 July 1685, an armed gua
rd escorted the Duke of Monmouth from the Tower to Tower Hill where he was to mount a scaffold draped in black bunting especially for the occasion. Along the route, more than three thousand of the young duke’s supporters had gathered to witness the grisly spectacle. So fearful was the king of an attempt to rescue his nephew that he had ordered the guard to shoot Monmouth dead if there were any disturbances in the crowd before the execution was complete. For a man about to die, the duke’s manner was unnervingly calm and composed. When the entourage mounted the scaffold, the two bishops who accompanied the condemned man began a prayer. Although Monmouth dutifully repeated their words, he refused to pray for the salvation of the king, only muttering ‘amen’ when they had finished. In a break with established custom, he refused to make a final speech, handing a prepared statement to one of the bishops to read to the crowd. As he approached the block, he also refused the customary blindfold.
Before kneeling to place his head on the block, Monmouth calmly bent down and pulled the executioner’s axe from under a pile of straw. Lifting it up, he ran his finger along the edge and turned to the headsman, the notorious Jack Ketch, asking if he thought it was sharp enough to do the job properly. Staring at his victim with disbelief, Ketch was even more astonished when Monmouth handed him the exorbitant sum of 6 guineas, saying: ‘Pray, do your business well. Do not serve me as you did my Lord Russell. I have heard you struck him four or five times; if you strike me twice, I cannot promise you not to stir.’ He then turned to one of his servants and told him that if Ketch did a clean job he was to receive 6 more guineas. With that, he knelt down and placed his head on the block.
Tales From the Tower of London Page 18
