by Jean Plaidy
Gordon then wrote a long pamphlet and asked for an audience with the King, and when George received him Gordon insisted on reading the pamphlet to him.
The King listened and then became tired of the excited fanatic who went on voicing arguments with which he could not agree. George yawned significantly, but Gordon went on. George looked at his watch, but if Gordon noticed his sovereign's impatience he gave no sign. At last George could bear it no more.
"Leave it," he said. "I will read the rest myself.”
Gordon could do nothing but retire at that, but he was not content when he heard no more from the King. He demanded other interviews during which he harangued the King, told him that many Protestants went so far as to believe the King was a Papist, and demanded something be done.
The King, worried by the conduct of the Prince of Wales, his brothers, the health of Octavius, the ever present subject of America, dismissed him again. But he was disturbed. He sent for North.
"I begin to think this man Gordon is bent on stirring up trouble, eh? what?”
"Your Majesty, the man is a born agitator.”
"He's saying they suspect me of being a Papist. What? Doesn't he know my family have always been stern Protestants. The man's a fool.”
"A fool, sir, but a dangerous one. He is having meetings. His followers are everywhere. They're a formidable body.”
"I don't think the Protestants are so fierce over their religion, eh?”
"Sir, I have had my servants at his meetings. It's not so much a matter of religion. He attracts the mob and the mob is glad of an opportunity to make trouble.”
"Better find a way of stopping him.”
North agreed that this was an excellent idea. North, with his genius for taking the wrong action, attempted to bribe Lord George, promising him money and a post in Parliament if he would leave the Protestant Association.
Lord George's eyes gleamed. Money! He didn't want money. His family had money. A position in Parliament which he would not be allowed to hold? He had never been able to hold any position.
What Lord George wanted was fame; and now he saw that it would be his. North must be afraid of him if he attempted to bribe him. That showed how powerful he was.
Lord George was a man intoxicated with his own power. They had never listened to him in Parliament. Well, they should see that there were some who were only too ready to listen. He left North and went home to plan his next action. A few days later a notice appeared in the Public Advertiser. All members of the Protestant Association were to assemble in St. George's Fields.
There they would hold a rally and decide on some plan of action. Members should wear a blue cockade to distinguish them from the spectators.
It was a sweltering hot day. When Lord George arrived at St. George's Fields he was delighted to see what a crowd was already there. There were thousands of blue cockades and many without them, for the London crowd could never resist a spectacle and from, all parts of the city they had come to see the fun.
Lord George was cheered wildly, and his eyes gleamed with satisfaction. This was what he needed. He addressed the assembly telling them that he was going to Parliament with his petition that the Catholic Relief Act might be repealed. This statement was applauded; little bands of people from the Association marched round the fields singing hymns; and in due course they ranged themselves into an orderly procession to march to the Houses of Parliament. On the way they were joined by many out for some sport. The crowd began to get nasty.
This will show them, thought Lord George. He was confident that after this session of Parliament the Act would be repealed and he would be the hero of the day and the years to come. He would be Prime Minister for he would have the support of the people. He saw a glorious future before him. The crowd surged about the entrance of the House. Some carried banners displaying the words "No Popery'. As the Ministers began to arrive the mob jeered at them, threw refuse at them, and tore off their jackets and hats.
No one was hurt, however. Gordon was a little disappointed for, dishevelled as they were, the members showed no fear of the mob outside, and going into the House he presented his petition.
This was seconded but completely defeated, for there were only nine votes in its favour.
Gordon was alarmed. It was in his power to incite the mob to violence, but if he did so he would be guilty of treason; yet if he did not, his petition would be dismissed and that was the end of the matter. He left the House and spoke to the people.
"His Majesty is a good and gracious King," he said, 'and when he hears that the people are surrounding the House he will command his Ministers to repeal the Bill.”
He went back to the House and was asked if he intended to bring his friends in. If he did, one member warned him, drawing his sword, he would thrust it into Lord George's body for a start.
Lord George grew pale. He was excited by violence but only when it was directed against others; it was because he so feared it, that he liked to think of others suffering it. He turned and went out once more to speak to the mob. He had the power to move them and they began to disperse.
George had gone to Kew to see the Queen. She was not as well as she usually was during pregnancies. Perhaps, he thought, it is the anxiety over Octavius. Her confinement was due in September so she had three months to go.
"You are feeling the heat, eh?" he said.
"It has been so hot, but very pleasant here. But not so pleasant in London, I daresay. And I hear that there has been trouble.”
"Trouble, eh? What? What trouble? Who said there was trouble?”
"This affair of the Catholics. I heard the women talking of it.”
"Women talk too much. Shouldn't listen. Better go and see Octavius. Been better has he, eh?”
"I fancy he has been a little better," said Charlotte. Why won't he talk to me, she thought? Am I a fool that I am not supposed to understand? A brood mare? A queen bee? A cow for breeding? Is that the way he sees me?
She was beginning to dislike him. In the beginning she had thought him so good, for he had never been unkind. Or was it unkind to treat her as he had? His mother had started it but it had gone on since her death. She had not greatly cared because there were always the children, but now there was this trouble with George, and they were saying that Frederick was almost as bad. Frederick was teaching George to gamble and George was teaching Frederick to tipple. And neither of them ever came to see her. They despised her as they despised their father, perhaps even more.
Octavius was sleeping quietly and looked a little better. "The Kew air is good for him," said the King. "Make sure he doesn't get too much rich food, eh? Plenty of vegetables. Not much meat, and fresh air. That's the best, eh, what?”
They were interrupted by a messenger from Lord North. The King should return at once, for rioting had broken out all over London.
Charlotte said: "George, at such a time I should be with you.”
"You, eh? What? Nonsense. Never heard such nonsense. What of the child, eh? Next thing we'll be hearing you'll have had a miscarriage, eh?”
It was always the same. She was always kept out of affairs. Get on with the breeding. Leave state matters to the King and his ministers. She almost hated him as she watched him leave. The child moved within her. Three months and then another birth and again and again. No! She would rebel.
She found no pleasure in her relations with the King. She never had. She smiled grimly, imagining his comment if he had heard her say that.
"Pleasure, eh? Why pleasure? It's for the procreation of children, eh? What?”
Fires were springing up all over London. There was an ominous red light in the sky by night. The mob had gone mad. These were not, said North, the members of the Protestant Association; this was the rabble, the scum, that element in every big city which is ready to come to the surface when emotions boil up. These were the thieves and the vagabonds, the jailbirds, the criminals.
They burned, they looted and shouted "No Popery' w
ithout knowing what it meant.
The houses of well-known Catholics were the first targets. Members of Parliament were the next; and of course the prisons. Newgate was burned to the ground; Clerkenwell Prison was broken into and prisoners released to swell the throng. There was murder in the streets.
George remained in St. James's. The mob hovered, uncertain. The guard was doubled and the King never hesitated to show himself, but made a point of mingling with the soldiers and talking to them and bringing refreshments to them during the night watches. But something would have to be done. Lord North discussed this with the King.
"Action is needed without delay," said the King. "We dare not let this continue. It grows worse.
What do you say, eh?”
"Action, yes, sir, but what action?”
"We have an army. We must use it.”
North was aghast. "Fire on the people, sir?”
"Fire on them or let them destroy the capital.”
Lord North was horrified. He left the King to consult the Cabinet. George, who had always hated bloodshed of any sort, was thoughtful. That he should be the one to ask his soldiers to fire on his own subjects was abhorrent to him.
The mob, he thought. Poor deluded creatures. No sense. Led away. But I have my City to think of.
They're bent on destruction. They have to be stopped. He was not a man to shirk the unpleasant.
What had to be done had to be done and if it meant killing a few of his subjects to save many more, he would be ready to give the order.
"Fire," was the order, 'if peaceful methods are ineffective." All householders were to close their doors and keep within. The soldiers had a right to fire without awaiting orders.
The result of this order was to quell the riots. In a very short time the city was quiet. Three hundred rioters had been killed; some had died of drinking too much pilfered liquor, others had been burned to death, having in a drunken stupor fallen into the flames which they themselves had provoked. But the terror was over. One hundred and ninety-two rioters were convicted, twenty- five of whom were executed. And Lord George Gordon was taken to the Tower on a charge of high treason.
The King was overcome with melancholy. He had given orders to fire on his own subjects and many had lost their lives. The Dean of St. Paul's remarked that the King, by ordering the soldiers to fire on the mob had saved the cities of London and Westminster. This was true, but George was none the less grieved.
And all through that hot summer he was sad; but he did rejoice in September when another son was born. They called him Alfred. Alas, he was delicate like Octavius.
"We shall have to take great care of this little one, eh?" said the King.
"Perhaps we have had too many," replied the Queen with unusual spirit; and the King regarded her oddly.
Dear Mrs. Delany
Charlotte sat at her table while her women curled and craped her hair. Nothing they do will make me beautiful, she thought. Schwellenburg stood superintending; Miss Pascal who had become Mrs. Thielke was the one who really did the work.
They had brought the newspapers to her, for she liked to read them while her hair was done, but she could not concentrate on them this morning. She was thinking of Alfred. He had looked very wan last night and she was very anxious about him, but trying hard not to show her anxiety. She did not want the children to know.
"We now ready for de podwering," said Schwellenburg in her atrocious English which Charlotte was sure she could have improved had she tried.
"Yes, yes." She put down the paper and went into her closet.
While she was there the King came in. He looked distraught and she knew that he had had some news of their child. His hands were trembling with emotion.
"Charlotte," he said, 'our poor darling child.”
And she dismissed the women, that they might be alone together.
"You have news?" she asked.
"The doctors say that he cannot live through this day.”
She was biting her lips, trying to hold back the tears.
"My dearest Charlotte," said the King, 'he is our baby and we love him dearly, eh? But... we have the others...”
She nodded and the King took her hand and kept it in his. And after a while they rose and went to the room in which their child lay dying. George shut himself in his study. There was nothing he could do but wait.
He thought of little Alfred, so trusting, such a good baby. He had the innocence of a child who relies on his parents and has not yet learned how to plague them. The Prince of Wales was growing tired of Mrs. Robinson and she was giving him trouble. Threatening this and that. She would have to be paid off heavily. A lesson to him, eh? Serve him right. Teach him what such women are. It was never like that with Hannah. She had made no demands. Thank God he had not got himself into the sort of trouble which surrounded the Prince of Wales.
But his thoughts now were with little Alfred who had lived long enough to make them love him, so that his passing would be a bitter grief. He sat down and wrote to his chaplain, the Bishop of Worcester, because he found some relief in writing: "There is no probability and indeed, scarce a possibility, that my youngest child can survive the day. Knowing you are acquainted with the tender feelings of the Queen's heart, convinces me that you will be uneasy till apprised that she is calling the only solid assistant under affliction, religion, to her assistance.”
It was true. Charlotte was a religious woman and faith would carry her through this trial and all others. And he too must rely on religion. He needed help. Affairs of state were heavy on him. He would never forget those fearful days of the Gordon Riots. Gordon had been tried for treason last year and because of his very good advocate, had been acquitted. Thank God he had acted with promptitude over that affair, although he had been torn with doubts as to the advisability about calling out the soldiery to fire on the people. It was an example of how one must always do one's duty, however unpleasant.
The cares of his family weighed heavily upon him; he was never sure when he was going to hear of some fresh escapade of the Prince of Wales or his brothers. And now there was this illness of the youngest child which the doctors had told him would be fatal.
The doctors were right. Shortly after the King had written that letter to the Bishop of Worcester, little Alfred was dead. The King paced up and down his apartments. His head was aching, his thoughts were whirling.
"God will never fill my cup of sorrow so full that I cannot bear it, he whispered. "That's true. It must be true." But his mind was filled with doubts.
George's great happiness was with the younger members of his family. He preferred, he said, to hear nothing of the Prince of Wales, for he was very disappointed in that young man who seemed to be of the opinion that the manner in which the heir to the throne should spend his time was at boxing booths, race tracks and gaming houses and, in the company of the most immoral people.
A new Court was being raised about the Prince. It was a Court which, it was universally said, was what a Court should be. Who wanted a staid family establishment consisting of babies and dull domesticity? Who wanted a plain little queen who was rarely seen and didn't behave like a queen, although those who served her had little to say against her except that she was parsimonious within her household and behaved like some impoverished lady of the manor rather than the Queen of England? Who wanted a king who never gave balls and banquets; never rode among his people sparkling with gems; who never provided them with a scandal; and the only excitement he had given them was when he was ill some years ago and rumour had it that he had been mentally deranged?
No, the Prince of Wales had the look of royalty, the manner of royalty. Florid, handsome, already beginning to show signs of corpulence not unpleasant in the young, splendid, with the most perfect manners, with wit and a spirit of adventure! Already he had scandalized the Court over his affaire with Mrs. Robinson; and he could be seen driving a carriage with the pair of the finest horses up Richmond Hill on a sparkling morning to cal
l on another lady love.
It will be different when the Prince of Wales is king, it was said. There would be extravagances; there were already debts, it was whispered, massive debts. But the Prince was worth it. There was nothing dull about the Prince of Wales.
But the King was perpetually anxious and that made his thoughts whirl and his head ache. When anyone came to him on a matter of importance his first thought was: does it concern the Prince of Wales? No, the King's happiness was with the little ones and he could scarcely bear to tear himself away from the heart of his family. What joy to see them in their little drawing room, curtseying, playing their music or listening to it. George had insisted that they all be taught to love music.
His favourite was the little Prince Octavius, perhaps because he was not so strong as the others; and, now that little Alfred was dead, he was the baby.
The family was at Windsor, which was even farther from St. James's than Kew, and George was glad to be there in the Queen's Lodge where there was such a happy family atmosphere. Waiting on the Queen was Elizabeth Pembroke, whom he had known since she was seventeen. He too had been seventeen at that time and had greatly admired her. He had been very sorry when her husband had run away with Kitty Hunter; he had wanted to comfort dear Elizabeth. Pembroke had returned to her and Kitty Hunter had married and faded out of the picture. Poor Elizabeth! Not a very happy life, George used to think. But one of the most beautiful and charming women he had ever known. He liked her to be there, part of the domestic background. She was still lovely and he always thought Charlotte looked particularly plain beside Elizabeth.
