A Question of Loyalties

by Josephine Bell

  ‘Dear love, may I not share this dark news?’ she asked. ‘I know the sequel to that unhappy rebellion has been terrible in its severity. But none of that was your doing. The battle itself was cleanly fought.’

  ‘Picked, trained men against poor, misguided fanatics—’

  ‘You did not lead them astray! You did not punish them! Even my Lord Monmouth, taken in a ditch, grovelling in abject despair. Even he died bravely on the scaffold. We can pity him, can we not, for that final courage? But we can have no lasting regret. He wagered and lost. And so did his followers. They were grown men. You must not blame yourself for their mistakes.’

  Churchill was silent. He refused to justify his gloom, his persistent withdrawal. In conversation he maintained this attitude, correct, bland to all strangers; attentive, intelligent, helpful in all military matters discussed with the King. But never gay, always serious, until even James suspected the cause and sent for him less often. Because he knew that in Churchill he was seeing the final barrier to all his mad, extravagent plans. He had dreamed of a Catholic country, forced at last to turn again to the true, the only true, Christian faith. Would that dream really never come about? Would a universal stubborn spirit as hard, as implacable as that he so often now saw in the soldier’s eyes, bring him at last only defeat?

  Chapter Twenty

  King James continued on his path of self-destruction. His victory at Sedgemoor with its terrible aftermath led him at first to conclude that the conversion of the west of England was well on the way. It was quite useless for his government advisers to point out that the exact opposite was, in fact, the real outcome. And not only in the west, but in the north, the midlands, East Anglia, in the forests and downs of the south, in the City of London and across the river in Surrey and Kent.

  With every move he made to help the Catholics, his action added yet another group of Protestants, affronted, indignant, disobedient, and so in the end, dismissed. In fact during the next two years he lost the services of nearly all those faithful friends who had conducted his public and private affairs from before his first exile to his enthronement.

  The great slide down began with the King’s attempt to impeach Lord Delamere for supposed treason connected with Monmouth’s action. The charge had the flimsiest foundation, but the Earl was as obstinate as his Master and quiet fearless. Thirty peers were named as ‘Triers’, the infamous Judge Jeffreys was appointed to conduct the trial.

  It fell to Lord Churchill as the junior peer to pronounce his decision first. He stood, uncovered, and made the formal declaration, ‘Not guilty, on my honour.’ Every one of the twenty-nine who followed him cried out the same verdict. Delamere had to be released.

  The moderate men left of their own accord; such former upholders of the monarchy as Halifax, Albemarle, son of that General Monk, the first Earl, who had brought about the Restoration, and James’s two brothers-in-law, Lord Rochester and Lord Clarendon. Bishop Compton fell into disfavour for refusing to issue notices to his clergy announcing the admission of Catholics to office. He would not comply and was dismissed. The Anglican clergy stood firm. They had suffered under the Puritan Cromwell; they were prepared to suffer under the Papist king. Only Lord Sunderland, always unwilling to lose his great position in the government, trimmed his sails now and with unbelievable skill and effrontery continued to do so throughout the whole turmoil that followed.

  James did realise in the course of the next two years that he was becoming more and more isolated. He had prolonged and then dissolved the House of Commons. Most of his sources of revenue had been cut off, since Louis no longer believed in his cousin’s plans for England and was now seeking some other outlet for his insatiable ambition.

  So James turned to the various dissenting, nonconformist groups in the country. It was a strange move and a desperate one. But the King knew that his only strength lay in his army, which he continued to build up, train and arm at the expense of all other projects. And he knew that these other religious fanatics, equally persecuted as the Catholics had been in the late reign and before it, would make wonderful soldiers if they could be persuaded to work for him.

  The Anglican, Cavalier loyalists were appalled to see such men as Master William Penn, the Quaker, raised to a false position of intimacy with the throne, giving his support to what he must have known was sheer bribery under the guise of so-called tolerance. But naturally Penn and the other dissenting leaders were only too willing to see their coreligionists released from gaol, given back their houses and places of work. Was not part of the bribe a promise that if they joined the King’s army they would help to defend England from the French, who might at any moment attempt an invasion? Perhaps they believed the King’s promise. Perhaps they never meant to fight for James. It was enough to be free men, when they had feared death. And were there not those distant plantations across the ocean that Friend Penn spoke of so often? They were free now, were they not?

  While James built up his army to some twenty thousand men the great English nobles left his Court to go to their country estates and begin to organise their own forces to fight the growing scourge at Whitehall. James appointed a Catholic admiral to command his ships in the Channel. Arabella, Lady Gregory’s son, the Duke of Berwick, who was now eighteen, was made governor of Portsmouth. But at the same time letters were going to William of Orange from an increasing number of disaffected centres in England. William understood their purport. He was the husband of England’s heir. England would not much longer tolerate a Catholic king who appeared to have gone mad for his religion. He, Prince of Orange, was being invited to lead England in an attempt, universally supported, to displace the Catholic tyrant.

  William was cautious, but not altogether unresponsive. Any move of his depended upon Louis of France. If the French King decided to attack Holland again, then William must with his allies meet that challenge. But if Louis attacked further south, in the Palatinate or the Empire, then those allies should be able to deal with him without the help of the small Dutch state.

  In any case he could not now spare the services of his English and Scottish regiments. He would need them to be in Holland whatever his future movements might be. He guessed that James had asked to have them back in England for use in assisting, not repelling, the French. He knew that the King had been urged by Lord Churchill to allow him to go to Holland to take over their command. Nothing would have pleased the Prince more. He had a very shrewd appreciation of that brilliant soldier’s capabilities. But James had refused: in fact Churchill, though still in close service about the King, was seeing much less of him in private, was sharing in the change of attitude towards his former intimates that led in the end not to their exclusion from the throne, but to his own.

  William sent a trusted agent called Dykvelt to make contact with the Princess Anne. His mission was ostensibly to bring letters from her sister Mary, with news of both the Princess of Orange and her husband. In addition Dykvelt was to gather information as widely as possible about the general state of affairs in England and the prospects for William should he decide to enter the country in force to displace his uncle and enthrone his wife instead.

  The Princess Anne was delighted to see the Hollander.

  ‘Dear Mrs. Freeman,’ she told Sarah. ‘The Prince hath seen my letters to my sister. He fully understands the unhappy state of our beloved country. I will put matters even more forcefully direct to his Highness. Something must be done soon or I very much fear an action will be taken against me to force me to bow to my father’s will.’

  ‘Mrs. Morley, I know you will never forsake your true religion,’ Sarah answered. ‘But, madam, is it wise to put down all your complaints and fears in these despatches that might be stolen before they leave the country?’

  ‘Dykvelt had complete immunity,’ Princess Anne answered calmly. ‘But we will say no more on the subject.’

  Sarah told John all the Princess had said, which made him, as Anne’s most respected adviser, go to her urgently to
argue against any more letters of complaint to her cousin William in Holland. Matters were serious, he said, both for her and for Prince George, her husband. They too had been refused leave to go to Holland on a visit, just as he had been refused command of the troops there. They must continue to live, speak and behave at all times with the greatest care, very quietly. As for William’s man, Dykvelt, let him visit others for whom he had messages in answer to their letters. But let her not entrust to him any written evidence of her views, nor of her recent outpourings to the Prince.

  So the slow gathering of opinion, of purpose, of dissent, criticism, opposition, grew towards a state of open rebellion that took old men’s minds back to the Civil Wars. But this time with an even clearer resolve. In those old times the fight had been against absolute monarchy, but now to that issue was added the deeper one of a threat to the whole Protestant faith. Not a fight between Anglican and Dissenter, but a fight against Rome, the Pope, the Scarlet Woman, the Inquisition. And the French. Always that prime enemy, the French.

  In January of the following year James proposed to repeal the Test laws with their penal sanctions for those who would not take the test. The general public was outraged by this, for it struck at the basic safeguard of the Protestant religion in England. Among the many peers who declared they would not support the repeal was Lord Churchill. It was another open defiance, which brought him a significant measure of neglect at Court. Though he still remained in attendance, James seldom addressed him personally and never singled him out for private audience.

  ‘I think I approach the end of my usefulness at Whitehall,’ John said to Sarah, with a very sad expression on his handsome face.

  She had been alarmed about him for some months. This brought matters to a head. They could not afford his definite dismissal; not that James was likely to put altogether aside the most talented of his few generals.

  ‘My love’, Sarah suggested, with her most winning smile and respectful manner, ‘would it not suit our purpose and those of my Mistress, the Princess, if she and his Highness were to pay a visit to Bath for a stay of a month or more? For health reasons that are real enough, God knows. Would it not be quite in order that I go with her and you too, to guard her and her train?’

  ‘I see, beloved, you have your scheme fully made out and only want my consent, or simple agreement. Doth the Princess also submit to this ruling, my lady?’

  They laughed and embraced, Churchill finding a good deal of relief in bowing to his wife’s vigorous proposal.

  Shortly afterwards, with the King’s approval, the Princess Anne, together with her friends, the Churchills, and a suitable retinue, took lodgings in the City of Bath, where her Highness proposed to rest, enjoy the country air and take the waters. She had recently suffered another stillbirth, a premature male child, yet another failed future heir to the throne. Her sister, Mary of Orange, remained childless.

  It was April and spring again. In the sheltered western city daffodils filled the parks, Dutch tulips imported in quantity since the Peace of Nymegen showed swelling buds; along the country lanes primroses and cowslips starred the hedgerows, with blackthorn shining whitely against the clear blue, cloudless skies. The fields were full of farm labourors at work, the roads were dry, travel was stirring.

  And now John Churchill set about a mission, very private and personal that he had kept secret even from Sarah, but that he considered might with safety be discharged at last. He did not announce it until the day of his going. He simply said he had an errand to fulfil, it was King’s business, he would go alone, he would be back that night.

  He had decided he would not tell Sarah the nature of his errand, but when he said goodbye to her she knew by his manner that there might be danger in it and that as usual he relished that possibility.

  ‘You will take proper care, going like this without even a single escort?’

  ‘There is little risk,’ he assured her.

  She saw in his face that this was not true. ‘If I knew what time you will return—’ she began, but he only smiled and kissed her, whispering, ‘I will return, please God, but if I do not, believe and never think otherwise, that it is an honourable errand, one already promised upon a deathbed.’

  ‘You cannot tell me, my dear lord?’

  ‘Never while I live. And do not try to find out or you could hazard us all.’

  He meant his family and themselves, but Sarah began to wonder if he was at last mixed up in the vast network of intrigue that was spreading over the whole country. However, she obeyed him, showed no surprise at his absence and merely repeated what he had said publicly, that he was out of town on King’s business.

  In fact John had set off, with Hugh’s trinkets and the letter to his wife, to fulfil at last his promise to the dying man. The letter, which he had taken from its protective covering after his return to Holywell House from Sedgemoor was directed to Mr. Thomas Whitcombe, ship-master of Bristol. The letter was sealed and addressed. Hugh had spoken of it as a letter to his wife, Anabel. No doubt she was with her father, the ship-master. Hugh had taken very reasonable precautions to have it conveyed to her, but it was fortunate for Anabel it had not been found on his body, as it might have been if John had not discovered his dying friend.

  Mr. Whitcombe was at home in a well-appointed house near the Bristol wharfs for the Atlantic trade. John was shown into the shipmaster’s office. He waited until the clerk had closed the door behind him, then, still standing, placed the letter on the desk.

  ‘I would ask you, sir,’ he began, ‘to open and read that letter, for it will, I have no doubt, explain the chief reason for my visit.’

  Mr. Whitcombe, a square-cut figure with a strong, serious face and greying natural hair, took one keen look at John, then did as he was asked and broke the seal of the package.

  It was as John had expected. A short note to the shipmaster enclosed a longer missive, that Mr. Whitcombe laid to one side.

  ‘This is a letter from my son-in-law, Captain Hugh Offord.’ He touched the longer sheets beside him. ‘This is for my daughter, Captain Offord’s wife.’

  ‘His widow, sir,’ John said simply, bowing his head.

  ‘Ah.’ It was less an exclamation than a token of acceptance, even relief. ‘And you, sir? Your purpose?’

  ‘To bring this letter, together with these—’ Here John brought out a second packet which he laid upon the letter. ‘I was present at Captain Offord’s death, sir, upon the field of Sedgemoor. I promised him then, upon my honour, that I would bring these tokens, this letter and my news to you and to his wife. In that knowledge he died most peacefully.’

  Mr. Whitcombe’s face hardened, but he did not speak. He rang a little bell on his desk and when the clerk answered it he said to him, ‘Ask Mrs. Offord if she will kindly come to me here. And, Frank—’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Do not tell her we have a visitor. Do not in any way alarm her.’

  ‘No indeed, sir.’

  When the man had gone Mr. Whitcomb said, ‘Prepare me further, sir! By your voice and manner I would not put you with Hugh’s latest companions. But you are a soldier?’

  ‘I am, sir.’

  ‘Of the royal forces? In judgement upon me and mine? Or of the late Duke, in opposition?’

  ‘I am come as Hugh Offord’s friend, in fulfillment of my promise to him. Nothing else.’

  With a warning knock the clerk brought Anabel into the room, bowed to her and left immediately.

  She had not expected the visitor. She turned white, clasped her hands on her breast, but said nothing. John looked at Mr. Whitcombe but he only lowered his head in silent grief. It was left to John to step forward, take her hand, guide her to a chair, uncover and say gently, ‘Madam, I bring you news of Hugh, news it gives me great pain to speak, but that I think you must have grown used to bear after so long a time.’

  His great dignity and fine manner had its effect in sustaining her to hear him. Also to speak quietly.

 
‘I was notified many months since that Captain Offord was posted missing, believed killed. Since I know had he lived he would somehow have sent me news of it, I have long ago accepted his death. My father knows that. My friends also. You have real news at last, sir? Then give it me without delay.’

  John moved to the desk first and taking the two packets from it handed them to her in silence. Then he began his story, watching her unwrap the tokens and unfold the letter while he spoke. The action, as he intended, occupied her hands and eyes, thus preserving her composure, though before he had finished his tale her tears began to fall and she did nothing to hide them.

  Mr. Whitcombe, too, listened in silence. John could not decide how he felt, either about his daughter’s loss or his son-in-law’s fatal decision to break his oath of allegiance to his sovereign. But it was Anabel who brought the unhappy interview to an end. Her tears controlled at last, she got to her feet, laid Hugh’s tokens on her father’s desk and again turned to John.

  ‘I cannot properly thank you, sir, for bringing me these precious objects and the news that will forever displace the horrors that have filled my mind for these long years. If there hath been any risk to yourself in doing so I pray it may come to nought until you are safe back from where you have come.’

  She curtsied, then held out a hand to him with a small wan smile that tore at his heart and went on, ‘Your words about Captain Offord’s companionship in childhood match so exactly my dear husband’s often spoken tales of those days, that I am sure I do not err in knowing you now. My Lord, I pray that God on high may keep you and reward you for your goodness this day to me and mine.’