Chapter Twenty-six: Riots in London, and some amazing news

(It is May 1763, and Charles Huntingdon is having to divide his attention between events in London and at home) 

The next few weeks were full of confusion, as I was obliged to travel from Bereton to London and then home again on many occasions, so that even now, a decade later, I find it hard to make sense of it all. I shall therefore attempt to describe events in the capital first.

  I reached London to find the capital engulfed in a political storm. People were talking about nothing but politics, about the sudden fall of Lord Bute and the arrest of my friend John Wilkes by order of the Secretaries of State. Everyone appeared to hold different views of these great matters, and debate was fierce.   

   Since I knew nothing about these matters, I called first at Teesdale House, hoping to receive the benefit of the Earl’s advice and to assure his Countess that, thanks to her kindness, Louisa Wilbrahim was now safe. But it appeared that I was not welcome, for at the mansion’s door the servants fobbed me off with the most transparent falsehood that neither master nor mistress was at home. I now recalled, with surprise, that Lord Teesdale, my erstwhile patron and guide, had not bothered to write to me recently, despite all the work I had performed in forwarding his Enclosure and Canal bills. Why should this be?

    Sir Anthony Pardington was more forthcoming. He had recently returned from Bath, and described how the West Country had been up in revolt, with riots where bonfires were lit on which effigies of Sir Francis Dashwood, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, were burnt; this being in consequence of his proposed excise on cider, which was denounced as a tyrannous imposition. He wondered whether it was this violence that had caused Lord Bute to retreat from high office.  

  Sir Anthony then described the famous case of John Wilkes. Just two weeks after Lord Bute’s resignation, the now-famous Number 45 of the “North Briton” was published, which accused the King’s speech to Parliament of including a direct lie concerning the treaty with France. Although it was clearly stated that everyone knew that the speech was written by the ministers, not by the King personally, this was thought to be a criminal libel of the Crown. Wilkes had never acknowledged that he was the author of the “North Briton”, but ministers felt it was imperative to take some action, and accordingly Wilkes was arrested at his home in Great George Street under a General Warrant, which did not name the persons to be arrested. He was confined in the Tower, where his friends were not permitted to visit him. Sir Anthony feared riots and disorder on the streets of London, since Wilkes had many supporters.

   Mr Horace Walpole, whom I saw next, had been observing events with much amusement. 

   “Lord Bute is a timid soul, and sensitive to insults,” was his verdict, “The cartoons and the libels of Wilkes, pouring abuse on him and on the Princess Dowager, distressed him. A man in public life should be able to rise above the ravings of the mob. Why, I believe he is as fearful as the old Duke of Newcastle!” He shook his head sadly. “What a pair to have the running of our poor country! what a pair!

   “My father knew these starveling scribblers well enough. All these men have their price: offer them sufficient and they will turn their coats soon enough and direct their vituperation wherever you may direct them. Wilkes himself is in the pay of Lord Temple. But the ministers can buy the pens of any number of hacks by paying them pensions out of the Secret Service fund. That is the way to proceed.”

   He laughed and continued, “I am told that a few weeks ago, Lord Bute approached your friend Lord Teesdale, begging for his support, without which, he said, he was doomed. That patriotic senator dutifully promised support, provided there was in return a position on the Treasury board for his man Jarrett and the Garter for himself! But the King would not allow the latter. I do not think His Majesty likes the noble lord. Perhaps you should consider seeking a new patron?”

   “Have we seen the last of Lord Bute?” I asked.

    "I very much doubt it! I am certain that he intends to remain as the ‘minister behind the curtain’, advising the King in private. That was his position before his wholly unjustified elevation to high office, and he hopes to return to ruling by secret influence. Did you see the cartoon showing the Princess Augusta leading a blindfolded King by the nose, with a Scotchman in Highland dress lurking behind a tree? That would be Lord Bute’s preferred position – without the tartan plaid, of course, which we know he never wears”.

   “So we now have Mr. Grenville as Prime Minister.” 

   “ Grenville is indeed now First Lord of the Treasury, but even that transition was mishandled. I have been told that the position was offered first to Mr Fox, but he, knowing how universally he is hated, very wisely refused the poisoned chalice and has instead retreated to Essex, there to enjoy the unaccounted millions he has stolen from the country - unless, that is, his sons have already lost the money at the faro tables.

   “As for Grenville ….. you have seen him, you have heard him speak? Well, then, you know that he could out-talk the entire diplomatic corps, and the King will very soon weary of having to listen to him. Grenville is a man of absolutely no imagination, and I cannot see him lasting long. I foresee more turmoil, perhaps continuing for years.”

   The prospect did not seem to alarm him.

   At the Court of Common Pleas Wilkes delivered a strong speech, portraying himself the victim of persecution by a tyrannical ministry, denouncing General Warrants as illegal, proclaiming the freedom of the press, and “The liberty of all peers and gentlemen, and, what touches me more sensibly, that of the middling and inferior class of people who stand most in need of protection.” Lord Chief Justice Pratt ruled Wilkes’s arrest a breach of Parliamentary privilege and released him. I wondered what Sir James Wilbrahim, had he been present, would have made of this.

  Sir Anthony’s fears of riots then quickly came true. I was seated in a tavern one evening soon afterwards, and when I heard the shouts of “Wilkes and Liberty” in the street outside I ventured forth and was soon swept up in a mob of several hundred angry Londoners.

   Many of the poorer sort were assembled: grimy coal-heavers from Wapping, Spitalfields silk-weavers brandishing their shuttles, and butchers making a fearsome noise clashing their cleavers and steels together. This was a time of hardship and fierce disputes in many of the trades of London, and all these people now took Wilkes as their hero and champion. There were women too, shouting as loudly as their menfolk. Everywhere sticks and other weapons were brandished, and I feared murder might be done, but I saw no violence against any persons beyond some pushing and jostling. Prominent among the rioters was a youth whose head was adorned with hair the colour of flame: I was certain I had seen him before, but where?

   As the mob marched through the streets, a gentleman appeared on a balcony and harangued them, urging the marchers to strike a blow for English liberty. I was astonished to recognise my old friend Henry Darnwell, and wondered whether he was inspired less by sympathy with Mr Wilkes’s cause than by an irresistible love of causing mischief.

    That night the mob demanded that all householders must illuminate their homes to show support for Wilkes, and those that neglected to do so had their windows smashed. Disturbances continued for some hours before eventually the authorities restored some kind of order. I witnessed several arrests being made. Suddenly I heard my name being shouted, and turned to behold the flame-haired young man being taken into custody.

   “There!” he called, “That’s my master, Mr Huntingdon! He’s a Member of Parliament! He’ll vouch for me!” I now remembered him as the appropriately-named Redman, servant to Mr Braithwaite, who I had encountered at the great cricket match last summer. The disbelieving officer marched the culprit in my direction, where I confirmed my identity and committed perjury by vouching that that Redman was indeed my servant. As was customary, the gift of a silver coin assisted matters: the officer released Redman into my charge and departed, muttering some comments about gentlemen who could not keep their servants under better control.

   Redman thanked me for extracting him from a dangerous situation, and then impudently promised to return the favour some time. I was tempted to give him a stern talk on the recklessness of his behaviour, but decided it would have but little effect, and instead I merely advised him to stay close to his real master in future. 

   When I later reported the incident to Mr Braithwaite, he told me that he had been obliged to dismiss Redman from his service, for he had got a neighbour’s serving-maid with child! He shook his head sadly at Redman’s part in the riot, saying that it came to him as no surprise, and he only hoped that Redman could escape eventual hanging.

   Later, Wilkes was awarded substantial damages against the agents who had arrested him, and had the satisfaction of General Warrants declared to be illegal, but this was to be the end of his triumphs. A raid on his premises unearthed a copy of an obscene poem entitled “An Essay on Woman”, which was now widely circulated by agents of the ministry. I glanced at it myself and found it disgusting, though perhaps too crude to have come from Wilkes’s pen.

   I must jump ahead in my narrative to a debate in November, when even Pitt denounced Wilkes as “A blasphemer of his God and a libeller of his King”, and the House of Commons voted that Number 45 of the “North Briton” was “A false, scandalous and seditious libel”. Lord Staines delivered a most intemperate denunciation of Wilkes: he had not forgiven the offending remarks written about him, or what he regarded as the unsatisfactory outcome of the subsequent duel. Remembering the great debt I owed to Wilkes, I considered using the occasion to make a speech explaining that although I deplored the “Essay on Woman” as much as anyone, that I owed Mr Wilkes such a great personal debt that I felt an obligation to support him: but in the end I thought it best to maintain my silence as I voted with the minority.

   Wilkes himself was not present, for he had fought one duel too many and had been severely wounded. He fled to France; and when he did not appear at his trial for criminal libel, he was declared an outlaw.

   It was ordered that the “North Briton” and the “Essay on Woman” should be burnt by the common hangman at the Royal Exchange, and an attempt was made to carry this out in early December. But again a great mob assembled: they pelted the sheriffs, destroyed the windows of their coach and rescued the “North Briton” from the bonfire. The House of Commons later voted thanks to the sheriffs for attempting to do their duty, but the Common Council of London pointedly refused to do so.

   John Wilkes was not to return to England for several years, but now he is back in London again and the cry of “Wilkes and liberty” is once more heard on the streets of the city, where he is more popular with the mob than ever.

   The afternoon after the riot I sought out Henry Darnwell at a coffee-house he was known to frequent. I found him exhilarated by the night’s events: when I told him how surprised I had been to see him encouraging the Wilkite mob, he replied that he sincerely believed that English liberty was under the gravest of threats from the present ministers. I then reminded him of how he had recently written mentioning information he had discovered that would be of great importance to me. He admitted that this had quite slipped his mind, and said I must await the arrival of Bartley Wandescote, who would in all probability appear soon, and would tell me the whole story.

   “What? The man who takes delight in attending executions and visiting the poor souls in Bedlam? I have no desire to meet him again.”

   “Oh, but you must, for he has the most extraordinary tale to tell, which might be of great importance to you! While we wait, I shall explain the circumstances.  

      “I am reading for the Bar, and to this end I have attended a series of trials in Westminster Hall. They were mostly for theft, and since none of the defendants had counsel to assist them, the hearings lasted no more than a few minutes, and were inclined to be monotonous and repetitive. But on this particular day I found our friend Bartley there already. I fancy he enjoys studying the faces of the defendants when they are sentenced to death.”

   “No doubt he does. We all know his tastes, and I for one find his talk of such matters disgusting. Pray tell me why I should be forced to listen to him now?”

   “That is because of what he had seen before I arrived. One of the defendants ... But I shall let him tell the story himself: here he comes!”

    Bartley Wandescote had grown much fatter since I last met him. He was dressed with great opulence, but the powder on his rotund face failed to conceal the strange greenish colour of his skin. He greeted me warmly, while I forced myself to smile as I shook his soft damp hand. In response to Henry Darnwell’s request he began his account, but in a peculiarly circuitous way that was all his own.

   “There were several accused that day, mostly drawn from the poorest and most degraded parts of our great city. The judge was Armstrong, an old fool who enjoys making sententious longwinded speeches about wickedness when sentencing wretches to death for low crimes, and today he excelled himself. He even quoted Cicero at them, but so inaccurately and with so many false quantities that I concluded his teachers could not have flogged him sufficiently when he was at school. Of course, most of his victims could not understand a word he said, but I was torn between shuddering and bursting out laughing …”

   “But what did you want to tell us?” I interrupted him, with no little impatience.

   “Oh, yes. Now, one of his victims, a woman condemned for theft on the evidence of her landlord – a thorough villain if ever I saw one, who richly deserves to swing himself – felt obliged to answer him back. Possibly she was so disgusted by the display of crass and inept moralising that she could not abide listening to him a moment longer without interrupting. I felt much the same way myself. And who do you think she was?”  

  I could make no suggestion. Wandescote halted his discourse for a moment to let the excitement build up before continuing.

   “Why, it was none other than the fair Danielle, with whom we have had such interesting and instructive conversations! Her full name, it appears, is Danielle d’Autun – that is, of course presuming that she is telling the truth, which can by no means be guaranteed.”

   I had not thought of Danielle since she had initiated me into the mysteries of love one night on my first time in London. It all seemed many years ago.

   “What happened to her? Was she convicted?”

   “Naturally. All the defendants were convicted, and with great speed. Knowing her as we used to do, we can surely have little doubt that she was surely guilty of something! But her accuser, as I said, was the most arrant knave you could conceive. He swore she had stolen from him, though to my mind it was quite apparent that he kept a common house of assignation, and took tribute from her. If there was any justice, it should have been he who stood in the dock. I anticipate seeing him on the cart to Tyburn ere long.”

   “But tell Charles here what she said to the judge,” Darnwell intervened, “For I think it concerns him greatly.”

   “Have patience! She told the judge that if she was pardoned, she would supply details of Jacobite treason committed by certain prominent persons. She mentioned several names, one of which was that of Wilmington, or Wilburton, or something like that, who resided at Bereton.”

  “Sir James Wilbrahim!” I said in hushed tones.

   “Ah yes, that was it. I did not catch the name properly. But I remembered that you had inherited property in Bereton, and so did Henry here, when I recounted my simple story to him.”

   “What happened to her?”

   “Oh, she was sentenced to be hanged, of course. The ridiculous Armstrong swept her allegations aside and instead uttered yet more pompous pronouncements on vice and depravity, this time with special reference to females.”

   “And is she still alive? Where is she now?”

   “No doubt she is confined in a squalid dungeon somewhere, awaiting execution. I can find out, if you wish. But why? Do you want to talk to her?”

   “Yes, I do,” I replied. It occurred to me that she might be able to cast light on certain matters concerning Jacobitism in Bereton that had been worrying me.

   Henry Darnwell agreed. “I suppose we are honour bound to try to save her life,” he said, “for we have affectionate memories of Mam’selle Danielle, do we not? She gave much truly interesting tuition to us all – though not to Staines, of course - for all that we paid for it unknowingly with some of our possessions! So pray find out where she is held, and how we may visit her. In the meantime, I shall draw up a petition to the King, in proper legal form, humbly begging His Majesty to exercise his prerogative of mercy and grant a reprieve; and we can get all our friends to sign it.”

  “Very well, I shall make enquiries,” said Wandescote, “Though for my part I must say that she absolutely refused to perform what I requested of her, even though I offered to pay her a considerable sum of money.”

  “I am not surprised. I think only the lowest of whores could abide you!”

   “There, sir, you are wrong!” Wandescote replied, vastly amused. “You would be amazed at the tricks that the wives of some of our most respectable citizens are willing to attempt, merely to alleviate the tedium of their lives!” He chuckled. I had no idea whether he was reliving a memory or laughing at our reaction.