Chapter Thirty-one: Riot, rescue and arrest

(Charles Huntingdon urgently needs to ask Danielle d'Autun, facing sentence of death, questions about the Jacobite rising)

   I could not rest until I had spoken to Danielle again, but when I reached the gates of the Coldharbour, I found the sums I had to pay her gaolers for the privilege of a brief visit had become even more extortionate. I urged her not to abandon hope: my friends and I would surely find a way of saving her life; that even now a petition for mercy was being signed by many gentlemen of influence. To my surprise, she showed no interest whatsoever to this news: almost as if she had accepted her fate. I asked her if I should procure for her the services of a priest of her persuasion, but she shook her head, and said it would not be necessary. Then I asked the question that most preyed upon Sir James’s mind, and, since reading his papers, on my mind too.

   “Sir James Wilbrahim has been haunted, ever since the great rebellion, by the suspicion that Miss Louisa Wibrahim is not his daughter, but had been fathered by the Prince on that night at Stanegate in 1745. Now pray tell me: is there likely to have been any truth in this belief?”

  Danielle was silent for a while. There was a faraway look in her eyes, as if she was recalling happier times. Then she laughed, and said, “No, that could not be true, for the Prince spent the whole night with me!” It was the only time I heard her laugh.

 

  It was fortunate indeed that Danielle was able to tell me this, because it proved to be the last time I was permitted to visit her. The next time I called at the main gate of the Coldharbour I was turned away with the information that Danielle no longer wished to see me! I absolutely refused to believe this, and naturally thought it was merely a ruse to extract larger bribes from me, and accordingly increased the silver I offered, but without result. Did the odious Bennet, I wondered, guess that my ultimate aim was to free her? He would, of course, have been entirely correct!

  I wrote a letter, carefully composed to be of the most innocuous and harmless wording, which I bribed one of the servants to deliver to her, with the promise of a substantial reward if he could return with an answer, but even this brought no response. I began to wonder if Danielle was still alive. What if she had succumbed to gaol fever, but this fact was being concealed in the expectation of extorting yet more money from me?

  Henry Darnwell now came to me with the grave news that our petition had been rejected, just as Mr Braithwaite had foreseen. Danielle had now less than two weeks to live before she was to be taken to Tyburn to be hanged!

   “I have promised to save her life. What is to be done?” I asked Darnwell. “I doubt whether even a bag of gold would induce Bennet to allow the escape of someone sentenced to death.”

   Darnwell considered for a while before ruminating, “If she could somehow be broken out of prison …. That would be a great adventure, would it not? And I would have sweet revenge on the Cracker, for his treatment of me ….”

  I knew then I could count on his help.

 

   Henry Darnwell might have been an enthusiast for the gallant adventure of saving a lady from the gallows, and so were others of my friends, but when it came to practical schemes for achieving this, they were singularly lacking. It would clearly be a far more difficult problem than the rescue of Louisa had been, when we had simply marched into the brothel and demanded her released. I could not even ask for the advice of John Wilkes, who was now enmeshed in his own problems. George Davies, who had recently obtained an officer’s commission in the army, proposed a wild scheme of waylaying the hangman’s cart at the church of St Giles, where the condemned were traditionally given a drink of wine on the route to Tyburn, and fleeing with Danielle into the notorious slum that lay nearby. Davies volunteered to lead such a desperate venture himself, assured that his great size and officer’s uniform would intimidate the guards. It was no doubt for the best that at this point he was ordered to America with his regiment, and his hopes were abandoned.

   Another suggestion came from Darnwell himself: “You should familiarise yourself with the servants’ entrance to Bennet’s residence and distribute a little money among the scullery-maids. You know where Danielle is kept, and it might be possible to obtain some keys. If all goes well, you may perhaps gain access to her while Bennet’s attention is distracted.”

  To my mind this scheme was scarcely less fanciful than that of storming the hangman’s cart. “And how do you propose that Bennet should be so distracted as to allow this?” I asked.

   “Ah, there I have some ideas. Make yourself known there, and wait for a signal from me!”

 

  I had scant confidence in Darnwell’s plan, but in the absence of any other, I felt obliged to follow it. Accordingly, I dressed myself in the plain clothes of a city tradesman and posed as the assistant to a prosperous victualler who was interested in supplying the prison; and in this guise I hoped to talk to Bennet’s servants and find out what I could.

   It was not easy to find the kitchen entrance to the Coldharbour, which was hidden away in the back streets. When I appeared at the door, I found it was expected that I should distribute a quantity of coin to gain entrance. The cook departed to summon the steward to discuss my proposals, leaving me alone with the lesser servants. While waiting, I talked to them lightly and in a friendly manner, but they did not respond. I suspected that their lives were governed by fear of their master.   

   The steward then appeared: a surly man. He asked detailed questions about my supposed employer, in answering which I feared that my impersonation of a victualler did not carry much conviction. When I hinted that I had heard that the prison contained a French lady who might be prepared to pay more for better food, he became immediately suspicious; abruptly closed the conversation, insolently turned his back and departed. Of course, I thought, it might well be that he was merely seeking a substantial bribe for himself, so I was not discouraged and resolved to try again another day. This idea was amplified when a kitchen maid, told to show me out, whispered that “the other gentleman” had paid far more to gain entry. I patted her on the head and rewarded her with sixpence, with the promise of more if she would help me in future. She accepted the money, though she added that “the other gentleman” had promised her a full shilling, but “he spoke funny” and “she didn’t like him."

   One of the cooks who had overheard our conversation, added, “He’s a foreigner, dressed as a gentleman, but it’s my belief he’s a Popish priest, come to see that French hussy and confess her, or whatever them folks do, before she’s hanged. I don’t hold with none of that Popish nonsense myself, but one man’s silver is as good as any other, in’t it?”

   “He’s seeing her right now!” she added, after I had responded to her hint by a suitable donation.

  These attempts to corrupt servants were proving expensive, I reflected. But I was anxious to see who this mysterious “other gentleman” might be, so I waited outside.

 

   I had stood there for some time, and was beginning to doubt whether such a person ever existed, rather than being merely a fictitious being created in an attempt to extort more money from me, when my patience was suddenly rewarded.

  A man in dark cloak and hat left through the kitchen door. I was certain I had never seen him before. In my character of a tradesman I bade him good-day and ventured a polite enquiry as to whether he was doing business in the Coldharbour gaol. He uttered not a word in reply, but instead treated me to a stare of the utmost haughtiness before turning on his heel and striding away. I had never before met a French popish priest, but was surprised that, if he was such, he should have behaved in such an uncivil fashion even to an English heretic. The London mob, I was sure, would have hooted him had they known, and if I had been dressed as a gentleman I might have challenged him; but I wore the garb of a tradesman, and as a quarrel in the street was the last thing I wanted, I did not respond. The episode made me very uneasy. The only thing that was certain was that it would be difficult to gain access to Danielle d’Autun.

 

……………………………………………………

A few days later I found Henry Darnwell waiting for me at the club, so excited that he began to gush forth his news before I was even seated.

   “Have you heard? Have you heard? People here are talking of nothing else! The great and terrible Joseph Byrne has been arrested! He foolishly came within the boundaries of the City, and someone must have informed the magistrates that he would be there, for constables were waiting for him with a warrant, and he was immediately seized, and charged with being in possession of stolen goods!”

  My other pressing concerns had meant that I had not thought of Byrne for some time, but memories of my meeting with him now came flooding back .

  “Tell me more!” I said, unnecessarily, since he was clearly dying to tell me anyway.

   “According to what they say, a lady wrote to him to discuss a matter of business, and employed all her wiles to persuade him to come to her home, which was in one of the best parts of London”.

   “And was he immediately arrested?”
  “Ah, she was cleverer than that. He was suspicious of a betrayal, and so he agreed to meet her, but at a coffee-house just outside the city limits, where he was well-guarded. All went well, but she must have hinted that if he wished to attain a full enjoyment of her charms, he must come alone, to her home, bringing certain goods with him. It was at this second meeting that he was arrested, and was found to be in possession of a stolen jewel. Oh, how amazing that he should fall for such a transparent stratagem!”

   I reflected that the lady in question must surely have been my sometime friend and lover Mrs Elizabeth Newstead. So had she now recovered her lost ruby? I could not but respect her cunning and boldness in hatching such a scheme; but other matters were at the moment more pressing.

  “This is all most interesting,” I said, "but it does nothing to help our plan to rescue Danielle.”

   “Wait, and I will tell you! Now I must rely on the peculiar tastes of our old friend Bartley Wandescote. I met him yesterday and he was eager to tell me his news. He had heard of Byrne’s arrest, and scoured the gaols to discover where Byrne was held. And can you guess where he found him? Why, in the Coldharbour!”

   “The Coldharbour?”

   “Yes indeed, the Coldharbour, no less; under the tender care of our old friend Mister Bennet, otherwise known as the Cracker! So, of course, Bartley had to go and seek an audience with so notorious a villain”.

   “How did he contrive to gain entry? Bennet has refused me any further admission!”

   “Oh, maybe the Cracker recognised a kindred spirit in our friend Bartley Wandescote. Or maybe Wandescote, to slake his twisted lusts, simply paid him more”.

   “Did he speak to Danielle?”

   “Who?  Byrne or our friend Bartley?”

   “Either of them!”

   “Bartley only spoke to Byrne, and he did not ask whether Byrne had spoken to Danielle; for Byrne had much to say for himself, and was glad to have an audience. He was full of bitterness, and berated his own foolishness; betrayed by the wiles of a woman!”

   “I still do not see how that helps us. Will not the Coldharbour be even more closely guarded, now that this famous robber is held there?”

   “Why man, do you not see the possibilities? Byrne is one of the most hated men in England! The money he has extorted from all grades of society is infinite! A few may consider him a latter-day Robin Hood, but they are fools. Now that he has rashly ventured out from the safety of his own bailiwick I think he is happy to remain in gaol, for his own protection against the vengeance of the mob.

  “The only man who might challenge him in the hatred of the public is Bennet the Cracker. His cruelty is a matter of legend. Countless of our citizens have had friends and family members who have suffered from his depredations. And now the two villains are in the same building; a veritable Bastille here in our midst.

   “Now: what if it came to be believed that Byrne had bribed Bennet to release him? Or that, even better, our ministers had themselves been corrupted? And that, in consequence, Byrne would soon appear outside the gates of the Coldharbour? What if John Wilkes’s pupils now decide to attempt a few projects of their own, and can be persuaded to discover in that hated building a new subject for their rage? These are hard times for many in our city; discontent runs deep and may boil over, for trade continued to be in decline and no remedies had yet been effected. Artisans and apprentices of all kinds are suffering. What if a riot outside the gates of the Coldharbour should take place? And maybe the gates will be stormed? I have contacts who could be useful there. Would not that provide us with an opportunity? Be ready!”

   Having said this, Darnwell raced away to commence his new role as captain rioter.

 

   I was sceptical of his chances, but just three days later a boy came running with a hastily-scrawled message from Henry Darnwell informing me that a crowd was assembling and he felt sure that they could be led to the gates of the prison that very evening. “I have assiduously spread the rumour that Byrne is to be pardoned and released this very night! We may anticipate trouble! Make your way there at speed, and we may use the turmoil of a riot to our advantage!”

  I had still no clear plan of how I might affect the release of Danielle from her captivity, but I donned my tradesman’s garb again and made my way towards the celebrated gaol.

   I found that a crowd was already gathering. A variety of cries were being shouted: “Wilkes and liberty!” “No Scots!” “No Popery!” and I know not what else; but it was a different sort of crowd from those who had gathered in support of Wilkes. Some were easily recognisable by the tools of their trade, such as the weavers with their heavy iron-shod shuttles that made useful weapons, or the begrimed coal-heavers with their shovels, but intermingled with the tradesmen there were others who must have come from the darkest holes of St. Giles: dangerous-looking men, slatternly harpies of women and ragged children of both sexes. Many were drunk and eager for trouble, and some carried lighted torches. Scuffles were breaking out, but all were united in their hatred of the Coldharbour.

   They gathered outside the doors of the gaol, where a young man in a hat stood on a mounting-block and shouted words that I was too far away to hear clearly. He appeared to be urging them on, and was met with cheers.

   The mob surged forward in a great wave. Stones were thrown against the windows and doors, which were of course locked and barred, but then suddenly there rang out from one of the upper windows the crash of a musket shot, together with a puff of smoke. A man at the front of the crowd fell to the ground with a yell and a curse.

   The shouts of the mob, which had been increasing in volume, were silenced, but then a great howl of rage followed. Soon every window was smashed by stones and torches thrown through where glass had been. Directed by the young man in the hat, wood was piled up against the door and set on fire. More shots were fired. At any moment, I thought, either the mob will burst through into the prison, and murder will be done, or else the whole building will burn! Already I could see smoke arising from within. 

   I hastened from the scene and ran round to the servants’ door, which I found already open, with the servants out and running for their lives. Then, to my astonishment, who should follow them but Danielle, accompanied by the mysterious stranger!

   She did not seem in the least surprised to find me there. “Ah, Monsieur ‘Untingdon! We thought we might find you here! This is Monsieur Dupont”, she said, as her companion bowed gravely to me. I doubted whether this was his true name, for something about him suggested that he was an aristocrat. He announced, in a very strong accent, how grateful his monarch, Louis XV, was for my efforts on behalf of his trusted agent; to which praise I was unable to venture any reply.

   “So you will learn”, Danielle continued, “that French gold buys much. As soon as Monsieur Dupont discovered where I was confined (and for that knowledge we must thank your friend Monsieur Darnwell, who is so not able to keep a secret!) he set to work. And though your friend tried hard to raise a mob, it was our money that proved more effectual in that, and also in bribing servants. It is a disgrace that they are not more loyal to their masters!"

   A thought occurred to me. “And were the riots in support of John Wilkes also purchased with French gold?” I asked.

  “Our ministers vould be fools not to offer gold to Monsieur Vilkes”, her companion replied scornfully, “And he vould be a fool not to accept it!”

   This, I reflected, was no reply at all.

  “And now I am safe at last”, Danielle resumed, “For tonight I stay at the home of our ambassador; and after that I journey to Bristol, to take a ship bound for Spain. So we shall meet no more, Monsieur; though I shall always be grateful to you for the help you gave me when I lay under sentence of death, and cherish the memory of our time together. I am sorry that I had to tell the gaoler that I did not wish to see you again; but you will understand, Monsieur ‘Untingdon, that we had our own plans, and did not wish for any interference.

   “But let us leave this place, before the canaille find us!” And with that, she leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. The two of them then walked away into the gloom and vanished from my sight. I never saw either of them again. 

   If I had listened to the voice of prudence, I would also have departed at this point, and saved myself a great deal of trouble, but I lingered to watch the destruction of the prison. I saw furniture and bundles of documents hurled into the street as the building was ransacked, and thick smoke curled out of other windows as the fires spread. Any remaining inmates; servants, gaolors and prisoners alike; fled through the kitchen door and passed where I was standing, and soon afterwards a mob of angry rioters appeared round the corner in search of any of Bennet’s men who might still be lurking there. I was quickly surrounded and my name and business demanded. Some accused me of having fired the fatal shot; a few simply seemed intent on taking vengeance upon my person, whether I was guilty or not. The prevailing sentiment, however, was that I should instantly give money for the support of “the poor mob”, with the implication that only a very generous donation to this cause would prove acceptable.

   There appeared no means of preserving my safety. I had, of course, come without my sword, and did not know what to do. But while I hesitated, the mob leader I had observed earlier appeared and pulled off the hat he was wearing. I was astonished and relieved to behold a familiar mop of flames-coloured hair, distinguishable even in the gathering gloom. It was Alf Redman.

   “He’s all right!” he proclaimed to his followers, “I know him! He’s a friend of Mr Wilkes: ain’t you, sir?”

   I confirmed that this was indeed the case; that I knew Mr Wilkes well, that I always read and supported the “North Briton” and that I had voted against Wilkes’s expulsion from Parliament. At this information they gave me a cheer, which was redoubled when I produced my purse, preparing to give Redman and his friends the wherewithal for them to drink my health.

  But at moment a cry went up, “The soldiers! The soldiers!” A party of redcoats was approaching. The rioters turned and fled; Redman snatching some coins from my purse as he did so, and spilling others on the ground. Feeling secure in my privileged position as a Member of Parliament, I saw no reason to join them, and instead stooped to gather up the spilled money. 

   “Here’s another rioter! Take him!” ordered a corporal. I protested that I was no rioter, but a Member of Parliament who had just chanced to be on the scene. The soldiers, uncertain of what to do, marched me to an officer who now appeared. The corporal explained that he had observed me giving money to the fleeing rioter with the red hair, and that I claimed to be a Member of Parliament.   

  The officer treated this with a sneer. “Oh, I should think so!” he scoffed. “Look at the fellow! Does he look like a gentleman?” And indeed I did not, for I was dressed as a common tradesman and was now dirty and smelling of smoke.

 

                                                       (Eighteenth century rioters)

   “Giving money to that red-headed devil, was he? This fellow’s a captain rioter, I warrant!” He then bowed very low to me, in mock deference. “Well, my noble sir, you may now consider yourself the Right Honourable Member for Newgate, and shortly to be elevated in the borough of Tyburn! Take him away!” Having pronounced this witticism, which evidently pleased him greatly, he turned his back. While he was speaking I had had the distinct feeling that I had met him before, but could neither recall his name nor place him. It was only as he walked away that I remembered him as the officer who had recruited young Jimmy Thatcher back in Bereton. Too late! Too late!

   So, less than an hour after the escape of Danielle, I was now a prisoner myself! At least my treatment was not as harsh as hers, perhaps because of a lingering suspicion that I might indeed be a gentleman. I was taken, not to Newgate, but to a private house somewhere in London, where I was not chained in a dungeon, but locked in a room on my own: a miserable garret with barred windows and holes in the ceiling. Here I was to be held until I could be brought before the justices. It was well that I had recovered some of my money, because I was obliged to pay for a bed with a thin straw mattress and no sheets, pay more for a loaf of bread and a mug of sour ale, and yet more for pen and paper. 

   The only friend whom I knew for certain to be in London was Henry Darnwell.  I scribbled a letter begging him to come before the magistrates and swear to my identity, preferably bringing with him some other gentleman whose word would carry respect, and then I used what remained of my money to bribe the gaoler’s ugly brat of a son to deliver it into Darnwell’s hand. I could do no more, and I lay back on the unclean mattress, still dressed in the clothes I was wearing when arrested, and attempted to sleep.