Chapter One: I find a friend in London

   My story begins in London in November of 1760. The city was full of excitement, for the war with France, which had begun so disastrously four years earlier, was now bringing almost daily reports of victories on land and sea in all parts of the world. But now His Majesty King George II, who had reigned over us for so many years, had died, and his grandson was our new monarch: King George III, a man in his early twenties, no older than me. A new age was dawning, and I had my own reasons to be happy because, unexpectedly and through no merit of my own, I was about to become a man of wealth!

  It was a cold morning of heavy cloud, and I was walking in the Strand, when a carriage passed nearby and I heard a man’s voice halloo me. I turned as the carriage stopped, the window was opened and the same voice exclaimed, “It’s Charles Huntingdon, is it not?” I saw it was Lord Staines, the only son of the Earl of Teesdale. I recognised him from our college at Cambridge University; though I had then been merely a poor scholar hoping to find a living in the Church, and he had been far above me in station. We poor scholars had had to wait on the young noblemen in Hall, and neither expected nor received many thanks in return. I was surprised that he had remembered me at all.

                                      (The President's lodge at Queens' College, Cambridge)

   His manner was most friendly; in marked contrast to how he had often behaved at the college. He asked me what I was about, and I explained my recent great good fortune: that I had become the heir of an aunt, Mrs Andrew, a widowed lady without children who had resided near the town of Bereton, north of Mulchester, where she owned extensive properties; that I had not been long in London and knew little of the great metropolis, but was on my way to see the banker, Mr Coutts, and then the lawyers at Lincoln’s Inn, to discuss my inheritance.

  Staines congratulated me, and said, “I must go now, but meet me this afternoon at Brown’s club, and tell me more. It’s not far from here; between the Savoy and St Clement’s church”. With that he instructed his coachman to drive on, and clattered away across the paving stones.

 

   Having concluded my business for the morning I made my way to Brown’s club. I had never previously heard of that establishment, but had no great difficulty in locating it. I found a substantial room with a wooden floor and a high ceiling. A fire was blazing in a wide grate, and a large kettle was hung above it. At one end was an enclosed area where coffee was being prepared. A dozen or so gentlemen sat around tables, drinking and smoking pipes while they talked together. Newspapers were laid out to be read and there were coloured engravings on the walls. Waiters trotted to and fro with coffee pots.

   A look around the company told me that Staines was not present. One or two of the gentlemen glanced in my direction and then returned to their own affairs. I stood irresolute in the doorway, uncertain as to what to do. After what seemed like an age, a waiter approached me and politely asked me my business. When I informed him that Lord Staines had asked me to meet him there, he ushered me to sit at a table in a corner while I awaited his lordship’s arrival.

                                 (An 18th century coffee-house)

     No-one took further notice of me, so I remained silent and listened snatches of the conversation of the other gentlemen as they discussed the latest news of the war. I had, of course, followed reports in the newspapers of the great battles, and I knew of Mr William Pitt, the Secretary of State who was planning the war against France, and hoped I might learn more. I was interested to hear that some of those present thought the war must end soon, lest the costs became ruinous. They also spoke of our new King, though none of them had ever met him. But soon talk then turned to their own affairs, and to the new plays, and scandalous gossip, and my attention wandered.

  I wondered about Lord Staines. I was surprised that he should care about me. At our college he had been an inhabitant of a different and higher world, but perhaps now that I was about to be the owner of a significant landed estate, he might consider me a friend. I had come to the city alone, and if I had now gained a friend who could advise and guide me, my life would become far more enjoyable.

   I assembled together the scattered recollections I had of him. He was slender in his build, and shorter than me. His eyes were blue. He had a charming smile, though he seldom revealed it; preferring to appear solemn even when he was joking. He was always the central figure in any gathering. I never heard him raise his voice in anger; nor did he ever appear hasty or flustered. Occasionally he was polite towards us humble servitors, but at other times he was rude and sneering. He could be scathing in his denunciations of other men, usually when they were absent, or when he wished to display his wit to his numerous acolytes. As was common with young noblemen at the university, he left without taking a degree, and I had heard that his father the Earl had then purchased him a commission in a cavalry regiment and he had joined our allied army in Germany. That being the case, I wondered why he was in London, and not in uniform, with the war still raging. I was still pondering this point when Staines himself entered.

    He appeared soon after three o’clock, came to sit beside me and immediately summoned a waiter. “Why have you not served my friend with coffee?” he demanded. “Well then: bring some immediately!” he continued, interrupting the servant’s stuttering apologies.

   We began our conversation by exchanging some trivial reminiscences of our times at the college. He dismissed the institution as useless, and was contemptuous of the scholarship of the dons. “I would rate my years there”, he said, “As the most unprofitable period of my life, redeemed only by the pleasurable company of my companions. You should have joined us!” We had all heard of the drinking and debauchery supposed to have taken place in Lord Staines’s rooms in a part of the college known as “Holy Joe’s”, after an ancient statue of St. Joseph that stood there (“A fitting place for a sainted cuckold”, someone had said). I had never been invited to join the young noblemen in their pleasures, but did not point this out.

   He continued in this vein for a while, with witty dissections of the character and habits of our more eccentric dons. During this discourse, to which I contributed no more than an occasional word, I observed that gentlemen at an adjacent table had interrupted their talk to listen to him, and were laughing. Lord Staines had always enjoyed performing before an appreciative audience.

   Then we fell to talking of the future. He commiserated with me on the death of my aunt, Mrs Andrew; but I explained to him that she was in reality a more distant relation, a cousin of my late mother; I had not set eyes on her since I was a small child, and was as surprised as anyone to find myself named as her heir. He replied that Mrs Andrew was not unknown to his family, for his father also owned lands around Bereton. He had wondered who would inherit the Andrew estate, and he was glad it was me, rather than a stranger.

   “And now”, he added, “we must now be considered neighbours; for my father’s country seat, Maybury, is in the same county, and no great distance away. I shall make sure that my father invites you there, once you are established”.

      He asked me how I lived now. I said that since the death of both my parents I had no permanent residence, but that at present I lodged in Crown Street, Westminster, and that the bankers allowed me £30 a quarter in expectation of my eventual inheritance; but I was experiencing frustrating delays in the sorting through of my aunt’s investments in the Funds. Staines said that his father’s attorney and man of business was in town, and if necessary he would instruct him to help me.

   “His name is Jarrett”, he said, “He is a most ingenious fellow, and I would back him to navigate a way through the most tangled labyrinths of the law, even if blindfolded!”

    I thanked him for the offer of assistance, and said that as soon as everything was settled I proposed to travel up to Bereton to inspect my new property, and perhaps reside there for a while. At that he shook his head and laughed, saying that the country was no place for any young man of spirit, that I would quickly find it dull and tedious.

   I asked him what he knew of Bereton.

   “I have never set foot there”, he replied, “Nor do I propose to do so! I know only what my father has told me. It is an ancient, decayed town. I fear you will find no gentleman of taste or refinement there, for most of the so-called gentry in the county are in reality little better than farmers, and never come to town. Believe me, my father knows them only too well! They have ridiculous names like “Sir Heatherbrain Fitzbooby”, and are as ignorant as the peasants who plough their fields. Clowns and boors, every one! All they seek in life is to eat and drink to excess and to hunt foxes!” I wondered whether the listening gentlemen would take offence at this, but they merely chuckled. They must have considered themselves to be of a superior breed to the country folk.

   “The town elects two members to the Parliament. One of these is Sir James Wilbrahim who is a typical specimen of the breed I have described. He is a stupid old Tory and a notorious Jacobite, and seldom comes to London.”

   “A Jacobite, you say?”

    “Oh yes! You may be amazed that there are still such benighted men in our nation, but I assure you that numbers still lurk in the depths of the country. Sir James Wilbrahim is one. You will doubtless meet him when you visit Bereton, and I wish you joy of him! The other Member, Mr Bailey, is a friend of my father. At the last election, Wilbrahim and Bailey were returned unopposed without a poll, which saved my father any further expenditure of money, though he had already spent vast sums. You will not meet Bailey there: he now rarely leaves his home in Hampstead.”

   A Jacobite, I thought: a supporter of the exiled Stuart who calls himself King James III, and of his son Charles, who had led a rebellion back in 1745, when I had been a child and too young to comprehend anything about it. It all seemed so long ago, and the cause so hopeless that I was surprised that its supporters still lived.

   Lord Staines continued. “As for your aunt’s house, which is now yours: I believe it is in a hamlet to the west of the town, but I know nothing about it. I cannot imagine that you will find it anything but old and ugly in its design and furnishing. No: once you have viewed your new properties and settled your affairs there, I warrant you will quickly return to London!”

   I said to Staines that I understood he had served in the army. At this his face grew dark, and lowering his voice so that he should not be overheard he asked me whether I knew anything of the recent battle of Minden, in Germany. I replied that I had heard the name, but that having only recently arrived in town, I knew no details.

   “Well then”, he told me with an unusual degree of bitterness in his voice, “I must tell you that Lord George Sackville, who commanded our cavalry and was my patron and friend, was accused of cowardice for failing to charge home with his men when ordered to do so. I was there, as his aide-de-camp, and I knew the accusation to be most villainously unjust, for the orders he had received made no sense at all. So when he was dismissed from the army at the express command of the King himself, was subjected to public humiliation and had his private life traduced in the vilest rumours, I resigned my commission forthwith and came home. I must beg you in all earnestness never to mention the subject again”.

                              (A cartoon of the battle of Minden)

   I thought it best to say nothing, but to wait for him to regain his composure. This he quickly did, remarking that the war would soon be over and that such matters could then be forgotten.  More cheerful now in his manner, he asked me how I liked our great capital. I replied that at first, having never lived in any town larger than Cambridge, I had been bemused by the immense bustling crowds, the constant noise, the dirt and all-pervading smells. He laughed and said that this was a common feeling among those newly arrived from the country, but that he would wager that ere long I, like him, would never wish to live anywhere else in England. He further told me that now I was about to become rich, I should live appropriately; and that he would instruct me in the fashionable life of the town that my newfound wealth had opened up to me.

 

   Realising that my life was about to change, I resolved to start a journal. Reading now through such scattered pages as have survived, I recall how the next few weeks were passed in endless activity, as Lord Staines endeavoured to reform my way of life. He conducted me first to his tailor, and commanded the man to make me two new suits of clothes, one red and one green, richly embroidered and with silver buttons. The tailor measured me and assured me that the garments would be ready without delay. I also paid six guineas for a very splendid waistcoat of golden silk, embroidered with tiny flowers and birds in vivid colours. To go with these I acquired a fine tricorn hat with lace, stockings of the best silk, shoes with silver buckles, and finally two bag wigs tied with a black ribbon in the latest fashion, which cost twelve guineas. The tradesmen treated me with a most gratifying respect that verged on servility. I also provided myself with a gold-topped cane, a watch for twenty guineas and a snuffbox of tortoiseshell and silver. The only one of these vanities that I still retain is a very handsome sword with an elaborate hilt of silver and steel, which was purchased from the shop of Mr Jefferys, sword-cutter to His Majesty, and cost ten guineas. It was only a toy sword, worn just for show and I did not know how to use it, never having had a fencing lession in my life, but I had never before owned a sword, and I contemplated it every day with a degree of pleasure. I would play with it in my rooms, to the alarm of my landlady. I felt myself now fully equipped to parade through the best parts of our capital city.  

                                              (A young gentleman)

   I was not required to pay any money at the time for these purchases. Some of the tradesmen were unwilling to grant me credit, since they did not know me, but Lord Staines said he and his father would personally vouch for me, and this was generally accepted. I thus piled up debt after debt in a very short time. I thought little of economy then, but I was later grateful that I did not follow Staines’s advice to change my lodgings to a fashionable place on Pall Mall. That would have cost me £200 a year, and I pleaded that I was living very comfortably for little more than a tenth of that, with a landlady who sewed the ruffles on my shirt without asking for payment, and had discovered a tavern nearby where I could dine off a good beefsteak for little more than a shilling. Staines shook his head at this, but did not press me.

   Eventually he announced that I looked a proper gentleman, fit to meet his friends and to attend on his father the Earl when he next gave a dinner party. I felt absurdly proud. My new life was beginning! 

Foreword to "The Memoirs of Charles Huntingdon, M. P. : writen by himself"

  Charles Huntingdon was never a politician of the first rank, and even the great Sir Lewis Namier, in his famous surveys of Parliament in the 1760s, could find little to say about him. I knew scarcely more than just his name before the document I am publishing here came into my hands. 

   I was doing the rounds of the Cambridge colleges and the univerity library, conducting research into eighteenth century politics, when a young trainee assistant librarian, Ms. Whitmore, produced for me something she had found gathering the dust of centuries in the depths of what is euphemistically known as the “reserve collection”. It was a large wooden box, catalogued as having been deposited in 1775 by “Charles Huntingdon, M.P.”, with instructions that it should not be opened until after his death and that of his wife; but as far as Ms. Whitmore was able to ascertain, it had never in fact been opened since it came into the college’s possession. The box proved to contain the memoirs of the said Charles Huntingdon.

   Although Huntingdon was an obscure politician, he met many of the most important people of that period. He has left us descriptions of them, and he also casts a fresh light on the daily lives of the landed classes of his day. The most startling aspect of his memoirs, however, is that he reveals details of some extraordinary adventures in which he took part; and on reading these I can well understand why he did not want them to become widely known until much later.   

  It is for this reason that I am bringing his memoirs to the attention of the public for the first time. With the aim of attracting a wider readership, I have modernised the spelling and punctuation and broken up the narrative into short chapters, for which the titles are entirely my own. The illustrations, which show various eighteenth century scenes, are also my choice.

  My thanks are due above all to Ms. Abigail Whitmore, without whose invaluable help and advice my task would have been impossible.

                                                  P.G.S.                                                  .

Future posts

 From the start of 2023, all my posts will consist of short chapters, posted weekly, of my historical novel set in 18th century England.

Happy Christmas!

 

The last man to be hanged in Shropshire: a true story

On the morning of October 8th, 1960, a horrific sight was found in a house on Westland Road, a respectable street in Shrewsbury. The owner of the house, Adeline Mary Smith, a widow aged 62, had been battered to death.

   A neighbour, George Riley, was arrested for the murder, and that evening he signed a confession at the police station. In it he stated that he had come home very drunk in the early hours of the morning and realising he had no money he decided to rob Mrs Smith. She woke, and he killed her with a blow. 

  Riley was an apprentice butcher, aged 21. He came from a respectable family, his father being a Cadet Corps instructor at Shrewsbury school; but he and his brothers had a bad reputation around the town, getting into fights and being banned from dancehalls. At his trial he attempted to withdraw the confession, but he was nonetheless convicted of murder and sentenced to death. Many local people,including the lady who first told me this story, believed George Riley was innocent. It was pointed out that, although there was a great deal of blood at the scene of the murder, none was found on Riley's person or on his clothing. Furthermore, nothing had been stolen; Mrs Smith's purse and money being found untouched in a drawer. Questions were asked in Parliament by opponenets of the death penalty, but the Home Secretary, R. A. Butler, said that he was "satisfied that there was no miscarriage of justice and no need for an inquiry". But if Riley was innocent, why did he confess? Was he coerced into it by the police, who might have been prejudiced against him by his violent reputation? Or could he have been trying to shield someone; perhaps his brothers? 

  George Riley was hanged in Shrewsbury prison at 8 a.m. on February 9th 1961. There was a noisy demonstration by his supporters outside the prison. The case has remained controversial in Shropshire ever since.

   Shrewsbury prison today is a museum. The bust above the gateway is that of John Howard, the great prison reformer.

 

"They hang us now in Shrewsbury jail:

 The whistles blow folorn,

 And trains all night groan on the rail

 To men that die at morn."

 

(A. E. Housman: "A Shropshire Lad")

A potential story!

 One of the leading gangsters in New York in the Prohibition era was neither Sicilian nor Jewish, but was born in England. His name was Owen Madden, and he came to New York as a child, to live with his aunt in a notorious slum  on the West Side of Manhatten, known as "Hell's Kitchen". He joined the local street gang, the Gophers, and rose to be their leader. He was known as "Owney the killer".

   In the 1920s he made a fortune in bootlegging and the "numbers"  gambling racket; he owned the elite Cotton Club in Harlem, and was nicknamed "the duke of the west side". But in the early 1930s he retired to Hot Springs, Arkansas, where he founded a hotel and casino that played host to many of his fellow-gangsters, including Lucky Luciano when on the run from the authorities.

Madden remained there until he died peacefully in the 1960s; long enough to have met the young Bill Clinton as he was growing up in the state. Clinton's mother certainly encountered Madden, since she once had to prepare him for surgery, and recalled that the old bullets in his body lit up the x-ray screen "like stars in a planetarium!"

Although there is no reason to believe that Clinton himself ever met Madden, wouldn't an imaginary meeting make a splendid story, as the aged gangster imparts to the future president his advice on how to become a success in life!      

The great prize-fight: a discarded episode from my historical novel

 I received a message from Sir Anthony Pardington, telling me of a great prize-fight soon to be held at Harley Green, a village a few miles to the north-east of Brackenridge hill. He had invited all the local gentry to the event, and had himself put up a purse of twenty guineas for the winner. He suggested that I might ride over to meet him at the fight, and then continue onwards to stay a few days at one of his houses, which was not far away. Chancing to meet Sir James Wilbrahim, I mentioned said in jest that he should be pleased that I was visiting a place sharing its name with our last Tory prime minister. “But he betrayed us in the end.” was his response. So, on a fine bright morning, I set forth on Alexander for my first experience of prize-fighting.

  

   The fight took place in a ring (for such it was called, though it was square in shape) that was marked out with ropes in a field. A disorderly crowd pressed on this arena, while a group of gentlemen watched from a nearby mound, and it was there that I met Sir Anthony. The two prizefighters, I learned, were Chesney Harris, who came from our county, and Tom Maguire, who was billed as “The Irish Champion”, though I was told he actually hailed from Cronley, a coal-mining town some fifteen miles away. Many of his supporters had walked to Harley Green that morning to cheer for their hero.

  The gladiators stood in opposite corners, conferring with their seconds and occasionally turning to glare fiercely at each other. Both were stripped to the waist. Their faces bore the scars of earlier battles. Both fighters took the same stance: leaning back slightly with the chin tucked in, the left arm extended, the right held back in defence. A young gentleman I did not know, who had been appointed referee, called them to the centre of the ring and the great contest began.

   I was not familiar with the sport, but Sir Anthony, who was viewing the proceedings with much excitement, explained the rules: kicking the opponent was not permitted, neither were punches delivered below the belt; and when a man was down, his seconds had half a minute to get him back on his feet and to the mark. It made me think of what I had been told concerning the Pankration in the ancient Olympic Games, in which anything was permitted with the exception of eye-gouging.

   Maguire was short and stocky, and looked very strong; Harris was taller, with long legs and arms. I was soon able to see how these qualities dictated the different tactics of the two men; for Maguire strove to close in and grapple, whereas Harris sought to keep him at a distance by delivering blows to the head and chest.

  The fight continued for seemed like many hours, and I quickly lost count of the number of rounds as the two men pummelled each other almost to a standstill. Both were bloodied and bruised on the face and chest and neither looked fit to continue: even remaining upright on their feet appeared difficult. Their rival teams of supporters, far from being satiated with so much blood, became more and more animated.

   Then Maguire attempted to seize his opponent’s wrist and draw him in close, but Harris jumped backwards, causing Maguire to lose his balance and stumble so that he had to place his right hand on the ground to support himself. As he went down, Harris felled him with a savage blow to the head. Seconds rushed on with buckets of water, but Maguire was unable to rise beyond a crawl on hands and knees, and the young referee proclaimed Harris the winner.

  The part of the crowd where Maguire’s partisans were congregated erupted in fury, crying foul, since Maguire had already fallen, and demanding that Harris should be disqualified and their man should be awarded the victory. Curses and abuse filled the air, and the Cronley men were shaking their sticks in a most threatening manner.  Regardless of the result, there were many ruffians present who wanted yet more blood. The young referee precipitately fled from the arena and sought refuge with us. Fear was on his face as he gabbled that he had been persuaded to fulfil the position against his better judgement, and that he was resolved never to attend prizefights again. By my side Sir Anthony was obviously worried. He was a magistrate, but what could he do in the face of a hostile mob?

   Suddenly a Herculean figure vaulted the ropes into the ring. The crowd fell silent as he cast off his hat, wig and coat and strode towards the contestants in his shirt. He advanced on Harris, who was shorter by a head and, shouting so that all could hear, challenged him to fight, at any time or place of the latter’s choosing, for a purse of two hundred guineas: more if his opponent’s backers were prepared to put up the money! The crowd forgot for a moment their differences as they watched this new development.

   “Who the devil is that?” Sir Anthony asked.

   “His name is George Davies,” I replied, “I met him in London. He is a friend of Lord Staines”.

   “Well, it is easy to see why Staines should idolise him. Do you think he really would fight Harris?”

   “He might. He is mad enough for anything.”

   “He is a brave fellow in any case,” said Sir Anthony, “and with more intelligence than some might give him credit for. See how he has caused the mob to forget their quarrels and look at him instead!

   “Now it is incumbent on us to support him”, he added. To my astonishment, he bellowed, at the top of his voice, “A hundred guineas on Davies to win!” There were cheers.

   “And a hundred of mine on Harris!” I shouted, taking the hint. Davies turned round and bowed to the crowd.

  Following our lead more bets were shouted from different parts. Gradually the crowd, discussing the prospective combat among themselves, began to disperse, and Sir Anthony thought it was now safe for us to withdraw. We were followed by the other gentlemen, with the young referee relieved to accompany us. We afterwards heard that the Cronley miners ransacked a nearby inn and, very drunk, left a trail of wreckage on their march home.

    The fame of the memorable contest soon spread even to London. Not long after, I heard a hawker of ballads singing of it in the street, and I was curious enough to buy it from her. It began well enough: 

   “Chesney Harris and Tom Maguire

     Both champions they

     Fought till dusk on Harley green

     For a purse of gold one day”

And then proceeded to a description of the contest, which, though dramatic enough, did not appear to have been composed by someone who actually watched it. Further interest was added by telling how that the vicar of the parish, portrayed as a jolly sporting clergyman, had offered the victor the hand in marriage of an orphan girl under his care, together with a dowry; and how Harris took her and then discovered she was the long-lost heiress to a great fortune. I fear, however, that this romantic tale was the purest fiction.

   George Davies’s challenge was not mentioned at all by the balladeer, which led me to conclude that not only had this unnamed hack not been present, but that he had not even spoken to those who were there. Such neglect was only too common among the laureates of St. Giles.

   But did Davies ever fight Harris? If so, I never hear mention of it. I did not see him again for more than a year, by which time more pressing events had intervened.