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King in Exile
James II: Warrior, King and Saint
By John Callow The History Press
Copyright © 2017 John Callow
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7524-7988-0
CHAPTER 1
REVOLUTION
They came by night. The rain did little to muffle the sound of massed drums as the Dutch Guards bore down upon Whitehall. They hardly broke step as they crossed Hyde Park, colours unfurled, their progress now revealed to anxious civilians only by the hundreds of bright burning sparks thrown upwards from the tips of slow-matches lit in readiness for battle. From his window, the Imperial Ambassador Philip Hoffman watched their coming and made note of it for his master, while at St James's Palace the alarm was sounded and English soldiers were called out to bar the way. The elderly Earl of Craven, veteran of a hundred different fights from the Low Countries to Germany and England's own civil wars, barked out words of stern command and hurriedly dressed the ranks of his Coldstreamers, reinforcing the guard posts and strongpoints that linked together the royal palaces, even as the Dutch troops cleared the tree-line and advanced to within fifteen paces of his own men. Yet, as anxious soldiers took aim and prepared for the shock of action, the Dutch suddenly stopped short and the voice of their commander, Hendrik, Count Solms rang out demanding immediate admittance to Whitehall Palace and an audience with the King who sheltered within.
During the past weeks, there could have been few emotions that James Stuart, King 'by Grace of God' of England, Scotland and Ireland, had not come to experience. Confronted by an invading army led by his own son-in-law, William, Prince of Orange; deserted by a great swathe of his general officers and by many of those councillors whom he felt had owed him the most; he had chosen, on 10 December 1688, to surrender his army and flee into exile rather than to attempt to shore up his tottering regime. As risings flared up against his rule in the north and in the Midlands, he had burned the writs for a general election before escaping across the Thames and casting the Great Seal into the waves. If these moves had been calculated to utterly disable the executive, to prevent the calling of a fresh parliament in his absence and to reduce the administration of the three kingdoms to a state of utter ruin in his wake, then they failed, through a combination of misjudgement and sheer bad luck, in all but the creation of chaos upon the streets and a palpable sense of fear which pervaded every corner of his lands. James had not counted on either the willingness of his opponents to ignore the extent of the royal prerogative, as he himself had conceived of it, or on the persistence and potency of their calls for the convening of a new and 'free parliament'. Moreover, he had reckoned without the vigilance of a gang of Kentish fishermen who mistook him for a fleeing priest and seized him near the coast at Faversham, abruptly ending his plans for a quick and easy flight from the impending collapse of governance that he had helped to precipitate. Writing later, Bishop Burnet would emphasise the importance of this particular incident for James's subsequent career and would lament sadly that: 'if he had got clear away, by all that could be judged, he would not have had a party left: all would have agreed, that here was a desertion ... But what followed upon this gave them [i.e. his supporters] a colour to say, that he was forced away, driven out ... [and] from this incident a party grew up, that has been long very active for his interests'. Herein would lie the genesis of Jacobitism, but for the moment, however, the King had the indignity of being roundly cursed by his captors, of having his pockets rifled, his money stolen and his treasured piece of the 'true cross' prised out of his ornate crucifix and thrown away. While rumours reached the French court that James had disappeared, been seized by the Prince of Orange, or been drowned out at sea, he was sent back to London to experience at first hand the breakdown of law, order and authority for which he himself in large measure had been responsible.
In the absence of the King, the capital had been convulsed by two nights of rioting and looting. Roman Catholic chapels and the houses of known 'papists' and foreign ambassadors had been targeted by the mob, and the King's printing press had been smashed and burnt. Lord Chancellor Jeffreys, abandoned by his sovereign lord and unable to secure a passage to Hamburg aboard a collier's brig, had been taken in the upstairs room of a tavern at Wapping, and though his face had been blackened with soot and his distinctive eyebrows shaved in an attempt at disguise, he had still been recognised. It was only with some difficulty that he was saved by soldiers from a lynching, before being safely conveyed to the Tower, with the crowds crying out behind him that as he had shown no mercy to those who had come before him at the Western Assizes, so now he should expect none for himself. More serious still, the order to disband the royal army at Uxbridge had left some 4,000 confused and leaderless, but heavily armed, men to seek whatever sustenance they could from scouring the surrounding countryside. While some units retained their coherence and marched off to swell the ranks of William's advancing army, many of the soldiers suddenly found themselves bound together only by the bonds of religion and nation, now that their oath of loyalty to their King had effectively been absolved. Militant Protestants headed for London and joined with the apprentice boys in the search for Jesuits and in the firing of 'popish' chapels, while hundreds of Irish Catholic soldiers – who just the day before had been numbered among their comrades, if not perhaps their friends – were left stranded far from home, the objects of almost universal suspicion and hatred. Reports on the movements of this latter group (who were desperate to secure a safe passage home), combined with fears of a general rising in Ireland, led to rumours that multiplied like wildfire of King James's unleashing of a vengeful Irish army upon his English subjects, and of outrages committed by them as far apart as Wigan, Birmingham, and Halifax. The Common Council in London hastily called out the militia and sanctioned the deployment of artillery at key points throughout the city and Westminster, while throughout the long 'Irish night' of 12 December, frightened citizens barred their doors and stockpiled arms in full expectation that a new St Bartholomew's Day Massacre was about to be visited upon them. Though the dawn came without any serious incident, and the majority of the Irish soldiers had by now split up into small groups hurrying as best they could along back roads towards the relative safety of north-western ports, the council still thought fit, on 14 December, to promise to pay them in full the wages owing them 'till they are employed or provided for', on the condition that they would promise to behave 'peaceably' and safely deliver up all of their weapons to the Tower of London. If not, they were warned in no uncertain terms that they were liable to be apprehended and dealt with by the local authorities, under common law and the vagrancy acts, as though they were no more than roving bands of cutpurses, paupers and vagabonds.
Thus, although it was with some trepidation that King James began his journey back to his capital on 15 December, there was considerable relief in the minds of many of the populace at the thought of his coming. After days of fear, arbitrary violence and barely contained mob rule, the return of the King seemed to hold out the promise of a swift accommodation with the lords and with the Prince of Orange, and of a resumption of public order and political legitimacy without recourse to a bloody and protracted civil war. Consequently, even though James had slipped away from his capital barely four nights before like a thief in the night, his return now took on something of the aspect of a triumphal progress. Country gentlemen began to attach themselves to his escort on the road from Kent, and at Dartford, on the morning of Sunday 16 December, as his original detachment of Life Guards was replaced by fresh troopers, he was acclaimed and cheered on by the men with wild expressions of joy. At Blackheath, it seemed for a moment as though the city itself was emptying in order to welcome him home. Londoners thronged the road and jostled for position behind his official retinue. Bonfires were lit and bells sounded as the crowds pressed so tight that the cavalcade could scarcely pass, and two prominent merchants made so bold as to thrust their heads into the royal coach in order to counsel a sudden change of plan. Barges already waited for the King at Lambeth, to carry him straight back to Whitehall, but it was now argued that it would be more fitting if he were to drive back through the city and show himself to his expectant subjects, who – in their eagerness to catch the least glimpse of their sovereign – hung from every available window and balcony, and lined the route from Southwark through Fleet Street and the Strand up to the very gates of his palace. Yet if James expressed himself 'hugely surprised with the unexpected testimonys of the peoples affection to him', he chose only to remember that up until that moment the capital, once the bastion of the Exclusionists who had attempted to block his path to the throne, had never shown him any lasting or particular affection. He did not now seek to recreate the scenes that had greeted the return of his brother in May 1660, or to play upon the potent and extremely popular mythologies that had grown up around the Restoration in the intervening years. Lacking the common touch, he made little attempt to capitalise on the spontaneous outpourings of loyalist sentiment that greeted him, did not think to abandon his coach in favour of horseback and chose neither to address his subjects nor to grasp at the hands that waved with such persistence at his window as he passed them by. Indeed, it was fear and the need to ensure his personal security, rather than the desire to seize control of the situation and re-establish his connection with the groundswell of Tory England, that now came to dominate his thoughts. News had already reached him that the companies of the First Foot Guards stationed at Whitehall had declared their allegiance to the Prince of Orange, and it was this knowledge that finally prompted him to give his grudging consent to the change in his proposed route. James flatly refused to be separated from his loyal escort, and realised that the cover afforded by the city crowds would render it difficult, if not impossible, to divorce him from his protective phalanx of Life Guards and Horse Grenadiers without the risk of serious disorder and bloodshed. Moreover, the Earl of Craven, who had devoted both his life and his considerable fortune to the support of the Stuart cause, was still quartered at the Royal Mews with several companies of his own Coldstream Guards. It mattered little now that in the first flush of his kingship, James had tried to wrest the Earl's commission away from him in order to bestow it upon one of his favourites. There had never been any doubt as to where Craven's loyalties lay, and as the King drew near to Whitehall, the pickets stationed there melted away and were replaced by the Coldstreamers who cleared a path for the easy passage of his coach through the still-swirling crowds, who cheered James back into his palace and on 'even to his Bed Chamber door'.
Word that the King had returned to his capital amid scenes of genuine popular acclaim was brought to the Prince of Orange at Windsor Castle that evening, and could not have been more unwelcome. Since the mass defections which had swept the royal army on Salisbury Plain in late November, turning his opportunistic raid into a serious bid for lasting control of English foreign policy, he had enjoyed an unbroken run of successes. He had continually consolidated his position, conducting a stately progress through the West Country before thrusting out with a cavalry screen down the length of the Thames Valley in preparation for a final victorious drive on the capital. This was now threatened, as the self-appointed band of peers who had sat at the Guildhall since James's flight – and who had been negotiating terms with William for the summoning of a 'free parliament' and the quartering of his troops in London – were now found to be responsible for dispatching the Earl of Ailesbury to treat with the King, and for countenancing the despatch of Feversham and the Life Guards to secure his person and bring him back from the coast. It was imperative, therefore, that James did not regain his capital and, if he was not to be permitted to escape immediately into exile, then at least he should be safely contained in the south, within convenient reach of the shores of France.
However, in the meantime, Feversham had roused himself from the lethargy that had so often served to cloud his military career in the past, rendezvoused with his beleaguered sovereign and set off on the return journey, riding hard for Windsor with neither 'Trumpet or passeport' and carrying a letter that had the power to frustrate all of the Prince of Orange's carefully laid plans. This unexpected and wholly unwelcome communication, received by William on 16 December, now came to represent the most formidable obstacle to a smooth and almost seamless transition of power. James had written that he wished to meet face-to-face with his son-in-law at Whitehall, permitted him to bring as many troops as he felt fit for a bodyguard with him to the capital, and offered to put St James's Palace at his complete disposal for the duration of the talks. Faced with the prospect of James simply re-assuming his mantle of kingship, the confident talk among the Prince's Whig partisans of an already-effected 'abdication', and William's own hopes of securing the throne with the clear blessing of a majority of the English people, were suddenly put in jeopardy and appeared to be premature in the extreme. However, though a negotiated settlement might well have been acceptable to the Prince a month before, and certainly would have done much to dispel the fears of many Anglicans about the future of their Church, by the middle of December the stakes had been raised significantly. Having risked everything and come so close to a spectacular success, William was in no mood to compromise and return home, however favourable the terms might be, if his father-in-law were to retain the faintest hint of autonomy. Similarly, there was little appetite among any of the lords who sat as a shadow government at the Guildhall, or among the radicalised tradesmen who had taken control of Newcastle, Nottingham, York and Bristol, and the common soldiery who had grounded their weapons after the debacle on Salisbury Plain and readily taken up the boisterous refrain of 'Lilliburlero', to have to face the rejuvenated power of their monarch or possible charges of high treason. These very different and shifting constituencies now looked to the Prince of Orange for a lead. A lesser politician might well have hesitated, but William's statecraft – his consummate ability to sense exactly when to shift from tact and diplomacy to a sudden devastating show of force – now asserted itself. Having heard Feversham out, and read the King's letter, he gave no reply but ensured that the luckless peer was forced to surrender his sword and placed under arrest the very moment that he left his presence. Without waiting for further word from the Guildhall, William prepared his forces for a push on to London and dispatched one of his most trusted emissaries, Willem Zuylestein, to seek out James in order to advise him to come no closer to the capital than Rochester. For once, however, it was James's luck that held good and Zuylestein, advised only of the King's original schedule, spent a wasted afternoon at Lambeth waiting patiently for the arrival of the royal party beside the empty barges, completely unaware of the intervention of the two London merchants and the resulting change of itinerary.
Thus, while William's message went undelivered, James's servants began to sweep out the grates in his palace and light the fires in order to take the edge off winter's chill. After experiencing such turmoil, profound personal danger and so many bitter reverses, it is unsurprising that the King should have been weary that night, or that he slept soundly with the dust of the city still on his clothes. What is remarkable is that, after he had so unexpectedly regained control of the capital, he should have spent the afternoon and evening following his return in an attempt to resume his office as though nothing at all out of the ordinary had occurred since his hurried departure the previous Monday night. Protocol had to be observed, as evidenced by his interruption of his journey at Somerset House to pay his respects to Catherine of Braganza, the dowager Queen, or when, with some understandable embarrassment, Lord Chamberlain Mulgrave resumed his duties at the head of the royal household despite having broken his wand of office, to signify the end of the reign, not six nights before. There was simply no discernible sense of pressing haste in either the King's movements or his judgements once he had finally managed to alight from his coach at the Banqueting House. What did appear to matter to James, however, was maintaining the practice and dignity of his God-given office as King. Craven's men, having secured the palace, were set to work vetting a representative sample of the city's poor and sick before they were ushered in to be touched by James for the 'King's Evil'.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from King in Exile by John Callow. Copyright © 2017 John Callow. Excerpted by permission of The History Press.
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