Volume 3 — Chapter XXXI. James II. And The Revolution (1685-1688). (continued 2)

So many concessions and so much justice on the part of the king were only designed to blind the nation. "This negotiation," said James to Barillon, "is a mere feint. I must send commissioners to my nephew that I may gain time to ship off my wife and the Prince of Wales. You know the temper of my troops. None but the Irish will stand by me; and the Irish are not in sufficient force to resist the enemy. A Parliament would impose on me conditions which I could not endure. I should be forced to undo all that I have done for the Catholics, and to break with the king of France. As soon, therefore, as the queen and my child are safe, I will leave England and take refuge in Ireland, in Scotland, or with your master." On the 9th of December, the Prince of Wales and the queen, his mother, accompanied by three attendants, and under the protection of the Duke of Lauzun—adventurous and bold as well in London as in Paris—quitted secretly the palace of Whitehall, crossed the Thames in an open boat, and hastened on to Gravesend. The next day the fugitives arrived at Calais; an attendant of Lauzun's carried the news of their safe arrival to King James. Lords Dover and Dartmouth, two of the king's most trusted servants, had peremptorily refused to assist in this escape. "I would risk my life in defense of the throne," said the admiral, Dartmouth, "but I will be no party to the transporting of the prince into France." Only strangers consented to serve the king of England. Following the announcement of the safety of the royal party came Lord Halifax with propositions from the Prince of Orange, more moderate and more conciliatory than were expected. The greatest names in the kingdom had given their support to William of Nassau: those who had not crowded to his audiences had nevertheless united their servitors and retainers for his service. "What is it that you want?" whispered Halifax in the ear of Burnet, in the midst of the crowded assembly; "do you wish to get the king into your power?" "Not at all," said Burnet; "we would not do the least harm to his person." "And if he were to go away?" "There is nothing so much to be wished," replied the ecclesiastic. The observance of the courtiers interrupted the conversation, but the despatches of Halifax showed the effects of Burnet's advice. On the night of the 10th of December, King James, plainly dressed, accompanied only by Sir Edward Hales, departed secretly from Whitehall, after having thrown into the fire all the writs for the new Parliament, which had not yet been sent out. In crossing the Thames he flung the Great Seal into the midst of the stream. Disembarking at Vauxhall, where a carriage awaited him, he took the road to Sheerness. "I thank you for your fidelity," wrote he to Lord Feversham, "and I demand that you no longer expose your life for me by resisting a foreign army and a nation poisoned by contagion. I seek my safety in flying my kingdom." When he received this letter, Feversham immediately disbanded the army, thereby adding a new element of disorder to the general excitement and turbulent passions that were raging in the capital, now deprived of its legitimate head. "Call your troop of guards together," said Rochester to the young Duke of Northumberland. The peers in London took the power into their hands, declaring officially their intention to rally around the Prince of Orange, and to administer the government in his name until his arrival. All attempts to preserve order, however, were of no avail. During three days and nights the houses of the Catholics, as well as their places of worship, were pillaged, the furniture broken or burned, the plate stolen, and their persons insulted; the rumor of an Irish invasion redoubled the fury of the populace. No murder was committed; the Chancellor, Jeffreys, however, was in great danger.

Carefully disguised, he attempted flight. A man but recently brought before him recognized that terrible glance of the eye which had once frozen his blood. He gave the alarm, and the Chancellor was instantly seized by a mob. Two regiments of militia, immediately called out by the Lord Mayor, were scarcely sufficient to protect against the passionate vengeance of the multitude. The carriage conducted him to the prison of the Tower where he was soon to die an ignominious and horrible death.

King James had arrived at Sheerness. The popular passions were everywhere excited; the sailors were suspicious and disposed to search everywhere for disguised Catholic priests. James was arrested, searched, and insulted. "It is Father Petre," cried one; "I know him by his lean jaws. Search the hatchet-faced old Jesuit!" Roughly led ashore, the king was soon recognized. This last check seriously affected his mind. Naturally courageous, as had been proven in battle, James now piteously begged for a boat to carry him away. "The Prince of Orange is hunting for my life. If you do not let me fly now, it will be too late. My blood will be on your heads."

Led into a tavern, and respectfully treated, still the unfortunate king felt himself a prisoner in his own realm. "What have I done?" said he; "what error have I committed?" The compassion due to a great misfortune closed the mouths of all bystanders. When the news of the arrest of the king reached London, the little council that had assumed the government was thrown into profound consternation. The Archbishop of Canterbury, Sancroft, who presided, immediately withdrew. Halifax, bitterly wounded by the role that James had compelled him to play at Hungerford, where he had sent him with a derisive negotiation, took his place. Orders were immediately given to send a troop of the Life Guards, commanded by Feversham, to release the king. James II., enfeebled in mind and body by the shocks which he had undergone, was led by his friends to Rochester. He wrote to the Prince of Orange: "I return to Whitehall, and I desire to confer with you. The palace of St. James will be prepared for you Highness."

The prospects of William were suddenly overcast by the arrest of the king. He secretly cursed the officious zeal of the sailors. He was constrained to decide, at once, whether the abdication should be complete and voluntary, or whether the internal contest should be prolonged. The prince refused the proposed conference, and requested James to remain at Rochester. It was too late: the king was already in London. Compassion, habit, and a reaction from the past anger, drew a crowd about him as he drove through the streets; he was saluted by some acclamations.

Acute observers were not deceived. "There have been shouts and bonfires," wrote Barillon, "but at the bottom the people are for the Prince of Orange." Always easily deceived, James for a moment believed in a return of his popularity. He convoked a council, again summoning some not legally qualified, and blaming severely those peers who had dared usurp the authority in London.

The Count of Zulestein arrived with the message of the Prince of Orange; its cold and severe tone disturbed the new-born hopes of the monarch. "I hope, nevertheless, that my nephew will come to St. James," said he, after excusing himself for having left Rochester. "I must plainly tell your Majesty," replied Zulestein, "that his Majesty will not come to London while there are any troops here that are not under his orders." Some hours later a deputation, headed by Halifax, arrived at Whitehall. The English soldiers in the service of the States-General already began to occupy the streets of London; the king was in a bed; the messengers entered his chamber. "The prince will be at Westminster to-morrow morning," said they; "he prays your Majesty to retire to the palace of the Duke of Lauderdale, at Ham." "It is a cold and unfurnished house," said James, who did not appear much troubled; "I would like better to return to Rochester." The permission of William was promptly accorded. The next morning at ten o'clock the royal barge slowly descended the Thames; all eyes were dimmed, all hearts were moved. It was a sad spectacle to see this king, but recently so powerful, compelled to-day, by his own faults as well as by the determined resolution of his subjects, to flee that country from which he had been exiled when a child, and then regained only to lose anew. The joy of deliverance was at the bottom of all hearts, but compassion and respect were in the countenance.

Four days later, on the night of the 22d of December, the king, negligently guarded, pursued by mortal terror, stole out of the house he occupied at Rochester, accompanied by the Duke of Berwick. A small skiff was in waiting; before the break of day he was on board of a smack which was running through the mouth of the Thames. Four kings of the house of Stuart had for many years, and under different titles, oppressed England with an unjust yoke; for the second time and forever, a free people had rejected them. When the Prince of Orange, who had arrived in London, received a deputation of lawyers, headed by the venerable Manard, who, forty-seven years before, had been charged with the accusation of Strafford, "Mr. Serjeant," said the prince, "you must have survived all the lawyers of your standing." "Yes, Sire," said the old man, "and but for your Highness I should have survived the laws too." It is to the eternal honor of the Prince of Orange, as well as of the English nation, that they defended, without violence and without effusion of blood, those civil and religious liberties so recently gained by so much effort and so much crime, worthy of being preserved and defended by the hero and statesman who was at the same time and by the same blow to save the independence of Europe, so seriously menaced by Louis XIV.