CHAPTER VI
THE KING'S AGENT
In a fine dark room of a mansion in London, three men sat in attitudesof bewildered trouble and despair, and a fourth, standing by a table ofhighly polished walnut wood, looked at them with a white, bitter face.
It was August of 1696, and exactly a year since the fall of Namur hadinduced France to consent to open negotiations for a peace. A Congresssat now at Ryswick, but with at present little hope of immediatesuccess. The King was again with the troops in Flanders, and Englandwas face to face with the most momentous crisis in her history. Therewas, literally, not enough money to carry on the Government.
When the King had returned from the last campaign, he had supportedSomers and Montague in the recoinage scheme, by which the mutilated andclipped money of the realm was to be reminted; the plan was so daring asto frighten most of the King's advisers, but Montague, having secured acertain Isaac Newton as master of the Mint, proceeded to put his plansinto execution with skill and address. He was also largely responsiblefor the scheme of the Bank of England, which, after paying a million anda half for its charter, had enjoyed the confidence of the Governmentuntil Robert Harley and Foley revived Chamberlayne's wild project of aLand Bank. The King, anxious for money to commence the campaign andcarry on the government during his absence, had passed an Act before heprorogued Parliament, establishing the Land Bank, which was to advancehim two and a half millions at seven per cent.
The Tories declared that their scheme would soon ruin the earlier bank;Charles Montague thought so too, though he and most other thoughtfulobservers were certain that the Land Bank was an unpractical conception,a mere delusion. But the country was not with them; the countrygentlemen, Whig and Tory, believed they saw an infallible way ofobtaining riches, the King wanted the money too much to inquire into themeans that produced it, and the Land Bank appeared to flourish while theBank of England tottered and showed every sign of ultimate failure.
The Directors found it impossible to redeem the paper money that theyhad put in circulation, and that malice or necessity demanded thepayment of. There was scarcely any money to be had; the mint worked dayand night to turn out the new milled coin, but the moment it appeared itwas hoarded by the panic-stricken public. The paper money fluctuated invalue so as to be almost useless, stock jobbers caused constant scareson the Exchange, credit was paralysed, and the country was only heldtogether by Montague's device of exchequer bills bearing a small rate ofinterest.
The discovery of the assassination plot and the Jacobite schemes ofinvasion had strengthened the King's position at home and made him aspopular as he had been in '88, but it had resulted in the recall of thefleet from the Mediterranean, the renewed supremacy of the French inthose waters, and the instant defection of the Duke of Savoy, thuscausing the first rift in the coalition that William's unwearied skillhad maintained against the arts of Louis for seven years.
He was now powerless to bribe or threaten. Early in the war Kohorn andAthlone had burnt the huge stores that Louis had built with vast expenseat Givet, and France had staggered under the blow, but William washelpless to take advantage of it. The treachery of the Duke of Savoy,the state of the English finances, the general exhaustion of the allies,caused M. de Caillieres, the French representative at Ryswick, to changehis tone, go back from the pledge he had given that William should berecognised by Louis, and propound arrogant terms.
Meanwhile the letters from the King became desperate; only his personalinfluence kept the army, which was literally starving, together. He hadpledged his private fortune and strained his private credit in theUnited Provinces as far as he could.
And the subscription list of the Land Bank at Exeter 'Change remainedblank; only a few hundreds had been added to the five thousandcontributed by the King as an example.
William even authorized the summoning of Parliament during his absence;but the ministers dare not risk this expedient. He then sent Portlandto London to represent to the Council of Regency that something must bedevised to raise money, or, in his own words to Shrewsbury, "All islost, and I must go to the Indies."
It was Portland who now faced the three ministers in Shrewsbury's richwithdrawing-room.
These three were the Lord Keeper, Godolphin, the one Tory in theCouncil, and First Commissioner of the Treasury, and Shrewsbury himself,now again Secretary of State, and as devoted to the Government as if hehad never, in an hour of weakness, tampered with St. Germains; he was,perhaps, of the seven Lords Justices now governing England, the one mostliked and trusted by the King.
Portland's usual slowness of speech and manner had given way to ananimated vigour.
"The King must have money," he said, "at any cost--from anywhere; thosewere my last instructions, and, gentlemen, there is more than even thearmy at stake; it is the whole reputation, the whole credit, nay, thewhole existence of England."
Even the lofty-minded Somers, whose courage had dared the RecoinageBill, was silenced; his lined, haggard, and bloodless face was frowningwith anxiety.
Godolphin, even at this crisis contained and self-effacing, thoughlooking downcast and sombre, fixed his eyes on Portland blankly.
Shrewsbury, emotional, overstrung, and harassed, broke into speech,flushing painfully from red to white as he spoke, the Colberteen lace onhis bosom rising and falling with his unsteady breath.
"We can only obtain forty thousand pounds from the Land Banksubscriptions, and then under pressure and on hard terms," he cried.
All the company knew this, but my lord was apt to waste words. Portlandlooked at him in some disgust.
"Forty pence would be as useful," he said dryly. "Come, my lords, thisLand Bank scheme has ended in failure; but is there no alternative todeclaring England bankrupt?"
"By Heaven, I can see nothing else to do," returned Shrewsbury; "but,since anything is better than lying down under misfortune, I have putsome hopes on to these negotiations with the Bank of England."
But it might be read from his tone that these hopes of succour from thatalmost defunct institution were faint indeed.
Portland began walking up and down the room; he was resolved, if it waswithin the bounds of possibility, to obtain this money; he had spentmany weary hours trying to screw out of Harley and Foley even half thesum they had talked of raising, and it had been so much waste time. Thecommission had expired a week ago, the offices in Exeter 'Change wereclosed, and Portland was no nearer the object of his journey. Thereremained now only the Bank of England, which had only been saved frombankruptcy by a call of twenty per cent. on its shareholders, andPortland could see no bright prospects from an institution, half ruined,whose directors were in an ill humour against the Government, and barelyable to hold their own in the present crisis.
He stopped at last before Shrewsbury, and clasped the back of the chairbeside him; his fair face was set, his blue eyes hard and bright.Perhaps he was the more resolute to do the King this service since hewas deeply offended with him personally on account of Joost van Keppel'srise to favour, and their long and deep friendship had reached a crisisthat could scarcely end in anything but a final severance of theiraffection.
"I will not return to Flanders without the money," he declared sombrely;"it must be found; if this Bank faileth Parliament must be called."
Shrewsbury answered in desperate peevishness--
"I have done all I could--I have been almost on my knees to thedictators--I am baited out of my life! By God, I would sooner be ahangman or a butcher than a statesman!"
A silence of despair fell over the little company. Godolphin wiped hislips, and looked out of the window at the sun-baked street; he waswondering, with a sick sense of personal failure, what would happen tohim if king, government, and country crashed on ruin. Somers wasequally silent, but his thoughts were far different; he would have madeany sacrifice in his power to save the kingdom from disaster.
They were interrupted by an usher announci
ng, "Mr. Charles Montague." Alittle movement of interest animated them all. Portland turned wide,expectant eyes on the new-comer; his plain common sense was quick todiscern genius; he had recognized it of late in the Chancellor of theExchequer, as he had recognized it years ago in his master.
Mr. Montague advanced slowly, and seemed to enjoy the stir his comingmade; it was obvious that he considered the brilliant success of hiscareer entirely due to his own gifts--an opinion his colleaguesconsidered as unamiable as it was correct.
He was a little man, and walked with a strutting air; his clothes wereof the utmost extravagance of fashion, and glistened with gold andsilver thread; his peruke was curled and powdered elaborately; and inthe hat he held in his hand was a small flashing mirror among thefeathers--the last whim of the mode; but there was a pride andcontainment in his sharp features, a power and purpose in his keen eyes,that overshadowed any fopperies of dress.
He began speaking at once, and abruptly, but with much grace in thedelivery.
"My lords, I am just come from the directors of the Bank. I have beencloseted with them all day, and they have promised me they will do whatthey can. I asked for two hundred thousand pounds. I told them it wasthe very least there was any use in offering to His Majesty. And I toldthem it must be in gold or silver"--he waved his hand--"no paper, Isaid, for Flanders."
He seated himself, with another flourishing gesture, on the chair nearPortland. Under all his affectations was noticeable a deep pride andsatisfaction; the Bank on which everything now depended was his scheme;that of his rival, Harley, had ended in dismal failure. He felt thathis brilliant career would be more brilliant still if his project savedthe Government now.
"Two hundred thousand!" said Shrewsbury forlornly. The Land Bank hadpromised two and a half million, and the King's last entreaty had beenfor eight hundred thousand; but Portland caught even at this.
"It would be something," he said; "it would cover His Majesty's mostpressing wants----"
"It is all," answered Mr. Montague, "that I dare ask for--in hardmoney--at such a time."
"We are fortunate if we obtain it," remarked Somers. "Is it promised?"
"No, Sir John," admitted the Chancellor; "for they cannot do it withoutanother call of twenty per cent. on their subscribers, and they may notdecide that themselves, but must submit it to the vote in a generalcourt----"
"Why," interrupted the Duke, "there must be six hundred with a right tovote at such a meeting!"
"About that number, I think, your Grace," said Mr. Montague.
"Why, good-bye then to our hopes of even this beggarly sum!" criedShrewsbury. "Are six hundred likely to agree to lending even sixpenceto the Government?"
"Beggarly sum!" repeated Mr. Montague. "My Lord Portland here can tellyou what long debate and diplomacy it took to secure even the promise ofthat amount----"
"Yes, I know, Mr. Montague," answered the Earl grimly; "and I think thesum worth any sacrifice. We _must_ have it. Could you have seen HisMajesty, gentlemen, as I left him at Attere, surrounded by starvingtroops on the verge of mutiny, sending off agents to endeavour to raisea few thousands on his word in Amsterdam, you would not consider twohundred thousand paltry."
He spoke with a personal emotion that surprised the Englishmen, whobelieved that his relations with the King were painfully strained. Theyrespected him for his loyalty, though none of them had ever liked him,and Somers at least gave him a quiet look of sympathy.
Shrewsbury broke out into half-hysterical petulance.
"Why are we doing it all? What use is there in any of it? We might aswell give it up now as afterwards. I confess that I have not the healthor spirit to endure more of it."
Mr. Montague smiled; he knew perfectly well the motive behind everyaction he undertook, and what was the object of his labours. Theyounger son of a younger son, and ten years ago a Poor Scholar atCambridge, he was now one of the greatest men in the Three Kingdoms, andable to confer benefits on the Crown.
"There is no living in the world on any other terms than endurance," heremarked complacently, "and a financier, your Grace, must learn to facea crisis."
"The good God knoweth I am not one," returned the Duke gloomily.
"When is the general court to be held?" asked Portland; his one thoughtto get the money from these men somehow, and return with it to thedesperate King.
"On the fifteenth," said the Chancellor, "and I have sufficient faith inthe patriotism of the shareholders to believe they will stand by HisMajesty."
Godolphin, who had been so silent hitherto that his presence wasscarcely noticed, spoke now from the window-seat.
"You have done us a great service, Mr. Montague. I think we should allbe very grateful."
This came gracefully from a member of that Tory party that had supportedHarley's bank. Mr. Montague bowed, very gratified; my lord had thatsoft way of conciliating possible enemies with outspoken courtesy.
Portland made no such speeches; he considered it only the bare duty ofthe English to adequately support the King, whose life, ever since hisaccession, had been one struggle to obtain money from the EnglishParliament.
He took up his hat and saluted the company.
"I must endure with what patience I may till the fifteenth," he said,and left them gravely.
He went out into the sunny streets of London, and turned towards theMall. There was no coach waiting for him; he was frugal in his habitsto a fault, and uninterested in any kind of display. No one would havetaken him for anything but a soldier home from Flanders, tanned at thewars--an obvious foreigner with a stiff military carriage.
The town was very empty. The state of anxiety, suspense, and danger thecountry was passing through was not to be guessed at from the well-kepthouses, the few leisurely passers-by, and the prosperous shops withtheir wares displayed behind neat diamond panes.
Portland, passing the pillared facade of Northumberland House and thebronze statue of Charles I. on horseback, came into the Mall, past thetennis-court and archery butts, where several people were practising, tothe pond covered with wild fowl and overshaded with elm and chestnutthat gave a thick green colour to the water. To his right was a row ofhandsome houses looking on to the avenue of trees in the Mall, and atmost of the windows people were seated; for it was near the turn of theafternoon, and a pleasant coolness began to temper the heat of the day.
Portland looked at these people: fashionably dressed women, with lapdogs or embroidery, drinking tea or talking; easy-looking men smoking orreading one of the new sheets which had flooded the country since thelapse of the censorship of the press--all comfortable, well-to-do,self-satisfied, and rather insolent in their enjoyment of the sunshine,and the shadow of the trees, and their own comfortable homes.
William Bentinck seated himself on a bench under one of the great elms;he felt bitter towards these people--towards England; he came near tohating the country even as they hated him; he had a swift impressionthat these lazy, prosperous citizens were the real masters, and he, andhis friends, and the King, little better than slaves.
He looked at the women and recalled the poor Queen, who had had scarcehalf an hour's ease since she had set foot on the quay by the Tower; whohad toiled and kept a brave face and a high heart, and done everythingthat duty demanded of her--and for what reward?--to be reviled, abused,slighted and, finally, to die of one of the hideous diseases the greatcity engendered, and be forgotten in the changeable factions thatcontinued their quarrels even before she was in her grave.
He looked at the men, and thought of the last letter from the King hecarried in his pocket; he saw some of the lines in it as if the paperwas spread before him--"I am in greater distress for money than can wellbe imagined. I hope God will help instead of abandoning me; but indeedit is hard not to lose all courage." It seemed to Portland thatShrewsbury was right. What was the use of any of it?--what goad keptthem all at their tasks? What was the aim of all this incrediblelabour, endeavour, fatigue, courage, and patience?
> Did the King endure what he was enduring that these people might makeknots, and drink tea, and sun themselves on the Mall in peace?
Did he, William Bentinck, who was fond of gardening, and a quiet life,and his own country, spend his life between war and exile, conflict anddistasteful company, that the boys in the tennis-courts might play theirgames and laugh and shout as much as they wished?
If it were so, the objects seemed miserable compared to the labour.
But there was something more behind it all; Portland could not put aname to it; he supposed that one day God would explain.