The King knew too when he went among the soldiers who were guarding the Palace that at any moment someone might kill him. It was by no means a wild impossibility. He thought of an occasion little over a year ago when, on alighting from his chair at the back stairs of St James’s a woman had run up to him and seized him. He had not been afraid. He was never alarmed at such times. He felt no fear when he showed himself among the soldiers. It was not physical courage he lacked; there were things of which he was afraid – the loss of the Colonies, financial difficulties, government dissensions, the vices of his brothers and his sons, the voices in his head – but never of sudden death which could come perhaps to a king more likely than to one of his subjects. And this woman? He had spoken to her gently. He was always gentle with his poorer subjects, looking upon them as children to be cared for. ‘What do you want, my good woman?’ he had asked her. He would never forget the wildness of her eyes, the blankness in them. ‘I am Queen Beck,’ she told him. ‘Get off the throne. It’s mine.’ Poor, poor creature! ‘Do not harm her,’ he had ordered. ‘She is mad, poor soul.’ He had a passionate desire to protect the mad from those who might be harsh with them. It was like his desire to protect the Quakers. Perhaps that was why he had been so ready to give his consent to the Catholic Reform Bill. Religious tolerance! Hannah had always wanted it for her own Society of Friends.
But this was not the time for brooding on the past. Action was needed. The riots must be stopped. If they were not, this could be the prelude to civil war. A war between Catholics and Protestants. It must never be. He wanted his country to be known as one where religious tolerance prevailed.
He sent for North and told him that the disturbances must be stopped without delay.
‘We must get the better of these rebels before further damage is done,’ he declared.
Lord North agreed on this, but was nervous.
George himself was undecided because he knew that only by calling out the military and proclaiming martial law could the rioting be stopped. It was a great decision to make and he was the only one who could make it. He alone could order his army to fire on his own subjects.
A sleepless night. Pacing up and down. The voices in his head were silent. There was only one problem with which to grapple. He forgot his anxiety about the Prince of Wales. He forgot everything but the need to stop the Gordon Riots.
The rioters were marching on the Bank of England. They must not be allowed to destroy this as they had Newgate Jail.
The King gave the order. The troops went into action. Several hundred people were killed but the Gordon Riots had been brought to an end.
The riots over, the King was surprised to find that his subjects were ready to give him back a little of that affection which over the years he had somehow lost. His action in giving the order to fire on the mob was approved of because it had been successful in dispersing the mob and ending the riots.
George felt strong. He was indeed that King which his mother had constantly urged him to be. There was no strong man to guide him. William Pitt was dead; he had a son who had yet to prove himself. Grenville was no longer in power, nor was Grafton. Lord Bute had, when he first came to the throne, stood beside him and he had never felt safe without him; his mother had advised him on every action he took. Now there was only Lord North and, firm friends that they were, the King did not expect great brilliance from North – only loyal friendship.
So he would govern alone, make his own decisions as he had over the Gordon Riots so satisfactorily. He was glad. He would work better on his own.
‘Could never abide a lot of magpies chattering round me,’ he said aloud. ‘I’ll stand alone. I’ll show them I am their King, eh.’
In such a mood he went down to Kew for a breath of country air and a little peace and quiet.
Charlotte was glad to see him – very obviously pregnant now. He told her about the riots, for now that they were over she could offer no interference.
He sat with the children and told them what had happened. He had played such a decisive part and it was good for them to learn how affairs were conducted.
He took young Mary on his knee and looking round at the pink faces, the big eyes, the heavy chins – they all looked so much alike and so like himself – he explained how he came to his decision, through prayer and meditation, which was how they should all solve their problems.
The Queen said that Lord George Gordon was clearly mad and in her opinion mad people could not be blamed for their actions.
‘Your Majesty will remember when we were driving through Richmond in an open chaise … now it would be just after the birth of William …’ Fifteen-year-old William looked very pleased with himself. ‘And Charlotte …’ The Queen smiled at her fourteen-year-old daughter … ‘was on the way and had not yet put in her appearance.’ She remembered all her dates through the births of her children. ‘Yes, we were riding through Richmond, your Papa and myself, when a man and woman began to shout at us. And then … the woman threw something at me. It landed right in my lap. What do you think it was?’
‘A knife!’ shouted William.
‘Flowers,’ cried ten-year-old Elizabeth.
Augustus, the seven-year-old, began to gasp and tried to hide the fact. He did not want to get a beating for not being able to breathe because the King believed the cane was a cure for asthma.
‘Both wrong,’ cried the Queen. ‘It was her shoe. She had taken it off to throw it at me.’
‘Wasn’t that wicked?’ asked William.
‘It was wrong, but your Papa was kind and said there was to be no punishment. She could in fact have been put to death.’
William whistled.
‘Pray do not do that,’ said the Queen. ‘It sounds like a stable boy.’
The King frowned and William immediately tried to efface himself. He did not want to be sentenced to a caning. Nor did the Queen wish him to be, so she immediately began telling another story which she knew would please the King.
‘I remember once when a basket was left at one of the gates. I wonder whether His Majesty remembers …’ Queen Charlotte looked at her husband and went on quickly: ‘But of course your Papa has so much to remember … affairs of state … he cannot be expected to remember these little things.’
‘What was in the basket, Mamma?’ asked William.
‘Can you guess?’
The children all had a guess each but none of them was right.
‘A little baby,’ cried the Queen triumphantly. ‘It was about two months old.’
‘Was it a present for Papa?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘Oh … no … not for Papa specially. But your Papa found a home for it.’
‘And did it live happily ever after?’
‘If it was good,’ said the Queen piously. ‘And what do you think it was called?’
The children guessed again, several of them suggesting their own names.
‘It was a boy,’ the Queen told them. ‘George … George was the name. The same as your Papa’s.’
‘And our brother’s,’ William reminded her.
There was silence. The King looked round the family circle as though he had not before noticed the absence of his eldest son.
‘It’s a pity that our eldest son does not see fit to honour a family occasion with his presence.’