CHAPTER XXXVIII

Tension filled the air of the cities of London and Westminster like a coming thunderstorm. Lady Matlock wondered if her children sensed it, as they ran around the fields of Hyde Park. It was a poor substitute for their grounds back home – grounds she now could not think of without guilt and remorse. She was tempted to walk them up to Speakers' Corner, then thought the better of it. It would not do to subject them to the abuse of their father's name that was surely being levied there. Not when it had once been something to be proud of.

The Matlocks were due to attend a concert with the Goulburns that evening. She held onto the hope that their plans might be cancelled, right up to the moment until she climbed in the Matlock carriage. That her husband would meet her at the concert hall rather than travel with her was the only concession to the strangeness of the day. She could have tolerated losing herself in music and wine for an evening, but the Goulburns had a lamentable tendency towards chatter.

"Did the King really attend the Privy Council today?" Mrs. Goulburn asked Lord Matlock. She had a propensity, Elizabeth had noticed, of batting her eyes whenever she spoke to him directly. It had irked her once: now she thought Jane Goulburn quite welcome to him. If Caroline Bingley were not all the way in India, she would have made the offer to her too.

"He did."

"How exciting! What did he have to say? What was decided?"

Lord Matlock sighed. "I assure you, Mrs. Goulburn, there is nothing exciting about it. The Council deliberated upon the fate of the traitors, and when it might be proper that the executions should take place. It was the King's view, so it is therefore entirely the correct view, that in light of the seriousness of the offence – and to render the example more imposing – the executions should be held on the Monday. Which reminds me, Goulburn, you're needed tomorrow. Sidmouth and I are meeting with Wellington, to see how we might marshal the troops to maintain the peace."

"That is paradoxical, husband, surely." Lady Matlock stated. He glared at her.

"Of course," Mr. Goulburn jumped in. "We shall go directly from church."

"Well, I rather think that does sound exciting!" Mrs. Goulburn announced. "Whenever Wellington is involved it must be exciting."

"Perhaps we should all go to watch." Elizabeth said. Three shocked faces turned to her. "Well, you have both worked so hard to get us to this point and sacrificed so much. This is your glorious triumph. It feels only right that we should all go and show our support, for the Government and the Crown. And if the troops are there then it will be safe for us. Do you not agree Jane?"

Mrs. Goulburn looked unsure but nodded along anyway. She knew Lady Matlock to be very clever, so it was surely a good idea.

"It would not be suitable–" Lord Matlock began.

"What? To see the King's justice rightly done? Whyever would that not be suitable husband?"

She had caught him: the daggers in his eyes said he knew it. "Very well then."

He berated her as soon as they were alone. "I do not believe you would be so callous. Do you truly intend to abuse the death of five men, just to prove a point?"

"Indeed, husband. And I am merely following your example."

The Sunday papers arrived, announcing the executions for the very next day. Matlock and Goulburn left their wives straight after church. Elizabeth, through some mischief she did not yet understand, invited Jane Goulburn round for tea. They dispatched a footman to gather news about town: thousands had already flocked towards Old Bailey to watch the carpenters extend the platform, making room for the decapitations. The Runners had dispersed the crowd, and posts and rails were being erected all along the Bailey to prevent a stampede. During a similar public hanging in 1807 the cramped crowd had panicked and over thirty people were trampled to death. Jane Goulburn built up the courage to question whether, in light of that new intelligence, it might not be safer for them to remain at home the next day? But her friend reminded her that Wellington himself was advising on security, and that there was no price she would not pay to witness her husband's grandest success.

They left Matlock House by six the next morning. Both had donned black, though neither had said anything to the other. They made the journey in silence, while all around them great cries and jeers went up from the gathered crowds in the streets. It was far too busy for their carriage to make its way down the streets to Newgate and Ludgate Hill. On his order, they waited till an escort of Wellington's troops arrived, to lead them safely to the gaoler's residence, where the great and the good had gathered. Lady Matlock made straight for the window. The faint dawn light lit up the gathered crowd below: young boys dangled precariously from lamp posts. Many Londoners had been there all night in the hope of getting a good view. They stood now quiet and well behaved. There were no banners, or weapons: no overt politics at all, though in a nod to Peterloo a number of placards were stacked to the sides of building, declaring in large, red letters: 'The Riot Act has been read. Disperse immediately'. Straining her eyes, Elizabeth looked down at the crowd for the two faces she thought she might recognise. But she could not tell the back of one head from another.

Jane Goulburn came to stand next to her. "I thought it might be more like a celebration," she said meekly. Elizabeth gave her arm a sorry squeeze. She should not have dragged another into her own misery. Across the room her husband was already on the brandy: he had no stomach for blood.

She cast her eyes down a final time. Right at the front of the crowd, just below the gallows, stood a collection of bonnets. She sent a silent prayer up for them all. Was that Sarah's eldest's mop of blond hair? And next to him, the shorter man? Her fingers gripped the windowsill so tightly they turned white under her black net gloves. The bells of St. Paul's began to toll.

A hooded man walked onto the scaffold. He threw a fistful of sawdust into the black caskets that had been set up against the gaol wall. A chaplain appeared on the scaffold, soon followed by Thistlewood, sucking on an orange. Three others followed. Someone in the crowd shouted up: 'God Almighty bless you'. Then came Mr. Davidson, his iron bound hands clasped in prayer before he reached out to shake the chaplain's hand. All five refused hoods. As they stepped up to the noose, someone in the crowd took up a song. It was faint at first, then grew louder as more lent their voice:

"Whilst happy in my native land,
I boast my country's charter:
I'll never basely lend my hand
Her liberties to barter.

The noble mind is not at all
By poverty degraded;
T'is guilt alone can make us fall,
And well I am persuaded,

Tho' small the power which fortune grants
And few the gifts she sends us.
The lordly hireling often wants
That freedom which defends us.

Every Briton's song shall be
Give me death or liberty!"

The trapdoors crashed open. Jane Goulburn screamed behind her. She kept her silence and held her gaze. Thistlewood's body twitched for a moment, then was limp. Mr. Davidson was not so fortunate. The hangman heaved him four times before he was still. Each body was then pulled back up, and their rope-burnt necks positioned on the edge of the block. It was not an axe, but a surgeon's knife that made the final cut. Thistlewood's head was raised up for all to see: "This is the head of Arthur Thistlewood, the traitor". The same followed for each man. As William Davidson's head was held up, a cry was taken up amongst the crowd: "Bring out Edwards!"

She had seen enough. Lady Matlock turned and went to find her husband. He was stood in a far corner, too much in his cups for not yet nine in the morning. She informed him she was leaving, and that if he intended to join her, he had best come now. The foot guards led them back to their carriage. They said nothing as they rode. She could not tell what his feelings were, because she refused to look at him. It was only when they arrived back at Matlock House that she finally met his eyes. He had an odd look on his face. One she had not seen on him before.

"How could you stand to watch?" He muttered.

"I'm surprised you didn't!" She replied, with all the delicacy of a pantomime dame. "Think how proud your father and uncle would be. All their fears of revolution, misplaced. It was not our heads on that blade of the axe after all. You and Goulburn are both to dine with the King tonight, is that right? So good of him, to host a celebration for his ministers. Do send him my best regards on this happy, happy day. Did I hear right, that Sidmouth had a letter from the wives?"

"A petition, yes," he said slowly, "to have the bodies, so they bury them."

"He denied it, I presume? Quite right. It would not do, now would it, to show some compassion."

She stormed up the stairs and left him standing in the hall.

Historical note: The lyrics for 'Death or Liberty' came from the Glen Collection of printed music and was printed in 1792. The crowd did not actually sing, but one of the other prisoners, James, tried to start up a chorus – before being told by Richard Tidd, the fourth prisoner, "Don't, Ings. There is no use in all this noise. We can die without making a noise.", which is commendably English.