Marlborough (11 page)

This cavalry guardhouse stood for nearly a century; the present one, called Horse Guards like its predecessor, dates from the 1750s. Leaving through King Street Gate, and now conscious of Westminster Hall and the Abbey filling his horizon, the traveller would see a scattering of more apartments and the royal bowling green to his left. The whole place was a mixture of medieval and more modern, with Inigo Jones’s great Banqueting House, built for Charles’s grandfather James I to replace an earlier building destroyed by fire, as its most striking feature.

Court life mixed formality and practicality. Samuel Pepys was predictably gratified to see a royal mistress’s petticoats hanging out to dry in the Privy Garden, though the vision gave him rather lurid dreams. Privacy could be rare. When Margaret, wife of John Churchill’s future political ally Sidney Godolphin, was dying of puerperal fever in 1678, her shrieks rang out right across the palace’s riverfront. Many marriages of the period were made by conniving old men in smoky rooms, but this
had been a love-match, and the distraught Godolphin wrote that his loss was ‘never to be supplied this side of heaven’.
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He never remarried.

John Evelyn admired Charles, that ‘prince of many virtues’, but complained that:

He took delight in having a number of little spaniels follow him and lie in his bed-chamber, where he often suffered the bitches to puppy and give suck, which rendered it very offensive, and indeed made the whole court nasty and stinking.
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Royal mistresses, in ‘unimaginable profusion’, according to the straitlaced Evelyn, might be ushered in via Whitehall Stairs from the river, or up the backstairs from Pebble Court, with the more permanent fixtures actually housed within the palace, though safely away from the queen’s apartment, just off the gallery where Pebble Court and the Privy Garden met. The place was full of courtiers, place-holders and hangers-on, sleeping (and sometimes pissing) where they could, and hoping to make themselves indispensable to Charles. He was ‘easy of access’, and

had a particular talent in telling a story, and facetious passages, of which he had innumerable; this made some buffoons and vicious wretches too presumptuous and familiar, not worth the favour they abused.
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Gilbert Burnet was less impressed by the monarch’s skill as a raconteur. ‘Though a room might be full when the king began one of his stories,’ he wrote, ‘it was generally almost empty before he finished it.’
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This royal rabbit-warren was badly damaged by fire in January 1698, and the Banqueting House was one of the few buildings to survive. Christopher Wren was told that ‘His Majesty desires to make it a noble palace, which by computation may be finished in four years.’ But there was never enough money, and although ‘the spectre of a grand palace at Whitehall haunts English architectural history in the seventeenth century’, the ghost never assumed substantial form.
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After the destruction of Whitehall the court moved to St James’s and Kensington Palaces in London. Charles liked Windsor Castle, with its romantic wooded surroundings, and William III was very taken by Hampton Court, where he was able to create gardens like those he so loved at Het Loo.

As a page John Churchill was a regular visitor to the Duke of York’s apartments, at the palace’s south-west corner. He also called on his second cousin once removed, conveniently lodged nearby. Barbara
Villiers had been born in 1640, the second child of Lord Grandison, and in 1659 she married the lawyer Roger Palmer, later Lord Castlemaine. She had already enjoyed a vigorous affair with the Earl of Chesterfield (‘the joy I have of being with you last night, has made me do nothing but dream of you’), and in February 1661 she gave birth to her first daughter by Charles II. John Churchill was often to be found in her lodgings (alongside the King Street Gate till 1663, and near the Holbein Gate thereafter), eating sweets and chatting. Winston S. Churchill is at pains to persuade us that:

Very likely she had known him from his childhood. Naturally she was nice to him, and extended her powerful protection to her young and sprightly relation. Naturally, too, she aroused his schoolboy’s admiration. There is not … the slightest ground for suggesting that the beginning of their affection was not perfectly innocent and such as would normally subsist between a well-established woman of the world and a boy of sixteen, newly arrived at the Court where she was dominant.
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Much later in Marlborough’s life, when his enemies were anxious to do him whatever damage they could, the author of a scurrilous account of the court life of the period suggested that even at this stage Barbara Villiers aroused a good deal more than John Churchill’s admiration. We cannot be sure when his relationship with Barbara became more than neighbourly, and it may well be that things began perfectly innocently, as Winston S. Churchill suggests. But we can be sure of two things. Firstly, John Churchill was not simply one of the most attractive men of his day, but became an ardent lover whose correspondence with his wife testifies to a healthy sexual appetite, even if we cannot produce a respectable source for Sarah’s enthusiastic: ‘My Lord home from the wars this day, and pleasured me, his boots still on.’
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Secondly, his relationship with Barbara did indeed blossom into an affair, and she was to bear him a daughter, also called Barbara, in July 1672.

By that time, however, John Churchill had most certainly become a man of the world. It was common for young officers to serve on campaign or on warships of the fleet as volunteers, even if their own regiments were not involved. There is circumstantial evidence that in 1668–70 he served
in the garrison of Tangier. Some contemporaries believed that either the roving eye of the Duchess of York or Churchill’s relationship with Barbara Villiers caused tension at court, and that ‘the jealousy of one of the royal brothers was the cause of his temporary banishment’. Archdeacon Coxe thought the story absurd, for Churchill was not away from court for long, and was, so Coxe argued, recalled by the Duke of York.
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Tangier lay in a hollow under the hills of the Barbary coast in North Africa, and came under intermittent attack by local Moors, as cunning as they were cruel. In 1663 the governor, the Earl of Teviot, was killed when a hitherto-successful sortie pushed on too far and was swamped by superior numbers. In 1678 the Moors took two outlying forts, but in 1680 the beleaguered garrison sallied out to inflict such a serious defeat on the Moors that they were able to negotiate a truce that lasted four years. Yet it was clear that the place had no lasting value, and the 1683 mission led by Lord Dartmouth, with Pepys as his henchman, concluded that the city should be given up, and so it was, after the destruction of the Mole, built with much trouble and expense in a vain effort to turn the place into a usable port.

Tangier was hot and uncomfortable: when Pepys was there he was ‘infinitely bit by chinchies’, presumably the local mosquitoes, from whom he gained some refuge only by covering his face and hands before going to sleep. He hated the place. There was ‘no going by a door but you hear people swearing and damning, and the women as much as the men’.
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The behaviour of the governor, Colonel Percy Kirke, appalled him.

I heard Kirke, with my own ears walking with him and two others to the Mole … ask the young controller whether he had had a whore yet, since he came into the town, and that he must do it quickly or they would all be gone on board the ships, and that he would help him to a little one of his own size …
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When a drunken soldier reeled into the governor as he walked in the street, Kirke simply said, ‘ “God damn me, the fellow has got a good morning’s draught already,” and so let him go without a word of reprehension.’
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Apart from a letter of 1707 in which he complained that Brabant in flaming June was as hot as the Mediterranean in August, we have no idea what Churchill made of the place. We do know, however, that there was
fighting afoot, and it is reasonable to assume that his baptism of fire came in skirmishes under the walls of the city. In August 1671 Sir Hugh Cholmley described how:

[The Moors] lodge their ambushes within our very lines, and sometimes they killed our men as they passed to discover, which they continually do without any other danger than hazarding a few shots, whilst they leap over the lines and run into the fields of their own country. This insecurity makes men all the more shy in passing about the fields, and cannot be prevented but by walling the lines about.
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Life was decidedly martial. The whole garrison paraded at seven or eight in the morning for an hour’s drill, after which guards were posted and duties allocated. The young Churchill would have grasped the essentials of his profession in a way that would scarcely have been possible with the staid finery of 1st Foot Guards in St James’s Park or at the Tower of London. In March 1670 Lord Castlemaine, Barbara Villiers’ husband, told Lord Arlington that he had great hopes that Tangier might become ‘a bridle for the pirates of Barbary’, and ‘neither is it a little honour for the Crown to have a nursery of its own soldiers, without being altogether beholding to our neighbours for their education and breeding’.
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On 21 March 1670 Charles signed a document acknowledging that Sir Winston Churchill was still owed £140 for his work in Ireland, noting that Winston had given John precisely this sum ‘for & towards his equipage & other expenses in the employment he is now forthwith by our command to undertake on board the fleet in the Mediterranean sea’. Charles wished ‘to give all due encouragement to the forwardness of the early affections of John Churchill’, and ordered that Sir Winston’s arrears should be paid forthwith.
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We can see from this that Sir Winston was yet again short of money, and that John Churchill was certainly not out of royal favour.

One of the illusory attractions of Tangier was that it might provide a base for putting pressure on the rulers of Algiers and Salee, whose enterprising corsairs ravaged trade in the Mediterranean and the Atlantic, and in 1687 even pushed up into the Channel, where they took two mail packets and carried a hundred passengers off into slavery. In 1669 Sir Thomas Allen blockaded Algiers, and he tried again in 1670; this time John Churchill was embarked with the fleet. The
Lord High Admiral’s Regiment of Foot, its colonel James, Duke of York, had been formed in 1664, but other marine regiments were no sooner raised than disbanded: two had been sharply cut back after the humiliating Dutch raid into the Medway in 1667. In 1672 Prince Rupert raised a marine regiment for the Third Dutch War, but it was disbanded in 1674.

This meant that the task of providing marines to the fleet had to be shared out amongst the army’s infantry regiments, and normally every one of them had two of its companies embarked, rotating them from time to time. The soldiers provided unskilled labour (and no doubt much innocent mirth) during voyages, lined ships’ rails with their muskets in action, and could be sent ashore to destroy fortifications or harbour facilities. The practice seems to have been popular with sailors but less so with soldiers, not least because the army and navy ran incompatible accounting systems, leading to repeated difficulties over pay, allowances and rations.
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Thomas Allen’s blockade of Algiers in 1670 was no more fruitful than his efforts the previous years. Indeed, it was to take another century and a half for the menace of Barbary pirates to be brought under control by repeated international action which, amongst other things, put ‘the shores of Tripoli’ into the US Marine Corps’ hymn. We cannot say whether John Churchill saw any action or not, and certainly he was back in England by 1671, when Sir Edward Spagge caught seven Algerine cruisers in Bougie Bay and burnt them all.

Perhaps John Churchill and Barbara Castlemaine had already become lovers before he set off for Tangier, but more probably, as Winston S. Churchill suggests, it was his reappearance at Whitehall ‘bronzed by African sunshine, close-knit by active service and tempered by discipline and danger’ that did the trick. He certainly fought a duel with the future Lord Herbert of Cherbury at this time, getting run through the arm but pinking his opponent in the thigh. Whatever the reason for the fight, Churchill had the best of the propaganda. Sir Charles Lyttelton told a friend: ‘Churchill has so spoke of it, that the King and the Duke are angry with Herbert. I know not what he [Churchill] has done to justify himself.’
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Barbara Castlemaine had a hearty sexual appetite. Even in her sixties, by then Duchess of Cleveland in her own right, she conducted what
turned out to be a bigamous marriage with Robert ‘Beau’ Fielding. She had not lost her taste for elegant men. For his part Fielding hoped to marry money, somehow forgetting that he had recently wed a Mary Wadsworth, imagining her to be a wealthy widow called Mrs Deleau. He certainly did not help matters by sleeping with Barbara’s granddaughter Charlotte Calvert, and the furious duchess duly sued him for adultery, ensuring that his explicit love letters were read out in court and subsequently published.

By the time of John’s return to court Barbara Castlemaine had lost her place as the king’s acknowledged mistress. Charles had insisted on her appointment as lady of the bedchamber to Catherine of Braganza when she arrived from Portugal, warning: ‘Whosoever I find to be my Lady Castlemaine’s enemy in this matter, I do promise upon my word to be his enemy as long as I live.’
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She played a leading role at court, formed an alliance of mutual self-promotion with Sir Peter Lely (some of whose impact upon English portraiture we have already seen), and bore the king several children: Anne (b.1661), Charles, 2nd Duke of Cleveland and 1st Duke of Southampton (b.1662), Henry, Duke of Grafton (b.1663, though the king seems to have harboured some reservations about his paternity), Charlotte (b.1664) and George, Duke of Northumberland (b.1665). Charles was fond of his children, and had Catherine of Braganza been able to give him any, this story might have been very different. ‘He loves not the queen at all,’ thought Pepys, ‘but is rather sullen to her, and she by all accounts incapable of any children.’ In contrast, ‘The king is mighty kind to these bastard children and at this day will go at midnight to my Lady Castlemaine’s nurses and take the child and dance it in his arms.’
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