LONDON 1780 THE BURNING OF NEWGATE PRISON
“Strike, and let the fire spread, For in the ashes lies the seed.”
The protestors start by attacking the carriages of those arriving at Parliament. Criminals they held responsible for passing the Act. Yet, the anti-catholic sentiment soon morphs into a broader rage, extending and escalating into a sustained assault on all institutions and government properties. There is no general violence towards the Catholic population with the actions focusing on persons held to be of substance.
High on recent successes we saunter down the streets from Holborn calling out for people to join us. On reaching the Old Bailey the crowd has swelled. We send the best dressed man among us to knock on the keeper’s door. No doubt due to prior warning this has been prudently barred, bolted and chained. The man knocks and rings three times. Receiving no reply, he runs back down the steps, bows theatrically to the mob and points to the door. This gesture is taken as a signal: the perfectly organised mob, led by about thirty men marching three abreast instantly surges forward. In their hands: iron crowbars, mattocks and chisels. An innumerable throng including Bellamy, follows them armed with bludgeons and cart-wheel spokes.
The second parlour window soon gives way, and the house-door forced open. We drag the furniture and broken chattels into the street and set it ablaze. A circle of men, better dressed than the rest, looks on exciting and encouraging the rioters.
While flames consume the keeper’s building, its servants flee across the rooftops. Bellamy roars among the crowd, entreating them to spare the houses of innocent persons, his pleas drowning in the chaos. One man wearing a hat with a blue cockade in it, approaches the prison-gate and holding up the main key, shouts to the turnkeys: "Here is the key of Newgate; open the door!"
A tripeman from St. James's Market, infamous for always losing street quarrels, joins the throng at the great gate, swearing furiously "Curse me, we’ll have the gates down!"
Then the storm breaks; the crowd rushes on Old Bailey, striking ferociously with sledge-hammers and pickaxes stolen from coachmakers and blacksmiths in Drury Lane. The tripeman, who carries a bludgeon, urges them on; and the keeper’s servant, having known the man for several years, calls to him through the hatch, "Very well tripeman; I shall mark you in particular!" Another servant thumps at the door with a gun-barrel, trying to thrust it through the grating into the scared faces of the turnkeys. Bellamy tries splitting the door with his hatchet but the entrance has so far resisted all assaults. The mob, finding they can’t even force the stones out round the hatch, is starting to pile shattered furniture against the gates.
Eager hands then set the amassed wood on fire. Several times the gate catches fire, and just as often the turnkeys inside push and prod the burning furniture with broomsticks through the hatch. Others inside start desperately dousing the gates with water, to cool them down and preserve the lead soldering the hinges from melting and giving way.
The crowd’s efforts finally succeed, for the flames, now spread fast from the keeper’s house and burn in to the fore-lodge and chapel, igniting ward after ward. As the fires rage, pale-looking prisoners emerge from their dark cells, heavy irons clanking. The crowd surges forward to carry them off in triumph, many with their irons still on.
The rest keep busy, having gained access, they tackle the roofs, tearing away the rafters. Those on the ground pass up ladders to the brave Orpheus’s, who use them to descend into the fiery pit. Flames all around them, and a body of soldiers expected, they defy and laugh at all opposition, one by one setting the prisoners free. Bellamy looks on in admiration and spots about twelve women and eight men ascend from their confinement to the open air. Eyes blinking and chests swelling they are then conducted through the street in their chains. A man comments grimly: “Three of them were to be hanged on Friday"
Among the most unusual prisoners freed are a Greek and an Arab. Their figures emerge from the dankest cell, faces eerily calm amidst the bedlam. The first is wiry with sharp, mistrustful eyes, clothes hanging from his lean frame like a scarecrow’s rags, and the hands calloused from years at sea.
The second has a tall, regal bearing, his dark features a stark contrast to the flames behind him. He clutches a satchel to his chest, his gaze scanning the chaos with cold calculation. Bellamy steps forward, thrusting the torch toward them. “Welcome to freedom, lads,” he leers with a crooked grin. “Name’s Bellamy. You can thank me later.”
The Greek snorts. “Freedom? Is that what this is?” His voice thick with a Mediterranean accent. “Looks more like madness.” The Arab speaks next, in measured tones: “Madness is often the first step toward truth.”
Bellamy barks a laugh, sweeping his hand in mock presentation at the surrounding rubble: “That’s the spirit, welcome to the truth then! The keeper's house and initial target are now a mere shell of red-hot brickwork, with the doors and windows appearing like the entrance to so many volcanoes. The felons' prison is the last to burn and as the crowd break the doors, all those inside make their escape. An early-release for the trespassers and debtors into the London streets.
A dozen of the mob have reached the uppermost roof of the debtor’s burning prison, to halloo, against a backdrop of black smoke mixed with sudden bursts of fire. Bellamy remarks admiringly: “Like Milton's infernals they seem as familiar with flame as with each other”. The frenetic assault of the rioters provides a compelling contrast to the sweetness shown to the prisoners. The state will doubtlessly not be as kind to its disobedient citizens. Amidst the wreckage, boots crunch on broken glass and splintered wood. Around Bellamy, the crowd moves like restless waves, their shouts softened now to murmurs and apprehensive laughter.
A chimneysweep’s boy has used leftover tar to scrawl the words
_**HIS MAJESTY KING MOB **_on the prison walls.
That night the king sits and waits. He knows that he can count on the docility of his cabinet and the army's loyalty. The first magistrate to put the boot in is the previously popular Wilkes. Not to be outdone, the rest soon offer their sword to the King. Lord Amherst, chief commander of the army is called for and ordered to: in the most proper manner bring about an end to this current and alarming insurrection. 7.000 soldiers are called to the capital from the closest garrisons with yet more on their way, a forced march from every corner of the Kingdom. Some tentative voices fearful of a military dictatorship are heard from the more liberal wings of the establishment. As dawn breaks, London’s magistrates, normally indifferent to the moods of the populace, feel that a return to order is needed. Martial law being proclaimed would put their prerogatives at risk.
Buckingham palace, the Bank, the Stock Exchange and Parliament are all now defended by enormous deployments of the army and police.
By the morning of June 7th, a joyous sun invites onlookers to look among the rubble as the city begins to stir. There’s still a large crowd viewing the burning embers of Newgate prison while late-comers are still busy looting the halls. People move tentatively among the streets while the army plods with grim efficiency, their red coats a stark contrast to the ashen pallor of the streets. Yet even as the soldiers march, people whisper, their voices rising like smoke from hidden fires. Young hopefuls step out, anything to hand is taken as hands, black with soot, rifle through debris, in their search for treasures or memories. Braver individuals venture forth, clambering here and there, stepping over resting drunks, to admire the smouldering remains of a church, a prison or an elegant private mansion. Mothers plead with their children to stay indoors. Others instead stand, their silent faces turned upward to the sky as if in prayer or defiance. Bellamy surmises the army will soon arrive and calls to his new friends to lead them away: “No point clashing with the army matey”.
The Old Bailey is now open to all, everyone may enter and for the first time ever, anyone may leave.
Lady Luck has so far been with the rabble, by dawn only a handful have died, which considering the size of the insurrection is surprisingly low. The victims made by the vengeful crowd are also few in number, most have escaped with their life if not their dignity. Not a single soldier seems to have been killed despite the armed crowd.
People are still roving the streets, having experienced their collective power, they are still hungry for more. An unsuccessful attempt is made on the Prime Minster Lord North’s house in Downing Street. Less ambitious targets are more easily met with every tool-booth on bridges soon destroyed.
But that afternoon, the city is under martial law. The King’s troops sweep through the streets, arresting rioters and reasserting control. The green fields of Hyde Park are covered in tents, as 15,000 quartered soldiers prepare for the next wave of insurrection. The army is fortifying against an enemy which has neither generals nor footsoldiers.
Bellamy is still drunk: “Poor fools don’t even know where the front is” he slurs.
“They’ve looted the arsenal of arms in Millwall” another spits.
Bellamy and his new friends join a euphoric crowd, which still drunk on the previous night’s excesses has gathered towards the Langdale distillery. The edifice soon becomes the apex of chaos. The mob’s demands for free gin are refused and the thirsty throng starts setting fire to the owners house for not freely sharing. The buildings are soon enveloped in smoke and flame and down the gutters flows torrents of unrectified and flaming spirit gushing from casks that enterprising youngsters draw in endless succession from the vaults. These ardent spirits, now run to pools and albeit not recommended for human consumption, are swallowed by the more insatiate in the crowd. A dumbstruck Abdul watches individuals who, with shrieking gibes and curses, are reeling and perishing in the flames. Others, still alight from head to foot, are dragged from burning cellars. The atmosphere grows hot to suffocation, and flames start leaping upwards from Langdale’s other houses on Holborn Hill. When the main fire reaches the vats of alcohol, columns of flames rise and dance far into the sky, with some claiming it could be seen as far away as Oxford.
The Bank of England is next on the list. “Let's rob the Old Lady!”
“Beautiful but madness, doubt we’ll find them unprepared” Bellamy remarks. His remarks are seconded by others: “They were rolling out the cannons earlier” The advice is ignored and an optimistic few starts moving on.
“Where’s your balls Bellamy?! There's thousand of us. We can carry out the greatest redistribution of wealth ever seen. Destroy this beast of Satan once and for all!”
Collective shouts rise up as the crowd move onto Threadneedle street. Here, ropes have been stretched across the street to protect The Old Lady. Spotting barricades built by the army, Bellamy roars to turn back. Too late, as their turnaround is readily met by another man-made obstacle. The London Military Association alongside regular recruits spares no bullets and in accordance with martial law, starts openly shooting on the crowd. Bodies twitch as if pulled by a string and cannons roar. The crowd is forced to split into even smaller groups and pulls back, aware it had dared dream too much. Yanez drop to his knees as a bullet whips past his shoulder before being yanked up again by Bellamy. By the time they make a stumbling retreat almost 300 bodies are left in the streets. The day will become known as Black Wednesday and will be the last time the Bank is left without armed guards. Bellamy curses himself for the lack of foresight. “There’s a line my friend, and if you cross it, men with guns will come for you”.
“I think we’ve crossed it?” remarks Abdul. “We've been going for almost 7 straight days” responds Bellamy, his eyes gleaming in a taut tired face. “They seemed impotent in the face of our numbers.” A silent Yanez looks around as black dust billows around semi-starved waifs still picking through the rubble.
That was the end of our insurrection and our first defeat. 3 jails are set fire to as a consolation prizes. Southwark is the last to burn but not before everyone is safely released. Out of the seven jails in London, only New Gaol has been spared.
That same night Bellamy, Yanez, and Abdul disappear into the labyrinth of alleys and tenements, their figures swallowed by the city’s shadows. They leave behind smouldering remains, monuments not to destruction but to possibility.
The city would rebuild, as it always did. Being rebuilt anew. But for one brief, blazing moment, the people had tasted freedom—not the kind granted by kings or governments, but the raw, unfiltered kind that comes only from breaking chains with your own hands.