‘In the year of the Helpston enclosures Turner exhibited an oil in his private gallery, Ploughing up Turnips, near Slough. Men plough and women follow, bent double to grub up the roots, one stopping to nurse her baby in the field. A man mends a broken plough and cows munch the turnips spilling from a pannier on the ground. In the background, rising above the woods in a morning mist, is Windsor Castle. Is this a version of digging for victory, a celebration of progressive agriculture, watched over by a benign Farmer George? Or is it a scene of hardship, a slough of despond next to wide royal estates, where women and old folk toil as the young men march to war?’
I’ve been slowly reading through 'In These Times: Living in Britain Through Napoleon's Wars, 1793-1815' by Jenny Uglow over the last couple of months, picking it up while reading in bed or between other books. It suits well in that regard, being a long historical account of the Napoleonic wars as told through primary sources: the actual letters, journals, essays and other written accounts by people who lived through that era. It’s an approach which is nearly devoid of historiographic wrangling, though it brings its own other problems; since the fragments are necessarily isolated, the author has to do a great deal of narrative busywork in piecing them together so they seem like a coherent tapestry of tales. It isn’t an easy war to explain; this was, to put it lightly, a complicated time for Britain, which was then emerging as one of the world’s dominant superpowers.
What is most striking considered now is the sheer scale of economic output required to keep the war rolling. For much of the book, Britain seems to be teetering on the edge of starvation, and the people at home faced genuine hardship as a result.
‘…Later accounts, eerily precise, put the cost of the war at £1,657,854,518. This was three times the cost of all other wars since 1688 and six times the pre-war national income…’
Eventually the government found itself in so much debt that a tax on income was introduced — hitherto unthinkable, and in the days before tax returns, an administrative nightmare. And that’s assuming you had any money at all; if you kept it in the local bank, and they went bust (as many did) you were effectively ruined. Most significant was this particular early decision (which is still ascribed by some internet lunatics to Prime Minister Gordon Brown) to abolish the gold standard:
‘…At this point, on the Saturday after the stoppage, Pitt held an unprecedented cabinet meeting, with the Bank directors in attendance, and the king agreed to a Privy Council meeting on Sunday. An Order in Council then allowed the Bank to issue notes without the need, or promise, to back them up with gold: the Bank, and the country banks, could issue notes of under £5, and the first £1 and £2 notes began to appear. It was hard for people to see these new notes as ‘real’ money – five years later a hatter’s wife in Oldham used three £1 notes to kindle the fire, ‘fortunately for the Bank of England’, wrote Rowbottom drily…’
Not that this prevented a few men getting extremely rich from the waging of war. This was particularly true of the arms and clothing industries: if you were well placed to make and supply guns, uniforms and other military supplies, you could make a killing from government desperation. The creeping industrialisation of Britain, marked by the gradual introduction of mechanisation and specialisation, made the war possible; it was effectively the birth of the military industrial complex.
And if you were able to lend money to the government, that placed you in an especially strong position. There’s an astonishing story here about Nathan Rothschild, the grandfather of that famous banking dynasty, and how the British government had him circumvent their own laws on exports to the continent in order to have the Duke of Wellington pay for local expenses for the fighting in southern Europe:
‘When I was settled in London’, he told Thomas Fowell Buxton: ‘the East India Company had 800,000 lbs of gold to sell. I went to the sale, and bought it all. I knew the Duke of Wellington must have it … The Government sent for me, and said they must have it. When they had got it, they did not know how to get it to Portugal. I undertook all that, and I sent it through France; and that was the best business I ever did.’
But all of this was very far from the experience of ordinary people. At first, few saw it in such opportunistic terms; for many years, this was not a popular war. Wages and conditions for sailors and soldiers were poor, and in some parts of the country the ‘press gangs’ who tried to force the local men into the navy were driven out of town by rioting townsfolk — men and women alike. In other places, people banded together to smash machines which deprived them of jobs they might have held for the rest of their lives; these were the days of the Luddite rebellions, which further complicated the already tricky business of maintaining supply lines to military fronts that stretched all over Europe. Working people also had to worry about the process of enclosure that had been happening in a piecemeal fashion for many years, and which deprived folk of common land used for keeping animals, as well as rights for hunting and fishing:
‘…Describing an altercation with the Duke of Portland’s forester, who stopped him collecting nuts in a wood near Hexham, he asked what had happened to the people’s birthright. If the French invaders came, he asked, and ‘jeeringly ask what I am fighting for? Must I tell them for my country? For my dear country in which I dare not pluck a nut? Would they not laugh at me?’ Rather than stand for that he would throw down his musket and say: ‘let such as the Duke of Portland, who claim the country, fight for it, for I am a stranger and sojourner, and have neither part nor lot amongst them.’…’
In the years after the French Revolution, Napoleon was not short of supporters in Britain; people saw him as a liberator, a great alternative to monarchy, aristocracy, and a corrupt government dominated by ministers in charge of ‘rotten boroughs’ that would barely be considered democratic today. He attracted idealists like Wordsworth and Coleridge, though many of them would later regret their enthusiasm once his dictatorial intentions became plain in later years. But harbouring sympathies, even privately, was a dangerous game, as many found out:
‘…William Blake, who had moved to a cottage at Felpham in Sussex, was one victim of this new alarm. On 16 August 1803 he appeared before the Chichester justices accused of seditious language and assault on a soldier, John Scofield, whom he had thrown out of his garden. Scofield swore that Blake had said that ‘The People of England were like a Parcel of Children, that they would play with themselves till they got scalded and burnt, that the French knew our Strength very well, and if Bonaparte should come he would be master of Europe in an Hour’s time’. Blake’s wife Catherine ran out of the cottage, allegedly shouting that she would fight for Bonaparte as long as she could. Matters dragged on miserably until Blake was acquitted in January 1805…’
Blake got off lightly in this case; the serious Jacobins, inspired by the likes of Thomas Paine and sympathetic to the revolutionary mindset, were regarded as intolerably radical. Next only to the threat of actual invasion by the French was the nightmare scenario of revolution in Britain, and the government regularly took steps to prevent this via the most oppressive measures conceivable. There was no question of freedom of speech. The principle of Habeas Corpus was frequently suspended, and it was treason to incite hatred of the king; in a deliberately vague choice of words, it was even illegal to ‘bring into contempt’ the king or the government. This might have quelled public debate, but it did little to arrest popular uprisings against authority. The lack of a standing police force meant that protests and riots were invariably handled by militia, and as such, many ended with local soldiers firing upon local people. Ultimately, Uglow’s book serves as an essential reminder of the way in which the war required fighting on two essential fronts: one in the defence of the country from the French, and one in the defence of the people who ran the country from the people who worked it.