Already that standing army, that supreme resource, so carefully prepared for some time past by the king, seemed to waver in his hands and almost fail his hopes and expectations. When men hesitate a moment in a great popular movement, they go into action with redoubled ardor on account of their first uncertainty. The gentry of the neighboring counties and the great lords at the head of their servants and retainers hastened to Exeter. First, Lord Cornbury, son of Clarendon, and completely under the influence of the Churchills, led to the prince a part of three regiments that he commanded. "Oh, God! that a son of mine should be a rebel," cried dolorously the son of the great Chancellor, faithful to his master thus far through all the vicissitudes of fortune. Princess Anne was astonished at the consternation of her uncle. "Many people are very uneasy about Popery," said she; "I believe that many of the army will do the same." Some days later Lord Churchill and the Duke of Grafton, at the head of their troops, joined the Prince of Orange. King James had advanced as far as Salisbury when he learnt of this unexpected defection. Everywhere the people rose: the west and the north were under arms. The unfortunate monarch, fearing that his communication with London would be cut off, ordered a retreat. His son-in-law, Prince George of Denmark, quitted him secretly during the march. Gross in body and stupid in mind, he was accustomed to respond to all news, whether grave or insignificant, by a uniform exclamation, in French, "Est-il-possible?" "What! is 'est-il-possible' gone too?" said James in the morning, when he learnt of the prince's departure. "If he was not the husband of my daughter, a good trooper would have been a greater loss." On arriving at London the king learnt that the Princess Anne had disappeared as well as her husband. This blow struck him with consternation. Blind regarding his family as well as his kingdom, he had not divined the intrigues that were forming about him, nor the isolation that the intolerant ardor of his religious faith created. He was overwhelmed: "God help me!" he said; "my own children have forsaken me."
On all sides the unhappy king felt himself surrounded by defection. Even those who yet remained faithful to him had changed their tone. A deputation from the House of Lords urged him to open negotiations with the Prince of Orange and to convoke a free Parliament. He appeared inclined to accept this salutary advice. "It is very important," said Lord Clarendon, "that the minds of the people should be relieved from the fear of Popery. Even now his Majesty is raising in London a regiment into which no Protestant is admitted." "That is not true!" cried James. They endeavored to exact a promise of amnesty from him. "I cannot do it," he exclaimed, "I must make examples—Churchill above all; Churchill whom I raised so high. He and he alone has done all this. He has corrupted my army. He has corrupted my child. He would have put me into the hands of the Prince of Orange but for God's special providence. My lords, you are strangely anxious for the safety of traitors. None of you troubles himself about my safety." He yielded nevertheless, and charged Halifax to draw up the royal proclamation.
Parliament was convoked for the 13th of January, 1689. The amnesty was without reserve. Commissioners were designated to treat with the Prince of Orange; the Governor of the Tower, Sir Edward Hales, was dismissed, and replaced by Skelton, but recently his prisoner.
So many concessions and so much justice on the part of the king were only designed to blind the nation. "This negotiation," said James to Barillon, "is a mere feint. I must send commissioners to my nephew that I may gain time to ship off my wife and the Prince of Wales. You know the temper of my troops. None but the Irish will stand by me; and the Irish are not in sufficient force to resist the enemy. A Parliament would impose on me conditions which I could not endure. I should be forced to undo all that I have done for the Catholics, and to break with the king of France. As soon, therefore, as the queen and my child are safe, I will leave England and take refuge in Ireland, in Scotland, or with your master." On the 9th of December, the Prince of Wales and the queen, his mother, accompanied by three attendants, and under the protection of the Duke of Lauzun—adventurous and bold as well in London as in Paris—quitted secretly the palace of Whitehall, crossed the Thames in an open boat, and hastened on to Gravesend. The next day the fugitives arrived at Calais; an attendant of Lauzun's carried the news of their safe arrival to King James. Lords Dover and Dartmouth, two of the king's most trusted servants, had peremptorily refused to assist in this escape. "I would risk my life in defense of the throne," said the admiral, Dartmouth, "but I will be no party to the transporting of the prince into France." Only strangers consented to serve the king of England. Following the announcement of the safety of the royal party came Lord Halifax with propositions from the Prince of Orange, more moderate and more conciliatory than were expected. The greatest names in the kingdom had given their support to William of Nassau: those who had not crowded to his audiences had nevertheless united their servitors and retainers for his service. "What is it that you want?" whispered Halifax in the ear of Burnet, in the midst of the crowded assembly; "do you wish to get the king into your power?" "Not at all," said Burnet; "we would not do the least harm to his person." "And if he were to go away?" "There is nothing so much to be wished," replied the ecclesiastic. The observance of the courtiers interrupted the conversation, but the despatches of Halifax showed the effects of Burnet's advice. On the night of the 10th of December, King James, plainly dressed, accompanied only by Sir Edward Hales, departed secretly from Whitehall, after having thrown into the fire all the writs for the new Parliament, which had not yet been sent out. In crossing the Thames he flung the Great Seal into the midst of the stream. Disembarking at Vauxhall, where a carriage awaited him, he took the road to Sheerness. "I thank you for your fidelity," wrote he to Lord Feversham, "and I demand that you no longer expose your life for me by resisting a foreign army and a nation poisoned by contagion. I seek my safety in flying my kingdom." When he received this letter, Feversham immediately disbanded the army, thereby adding a new element of disorder to the general excitement and turbulent passions that were raging in the capital, now deprived of its legitimate head. "Call your troop of guards together," said Rochester to the young Duke of Northumberland. The peers in London took the power into their hands, declaring officially their intention to rally around the Prince of Orange, and to administer the government in his name until his arrival. All attempts to preserve order, however, were of no avail. During three days and nights the houses of the Catholics, as well as their places of worship, were pillaged, the furniture broken or burned, the plate stolen, and their persons insulted; the rumor of an Irish invasion redoubled the fury of the populace. No murder was committed; the Chancellor, Jeffreys, however, was in great danger.
Carefully disguised, he attempted flight. A man but recently brought before him recognized that terrible glance of the eye which had once frozen his blood. He gave the alarm, and the Chancellor was instantly seized by a mob. Two regiments of militia, immediately called out by the Lord Mayor, were scarcely sufficient to protect against the passionate vengeance of the multitude. The carriage conducted him to the prison of the Tower where he was soon to die an ignominious and horrible death.
King James had arrived at Sheerness. The popular passions were everywhere excited; the sailors were suspicious and disposed to search everywhere for disguised Catholic priests. James was arrested, searched, and insulted. "It is Father Petre," cried one; "I know him by his lean jaws. Search the hatchet-faced old Jesuit!" Roughly led ashore, the king was soon recognized. This last check seriously affected his mind. Naturally courageous, as had been proven in battle, James now piteously begged for a boat to carry him away. "The Prince of Orange is hunting for my life. If you do not let me fly now, it will be too late. My blood will be on your heads."
Led into a tavern, and respectfully treated, still the unfortunate king felt himself a prisoner in his own realm. "What have I done?" said he; "what error have I committed?" The compassion due to a great misfortune closed the mouths of all bystanders. When the news of the arrest of the king reached London, the little council that had assumed the government was thrown into profound consternation. The Archbishop of Canterbury, Sancroft, who presided, immediately withdrew. Halifax, bitterly wounded by the role that James had compelled him to play at Hungerford, where he had sent him with a derisive negotiation, took his place. Orders were immediately given to send a troop of the Life Guards, commanded by Feversham, to release the king. James II., enfeebled in mind and body by the shocks which he had undergone, was led by his friends to Rochester. He wrote to the Prince of Orange: "I return to Whitehall, and I desire to confer with you. The palace of St. James will be prepared for you Highness."
The prospects of William were suddenly overcast by the arrest of the king. He secretly cursed the officious zeal of the sailors. He was constrained to decide, at once, whether the abdication should be complete and voluntary, or whether the internal contest should be prolonged. The prince refused the proposed conference, and requested James to remain at Rochester. It was too late: the king was already in London. Compassion, habit, and a reaction from the past anger, drew a crowd about him as he drove through the streets; he was saluted by some acclamations.