The Hellfire Club Read online

  THE HELLFIRE CLUB

  DANIEL P. MANNIX

  A Ballentine Book

  1

  Weird stories were told of the fabulously rich and brilliant Sir Francis Dashwood. He’d had a vast system of caves dug in a cliff near his estate at West Wycombe, some 33 miles northwest of London, and villagers passing the entrance late at night told of seeing strange figures dressed in red robes dragging screaming girls into the black entrance. But no one liked to complain, because Sir Francis was such a pleasant gentleman. For example, to celebrate the opening of a new, formal garden on his estate, Sir Francis asked the local minister to arrange a Sunday school picnic on the grounds. The minister was only too happy to oblige and he and Sir Francis watched benignly while the children rollicked over the new garden. The garden was laidout in rather a curious fashion. Near one end were two little mounds, each surmounted by a bed of bright red flowers, and in the lower section was a triangle of dense shrubbery.

  “Ah, but you must see the garden as a whole,” Sir Francis-explained to the puzzled minister. “I’ll take you to the topof a tower so you can look down on it from a height.”

  The clergyman cheerfully agreed and followed Sir Francis-to the topof the tower. He had just time to realize that he was gazing down at a garden elaborately designed to represent the body of a naked woman when Sir Francis gave a signal. Instantly a stream of water gushed from the shrubbery triangle while two fountains concealed in the flower-beds shot streams of milky water into the air. The minister fainted and had to be revived by Sir Francis’s favorite drink—brandy laced with sulphur, or brimstone, as it was called.

  As John Wilkes, an intimate of the amazing Sir Francis, later remarked, “Tis astonishing the lengths Francis will go simply to be nasty.”

  However, “Hell-Fire Francis” was far more than an enormously rich man with a genius for obscenity. He was one of the most influential figures of the 18th Century. He created the notorious Hell-Fire Club, an association dedicated to Black Magic, sexual orgies, and political conspiracies. The club included among its members the Prime Minister of England, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the Lord Mayor ofLondon, the First Lord of the Admiralty, the son of the Archbishopof Canterbury, several of England’s greatest artists and poets, the Prince of Wales, and even Benjamin Franklin. The American Revolution has been attributed the indirect product of this uncanny group.

  The originator and guiding spirit of the club was Sir Francis Dashwood, baronet, heir to one of the great fortunes of the time, and George III’s intimate friend. Sir Francis was born in 1708. His father (the first baronet) was a fiercely ruthless man. A wealthy merchant, he had been determined to obtain a title, and after his first wife died he finally succeeded in 1707 by marrying the daughter of the Earl of Westmoreland. The earl’s daughter gave birth to Francis shortly before she succumbed to her husband’s brutal treatment. The grim old ex-merchant married two more wives before he himself died in 1724, leaving Francis the estate.

  The sixteen-year-old boy celebrated his independence by locking himself upin the cellar for a week with a hogs-head of claret. He then set out to enjoy the delights of fashionable London society. His guide, philosopher, and friend at this time was the Honourable Jack Spencer, grandson of the Duchess of Marlborough, a well-known rake who had seduced a twelve-year-old flower girl named Fanny Murray on the steps of Covent Garden Theater. Jack’s fame did not come from having seduced a child—that was a routine procedure with all the rakes of the period—but because Fannylater became one of the leading courtesans of the day. She was the mistress of Beau Nash, Lord Sandwich, and Sir William Stanhope (the younger brother of the Earl of Chester-field). Fanny always gave Jack Spencer credit for having started her on her successful career.

  Some rough idea of Jack’s morals can be gained from a letter given him by Edmund Easy, the keeper of an accomplished prostitute named Molly. Here is the letter:

  “Dear Molly,

  “On sight thereof permit the Bearer to immediately enter a pair of sheets with you and let him have ingress, egress and regress to your person in such manner as to him shall seem meet for the space of twenty-four hours and no longer and place it to the account of your kind and confident keeper.

  Signed Edmund Easy“

  Through Jack Spencer, Sir Francis was introduced to London club life. There were many clubs in London at that time. There were the Mohawks who specialized in “tipping the lion”—crushing the noses of people whom they met on the streets and gouging out their eyes. The Mohawks even carried a special iron instrument about with them for distending the mouths of their victims and slitting their cheeks. There were the Blasters who showed themselves naked to passing girls. There were the Mollies who dressed as womenand sang to each other “Tell me, gentle hobble-dehoy, art thou girl or art thou boy?” The She-Romps Club dragged passing girls into their club and made them walk on their hands so their skirts would fall over their heads. Then the club members beat them with riding whips on the exposed parts. The Sweaters used to draw their swords and surround some passer-by who was then ordered “not to turn his back on a gentleman.” Any gentleman standing behind the victim was entitled to prick him in the seat of the pants. When the man whirled around, he presented his back to another gentleman who promptly stabbed him for such rudeness, thus keeping him in a constant sweat. Then there were the Hectors, who specialized in sheer vandalism. The members wandered the streets at night ripping knockers off doors, smashing windows, and tearing down shutters. After one of their evening frolics, the leader boasted that “there isn’t a window left unbroken on Chancery Lane.” The Fun Club went in for practical jokes. Their most famous exploit was to set fire to a line of workmen’s cottages and watch the inmates escaping in their nightclothes. The young lord who thought upthis joke was crowned “King of Fun.”

  The members of these clubs were all wealthy young noblemen and so were virtually immune from arrest. However, occasionally they ran into a little trouble. Lord Charteris, who was president of the Man-Killers, tried to nail a night watchman in his sentry box—one of the cylindrical, pillar-likeboxes in which the watchmen took shelter during rainy weather. This stunt was called “boxing the watch” and once the man was nailed inside, the box was turned over on its side and rolled down a hill. Although Lord Charteris had two pals to help him, the watchman drew his sword and captured all three Man-Killers. He marched them to the nearest police station, where the judge fined the noblemen 3/4d each (about $1.50) and reprimanded the watchman for interfering with the fun of the nobility. It must be admitted that on a few occasions, the antics of the clubmen got a little out of hand. In 1720, two young aristocrats riding in sedan chairs met at a narrow intersection, and the chair men got into an argument as to who was to give way to the other. The noblemen piled out of their chairs and joined in the dispute. The chair men started fighting with their fists and the young lords with their swords. Other gentlemen rushed out of the coffee houses and joined in the fight. The London mob, always ready for some excitement, promptly took sides. The result was a riot so serious that the Horse Guards had to be called out to break upthe crowd with their sabers.

  All the clubs specialized in sex. On the bulletin boards were posted lists of famous madams and noted prostitutes, with their specialties listed after each girl’s name, somewhat like the batting average of well-known ball players. The madams usually were given picturesque names. Mother Sulphur,her face painted black, led a masked line of naked men and girls through the halls of the Sheet-Lightning Club, and Mrs. Brimstone specialized in providing virgins, all under fifteen, to club members. At the same time, the clubs had a curiously adolescent attitude towards sex that sounds more like a modern college fraternity than a groupof dissolute hell rakes. They seemed to have enjoyed boasting about their amatory exploits more than performing them, held endless “bull sessions” on the art of seduction, and exchanged secret lists of young ladies of fashion who could be made. The whole business followed strict rules. If you wanted to seduce a lady, you first sent her reams of poetry full of obscure classical allusions and then, instead of telling her to meet you at the Red Lion Inn where you could register as Mr. and Mrs. Jones, you hid under her bed or climbed in her window at midnight disguised as an Indian rajah. It had to be romantic. It was understood by both sides that you’d afterwards boast of your conquest in every coffee house you frequented in London.

  At the age of twenty-one, Sir Francis departed with a tutor for the continent of Europe to make the Grand Tour. The Grand Tour was then considered a necessity for a young gentleman of title, but Sir Francis managed to add a few details not generally included in the itinerary. In the words of his distracted tutor, “He fornicated his way across Europe.” Possibly his most outstanding feat was to seduce theEmpress Anne of Russia while disguised as Charles XII of Sweden. Sir Francis turned upat the Russian court elaborately tricked out as King Charles, and speaking a sort of gibberish which he claimed was Swedish. As the real Charles XII had died earlier, it’s hard to believe that the Empress was honestly fooled by the young lord, but Anne was fond of dashing men, especially if they had the reputation of being experts in bed. According to all accounts, she went along with the gag. The story is an interesting example of how Sir Francis, even as a young man, loved make-believe. This passion for playing a romantic role stayed with him all his life.

  After leaving Russia, Sir Francis and his tutor went on to Turkey, where Sir Francis exhibited “the staying powers of a stallion and the impetuosity of a bull,” as Horace Walpole later re
marked. Sir Francis dressed in Turkish robes, wore a jeweled scimitar, and sat on a heapof cushions smoking a hookah while beautiful girls (hired for the occasion) nude to the waist and wearing transparent gossamer trousers, paraded before him. At intervals, Sir Francis would remove the mouthpiece of the hookah long enough to exclaim “By the Prophet’s Beard, ‘tis indeed a houri from Paradise!” or some other Oriental remark, until he’d made his choice for the evening.

  After leaving Turkey, Sir Francis and his long-suffering tutor went to Italy. Italy proved to be the climax of theGrand Tour, and the events there set the pattern for the rest of Sir Francis’ life.

  To an Englishman with artistic tastes, Italy was an enchanted country. Sir Francis was more than simply a young man dedicated to wine and women; he was also one of the outstanding connoisseurs of art and literature of his age. He could become intoxicated with the great, rolling lines of Virgil as easily as on claret, and the sweeping lines of a vase fascinated him as much as the swinging buttocks of a pretty girl. He’d had little chance to indulge his artistic craving in England of the period, but in Italy he swam in beauty. As though trying to make upfor a lifetime of neglect, he feverishly bought statuary, the works of the ancient Greek and Latin poets, andobjets d’art, never worrying about price and never accepting anything but the best. Even greater than his craving for beauty was his passion for the exotic quality of the past. He spent days wandering through catacombs whose walls were lined with shelves containing the half-mummified corpses of men and women dead two thousand years. He sat by moonlight in the ruins of Roman villas, trying to summon upa vision of the wild orgies which the pale marble walls had once witnessed. He spent days wandering through twisting alleys, feeling well rewarded if he stumbled on some crumbling Roman temple, a half-deserted medieval chapel or an obscure taproom where the proprietor was able to arrange some unusual form of vice for the benefit of a wealthy young English tourist.

  Most of all, Sir Francis was interested in the Roman Catholic Church. Since the Revolution in 1688, when James II, the last Catholic monarch, had been driven out of England, Catholicism had been under a cloud in Great Britain, and to young men like Sir Francis it had become surrounded by an aura of horrified fascination. Like many people of his time, the young man had a desperate need for religion— especially a religion with the magnificent pomp and ceremony of Catholicism. The Church of England had become both highly stylized and politically dominated. Many of the clergy were hopelessly corrupt, and the church services were dull and uninspired. Thackeray wrote “[At this time] the stately old English High Church was emptying itself.” Yet as an ardent follower of the sceptical Voltaire and the cynical Rabelais, Sir Francis felt duty-bound to sneer at all religion. Still, he haunted the cathedrals with the desperation of a dehydrated man trying to reach a fountain even though it may prove to be a mirage.

  As a result of this schizophrenic frame of mind, Sir Francis while in Rome indulged in a prank that not only stamped him for life but also may have changed the history of the world.

  The young lord and his tutor had been making a tour of the churches in Rome, Sir Francis alternating between raucous contempt and a tearful yearning for the soul-satisfying faith he saw about him. His tutor, who was anardent Catholic, was torn between horror at his charge’s insulting behavior at the world-famous shrines and pity for the youth who a few minutes later would kneel sobbing at the altar rails, begging God to give him some sign so he could believe. The tour ended at the tiny but exquisite Sistine Chapel. Although it was late in the evening, the chapel was crowded with worshippers holding lighted candles as they knelt at their devotions. Directly behind the altar and covering the entire south wall of the chapel is Michelangelo’s great and terrible fresco of the Last Judgment. For the first time the impressionable young Sir Francis saw this famous painting depicting the dead rising from their graves while gloating fiends with scourges drive the wicked to the flames of everlasting hell. In the congregation, penitents flogged themselves with small, symbolic scourges, while keeping up the ancient cry of“Mea culpa!”

  Kneeling at the back of the chapel, Sir Francis was possessed by the noble murals, the magic of the semidark chapel, and the strange ecstasy of the worshippers. When the service was over, he and his tutor headed for the nearest tavern to drink themselves virtually insensible before going to bed, as was their usual custom. A few bottles of Chianti later, Sir Francis suddenly began to roar with laughter.

  “If these Papists are sincere in their penitence, I know how to test them,” he announced. “What a jest! Oh, what a priceless jest to tell the lads at White’s and Angelo’s when we return to London.”

  The apprehensive tutor asked him what he had in mind, but Sir Francis refused to say. The young lord retired to bed still going into gales of laughter whenever he thought of his plans for the next day.

  The following evening, Sir Francis returned to the chapel wearing a cape which he kept closely wrapped around him. When amidst the singing of solemn hymns the penitents began their symbolic scourging, Sir Francis suddenly produced an enormous horse whip from under his cape and fell on the congregation, lashing madly left and right.

  “You wish to do penitence?” he shouted. “Good, I’ll give you penitence! Take that… and that… and that!”

  In the semidarkness of the chapel, the wild figure wrapped in a flowing cape seemed to be supernatural. A terrified cry of“Il Diavolo!”went upas the congregation tried to escape. Men fought their way through the crowd and women screamed as they were knocked down, while Sir Francis, yelling like a madman, laid about him with the whip. At last the congregation realized that they were dealing with a human being, not a flend risen from the pit. Sir Francis was thrown out of the chapel, still wildly flourishing his whipand yelling obscenities.

  “What a jest!” howled the young man to his terrified tutor. “Come, man, we must celebrate!” The tutor needed a drink as much as Sir Francis and they repaired to the nearesttavern. Sir Francis, wild with excitement, started on one of his historic drinking bouts. The tutor gave upearly in the evening, but his charge kept on and on. At intervals, Sir Francis would hurl an empty bottle against the wall and stagger out into the dark streets with the anxious tutor trying vainly to hold him back. The young lord would reel into the nearest church and, rushing upto the altar, lash at the images of the saints with his whip, screaming curses. Then he would stagger out of the church and into the next tavern. “Why heaven did not strike us dead for such blasphemy or why we were not knifed by some furious Lazzaroni, I cannot imagine,” the tutor later wrote. Probably it was so late at night that few people were in the churches and those were too astonished at what they saw to take action.

  The tutor finally managed to lead Sir Francis back to the inn where they were staying, and the baronet passed out cold on his bed. The tutor went to bed in his own room, glad the adventures of the night were at last over. But a few hours later he was awakened by a series of the most blood-curdling shrieks from his charge’s room. The tutor recognized Sir Francis’ voice screaming for help, but mingled with the human voice were cries like the lost souls of hell coming to seize their prey. The tutor sprang out of bed and still in his nightgown, rushed into the room.

  Sir Francis was crouched on the bed, frantic with terror, and even the tutor staggered back in momentary alarm atthe sight that met his eyes. Just below the open window shone four green eyes and from this apparition was coming unearthly wails. Then the tutor recovered himself and approached the window. He saw at once that the eyes belonged to two cats, coupled in sexual union, and the female not liking the business particularly was screaming her head off. The tutor shooed the cats back through the window and then turned to his charge, but Sir Francis was in such a state of fright that nothing could be done with him. The tutor returned to his own room, dressed, and then went back to see how the baronet was coming along. As he entered, the young man sprang from his bed and threw himself at the tutor’s feet.

  “What an experience I’ve been through!” he gasped. “A devil with four shining eyes came to carry me to hell for my conduct in the Sistine Chapel. You should have heard his cries of glee as he prepared to fasten his talons on me! But at this moment an angel appeared in a white robe. He drove the devil out of the window and then, after giving me his blessing, vanished. My dear friend, I am converted! I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make amends for my evil ways and telling all who will listen of this wondrous miracle that has been vouchsafed me.”