All Things Must Pass
1849 began very well for Peel. As the nation neared the end of the turbulent 1840s, filled with dissent and squabbles over what constituted radical reform and what didn't (a state of affairs largely and perhaps ironically, born of Peel's second ministry) the coming of the new decade seemed to herald with it a calm which had not been seen in Britain since the Melbourne government ten years earlier.
Ireland Industrialises
In Ireland, especially, the public mood calmed for the first time in decades – especially with regard to the government in Westminster. If it cannot be said that the nation had wholly been pacified (for, as many a tired Tory would tell you, Ireland can never be pacified truly,) then their complaints were certainly no longer directed at the man in Number Ten – a welcome relief for everyone in Parliament. By the April of 1849, the Irish people were beginning to see the fruits of Peel's labour during the Famine Crisis with his promised factories finally materialising. Even if the industry was only basic, it was commonly agreed that, by 1849 when a series of successful harvest and temporary protectionist measures had mollified the starving, it was vital for the Emerald Isle, which could now claim to not be wholly reliant on agriculture and non-mechanised industry – fields of work far more susceptible to the whims of the market. Or so went the theory, anyway. As new factories began to make their mark on the landscape of Ireland, buildings of the like as those which William Blake had so vehemently opposed in the previous century, it remained to be seen how much stability they would bring to the beleaguered nation.
It would also be incorrect to say that the coming of the factories completely solved all of the country's problems and assuaged all tensions. Indeed, many of a more nationalistic mien managed now to find fault with the creed of paternalism that supposedly emanated from Westminster. To the Irish Nationalists – especially figures like Smith O'Brien and his Young Ireland movement – the arrogance of the English in assuming control of Ireland's industrial affairs was only the latest in a series of grievances with the central government. Factories became, as had happened with the feudal castles and manors of the first Normans, symbols of subjugation and oppression. It was not uncommon to see groups, in the tradition of earlier groups and figures like the Luddites and the mysterious "Captain Swing", destroying new machinery in protest of Peel's blatant intervention in Irish affairs. Although these groups were in reality only very marginal, their effect was still felt in a great number of newly-industrialised towns. "Anti-Peelers" (the name likely adopted – or bestowed. Sources are unclear. – as an ironic nod to the Repealers) would make their mark, proving that Peel and his government were yet to fully take the ire out of Ireland.p
A cartoon in Punch
depicting the "Anti-Peelers" at work, here destroying a toll booth representing English oppression.
The Subtle Reformation
Change, however, was not limited to the Emerald Isle. Back in Great Britain, reform was on its way – even if, in a manner wholly atypical of British politics of the period, it would be subtle. As the century shunted into its latter half, organisations and institutions long established in the United Kingdom finally began to adopt more modern practices. The civil service, for example, long a favoured organ by prime ministers wishing to reward friends and family with high paying sinecures, began to more away from the idea of nepotism. Not one of Peel's sons – the eldest four of whom all being in their twenties by 1849 – had been given even the lowliest position within government during his administration. Peel, a man who had long drawn upon his "middle class" background as an unexpected political advantage, was not to suffer others advancing in their status just because of someone else's. All would have to work to achieve prestigious office, and all could work to achieve prestigious office. Almost overnight, in stark contrast to the slow paced bureaucracy with which satirists would have you believe the institution operated, the civil service became a centre of modern thought and practice. As per a series of sweeping reforms implemented in May, candidates would be selected for positions after undertaking an examination. Patronage would be ended, and all partisan ties would be severed. Her Majesty's Civil Service had become neutral, meritocratic and (perhaps most surprisingly) efficient. And it wouldn't be the only institution which would see change.
Such change, however, would be overshadowed by events of more immediate concern to the general public as Peel's practically buoyant year was soured in June. Cholera, long the indiscriminate bête noire of British society, struck once more, originating in London having been carried over from Paris. The outbreak would prove devastating for the city, with total deaths ultimately put at well over ten thousand. Outbreaks in cities such as Liverpool, an invaluable port, would also see the disease spread across the sea to Ireland, and even as far as the USA. For a few weeks in summer, it appeared that Peel's hard-fought calm might be shattered by nature herself. This was especially true in Ireland, where, fresh from famine, the populace had now been handed a strain of cholera to deal with. The newly industrialised areas of the country provided the disease with a perfect breeding ground, as squalid conditions in urban areas and the new influx of workers from the countryside meant that the illness quickly spread. Luckily for Peel, this potential problem was nipped in the bud somewhat by the relatively small scale of the industrialised areas, which limited the death toll. Riots, however, were commonly reported amongst the poorer sections of society during June and July, and death tolls were significant (sources disagree, though consensus seems to be around the ten to fifteen thousand mark across the whole country.) Peel, ever concerned for the welfare of the Irish people, as well as those in other parts of the United Kingdom, asked Parliament to investigate the matter.
A committee was set up and chaired by noted Tory social reformer, Anthony Ashley-Cooper, 7th Earl of Shaftesbury, who was already well known and respected for his advocacy of the reform of lunacy laws and conditions in factories. Lord Shaftesbury took to his latest assignment gladly, devoting his full energies to the committee and finding a solution to the cholera epidemic (much to the annoyance of one committee member, who complained dryly that "Ld. Shaftesbury's enthusiasm for his work can make one far more choleric than any miasma".[1]) The ultimate result of Shaftesbury's work was the foundation of the Royal Epidemiological Society, which was to function both as a research organisation for advances in epidemiology, and as a liaison group to whom the government could look to for advice where legislation was concerned.[2] The society met in London, where Lord Shaftesbury himself chaired the first meeting. Dr. Benjamin Guy Babington, a London physician, was chosen as the first president, with other members of note including Dr. John Snow, another London physician who had recently published the essay "On the Mode of Communication of Cholera" and Gavin Milroy, a member of the Royal College of Physicians.
Lord Shaftesbury, the Chairman of the so-called "Cholera Committee". His track record of social reform made him an ideal man for the job.
As the New Year approached and Britain welcomed the new decade, it did so with more of a wet fizzle than a large explosion – a manner in keeping with the quiet latter half of the 1840s' as opposed to the upheaval of a decade prior. The now-customary New Year's honours list passed too without too much note, save perhaps for the raising of Frederick Lamb, Viscount Melbourne, brother and heir to the late former prime minister, to the title of Earl of Melbourne[3]. Were it not for a letter printed in the Manchester Guardian, penned by a group of dissenting liberals and radicals, the occasion may well have passed without any sort notability whatsoever. The letter detailed the views of a small, heterodox faction of the opposition who comprised a young group of atheists – at that point a highly nascent and much maligned movement within the United Kingdom – who argued that politics in the country had grown far too intertwined with the Church, and argued for the drastic scaling back of governmental-ecclesiastical relations.
As would be expected, the letter was met with outrage by those who read it. Even for the most radical of Radical MPs, an adherence to the "low church"[4] was orthodox, with many drawing their radical reforming spirit from their faith. John Bright, a noted and staunch Quaker, was quick to condemn the group, commenting that "this rampant anti-clericalism will doom us far quicker than any Tory threat". This was also the first instance in which the term "anti-clericalism" had been used with regards to the new, if small, atheist bloc within Britain – a term which would subsequently see the group behind the letter style themselves as the "Anti-Clericals". Though not strictly a political group, the Anti-Clericals would fast obtain a controversial presence in the House of Commons via a handful of sympathetic Radical MPs discontented by Bright's thus-far ineffective leadership of the party. Ultimately, however, the group – both within Parliament and without – would have little effect on British society. Aside from briefly scandalising much of the religious liberal class, the Anti-Clericals' main achievement would be to reopen various reform debates which had lay dormant for much of Peel's term in office. Similarly, the group could be said to have been notable for their insistence that reform should come as a result of man's concern for his fellow men, as opposed to because of his adherence to the Christian faith. One member of the group, a fiery 16-year-old by the name of Charles Bradlaugh, would go one step further, suggesting that "any man who calls himself progressive while adhering to an outdated Church is a hypocrite". Nonetheless, while the movement's reach remained limited, the wider effects of their existence would be felt for much longer. As one political commentator noted: "England [sic][5] has weathered the subtle reformation. Whether we will now see an end to subtlety or to reformation, I do not know".
An Engineered Triumph
The seemingly tainted early months of 1850 did eventually bear sweeter fruit, however, as Peel and his country were given reason to bask in swells of patriotic pride. On the 11th February, the
SS Great Britain, designed by noted engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel, became the first propeller driven ship in the world to successfully complete a transatlantic voyage. For many, the feat was yet more proof of Britain's all-encompassing prowess in the world, and, upon the return of the aptly-named vessel to its home port in Bristol, it was greeted by a large throng of well-wishes and revellers, all caught up in the heady atmosphere generated by the engineering conquest. Once again, the United Kingdom had triumphed, allowing enthusiastic journalists to pen headlines comprised of jingoistic declarations such as "
Great Britain Triumphs!" and "
Great Britain Conquers the Seas!" – the punning on the ship's name being to the great amusement of many contemporary readers. Indeed, the ship's return to Britain seemed only to herald a flurry further of feats, with advances in the once unbearably dull fields of metallurgy and mining suddenly celebrated as further proof of Britain's stature within the world of science and technology.
The triumph of the Great Britain
provided the nation with a short flash of patriotic pride. This was seen by many to be a fitting opening to what had been heralded as a decade of optimism and prosperity – both at home and abroad.
This short burst of patriotism even managed to reach those in Westminster, with Peel sending his personal congratulations to Brunel within days of the
Great Britain making port. Peel, in seizing so quickly upon the upturn in mood, managed to go a long way to dispelling the image of the dour, aloof statesman of a decade prior who had overseen one of the worst periods of discontent within Britain in recent times. For Peel, what was his third spell in Downing Street was fast becoming one marked by vindication – both of the United Kingdom over her rivals and enemies, and of the premier over his naysayers and detractors. It did truly seem in the early spring of 1850 as if the new decade had heralded a new start. Whereas the entrance to the 1840s had been tainted by political instability and agitation over reform, the entrance into the new decade was accompanied by optimism, pride and good feeling. And while the engineering renaissance exhausted itself almost before it had began, this good feeling was to last further into the year. Not everyone in the Empire, however, would get the chance to enjoy it.
Origins of Anglo-Kalati War
The British East India Company had been increasing their influence in the Indus basin steadily since the Sindhi War (1840-1841) during Peel's second term a decade earlier. With the recent Makrani War (1848), company troop presence in the region was at its high water mark, and directors were keen for their wave of success to continue into the new decade. Peel, ever one to support expansion on the Subcontinent, effectively gave the Company a free hand in maintaining – and, more importantly, using, their private armies and militias. This was a mandate – however unofficial – directors were keen to use. With the incorporation of Jaisalmer into Company territory via the doctrine of lapse in January, regional forces felt suitably strengthened to act once again. The target? The large, resource rich Khanate of Kalat, just to the north of recently acquired Makran. After consultation with Generals Lyons and Campbell, still enjoying a semi-retirement in the Indian sun, a plan of attack was drawn up; troops would be stationed along the Anglo-Kalati border in an effort to provoke the Khan's soldiers to attack. An ingenious strategy, it both provided the British troops with a defensive advantage and shifted any accusations of bellicosity away from the Company, who would simply be defending themselves against hostile natives. Peace terms could then be as punitive as the directors desired.
In March, those at the top of the East Indian tree (now, in a highly oxymoronic manner, situated in west India) received the outcome they had been hoping for. The Khan of Kalat, Nasir II, suitably enraged by the apparent British encroachment upon his territory, ordered a detachment of soldiers to lead a small skirmish against a group of British troops. For the Khan, the expedition was an unmitigated disaster. General Campbell, in command of the section of the border chosen as a target by the Kalati troops had been expecting an attack of the very nature launched by the Khan – as had every other commander along the border. His 1st Ahmedabad Division were therefore more than prepared for the Kalati attack, winning a decisive victory over the native forces. Those who weren't killed were taken prisoner, with not a single man making it back to Kalati territory. Nonetheless, the newspaper-reading public back in the United Kingdom were appalled. Journalists were quick to spin the story to vilify the Kalati people, with many of the more hawkish voices within the press calling for war. "The Kalati menace must be repelled!" in the words of one especially jingoistic writer. As far as the East India Company were concerned, the outcome of their Kalati escapade was already set in stone. Now that they had been provided their
casus belli on a silver platter, the question was not if, but when.
The "Kalati Menace" proved a surprisingly large worry for many at home.
The official declaration of war would not arrive at the Kalati court until the 8th of June, by which time both the Company and the government were well prepared for both the war itself and its aftermath. Indeed, correspondence between Company directors and the Duke of Newcastle's Colonial Office detailing plans for Kalat once it had been transferred to British ownership shows that an administrative structure had been drawn up by mid May, with the intervening time before the official declaration of war a mere inconvenience. Nevertheless, Peel's government did not spend this time sitting twiddling their thumbs before what would be the last major item of business before Parliament's summer break. As it would turn out, on the day that war was declared, even more pressing news would be received at the Foreign Office – news which required urgent attention.
The Beginning of the End
Greece had long been under British control, having been ruled by Anglophilic governments almost uninterrupted since independence and it's subsequent transition from republic to constitutional monarchy. This near-complacent control was shattered in June when the sitting premier, a member of the incorrectly named "English Party", was deposed and his government defeated by a pro-Ottoman cabal – something of a rarity in the Hellenic state. Understandably, this sudden change of influence within the country was a shock to Lord Aberdeen, who, falling back on his not- inconsiderable arsenal of diplomatic talents, wasted no time in trying to reassert British control in the region. Under Ottoman influence, many in the Foreign Office feared that conflict would erupt in the Balkans faster than one could correctly pronounce the name of the new Greek prime minister. With both French and Russian interests also present in the country, the new Ottoman-centric government did not greatly appeal to many within Europe's diplomatic concert, and, as Lord Aberdeen knew all too well, there were nations within the concert who would have no qualms at all about reinstating their presence by force – and, if one power moved, the rest would soon follow.
Lord Aberdeen worked tirelessly throughout the following month to try and assuage the situation, meeting daily with French envoys, Greek attachés and Russian ambassadors to keep what was quickly turning into a potential crisis under control. As it would happen, his success would be stalled not by Russian stubbornness or French apathy, but by forces wholly external to his control (and, as many in Whitehall working under and around him would attest, those were few and far between.) On the 3rd of July, a short telegram arrived in the Foreign Secretary's office. Its contents – a single sentence – would have a dramatic impact on all of Britain. The prime minister was dead.
1: At the time, the predominant theory as to how cholera spread rested on the notion that miasmata or "bad vapours" were to blame.
2: Despite this second duty, no legislation related to epidemiology was to be forthcoming in the immediately proceeding period.
3: A wholly fictional attempt by your author to give a posthumous reward to a man who, in our timeline, is severely overlooked. In this timeline, considering his somewhat more noteworthy stance on many issues, and considering his relationship with the Queen, I thought it would be fitting to do a sort of 'Beaconsfield'.
4: That is, the Evangelical or Dissenter branch of Anglicanism, as opposed to the "high church" of Anglo-Catholicism. Not that I'm particularly well-versed in the structure of the Anglican Church.
5: A satirical nod by your author to the seemingly endless hordes of 19th century writers and politicians who thought that they lived in the sovereign state of England.
