By George! He Was Born to Lead.

When we left of last week, George IV was about to get his heart’s desire. Is anyone besides me wincing?

It seems that The Prince had been after dad about military service for some time. Most of his brothers were getting to cover themselves in…um…glory…after a fashion…so why did he have to sit on the sidelines? There were some very good reasons for doing so. One, he was a spoiled, drunken womanizer with the impulse control of a three year old. He had high intelligence, but the attention span of above mentioned three-year-old. Such men are NOT the stuff from which great generals are made. And that was the other problem. Because he was The Prince he would have to be a general.

Considering how his brothers conducted themselves, and they had had years of military training, The Prince had received none, the prognosis for The Prince of Wales becoming anything other than a walking disaster was very remote. The Prince felt his father was being quite unfair. His Majesty was convinced that he was acting in the best interests of the British army. Not many people were ready to argue The Prince’s position. But…..

There were some arguments in favor of The Prince serving. Not least of them were that there would be a public relations problem if he were not allowed to serve. What would the Tories say to His Majesty? “You think he can’t be trusted with a few thousand troops for a couple of years; but WE the people are supposed to trust him with the entire country for, perhaps, decades?”  No, no. The Prince of Wales had to be given something to do.

In January 1793 The King wrote to The Prince that after due consideration he had asked the War Office to seriously consider the matter of The Prince of Wales military service to his country. The Prince was absolutely beside himself. The War Office informed him that at His Majesties request he would be appointed Colonel Commandant Of the 10th (Or The Prince of Wales Own) Regiment of Light Dragoons.

I would like to point out that all British regiments carried names. Usually the name would derive from whatever part of the country the regiment was formed in. (The Royal Sussex Regiment, The Bedfordshire Regiment, ect.) In this case, the name of the regiment did not indicate that it was The Prince of Wales personal plaything. However, being appointed Colonel Commandant did give him the right to pick his subordinates.

In short order the officers roster was filled with drinking buddies and political cronies. He also wasted no time in getting to his tailors to be fitted for a sharp new uniform. Yes sir, it was blue skies for as far as The Prince could see. And he knew whom to thank. Dad had really come through for him this time. In a long, and according to one historian, nearly incoherent letter to The Queen, The Prince begged her to forgive the letter’s “prolixity” but his heart was overflowing with gratitude to his “good and gracious father.”

So much so that words alone could not express the depths of emotion he felt. Indeed, so strong were his feelings that, although unfit for society, he begged mom to be allowed at whatever hour would be “the properest and most convenient” the following day to drop by the Queens House so that he could prostrate himself at dads feet.

“The King has already given me life; the letter went on to say; but now he has done more. He has not only given me life, but the enjoyment of life and is that not the greatest of all blessings? I am not equal to meeting you this evening overpowered by the shocking events of France (where hapless King Louis and his lovely wife Marie had just been given “Republican Haircuts.”) and with the species of sentiment towards my father which surpasses all description.”

His Highness was putting it mildly.

A few days after this, the War Office informed him that his commission had been dated 19 November 1782. This meant that he outranked, by seniority, all other colonels in the army. However… The King himself had told The Prince that under NO circumstances would he become a general. Don’t even ask. End of conversation. He had to content himself with being “First Colonel at the head of the Regiment.” At least he got a flashy uniform to impress the ladies with.

The Prince went to join his regiments encampment at, guess where? Brighton! What a small world. And he was in time to celebrate his thirty-first birthday there. Which was just as well because dad informed him that it would have been “against all military rules” to allow him to come home to celebrate it with the family. I’m sure he had a good time anyway.

Of course, being a soldier means having to rough it. The Times reported that it was The Prince’s intention to dine in the officers mess every day that the regiment was encamped “in a delightful spot by the seaside.” A nice thought, but it didn’t turn out that way. He had his own tent, of course. Not army issue, unless he had joined an army of French interior decorators.

It was a complicated affair in three major sections. A kitchen, (so much for the officers mess.) a dining room “furnished with the most elegant chairs” and a bedroom with a “superb square bed, its fringed and tasseled hangings being of a very delicate chintz, a white ground with a lilac and green cloud with it’s four corners ornamented with The Prince’s signature feathers and motto.”

Army life can be hell.

It can also be distracting from business. For The Prince, this meant getting money from dad. Once dad made it clear that he would not be allowed to fight overseas he was back at Carlton House contemplating his sorry financial situation. His brother, the Duke of York had come up with a solution to his own money problems that pointed to the future. It gave The Prince a viable and hopefully permanent solution. But it also caused him to wonder if the cure might not be worse than the disease.

This blog was written by Mr. Al