Man, I have fallen way behind schedule. Sorry.
March 13, 1820
9:45 a.m.
Hastings
The historic village of Hastings had grown in the past few years, but it was still a fairly small town. Its economy was based on fishing, smuggling and catering to wealthy vacationers. This being March, that last was not a factor.
It also had no harbor. Luckily, this wasn’t one of the Channel’s mad March days — at most, it was a grumpy March day. The steamship carrying the Queen of England docked at the little pier with no trouble, and the cold, raw wind did nothing to dampen the enthusiasm of the people already gathering on the beach… or the enthusiasm of Henry Brougham, striding up the pier.
Brougham looked behind him. Word had gotten out quickly that the queen would be here this morning. He had made sure of that. In another minute, so many people would be on the beach that the gathering would become illegal. Brougham also thought he recognized William Cobbett in the crowd. He’d heard that old troublemaker was back in the kingdom. Excellent.
Queen Caroline stepped onto the pier, clad in a heavy red pelisse and matching hat. She had only a few retainers with her, and (Brougham breathed a sigh of relief to see this) Bartolomeo Pergami wasn’t one of them. Perhaps she was developing a little common sense.
Someone supplied a crate for her to stand on at the head of the pier. The crowd assembled around her. Brougham stood at her right hand.
“People of Great Britain!” she said. “It gives me great joy to return to English soil, and to be received so graciously on such short notice.
“Once before, in a moment of womanly weakness, I permitted myself to be driven from these fair shores by the unrelenting calumnies of my enemies. Foolishly, I believed that once I was away they would cease their attacks upon my reputation. They have done nothing of the sort — indeed, they have drawn courage from my absence and redoubled their vituperations.
“But that is not what brings me here,” she lied. “No, it is what they have done against you that calls me home to oppose them. They have taken no thought for the public weal, and what is worse they have tried to silence” — Brougham gently tugged at the sleeve of her pelisse, and gestured to where the local magistrate was approaching, backed by a couple of parish watchmen.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “Well, let’s hear what this gentleman has to say.”
The crowd murmured angrily as the magistrate pushed his way to the front. He turned and addressed them.
“Our Sovereign Lord the King” — he had to raise his voice a little over the hisses and catcalls that suddenly arose — “chargeth and commandeth all persons here assembled immediately to disperse themselves and peaceably to depart to their habitations or to their lawful business upon pain of death! God save the King!”
“GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!” the crowd replied, except for a few who shouted “God help the king!”
“Does he mean it?” whispered Caroline.
Brougham nodded. “Officially, this gathering has one hour to complete its dispersal. The nearest regiment is the Royal Sussex — it will take about that long to summon them here from where they’re currently stationed.”
“More time than I need,” she said. Then, louder: “As you’ve heard, we must be on our way. Before we go, I make you this promise — that all classes will ever find in me a sincere friend to their liberties, and a zealous advocate of their rights.”
