Harriet screamed and ran from the house.
Chapter Eight
22nd February 1827, The Priory Ground, outside Hastings, Sussex
Night-time had crept over the sea like a sinister black animal, bringing with it a tortured hollow wind that seemed to embody the general despondency of the Priory Ground inhabitants. For today, Widow Elphick’s body had been conveyed to the cold ground, buried beside her late husband in St Clements Churchyard. The woman’s passing might ordinarily have only garnered a handful of mourners drawn from among family and close friends but her death had sent a powerful ripple through the property owners of the Priory Ground; cowmen, wheelwrights, bakers, brewers, fishermen, lodging-house-keepers and mast-makers with little past acquaintance with Widow Elphick all unified in a strange troubled alliance. That the alliance had inadvertently processed from the church to the Black Horse, was a cause of much delight to Joseph Lovekin, who was witnessing his busiest evening since opening.
Harriet, drafted in to assist with the workload, was bounding exuberantly around the gin palace collecting empty glasses. Finally given the perfect opportunity, she was determined to prove herself as an adult. She moved imperceptibly from one gathering to another, stealing snatches of conversation as she went.
‘If I don’t be owning me own home, then I don’t be owning me own business, neither,’ Moses Masters had lamented to his fellow shipwrights.
‘I heard there be happening an official inquest of sorts, to see who be owning what,’ Edward Picknell, the carpenter had moaned to his brother, William.
‘That addle-headed woman, drawing in the authorities like that,’ Ann Woods, a lodging-house keeper had whispered to her friend. ‘Do you be a-knowing that the old wretch clung to life for more than forty-five minutes after she sliced herself open? The surgeon tied one of her arteries, but it weren’t no good; her life were gone.’
Harriet, carrying a tray of glasses to the sink behind the bar, wove together all the pieces of conversation in her mind to form a tapestry, the fabric of which was the letter that she had heard her father read aloud to Widow Elphick. Harriet sensed that trouble was on its way to the Priory Ground.
‘You be alright, Hattie?’ her father turned to ask.
‘Yes, Pa,’ she responded with a smile, as she heated water from the Priory Stream in a copper pan. She glanced out across the bustling gin palace and caught sight of Christopher’s profile. He was leaning against the bar, steeped in liquor and talking to his employer, the shoemaker, Mr Brazier. In just a few short weeks, Christopher seemed to have changed; his cheeks were less plump and his face was more angular and mature.
Harriet added soda to the heated water then began to wash the glasses, seeking her mother from the crowd as she cleaned. Outwardly, her mother appeared as amiable as ever, but a deep engraved sorrow had been visible in her eyes since Widow Elphick’s death. ‘Surely, she would never have done that to herself,’ Eliza had wailed, upon seeing one of her oldest friend’s lifeless body. No amount of reassurance or comforting from her husband or children had done anything to lift her spirits.
Harriet’s contemplations were interrupted when she noticed that the usual clamour from the bar had quietened; almost every conversation in the gin palace had inexplicably stopped. She set down the glass that she had been cleaning, dried her hands and moved out to the bar. The focus of everyone’s attention was on someone—a man judging by his voice—standing near the door. As he spoke, the crowd around him grew in number and in agitation. ‘They be a-coming!’ he yelled. ‘The parish constables and men from the corporation!’ Harriet moved closer and stood on tiptoes but could see nothing, so she backed away and climbed up onto the bar top. Just inside the door she saw Henry Weller, the baker, sweating profusely with ruddy cheeks. ‘I see them stopping for water near the Priory Bridge—they mean to make arrests! We need to be a-hiding!’
‘Don’t be a-talking rot, Henry,’ George Fox jeered. ‘We ain’t hiders—we be fighters!’ A rowdy cheer of agreement rose from among the men, followed by cries of swagger and bravado.
‘I be fetching me guns!’ one of the men declared and he too received a roar of encouragement from the others.
‘Men! Men! Men!’ Joseph Lovekin yelled, pushing through the crowds so that he was centre-stage beside Henry Weller.
Harriet watched as the crowd acquiesced to hear his words.
Joseph cleared his throat and raised his hand to speak. ‘Let us be none of them things—neither hiders nor fighters—not unless need be. Let us be listeners foremost and see what they be a-wanting,’ Joseph cried. ‘Going out there with weapons drawn be showing us as no more than criminals.’
A low murmur rippled around the gin palace, but Harriet couldn’t determine if her father had the support or dissent of his patrons.
‘Lead the way, Joe Lovekin,’ one of the men called.
Joseph looked around the room and saw the nods and general whispers of encouragement. ‘Let’s be a-going, then,’ he called.
In just a few fleeting seconds, the Black Horse was a ghost of what it had been moments before. The dozen that remained—all women—gazed at each other uncertainly.
‘Get down, Hattie!’ Eliza snapped when she turned to see her daughter perched on the bar top.
Harriet slid down and faced her mother. Silence continued to hold its reign over the room. ‘Do we just be standing here like fire-spaniels?’ Harriet said quietly to her mother, but just loud enough to draw the attention of the other women. ‘Or do we be a-joining the men and defending our lot?’
Eliza looked about her and wrung her hands. She drew in a long breath, then spoke to the other women, who were looking on curiously. ‘Fegs, the
