The chariot of the sun

by Roger Pocock

It was no time for polite remonstrances, threats, or the slow processes of law. Brand had taken sanctuary with the Queen; and in her presence, or in her house, he could not be arrested while she reigned. At all hazards he must be captured, and, if only for that necessity, the Queen who gave him shelter must be deposed.

All the powers of the Imperial Council and the Parliament were instantly called to aid. The new day broke upon an Interregnum with His Grace of Ulster as Lord Protector of the Commonwealth. Margaret was called upon to abdicate, her Palace was invested, and demand made at the gates for delivery of her person.

Brand was attainted, his possessions were sequestrated, a reward offered for his capture. It was made a penal offence to circulate Lyonesse money or to trade in specie. A moratorium accorded grace to debtors. The day was made a Bank Holiday.

But in the main issue the Government failed to effect entry of the Palace, or to procure the body of John Brand.

At midnight Brand's yacht escorted Margaret to her Palace, and neither the Queen nor her servant flinched from the instant necessities of civil war. Indeed, the Duke of Ulster had scarcely reached his office in Downing Street when, like a meteor, the Mary Rose swept down out of space and discharged a body of sailors and guardsmen upon the roof of the Chancellory. The building was ransacked from garrets to basement, the safe was broached, its contents secured, and nobody knows to this day how the Chancellor managed to escape.

Brand's people were in the house, and the yacht, with open gangways, lay helpless upon the roof when three electrical aerial destroyers of the Fleet pounced down to effect her capture. She sounded the recall, and gained some precious moments in parley, but still escape was impossible, for the destroyers had every weapon trained at point-blank range. The last men gained their quarters on board, the port clanged home, a bell sounded, and then in haste the destroyers opened fire. To their amazement and horror they saw the yacht for an instant poise in the moonlight, then change as they supposed into a blur of quivering vapour and totally disappear, leaving the shell-struck roof a mass of flames.

Brand said afterwards that guardsmen and sailors alike were seasick as she rose, circled round Buckingham Palace, then flashed down on Holloway Prison. "It was a near thing," he confessed, "and I almost killed one of my engineers. His heart stopped beating and the surgeon had some trouble in pulling him round." There was panic in the courtyard at Holloway, sharp explosions rang out here and there, while some cased ammunition blew the store room to pieces, raining showers of bricks into the courtyard. Despite all resistance, two prisoners were taken from the cells, and like a steel projectile, the yacht flashed homeward, delivering Sydney and Browne upon one of the Palace towers. Brand left the yacht, which drove away some destroyers and poised in the high air on guard. Until dawn, the master was at work in an office set apart for him on the frontage overlooking the Mall.

Since midnight the Palace had been ringing with the noise of preparation for war. A single breath from great artillery would sweep the fairy-fragile walls into white dust, but two hundred gentlemen of the Guard thought otherwise. In the dead of night, transport wagons were taken from the royal garage, and under escort entered the silent metropolis. Warehouses were forced, weapons, provisions and forage were taken in the Queen's name, and the supplies brought back to the Palace. There the tanks were filled, the non-combatants discharged. The outward-facing windows were barricaded to resist musketry, the re-entrants loopholed for machine carbines, the salients turned into bastions commanding the curtains, and each door guarded with a small earthwork.

On the level roof of one of the Palace towers the Queen watched the red dawn break, the red dawn of the Terror. Her ladies had been crying in the bedchamber, and she had cried too. They were all gone now save Miss Temple, the governess, who had been openly mutinous and rude to the Duke of Gloucester, Captain of the Guard. Now the Court Chaplain waited in his vestry not daring to proceed with the early service, because Miss Temple was in possession of the chapel, where she knelt protesting aloud before the Altar.

The Queen was alone upon her tower, kneeling with her arms thrown out upon the balustrade, watching the red sun light the domes and the spires of the Capital. The sun swung upwards, the little white clouds swept merrily overhead, the Palace resounded with sharp commands, the rolling of gun wheels, and the tramp of men, while sometimes through a momentary silence came the song of the birds and whispering of the trees. Margaret's head fell softly on her arm, and kneeling on the cold, white stones, she slept, and sleeping dreamed that once again she walked amid long aisles of chestnut trees in the garden at Hampton Court. She walked with the gaunt old governess hand in hand, talking of days to come, and the courtly splendour of a stainless reign. Miss Temple was to be Archbishop of Canterbury, the nation was to rest under the ancient shadow of the Holy Church, women were to be forbidden to smoke or ride cycles, bachelors were to be shut out from public office, music halls were to be entirely devoted to the meetings of missionaries. Then Mr. Brand came wandering up the avenue, his yacht at heel like a dog, and he was remarking, with a pleasant smile, that it was all quite simple with etheric power, but would she be pleased to wake up. In vain her protests, for he told her she must wake up, she must, she must wake up.