The King’s carriage was pelted with mud. They saw him as a wicked old lecher. He could be as promiscuous as he liked but they would not accept his cruelty to his wife.
It was exciting. Nothing like this had happened for a long time. The funerals had been depressing occasions; but this was amusing. They had someone whom they could champion; they had someone whom they could hate; and they did so with enthusiasm.
Mobs went about crying Caroline forever. They stopped carriages and demanded: ‘Are you for the Queen?’
They even stopped that of the great Duke of Wellington such a short time before, the hero of the crowd.
‘Declare for the Queen!’ they cried. ‘Declare for the Queen!’
The Duke was furious that he, the great Wellington, should be drawn into this undignified squabble. The hero of Waterloo to be forced to declare for a woman like the Queen. But the mob was ugly. They carried brooms and pickaxes, and who could say that there was not a gun or two among them?
‘All right,’ cried the great soldier. ‘The Queen— damn you all. The Queen!
And may you all have wives like her.’
That made the crowd laugh. Trust Wellington to give as good as he got. A laugh went up. A cheer went up. He had after all saved them from Old Boney.
And the day of the trial approached and the excitement was intense.
Everyone was asking what the outcome would be.
Caroline left Brandenburg House, where she had taken up residence, for the court. She was dressed dramatically for the occasion in a dress of black figured gauze with enormous white Bishop’s sleeves decorated with lace. A heavy lace veil was swathed about her head and beneath this were seen the curls of her wig.
She was heavily painted and leaded. She looked, remarked one observer, like a toy which was called a Fanny Royd— a product of Holland with a heavy round bottom so that in whatever position it was placed it jumped upright. She came rushing into the House in a most ungraceful fashion and made a bob at the throne before seating herself, short legs apart, her dress falling in an ungainly manner over her chair.
Sir Robert Gifford, the Attorney General, presented the case for the Crown with the Solicitor General Sir John Copley. The Queen’s leading counsel were Brougham and Denman who were the opposite numbers of Gifford and Copley.
General opinion was that the Queen had the better men on her side.
The first two days of the trial were devoted to legal arguments and then the first witnesses were called.
This was disastrous for the Queen because to her amazement the first witness for the prosecution was Theodore Majocchi, one whom she had always regarded as her faithful servant. The knowledge that he had come to give evidence against her made her cry out somewhat incoherently. Some people said she denounced him as a traitor and what she said was ‘Traditore’. Others that it was his name that she spoke. But in any case she was so overcome emotionally that in her usual impetuous manner she rose and left the court.
There was a gasp of astonishment. How guilty was this woman who was afraid of a servant’s evidence!
It was easy to see why she was afraid as the court listened to Majocchi in the hands of his interrogators. He began by explaining the position of the Queen’s and Pergami’s bedrooms in Tunis. They had been separated only by a small chamber. He gave the impression that there could be no doubt of the liaison between the Queen and Pergami. Her maid Louise Demont was called— she who had served the Queen well and had kept a diary of her travels in the East and written only praise of Caroline in that diary. But having lived close to the Queen she was recognized as an ideal witness against her if she could be persuaded to give the damning evidence that was required of her. Temptation was too much for Louise and she agreed to become a witness for the Crown. So with the evidence of Majocchi and Louise Demont, the case looked very black against Caroline.
But it was a situation which Brougham and Denman found stimulating. As they sifted the evidence they began to believe that the Queen was innocent of all but an indiscretion so great that it was the utmost folly. But innocent she was of that which the Crown was trying to prove. And with innocence and Brougham, thought that gentleman, she must win.
It was easy to deal with Majocchi for the man was clearly lying. Captain Hownam was called to prove that the, Queen’s and Pergami’s bedrooms in Tunis had not been on the same floor. Majocchi had stated that the Queen dined in her bedroom with Peragami who sat on her bed while they ate together. Captain Hownam assured the Court that this was absolutely untrue. The whole suite had always dined together.
So under fire Majocchi withered. He took refuge in the phrase, ‘I don’t remember’— Non mi ricordo. The people who followed the trial day by day were immensely amused by this witness and a song was soon being sung in the streets:
‘To England I was trudged.
Nor cost me a single farden
And was safely lodged
In a place called Covent Garden
There I eat and drink
Of the best they can afford
Get plenty of the chink
To say Non mi ricordo .
‘To the House so large I went
Which put me in a stew
To tell a tale I was bent
Of which I nothing knew.
There was a man stood there
My precious brains he bored
To which I wouldn’t swear
I said Non mi ricordo.
There were many verses and these were added to hour by hour. People were singing them everywhere.
‘Their witness,’ said Brougham chuckling, ‘is our witness.’
It was the same with Louise Demont. How easily the liars could be discredited in the hands of men like Brougham and Denman.
There were other Italian witnesses, all eager to earn their money and testify against the Queen. There was a certain Raggazoni who admitted that he had seen indecent conduct between the Queen and Pergami. This had caused some concern to Brougham until Hownam was able to tell the court that it was impossible for the man to have seen this from the place in which he described himself to be.
Another witness, Sacchi, said that on a journey from Rome to Sinigaglia the Queen had insisted that she and Pergami travel in a coach and that he. was riding beside the coach in attendance when he saw an act of misconduct. There were other witnesses to prove that the Countess Oldi had travelled in the coach with them and that Sacchi had also ridden in a coach and not on horseback.
Rastelli, another bribed witness, had further stories to tell. These Brougham was not able to refute at the time but he had hopes of doing so.
He called on the Countess Oldi who had come to England with Caroline and knowing her devotion to the Queen— and moreover she was the sister of Pergami — he thought she would be a good witness.
She was distressed because of the cruel things which were being said about the Queen.
‘So untrue,’ she cried. ‘So untrue.’
It was clear that she had a great affection for Caroline.
Should he call her? She was a foreigner, and it would be good to have an Italian who had a good word to say for the Queen. But she was Pergami’s sister— what effect would that have?
‘Of course,’ said Brougham, ‘people did go in and out of the Queen’s bedroom.’
‘Never at any time,’ declared the Countess.
‘I thought the manners of the country might make this permissible.’