The Shadow of Great Britain
Chapter 157 - 157 114 Escalation of Conflict

157: Chapter 114: Escalation of Conflict?

157: Chapter 114: Escalation of Conflict?

Outside St.

James’s Palace on Piccadilly, the crowd of protesters was growing steadily.

Today’s weather in London was still dismal; after the morning, the sun’s face was veiled with a layer of haze.

Now, a cold, solemn drizzle began to fall.

The continual drip-dripping of raindrops on the brick-paved promenade produced mud from the cracks between the tiles, coating West London’s usually clean and orderly streets in a layer of grimy gloom.

A pair of nearly transparent square-toed shoes stomped solidly on the muddied pavement, splashing the already ragged trouser legs with half of the muddy water, while the other half seeped coldly through the seams of their coarse hemp socks, stinging their long-numbed nerves.

Each protester’s face showed a passion quite different from the wooden expressions seen in the factories, an emotion long suppressed that intensified within the marching crowd.

Their dead children, exiled kin, and battered bodies—each person bore different experiences, but all shared the same bitter sentiment and uncontrollable urge to burn down the world.

Whistle!

Whistle!

Whistle!!!

“Hurry up, hurry up!

Keep up, damn it, keep up!!!”

Seasoned superintendents from Scotland Yard blew their whistles with cheeks swollen halfway, clearing the road of pedestrians and cars, unable to distinguish whether the droplets on their faces were sweat or rain.

This heavy, suffocating atmosphere reminded several officers of something long past—the rainy season on the Iberian Peninsula, many years ago.

Back then, they were new recruits, always moving forward.

In the Battle of Busaco, they defeated André Massena, Marshal of the First French Empire, known as ‘Son of Victory.’

In the Battle of Salamanca, they took down Auguste Marmont, Marshal of the First French Empire, known as ‘King of Leather.’

In the Battle of Vitoria, they disastrously defeated Joseph Bonaparte, King of Spain and brother of Napoleon, and Jean-Baptiste Jourdan, the First French Empire’s Marshal, known as ‘Proud Bandit.’

And in the Battle of Toulouse, before they heard the news of Napoleon’s abdication, they collected the defeat of Jean-de-Dieu Soult, Marshal of the First French Empire, known as ‘Iron Hand,’ as a trophy.

Though hailing from different units, each had its own proud traditions, glorious combat achievements, and excellent work skills.

Sent specifically by the Prime Minister and the Home Secretary to respond to the situation, under the control of Arthur Hastings, Police Superintendent for the East London area of the Greater London Police Department .

The reinforcement came from George Mosley, now a superintendent of the Greater London Police Department for the West London area, formerly a lieutenant of the 5th Royal Guard Infantry Regiment ‘Wellington Guards,’ known for being “always belligerent, often tired, but never failing.”

William Mitchell, former lieutenant of the 11th Royal Infantry Regiment ‘Bloody,’ notorious for having 340 out of 412 men wounded or killed in the Battle of Salamanca, yet without a single man retreating; currently superintendent of the Greater London Police Department for South London.

Joseph Masselin, a retired lieutenant from the 57th Royal Infantry Regiment ‘Die Hard,’ known for its commander who, fatally wounded and falling, still shouted ‘Die Hard’ urging his troop forward in the Battle of Albuera; now a superintendent for the Greater London Police Department in the Middlesex area.

And Davis Lee, former lieutenant of the 61st Royal Infantry Regiment, ‘Flower of Toulouse,’ which reformed in 1814 and was immediately thrown into combat, becoming notorious for its high casualties and blood-stained uniforms; currently superintendent of the Greater London Police Department for East London.

The scene was filled with the buzzing of whistles, and amidst the curtain of rain, the superintendents could no longer see the road clearly.

They stretched an arm through the crowd, leading the way for young officers still unaccustomed to handling such situations.

“Command!

Command!!

Execute the command!!!”

Duty-bound, the officers strode forward under their superior’s orders, some running ahead of the protest to clear the road as much as possible to prevent any stampeding conflicts.

Others followed behind the crowd of demonstrators.

Panting heavily, their faces tense, somewhat hesitant, and perhaps also constrained by Scotland Yard’s regulations and their own duties, they restrained themselves from voicing their fear and sympathy.

Likewise hailing predominantly from working or farming backgrounds, they truly didn’t know how to describe their feelings at the moment.

They, too, were drenched by the rain, with copious amounts of water flooding their leather boots, almost freezing their feet solid.

And their ice-cold hands, clenched tightly around their rain-soaked uniform jackets, grasped the Civilization Cane hidden beneath—the only weapon they were permitted to use today.

Their backgrounds were as varied as the protestors’, including street vendors, East End workers, dock laborers, dispossessed peasants, and even some who had done unseemly jobs, like those pickpockets who preferred to remain out of the sunlight.

They shouted slogans “Down with the Tory Party, overthrow Wellington,” as they made their way along Piccadilly toward the Wellington Arch, erected to commemorate the victory at the Battle of Waterloo.

The homes on either side of the road in the Mayfair section had their windows open, London’s nobility and merchants watching the procession of demonstrators and the drenched policemen, their faces showing a mix of emotions — some seemed calm, others anxious, but most were curiously observing the spectacle like onlookers at a play.

Within the enclosure of Hyde Park, a group of officers, wearing sabers and white gloves, and treading in black leather boots, still stood in the rain, watching.

Some had serious expressions, others were smirking; they were cavalry commanders of the “Piccadilly Butcher,” a guard cavalry regiment stationed within Hyde Park.

A commander, with a few furrows in his brow and a moustache, stretched out his hand from within the enclosure to stop George Mosley, the passing police superintendent.

“Mate, need a hand?”

George Mosley looked up to inspect his epaulettes, saluted, and responded, “Captain, we have not yet received any suppression orders from the Army, and the situation is currently under the control of the Greater London Police Department.

In this situation, please remain calm.”

The Cavalry Captain looked at the increasingly large marching crowd and scoffed, then casually began to share his experience.

“Are you sure Scotland Yard can handle it?

Buddy, take my advice; the more you let a march go on, the more out of control it gets.

Charge at them, divide and scatter them, and break them down one by one—that’s the correct move.”

All George Mosley did was exhale sharply, wiping the cold rain hanging on his face.

“Perhaps when it comes to suppressing demonstrators on Piccadilly, I indeed lack the experience of the guard cavalry regiment.

But when it comes to fighting, you lot, no matter a hundred years of training, aren’t as good as the Fifth Infantry Regiment.

Even the Second Dragoon Regiment, the best among you, performed like crap at Waterloo.

The few regiments that could talk big in front of me are all stationed here, except for the Second Infantry Regiment’s Cold Stream.

You guard cavalry better not fart around me!”

“We at Scotland Yard also have officers who have stepped down from your guard cavalry regiment, Taylor Clements, ring a bell?

That idiot messes up everything he touches, and afterward, it’s us who need to wipe his ass!

If you really want to help, tell your men to keep still!”

“Hmph, the Army Department coddles you guys too much, feeding you until you’re fat and full.

Your horses can charge at civilians anywhere, but they just can’t charge up to the high ground held by the French!”

With those words, the Superintendent George Mosley, impatiently blowing his whistle, started giving orders to march forward, “Don’t fall behind!

Although I’m retired, I’m an old soldier from the Fifth, and my policemen might lose to anyone but definitely not to cavalry!

Experience has proven that two legs have more drive than four!”

“Damn it, eating mashed potatoes!” the Cavalry Captain glared and was about to retort when he was swiftly pulled back by his comrades.

An adjacent officer jokingly said, “Forget it, do you really intend to compete with ‘Wellington’s Guard’?

The Fifth Infantry has connections higher up, an impassable bulwark, even their windows are made of the Iron Duke Arthur Wellesley’s metal.”

No sooner had he finished speaking when in the curtain of rain, a silhouette gradually became clear, that of a young police officer whose black eyes showed a hint of red.

The only difference between him and the police officers who had just passed was that perhaps he had been running too fast and had lost his round black hat somewhere.

He stopped in front of the cavalry commanders, who eyed him up and down, quite displeased, and frowned, “What are you looking at?

We’re not your superiors, your mashed potato eater went that way.”

Arthur, upon hearing this, said nothing but drew a document warmed by his heart from his chest and passed it through the gap in the railing.

The officers didn’t spare it a glance, and the still furious Cavalry Captain slapped the document out of Arthur’s hand.

“Are you sick?

The Guard Cavalry does not take orders from Scotland Yard!

Piss off!”

Arthur looked at the document, now soaked with rain, its dark red seal slowly dissolving amongst the water droplets, turning the clear raindrops a vivid red.

He calmly said, “Pick it up.”

The Cavalry Captain drew his sword in a fury, pointing the blade at Arthur’s throat, “Do you think just because your superior can stand up to me, you can too?

Before you speak, you’d better take a good look at what you’re worth!”

His head was clearly not quite clear, but that did not mean his companions were also clouded.

Someone bent down to pick up the document, glanced at it, and couldn’t help but blanch.

“Cook, that’s enough!

This is an Army Department directive; the Prime Minister demands that no one move out of their station without orders.”

On hearing this, Cook faltered, but after a long hesitation, he still couldn’t swallow his pride enough to lower his sword.

As tensions rose, Arthur was the first to speak, “Captain Cook, when I need you, I’ll speak up.

I trust officers from the Guard Cavalry as much as I trust Superintendent Clement.

But in these perilous times, please carry out your orders seriously.”

Hearing this, Cook hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly sheathed his sword and, with a strained face, saluted Arthur, “My apologies, please don’t worry, the Guard Cavalry won’t step out of Hyde Park without new orders.

However, I still advise you to halt the marching crowd before they pass through Wellington Triumphal Arch.

Based on the slogans they shout during the march, I fear they may react excessively upon seeing Lord Duke’s statue.”

Arthur nodded slightly, then vanished into the rain.

In the downpour, only the echo of his voice lingered.

“Thank you for your advice.”