The Shadow of Great Britain
Chapter 301 - 301 195 To Hastings 4K4

301: Chapter 195 To Hastings (4K4) 301: Chapter 195 To Hastings (4K4) Time flowed like a stream, leaping over the world’s changing winds and clouds, and as London transitioned through the tumultuous year of 1830, history’s wheels, caked in mud and dust, rolled into 1831.

A new year, a fresh outlook.

In the early morning hours, Arthur walked the streets of London, looking eastward into the distance.

The factory chimneys in London had multiplied, and public carriages were starting to be accepted by the citizens as a fashionable new mode of transportation; not far away, the London Bridge train station, recently approved for construction by Parliament, was being built with great vigor.

Arthur stood at the roadside, holding an umbrella, as the slate gray rain speckled his white gloves and the cold north wind blew against his face, quickly turning his breath into mist.

The open-top public carriages, capable of seating seven or eight people, passed by one after another, crammed with clerks and skilled workers, some of whom lacked a seat and thus could only cling to the carriage’s handrails, half dangling outside.

Regardless, they did not care, because based on life experiences passed down over the past decades, everyone naturally assumed the pace of life in London would pick up in the new year.

Indeed, they would prove to be right.

Since medieval times, the concept of time had started to take root in the hearts of Londoners through work.

Pocket watches were no longer just a status symbol for the upper class but had become so practical that ownership among the middle class was steadily climbing.

Even among the poor, many with a keen sense of business had spent all they had for a pocket watch.

To those with money, a pocket watch might be an inconspicuous little tool, but for London’s poor, a punctual pocket watch symbolized job opportunities.

At the moment, a profession known as the “knocker-up” was flourishing in the slums of the East End.

The name “knocker-up” might sound vague, but if it were referred to as a “wake-up service,” it may be more easily understood by future generations.

Starting at five in the morning, the knocker-ups would roam every corner of the East End with long bamboo poles, tapping on windows to wake up dozing workers, letting them know, like it or not, that the darn day had started.

The service cost a penny each time, and for a worker’s family with a daily income of two to three shillings, though not particularly cheap, it was more cost-effective than the wages docked for tardiness.

Arthur leaned against a street corner wall with a pipe in his mouth, occasionally exhaling puffs of smoke.

The Red Devil stood beside him, peering in and out of a glass shop window, eyeing the dazzling array of goods and pondering how to persuade Arthur to indulge him with some fashionable novelties.

Suddenly, a familiar figure in a tailcoat uniform appeared around the corner.

The young police officer, who had only recently started his job, rubbed his slightly stiff fingers and pulled out a document bag from his leather satchel and handed it over.

“Chief, Inspector Tony asked me to deliver this to you.”

Arthur took the document bag and casually asked, “What’s this?”

“Inspector Tony said it was sent from the General Post Office, probably letters or something,” replied the officer.

Arthur opened the document bag, and just as the officer had said, there were indeed two letters inside, but the return address was unusually distant—these letters came from Rio de Janeiro in Brazil.

Upon seeing the signature on the letter, a smile could not help but appear on Arthur’s face: “They’ve been gone for so long, I thought the two of them had perished at sea without a word.

Now, I can finally rest easy.”

The young officer, hearing Arthur’s words, felt a bit puzzled but knew better than to pry into private matters, so he just asked for instructions, “Chief, we’ve surrounded the house as planned, should we move in now?”

Arthur waved his hand dismissively, “There’s no rush.

The suspect can’t fly away now.

Before we send him to jail to eat prison food, let him have one last good sleep.

It also gives me a chance to see how my old friends are faring in a foreign land.”

The young officer, upon hearing this, simply nodded and then whistled towards the end of the street.

At the sound of the whistle, several gazes turned from the street end.

The officer waved at them, and the guys who had been ready to draw their guns from inside their coats merely smirked and, yawning, leaned against the wall.

Arthur unfolded the letter, and in the moment his gaze fell upon the envelope, Darwin’s voice seemed to echo in his ear.

Dear Arthur:

By the time you read this letter, at least two months will have passed, though considering Britain’s abysmal postal system, I suspect it might even be longer.

As you know, due to the Beagle’s crew’s excellent performance in pursuing on the high seas, the Navy Department believed the crew was ready to set sail.

Additionally, due to last year’s monsoon changes, after collective deliberation, the Beagle’s departure was ultimately moved up.

Since leaving Port of Plymouth in Britain in December, we have sailed through the English Channel, stopped at Tenerife in Spain, reached the Cape Verde Islands off Africa, and after a brief resupply, we plan to cross the Atlantic Ocean.