Chapter 151: Escalation of Conflict?
Chapter 150 – Conflict Escalation?
The crowd of demonstrators marching down Piccadilly outside St. James’s Palace is growing.
It was still a bad day in London today, and after the morning the sun’s face was clouded over.
And now, even more so, a cold and austere drizzle was falling.
The dripping rain fell on the spacious brick paved avenue, and the muddy water overflowing from the cracks of the bricks and tiles coated the always clean and tidy West End of London with a layer of gray.
A pair of square-toed shoes with almost transparent soles stepped firmly and forcefully on the muddy water of the road, half of the muddy water splashed all over the legs of the already tattered work pants, and the other half stung their long-numbed nerves coldly along the seams of their coarse linen shoes and socks.
Each demonstrator’s face showed a passion that was different from the wooden expression in the factory in the past, and this long-suppressed mood was amplified in the procession. Their dead children, exiled blood relatives, and battered bodies, each of them had a different experience, but only the pain and the impulse to lose control of the world and burn it to the ground were the same for all of them.
Beep! Beep! Beep!!!
“Come on, come on! Keep up, all of you fucking keep up!!!”
Several of Scotland Yard’s tried-and-true police inspectors blew their sirens with their already mostly swollen cheeks, evacuating pedestrians and passing carriages from the road, while the droplets of water hanging on their faces had long since been indistinguishable from whether it was sweat or rain.
This heavy and depressing feeling and the muddy road made several police inspectors couldn’t help but remember something long ago, it was more than ten years ago, the rainy season in the Iberian Peninsula.
That was when they were still new recruits, and that was when they were forever moving forward.
In the Battle of Busaco, they had defeated André Masséna, the ‘Son of Victory’, Field Marshal of the First French Empire.
In the Battle of Salamanca, they took out the Marshal of the First French Empire, ‘The Cowhide King’ Auguste Marmont.
At the Battle of Victoria, they routed Napoleon’s brother, King Joseph Bonaparte of Spain, and the unstoppable Marshal of the First French Empire, ‘Proud Bandit’ Jean Baptiste Jourdan.
As well as the endgame of the Battle of Toulouse before the news of Napoleon’s abdication was learned, they collected the defeat of the last Marshal of the First French Empire, ‘The Iron Hand’ Jean de Dieu Soult, as a trophy.
They come from different units, but all have their own honorable traditions, brilliant war records and hard work.
They were sent to the scene by Special Operations Order of the Prime Minister and Home Secretary and were under the control of Superintendent Arthur Hastings of the Greater London Constabulary for the East London Region.
In support was the ‘always fighting, often tired, but never failing’ retired Lieutenant of the 5th Royal Yeomanry Infantry Regiment, ‘Wellington Guards’, and serving as Superintendent in Charge of the West London Region of the Greater London Police Authority, George Moseley.
Retired Captain of the 11th Royal Infantry Regiment ‘The Bloody’, currently Superintendent in charge of the South London Region of the Greater London Police, William Mitchell, who inflicted a horrendous battle loss of 340 casualties from his regiment of 412 men at the Battle of Salamanca, without a single man retreating.
Retired Lieutenant ‘Die Hard’ of the 57th Royal Infantry Regiment, now serving as Greater London Police Middlesex District Superintendent, famous for the regiment’s Commander falling seriously wounded at the Battle of Alvuera, but who continued to order the regiment to advance by shouting ‘Die Hard’ just before he died. Superintendent, Greater London Constabulary, Middlesex, Joseph Matherling.
And retired Captain of the 61st Royal Infantry Regiment ‘The Flowers of Toulouse’, now Superintendent of the Greater London Constabulary’s East London Region, Davies Lee, who was quickly into action in 1814, shortly after being reorganized, and who stood out on the battlefield due to the heavy casualties and the brand new blood-stained uniforms that gave the regiment its name.
The scene was filled with sirens blaring like bees, and amidst the rain, several superintendents could no longer see the path before them as they broke through the crowd with one arm raised to lead the way for the young officers who were still unskilled in dealing with such situations.
“ORDER! ORDER!!! Execute the order!!!”
The scrupulous officers, dispatched by their chief, advanced in great strides, part of them running to the front of the parade, clearing the way as much as possible to prevent a stampede and conflict.
As for the other part, they trailed behind the demonstration crowd.
They huffed and puffed their white breath, looking a little nervous, a little hesitant, and, more than that, perhaps, there was some fear and sympathy bound by Scotland Yard ordinances and their own duties, which were not allowed to come out of their mouths.
Again most of them, who came from a background of laborers and peasants, really didn’t know how to describe what they were feeling at the moment.
They were equally drenched in the rain, a great deal of it pouring into their leather riding boots and almost freezing their feet.
And their hands, which were so cold that they were about to lose their temperatures, did not dare to be careless at all times and tightly squeezed their uniform tunics, which had been saturated with rainwater to the point that they were close to their skin.
That was the civilized staff they had hidden under their uniforms; without pistols or officer’s knives, the civilized battle was the only weapon they were allowed to use today.
Their origins were as complex as the demonstration’s parade: street vendors, East End workers, dockside laborers, landless peasants, and even a few that had, at one time or another, done something as unseemly as the pickpockets who didn’t want to be exposed to the sun.
Shouting the slogan ‘Down with the Tories, down with Wellington’, they made their way down Piccadilly towards the Wellington Arch, erected to commemorate the victory at the Battle of Waterloo.
The houses on both sides of the road in the Meyer district had their windows open, and London’s aristocratic merchants and businessmen looked at these marching crowds and the soupy policemen, their faces showing various expressions, some looking calm, some looking anxious, but most of them watching the show as if they were hilarious and curious.
And in the fence of Hyde Park, there stood a group of rain-soaked spectators, wearing sabres and white gloves, stepping on black leather boots of officers, some with serious and some with playful expressions, they were the cavalry commanders of the close-guarded cavalry regiment, ‘The Butchers of Piccadilly’, which was stationed in Hyde Park. A commander with a slightly wrinkled brow and a moustache of eight reached out from the fence to stop the passing Superintendent George Mosley.
“Mate, need a hand?”
George Mosley looked up and surveyed his epaulettes, raised his hand in a salute and spoke, “Captain, at the moment we have received no orders from the War Office to suppress the situation, and the situation is currently under the control of the Greater London Police Department for the time being. Under the circumstances, please remain calm.”
The Cavalry Captain surveyed the growing crowd of marchers, snorted, and chatted eloquently about his experience.
“Are you sure Scotland Yard got it right? Man, take my advice, with marches, the more you let them go, the more out of control they get. It’s only right to shock them quickly, divide and break them up, one by one.”
George Mosley just exhaled a white breath at that, and he wiped the cold rain that hung on his face.
“It’s true that perhaps I’m not as experienced as a regiment of close-guarded cavalry when it comes to suppressing crowds of demonstrators on Piccadilly. But when it comes to fighting, you philistines won’t be as good as the Fifth Regiment of Infantry after a hundred years of practice.
The most capable second regiment of your cavalry, the Grey Dragons, also performed like a piece of shit in Waterloo, and several regiments that can pose in front of me, except for Cold Creek of the second regiment of the infantry, are basically standing here now, and your group of close guard cavalrymen are less fucking farting in front of me!
It’s not as if Scotland Yard hasn’t retired from your cavalry regiment, Taylor Clemens, you know him? That idiot does one thing and smashes another, and we have to wipe his ass afterwards! If you really want to help, tell your men to stay put!
Heck, I think it’s just that the War Department usually feeds you guys so much fat that those horses of yours can pound civilians in any area but the French-occupied high ground!”
At the end of his sentence, Superintendent George Mosley blew his whistle while beeping and striding to give the order to run forward, “Don’t fall out of line, all of you! Although I’m retired, I’m at least a veteran of the 5th Regiment, the police under my hand can lose to anyone but the cavalry! Practice has proven that two-legged ones are more powerful than four-legged ones!”
“Ugh! Damn you, mashed potato eater!” The cavalry captain glared and was about to curse back, but was instantly pulled back by his companions beside him.
The officer beside him teased, “Forget it, do you really intend to compete with the ‘Wellington Guards’? There are people above the 5th Infantry Regiment, an unbreakable iron wall, even the windows are made of iron, Arthur Wellesley, the Iron Duke.”
Who knows that just after he said this, he saw a black shadow that could only be seen in outline gradually clearing in the rain curtain, it was a young officer with a bit of a slight reddish glow in his dark eyes.
The only difference between him and the policemen who had just passed by was that, perhaps running too fast, he had lost his round black hat somewhere.
He stood before the cavalry commanders, and the officers scanned him up and down, frowning rather unsatisfactorily as they asked, “What are you looking at? We’re not your superiors, and that mashed potato nibbler went ahead.”
Arthur sniffed and didn’t say a word, but simply drew from his bosom a written order warmed by his heart and handed it along the gap in the railing.
The officers didn’t even look at it, and the cavalry captain, who was in a rage, slapped the document out of Arthur’s hand.
“Are you sick? The Close Guard Cavalry Regiment does not accept transfers from Scotland Yard! Get the hell out of here!”
Arthur glanced at the rain-soaked document, the dark red sealing clay gradually melting into the blisters, staining the transparent raindrops bright red.
He spoke calmly, “Pick it up.”
The cavalry captain drew his sword and sheathed it, irritated, he pressed the tip of the sword against Arthur’s throat, “Do you think that just because your superior can talk back to me twice, that means you’re good too? Before you speak, you’d better look at what you are!”
He wasn’t quite in his right mind anymore, but that didn’t mean his companion on the sidelines wasn’t either.
Someone bent down and picked up the document, and just by glancing at it his face couldn’t help but change three times.
“Cook, it’s almost done! It’s a transfer order from the War Office, and the Prime Minister has asked that none of us set foot outside the garrison until we have orders to do so.”
Cook couldn’t help but feel a tremor in his heart when he heard this, but after half a day of hesitation, he still couldn’t sharpen his face and put down the tip of his sword.
While both sides were entangled, it was Arthur who spoke first: “Captain Cook, I will speak up when I need you. I have always trusted the officers from your close-guard cavalry regiment, just as I trust Superintendent Clemens. But now in a time of such peril, please carry out your orders with all seriousness.”
Hearing this, Cook hesitated for a moment, but put away his officer’s sword and saluted Arthur stiffly, “I’m sorry, but please be assured that the Close Guard Cavalry Regiment will not take a single step out of Hyde Park until a new transfer order has been issued. However, I would still recommend that you stop the parade before it passes through the Wellington Arcades. Based on the slogans they are chanting as they march, I fear that they may overreact unnecessarily upon seeing the statue of Mr. Duke.”
Arthur nodded slightly and turned around to disappear into the rain.
In the rain, only the remnants of his voice remained.
“Thank you for your advice.”
(End of chapter)