The Shadow of Great Britain-Chapter 817 - 380: The Non-Standard Hero, The Non-Standard Reactionary (5K4)

For kings, there is no peace.

——Shakespeare, "Henry VIII"

When your head is submerged in filthy mud, when your ears are covered with roadside straw, when the boiling blood in your heart flows out through a wound, at moments like these, what would you remember?

Is it fear, is it agitation, is it sadness from imminent departure from loved ones, or is it a desire to see the world one last time?

No, none of those.

Arthur only felt an unusual tranquility.

He was so tranquil, he could distinguish every sound entering his ears.

It was the sound of raindrops, the fall of horse hooves, the strike of a Civilization Cane on a skull, the hoarse roaring of Tom and Tony, like the thunderous roar of a locomotive on the railroad.

He was so tranquil, he could see or recall many things. He saw all twenty-one riot scenes that erupted across London tonight, and many things before the riots began.

What’s stranger than the initial chaos before a riot?

Everything, at the same moment, all breaking out at once.

Could this have been anticipated?

Yes.

Was it prepared for?

No.

From where did this originate?

The heart of the street.

From where did it fall?

The clouds.

The riots here carried a calculated nature, while those over there were spontaneous.

The first person to realize this could grasp the common trend among the masses and lead them along.

Initially, people’s hearts were filled with terror, but mixed with a sense of thrilling pride.

First, there was noise and uproar, stores closed, displayed goods were manhandled and then gone.

Then, scattered gunshots, pedestrians fled, the sound of rifle butts striking carriage doors echoed in the streets.

People heard some maids laughing in the courtyard behind the gates: "Now it’s really lively."

In Covent Garden Market, twenty-something young men with beards and long hair entered a café, then quickly exited, waving a tricolor flag, and their hats adorned with tricolor cockades. Their three leaders carried weapons, one with a command sword, another with a rifle slung over his shoulder, and the last one wielding a spear.

In the alleys of Tower Hamlets, a neatly dressed bourgeois man, with a bulging belly and a gold watch in his pocket, spoke loudly, his sparse hair, and black beard split to the sides like a seal’s fur. He pulled a roll of something from his pocket, looking like bills. Around him were piles of boxes filled with bullets and gunpowder, and servants openly distributed funds and ammunition to passing young men.

On Central Street in Greenwich, bare-chested blacksmiths walked down the street holding a black flag, the evening sunlight illuminating the slogans written on their banner: "If you don’t give us freedom, we choose death."

On Regent Street, a crowd broke into an antique shop and took Turkish scimitars and flintlock guns displayed on the table. Through the shop’s bright glass, one could see the body of a slain bricklayer lying there.

On both the north and south banks of the Thames River, at St. James’s Palace and Buckingham Palace, at Parliament and the Equity Court entrance, at City Hall and police stations, surrounding town markets and train stations, countless breathless people, workers, students, small business owners, and illiterates who couldn’t recognize all twenty-six letters carried today’s "The Times", reading out their slogans: "We want Parliament reform passed."

Everyone shouted this, even though some didn’t even know the content of Parliament reform. They didn’t understand, didn’t need to understand, but they hoped for reform to be passed.

They smashed street lamps, freed carriage horses, dug up road cobblestones, pried off house door panels, uprooted trees, searched cellars, rolled barrels, piled stones, gravel, furniture, and wood to create roadblocks, obstructing the army and Scotland Yard officers trying to suppress them.

"Arthur, Arthur!"

Arthur turned his head, seeing Tom and Tony, eyes red, pushing through the chaotic crowd like two berserk beasts coming towards him.

In this senseless struggle, almost everyone was injured, and they were no exception. But fortunately, their wounds were shallower than Arthur’s.

Bruised faces, swollen hands from club strikes, blood oozing from cuts at the corners of their eyes. For these two Scotland Yard patrolmen, they had long been accustomed to such minor injuries.

Because they knew, no matter how badly they were beaten by thugs in the alleys, as long as they could hold on until the newly hired university graduate officer named ’Arthur Hastings’ arrived at the scene, he would surely stretch out his scholar’s hands and pull them out from the darkest depths.

"Arthur!" Tom’s eyes were red, bloodshot, panting heavily and shouting, seemingly trying to energize Arthur with his voice: "You lie still, don’t move. We’re sending someone to find a carriage immediately, and we’ll take you to see a doctor soon."

"Don’t be foolish, Tom."

Arthur’s face pressed against the cold stone bricks, feeling something warm spreading from his chest to his chin: "It’s no big deal, on the path forward, someone will always fall. Just this time, luck wasn’t on my side, and it happens to be me."