The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 799: Chapter 375: It’s Raining in London (6K2)

Facing the current chaotic situation, I have prepared for the worst, but still hold the best hopes for the future. Arthur Hastings wrote in his diary on June 5, 1832.

—George Macaulay Plunkett, “19th Century British History”

Arthur had just left the theater when he sensed a disturbing whiff of unrest on the streets, as if the stench of sweat mingled with the filth of the Thames River, suggesting the whole city was in agonized gasps.

At this dusk-nearing moment, the street gas lamps installed earlier that year were already lit, yet their flickering, shimmering light could not dispel the gloom and fog that descended upon London streets with the night.

Cabs sped across Oxford Street; through the carriage window, Arthur watched as crowds on the stone pathways surged like tumultuous waves, shouting slogans with faces twisted in anger and discontent.

Broken stones, shards of glass, and the wreckage of overturned carriages littered the roads, where order once prevailed.

Among the crowd, some waved wooden clubs and battered tools while others hurled goods from roadside stalls at their opponents. Whistles, screams, and the occasional sound of gunfire were all drowned in the cacophony.

Shop fronts were tightly locked, the clinking of padlocks resounding as many shopkeepers hid inside, peering through window crevices at the outside world. On backstreets and alleys, fires blazed, reflecting complex expressions of fear and determination on people’s faces while smoke, sweat, and a scent of unease filled the air.

Amidst the protesters, a few police officers from Scotland Yard could occasionally be seen in their dark blue swallow-tail uniforms, wielding batons in an attempt to maintain order, but against the tempestuous mass of people, their meager efforts were like trying to stop an impending tsunami.

The tension and fear inside them could hardly be disguised.

Cold sweats covered their foreheads, and the pressure turned their lips blue or purple, betraying their true emotions at that moment.

They watched the crowd surge onto the streets like a tidal wave, and in their faces that almost seemed to tear them and the world apart, a hint of despair began to emerge in the eyes of several officers.

Bang! Bang!

Suddenly, two booming gunshots rang out in the streets.

Immediately following that, they saw several carriages with their doors flung open racing toward them.

At the door stood an officer gripping the handle tightly, holding a Hastings-type revolver, dressed in the same uniform as they were.

Following behind that carriage were several modified trucks with their van roofs flipped open; on each, two police officers stood holding pistols, firing into the air while shouting at the demonstrators, “If you don’t want to die, get the hell back home!”

The gunshots quickly stabilized the situation on the streets somewhat, but soon, as the rioting crowd realized no one was injured after the gunfire, the nascent fear they had just felt vanished.

“Flip their carriages! They’re out of bullets!”

Someone shouted this, and the rioters, as if discovering the truth, quickly gathered together again like spreading wildfire, soon ready to ignite the entire city.

Plunkett, who was chewing tobacco in his mouth, spat out the tobacco bits with a ‘ptui’, not even bothering to aim as he lifted his handgun and shot a bullet through the left leg of a ringleader in the crowd.

Veins bulging on his neck and even his cheeks twitching, he yelled, “I indeed don’t have many bullets, but one bullet is enough to send you to Hell! And let me tell you, I aim for the first one at the front!”

Plunkett’s roar, like thunder, along with the blood-strewn scene on the street, immediately startled the recently heartened rioting crowd. They were reluctant to retreat, but no one was willing to step forward either, as everyone knew that what this Scotland Yard brute said was mostly true.

Seizing the moment of the standoff between Plunkett and the crowd, Arthur quickly urged the officers circled by the rioting crowd at the center, “Quick, we don’t have much time.”

Like waking from a dream, they hastily scrambled into Arthur’s carriage.

However, before they could settle in, the carriage was off again.

The officers gasped heavily, and the sporadic gunfire and blazing fires outside the carriage made it impossible for these death-narrowly-escaped officers to entirely relax even after fleeing danger.

The officers had been silently staring at Arthur, not daring to speak for fear that their commander, who had the Order of Saint Edward badge and a command baton on his shoulder, would reprimand them for their incompetence.

Arthur glanced at the badge numbers pinned to the officers’ chests, put his hand into his pocket intending to pull out a cigarette, but then realized he had apparently left his cigarette case at the Astley Theatre.

After a moment of silence, Arthur pointed at one officer’s bulging pocket and asked, “Got a cigarette? I need to borrow a light too.”

Hearing this, the officers collectively sighed in relief, and the officer Arthur pointed at forced a smile, “Commander, I have some in my pocket, but you’ll have to fish them out yourself. I… I don’t mean to offend you, but my arm was beaten by those rioters, and I… just can’t lift it right now.”

Arthur said nothing further; he turned the officer’s pocket inside out, and then added, “Sorry, I’ll also need to borrow your pipe.”