Chapter 1108: Rights? Death!
Montes frowned, then quickly smoothed his expression into a smile. "It is a pleasure to meet you. If you are interested in matters regarding the stock market, perhaps we could find a more suitable venue to discuss them in detail."
Potier pulled the carriage door shut, his voice suddenly turning ice-cold. "I have no interest in your little games used to incite market panic."
"Listen, your actions have already caused a severe impact on the nation, and the gentlemen above are very displeased."
Montes frowned again, leaning back against the seat cushions. "I am afraid you are mistaken, Mr. Potter. We are engaged in legitimate business, securing capital for excellent companies and helping investors steer clear of the failing ones."
"Save your deceptive rhetoric," Potier interrupted, holding up two fingers. "You have two days to bring the stock price of Chatham Dockyard back above fifteen pounds."
Montes laughed, pushing the carriage door open and gesturing outside. "Heh, the market determines the share price. If you have no other business, would you mind leaving?"
Potier leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Montes with a predatory intensity. "Do as I say, or you will regret it."
"I appreciate your advice. Goodbye."
The carriage sped away. Montes glanced out the window at the secretary standing by the roadside and laughed disdainfully. "That fellow has almost certainly been bought by Chatham Dockyard."
That afternoon, Montes chatted smugly with Graby about the day's operations—specifically how they had repelled the mysterious funds trying to go long on Chatham stock—as they made their way back to his home.
He bid his old friend farewell and knocked on his front door, but heard no response from the maid.
"Annie? Maria?"
He shook his head, muttering under his breath, 'These lazy bones, I shall have to dock their wages,' as he fished out his key and unlocked the door.
Before he could get a clear look at the interior, a burly arm reached out, dragged him inside, and slammed the door shut with a heavy thud.
"Who—"
Montes barely managed a single syllable before he felt a razor-sharp dagger pressed against his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of his mistress, Isabella, lying on the floor nearby, her hands and feet bound tightly.
"Please, don't do this. The key to the safe is in the upstairs drawer. You can take all the money..."
Before he could finish his plea, another figure suddenly stepped out from the shadows behind him and looped a thick rope around his neck.
With a powerful heave from the figure, poor Montes's body was hoisted toward the ceiling.
On the other side of town, Graby's carriage was intercepted while passing through a narrow alley. His driver was about to erupt in a stream of curses when a heavy club struck the back of his head.
Meanwhile, in a cafe adjacent to St James's Park, McCracken, the secretary of the Society of United Irishmen, watched the figures scaling the walls of St James's Palace in the distance. He complained incessantly to Portier:
"Look how successful the protest is! Those MPs can no longer manage the affairs of state properly. They will be forced to compromise soon."
He suddenly pointed at a man standing atop a palace guardhouse, holding a banner that read 'Equality and Human Rights' high in the air. McCracken shouted, "God, that's Idris! Oh, everyone will hail him as a hero after this. We really should have been out there as well..."
Portier took a slow sip of his coffee and said unhurriedly, "You should know that those Englishmen do not admit defeat so easily. Why not wait patiently for a while?"
The large-scale protests in London had entered their fifth day, but following orders from Paris, Portier had used the threat of cutting off all financial support to force the Irish contingent to withdraw from the main protest ranks.
However, a few stubborn mid-level officials of the Society of United Irishmen refused to let such a golden opportunity slip by and insisted on continuing to participate in the demonstrations in their own names.
McCracken continued to grumble, "By the time this is over, it will be the London workers who enjoy the fruits of victory..."
Portier interrupted him, asking, "By the way, how is the distribution of those books and pamphlets going?"
McCracken let out a long breath and turned his gaze back. "They were mostly distributed by yesterday afternoon, but the people don't seem to care much for them. You know, the sort of people who can understand Rousseau's works have already read them. The other books are essentially the same."
Portier nodded. "A second batch will arrive tomorrow night, approximately ten thousand copies."
"Oh, you must remind your speakers to be extra cautious. It would be best to transition to secret meetings..."
The latter half of his sentence was drowned out by a piercing whistle.
Several people in the cafe turned simultaneously toward the sound and saw a squad of guards emerging from St James's Palace. An official at the head of the unit was shouting something at the top of his lungs, though it was clear that no one was paying him any mind.
The official waited for several minutes. Seeing the protesters still flooding toward St James's Palace and the fences nearly toppled over, he whispered a few sharp words to a nearby officer, then turned and retreated back through the palace gates.
A moment later, hundreds of riders emerged from the north side of St James's Palace, forming ranks in the open space of the park under the officer's command.
McCracken looked at the colors carried by the standard-bearer and cried out in alarm, "It's the Yeomanry! What do they intend to do?"
Typically, such regular militia units were only deployed to quell violent riots or to hunt down powerful bandit gangs.
Portier merely watched in silence, for the British militia was already answering the Irishman's question with their actions.
As the bugle sounded, the Yeomanry drew their sabers—blades slightly shorter than a standard hussar saber but far more effective for work in narrow, crowded streets—and began to advance toward the protesters in a disciplined, steady line.
Atop the guardhouse in front of St James's Palace, Idris shouted to encourage the crowd:
"Do not be afraid, everyone! Do not retreat! There are tens of thousands of us; these fellows won't dare do anything to us! Victory will eventually belong to—"
A sudden, sharp crack of a gunshot cut him off. Although the bullet did not strike him, it startled him so badly that he lost his footing and tumbled from the roof.
The protesters shouted to bolster each other's spirits, locking arms to form a human wall against the approaching cavalry.
However, the Yeomanry began to accelerate, leveling their sabers as they picked up speed.
Like a row of massive boulders rolling into a pond, red waves splashed into the air. The crowd instantly erupted in terrified screams as people began to bolt in every direction.
Liberty, human rights, and the courage to resist—all of it shattered in an instant before the cold, sharp steel of the blades.
The cavalry did not slow down. Their blades slashed indiscriminately, and in the blink of an eye, they had charged through more than half the street.
The protesters under attack turned and fled in blind terror, while many behind them, who still did not grasp what was happening, remained in place, continuing to shout their slogans.
The path of escape for those in the front was blocked by the mass of people behind them; without a moment's hesitation, they began pushing down anyone in their way, trampling over fallen bodies in a desperate bid to survive.
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