Chapter 1109: Secret Resistance
Beside St. James's Park, Thomas Evans stared with bloodshot eyes, shouting hoarsely to the core members of the London Press Agency gathered around him, "Don't run!"
"Think of your starving children! Think of your family members who died in agony because you couldn't afford a doctor!"
"We cannot surrender to these executioners! Stand with me and block them!"
"For our future, for freedom and human rights, do not run!"
Immediately, a dozen workers in tattered clothes rallied to his side.
Most of these men were filled with a desperate courage, having already lost their families or their livelihoods, leaving them with nothing left to lose.
Evans directed the workers to level their protest placards like spears toward the front, while those in the rear scooped up stones to hurl at the approaching cavalry.
The charging volunteer cavalry faltered for a moment, forced to swerve around the bristling mass of people.
The surrounding protesters were emboldened by this defiance and began to flock toward Evans. In short order, his group swelled to two or three hundred people.
Ten minutes later, a cavalry squadron from the British Army's 15th Ranger Regiment charged in a tight wedge formation. They tore through Evans's group, scattering the workers like chaff. In an instant, thirty or forty people were hacked down.
"This is murder..."
A saber pierced Evans's throat with ease, cutting his protest short.
The screams of the crowd intensified. Thousands of people surged out from two nearby streets like a breaking dam. A full third of the protesters were knocked to the ground, where they were quickly trampled into a bloody pulp under the panicked feet of the mob.
In a cafe one street away, McCracken watched the hellish scene through the window, his face deathly pale. It wasn't until the cafe owner ordered the waiters to shutter the doors and windows, barricading them with tables and chairs, that McCracken felt like a drowning man finally breaking the surface of the water. He took a long, sharp breath.
He turned slowly and spoke to Portier with great difficulty. "They... they are truly massacring them..."
"It is alright," the latter comforted him softly. "It is all right. Your people have already withdrawn."
"Those devils!" The Irishman's fingernails nearly gouged furrows into the wooden tabletop. "God will surely rain divine judgment upon them!"
If he had known that decades later, a British Queen named Victoria would send millions of Irishmen to their graves, he might have found the cavalry's actions today almost merciful by comparison.
Portier nodded. "We must avoid a direct confrontation with devils. We must weaken them continuously and wait patiently for the right opportunity."
McCracken's expression turned solemn. "You are right."
"Regarding the wheat, I will give you my full support. I shall return to Ireland immediately! This will be my first strike against the devils!"
Previously, the Society of United Irishmen had not been entirely supportive of Joseph's plan to drive up grain prices, as it would drain a significant portion of their funds.
However, this time, most of the association's officials who were less inclined to follow French directions had died under the sabers of the British cavalry. Those who survived would likely face arrest. Now, the voices of opposition within the association would be much quieter.
Furthermore, with the British government providing such a bloody demonstration of its methods, the Irish would better understand the brutal nature of their struggle, abandoning any illusions of a quick or easy victory.
In the original timeline, an anti-British uprising would break out in a little over a year, only to be suppressed without suspense. But now, under Joseph's indirect guidance, they would no longer throw away their lives in such a meaningless fashion.
The next day, the front page of The Times carried a headline: "Serious Riots in London, Manchester, and Other Regions Quickly Quelled; Large Number of Rioters Arrested."
The content was, as expected, a fabrication claiming that the "rioters" had been looting and destroying property, and that the government had deployed volunteer cavalry to maintain order in the city.
In an obscure corner of the paper, there was another small notice: "Stockbroker Commits Suicide Following Exposure of Insider Trading."
The article detailed how the Montes family had hanged themselves and how another accomplice, Graby, had leaped into the River Thames to escape justice.
For a time, no British citizen dared to set foot on the streets in protest.
The British government immediately took the opportunity to announce a significant increase in subsidies for cane sugar.
A few days later, the British Parliament passed a decree by an overwhelming margin prohibiting any gathering of more than fifty people.
Open protests ceased to appear, but a true resistance began to unfold quietly in the shadows of London, Manchester, and other industrial centers.
In a narrow alleyway in the city, a young man held an English translation of The Meaning of Liberty and Human Rights, whispering its contents to a dozen people huddled around him.
In a suburban tavern with its doors bolted shut, a banner reading "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity" hung above the bar. A man was delivering an impassioned speech to the patrons: "This tyrannical government is strangling our freedom and our right to live! They proved it with their butcher knives before St. James's Palace."
"We must unite and fight for the establishment of a fair and just system of elections and taxation! We must fight so that the spirit of the Magna Carta is truly realized!"
Along the banks of the River Thames, several teenagers watched passers-by with sharp, alert eyes. Occasionally, they would dart forward to press a pamphlet into someone's hand before vanishing back into the crowd.
In a villa in London's Holborn district, a salon was in full swing. The conversation among the nobles and capitalists soon shifted to the topics of investment and trade.
An Irish merchant stood up and snorted coldly. "At this point, it's better to invest everything in France. Milan and America are both better than this place."
"In those places, at the very least, no one will send assassins into your home just as you're about to profit from your stock investments."
A middle-aged man nearby nodded in agreement. "You are absolutely right."
"The current government is so strapped for cash that they've abandoned all restraint. You've all heard, haven't you? The Boulton-Watt Company has been taken over by the state. To seize that company, they spent over a year suppressing its stock price. Last month, they finally forced through an acquisition of seventy-five percent of the shares at the bottom-basement price of four pounds per share."
The surrounding guests immediately broke into hushed, agitated discussion.
Regarding Montes's "suicide," several underground pamphlets had recently detailed the true "inside story." Rumors were spreading that the British government only wanted money to flow into the London Stock Exchange, and anyone who actually tried to take a profit out of it could expect a noose for their troubles.
The collapse of Boulton-Watt's stock was now characterized as a manual manipulation by high-ranking officials to seize control of the company at a fraction of its value. Even Sandell's injury in the explosion was framed as part of the conspiracy—a punishment for his refusal to sell his shares.
Of course, this entire campaign of public opinion was orchestrated by Denico, the manager of the Paris Business Journal, and executed by the Security Bureau through their influence over the Society of United Irishmen.
Evidently, the kind-hearted Crown Prince of France could not bear to see the British people suffer in silence. He was more than willing to use the French government's funds to help them raise their social consciousness and find the strength to unite.
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