## Chapter 150: Escalating Conflict?
The throng of protesters on Piccadilly, outside St. James’s Palace, was growing larger by the minute.
London’s weather, as usual, was unkind. The sun, after a brief morning appearance, had been shrouded by a layer of gloom. Now, a chilling, ominous drizzle had begun to fall.
The raindrops, falling on the broad, brick-paved avenue, mingled with the mud seeping from the cracks between the bricks, casting a gray, murky layer over the usually pristine West End of London.
A multitude of square-toed shoes, worn almost translucent from the constant tread, stomped firmly on the muddy road. Half the mud splattered onto the already ragged work pants, the other half seeping through the coarse linen socks, sending icy jolts through their long-numbed nerves.
Each protester’s face displayed an intensity unlike the stoic expressions they wore in the factories. This pent-up emotion amplified within the marching ranks. Each carried their own burdens: the loss of their children, the exile of their kin, the ravaged bodies. Each had a unique story, yet their shared pain and the uncontrollable urge to burn the world down united them.
“Beep! Beep! Beep!!!”
“Hurry, hurry! Keep up, you bastards!!!”
Several seasoned inspectors from Scotland Yard, their cheeks already swollen, blew their whistles, dispersing pedestrians and carriages from the road. The water dripping from their faces was indistinguishable from sweat or rain.
The heavy, oppressive atmosphere and the muddy path evoked distant memories for the inspectors, memories of the rainy season in the Iberian Peninsula, over a decade ago.
Back then, they were still recruits, always pushing forward.
At the Battle of Busaco, they had defeated Marshal André Masséna, the “Son of Victory,” of the French First Imperial Army.
At the Battle of Salamanca, they had vanquished Marshal Auguste Marmont, the “King of Leather,” of the French First Imperial Army.
At the Battle of Vittoria, they had routed King Joseph Bonaparte of Spain, Napoleon’s brother, and Marshal Jean-Baptiste Jourdan, the “Proud Bandit,” of the French First Imperial Army, who had been so arrogant.
And finally, before they received news of Napoleon’s abdication, at the Battle of Toulouse, they had collected the defeat of Marshal Jean de Dieu Soult, the “Iron Hand,” as their spoils of war.
They came from different units, each with their own glorious traditions, brilliant battle records, and exceptional skills.
They were dispatched to the scene under a special directive from the Prime Minister and the Home Secretary, under the command of Arthur Hastings, Chief Inspector of the East London District of the Metropolitan Police.
Among those who came to assist were:
* George Mosley, a retired lieutenant of the 5th Royal Foot Guards, the “Wellington Guards,” known for their “everlasting battle-hardiness, constant fatigue, but never defeat,” now serving as a superintendent for the West London District of the Metropolitan Police. He had fought in the Battle of Salamanca, where his unit suffered heavy casualties, with 340 of their 412 men injured, yet none retreated.
* William Mitchell, a retired captain of the 11th Royal Infantry Regiment, the “Bloodhounds,” known for their unwavering courage in the face of overwhelming odds. He had served in the Battle of Salamanca, where he and his regiment fought with unparalleled valor. He now served as a superintendent for the South London District of the Metropolitan Police.
* Joseph Matherlin, a retired lieutenant of the 57th Royal Infantry Regiment, the “Diehards,” known for their unwavering determination in the Battle of Albuera. Despite their commander being severely wounded, they fought on, and the dying commander, in his final moments, roared, “Die Hard!” He now served as a superintendent for the Middlesex District of the Metropolitan Police.
* Davis Lee, a retired captain of the 61st Royal Infantry Regiment, the “Toulouse Flowers,” named for their blood-stained new uniforms after a battle in 1814. He now served as a superintendent for the East London District of the Metropolitan Police.
The scene was filled with the buzzing sound of sirens. The rain obscured the road, forcing the inspectors to raise their arms to clear a path through the crowd, preventing potential stampedes and conflicts.
The other half of the police force trailed behind the protesters.
Their breaths hung in the air, forming white clouds. Their expressions were a mix of apprehension, hesitation, and a suppressed fear and sympathy, bound by the regulations of Scotland Yard and their own sense of duty.
Many of them, also hailing from working-class backgrounds, struggled to find words to describe their current emotions.
They were drenched in the rain, their leather boots filled with water, threatening to freeze their feet. Their icy hands, numb from the cold, clutched their rain-soaked uniform coats.
Beneath their coats, they held their truncheons, their only permitted weapon.
They came from a diverse range of backgrounds, just like the protesters: street vendors, East End workers, dockyard laborers, landless farmers, and even some who had done things as unsavory as the pickpockets who lurked in the shadows.
Chanting “Down with the Tories, Down with Wellington,” they marched along Piccadilly, heading towards the Wellington Arch, built to commemorate the victory at the Battle of Waterloo.
The houses on both sides of the street in the Mayfair district had opened their windows. The London elite, merchants, and nobles, looked out at the throng of protesters and the drenched police officers, their faces displaying a mixture of emotions: some calm, some anxious, but most simply curious, watching the spectacle unfold.
Inside the railings of Hyde Park stood a group of officers, their faces grim, some even smirking, clad in sabers, white gloves, and black leather boots. These were the cavalry commanders of the 1st Life Guards, the “Piccadilly Butchers,” stationed in Hyde Park.
A commander with a slightly furrowed brow and a handlebar mustache extended his arm from the railings, stopping George Mosley.
“Need a hand, mate?”
George Mosley looked up at his shoulder boards, saluted, and said, “Captain, we haven’t received any orders from the War Office for suppression, and the situation is currently under control by the Metropolitan Police. Please remain calm.”
The cavalry captain glanced at the expanding crowd of protesters and chuckled, sharing his experience.
“You sure Scotland Yard can handle this? My advice, mate, the more you let them run loose, the more out of control things get. Charge them, break them up, and defeat them one by one. That’s the way to do it.”
George Mosley only exhaled a puff of white air, wiping the cold rain from his face.
“Maybe I don’t have the same experience as the Life Guards when it comes to suppressing protesters on Piccadilly. But when it comes to fighting, you lot could train for a hundred years and still wouldn’t be as good as the 5th Foot.
Your best cavalry unit, the 2nd Dragoon Guards, the Grey Dragoons, were a pile of crap at Waterloo. The only units that could stand a chance against me are the 2nd Foot, the Coldstream, and they’re all here now. You lot, the Life Guards, don’t dare fart in my face!
We at Scotland Yard have our share of retired Life Guards, too. Taylor Clemens, know him? That idiot messes up everything he touches, and we have to clean up his messes! If you really want to help, keep your men under control!
Hmph, I bet the War Office has been feeding you lot too much, pampering you. Your horses can charge any group of civilians, but they can’t charge a French-held hill!”
With that, George Mosley blew his whistle, took a step forward, and barked orders to his men. “Don’t fall behind! I may be retired, but I’m still a veteran of the 5th. My men can lose to anyone, but not to cavalry. Practice has proven that two legs are more powerful than four!”
“Well, you’re a bloody potato-eating git!” The cavalry captain glared, ready to retort, but his companions quickly pulled him back.
One of the officers, with a playful tone, said, “Come on, Cook, you really want to pick a fight with the ‘Wellington Guards’? The 5th has connections, they’re an impenetrable wall, even the windows are made of iron, thanks to the Iron Duke himself, Arthur Wellesley.”
As if on cue, a shadowy figure emerged from the rain, becoming clearer with each passing moment. It was a young police officer, his dark eyes flashing with a hint of reddish light.
The only difference between him and the other officers who had just passed was that his bowler hat was missing, perhaps lost in his haste.
He stopped in front of the cavalry commanders, who scanned him from head to toe, their brows furrowed in disapproval.
“What are you looking at? We’re not your superiors. That potato-eating git went ahead.”
Arthur didn’t respond, simply pulling a piece of paper from his pocket, warm from being pressed against his heart, and slipping it through the gap in the railings.
The officers didn’t bother to look at it, especially the irate cavalry captain, who slapped the paper out of Arthur’s hand.
“Are you crazy? The Life Guards don’t take orders from Scotland Yard! Get lost!”
Arthur looked at the soaked paper, the crimson ink slowly dissolving in the water droplets, staining them a vibrant red.
He calmly said, “Pick it up.”
The captain, enraged and embarrassed, unsheathed his sword, pressing the point against Arthur’s throat. “You think your boss can talk back to me, so you can too? Before you open your mouth, you better figure out who you are!”
His mind was muddled, but his companions were still sane.
One of them bent down and picked up the paper, glancing at it, his face turning three shades of pale.
“Cook, that’s enough! This is an order from the War Office. The Prime Minister demands that no one leaves the barracks without further orders.”
Cook, startled, hesitated for a moment, but pride prevented him from lowering his sword.
As the two argued, Arthur broke the silence. “Captain Cook, when I need you, I’ll ask. I trust officers from the Life Guards, just like I trust Inspector Clemens. But during a crisis like this, please follow orders.”
Cook, hesitant, sheathed his sword, saluting Arthur with a forced smile. “Apologies, sir. Rest assured, the Life Guards won’t leave Hyde Park without new orders. However, I still recommend stopping the protesters before they reach the Wellington Arch. Based on their chants, I fear they might do something rash when they see the Duke’s statue.”
Arthur nodded slightly, turning and disappearing into the rain.
His voice lingered in the raindrops.
“Thank you for your advice.”
(End of Chapter)