## Chapter 151: The King’s Speech (Part Two)
A torrential downpour formed a thick wall, cutting off communication between people. Even standing less than a meter apart, they couldn’t reach out to their companions.
Beneath the Wellington Arch, London’s smallest police station stood, often ridiculed for its diminutive size. Today, however, it boasted the most formidable police force in all of Greater London.
Over 300 officers, hastily summoned from nearby districts, converged here.
The muddy road was barricaded with layers of makeshift obstacles. Several carriages stood beneath the arch, laden with weapons borrowed from the Tower of London’s armory, as instructed by Arthur. They were a collection of rusty, iron-plated shields.
The muddy mixture of water and grime on the shields revealed their age. Crafted perhaps in the 16th or 17th century, medieval, Renaissance, or even earlier, no one could pinpoint their precise origin. Only the ravens, bred and passed down through generations within the Tower of London, knew their true history.
With the assistance of several officers, Arthur stepped onto the carriage roof and leaped onto a platform built from wooden crates.
Behind him stood the towering Wellington Arch, nearly fifty meters high. Above, the Duke of Wellington’s equestrian statue, a colossal bronze figure, loomed against the gloomy, overcast sky.
Rain relentlessly washed over the bronze statue, cascading down Arthur’s shoulders like a waterfall. Yet, he remained unmoved, not because he could withstand the force of the rain, but because he noticed a flicker of doubt in the eyes of the officers below.
He knew they were reluctant to do this. Perhaps they would rather be back on patrol, braving the rain.
But in this moment of crisis, someone had to step up. Scotland Yard needed to be prepared for its first-ever crackdown on civil unrest.
Arthur’s gaze swept across every face, his eyes slightly bloodshot, whether from Agareus or the rain, no one could tell.
The Red Devil hovered behind him. Arthur’s powerful voice pierced the rain, vibrating the eardrums of every officer present. Whether willing or not, this deafening, soul-stirring voice would reach their ears.
“My colleagues, every upright officer of Scotland Yard. I am delighted to see you here, braving the rain, the muddy roads, the difficult task, the long journey. You have been called from every district to gather here.
You have once again demonstrated your unwavering courage and sense of responsibility. It proves why the Metropolitan Police deserves the public’s trust, the affirmation of the Cabinet and Parliament, and every penny of your wages.
I, Arthur Hastings, stand here before you, as you see. White gloves, a tailcoat, no police sword or flintlock pistol, only a walking stick.
I don’t command you as Superintendent of East London for Scotland Yard. I stand here as a former beat cop, having served on the front lines for a year. I want to talk to you about our past, our present, and our future, the problems we have encountered or will soon face.”
With a roar, Arthur clenched his fist and slammed it into the air. His strong arm punched through the rain, the impact creating a booming sound that seemed to shatter the air.
A clap of thunder resonated, lightning splitting the London sky. Everything plunged into darkness. The only things visible to the 300 Scotland Yard officers were the Wellington Duke’s majestic statue illuminated by lightning, and the glowing red eyes hidden within its shadow.
Arthur’s figure seemed to overlap with the Duke of Wellington. It felt as if the statue standing beneath the arch wasn’t Superintendent Arthur Hastings of Scotland Yard, but Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington, charging on horseback at the Battle of Waterloo.
Several retired army officers who had followed Arthur felt goosebumps erupt all over their bodies. They couldn’t help but blurt out a curse, not an insult, but an expression of emotion.
“Holy Shit!”
Every officer present inhaled sharply. Their panicked hearts gradually calmed. Their eyes all focused on Arthur, never before had they paid such undivided attention, even during church prayers.
Despite the torrential rain and the deafening roar of the water, they no longer heard those sounds. They only heard the beating of their own hearts and Arthur’s voice, competing with the thunder.
“We are not thugs, we are not accomplices. We are simply former cobblers, blacksmiths, carpenters, coachmen, thatchers, fitters, builders, bakers, unemployed workers, and landless peasants!
We come from all corners of the land, from every region. We have Englishmen, Scotsmen, Welshmen, and Irishmen among us. But ultimately, we are all members of the British public, citizens of Great Britain!
The words in the ‘Police Instructions’ are not a load of crap. ‘The police are the public, the public are the police,’ is not a promise, nor is it meant to lull the public into a false sense of security!
It’s because before we donned these tailcoats, we were, for God’s sake, ordinary folk, no different from the people marching in the streets today!
The relationship between the public and the police was established as early as 1285 with the ‘Statute of Winchester.’ Then, constables were chosen from the public, with upright and well-behaved citizens from each parish taking turns on duty. This tradition continues to this day!
That’s why I see so many strong, kind, and upright young men standing here!
Today, we are going to suppress a demonstration organized by the working class. I won’t shy away from discussing our purpose. I also empathize with the reservations you may have in your hearts.
I understand your doubts about today’s operation. But I must reiterate the government’s efforts to improve the working conditions of the people.
In 1802, our superior, Home Secretary Sir Robert Peel’s father, Sir Robert Peel, proposed a ‘Health and Morals of Apprentices Act’ to address this issue, which was passed by Parliament. This was the first factory law in British history, indeed in world history, specifically designed to protect the rights of workers!
It stipulated that apprentices could not work more than 12 hours a day, improved factory hygiene and ventilation, and required factories to provide at least one hour of education in reading, writing, or arithmetic for each apprentice during working days and business hours.
In 1815, Sir Robert Peel proposed an amendment, expanding the scope of regulated factories to include cotton, wool, linen, and other industries notorious for child labor exploitation. The amendment strictly prohibited child workers under the age of 18 from working more than ten and a half hours a day. It also mandated that factory owners provide one and a half hours of reading, writing, and arithmetic education daily for children working in factories for the first four years.
And in 1819, the employment of children under the age of 9 in textile mills was prohibited. All factories were required to limit the working hours of children under 16 to 12 hours per day, with half an hour for breakfast and one hour for dinner.
Yes, you might say that these laws haven’t truly worked because they lack proper oversight and have not been rigorously enforced.
That’s right! This is precisely why workers are taking to the streets in protest.
I don’t intend to defend the government. I merely want to make it clear that the British Cabinet is still functioning, still constantly revising laws to keep up with the times.
Because everyone understands that we, Scotland Yard, are not allowed to have political affiliations. Our purpose is to help create a healthy environment for communication and dialogue within society. We need to allow workers to voice their concerns, but we can’t let things spiral out of control and have workers break through our lines, forcing the deployment of the military!
Sending workers back home is not about destroying freedom, nor is it about safeguarding this soulless statue behind me. Because everyone knows this arch has another name: ‘The Constitutional Arch’!
Scotland Yard was established with the intention of upholding the constitutional tradition and social order inherited from the bloodless ‘Glorious Revolution’ of 1688!
If we let things escalate, we may witness bloodshed again and again. We will bear the responsibility of refusing to repeat history!
We will not allow another Peterloo Massacre, another St. George’s Fields Massacre, another Gordon Riots, or for God’s sake, another ‘Papist’ Queen riots!
Our mission, now, in the past, and in the future, is to protect the property and lives of the public!
Many members of the public, even some of our own, believe that Scotland Yard is just a one-year-old organization. They think our law enforcement is untraceable and our methods are brutal and merciless!
They believe we are nothing more than a violent machine created to suppress the public, to squeeze the living space of small merchants, workers, prostitutes, and the poor!
They call us ‘Blue Devils,’ ‘Lobsterbacks,’ ‘Peel’s Accomplices,’ ‘French Gendarmerie of England,’ ‘The Government’s Murderous Bodyguard’!
Most headlines about us Scotland Yard officers in the newspapers carry words like ‘tyrannical,’ ‘autocratic,’ ‘fierce,’ ‘thugs’!
But today, here, right here, we will clarify to the public and the entire British society that they are wrong, utterly wrong!!!”
Another clap of thunder echoed. As the lightning flashed across the sky, rain dripped down the chins of the 300 officers. The sky remained overcast, but at least a glimmer of light had appeared in their eyes.
They stood in 15 ranks, perfectly straight. In the passageway between the ranks, Superintendent Tony was distributing the seemingly ancient shields to them.
The shields were heavy, weighing down their shoulders. But the weight of the shields in their hands lessened the weight on their hearts.
Several Scotland Yard superintendents looked at the approaching crowd of demonstrators. Perhaps the lightning ignited a long-suppressed passion in their hearts, or maybe they saw the barricades in front of them as a provocation.
The crowd, having lost their reason, had already begun smashing shop windows and attacking nearby police officers.
The shattering of glass, mingled with screams of fear and anger, shattered the fragile, delicate balance.
One policeman was knocked to the ground. Instantly, four or five workers surrounded him, punching and kicking him. The enraged officers, after enduring the assault for a while, finally couldn’t hold back and drew their walking sticks to retaliate.
Soon, both the demonstrators and the police had casualties. Blood stained the workers’ simple clothes and the policemen’s blue tailcoats, as well as the gray, indeterminate watermarks on the ground.
Several superintendents spat on the ground and drew their walking sticks to use as batons.
They glanced at the Scotland Yard officers, now equipped with shields and forming a square. The superintendents grinned and cursed.
“For God’s sake, this is more exhilarating than a war. Superintendent Hastings knows how to raise morale.”
“After all, they both share the name Arthur. He must have a bit of the Duke of Wellington’s spirit.”
“Shields and batons, a bit medieval.”
“Cut the crap, are we going in?”
The superintendents exchanged glances, then turned in unison, saluting Arthur under the rain.
“The Metropolitan Police, all districts, all divisions, fully assembled. Commander, please give the order!”
Arthur looked at the crowd in the distance, taking a deep breath. Veins popped out on his neck. His voice penetrated every eardrum, every pane of glass in the area.
“Hear my command! All district detachments, form a wedge formation, advance at a run, charge the demonstration, compress the crowd! Anyone engaging in violent behavior will be arrested. Use walking sticks, shields, and other weapons freely!”
At Arthur’s command, the Metropolitan Police’s superintendents’ whistles replaced the thunder as the loudest, most piercing sound on the scene.
“Follow the whistle, advance in small steps!”
Beep, beep, beep…
Under the superintendents’ guidance, the police formation advanced awkwardly. They held their iron shields, their shoulders brushing against each other. It was initially uncomfortable, but after a brief adjustment, they soon took uneven, coordinated steps.
Initially, the whistles were slow, but as they got closer to the crowd, the superintendents’ whistles suddenly became shrill and urgent.
Beep beep beep!!!
“Charge!!!”
With the superintendents’ yells, the police formation crashed into the crowd like a swinging brick. The disorganized, unprepared workers were thrown off balance. Those in the front tried to retreat, but those in the back didn’t understand what was happening.
It was like a sandwich, they were all squeezed together.
But a cry of “The police are here!” quickly spread panic and chaos through the crowd.
As walking sticks whipped like lashes against their heads, some workers tried to flee, others to resist.
In Arthur’s eyes, he only saw a man in a short-sleeved shirt, his blood-covered face turned to the side, pointing a finger at him from afar.
Just as Arthur saw him, Agareus, perched on the head of the Wellington statue, also saw that man.
The Red Devil suddenly raised an eyebrow, snapping his fingers and amplifying the man’s voice in Arthur’s ear.
Arthur flinched, no one knew what he heard, they only saw him reaching for something in his pocket.
His throat felt dry and itchy, he wanted to light something, but after fumbling for a while, he suddenly remembered that he had already given whatever he was looking for to Tony.
Those around him, noticing his actions, might have thought he was startled by the rumbling thunder and lightning. The London citizens watching from their windows might have thought he was shocked by the bloody violence.
After his daze, people only saw the young Scotland Yard superintendent standing there, silent, alone, beneath the Wellington statue, like a neglected shadow.
Arthur raised his hand to wipe his rain-soaked face. He didn’t express any emotion, nor did he know what expression to make.
He couldn’t forget the desperate roar of the man covering his blood-soaked face as he fell.
It was like a condemnation from the soul, a shriek from hell.
“Fuck you, you betrayed the working class!”
Agareus gently turned the pages of his parchment scroll, slowly pushing up his glasses.
The devil smiled and murmured, “Arthur… perhaps you’re right. This is your destiny, becoming a king. Struggle or pain, isn’t it all your own doing?”
(End of Chapter)