The Shadow of Great Britain

208: Chapter 142: Parliamentary Farce 208: Chapter 142: Parliamentary Farce Wednesday, a day in the week that subtly feels the most delicate.

It is neither as detestably hateful as Monday, the first workday of the week, nor as eagerly anticipated as Friday or Saturday.

For Duke Wellington and all members of the Tory Party still supporting the Cabinet, it was equally a subtle day.

Because today in Parliament, a grand and special schedule was arranged—the Prime Minister’s Question Time.

On the north bank of the Thames River, around Trafalgar Square, the clock towers of Westminster Abbey and St.

Margaret’s Church simultaneously pointed to twelve noon.

The location of both the House of Lords and the House of Commons in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland—Westminster Palace.

At the southwest and northwest corners, two Gothic spires over 100 meters high seemed to stab at the gloomy sky, as if to tear a crack in it, while below the two spires, countless small, sharp spire tops were arrayed, appearing from a distance like a line of infantry in bright yellow military uniforms carrying flintlock muskets.

At the dark entrance of Westminster Palace, countless black openwork lanterns were perched on the bright yellow exterior walls, emitting faint lights that illuminated the bright red uniforms of the Royal Guards patrolling the nearby sidewalk.

Several black carriages approached from Downing Street and Whitehall, converged in front of Westminster Palace, and finally stopped in front of the bustling entrance.

As the carriages entered, the previously noisy crowd suddenly fell into silence.

Under everyone’s gaze, the servants jogging alongside the carriages came forward one by one to open the carriage doors, and pairs of hard leather boots stepped out of the carriages one after another.

The first to disembark was a gentleman in a dark gray tailcoat and a white shirt underneath.

He stood with a straight back and a calm face, but the sharpness in his eyes still made him feel not to be trifled with.

Although as a military man he did not enjoy being conspicuous, many in the crowd still recognized him.

Sir Edward Barnes, who had served as the superintendent of the British Army during the Battle of Waterloo, and was soon to assume his new post as the Commander-in-Chief of the British Forces in India, a General in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.

Standing next to him was Viscount Rolan Hill, who had served as the commander of the Second Army of the British forces in the Battle of Waterloo, and was now the Governor of Plymouth, the Commander-in-Chief of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, an Army General.

By his side, a man in black clothing with a gentle appearance, but missing a trouser leg and advancing with a crutch.

This was the Duke of Wellington’s right-hand man during the Battle of Waterloo, the former deputy commander-in-chief and cavalry commander of the British Army, now Minister for Irish Affairs, a General in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland—Marquis Henry Paget.

The three generals exchanged glances and then respectfully stood on both sides of the road.

Suddenly, a cold wind blew through the bleak sky.

Despite the chilling weather, there seemed to be an indelible scent of gunpowder lingering at the noses of the audience.

A few drops of rain fell on the brick road in front of Westminster Palace; the carriage door was slowly opened by a servant, a high-collared boot slowly stretched out, heavily and powerfully stepping onto the rain-soaked brick road.

The thud of the boot, with such force, seemed not intended for walking but for grinding the bricks into mud.

Duke Wellington, in a deep red outfit, emerged using a cane.

He raised his head to glance at the crowd lining the walkway, about to wave to them when a sharp cry of reprimand broke the former tranquility.

A lady in a white dress, accompanied by two male servants, seemingly a supporter of the Whig Party, mocked, “Your Grace, if my husband resisted reforming Parliament like you do, I most certainly would poison his morning coffee.”

Just when everyone thought the usually reticent Duke Wellington in public places would remain silent again, who knew that the man once praised as a hero of Britain, and now ridiculed as a senile old man with rusty brains, looked the lady up and down and retorted.

“Madam, if I were your husband, even knowing the coffee was poisoned, I would drink it without hesitation.

With a wife like you, I wouldn’t want to live another moment.”

Hence, Duke Wellington, unfazed, leaned on his cane and, amidst the public’s jeering, entered Westminster Palace with the generals.

“Wellington, today you shall face your Waterloo!”

“A tyrannical despot, we had hoped you’d become the next George Monck, yet you aspire to be the next Cromwell!”

“Your presence in the position of Prime Minister is the greatest stain on the democracy of Britain!”

Yet, Duke Wellington was indifferent to these yells, to such bootless insults he had heard too much these days.

Indeed, he even found these jeers far gentler than the mobs that attacked his residence.

Although already in his sixties, Duke Wellington’s strides were still brisk.

In Westminster Palace, a colossal palace with over a thousand rooms and a hundred staircases, the corridors running through the whole palace spanned three miles.

Fortunately, Duke Wellington did not need to traverse its entire length.

He stood at the center of Westminster Palace.

To his right was the House of Lords, the domain of the Nobility.

On his left was the House of Commons, representing the commoners.

Although the Duke of Wellington was a member of the nobility and regularly participated in the House of Lords, today, his destination was the House of Commons.

The Duke of Wellington’s cane struck the intricately patterned palace floor, producing a ‘thud’ sound that echoed from near to far.

The hall of the House of Commons drew closer, and after a brief dimness and silence, the noises of the crowd yelling grew louder, and the view before the Duke of Wellington gradually brightened.

Despite the hall’s considerable size, with 658 Members of the House of Commons and numerous Lords present for questioning, the space with just over four hundred green leather seats seemed exceedingly cramped.

Members of the Tory Party and the Whig Party were distinctively divided into two major camps; they were separated by the speaker’s chair and the clerks’ table, with the supporters of the Whig Party seated on the left, while the ruling Tory Party members were on the right.

Though questioning had not yet begun, the air was already thick with the smell of gunpowder, which could be inferred from the grim expressions on the faces of people like Sir Peel, the Home Secretary, Sir Goulburn, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and Earl Aberdeen, the Foreign Secretary who sat in the front row on the right.

The session of the House of Commons convened this morning was definitely not going smoothly.

When the Duke of Wellington appeared in the assembly, the already restless atmosphere escalated to a new climax.

The backbenchers of the Whig Party even yelled “NAY” at him in bursts, trying to intimidate him before the questioning had even begun.

“John, show our Prime Minister how it’s done!”

“Did you not once visit Napoleon on Saint Helena Island?

Did he not tell you how to defeat Wellington?”

“We shall defeat you here!”

“Right here, today!”

Meanwhile, the Tory members rose to their feet, shouting ‘YEA’ in support of their leader, Duke of Wellington.

“Prime Minister, since you led Britain to defeat the French, there is no reason you should lose to this band of Whigs today.”

“John Russell, bring out all your tricks if you have any!”

“If you cannot handle it, perhaps you and your brother, the Duke of Bedford, should come up together!”

“If that still isn’t sufficient, you might as well dig up Napoleon from the ground!”

As the two parties’ members clashed with words, the pre-questioning phase was nearly about to erupt into argument.

The speaker, sitting between the two groups, had to repeatedly strike the gavel, shouting, “Order!

Order!

Order!”

However, the members ignored the speaker’s request.

Perhaps because the heated debate that morning had heightened the mood of both sides, and the appearance of the Duke of Wellington was like a spark that completely ignited this powder keg.

The backbencher MPs of both parties would not stop arguing, and despite the speaker’s repeated demands, his efforts were in vain.

A Tory MP, moved to anger, suddenly grabbed the documents from the table and threw them at the Whig opposition.

As he hurled the documents, he burst out furiously, “Edward!

You should feel lucky it’s not the 14th century.

If Edward II hadn’t banned carrying swords and wearing armor in Parliament, I would have knocked your head off and used it as a ball today!”

The Whig MP named Edward retorted defiantly, “Can’t you duel without weapons?

Alex, from what I see, your fists are not even half as hard as your lips!”

“You disrespectful wretch, it seems I must teach you a lesson today!”

No sooner had he spoken than Alex, a Tory backbencher, could no longer restrain himself and rushed forward, swinging his fists, ready to settle things with his opponent.

Seeing this, the speaker couldn’t help but hammer the table furiously with his gavel, bellowing, “I reiterate, no one is to die in Parliament!

Guard!

Guard!

Throw these two disrespectful wretches out immediately!”