The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1693: Chapter 58: Parliament Is Gone, Not Dissolved by the King, but Burned Down_2

However, four or five horses were clearly not enough to intimidate the crowd of onlookers. Most people were still just gasping in awe. Some wanted to clear the road, but with the tightly packed crowd, they couldn’t move if others didn’t.

Of course, there were always a few in the crowd desperately trying to escape. After all, two years ago, by the Tower of London, they had seen with their own eyes the consequences of not making way for this black horse-riding officer.

Just as the Scotland Yard mounted police hit the first wall of people, a low and synchronized clashing of metal suddenly sounded from behind.

Then a shout was heard: ”Make way! Clear the path!”

The first in line were a row of red-coated cavalry, their high chestplates reflecting a cold white light in the firelight, while the white plumes atop their helmets looked like snow-covered pine trees amidst the flames.

Following them was another team of cavalry, clad in red cloaks and red-plumed helmets. Compared to the first team, their red was deeper, their posture more upright, and the swords at their sides brushed lightly against metal plates on the saddle, echoing a sound like the prelude to a charge.

As the crowd was overwhelmed by this red torrent, an even more stable and solemn blue military formation followed. Their deep blue uniforms, silver helmets topped with red crests, and white breeches contrasted sharply with black high boots.

From their outfits alone, one could immediately identify who they were.

These were the Guard Cavalry stationed at Knight Bridge and Regent Park Barracks: the Royal First Guard Cavalry Regiment ”Royal,” the Second Guard Cavalry Regiment ”Crimson,” and the Royal Guard Cavalry Regiment ”Blue Cloak.”

The Guard Cavalry, urgently dispatched from Piccadilly and Knight Bridge Barracks, caused the masses to ebb like a receding tide beneath their horses’ hooves.

Arthur turned his horse around and called urgently to the Scotland Yard mounted police and the three cavalry commanders behind him, ”The Guard Cavalry to assist in dispersing the perimeter, officers to isolate the fire scene! Clear a path for the firefighters immediately!”

The commanders of the three Guard Cavalry knew that this was not the time to check each other’s ranks. They responded, waved their hands, and split into three teams to begin sealing off the street crossings.

The First Guard Cavalry Regiment charged into the southeast corner, herding the crowds on Parliament Street like sheep.

The Second Guard Cavalry Regiment flanked from the north Whitehall Street entrance, cutting off fresh onlookers.

The Royal Guard Cavalry Regiment, like a nail, firmly pinned the crowd heading towards Westminster Palace, preventing anyone from crossing the boundary.

At this time, the fire engine stuck in the crowd finally broke through and roared to the west side of the burning Westminster Palace.

Even before the fire engine had fully stopped, James Breaserton, the chief of the London Fire Department and a member of the Royal Architectural Association, jumped off the first carriage, with soot still on his helmet.

He swept his gaze over the burning windowsills and the collapsed tower base and immediately ordered, ”The first team set up high-pressure pumps along the east wall, the second ladder truck mount the hoses straight to the top of the tower! The third team follow me, rush to the outer area of the nave, and dismantle the roof trusses first! We must prevent the fire from reaching Saint Stephen’s Chapel!”

The high-pressure pumps he mentioned were not modern steam pumps but rather manually operated pump carts hauled by horses, operated by teams of two manually alternating the pumping lever to force water from street wells into leather water bags or brass pipes, which then sprayed onto the building through high-pressure nozzles.

The latest models equipped by the London Fire Department could output up to 90 gallons of water per minute, but in front of the raging fire at Westminster Palace, it seemed like a pitifully small amount.

A few firefighters with backgrounds as plumbers rushed to the well, quickly setting up doghead fittings to connect with the copper pumps.

Their leather coats were already sweaty, reflecting an oily sheen in the firelight, and while they worked, one could hear them occasionally swearing, expressing their dissatisfaction with this unstable windswept hellish weather.

Meanwhile, a demolition team consisting of three stonemasons and carpenters had already climbed to the second-floor ruins along an extension ladder.

Using iron hooks, axes, and winches in coordination, they had dismantled the partially collapsed eaves into a controlled slanted structure to prevent the entire roof from collapsing and crushing the street below.

Breaserton personally climbed the midsection of the tower and shouted to his men: ”Don’t fear the fire! Hold for thirty minutes, as long as the tower doesn’t collapse, Saint Stephen’s Chapel can still be saved!”

Arthur’s hand never left the reins in front of his saddle, and the black horse beneath him snorted restlessly.

”Charles! Take your men and hold the junction of Parliament Street and Church Street. If a beam falls and the whole wall crashes into the crowd, we won’t know how many lives will be lost in compensation!”

Having worked tirelessly near the fire scene, Minister Luo Wan had already removed his coat, wearing only a double-breasted gray waistcoat, with half a cigar clamped in his mouth, its ash nearly burning to his lips.

As he directed the officers, he took moments to curse aloud: ”If only someone had listened to that old man William Manby back then, we’d have steam fire pumps and metal hoses by now! Damn it, Parliament would rather spend money gilding rooftops than spare a few shillings to save their skins! Well, just great! Westminster Palace is burned down; now they might as well hold meetings next to that toilet by Beasborough Garden. That place is so drafty even a steam pump isn’t needed; a piss would cool it down!”

Sir Richard Mayne, the soot-faced deputy minister, couldn’t hold back either, joining the sarcastic commentary: ”But remind the Treasury, toilet paper and voting ballots need separate budget requests.”

Arthur was about to turn his horse around to direct the officers’ deployment when he couldn’t help but laugh at the conversation between his two senior officers.

It was evident that these two harbored no less grudges against White Hall and Parliament than he did, though they usually kept it under wraps.

Just as Arthur turned his head, he saw Officer Hoot standing nervously beside him, swallowing hard.

”First time seeing such a big scene?” Arthur looked at the towering flames before them. ”Don’t worry, the bigger the scene, the better the chance for merit.”

Hoot was about to reply, ”I’m not nervous,” when a dull thud sounded in his ear.

A charred beam as thick as a carriage axle fell from the chapel roof, heavily smashing onto the iron railing of the palace porch. Sparks flew, and debris scattered everywhere.

Miraculously, the wall in front of Arthur and Hoot didn’t collapse, though the whole structure shuddered violently, teetering on the verge of collapse.

”Quickly! Add support!” Chief Breaserton roared, his voice hooking into every firefighter’s ear like sharp metal. ”Use the braces to buttress the outer wall, don’t let it collapse an inch more!”

Three firefighters with carpenter backgrounds rushed to the scene upon hearing this, carrying reinforcement braces and swiftly zooming past Arthur and Hoot.

Hoot was so scared he shuddered all over. ”My God! Sir, we almost got crushed!”

Arthur, in a calm and tranquil tone, replied, ”Saint Stephen’s Church is probably unsavable now; Benjamin and the others really will have to move to that toilet for meetings.”

As Arthur was contemplating the fiery scene before him, the sinister voice of the Red Devil suddenly whispered in his ear: ”The Devil can’t resurrect a pile of flesh.”

”Hoot, stand a bit back. That close upfront, The Times already published the news; are you aiming for an obituary in The Times tomorrow?”

”But... sir, didn’t you just say it was a chance for merit?”

”You’ve already earned merit at Golden Cross Station; maybe it’s time to let others have a chance.”

”Yes, sir.” Hoot sheepishly retreated a few steps.

”Go check East Street’s well and see if another pump team can be added,” Arthur mumbled while already planning how tomorrow’s news should be written. ”God bless those firefighters; if they can save the original draft of the 1832 Reform Act, they might even earn a medal.”