The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1847: Easter Egg Chapter Arthur Hastings: The Ambitions Driven by a Rational Prisoner_3

Meanwhile, in the stone building on the west side of White Hall that appeared unimposing yet controlled the lifeblood of the Empire’s naval power, an order had already been issued directly to the Portsmouth Naval Base. That same midnight, the Channel Fleet’s detachment, led by the steam escort ship ”Avenger” and the steam gunboat ”Vesuvius,” departed secretly from Portsmouth, under the guise of routine training, and sailed at full speed towards the mouth of the Thames River...

If, when they graduated in 1829, they were greeted by a more tolerant and free British society, perhaps everything that followed would have been completely different.

Perhaps Eld Carter, as he initially hoped, would have opened a small bookstore for classical publications on St. James Street, using a quill by day to transcribe the poems of Byron and Shelley, and by night inviting a few literary youths to drink and be merry, talking and discussing various topics.

Perhaps Arthur Hastings would have rented a low but south-facing apartment somewhere in the city center, become the historian he always yearned to be, writing a couple of editorials for The Times and the Morning Paper by day, and at night burying himself in the piles of historical manuscripts from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, occasionally serving as a volunteer in poverty relief organizations to explain the essence of social contracts.

Unfortunately,

history does not allow perhaps.

In 1829, what awaited them was not a prosperous Britain, but an unforeseen economic crisis. Banks collapsed one after another, newspapers were filled with warrants for debt collection, stocks in canals and mining plummeted, unemployment soared, textile workers took to the streets, printing workers went on strike, and famine broke out in rural areas due to reduced agricultural output.

The newly graduated students of the University of London, instead of rushing to job positions that year, were forced to cut back on expenses, live with relatives and friends, and survive on old clothes and discounted food from evening markets.

As for Arthur Hastings, who was once praised by professors as having ”the sharpest tongue in Bloomsbury,” he found that his numerous job applications never received a single reply.

He soon realized that the opportunities that seemed within easy reach during school were actually mirages meticulously arranged behind a display window. The threshold of the middle class was never based on education, but on family names, church background, and father’s name.

Arthur fell silent.

Silence was his way of expressing anger.

Eld, on the other hand, exploded.

He smashed the Latin version of ”The Republic,” which he had painstakingly edited, threw away his tweed suit, and resignedly reported to the Navy Department.

However, regardless of what they thought, fate never made way for the passionate blood of young people.

London had not yet recovered from the previous economic slump, the emerging middle class was severely impacted by stock market crashes and bond defaults, and the anger of the lower class was brewing. The government, worried about the deteriorating security situation, established a new institution called the ”London Metropolitan Police Headquarters,” historically known as ”Scotland Yard.”

It was in this year that Arthur Hastings walked into Scotland Yard, donned that coarsely tailored, yet novel deep blue uniform, and transformed from a prize-winning student of the University of London into a street patrolman.

He started from the very bottom, patrolling along Central Street in Greenwich at night, chasing pickpockets, cracking down on drunkards, and preventing angry unemployed workers from throwing stones at churches. He had tried to solve problems with the laws, philosophies, and so-called historical inertia he learned in the classroom, but he found that this city relied more on fists, pocketbooks, and connections.

”The streets of London taught me one thing. The so-called ’justice’ people speak of is an extremely expensive term. It requires the budget to maintain order, clearly printed legal texts, a sense of awe among citizens for public spaces, and, more importantly, a guarantee that people can at least eat three meals a day. The utilitarian philosophy of Mr. Jeremy Bentham has benefited me throughout my life, and I have strived to achieve the greatest happiness for the greatest number. However, who decides what happiness is? And who should define the greatest number? This is a question I have never been able to understand throughout my life.”