Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

The cheers subsided like a receding tide, and the military cap fell back onto its owner's head.

The officers walked in twos and threes toward the exit. Some were still looking back at the still-smoking cannon, muttering "unbelievable." Others were already discussing what would happen to the balance of the sea if the cannon were mounted on a warship.

Richard turned around and walked toward the three gunners at the gun emplacement, shaking hands with them one by one until he reached the third gunner, the gun commander.

He grabbed Richard's entire hand.

"What's wrong?" Richard asked, looking at him.

The gunner's lips trembled slightly as he spoke excitedly, "I've served in the artillery for ten years, fought on the battlefield in India, and handled countless cannons. But your cannon is the smoothest and most handy. The breechblock closes with a push, and the shell is delivered perfectly. This...this is..."

He couldn't continue.

Richard patted the back of his hand with his other hand and said softly, "This is my job, to strive for perfection. The successful test launch today is thanks to your steady hands and skill. Thank you."

The gunner straightened his hat, pursed his lips into a thin line, and gave him a military salute.

At that moment, Sir Armstrong walked over and patted Richard lightly on the shoulder.

"Come on, Richard. The Prime Minister has invited us to ride the train together to talk about artillery."

Richard gave the gunner a final nod and followed Armstrong toward the carriage.

The wheels rolled over the gravel road, the carriage swayed slightly, and then glided forward smoothly.

Outside the window, the scorched gray earth of the artillery field and the gray-blue sea in the distance slowly receded into the distance, like a camera zooming out, gradually blurring in the field of vision.

After the carriage had traveled some distance, Armstrong leaned back in his seat, his eyes fixed on a sliver of light filtering through the curtains, as if he were talking to the window.

"You really shone today," he said. "I think it's only a matter of time before you get the award."

Richard had certainly thought about this.

Baron was the highest rank he could think of at the moment, the lowest rank of hereditary nobleman. In name, he was a nobleman, but in reality, he was a high-ranking commoner.

They were not eligible to enter the House of Lords, could not participate in legislation, and their position on the register of nobles was even lower than that of some knights.

The path from baron to baron is not defined by military exploits or groundbreaking inventions.

In British politics in 1868, a baron was more like a lifetime achievement award given to commoners, specifically for those who came from humble backgrounds but were top performers in their fields.

But he was too young.

In the eyes of those white-haired lords, a young man in his early twenties, even if he saved the empire, lacked the experience of time and was not qualified to participate in national affairs.

The Queen will not grant him a baronial title, at least not now.

But he can accept it.

What he needed was aristocratic status in exchange for the support of the British government.

Laboratory land, funding allocation, patent protection, and customs clearance facilitation, as well as a status that will allow him to legitimately stand on equal footing with those established arms dealers in the future.

Richard had the test site thoroughly cleaned up today.

Not a single scrap of iron was left for those with ill intentions to analyze; heaven knows how many telescopes were pointed at the Schuberis artillery range every day.

But that wasn't enough; Prussia's intelligence network was far denser than he had imagined.

A piece of shrapnel that was overlooked in later production, or a mineral powder stuck to the sole of a worker's boot, could become a key to unlock the technological barrier he had built.

The carriage stopped at the station.

The two men crossed the platform and entered Gladstone's private carriage.

Gladstone sat in a deep red velvet seat in the carriage, with an opened bottle of red wine and several wine glasses on a walnut folding table, and an open cigar box next to him.

Richard and Armstrong then took their seats, and the train gradually started moving.

The carriage swayed gently as Gladstone lit a cigar and waved to the servant standing at the carriage door.

The servant bowed and withdrew, the door closing silently behind him.

Gladstone leaned back in his chair, holding a cigar between his fingers.

"Since it's just the three of us here, I'll cut to the chase. Your test firing today was excellent, but I'd like to know..." His gaze shifted between the two men, "When will your cannons enter mass production?"

Richard continued, "With Sir Armstrong's factory and Mr. Siemens' steel mill, mass production of cannons is not a problem." He paused, "The problem lies in the materials."

Gladstone narrowed his eyes, took a puff of his cigar, and slowly exhaled white smoke. He asked, "Is there a problem with the materials?"

"My special steel requires chromium and nickel, and the materials used to make this batch of cannons were secretly imported from Europe at a high price," Richard explained. "If this continues in the future, the cost simply won't come down."

He didn't say how high the "high price" was.

He was shot in the stomach in the alley; even the steel plate couldn't stop it. If it weren't for the heavy silk vest with the steel plate sewn in, he would be buried in the ground by now.

If that's not considered "high price," then there's no such thing as a high price in the world.

But what he wanted Gladstone to understand was a different kind of "high price"—the high price of the Treasury.

Gladstone's hand brushed across his chin, his fingers gently tracing the armrest.

"You must already have an idea. Tell me about it."

Richard nodded: "I hope you can push through a small bill in Parliament to subsidize the country's imports of chromium ore."

Armstrong frowned slightly and glanced at Richard again: "You want the Prime Minister to push through legislation to reduce costs? This proposal won't pass in Parliament at all. Those guys in the Treasury won't agree to spend an extra penny on mineral imports."

“Of course not,” Richard shook his head. “Currently, chromium ore is mostly used in pigments and leather tanning. This proposal could be included in a bill to promote the textile industry and imported from Turkey.”

He noticed a change in Gladstone's expression and pressed his advantage: "This isn't a military subsidy, it's an industrial subsidy, and it won't contradict your original intentions upon taking office. If you hide chromium ore in textile mordants, no one will stand up for a bunch of textile factory owners advocating for their dyes in Parliament."

"You certainly know how to find loopholes." Gladstone's brow relaxed, and he calmly took a sip of his drink. "The bill can be pushed forward, but you have to make sure that once it passes, mass production can keep up."

Armstrong straightened his back and confidently assured, "Don't worry, Mr. Prime Minister. My factories can be fully operational; re-equipping the entire army is not a problem."

Gladstone flicked his cigarette ash with satisfaction, the ashes falling into the ashtray. "I guess I can use the excuse of helping Sudan modernize to go prospecting for minerals in Turkey. Once the chromium problem is solved, what about the nickel?"

Richard smiled and said, "You don't need to worry about that. I have a way of handling it."

Gladstone knew Richard's capabilities, so he didn't ask any further questions.

He leaned back in his chair, a cigar dangling from his lips, waiting for the new cannon to be fitted.