Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

The morning mist hung heavy in Dartford. Richard jumped from the carriage and stood not far from the shipyard gate.

He had already changed carriages twice when he arrived, and he realized that if things continued like this, he would probably have to bribe every coachman in London.

The iron gate has been repainted, and the dark gray anti-rust paint has restored some of its former glory. A brand-new sign hangs on the gatepost, which reads "Boring Company".

He had barely steadied himself when he saw Reginald.

He stood in front of the main workshop door, his dark gray wool coat open, seemingly unfazed by the London winter sun, a finely carved briar pipe dangling from his mouth.

His gaze swept over the workers who were moving equipment, like an old jailer counting prisoners during their exercise break. Everyone who passed under his eyes felt as if they were being skinned alive by his light gray eyes.

Henry was crouching inside the workshop door, with a Gatling gun standing next to him.

Ten thick steel barrels are arranged in a ring like the cylinder of a revolver, with a huge brass receiver behind the barrels.

Above the receiver is a raised feed port, with a crank handle hanging on its side, polished to a shine.

Henry was taking bullets out of the ammunition box and pressing them into the magazine one by one, pushing them all the way in with his thumb after each press to make sure they were locked before taking out the next bullet.

Richard walked up to Reginald and called out to him, "Reginald, nothing really escapes your eyes."

Reginald took the pipe off his lips and twirled it in his palm.

"You're famous now," he said. "You can't imagine how surprised I was when I heard your name from the royal guards that day."

Richard shrugged. "So you're still in charge of the royal family's security? That's really convenient; you can find out whatever you want anytime."

Reginald shook his head: "Some people may no longer be in that position, but their influence remains."

He didn't continue the conversation and put the pipe back in his mouth.

Richard wanted to roll his eyes, but with Reginald still in front of him, he had to maintain a cooperative attitude.

"Of course." He turned his head to look at Henry and the Gatling gun beside him. "But is this thing necessary?"

Reginald glanced at the brass behemoth as well: "Be careful, it might not end badly."

Richard scratched his chin: "Instead of having him do logistics, why don't you investigate the backgrounds of the factory workers? There are hundreds of them; investigating them one by one will keep you busy for a while."

Reginald took a puff of his pipe and slowly exhaled a large smoke ring. Richard was interested in learning this technique, but unfortunately, he didn't smoke.

"I'm ahead of you. All the workers have clean backgrounds. They're all genuine Londoners, have worked in local factories for at least five years, have no criminal records, haven't received any large sums of money from unknown sources recently, and I haven't even met a single foreigner."

Richard's eyes widened. He quickly calculated in his mind that with hundreds of workers in the factory, the process of recruitment, screening, and background checks would take at least several weeks if following the normal procedure.

Reginald's arrival is unlikely to last more than a week.

He suddenly understood.

"Have you been in contact with my foreman privately?" he asked.

Reginald shook his head meaningfully, took the pipe from his mouth, pressed his thumb against the bowl to extinguish the still-burning tobacco, and stuffed the pipe into his coat pocket.

"Of course I didn't look it up myself," he said to Richard. "I just gave him a list of 'suggested' employees in your name."

Richard put his hands on his hips and took a deep breath: "Stop doing this. He's one of my men."

He could almost picture Sean holding that list, completely unaware that he was being used by Reginald, simply thinking, "The young master's list is so convenient; everyone he recruits is so useful."

Richard didn't want him to get too involved in this conflict.

“No problem,” Reginald nodded, “but it will save you time, and your foreman seems like a reliable person.”

"We've been through some things together," Richard replied.

The two stood side by side, watching the workers move equipment in the morning light.

Henry filled a magazine with bullets, turned the crank handle of the Gatling gun once, and the barrel assembly clicked and turned a few notches.

Just then, the sound of wheels rattling and creaking came from afar.

A gray carriage emerged from the mist and headed toward the shipyard, stopping at the gate. The door was then pushed open.

Frederick Abel got out of the car, one hand on his waist and the other leaning on a walking stick.

His movements were slow, each step as if he were bargaining with his spine.

"Mr. Brian," he approached Richard, "where did you find this godforsaken place? It nearly shook my bones off the way here."

Richard chuckled and glanced at Reginald. "This is a safer position. Like this gentleman just said, it's better to be safe than sorry."

Abel pursed his lips, tucked his walking stick under his arm, and took out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead: "This gentleman doesn't look like a scholar."

"He's more like the security chief here," he added, "but he doesn't work for me."

Upon hearing this, Reginald straightened his back and said, "I work for Her Majesty the Queen."

"Aren't we all?" Abel said jokingly.

He looked at the shipyard with its mottled exterior walls, his brows furrowing into a deep knot.

"This is your lab?" he asked, somewhat disappointed. "I'm starting to wonder if this visit was a mistake."

Richard walked up to him and stretched out his hand towards the door: "There's a whole different world inside. Please, Mr. Abel."

Abel looked at him with some skepticism, then, leaning on his walking stick, stepped onto the stairs.

As he passed by Henry, his attention was momentarily drawn to the Gatling gun and the magazine crammed full of bullets.

He swallowed hard and continued walking into the workshop, with Reginald following behind.

The interior of the workshop has been completely renovated. Gas lamps shine between the iron frames and pipes, and the bright light illuminates the steel behemoth that the workers are taming with wrenches and crowbars, creating a clear contrast between light and shadow.

All the piled-up debris has been cleared away, and white area lines are drawn on the ground, clearly marking each area from the raw material area to the processing area and then to the inspection area. Each area has specific access permissions and cannot be crossed arbitrarily.

The foundation has been poured, and the column is suspended in mid-air by a gantry. Several workers hold its bottom, align it with the anchor bolts, and slowly lower it down. The clanging of the iron chains and the foreman's whistle echo in the empty workshop.