Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

The word "tense" is insufficient to describe the current situation. This comes after the government characterized the Crackenwell bombing as a "barbaric act against ordinary citizens."

Even Londoners who had previously sympathized with the Irish were now enraged and pushed into the arms of anti-Irish rallies. After all, one cannot expect the working class to be blown up for the glory of Fennia.

"The Fennia Brotherhood, do you know anything about them?" Richard asked.

"Besides the fact that they're a bunch of brutes and have ruined the reputation of the entire Irish community, I don't understand them," Eleanor shook her head. "And the London police are watching them, so I don't want to get involved."

Not only the London police, but also the Secret Service, the precursor to British intelligence, was specifically designed to monitor the Fenian movement. It was understandable that Eleanor, as a Prussian spy, would keep his distance from them.

Richard pondered for a moment before asking, "Could you investigate Greenwood again? Focus on his attitude towards people of Irish descent."

"You figured out who's messing with you so quickly?" Eleanor walked to the table, a cigarette between his fingers.

“I don’t have that many enemies in London,” Richard said, watching Eleanor flick her ash into a shell-shaped ashtray. “Greenwood is one, and the guy who smashed my window last night is another, but he’s probably one of his men too.”

"So you want my help?" Eleanor smiled faintly, like a cat holding a mouse by the tail.

“Yes,” Richard said, “I need your help.”

"Okay," Eleanor said, stubbing out his cigarette, "but you have to promise me one thing."

"What is it?"

"I haven't decided yet."

Richard frowned. "What do you mean, 'haven't thought it through yet'?"

"I don't need you for anything right now. I'll let you know when I've thought it through," Eleanor said, sitting down. "I don't want to hear you dawdle around then."

"What will you ask me to do?" Richard asked, somewhat worried.

"Don't worry, I won't let you kill or set fires, nor will I let you betray Britain." She rested her chin on her hand. "Agree, and I'll help you; otherwise, you can go play with Greenwood yourself."

Richard hesitated. If Greenwood were truly a famous historical figure, he wouldn't need to ask Eleanor for help, but right now he didn't have many options.

"Fine," he said, "I owe you one."

"Deal," Eleanor's eyes lit up. "See you at Newgate Prison the day after tomorrow."

Richard was confused: "Newgate Prison? Why go there?"

"You didn't know?" Eleanor raised an eyebrow. "The perpetrator of the Crackenwell bombing is going to be publicly hanged there the day after tomorrow. Londoners love watching that; it's even more exciting than Christmas."

Richard's stomach clenched. He knew that public executions still existed in the 19th century, but he never thought he would go to see one himself.

"You want me to watch a hanging?"

“I want you to meet me there,” Eleanor corrected him. “The more people there are, the less likely you are to be noticed. Everyone’s eyes are on the gallows, and no one will care about two people talking in a corner.”

Richard sighed helplessly, turned around and opened the studio door: "Don't be late."

"That's what I should be saying."

Richard turned and left. As he passed through the lobby, Millie was tidying up a row of cloaks hanging on a rack. When she saw him come out, she gave him a slight bow.

"Take care."

"Hmm." Richard nodded his thanks and went out the door.

The light outside was much brighter than inside, so he squinted and flagged down a carriage.

"Where to, sir?" the driver asked.

Richard thought for a moment. Going back to the factory now would be pointless except for staring at the empty assembly lines. He might as well go to the dormitory. Sean had settled Sierra and her son there, and he wanted to see what the workers' living conditions were like.

So the carriage headed straight for the workers' dormitory.

Richard paid the fare, jumped out of the car, and looked around.

The area was filled with rows of brick houses, most of the paint on the window frames had peeled off, the streets were narrow, and the stone slabs were full of potholes and puddles of last night's rainwater.

A few children were kicking a ball made of old strips of cloth at the alley entrance when they saw Richard get off the carriage and curiously gathered around.

"Hey kids," Richard crouched down, gesturing with his hands, "Do you know a kid named Eamon, redheaded, about this tall?"

The children shook their heads, their eyes fixed on Richard's impeccably pressed suit and gleaming shoes.

"Here's what we'll do," Richard said, pulling a few shillings from his pocket. "Go buy a real ball, but if you see him, you have to invite him to play with you."

The children remained silent. The boy at the front reached out and took the shilling, flipped it in his palm, and then quickly stuffed it into his pocket, as if afraid Richard would change his mind.

"Thank you, sir!" The boy grinned, revealing a row of gums with a missing front tooth.

"Go," Richard stood up. "Remember, Aemon, the redhead."

The children scattered in a flurry, and the broken ball was blown by the wind and rolled to the corner of the wall.

Richard turned and walked into the alley, finding the entrance to the third row of houses, the iron gate half-closed.

He pushed open the door and went in. At the end of the corridor was a small courtyard with a pile of coal in the middle and several shovels on the side.

A familiar figure was squatting on the ground, filling a bucket with coal briquettes using a broken iron basin.

"Sean," Richard called out.

Sean looked up, a dark mark on his face. Seeing that it was Richard, he quickly stood up: "Young Master, what brings you here?"

"Let's take a look." Richard walked over, glanced at the metal basin, which contained coal briquettes of varying sizes, some already crumbled into dust. "Where did these coal briquettes come from?"

"It's from the factory, one barrel a week." Sean wiped his sweat. "They all say this winter is especially cold, and I'm worried it won't be enough to fuel, so I'm packing a little extra to add a stove for Sera and the others' room tonight."

Richard bent down, picked up a piece of coal from the pile, and squeezed it.

It has a very soft texture, which means it contains a lot of impurities, resulting in a lot of smoke and low calorie content when burned. This is the cheapest type, and it's used in almost every household in East London.

"Young master, you'd better not touch it, you'll get your hands dirty." Sean tried to stop him, but his hands were already covered in coal dust.

"I'm not that precious," Richard tossed the coal briquette back into the pile, clapped his hands, and asked, "Where do Sera and the others live?"

"Come with me, young master." Sean put down the basin and pushed open a wooden door in the courtyard.

The iron-framed bed in the room was against the wall, covered with a coarse cloth sheet and a faded blanket. There was only an oil lamp on the table, the wick of which was turned very small, and the flame was only the size of a soybean.

Sera sat on the edge of the bed, sewing an old coat, while Eamon squatted in the corner, drawing tic-tac-toe on the floor with a stick.

Seeing Richard enter, Sera quickly stood up. "Mr. Brian!" she exclaimed, somewhat flustered. "What brings you here..."

"Let's see how you've settled in," Richard said, looking around. "How's the food?"

"Good, very good." Sera nodded repeatedly. "Mr. Sean brought us bread and salt, and a small piece of butter. Eamon ate two bowls of porridge yesterday, much more than he ate on the street."

Richard glanced at Eamon, who was standing in the corner, still clutching the stick in his hand.

"He's not talkative?" Richard asked.

"Before... not many people talked to him." Sera's voice was a little softer.

Richard nodded: "He can go out and have more fun; there are many people his age here."

Sean wiped the coal dust from his hands onto his pants: "Young master, the dormitory conditions aren't great, but they're much better than the workhouse. At least the mother and son can still be together."

Sean was telling the truth. In those days, a worker's dormitory with a bed and a stove was considered quite good.

He treated his workers better than most factories in the East End; at least he didn't delay wages or make workers sleep on a rope.

But it's not much better.

"Sean," Richard turned around, "tomorrow you go buy two thick blankets and a bag of good coal, deliver them to Sera's house, and then come find me to settle the score."

"Yes, young master."

"Also," he glanced at Aemon's worn-out shoes, "find Aemon a good pair of shoes; it's getting cold."