Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

Richard shook his hand; his palm was dry and strong, and he smelled of tobacco.

"It's not exactly a story," Richard said, releasing his grip and sitting in the leather chair Connor had indicated, "but there's a lot of trouble."

Connor returned to his chair, picked up a large cigar, and twirled it under his nose. "I'd be very happy to learn more."

He cut off the top third of the eggplant cap with a scissor, slid a match on it, and lit a meaningful smile.

"Well then," Connor leaned back in his chair, "let's start with that tabloid. Someone said you're a friend of Irish terrorists. Are you?"

"no."

Have you had any contact with the Fenia Brotherhood?

"no."

"Do you support their bombing of Crackenwell Jail?"

"I don't support it," Richard replied seriously. "Bombing innocent civilians is a terrorist attack in any country."

Connor nodded slowly and took out a small newspaper from the wastepaper bin next to him, exactly the same as the one near Richard's factory.

"These kinds of tabloids aren't just appearing at your factory; they've appeared in several places in East and West London," Connor said. "Are you sure it's Mr. Greenwood's doing?"

Richard glanced at the wastepaper bin again. It was new, as if it had been emptied not long ago. Inside were only that newspaper and a few paper balls.

He immediately understood that Connor was making a statement to him: The Times did not believe such rumors, but they also did not care about his reputation.

Richard needs to come up with something more substantial.

He thought for a moment, then took out the letter from the Ministry of War from his inner pocket. Instead of handing it over, he placed it on the table and pressed it down with his palm.

“Mr. Connor, before you read this letter, let me say something first.” Richard looked at Connor. “I’m not here to ask you to clear my name. I’m here to give you a story, a true story about shady business competition and Fennia’s slander. This story can sell in the newspapers.”

"Very good," Connor stared at the War Department's wax seal on the letter. "Now I'm interested."

Richard removed his hand and pushed the envelope across the table.

Connor took the envelope, pulled out the letter, and read it word by word.

Finally, Connor looked up: "This letter is real, now I understand."

"What do you mean?"

"The arms industry in London is only so big," Connor said, taking a puff of his cigar. "You got the army contract, but he didn't, so you cut off his source of income, which is why he resorted to such underhanded tactics."

Connor, being a newspaper editor, had an even sharper sense of smell than Richard had anticipated.

"Do you know our newspaper's boss?" he suddenly asked.

"Of course, I've heard of John Water III, the Conservative MP," Richard said politely, though in reality Water III was far less famous than his father.

"Mr. Walter's attitude toward the Irish was complicated," Connor said, turning around. "During the famine of 1845, he was among the first to call for government aid for Ireland. He sympathized with the Irish who were starving, but..."

"Bombs and assassinations undermine the unity of the United Kingdom. This isn't patriotism; it's crime." Connor flicked his cigarette ash. "Mr. Brian, your story is valuable, but if you want our help, you must first answer one question: Do you agree with Mr. Walter's viewpoint?"

Richard realized that he was testing whether he supported the conservative opinion of suppressing the Fennia movement.

Connor's words went through his mind and bumped into something else: Sean, Sierra and her son, and the Irish workers in the factory.

Most Irish workers sympathized with Fenia's goals: Irish independence and resistance against British oppression, although they did not necessarily support violent means.

If he publicly declares that "Fenia is a dangerous element threatening the unity of the Empire," how will they view themselves?

They would feel that they had sided with the British government and betrayed their fellow Irishmen.

Even though he had just saved an Irish mother and child, and even though his foreman Sean was Irish.

Richard pondered for a moment, then said, "I agree."

Connor's eyes flickered, his expression unreadable, whether it was approval or disappointment: "In that case..."

“But,” Richard interrupted him, “if my story is to be published, you must quote me verbatim.”

Connor paused for a moment, then snapped his fingers. His secretary then pushed open the door and entered; it turned out he had been standing at the door the whole time.

"Speak, Mr. Brian," the secretary said, holding a notebook, ready to write down his words.

Richard cleared his throat: "I hereby publicly declare that I have no connection whatsoever with the Fenian movement. I am merely a humble merchant who supplies weapons to Her Majesty's army. But I do not believe that violence is the solution, and mere repression cannot bring true peace."

He paused, then continued, "I believe that only through just reforms can the conflict between Ireland and Great Britain be resolved."

Upon hearing these words, Connor's expression changed, as if a different person was sitting in front of him, and he even showed a hint of admiration.

The secretary finished taking notes and handed the notebook to Connor.

"You sound like a politician now," Connor read from his notebook. "I'll have the reporter write this down exactly as it is, and then find a good reporter to write this story."

"Thank you," Richard stood up. "Tomorrow morning at ten o'clock, at my factory, I will prepare all the materials I can provide, and send someone to pick them up then."

Connor stood up and held out his hand: "Deal."

Richard shook his hand, turned and walked toward the door, his secretary following behind him: "Mr. Brian, I'll see you downstairs."

"No need," Richard said. "I'll go myself."

He walked down the stairs, where it was still noisy. A little boy carrying a stack of papers ran past him and almost bumped into him.

"Excuse me, sir!" the boy called out without turning his head and disappeared at the end of the corridor.

Richard pushed open the door, and a gust of cold wind rushed into his collar, making him shrink back.

"Sir, going home?" the driver asked.

"go home."

The carriage started moving slowly. Richard leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and thought, "This is all I can do today."

When he got home, the first thing he did was tell Harold, "Go to the market tomorrow and buy me some things."

"What would you like to buy, young master?"

"Gingerbread," Richard paused, "the thinner the better."

The housekeeper nodded and then directed the workers to repair the glass.

The day after tomorrow is the hanging. He has seen prints of public executions from the 19th century: gallows, corpses suspended in mid-air, and cheering crowds. Just thinking about it makes his stomach churn.

He had to go on an empty stomach and bring some gingerbread to help him settle down, so he wouldn't throw up on the spot.

Richard went upstairs, took off his coat, and stood by the bed in a daze, now only able to hope that Eleanor's intelligence could help him fight back.

He lay down on the bed, pressed his head down with a pillow, and drifted off to sleep.