Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

The bar counter was scarred with maps by sour beer, and the kerosene lamps radiated a murky halo under the low ceiling. This was where the workers chatted and vented their emotions after get off work.

The men in the tavern pounded their fists on the table, cursed the foreman, and spat into the spittoon.

Richard wasn't wearing a tuxedo today; instead, he was completely covered up in a thick tweed jacket and a pair of durable work pants.

He was here to meet someone, an Irish worker named Finbar, who, according to Eleanor's intelligence, was quite influential in the Greenwood factory. If he could persuade Finbar, he could win over half the workers.

The tavern door was pushed open, and two people walked in. The one in front was Finba, around forty years old, thin but muscular, like a withered willow bent by the wind.

He was wearing a canvas jacket, and there was an old burn scar on the back of his hand that snaked from the base of his fingers to his wrist. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot.

The young man following behind was not yet twenty, wearing a jacket that was clearly two sizes too big, with the cuffs rolled up several times, and his face still showed naivety and confusion.

Richard didn't step forward immediately. Instead, he held his glass of wine and kept an eye on the two men's movements.

Finba ordered two cheap drinks for himself and the young man, and they sat not far from Richard, chatting about something. Every now and then, Finba could be heard coughing, and Richard could vaguely make out a few words:

"Hey, kid, listen up... don't push yourself. In gunpowder loading, one puff of lead is like losing a year of your life..." Finba took a swig of beer. "I've seen too many young people like you collapse on the assembly line..."

He kept talking about how to avoid dangerous jobs and techniques for getting more work done.

The young man kept nodding, like a chick pecking at rice.

After waiting for about ten minutes, Richard picked up his glass and went over.

"Excuse me," he said, stopping at the table, "may I sit here?"

Finba glanced at him warily, his gaze falling on the hand holding the wine glass. It wasn't exactly clean, with no wounds or calluses, and it certainly wasn't a worker's hand.

"Go somewhere else, this isn't a place for you," Finba dismissed him.

"I came here specifically to see you." Richard put down his glass, trying to appear as harmless as possible.

The young man behind Finba was clearly nervous; he gripped his wine glass with both hands, avoiding Richard's gaze.

"Who are you?" Finba hunched over, using his arm to block their path. "A policeman? A reporter?"

"Neither."

"Then why did you come to me?" Finba frowned. "I don't know you, and I don't want any trouble. If you have anything to do, go find the foreman, don't come to me."

Richard knew why he was so wary: Greenwood had threatened the workers with the workhouse and the police, crushing their bones to use as whistles, so they dared not say a word to strangers.

“I know how Greenwood treated you,” Richard said in a low voice. “I know he made the Irish do the most dangerous jobs, paid them the least, and threatened to send you to the workhouse if you caused trouble.”

Finba's eyes narrowed: "You...you're from Brian's Armory?"

"Yes, how did you know?" Richard nodded.

"The foreman warned us that anyone who used such language was either a reporter or someone from our factory," Finba said. "They said you were an accomplice of Fenia and told us to tell you to get lost the moment we saw you."

"But you're still talking to me."

"That's because I want that bastard to get the hell out of here."

Richard chuckled and pushed his glass towards the edge of the table. "I have to thank that jerk. If he weren't so annoying, I'd be home by now."

Finba's lips twitched slightly, and his expression didn't seem as tense as before.

"So you're here to poach people?" Finba asked.

“I’m here to discuss a partnership,” Richard said, looking at him. “You can help me take down Greenwood.”

"Help you?" Finba sneered. "I heard he's already done a lot to you. Why should I help you?"

"Because I'm the one who got the government contract, not him," Richard replied calmly.

Finba's expression froze. He pondered for a while, glanced at the younger man beside him, and then, as if to bolster his courage, drank the beer in his glass.

"You want us to go on strike?" he asked Richard, turning to him.

“It’s not a strike,” Richard leaned closer to him. “If you strike, Greenwood will call the police in a fit of anger, and you’ll be at a disadvantage. I just need you to slow down.”

Finba was stunned: "Slow down?"

"Yes, work that should have been done in one day was dragged out to two days, and only eight parts were produced when ten were supposed to be made." Richard looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, and added, "You don't need to move everyone. Start with the people you trust, one batch at a time."

"At this rate, it won't be long before my brothers and I are starving." Finba turned his head and coughed a few times.

"My factory is always ready to welcome anyone who gets laid off."

Finba's finger stopped on the table: "Your factory? You work for us?"

"I work for people who are willing to work, regardless of their nationality, only whether they have a skill." Richard said sincerely, but Finba's eyes were still full of doubt.

Finba stared at Richard for a long time, the light of the kerosene lamp making the wrinkles on his face appear even deeper. The young man behind him shrank into his chair, barely daring to breathe, his toes shuffling on the ground.

"You said your factory welcomes us anytime," Finba said, propping his elbow on the table, "but words are worthless."

Richard understood his meaning: "You want a written guarantee?"

"It has to be in black and white, with your name on it." Finbar nodded. "Not some nonsense like 'I hereby declare,' it has to be clearly stated: If Greenwood fires my fellow countrymen for shirking work, your factory must take them in, not a single one can be left behind."

"Sure," Richard agreed without hesitation.

"Also," Finba held up a finger, "we can't mobilize everyone at once. We should start with those who have no families and aren't afraid of being fired, and do it in batches. If something goes wrong, I can't let everyone get involved."

"I agree."

Finba looked him over again, seemingly unable to believe that this young man would make such a generous promise.

But it's a done deal that he won the large government contract, and if they stay at the Greenwood factory, it's only a matter of time before they die from exhaustion on the assembly line.

Finbar sighed. "I can help you, but remember, we're not helping you take down Greenwood; we're helping ourselves."

"I know," Richard said, extending his hand to him.

Finba hesitated for a moment. No one had ever extended a hand to him as an equal, as if he were closing a big business deal. He had simply accepted it day after day for decades.

Finba stood up from his seat and solemnly shook Richard's outstretched hand.

"If you truly want to help me, I will do so without hesitation," he said. "But if you lie to me, even if I die, I will drag you down to hell with me."

"Okay," Richard chuckled, "then reserve a spot for Greenwood in hell for me in advance, because he's definitely going to be there eventually."

His words finally amused Finba, who grinned and chuckled twice.

"By the way," Richard glanced at the murky liquid in his glass, "keep an eye on the Times these next couple of days; my story should be out soon."

Finba scratched his head: "I can't read."

There was a moment of silence among the three, and the gaslight above them flickered. The young man behind Finba spoke, his voice barely audible: "I...I know a few words."

Finba turned to look at him. The young man shrank back, mustered his courage, and repeated, "I went to church school for two years. I can read, but I'm slow."

"That's enough," Richard tugged at his sleeve. "It's enough that you recognize me, that you can understand the title and my name."

"Alright," Finbar turned to the door, "bring the written guarantee, and we'll begin."

The young man also stood up and followed Finba as the two left the bar.