Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

Richard stayed up all night not because another stone had shattered his glass, but because he had too many things weighing on his mind.

The article on the front page of The Times did indeed generate quite a reaction.

The article took up almost an entire page, written by a seasoned journalist who started with Richard's legitimate arms dealership, moved on to Army orders, and then abruptly shifted the focus to the tabloids:

"How an industrialist who supplies weapons to Her Majesty the Queen's army was smeared overnight as an accomplice of terrorists."

The article did not directly name Greenwood, but it was full of implications: "Some competitors are taking advantage of the public outrage over the Claykenwell bombing to smear their peers with despicable means."

The ending quotes Richard's statement verbatim.

"I hereby publicly declare that I have no affiliation with the Fenia movement..."

Richard should be happy, even though he doesn't know how many workers will read The Times, but at least Greenwood will feel a moment of discomfort upon seeing the paper. Those customers still observing, or those suppliers hesitating because of the rumors, will reconsider.

But he couldn't be happy because Sean was still lying at home.

Last night, a worker ran to the factory to report that Sean had collapsed in an alley near the dormitory, his face covered in blood.

Richard was checking accounts in his office when he heard the news, so he dropped his pen and ran out.

When the carriage arrived, Sean had already been carried to the roadside by several workers and was sitting against the wall. Half of his face was so swollen that he was unrecognizable, and the blood at the corner of his mouth had dried and formed a layer of dark red scab.

They helped Sean into the carriage, told the driver to turn around and head towards Southwark, and then sent someone to fetch a doctor. Sean didn't say a word the whole way, just kept his eyes closed and leaned back in his chair.

The Southwark district, located on the south bank of the Thames, not far from Richard's mansion, felt like another world. The streets were potholed, the houses lined up in rows, and you could see the smoke billowing from the factory chimneys across the river.

The carriage stopped in front of one of the detached houses. Richard helped Sean out of the carriage and knocked on the door.

The door opened, and a slender girl stood in the doorway, wearing a simple dark dress. Her face shape was somewhat similar to Sean's, but her eyes were dark brown, like two chestnuts that had just been washed by the rain.

When she saw Sean's appearance, her face turned pale.

"elder brother!"

She quickly went up to help Sean into the house. The house was spotless. A white tablecloth was laid on the wooden table in the living room, with delicate hand-crocheted patterns on the edges. The stitches were even, showing that it had taken a long time to make. A portrait of the Virgin Mary hung on the wall.

Together they settled Sean into bed. Catherine's eyes were fixed intently on the injured Sean, but she also glanced at Richard from time to time, clearly uncomfortable with strangers in the house.

Richard quickly introduced himself: "I'm Richard Brian, Sean's employer."

"Oh, Mr. Brian!" Catherine's eyes immediately filled with gratitude, and she nervously clasped her hands. "We...we have to do something! I'll go get the doctor right away!"

"It's alright, I've already sent people over, it shouldn't be long," Richard said.

"Thank you, thank you so much!" She sat down by Sean's bedside. "Brother, what happened? Who hit you?"

"I don't know him." Sean turned his head away, preventing her from seeing.

Richard knew he was lying, but he didn't call him out. Instead, he said to Catherine, "Could you go get some tea?"

Catherine then noticed Sean's shriveled lips and quickly stood up to make tea.

Richard moved closer and asked him, "Sean, who did this? Tell me."

"A tall, bald man..." His lips moved slightly, "and four children."

"If the police bring people here, can you identify them?"

"Don't bring the police to my house, young master..." Sean looked at Richard, his tone almost pleading.

"Here it comes, the tea is here." Catherine brought out the brewed tea and fed Sean a few sips, and Richard also shut his mouth.

About ten minutes later, the doctor arrived. He was a man in his fifties, carrying a brown leather suitcase, with a large beard, and wearing pince-nez glasses.

He frowned as soon as he entered the room and saw Catherine. He didn't greet her or even look at her. Instead, he glanced at the image of the Virgin Mary hanging on the wall and then walked into the bedroom with his head down.

"Mr. Brian, where is the patient?" His tone was very professional.

"This is the one. Thank you for your help, Doctor," Richard instructed.

Sean lay on the bed as the doctor knelt down to examine his injuries. The doctor pressed on his ribs, pried open his mouth to look at his teeth, and finally focused his attention on his right hand.

His fingers were swollen like sausages, the skin at his joints was purple, and his forearms were covered in cuts.

"This hand," the doctor said, "if it had been brought in any later, it might have suffered permanent damage and wouldn't be able to grip things anymore."

Catherine stood to the side, her hands gripping the hem of her dress tightly.

"And now?" Richard asked.

"It can still be treated." The doctor simply washed his hands, instructed Catherine to prepare hot water and linen, and then took out cotton swabs and alcohol.

Catherine brought over a basin of hot water and a stack of clean cloths. The doctor took the cloths, dipped them in the water, and carefully wiped away the scabs on Sean's face.

The movements weren't gentle, but they were very careful. Catherine stood beside her, clutching another piece of cloth in her hand, wanting to help but unsure where to begin.

Next, the doctor began to disinfect his wound with alcohol: "I cleaned his wound and bandaged it. Fortunately, his ribs were not broken, but he needs to rest and cannot work for at least a month."

Sean was about to say something when Richard pressed down on his shoulder: "You heard me? One month. Don't worry, you'll still get paid."

"Are you his sister?" the doctor asked Catherine.

"Yes, sir."

Are there any other men in the house?

"My father has passed away."

The doctor nodded, and after disinfecting all the wounds, he took out two splints from his bag and immobilized Sean's arm.

"Bear with it." Then he wrapped the bandages around the wound layer by layer, and finally pulled hard.

"Hiss." Sean took a deep breath, and fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

"Alright." The doctor straightened up, took a small brown bottle from his suitcase, and handed it to Catherine. "This is tincture of opium, for oral administration. Use a dropper to draw fifteen drops each time, diluted with half a cup of warm water."

"Okay, thank you, doctor." Catherine carefully accepted the small bottle, but Richard looked at it with apprehension.

Tincture of opium, hailed as the "aspirin of the 19th century," was considered a panacea for pain relief. However, it was in fact a potent narcotic poison.

"Also," the doctor glanced at Sean, "you can't use your right hand for at least four to six weeks, not even turning a doorknob."

The doctor packed his briefcase, stood up, and Richard took out some money from his pocket and handed it to him: "This is the consultation fee, plus any follow-up costs."

The doctor took the money and glanced at it; it was more than he had expected.

He glanced at Richard, then stuffed the money into the inside pocket of his vest: "That's enough. I'll be back in three days. If you develop a fever or your wounds become infected during this time, have someone come find me. This is my address."

He pulled a business card from a hidden compartment in his suitcase and handed it to him.

Catherine thanked the doctor again and saw him out.