Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

The judge laid the ledger flat on the table, looking in Richard's direction. Soft conversations could be heard from the audience, but were drowned out by the judge's words.

"Appellant," the judge said, "the opposing counsel has raised concerns about the connection between your witness and the Fenia organization. What do you have to say on that point?"

Richard stood up, his movements a little clumsy than usual due to his clothes. He braced himself on the table and began to speak:

"Your Honor, I have crucial evidence on this matter, which is also in that brown paper bag."

The judge lowered his head, reached into the already opened brown paper bag, and took out the file.

The edges of the paper were yellowed, and a faded military stamp was stamped on the cover.

The judge opened the cover, his eyes scanning the words.

"These are service records officially endorsed by the British Army." Richard raised his voice slightly so that the reporters and workers in the back row could hear him. "These records document service during the Crimean War, including numbers, designations, and dates of service."

"My witness was only twenty-one years old when he enlisted, participated in the siege of Sevastopol, and was discharged the following year due to battle wounds," Richard continued. "This record was personally reviewed by Count Edgar, who is currently an honorary major general and a holder of the Order of the Bath."

The audience gasped involuntarily, reporters scribbled rapidly on their notebooks, and workers in the back rows exchanged glances, their eyes filled with respect and a hint of shame, for Finba had almost never mentioned this incident.

Finba froze, staring at the file in the judge's hand, his eyes gleaming slightly.

He assumed those records had long been destroyed, that the army wouldn't keep a file on an Irish wounded soldier, and that his name had been washed away by time into some unknown gutter.

But he was wrong. His name, the rifle he once carried, the days of crawling through sub-zero mud, and charging through artillery fire are still remembered.

The judge put down the file and solemnly turned to look at Finba.

His expression showed not pity, but equal respect.

"Private," the judge said to him, "you can stand up straighter if your body allows. In this courtroom, those who have shed blood for their country do not have to bend over like prisoners."

Finba's lips trembled. He realized that he could still sit up straight, but when he stood up, he unconsciously hunched over. Suffering had made him age too quickly.

He braced himself against the witness stand railing, slowly straightening his back from the curve bent by the years.

Standing in the courtroom now is a soldier with reddened eyes.

The judge looked at him and nodded.

Then he turned to Greenwood's lawyer and asked, "Sir, this soldier survived the siege of Sevastopol. He didn't back down even under Russian gunfire. Do you think he would lie in court because of a few inflammatory words?"

The lawyer's hand was pressed tightly against the law compilation; he hadn't expected this.

He did his homework thoroughly, pored over legal provisions, and prepared more than a dozen defense strategies, but he did not expect that an inconspicuous Irish laborer would be a veteran of the Crimean War.

At this point, Greenwood's face became even more unpleasant, like a piece of moldy cheese.

The lawyer understood that Greenwood himself probably didn't know either.

In his factory, there was no difference between Irishmen and livestock; he didn't care which ship they came from or what they had done.

In the back row of the audience, several workers lowered their voices and let out a short, restrained cheer, clenching their fists and pounding them against their chests. At the same time, the reporter's pen scribbled on his notebook.

Richard knew his chance had come; he had to add fuel to the fire before the judge’s attention was off Finbar.

"Your Honor," he said, "I have one more thing to add regarding Mr. Finbar's health."

The judge nodded slightly to Richard.

“Mr. Finbar was diagnosed with tuberculosis recently,” Richard said. “He went to a good clinic and spent money he had saved for who knows how long. But the doctor didn’t examine him carefully, didn’t even listen to his lungs properly, and just saw his Irish face and his cough, and pronounced: tuberculosis, incurable.”

There was another commotion in the gallery.

In those days, the Irish were almost synonymous with uncleanliness. They lived in crowded, poorly ventilated slums, and doctors in good clinics only examined the wealthy. If they saw an Irishman coughing and pale, they would immediately label him with tuberculosis.

"But that's not tuberculosis," Richard said.

Finba turned his head and looked at Richard, his eyes filled with surprise.

“If it were tuberculosis,” Richard explained, “his family, his coworkers, those who worked with him day and night, sharing the same workstations, should have been infected long ago, but none of them were.”

He raised his hand and pointed at Finba's finger.

All eyes followed his finger as he rested his right hand on the witness stand railing, his fingers thick at the ends, his nails round and protruding like spoons.

"Look at his fingers," Richard pointed. "His fingertips are enlarged, a classic symptom of chronic hypoxia. Mr. Finba, you're coughing up not just blood, but mostly gray phlegm, aren't you?"

Finba opened his mouth in a daze: "...Yes, it started in 1855."

Richard told the judge, "He doesn't have tuberculosis, he has trench lung. On the battlefield in Sevastopol, he dug trenches in mud and icy water, breathing in air mixed with black powder smoke. Repeated bouts of pneumonia turned his lungs into two inelastic lumps of old leather."

"He coughed for over a decade because while he was fighting for this country, he inhaled gunpowder ash into his lungs that he could never expel for the rest of his life," Richard added.

His words were resounding, and the courtroom fell into a deathly silence.

Finba raised his hands, then lowered them, then raised them again, and finally covered his eyes.

Tears silently seeped through his fingers; he made no sound, but his shoulders were trembling.

"You mean..." He lowered his hand, his eyes already brimming with tears, "I don't have to die?"

Richard took a deep breath, trying to steady his voice.

"I'm afraid everyone dies sooner or later, Finba," he said, "but you won't die this year, nor next year. You'll live much longer than you think, and it may be painful, the winters may be harder than for others, but you'll still be alive."

Finba bent over again, his head buried in his arms, his mouth agape, like a fish thrown ashore, gasping for breath.

He told himself the Bible story countless times, but he could not soothe his fear of death and regret for life. Richard freed him from his fear.

The commotion in the gallery could no longer be contained; someone shouted "Good!", while others wiped their eyes with the back of their hands. A young Irish worker stood up, only to be pulled back to his seat by the person next to him, and the reporter's pen seemed to be on fire.

The wooden mallet struck down.

thump.

"Quiet!" The judge's voice wasn't loud, but it immediately silenced most of the noise in the gallery, leaving only a few suppressed sobs and the rustling of the recorder.

The judge put down his gavel and said to Richard, "Mr. Richard, you've turned the courtroom into a personal stage."

Richard swallowed hard, realizing he had gotten a little carried away; this was a courtroom.

"I'm so sorry, Your Honor," he said, bowing his head in apology. "I lost my composure."

The people in the gallery held their breath, thinking the judge was about to lose his temper and reprimand Richard, and that the trial, which had finally taken a turn for the better, was about to be interrupted.

The judge raised his gavel again, but did not strike.

"But it's very touching," he said.

Richard looked up and noticed that the line at the corner of the judge's mouth was no longer so stiff, and that his usually stern face revealed something soft.

"Thank you, Your Honor," Richard replied.

"The facts of this case are clear enough." The judge resumed his professional and calm tone. "Defendant Greenwood, the evidence against you for the multiple charges of bribing customs officials, discrimination and abuse of workers, employing child laborers, threats and intimidation, etc., is conclusive."

Greenwood's handkerchief was soaked, and he lowered his head, revealing only a pair of bloodless, grayish-white ears.

"This court hereby renders the following ruling," the judge solemnly stated. "First, Greenwood is fined... three thousand pounds."

The audience gasped in shock.

This was by no means a small sum, even for Greenwood. You have to understand that at that time, a low-level laborer might not be able to earn a pound even after a week of hard work.

"Second, the Greenwood factory is to be closed immediately and is prohibited from any production activities, as well as the transfer or sale of any equipment, raw materials and finished products within the factory, until the Central Criminal Court makes a formal trial. The case file will be transferred to Old Bailey Street."

The judge adjusted his wig, as if giving everyone time to process the verdict.

Court adjourned.

Boom!

The gavel came down again.

A low cheer erupted from the gallery. The workers in the gallery stood up, clapped, patted the shoulders of the people next to them, and some even took off their hats and waved them in the air.

The reporters closed their notebooks, clipped pencils to their ears, and began brainstorming headlines for tomorrow's front page.