Chapter 733: An Essay on the Principle of Population
South Bank of the Thames – 3:00 PM
At the dockside, workers called out to each other, putting down their loads and gathering behind a warehouse, shielding themselves from the wind.
It was tea break—a short 20-minute rest.
But these days, tea was becoming a rarity.
Most of the men were gnawing on black bread.
A few lucky ones had weak, barely sweetened tea, drawing envious glances from the others.
Just then, a man in a relatively clean black coat walked among them, speaking in hushed tones.
After a short while, he approached Andy's father, Scott, and patted him on the shoulder.
Glancing at Scott's cup of plain water, he sighed.
"Scott, things have been rough lately, haven't they?"
Scott looked up, recognizing him as a union man, and nodded dejectedly.
The man glanced toward the overseers, then lowered his voice:
"Damn it, sugar is already outrageously expensive, and these greedy bastards are still cutting our wages!"
Scott nodded again, firmly.
The man continued, "We're planning a strike next Wednesday. We'll march to Downing Street to protest—demand higher wages and lower sugar prices. This is important. You have to come with us."
Scott's eyes widened in alarm.
He stammered, "I… I can't. If I get fired, my family will starve…"
"What are you afraid of? We're all in this together. They can't fire everyone. Who'll unload the merchant ships if we're all gone?"
Scott shook his head.
"No, no… If this gets out of hand, they'll throw us in jail."
A balding worker nearby overheard and joined the conversation.
"Scott, we have to fight back!"
"But—"
The bald man leaned in and whispered:
"Two days ago, I saw Anna on Bard Street."
Scott froze.
He knew exactly what Bard Street was.
But still, he clung to denial.
"She… was just passing by, right?"
The man hesitated before sighing.
"No… she was working there."
Scott's face turned deathly pale.
He buried his hands in his hair, his breath shaking.
A few days ago, Anna had given him some money, saying she earned it by sewing clothes for people.
He believed her.
Now, he realized the awful truth.
After a long silence, he suddenly stood up, eyes red with fury.
"Fine. I'm in."
St. James's Palace
In a royal corridor, Sir Stewart embraced Prime Minister Pitt.
"My dear friend," he whispered, "you are the best of us. You will prevail."
Pitt patted him on the back and nodded.
"You always know how to steady my heart. Thank you for your unwavering support."
"It is my duty."
Sir Stewart released him and gestured toward the hallway.
"His Majesty is in good spirits. Go on."
King George III had returned from his Windsor retreat, meaning his illness had temporarily stabilized.
Not thanks to Dr. Willis's bizarre treatments of leeches and beatings, of course.
Porphyria simply came and went—after a bad episode, it often subsided on its own.
Pitt entered the chamber, bowing to the king, who was reading a book.
"Your Majesty, it gladdens my heart to see you in good health."
George III glanced up briefly.
"I know you have much to deal with, Prime Minister. Speak plainly."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Pitt straightened his posture.
"To be frank, the situation is dire."
"Hmm."
"Sugar prices continue to skyrocket. We are spending nearly a million pounds a month on subsidies, yet the shortages persist. Unemployment is rising. Protests are growing. And trade… is faltering."
The King nodded.
"What do you propose?"
Pitt took a deep breath.
"We must act sooner than planned."
"Are you prepared?"
Pitt stood tall.
"Yes, Your Majesty. We will form a coalition of at least five major powers, mobilizing over 300,000 troops. With our naval supremacy, the Marquis of Wellington believes the war can be concluded within six months."
The King's eyes sharpened.
"Then do it. You have my full support."
"Thank you, Your Majesty. However, before we launch this war, we must first stabilize the home front."
"Go on."
"First, taxes must be raised to finance the war. I will need Your Majesty's influence in Parliament to ensure the bill passes."
Pitt's Tory Party did not have a majority in Parliament.
The Whigs were likely to oppose a large-scale tax increase.
Although the British monarchy was officially neutral, the King still held considerable influence over MPs.
George III nodded.
"You have my word."
Pitt bowed gratefully.
"Thank you, Your Majesty. Additionally, I must request the temporary suspension of Habeas Corpus—allowing us to ban protests and public speeches, and arrest radical leaders.
"I also seek to pass the 'Illegal Workers' Combination Act', which will prevent workers from striking and resorting to violence."
*(Note: These were real historical policies Britain enacted—although in reality, they were implemented a decade later.)
Both proposals would face fierce resistance in Parliament.
But during wartime, drastic measures became more acceptable.
Without hesitation, George III nodded again.
"Do as you must."
Then, something occurred to him.
"Oh, do you know Reverend Malthus?"
Pitt nodded.
"Yes, Your Majesty. He is a brilliant thinker in social management and human development."
The King lifted a manuscript in his hand.
"This is his latest work—An Essay on the Principle of Population. Some of his ideas are… quite fascinating."
He read aloud:
"Malthus argues that humans always reproduce excessively. When there are too many people, society naturally divides—
The wealthy, educated, and moralThe poor, unfortunate, ignorant, and immoral
Thus, plagues, famines, and wars are necessary—to limit population and restore social balance.
Furthermore, there is no need to improve the conditions of the lower classes. Allowing them to perish is more beneficial to society."
The King lowered the pages and suggested:
"Perhaps you should invite Reverend Malthus to speak in Parliament. His ideas might reduce the opposition you face."
Pitt nodded, a slow smirk forming.
"An excellent suggestion, Your Majesty. I will see to it."
Suddenly—
Loud shouting erupted outside St. James's Palace.
Phrases like "Lower sugar prices!" and "Raise our wages!" rang through the air.
Pitt hurried to the window.
A massive crowd—over a thousand strong—was marching toward 10 Downing Street.
They carried effigies and banners, banging drums as they stormed through the streets.
The uprising had begun.
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