Chapter 734: The Terrifying Fleet
St. James's Palace
Pitt barely frowned.
With a simple gesture, he signaled a court official to close the massive white windows, shutting out the noise from outside.
Then, he turned back to continue his discussion with King George III on how to prevent the opposition from obstructing his plans in Parliament.
He had long anticipated protests and riots—his preparations were already in place.
In fact, the Security Committee had mobilized 5,000 militia troops two months ago.
And these weren't just ragtag soldiers—in wealthy London, militias were often better equipped than the regular army.
Even in America's early years, the founding fathers copied Britain's model, relying on militias instead of a standing army.
Sure enough, within minutes, the steady beat of military drums echoed from the north side of Downing Street.
A large militia battalion marched in perfect formation toward St. James's Palace.
Rows of gleaming bayonets lined the street like a forest of steel.
A mounted officer rode ahead, loudly ordering the crowd to disperse.
But the desperate workers began burning effigies with the names of politicians and factory owners, their chants growing louder:
"Lower sugar prices!"
"Stop cutting wages!"
"We have the right to live!"
"Prime Minister Pitt, come out and face us!"
The officer waited.
He repeated his warning several times.
Yet the protesters refused to leave, instead pushing forward.
At last, he gave a signal:
"Break them up!"
"Yes, sir!"
The front row of militia soldiers advanced in step with the drumbeat, wielding long wooden batons and striking down the protesters.
In response, the crowd fought back—swinging sticks, shovels, and stones.
From the rear, workers hurled bricks at the militia.
The streets of St. James's erupted into chaos.
King George III glanced at the windows before turning back to Pitt.
"You must defeat our enemies swiftly," he said, "or this unrest will spiral out of control."
"I understand, Your Majesty. You have my word."
The King nodded and resumed reading An Essay on the Principle of Population.
"Remember," he murmured, "you may only get one chance."
Outside, the violence escalated.
A stone the size of an egg struck an officer's shield.
His expression darkened.
He drew his pistol—and fired a warning shot into the air.
Immediately, the militiamen raised their muskets, bayonets gleaming.
The baton-wielding troops stepped aside, leaving the protesters fully exposed to the gun barrels.
The leaders of the march hesitated.
One of them, desperate to calm the crowd, raised his arm and shouted:
"Don't be afraid! We are only here to speak to the Prime Minister—they won't dare fire!"
"Keep moving! We need fair sugar prices—"
Before he could finish—
Gunfire rang out.
The frontline protesters collapsed—three shot dead, and dozens more wounded.
The surviving leader, shaking with terror, turned and fled.
The crowd panicked, scattering in all directions.
Police flooded the streets, whistles shrieking, arresting anyone they could catch.
For the next several minutes, the sounds of screaming, whistles, and curses filled St. James's.
The Next Day – London Newspapers
Every major newspaper headlined the same story:
"Illegal Riot on Downing Street Quickly Dispersed – Dozens Arrested by Police."
Additionally, Parliament had suspended Habeas Corpus, preparing to pass the Illegal Workers' Combination Act—outlawing all public gatherings and labor strikes.
Citizens were warned not to participate in any protests.
No newspaper sympathized with the protesters.
Because the entire British press was now under government control.
The English Channel – Plymouth Harbor
Music filled the air.
An 80-piece military band played patriotic tunes, their brass instruments resonating through the port.
Rows of tall, red-coated soldiers from Britain's elite 2nd Grenadier Guards stood shoulder to shoulder, lining the docks all the way to the fleet anchorage.
Their bayonets glistened under the afternoon sun.
Lord Grenville, the British Foreign Secretary, walked along the pier, chatting pleasantly with Prussian, Austrian, Dutch, and Hanoverian diplomats.
A group of senior British naval and army officers followed behind them, alongside officials from the Plymouth Shipyard.
"Gentlemen, thank you for attending this grand naval review," Grenville announced.
He gestured toward the southeast, where the fleet lay in wait.
"Behold—the greatest fleet in British history."
"A fleet ready to defend Britain and her allies at all costs."
The foreign envoys gazed out to sea—and their eyes widened in shock.
Spread across the vast military harbor were more than 40 massive warships.
These colossal giants floated silently, like beasts awaiting the hunt.
Even from a distance, their sheer size and power radiated overwhelming dominance.
But what stunned the diplomats the most—
The fleet was in perfect formation.
Each ship was lined up in rigid, precise rows, as if controlled by an unseen hand, waiting to devour whatever target Britain commanded.
And these weren't just ordinary ships.
These were all fourth-rate or higher—full-sized ships of the line.
Beyond them, dozens of frigates and escort vessels dotted the waters.
In total, there were over 100 warships—and this was only the Mediterranean and Biscay Bay Fleets.
The full British Royal Navy was far larger.
Even for nations accustomed to British naval power, this sight was terrifying.
As the delegation moved closer, the ships became even more intimidating.
Their dense masts resembled a forest growing from the sea, shadowing half the harbor.
A fully grown man barely reached the height of a single wooden plank on the outer hull.
And two of these ships side by side were as large as a royal palace.
After ten minutes of walking, they reached a massive gangway, leading onto the British flagship of the Mediterranean Fleet—HMS Victory.
Once everyone had boarded, Admiral Jervis stepped forward, a proud smile on his face.
Standing before them, he declared:
"Gentlemen, you are now standing aboard the most powerful first-rate ship of the line in the world."
He raised his hand, gesturing toward the vast wooden deck.
"HMS Victory is 227 feet long. Her mainmast stands 205 feet high.
"With a strong wind, she can reach speeds of 8 knots across the Atlantic.
"She carries over 100 cannons, spread across three gun decks.
"Her firepower is capable of obliterating any enemy ship—or even an entire small fleet."
"Her hull is built from two feet thick oak planks, strong enough to withstand 24-pound cannonballs from just 100 yards away.
"Even a 32-pounder cannon, fired from 300 yards, cannot pierce her hull."
The foreign envoys stood in stunned silence.
Before them lay the Royal Navy's most terrifying weapon.
A beast of war, built to crush Britain's enemies.
The age of British naval dominance had begun.
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