Shadow of great britain

Chapter 678 Blood Knights Charge for Freedom: Arthur Hastings

Dear Sir David Urquhart:

As I pick up my pen, the snowstorm outside the window is carrying salt grains from the Baltic Sea, whipping the glass. But compared to the smoke rising from the Caucasus Mountains, the severe cold in the north is just the sobbing of a child. A few days ago, when I read the sketch of the burned Circassian village attached to your letter, the figures curled up on the scorched earth and the baby swaddling clothes hanging between the broken walls, my silver inkstand was actually cracked by a drop of hot sealing wax.

As God knows, even in Dante's vision of hell, I have never seen a more heart-wrenching tragedy than this.

Have you ever seen the wild horses on the eastern shore of the Caspian Sea? They once ran freely in the moonlight, their manes brushing the steppe like black silk across the strings of a harp. But now the Russians are trampling the land into a bloody quagmire! The Cossack cavalrymen who call themselves "spreaders of civilization" are more skilled at slashing at the old man's neck with their sabers than the Tatars are at skinning a mink.

When you told me that a Circassian mother was nailed to the oak door of her house to protect her young son, and that the star and moon totem that had been passed down in their tribe for thousands of years was engraved on the lintel, my dear friend, my heart felt as if a lit twelve-pound cannon was stuffed into it.

We always like to compare Britain to a beacon that illuminates the world, but when the cries from the eastern shore of the Black Sea were deliberately erased, the glass cover of the beacon was covered with a layer of blood that could not be washed off. Do you know how Russian nobles in the salons of St. Petersburg talked about the Caucasus? They poked caviar pancakes with enameled silver forks and said lightly: "It's just trimming an overgrown thorn bush."

But those "thorns" are real people! They are Caucasian mountain people who can play the epic poems of their ancestors on the dombra and weave rainbow-like blankets with wool!

Whenever I read your letter, I always think of the elm trees on the banks of the Thames shrouded in morning mist. Their roots are deeply buried in the soil, but their branches stretch toward the sky, just like British diplomats, who must be rooted in the needs of reality while looking up to the stars of idealism.

Yesterday, I was rereading Lord Byron's "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" in the embassy library. When I read the line "Liberty, your flag is torn but still flies", I suddenly realized that you are writing a more tragic modern epic.

When those Russian officers used Pushkin's poems to cushion their wine glasses, did they ever think that their compatriots were rewriting "The Prisoner of the Caucasus" with gunpowder? When you told me that a blind Circassian singer was still singing the epic of his ancestors before his throat was cut, I seemed to hear Byron's lyre shattering in the valley.

David, we can't let the tyrants of Petersburg turn the Caucasus into another "Bronze Horseman", except that this time it is not the phantom of Petersburg that is swallowed by the flood, but the living tribal blood! God knows, if Byron were still alive, he would definitely abandon the olive branch of Greece and use sonnets to compose a requiem for the cries of the eastern shore of the Black Sea.

This morning I stood at the window of the embassy, ​​looking at the icicles sliding on the Neva River, and suddenly remembered Dickens' unpublished notes: The fog of London is the shroud of the poor. At this moment, the smoke of the Caucasus is also the shroud of civilization? When the portrait of the mother holding the dead baby in your sketchbook is made into a magazine illustration, I will make all the housewives in Britain tremble at their breakfast tables - just like Dickens knocked Oliver Twist's broken bowl on the gilded dinner plate of the industrial age.

I once sneered at Wordsworth's Tintern Abbey, calling the Lake Poets' pastoral idylls "the daydreams of opium addicts." But now, when I read your description of the Circassian shepherd, his sheep pierced through the throats by Cossacks, their bloody bells scattered among the irises, is this not a dark variation on Wordsworth's line that Nature never betrays those who cherish her? No! The Russian horses' hooves are trampling the Lyrics into parchment in the mud!

Please allow me to promise you in the most straightforward way: every page of ink in my magazine "The Brit" will be turned into lead bullets fired at Russian tyranny. I have instructed the editor-in-chief to call the next special issue "The Passion of Christ in the Caucasus", which will not only publish your survivors' testimonies, but also prints made by the Imperial Academy of Arts based on the sketches. Let those congressmen who are dozing in the club see how the Russian bear licks the skull of the Caucasian baby with his barbed tongue!

You know, David, sometimes literature is closer to the truth than diplomatic notes. So when Lord Palmerston quoted my diplomatic reports in Parliament in fragments of context, he was reciting a ridiculous exercise in rhyme.

This morning I just received a diplomatic letter from Viscount Palmerston from 15 Whitehall Street. Before that, I deliberately sent the summary of the Russian atrocities you recorded back to London under a copy of the diplomatic report. However, although the Viscount read the internal Russian memorandum that "200 rubles of gunpowder were consumed for each village suppressed", his reply was only that this was not an inhumane act, but at most a running account of a slaughterhouse accountant.

In addition, I have to remind you as a friend: under the ice of St. Petersburg, the undercurrent is far more dangerous than what is seen on the surface. Yesterday, a "enthusiast" in the Russian Third Hall hinted to me that some "British tourists' sketchbooks may cause diplomatic misunderstandings." I immediately soaked his mink collar with whiskey (of course, I later claimed that it was a slip of the hand) and told him: "Real artists never retouch the portrait of the executioner."

So dear David, please move your camp to a different valley every night, like a Persian poet changing his rhyme to avoid censorship. Every shot you fire in the Caucasus adds weight to the debate in the London Parliament; and every night you spend safely is the loudest slap in the face of those stupid theories that claim that "savages deserve to be tamed by civilization."

You may have noticed that in the iron box enclosed with this letter, there is a copper shell of a new revolver. Please give it to your most trusted Circassian elders - this is not a symbol of killing, but a seed of freedom. I have reached a verbal agreement with my friend Mr. Samuel Colt, the head of the Colt and Sons Arms Company, that if necessary, we can ship 100 such guns per month through Liverpool, plus the matching molded lead bullet tools, etc.

But just as roses need the right soil to bloom, these materials must find safe transportation channels. That is why I urge you to temporarily put aside your struggle in the Caucasus and consider returning to the Ottoman Empire and Constantinople. Ottoman officials may be as colorful and elusive as the carpets in the Sultan's harem, and it is difficult for ordinary people to grasp their attitude. But as an expert on Eastern affairs, you have a wide and deep network of local relationships. You have the magic power to make the Ottoman customs release any box of Scotch whisky, which is more precious than the Armenian's golden touch!

Just imagine: when your coordinated merchant ship sails into the port of Trabzon under the Genoa flag and heads towards the Caucasus along the Black Sea route, what is hidden under its ballast is not only weapons, but also the salvation of the suffering people and the victory of freedom and humanitarianism of the entire Christian world!

Please consider my proposal carefully. We all understand that in the sacred cause of saving the Circassians, sometimes we have to dance a minuet with the devil for practical reasons. If the Ottomans question the shipment of weapons, you might as well hint that it is a "misload" prepared by the East India Company for the Persian Shah. If the Russian consul shows interest, tell him that this may be a secret investment by Louis Bonaparte's supporters...

I know that this plan is full of Shelley-style crazy romance, even naive to the point of being ridiculous. Just like Dr. Frankenstein trying to give life to a corpse with lightning, we are trying to use the steel of Liverpool and the ink of London to make a dying civilization breathe again.

But so what, let those realists sitting on the velvet chairs sneer!

When the Cossacks' horses' hooves crush the strings of the dombra, we will use the broken strings to play the final chapter of "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage".

When Byron breathed his last on the Greek battlefield, what he held tightly in his hand was not the hilt of a sword but a manuscript of poetry!

Isn’t this the most magnificent paradox?

If my pen tip is destined to be dipped in the salty taste of the Black Sea to write an epitaph, I would rather choose the Byronic hero's curtain call. When the Russians' gunpowder dyes the snow of the Caucasus red, the ink we spilled will crystallize into salt in the folds of history.

As Byron said: The land of glorious death is here, run to the fields here and give your life!

What we are burning at this moment is not just paper and steel. We are using the dusk of all Britain to ignite the dawn of the northernmost part of Eurasia.

Finally, please accept this blue glass pocket watch, which comes from my good friend Frédéric Chopin. If you turn the crown three and a half turns, it will play the famous song "Forward! Dąbrowski" for which Polish patriots sacrificed their lives.

As long as we live, Poland will not perish.

Forward! Forward! Dabrovsky!

From Italy to Poland, under your leadership, we are united.

Chopin once gave me this pocket watch as a testimony to my everlasting friendship with the Polish people.

Now, I am giving this pocket watch to you, and more importantly, to the Caucasian mountain people who are not afraid of the tyranny of the Tsar and are as brave as the Polish people in fighting against it.

Your eternal ally,

Those who swore for Circassian freedom with blood and fire,

Arthur Hastings

Knight of the Order of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland

Cultural Attaché to the Russian Empire

On a snowstorm night in St. Petersburg

April 17, 1834

[Sealing wax seal: Per Ardura Ad Astra] (Latin: After all the hardships, we will eventually reach the stars)

"Sir, Lord Ponsonby, the Minister to the Ottoman Empire, has sent you a letter of thanks from Constantinople."

The birch logs in the fireplace of the Petersburg Embassy crackled for the last time, and Secretary Blackwell's voice came in with the chill of the corridor.

This young man usually kept his beard as neatly trimmed as the margins of the Edinburgh Review, but at this moment he let the ice crystals condense into the wildness of a Norseman at his temples.

Blackwell laughed so hard that his mouth could not close. "That bastard Urquhart... Oh, no, it was the Reverend Sir David Urquhart who had left the Caucasus and returned to the embassy in Constantinople. What did you put in your personal letter to him that could persuade him to leave when he was determined not to move?"

"Henry." Arthur took the letter without moving his finger. Hearing such good news, Arthur's voice became more confident. He heard his own voice coming from the end of the corridor of the Winter Palace: "Change my Bordeaux to vodka."

"Today we have to have something exciting!" Blackwell took out an unopened bottle of vodka from the wine cabinet in his office with a grin on his face. He added at the end: "Do you know what Earl Darramore's expression was when he just heard the news? He was even happier than when he received the dividends from the New Zealand company a few days ago. He smiled at everyone he met and even shouted that he must hold a celebration party for you tonight!"

While Blackwell praised Arthur's work ability, he couldn't help but secretly sigh that he had followed the right person.

He had worked diligently in the Chinese Embassy in Russia for seven years, but he had never encountered such a level of achievement even once.

Although the credit for persuading Urquhart to come back mainly went to Arthur, it wouldn't be a problem for him, his personal secretary, to also benefit from it.

From this we can see that although working with the Jazz is indeed hard and tiring, it can indeed produce results!

It’s no wonder that he had such great prestige in Scotland Yard. Those police officers who followed the knight in his early years are now all well-off.

The latest novel is published first on Liu9shuba!

Look at the letters that the Lord sent to Scotland Yard, Inspector Tom Flanders, Inspector Tony Eckhart, Inspector Radley King...

They're all police inspectors!

If you work hard for the Jazz, you will be promoted sooner or later. Just for this reason, it doesn't matter if it's a bit hard and tiring.

After three glasses of liquor, Arthur used a letter opener to pick open the wax seal of the new issue of The Times that had just been delivered. The tip of the knife drew a deep groove under the title "Easing of Tension in the Caucasus", as if he wanted to carve out the line of lead type and the lie together.

The entire diplomatic corps in Russia was filled with joy, but only Arthur knew what was going on.

David Urquhart's retreat was not because he listened to advice, but because he believed Arthur's promise.

If Arthur could not fulfill his promise to this staunch liberal fighter, then with Sir David's network and social circle in London, the spit on Fleet Street would certainly be no less than the splashes in the Black Sea.

But if Arthur kept his promise, it would mean that Sir David and the Caucasus problem would be back to square one. The problem had never been solved, but was only temporarily delayed by Arthur.

A week ago, Arthur might have been worried about what to do with the aftermath, but now...

hehe……

Now Sir Arthur Hastings's sympathy for the plight of the Circassians was as genuine as his sympathy for the Polish Zionists.

There is an old saying in the East: A gentleman’s word is as good as gold.

Western knights were also required to observe the code of chivalry.

As a knight of the lower honor of the United Kingdom, how could Arthur forget the oath he made before His Majesty the King?

Arthur will live up to his oath, be kind to the weak, stand up to violence, fight against all wrongs, fight for the defenseless, and help anyone who asks him for help.

What should we do if it causes diplomatic problems in the future?

Arthur was no longer in Russia at that time, so he should not meddle in matters that were not his responsibility.

What to do is something that Viscount Palmerston or the new Foreign Secretary should consider. Arthur is a low-ranking official and has no say in the matter.

As for Earl Daramore, it seems that doing so is not very kind to my mentor, but the person who transported guns and ammunition to the Caucasus was David Urquhart. I tried to persuade him to stop, but he later changed his mind. What does this have to do with Sir Arthur?

In short, as long as the mine doesn't explode in my hands, let it go.

As for where the guns and ammunition came from, they were produced by an American company, and British law did not prohibit Samuel Colt from producing guns and ammunition in the UK.

You said that The Brit published anti-Russian articles?

Sorry, the major shareholder of "The Limey" is Tory MP Mr. Benjamin Disraeli. Disraeli was previously very dissatisfied with Palmerston's pro-Russian foreign policy. Isn't it normal for him to publish some anti-Russian articles?

You may insist that Arthur also has shares in "The Limey", but there are so many people who have shares in "The Limey", and two of them are even floating on the sea.

Besides, why can't The Briton publish anti-Russian articles? Which of Blackwood's, the Edinburgh Review and the Times hasn't done this?

The Edinburgh Review can even be considered the official newspaper of the Whig Party. Even if they want to catch the traitor, shouldn't they distinguish between relatives and strangers?

The most important thing is, who knows who will be the next Foreign Secretary? Perhaps under someone else's leadership, the policy toward Russia will take a 180-degree turn.

A traitor? The traitor has already jumped out!

Earl Grey was one, and Palmerston!

There have been rumors that the Foreign Secretary has been colluding with Russia. As the Prime Minister and the Foreign Secretary's boss, Earl Grey also has the responsibility for his poor judgment of people, right?

Arthur put down his glass and casually flipped through the thank-you letter sent to him by the ambassador to the Ottoman Empire. On the back of the thank-you letter, there was a small note written to him by David Urquhart, on which was written an excerpt from Byron's poem: Truth always stands on the side of fools who fight for freedom.

For a moment, the sentimental Sir Arthur Hastings couldn't help but shed tears. Today was another day of great success for the acting method.

Blackwell had no idea of ​​Arthur's inner thoughts. He was still immersed in the joy of possible promotion and salary increase at any time.

When he turned his head, he found his boss holding a glass of wine and crying. He couldn't help but shudder with fear: "Sir... Sir, what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing, I just feel that I don't have much time left..." Arthur realized that he had let something slip, so he quickly wiped away his tears and took a sip from his glass. "I was thinking about how my young friend who is being held in the Moscow barracks is suffering. By the way, is there any new news about him?"