The War Court and Lap Pillow, Austria's Mandate of Heaven

Chapter 1790 A Victory Without Results

The gold coins gleamed ominously under the gloomy sky. The old soldier smiled, picked one up, and handed it to Tolstoy.

"I'll leave it to you, sir."

The veteran stepped out of the ranks, and soon more soldiers followed, their eyes filled with hope, clouded confusion, or a sense of relief.

Prince Menshkov spoke from his horse, laughing heartily.

"Whoever can plant the flag on the opposite hilltop, I will reward him with another thousand rubles! The rest will each receive fifty rubles!"

Those who retreat shall die!

The soldiers also began to whisper among themselves.

"My God! That's a thousand rubles! I've never even heard of that much money!"

"His Highness is truly generous!"

"Don't overthink it! Can you be the first one to rush up there?"

"Fifty rubles isn't bad either; at least that can buy a cow!"

Leo Tolstoy, however, held the gold coin tightly in his hand without saying a word, knowing that it was merely gilded.

Charging into battle, planting the flag, and then returning home in glory? It's all a lie, just like this gold coin, which can never be redeemed.

Leaving aside whether they can win, even if they do, no one can exempt these serfs from military service unless the Tsar grants them special permission.

Leo Tolstoy was a nobleman who had his own barracks.

Leo Tolstoy joined the army more out of boredom and a desire for excitement. At that time, he not only led a dissolute life but was also a gambling addict. Debt collectors even came to his school, which forced him to drop out.

Military life greatly changed Leo Tolstoy; he even volunteered to be transferred from the leisurely Caucasus to the most brutal Eastern Rumelia.

Therefore, it was inevitable that Leo Tolstoy could retire smoothly, but the vast majority of Russian soldiers do not have this right.

The bugle sounded, tearing through the stagnant air.

The soldiers surged forward to the front lines once again, the cold wind biting into their lungs like blades, making their expressions look increasingly ferocious and desperate.

The advancing troops struggled through a mixture of snow, mud, and gravel, bullets raining down on the mountaintop positions like hail, accompanied by a constant stream of screams.

The old soldier with a white beard used his bayonet to hold back the corpse that was about to fall in front of him, and his thin body somehow found the strength to push the corpse forward.

The people around them followed suit, trying to use their companions' bodies to block the bullets coming from the front.

However, the bullets fired from those new rifles easily pierced through the corpses and the soldiers behind them.

The white-bearded old soldier was only a few dozen meters away from the Ottoman position. His eyes gradually became empty, but there was an unyielding despair in them.

At that moment, someone placed their hand on his back.

"So there were companions here after all."

The old soldier with the white beard laughed and charged forward with all his might.

The dark clouds had now dispersed, revealing the blood-red setting sun.

The gunfire gradually subsided, leaving only crows and a stretcher team of volunteers cautiously traversing the battlefield.

Occasionally, a gunshot would ring out, startling a flock of crows. A priest who was giving a final prayer for the wounded was shot dead.

Laughter and hoarse whistles could be heard from the position on the mountaintop.

A thousand people have been laid to rest in this nameless hill, while the general had left the battlefield an hour earlier to meet his lover, who was forty years younger than him.

At that moment, the general was writing on his report, "The soldiers fought bravely, and although they did not achieve complete victory, their spirit of facing death without fear and daring to sacrifice themselves fully demonstrates the iron will of our army."

His Highness the Prince was very satisfied and even invited the General to have dinner with him without any qualms.

When Leo Tolstoy thought about how he had ghostwritten that disgusting report, he slammed the expensive pen on the table.

On the Eastern Front, Paskevich, who was directing the battle at the front, suddenly received news.

"Marshal, the British have attacked our supply depot again. This is the sixth time. If this continues, we will..."

The staff officer didn't want to say such discouraging things, but the British acted too quickly, as if they had known about the Russian deployment in advance.

Each attack was swift, accurate, and ruthless, leaving the attackers completely defenseless.

Although the British only attacked coastal warehouses, they never invaded inland.

In fact, this was enough. Although Marshal Paskevich had built many warehouses in the interior, all supplies still came from Russia itself.

The Russian army did leave behind defensive forces, but since they did not know where the British would attack, they could only adopt a full-scale defensive posture.

The end result is that one thing is neglected while another is done, leaving one exhausted and constantly running around.

Six? How could there be so many!

Marshal Paskevich immediately thought of a possibility.

"A traitor? Who did this?!"

Paskevich roared angrily.

The staff officer simply shook his head, because Russia's logistics system was so vast and chaotic that finding out who had leaked the intelligence was like finding a needle in a haystack.

"waste!"

Paskevich shoved the person away.

"We must speed up our advance! If we can take Ankara within two months, we can replenish our forces on the spot!"

Ankara, a strategically important military location, would inevitably have a large stockpile of grain, unless the Ottomans themselves were so desperate that they simply burned the grain.

Paskevich had seen this point, but the staff officer next to him raised the same old question again.

"But what if the British attack Tbilisi?"

Tbilisi was Russia's choke point in the Caucasus at that time, but attacking Tbilisi was neither easy nor wise. However, Tbilisi was not the only city in the Caucasus region that could be attacked.

With control of the Black Sea, the British forces could have attacked any major Russian coastal town.

Paskiewicz knew this, and the British certainly did.

"Damn it! His Majesty the Tsar is waiting for us!"

Paskevich roared.

"Your Excellency Marshal, we have already achieved many victories."

"But what about the results? Where are the results? We've been going around in circles here since the fourth week after the start of the war."

It's been a year!

"Marshal, that's not our problem, that's the Navy's problem. Besides, we can produce evidence of our victory."

"evidence?"

Paskevich asked with some curiosity.

“That’s right! It was those Ottomans! A colleague of mine in St. Petersburg told me that the Empress of Austria had been assassinated by the Ottomans, and His Majesty the Tsar was furious.”

Paskevich immediately understood his advisor's meaning: if the Ottomans had first launched a despicable assassination attempt, then he couldn't be blamed for being ruthless. Paskevich began a sweep of all Ottoman villages and cities, which to some extent alleviated the Russian army's own supply crisis.

However, Paskevich ultimately chose to retreat, as the risk of further losses would increase exponentially if the conflict continued, so it was better to take the profits now.

And most importantly, the British actually sent a force to attack Russia's Caucasus region.

This unit doesn't need any battle results; it only needs to make a trip around Russian soil to create a climate of fear.

At this time, the British expeditionary force was in a very difficult position, and many generals, nobles, and civilians were already preparing to flee.

People were leaving on merchant ships every day, a situation that the British high command was well aware of, but they couldn't stop them.

After all, most of them have connections, and they all have very good reasons, such as infectious diseases. They need to recuperate, and more importantly, they want to prevent the spread of the disease in the military.

What's most hateful is that some people are selling this evil book, "The Thirty-Six Strategies for Returning Home," in the military. It is said that the author has studied British law and military discipline for many years.

The book's content is entirely designed for military officers, and can be considered completely reasonable and legal. Even senior British judges could not find any legal issues with it.

Whether it's feigning mental illness, selling military positions, or applying for rotation, it's all within the scope of British law.

Because the book was designed only for officers, the soldiers were even more resentful.

Because officers have the right to leave openly, while soldiers, even if they have an infectious disease, are not entitled to leave, let alone apply for leave.

As for faking a mental illness, it can usually be cured immediately after enduring several major struggles.

Some British soldiers even resorted to daily slapping each other in an attempt to get home safely.

The departure of these elites, touted by the British high command, has had a greater impact on the British military than imagined.

In addition to the blow to morale, there were problems with internal coordination and discipline within the army.

The most direct manifestation of this was a significant increase in conflicts between British and Ottoman troops, as well as local people.

In fact, many conflicts in history did not originate directly from the higher-ups, but rather from the lowest-ranking soldiers and civilians.

The large-scale departures and reassignments of military officers have only amplified this problem.

From theft and street brawls to fights and shootouts, a constant stream of incidents nearly broke the nerves of the remaining officers.

Besides cults and diseases, there is something else spreading in the military: lotteries.

In fact, due to stress and idleness, many British soldiers passed the time by drinking, gambling, and visiting prostitutes.

But ordinary gambling soon couldn't satisfy them anymore; after all, you have to be alive to spend the money you earn.

Thus, a lottery called "Homecoming" quietly appeared, where the winner of each draw could leave the game and receive a prize of five thousand pounds.

At first, the soldiers didn't believe it at all, but when the first grand prize was announced, the lucky winner actually boarded a yacht from the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies dressed in a suit.

From then on, "Homecoming Colors" became famous, and the soldiers' enthusiasm for buying them grew higher and higher. Even the Ottomans next door came to buy them.

The strangest thing is that the officers actually tacitly approved of the existence of this lottery. Although some people stood up to criticize it, no one was able to actually ban it.

The soldiers naturally became increasingly enthusiastic about it, and even some junior officers embezzled military funds to buy it.

Inside the Royal Palace of Naples, Maximilian wore a satisfied smile.

"The British really know their stuff!"

"Your Majesty is wise! Our lottery sales have now surpassed one million pounds per month!"

Including rebates, sales fees, and kickbacks, we earn nearly £500,000 every month!

"Lottery Minister Marcoro said excitedly."

However, Foreign Minister Natas looked troubled, while Maximilian, in a good mood, casually remarked.

"What's the problem? Speak!"

"Your Majesty, the British and Ottomans want to escalate their demands."

"They're so greedy!"

Maximilian retorted angrily.

"I will refuse them right now."

Natas spoke cautiously, but Maximilian simply waved his hand dismissively.

"No need, give them to them! We still need them!"

"As ordered."

Franz was well aware of the shady dealings Maximilian was involved in. Although such businesses were unlikely to last, he supported anything that cheated the British.

Maximilian actually wrote a letter to Franz.

"You don't really think the Ottomans have the ability to assassinate the queen, do you? Even if they did, they would use it on you first."

Franz casually tossed the letter into the fireplace beside him. He had thought that Maximilian had matured a lot over the years, but he hadn't expected him to still be so impatient.

Once a war begins, the next step is to end it.

Anything unnecessary is just a waste of time and energy.

Fortunately, Nicholas I understood this well. After receiving another small victory at the front, he really couldn't sit still.

"I must lead the army myself! I must consider whether this is the only chance I'll ever have! Those fools have no sense of urgency at all!"
They simply cannot feel the call of the Third Rome! Menshkov was like that! Paskevich was like that too! And you are even more so!

Good news kept coming from both the eastern and western fronts, but there was no real progress. How could Nicholas I not be angry?

The Russian ministers were already used to Nicholas I's dramatic outbursts; after all, this wasn't the first time His Majesty had said such things, and he had even done them before.

However, His Majesty the Tsar is quite receptive to advice; a few more words would surely persuade him to come back.

"Your Majesty, what if we are assassinated again? We haven't finished investigating the assassins yet."

Nicholas I took a deep breath and placed a scroll on the table.

"This is my will. If I die on this imperial expedition, my successor should kill all of you useless fellows before inheriting Russia."

"As long as you bunch of useless fools don't die, Russia will never have a future!"

Nicholas I's will was truly unexpected by the Russian leadership; its near-self-destructive madness meant that no one dared to risk their lives to advise him.

In reality, the truly daring group had already been sent to Alaska by Nicholas I and was with his successor.

Left with no other choice, the ministers had to agree to the Tsar personally leading the expedition once again.

This time, Nicholas I did not go to Sevastopol, but went directly to the western front.

Prince Menshkov was very dissatisfied; he really didn't think he had done anything wrong.

The soldiers were timid and weak; what could he do? Should he go to the front lines himself?

For others, having their command taken over by the Tsar might not mean much, and they might even feel it was a great honor.

But for Prince Menshkov, it was a disgrace, a complete denial of his military capabilities.

Prince Menshkov also wrote to Nicholas I explaining the dangers at the front and hoping that the latter would prioritize Russia, but was explicitly rejected.

Even if the Tsar came, wouldn't he still order the soldiers to charge forward?
Prince Menshkov seized the opportunity to launch another large-scale attack.
(End of this chapter)