shadow of britain

Chapter 670: The Similarity between the Crotch of the Cossack Cavalry and Autocracy

Blackwell took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead. His Adam's apple rolled up and down as he swallowed. "Sir, let me sort out the subtleties of the situation for you again. After all, Earl Darramore's words are as illegible as his calligraphy when he's drunk."

Arthur sensed something was wrong in Blackwell's words: "Has news come back from Captain Hughett? Sir David Urquhart is still alive?"

Blackwell seemed to have a stone stuck in his throat, and an ugly smile appeared on his face: "I think you should be more worried about the health of Earl Dalamore than Sir David's health."

He pulled out a piece of letter paper with the embassy stamp from the briefcase, skipped the Earl of Darramore's praise for Arthur's ability, and started reading directly from the most exciting part: "What the madman Urquhart did in the Caucasus was ten times more dangerous than Lord Byron's adventure in Greece! Not only did he persuade the Circassian tribe to nominate him as a military adviser, he also printed 20,000 leaflets on the black market in Tbilisi, with the words 'The Tsar's noose cannot hold the throat of freedom' written on them in Russian..."

Smoke rose in the room, and Arthur sucked on his pipe until sparks flew. "It seems that our Sir David has used the Foreign Office's Overseas Code of Conduct as toilet paper."

"What's worse is that he sent eleven anonymous communications to The Times." Blackwell unfolded the sheepskin-smelling letterhead he brought from the Caucasus. "I really can't imagine what kind of big news they would make for the Foreign Office if this article, "On the Similarity between Cossack Cavalry Crotches and Despotism," fell into the hands of Fleet Street.

Arthur took the manuscript and at a glance he was deeply impressed by Sir David Urquhart's profound classical literary attainments.

"On the Similarities between the Crotch of Cossack Cavalrymen and Autocracy"

Have you ever noticed the Cossacks patrolling the streets of Moscow?
As these bearded warriors sat astride their Don ponies, the bulge in the front of their scarlet breeches resembled the reflection of the Kremlin dome on the surface of the Neva River.

Today, with anatomical rigor, I will reveal to readers of the civilized world an astonishing discovery: all the mysteries of the Russian autocracy are hidden in the crotch of the Cossacks.

Comparing the straight breeches of the Prussian cavalry and the lace shorts of the French dragoons, we can clearly see that His Majesty Nicholas I's obsession with the hip curve was no accident.

When the Decembrists shouted for a constitution in Palace Square in 1825, what really angered the Tsar was perhaps the irregular trouser seam of the rebel commander, Prince Trubetskoy. According to the court tailor, His Majesty once stabbed the rebel clothing pattern sent by the aide-de-camp with his diamond-studded cane and roared: "A loose crotch is more dangerous than loose loyalty!"

To discuss this issue in detail, I will analyze it from four parts.

1. Tight Aesthetics of Power
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2. The Antinomy of Concealment and Exposure

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3. The code of tyranny in fabrics

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4. The psychology of tyrants from the perspective of clothing history

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Conclusion: Unbutton the breeches of despotism and release Russian freedom!

When Arthur saw the manuscript, he pinched his chin and pondered for a long time. The air in the room almost froze.

Blackwell's forehead was covered with sweat. He knew that the Jazz must be extremely angry this time.

As for how he knew about this?

That was because Earl Daramore had already been furious in the embassy yesterday, and he cursed Sir David for more than ten minutes because of this article.

"I say..." Arthur suddenly spoke.

"Sir, if you want to curse, just curse. It's so uncomfortable to hold it in. Sir David's behavior is really disgraceful. He dared to threaten the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the embassy with such an article that would ruin everyone's jobs."

"Scold? Why should I curse?" Arthur looked at the brilliant article with regret: "He is indeed a top student at Oxford. His professional level is almost as good as that of the Department of Classical Literature at the University of London. By the way, you just said that Sir David has made up his mind to publish this in The Times? Will he consider sending it to us in The Brit?"

"This..." Blackwell's mind was confused for a moment: "You...you really plan to help him publish this article?"

"Just kidding." The sudden sparks from the fireplace startled the jackdaws on the windowsill. Arthur picked up a piece of preserved fruit with a silver letter opener. "The price of this article must be expensive. We, the Brit, can't afford such a big order. So, what price did this romantic warrior offer us?"

"Fifty tons of rye flour, three hundred cases of canned corned beef." The secretary's pen made a sharp sound as it scratched on the list. "Two thousand Baker rifles with a hundred thousand rounds of ammunition, as well as surgical instruments and medicines. He specifically specified that he did not want the inferior goods of the East India Company. There are also two thousand sets of winter clothing, of course, all in Scottish tartan. If we don't agree, then those eleven articles will soon be published in the newspapers."

"How thoughtful. It also saves the Russian customs the trouble of checking the labels." Arthur picked up the wax fragments with a silver-plated letter opener. "It seems that Sir David has been in the mountains for a long time and has developed a Cossack sense of humor. Hasn't he ever thought that as long as we ship a box of wool socks to the Caucasus, the Tsar's spies will convert the entire ship into their coffin boards? What is Earl Darramore's attitude towards this?"

Blackwell rolled his eyes like a hanged man. "The Earl learned the news at lunch and nearly stabbed the courier in the neck with a caviar spoon. The Earl's exact words were: 'Tell Arthur not to let the bastard and the Times reporter appear in the Czar's telescope at the same time, even if it means putting Urquhart in a corpse cart.'"

Arthur walked to the frosted bay window. The street scene in Moscow looked like a wet pencil drawing. The serfs carrying firewood were picking up scattered kindling with their frozen hands. In the distance, the golden dome of the Kremlin was emitting a sickly dark yellow under the dark clouds.

"What did Captain Huett's secret report say?"

Blackwell pulled out a scroll of letters from his boot. "Your hounds do have a keen sense of smell. Richard Huett disguised himself as a Tatar horse trader and sneaked into the camp of Imam Shamil in Dagestan, where he met Daud Bey, also known as Sir David Urquhart. According to Captain Huett, Sir David was wrapped in a sheepskin robe and teaching the Magna Carta to the local mountain people. What's even more amazing is..."

He lowered his voice: "He also taught the Circassians to make explosives from sulfuric acid and sugar."

Arthur chuckled when he heard this. "Does he think that if he doesn't do this, he won't be able to show that he studied at a military academy in France? Little Napoleon of the Caucasus, what a grand name, and he's British. Oh! It's a pity that I already have a friend like him, so there's no need to find another copy."

Arthur picked up the letter on the table and threw it into the fireplace to burn. "Has Lord Daramore made any arrangements with the Royal Mail?"

"His Excellency has written to the Royal Mail, asking them to review all recent letterheads sent to Fleet Street." "That's not safe."

Arthur then instructed, "I will write a letter later. You should send someone to London through diplomatic channels immediately. It must be delivered to Mr. Lionel Rothschild as quickly as possible, asking him to review his postal business and check all mail sent to Fleet Street. In addition, there are several letters, which should be given to Inspector Ledley King of the London Police Intelligence Bureau, Inspector Thomas Plunkett, and Inspector Tom Flanders of the Scotland Yard Crime Investigation Center. These letters must also be delivered as quickly as possible."

"I see, Sir." Blackwell hesitated, "But...excuse me for being so nosy, I think Sir David may have thought of this. He has been working in foreign embassies for many years, and he has mastered the basic elements of communication security. If I were Sir David, I would probably ask a friend to help deliver the letter instead of using the postal service."

"That's right, that's why I wrote to Scotland Yard." Arthur said lightly, "They know the home addresses of all the newspaper editors on Fleet Street. If we're lucky, we might be able to intercept them."

"You..." Blackwell's eyes widened. "In London, can you still rob people openly?"

"Henry." Arthur glanced at the secretary. "What kind of brain do you have to come up with such an idea as a police robbery?"

"Oh..." Blackwell's heart was relieved a little: "I told you... this..."

However, before he finished speaking, he heard Arthur add: "Robbery is carried out by more professional people."

The pine wood in the fireplace crackled, and the cottage cheese cakes on the table gave off sweet steam.

Blackwell dared not ask any more questions. The secretary poked the scorched skin with a silver fork and said, "So you agree with Lord Daramore that you want to let Urquhart rot in the ravine?"

"Although those eleven articles may be intercepted, Sir David's behavior has clearly expressed his personal will to us." Arthur's boots stepped on the Persian carpet, making soft footsteps. "Even if those articles are not sent out, he can create trouble from other angles to threaten the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. In this case, simply appeasing Sir David or hoping that he will shut up will not solve any problems."

"You mean, do... get rid of him?" Although Blackwell had expected this result a long time ago, he still felt a bit sad about assassinating a colleague. "Well, since you agree with this plan, I will return to Petersburg today to give Earl Darramore your feedback."

"Assassination? No, Henry, why would you think so?"

"What do you mean?"

"On the contrary, we should make him the Byron of the modern age." Arthur pulled out a gilded poetry book from under his pillow. The title page was printed with "Childe Harold's Journey". "Tomorrow you will contact the Morning Chronicle and tell them that an unnamed English gentleman is funding the freedom struggle in the Caucasus - remember to hint that he may be the illegitimate son of a duke."

Blackwell's fork froze in mid-air. "Wouldn't that make the Russians want to hang him even more?"

"So you have to send an anonymous letter to the Third Bureau at the same time." Arthur dipped his tea in black tea and drew a relationship diagram on the tablecloth. "Say that Urquhart is actually an agitator hired by the French Orleans faction, intending to undermine the internal order of the Holy Alliance and the stability of the Anglo-Russian alliance. Don't forget to attach a forged Paris bank draft. As for the draft, I will ask you to contact a professional at that time."

The secretary's Adam's apple rolled up and down. "You mean, muddy the waters? Instead of letting Urquhart blow himself up, why don't we release a bunch of information first, at least to seize the initiative?"

The fire suddenly burst into flames, casting their shadows on the frosted windowpanes.

Arthur did not answer Blackwell's question. He did not have the time or the energy to teach students at the moment.

His pipe wandered over the military map, finally stopping at the location of the Kerch Strait: “How often do the Tsar’s naval patrols now search merchant ships?”

"Ever since Russia discovered that the Polish insurgents were transporting military supplies through the Black Sea two years ago, all cargo ships flying foreign flags passing through the Black Sea must open their hatches for inspection." Blackwell circled three ports with a red pen.

Arthur's pipe drew a silver line on the map. "It seems we need to prepare some special surprises for the gentlemen in Petersburg. Remember the bill of exchange of the Polish government in exile that the Bank of France refused to pay last year?"

Blackwell understood it instantly: "Turning that scrap of paper into irrefutable evidence of French intervention? But how do you explain the Orleans dynasty's funding of a rebellion in the Caucasus?"

"Let the Bank of France take the blame first, and then let the Russians find the surprise on the back of the bill of exchange." Arthur took out a musty document bag from the cabinet. This was one of the important luggage he sent to the Russian Embassy in advance before leaving Hanover. "Here are twenty blank standard templates of Paris Bank bills of exchange."

Blackwell was dumbfounded when he saw these things and asked, "How...how did you get these things?"

As soon as he said this, Blackwell felt guilty. The secretary's pen tip left ink stains on the parchment. He turned to ask, "How many fake bills do you need?"

"Three hundred thousand francs in denominations, payable to the Orleans Royal Special Fund." Arthur said as he used a magnifying glass to check the watermark on the bill. It must be said that the quality of the fake bills handled by Victor was indeed outstanding, and they looked even more like the real thing: "The remarks column was marked with 'Caucasus Region Stabilization Fee' with lemon juice or milk. This basic handwriting invisibility technique should not be too difficult for the third game to detect."

Sparks from the fireplace danced in the pupils of the two people, and the bells of St. Basil's Cathedral in the distance tore through the dark clouds.

"But this can only fool the rookies in the third game." Blackwell wiped his pocket watch anxiously: "If they invite a French handwriting expert..."

"So we need real French people to participate in this game." Arthur suddenly switched to fluent French. "Tomorrow you go to the newly opened French restaurant on Tverskoy Boulevard and treat the chef who always pours brandy into the soup to a drink. When I went there for dinner with the vice president of the Moscow Court, I heard him bragging to others that his cousin was an attaché in the confidential office of the French Embassy, ​​and he used to be the private chef for the French ambassador."

The secretary's gray eyes lit up. "You want the Russian spies to 'accidentally' discover that the French are destroying evidence?"

"To be precise, I found a piece of paper stained with Bordeaux red wine." Arthur unfolded a piece of letter paper with an iris pattern. "Write a thank-you letter on Louis Philippe's official letterhead, dated two weeks before Urquhart went into the mountains. Focus on the 'high respect of the July Monarchy for the freedom fighters', and remember to make sure the grammatical errors are in line with the spoken habits of Parisian bureaucrats."

Blackwell suddenly gasped: "But how do we get the forged letter to the French Embassy?"

When Arthur heard this, he shook his head even more and asked, "Henry, did you really work in Russia for seven years?"

Blackwell's face turned serious: "Sir, I..."

Arthur walked to the frosted bay window. "If you really worked in Russia for seven years, you should have noticed that the French Embassy in St. Petersburg would open the back door to dump kitchen waste at seven o'clock every night. And because of the recent Moscow fire and a series of riots, the rats in St. Petersburg have been particularly interested in French foie gras recently!"

(End of this chapter)