shadow of britain

Chapter 902: Is it a promising future, or a promising future? Henry, you decide for yourself.
A waiter from the Rules restaurant walked gracefully in through the side door, carrying a silver tray with half a dozen chilled oysters.

Blackwell stared at the cold dish in the waiter's hand.

The oyster shells were covered with a fine white frost, lemon slices were laid out very neatly, and light red pickled onion cubes were served in a small silver dish.

For a moment, he was in a daze, as if the clock had turned back and he had returned to a few years ago.

At the salon ball in St. Petersburg, crystal chandeliers cascaded down like waterfalls, and candlelight illuminated the gilded mirror frames on the walls.

He wore a snow-white dress shirt, shiny boots, and fine fox fur gloves. The brand-new silver buttons on his vest reflected the light.

The hostess of the ball was Duchess Catherine Golitsyna. Blackwell remembered that night when she personally led Sir Arthur and Blackwell into the anteroom and introduced them to the five daughters of dukes and the sisters of three ministers.

The cold dish that night was Baltic oysters, served in a tall crystal bowl with ice underneath, and the gold-rimmed tongs looked clean and neat.

The woman sitting next to me was the daughter of the Prussian ambassador. She was young, pretty, and lively, and spoke French with a slight Saxon accent.

"Please enjoy your meal," the waiter said softly, placing the cold dish between him and Arthur.

Blackwell snapped out of his daze and suddenly felt as if he had been transported to another world.

The illusion was like ice melting in a cold dish, leaving a bubble before his eyes.

Oysters are still oysters, borneol is still borneol, but...

There was no candlelight illuminating the vaulted ceiling, no countess holding his arm, and no one asking him in soft French, "Sir, would you prefer Madeira or champagne?"

Thinking of this, Blackwell's eyes welled up with tears.

If Arthur hadn't been sitting right in front of him, the senior scribe in the Foreign Ministry secretariat would have burst into tears.

"You don't look well." Arthur glanced at him. "The restroom's inside. Do you need to wash your face?"

Blackwell forced a smile: "It's probably because I've been staying up too late lately and haven't been getting enough rest..."

Arthur didn't press further, but simply raised his glass and lightly tapped it against the edge of the table: "In the Rules, you have to learn to take it slow. Come, Henry, to your reformation."

Blackwell remained silent, but raised his glass and gently clinked it against Arthur's. Then, with his eyes closed, he downed the drink in one gulp.

Arthur picked up a slice of lemon and squeezed the juice onto the oyster, but before he could speak, he saw Blackwell put down his glass, wipe his mouth with his sleeve without regard for his image, and say, "Sir, do you still go to Greenwich often?"

Arthur, holding an oyster shell, said, "Occasionally, I have a few old friends in Greenwich who invite me there for fish feasts every now and then."

“Ah, I see.” Blackwell nodded, glancing at the menu with feigned interest in the variety of sauces, before tentatively asking, “Well… someone in your position must often have documents… that require someone to help proofread and compile, right?”

"Which documents are you referring to?" Arthur joked. "The ones sent to the Caucasus?"

“Uh… it’s not that I’m referring to any particular category.” Blackwell said, blushing. “I was just thinking… if you happen to have some work to do and you happen to be short-handed… I’m not saying I’m more suitable than others, it’s just… we worked together in St. Petersburg, so we know each other to some extent.”

He spoke very slowly, each transition carefully chosen, as if afraid that any inappropriate wording might offend his old boss, the only one who could save him.

Arthur did not respond immediately. He simply looked down and poked at the oyster in the dish, as if judging its freshness or weighing the weight behind his words.

Blackwell suddenly felt a silent pressure pressing down on his head. Just as he was about to bite the bullet and speak again, Arthur suddenly smiled faintly and said, "You know what? Henry. If you had spoken so tactfully back in St. Petersburg, perhaps the wording of your transfer order would have been more dignified."

After speaking, Arthur raised his glass and took a slow sip: "However... since you've gone to such lengths to get to the point, it would be too unfair of me to pretend I don't understand."

Blackwell took a deep breath, his hand unconsciously rubbing against his knee. "Sir, you know me... I just... I just don't want to sit behind that desk in the secretariat forever."

Arthur put down his glass and stared at him for a long while: "Really? You don't like the position in the secretariat?"

“Of course, I’ll take you anywhere, as long as I’m not in the Secretariat!” Blackwell said this too quickly, and only realized after he finished that his tone had gotten a little out of control. So he quickly picked up his water glass and took a sip to cover it up. “It’s not that I don’t like the position in the Secretariat, Sir… I’ve had enough.”

He looked up at Arthur, his smile bitter. "Do you know when I started to feel something was wrong? It wasn't after I was transferred back to London, nor when I discovered my wages weren't increasing. It was that spring when Viscount Palmerston sent me a memorandum back. I wrote that memorandum; I checked the original source three times, revised it five times, and oversaw the entire process. But when the document was returned to me, I discovered that the signature on the memorandum wasn't mine, but that of Beckett, who had just been transferred in."

At this point, Blackwell took a swig of his drink and said, "I asked the supervisor, and he said that since you're new and young, you need to gain experience. Beckett is being referred through an insider, so having his name on the list can make the process smoother."

At this point, Blackwell chuckled. "Yes! Hanging it up is for procedure, taking it down is for respecting rank. It's not that I'm afraid of work; I can work through the night, and I can help other departments find the original source of diplomatic treaties from forty years ago. I once genuinely believed that as long as you are diligent and talented, even if you come from humble beginnings, you can get close to the circle of power. But what I can't stand is that this place doesn't care what you've done; the steps of Whitehall are not meant for people to climb. Sir, I'm not flattering you, but your rise to your current position is nothing short of a miracle."

Although these were Blackwell's complaints, they were actually based on real events.

Of all the departments in Whitehall, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs is undoubtedly the most conservative.

Because, in the view of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, diplomatic affairs are essentially an extension of royal affairs.

Therefore, those who handle state relations should ideally come from well-educated and prestigious families, and the principle that lineage is more important than talent is a tacitly accepted rule within the circle.

Even during the Whig Party's rule, when other departments began to test recruitment on a small scale, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs maintained its recruitment model of private introduction plus recommendation letters. As a result, a large number of positions in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs were occupied by relatives of various nobles and politicians, and it was common to see brothers in the same office or fathers and sons in the same department.

Of course, the poor state of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs does not mean that other departments are in much better shape.

Even Sir Arthur Hastings, a figure of immense pride for countless Whitehall lower-ranking officials, owed his rapid rise from the Household Service system largely to the unique nature of Scotland Yard.

Firstly, because Scotland Yard was a newly established department, this unique environment naturally gave Arthur greater potential for advancement.

Secondly, for those from wealthy families, the identity of a police officer is simply too undignified.

Not to mention when Scotland Yard was first established, even now, I haven't seen any noble sons voluntarily apply to join Scotland Yard.

It was through a series of coincidences that he achieved what he has today.

That is why his path to success is indeed not something that normal humans can replicate.

Even normal people have their opportunities, but don't forget, you also have to make sure you don't die from being shot.

However, Arthur certainly wouldn't reveal all his secrets.

However, even without revealing the truth, he has plenty of ways to get others to obey him.

After all, for someone like Blackwell, once they face reality, they will understand that Arthur's limit is their limit.

Because in the vast Whitehall, apart from Sir Arthur Hastings, there were very few people who were truly willing to give them opportunities and promote them to key positions.

Arthur paused for a moment on the porcelain plate with his knife and fork, then slowly raised his head and looked at Blackwell with a half-smile.

“If you’ve really had enough of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs…” Arthur began, “then why not consider moving somewhere else?”

Blackwell paused, "Change...place?"

“I happen to be short a secretary right now.” Arthur wiped his hands with a napkin. “As you know, I’m the secretary-general of the Police Professional Committee. The committee’s secretariat is under my leadership. My responsibilities mainly involve coordinating field operations, military-police cooperation, fire emergency plans, and epidemic prevention and control. But… Henry, let me be clear, if you go, you’ll be doing the work of three people.” Blackwell didn’t quite catch that: “A secretary?”

“To be precise, he is the deputy director of the secretariat, a full-time third-class clerk, and his position is attached to the Ministry of the Interior.” Arthur paused. “However, the salary standard of the Ministry of the Interior is not as high as that of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The annual salary of a third-class clerk is only ninety-five pounds, but there will be additional income such as a housing allowance.”

Blackwell's breath hitched, and he nearly dropped his glass.

He looked at Arthur, unsure whether to be delighted or wary.

"Are you serious?" he asked instinctively. "I thought...I thought..."

"You think I'd at most give you a temporary assignment to move some documents for me?" Arthur raised an eyebrow with a smile. "Or do you think I'd be doing you a favor by not bringing up your past?"

Blackwell lowered his head, not daring to speak, a hint of shame flashing across his face.

"Don't worry, I really don't intend to bring up the past." Arthur's tone was calm: "At least not now."

“But this level of transfer… requires the approval of Sir Sir Beckhouse, Permanent Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs…” Blackwell began cautiously, “And on the Ministry of the Interior, Mr. Phillips, Permanent Under-Secretary of State for the Interior, has always had… uh… not a very good impression of me…”

“The two of them? You don’t need to worry about them.” Arthur tossed his napkin onto his plate. “After you finish your work, go straight to the Foreign Office and submit your resignation. I’ll give you a letter of recommendation; take it with you to the Ministry of the Interior. I’ll handle Phillips.”

Blackwell's eyes widened. He paused for a moment, then blurted out excitedly, "Are you serious?!"

“You’re saying that too soon.” Arthur neatly placed the knife and fork back on the plate. “I said, wait until you’ve finished your work.”

Blackwell suddenly became alert; he knew things weren't that simple: "What is it?"

Arthur twirled the wine glass around, as if to make sure the wine had sobered up, then, as if suddenly remembering something, he asked with a smile, "Foreign Ministry Secretariat...which department are you in now?"

“Second transcription group,” Blackwell answered instinctively.

"Then you should know what the Secretariat's responsibilities are, right?"

“Of course,” he replied almost reflexively. “The Secretariat is responsible for compiling and summarizing reports and documents from various embassies, consulates, foreign affairs officials and military garrisons, and cataloging them according to the type of matter, and transferring them to higher authorities for evaluation, collation or submission to the Secretary of State. We also handle copies of draft documents, edit and proofread minutes of proceedings, and… some informal written correspondence.”

“Very good.” Arthur nodded. “I need you to ‘organize’ a few letters for me. This shouldn’t be too difficult for you, right?”

"Excuse me... what type of letter is it?"

Arthur calmly poured Blackwell a glass of wine: "It's a few documents about the Belgian royal family, or more precisely, the minutes of all the formal and informal talks between Leopold and Viscount Palmerston after his visit to England this month, memoranda, meeting summaries, draft communications submitted by relevant officials... If it also includes correspondence between the Belgian embassy, ​​the European Affairs Section of the Foreign Ministry, and the Royal Diplomatic Advisory Council... then I think the stipend allocated to the Secretariat by the Commissioner for Police Affairs this year should be even more substantial."

Blackwell's expression tightened instantly, and the way he looked at Arthur changed.

Leopold I's visit to Britain was not merely to see his niece after her accession to the throne, but also to discuss with Britain the resolution of the Limburg and Luxembourg issues.

During the Belgian Revolution of 1830, Limburg and Luxembourg, under Dutch rule, also launched uprisings in response to Belgium.

In particular, in the towns along the Meuse River in Limburg, large numbers of militia seized control of customs stations and barracks within days.

In western Luxembourg, many villages and towns also raised the black, yellow, and red tricolor flag, openly pledging allegiance to the newly established Belgian interim government.

For this reason, Belgians generally regard these two places as inseparable territories of Belgium, and in the early days of the Belgian Revolution, almost no one doubted that they would go into the future of independence with Belgium.

However, this optimism was soon shattered by reality.

Although Luxembourg was nominally under the rule of the Kingdom of the Netherlands, it had actually become a member of the German Confederation as early as 1815, and was garrisoned by Prussian troops.

Luxembourg Castle, known as the "Gibraltar of the North," had been a stronghold for Prussian cavalry since the Napoleonic Wars.

For this reason, the Belgian independence army didn't even get close to the city gates before retreating in disgrace under the warning of Prussian long-range artillery.

The problem in Limburg, however, is more complicated.

This long, narrow, and mineral-rich border region is not only Belgium's gateway to Germany, but also strategically located at the crossroads between the Netherlands and Germany.

Prussia had long coveted this transport corridor to the Ruhr, while the Dutch were adamant in their refusal to cede Maastricht, the capital of Limburg, to Belgium.

In recent years, although Britain and France have verbally acknowledged Belgium's de facto control over Limburg and Luxembourg, they have been unwilling to confront pressure from Prussia, Austria, the Netherlands, and Russia for Belgium's sake whenever the formal border demarcation is brought up.

The Eighteen Articles, signed in London in 1831, originally attempted to grant Belgium partial sovereignty through compromise. However, with the Netherlands refusing to sign, war broke out again. Subsequently, France intervened and Britain mediated, ultimately freezing the situation into a stalemate of neither war nor peace.

Limburg is nominally part of the Netherlands, but it is actually administered by Belgium.

On the surface, Luxembourg belonged to the King of the Netherlands, but in reality, Prussia did not allow any non-German Confederation member to have any involvement...

Blackwell's Adam's apple bobbed; he felt a little short of breath.

The terms Arthur offered did indeed sound tempting.

He was appointed as a third-class clerk in the Ministry of the Interior, holding the title of deputy director. He was no longer in the old, moldy office of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and he no longer needed to see Beckett's handwriting scribbling all over his memos every month.

But the more tempting it is, the more something seems off.

A list, a table, an office—just given away like that?
This is not Sir Arthur Hastings' style.

“Sir,” he said cautiously, his voice trembling slightly, “may I ask…who exactly do you need these materials for?”

Arthur raised an eyebrow but didn't reply.

Blackwell continued cautiously, “What I mean is… I certainly don’t doubt you—not at all—it’s just… in recent years, there have been some rumors within the Foreign Office that some embassies in the Old World are trying to make…facilitate deals before parliamentary elections. Like the Netherlands and Austria, sometimes, to maintain a neutral stance or influence newspaper trends, they…occasionally…uh, through certain channels…”

At this point, Blackwell couldn't help but slap himself. He finally couldn't hold back and asked, "You...you didn't take money from the Dutch, did you?"

Arthur clicked his tongue and leaned back in his chair: "You've certainly improved, Henry. At least this time you didn't guess that I have any connection with the Circassians of the Caucasus."

Blackwell was now filled with remorse; he shouldn't have gotten into that car today. "Well... you have to give me some background information, you can't leave me completely clueless..."

“You’re doing the work of the secretariat, not the intelligence department.” Arthur lit his pipe. “I asked you to retrieve materials because you know where to find them, how to retrieve them, and how to copy them, not to investigate what secrets are hidden behind the documents.”

“But…” Blackwell tried to defend himself: “Those letters are of a very high level; I don’t even have permission to view copies of some of them…”

“But you have a way to get it.” Arthur said calmly, “Henry, don’t forget what I taught you in St. Petersburg. You know better than I which director leaves work the earliest, which duty secretary likes to drink on the way home, which documents need to be archived in their original form, and which memos only need to be kept in summary.”

He spoke casually, but Blackwell broke out in a cold sweat.

"Besides, this isn't the first time I've made you do something like this, is it?" Arthur exhaled a puff of smoke. "The position of third-class clerk is right in front of you. You should think carefully about whether it's a promising future or just a limited one."

(End of this chapter)