The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1514: Chapter 253: The Blood Knight Charging for Freedom: Arthur Hastings (Part 2)

Therefore, dear David, please move your camp to different valleys every night, like Persian poets constantly changing their rhymes to dodge censorship. Every gunshot you fire in the Caucasus increases the stakes in debates within the London Parliament Hall; and each night you pass safely is the loudest slap in the face of those who claim ”barbarians deserve to be civilized.”

You might have noticed, enclosed with this letter is an iron box containing a copper shell of a new revolver. Please give it to your most trusted Chechen elder—this is not a symbol of slaughter, but a seed of freedom. I have made a verbal agreement with Mr. Samuel Colt, head of the father-son Colt Arms Company, and if necessary, we can ship out a hundred such firearms from Liverpool each month, along with the mold-cast lead bullet tools, etc.

But just as roses need the right soil to bloom, these supplies must find a safe transportation route. That is why I earnestly request you to temporarily put aside your work in the Caucasus and consider returning to the Ottoman Empire, to Constantinople. Ottoman officials may be as colorful and elusive as the carpets in the Sultan’s harem, and ordinary people’s attitudes towards them are hard to grasp. However, as an expert on Eastern issues, you have extensive and deep relationship networks locally, you possess the magic power to have Ottoman Customs permit the passage of any crate of Scotch whisky, and such ability is more precious than the alchemy of the Armenians!

Imagine: when the merchant ships you coordinate, flying the Genoese flag, sail into the port of Trebizond and set off along the Black Sea route towards the Caucasus, what is concealed beneath its ballast are not just weapons, but the redemption of the entire Christian world for the sufferers, and the victory of freedom and humanitarianism!

Please seriously consider my proposal, we all understand that in the sacred cause of rescuing the Chechens, sometimes one must realistically dance a waltz with the devil. If the Ottomans question the transportation of weapons, you might suggest that this is ”mis-shipped goods” prepared by the East India Company for the Shah of Persia. If the Russian consul shows interest, tell him this could be the secret investment of supporters of Louis Bonaparte...

I know, this plan is filled with the mad romanticism of Shelley, even naive to the point of being laughable, like Dr. Frankenstein’s foolish attempt to use lightning to give life to corpses, we are trying to use Liverpool’s steel and London’s ink to let a dying civilization breathe again.

But so what, let those sitting in velvet-cushioned seats laugh at us!

When the hooves of the Cossacks crush the strings of the dombra, we will insist on playing the finale of ”Child Harold’s Travels” with snapped strings.

When Byron took his last breath on the Greek battlefield, he was not holding a sword hilt in his hand, but a manuscript!

Isn’t this the most magnificent paradox?

If my pen is destined to write an epitaph with the salty brine of the Black Sea, I would rather choose a Byron-style heroic farewell. When the Russians stain the Caucasus snow red with gunpowder, the ink we spill will crystallize into salt in the folds of history.

As Byron said: The country that dies gloriously is right here, go to that field, offer your life!

At this moment, what we are burning is more than just paper and steel? We are igniting the twilight of all of Britain to light up the dawn at the northernmost edge of the Eurasian continent.

Finally, please accept this blue glass watch, this watch comes from my dear friend Frederick Chopin, if you wind the crown three and a half times, it will play the famous song ”Onward! Dąbrowski,” for which Polish patriots have shed their blood.

As long as we have a breath left, Poland will not perish.

Onward! Onward! Dąbrowski!

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

Once upon a time, Chopin gave me this watch as a witness to my everlasting friendship with the Polish people.

Now, I am passing this watch on to you, and more so, to the Caucasus Mountain people who courageously resist the Tsar’s tyranny, just like the Polish people.

May its ticking become the rhythm of the Chechnya lullaby, until their children can sleep peacefully under a smokeless starry sky.

To the last Hamlet of the East, whether the Chechens survive or perish, it all hinges on your decision.

Your eternal ally,

One who swears with blood and fire for Chechen freedom,

Arthur Hastings

Junior Knight of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland

Cultural Attaché Extraordinary to the Russian Empire from the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland

In a night of blizzard in St. Petersburg

Main Calendar April 17, 1834

[Wax seal text: Per Ardura Ad Astra](Latin: Through adversity to the stars)

”Sir, Lord Ponsonby, the envoy to the Ottoman Empire, sent you a letter of thanks from Constantinople.”

The birch wood in the embassy fireplace in Petersburg snapped its last crisp sound, and Secretary Blackwell’s voice, wrapped in the cold of the corridor, barged in.

This young man usually loves to trim his beard just as neatly as the page edges of the ”Edinburgh Review,” but at this moment he let ice crystals congeal wildly at his temples like Norsemen.

Blackwell laughed so much he couldn’t close his mouth: ”That bastard Eckett... Oh, no, it’s the honorable Sir David Eckett who has left the Caucasus and returned to the consulate in Constantinople. What on earth did you write in the private letter to him that managed to persuade him, who was previously determined not to move, to leave?”