The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1568: Chapter 10: Palmerston’s Invitation (3)

At that time, the British War Department was far from being as prestigious as today’s Ministry of Defense in various countries. Many old-fashioned officers believed that the War Department was merely an auxiliary department established to execute the orders of the Commander-in-Chief. However, Palmerston stubbornly refused to view his department in such a manner. To affirm the War Department’s authority, the young Palmerston often had heated arguments with Sir David Dundas and the Duke of York, even escalating matters to His Majesty the King.

After achieving some success in the War Department, Palmerston intended to play a greater role in Parliament.

However, just as he came up with this idea, he encountered an old adversary who was vocally critical of him in Parliament—Lord Brougham.

According to Palmerston himself: “This respectable and erudite official criticized me. Naturally, I couldn’t refute this distinguished gentleman personally. Because he seldom uses his opinions to interfere with the work of the House of Commons and is discreet in all matters, unwilling to engage in disputes or deliver lengthy speeches on the constitution. Therefore, I decided to focus on the task at hand, concentrating on this year’s military budget.”

In other words, when faced with the “heavy artillery” set by Lord Brougham, Palmerston simply calculated using the common sense of military economics and realized that winning this verbal battle would require considerable time and effort, so he voluntarily withdrew.

While he was always unwilling to concede while facing two Army Commanders-in-Chief, yet he retreated in Parliament when confronted by Lord Brougham.

In this regard alone, Palmerston is definitely not that guy who only knows how to pick easy targets as portrayed by the opposition; it’s just that he is too pragmatic, making it appear to others as if he’s always going for the easy targets.

After all, in most cases, picking easy targets is certainly the most economical and practical choice. But if it comes to harder tasks, Palmerston would not hesitate either.

Today, it was clear he planned to tackle what seemed to be an easy target that was actually much tougher.

The carriage stopped in front of 15 Downing Street.

Compared to two years ago, London’s degree of industrialization had increased significantly, and correspondingly, the toxic smog mixed with industrial dust was ever thicker.

Before getting off, Arthur couldn’t help but lightly brush the coal dust off his sleeve with his fingers. He had deliberately worn the gray-blue double-breasted coat today, which wasn’t eye-catching but at least resistant to dirt.

Downing Street remained its silent self. The guards responsible for security had been replaced with a new batch, and he couldn’t find many familiar faces around.

Fortunately, his name still worked wonders. Arthur handed the invitation at the door, and the young guard in a deep blue uniform immediately recognized his name and ushered him into the interior hall of the Foreign Office.

Walking through the corridor, a familiar silhouette was already waiting there for him.

“Arthur, my old chap!” Assistant Secretary August Schneider from the Foreign Office stepped forward to shake his hand, wearing a polite smile unique to diplomats: “You finally arrived. Viscount Palmerston… is in an exceptionally decent mood today.”

“What do you mean by ‘decent’?” Arthur asked as he walked, actually not really concerned with Palmerston’s mood. If it weren’t for maintaining basic decency, he wouldn’t have bothered to visit the Foreign Office: “Are you saying he thinks I’ve done a good job in Russia?”

“Not quite.” Schneider responded with a look: “I mean, at least he hasn’t decided to throw you into the Tower yet.”

Arthur couldn’t help but let out a light chuckle: “Does he already know all about my and Eckett’s arrangements in the Caucasus?”

“He knows.” Schneider replied swiftly: “To be precise, he knows even more than you imagined. That ‘confidential memorandum’ of yours and Eckett’s, I suspect someone sent an ‘anonymous’ copy here to White Hall.”

Arthur’s brows twitched slightly, and he maintained silence.

In just an instant, several names flashed through his mind, but the most suspicious seemed to be his private secretary, Mr. Henry Blackwell.

“Don’t worry.” Schneider lowered his voice: “He wasn’t furious. At least he didn’t break a teacup.”

“Indeed!” Arthur replied sarcastically: “Not breaking a teacup is truly a miracle in Britain’s diplomatic history. I thought I’d end up like General Cordington, getting kicked to Portsmouth Naval Base from the Commander of the Mediterranean Fleet position. Does our Foreign Office have a place similar to Portsmouth Naval Base for exile?”

Schneider gave a light cough, seemingly wanting to hide his laughter: “Of course, though our Foreign Office values decorum and it’s generally not called ‘exile,’ we refer to it as: the Dutch Celebes Affairs Liaison Office.”

“What sort of ridiculous place is that?”

“In the Pacific Ocean, an island near Borneo, with a hotter climate than Portsmouth Naval Base and more diseases than India. But the good news is, there’s no Parliamentary inquiries there, nor are there columnists from The Times.”

Arthur didn’t reveal that he had already submitted a written resignation to Palmerston earlier, instead, he pretended to jest with a self-deprecating statement: “Hmm… sounds indeed very suitable for someone like me right now.”

“Don’t be so quick to categorize yourself.” Schneider smiled and patted his shoulder: “I’ve never seen any real exile who gets named and invited into the minister’s office during tea breaks at White Hall.”

The Foreign Office corridor was excessively quiet; occasionally, a figure or two could be seen passing by, deliberately lowering their footsteps, reflecting the distinctive style under Palmerston’s rule.

The door to the minister’s office, painted in deep red with a gilded frame, stood solemnly at the end of the corridor.

Schneider paused, waiting until Arthur nodded slightly, before reaching out to knock on the door.

The three knocks were crisp and rhythmic.

A slightly hoarse yet steady male voice came from inside: “Come in.”

Sunlight shone through the high windows onto the carpet. Viscount Palmerston, wearing a silvery-gray waistcoat, was seated behind a massive mahogany desk, a neatly folded topographic map spread out before him.

He didn’t immediately look up but gently tapped a corner of the map with his right hand as if confirming a location.

“Oh, Sir Arthur Hastings!” Palmerston confirmed with a glance, then raised his hand to gesture: “Please, sit down.”

Arthur sat in the soft chair opposite him, deliberately slowing his movements, knowing that appearing eager to explain at this moment would mean losing.

Palmerston gently placed down the map, stood up to open the liquor cabinet, and took out a bottle of whiskey.

“I’ve read your report and that memorandum.” He said: “You are both brave and creative.”

“Unfortunately, not in accordance with protocol.” Arthur interjected.

“You’re quite right.” Palmerston did not deny it: “The reason the diplomatic system exists is to ensure that unorthodox creativity doesn’t become a national disaster. In this regard, neither you nor Sir David Eckett’s actions were satisfactory.”

Palmerston placed the glass down in front of Arthur: “Do you think my criticism is too severe?”

Arthur shook his head: “Not severely, to be honest, Your Excellency, I had anticipated a worse scenario.”

Palmerston laughed softly, pouring Arthur a full glass of whiskey: “The diplomatic reports you sent back from Russia are quite excellent, not only valuable but also engaging to read. I had assumed that the situation in Russia would differ from what I had imagined, but it turns out that after twenty years, they are still the same.”

Hearing this, Arthur furrowed his brows: “Have you been to Russia before?”

“No.” Palmerston sipped his whiskey: “However, I attended a parade in Paris back in 1815, organized to celebrate the Anti-France Alliance’s defeat of Napoleon. During the parade rehearsal, I noticed that foreign military troops marched in smaller steps than ours and always seemed awkward. Because of this, our military’s proud strides deeply impressed Tsar Alexander I of Russia, who immediately ordered his troops to adopt the British marching steps as well. The result was predictable: Russian soldiers were confused between their accustomed steps and the Tsar’s newly ordered ones, completely messing up during the parade at Mars Square. The Tsar was furious and ordered the arrest of the three worst-performing battalion commanders on the spot, placing them in confinement. However, his aide told me that those three Colonels were lucky because at least the Tsar didn’t demand that they learn to dance like ballet star Vestris within 24 hours, or else they’d be sent off to Siberia.”