The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1366: Chapter 196: Diplomatic Intelligence of the Caucasus

After the blizzard stopped, Druiysk, always with a gray-white background, did not become much brighter.

The houses on the street had their clay peeling off from the melted snow, and the white walls became mottled and unsightly. Most roofs were covered with reeds, and when soaked with water, they appeared even heavier. As for the orchards, for the town’s appearance, the mayor had long ordered them chopped down.

Not a soul was visible on the streets, occasionally a few roosters crossed the road, the surface of which was covered with more than an inch of soft, pillow-like dust, which, when moistened, turned into a muddy mess, splattering mud spots on you with every step. Yet, whenever the mud prevails and roads become unnavigable, it becomes the animals’ playground.

Piglets rolled around in the mud pits wagging their tails, foxes sprinted from one end of the street to the other, and wolves with cunning eyes liked to stroll here under the cover of night. They each emerged from this natural ’bath’ with a serious face, creating a ruckus with grunts and groans, forcing passersby to rush their horses away, occasionally muttering a low curse they dared not let others hear.

Only when you got closer could you understand what the passersby said, like ’that pig is Bakarjin’ or ’that fox looks exactly like Hestingov’ or ’don’t fight with the head wolf Balakov for the road.’

However, in this weather, just as the snow melted, it was also extremely difficult to see passersby in the small town.

You had to squat in front of the inn at the city gate for a long time to occasionally see a landlord with 11 serfs at home, wearing a rustic gabardine, slowly driving a dual-use cart down the street. The fat landlord would peek out from among a pile of flour sacks, his red nose looking like a cherry on a cake.

Upon reaching the city gate, the fat landlord jumped off the cart and, shuffling like an earth-shaking movement, rubbed his hands while asking the innkeeper: ”Has a VIP arrived in town? The mayor suddenly ordered several big bags of mountain goods from my house today. I’ve never seen him pay so swiftly in my life.”

Perhaps seeing this, some might find it hard to resist asking: why order mountain goods, why not buy at the market?

Then your gaze must turn towards the nearby market square, which could simply be described as desolate.

The tailoring shop’s main entrance was not facing the square, but instead, it faced a corner. Opposite it stood a brick house with two windows, which had remained unfinished for about 15 years. A little further away stood a trendy wooden fence, painted a mud-like color, built as a model house by the mayor before he developed the habit of taking post-dinner naps and drinking dried gooseberry herbal juice at night.

Elsewhere, there were almost all fences. In the middle of the square, there were a few tiny shops, always stocked with a string of bagels, an old lady with a red headscarf, a shelf loaded with a Russian ton of soap, a few Russian pounds of bitter almonds, hunting shot, half a bolt of silk fabric, and two shop assistants always playing ring toss at the door.

However, the Cossack Cavalry’s visit evidently made this usually sparse square a bit more lively.

The lieutenant, with a plume on his hat, respectfully bent over to light the major’s pipe, humbly inquiring about promotions.

The garrison soldiers surrounded a few Cossacks, listening to them boast about the best West Indies tobacco they bought in Kiev, how heroically they fought in the Caucasian war, and how beautiful the Chechen female slaves awarded to them as war trophies were after the war.

The young garrison soldiers were spun in circles by the Cossacks’ stories, envying and envying their good treatment.

They said aloud: ”Ah, you are truly blessed!”

But in their hearts, they secretly cursed, ”Sleeping on the same bed with infidel women, aren’t you afraid that she might slit your throat at night.”

As for the bearded, seasoned garrison soldiers, they didn’t envy the Cossacks’ statements at all.

The seasoned ones thought these Cossacks were purely braggers, even if they got rewarded with female slaves, those slaves might not be as beautiful as claimed.

Because the seasoned ones noticed, whenever the housewives gathered at the market with their long-handled spoons, the Cossacks always peeked over the women’s shoulders, behaving no differently from the local garrison in Druiysk.

And not far off, on the high platform, a Cossack was vehemently berating an honest countryman, not daring to contradict the soldier, who only dared to widen his eyes and bow his head, groaning in agreement.

The Cossack sternly rebuked the countryman, like an emperor, yet he suddenly seemed to contract rheumatism, his once straight back stooped, forcing a smile more blooming than a flower on his face: ”General sir! Colonel! Good morning!”

Arthur, hearing the Cossack’s cordial greeting, habitually intended to doff his hat in return, but he reconsidered, realizing this might not suit his persona. So he imitated Balakov, with his hands clasped behind his back, his face expressionless, only slightly nodding.

Even nodding, the angle of his chin never fell below 90 degrees.

General Balakov harbored the same calculations as Arthur. Arthur wished to gauge this Cossack general, while Balakov also aimed to test Colonel Hestingov, to avoid offending someone he shouldn’t.