The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1494: Chapter 245: The Similarities Between Cossack Cavalry Trousers and Autocratic Rule

Blackwell took out a handkerchief to wipe the fine sweat from his brow, his Adam’s apple moving up and down with his swallowing: ”Sir, allow me to sort out the subtleties of the situation for you again. After all, Earl Dalamo’s phrasing is as hard to decipher as his drunken calligraphy.”

Arthur sensed something was amiss in Blackwell’s words: ”Has Captain Hutter’s news been sent back? Sir David Eckett is still alive?”

Blackwell seemed like he had a stone stuck in his throat, his face showing a grim smile: ”I think perhaps you should be more concerned about Earl Dalamo’s health than Sir David’s.”

He pulled a sheet of embassy-stamped stationery from a compartment of his briefcase, skipping past Earl Dalamo’s praise for Arthur’s efficiency and going straight to the most thrilling part: ”Eckett, this madman, has done things in the Caucasus that are ten times more dangerous than Lord Byron’s adventures in Greece! He not only persuaded the Cheerks Tribe to appoint him as a military advisor but also printed twenty thousand flyers in Tbilisi’s black market, written in Russian: ’The Tsar’s noose cannot strangle the throat of freedom...’

Smoke rose in the room, Arthur puffed on the pipe until sparks flew: ”It seems our Sir David has been treating the Foreign Office’s ’Code of Conduct Abroad’ as toilet paper.”

”Worse yet, he’s sent eleven anonymous reports to The Times.” Blackwell unfolded the sheep-leather-scented letter brought from the Caucasus: ”I can hardly imagine the kind of big news Fleet Street would make for the Foreign Office if this essay ’The Similarity Between Cossack Cavalry Crotches and Autocratic Rule’ were to fall into their hands.”

Arthur received the manuscript, with just a glance, deeply appreciating Sir David Eckett’s profound classical literary prowess.

’The Similarity Between Cossack Cavalry Crotches and Autocratic Rule’

Have you ever noticed the Cossack cavalry patrolling the streets of Moscow?

When these long-bearded warriors sit astride the Don River ponies, the arc formed by the front of their scarlet breeches resembles the Kremlin’s domes reflected on the Neva River.

Today, with the rigor of anatomical dissection, I will reveal to the readers of the civilized world an astonishing discovery: The entire mystery of the Russian autocratic regime is hidden in the crotches of the Cossacks.

Comparing the straight-leg breeches of Prussian cavalry and the lace shorts of French Dragon Cavalry, we can clearly recognize that His Majesty Tsar Nicholas I’s obsession with hip curves is by no means accidental.

In December 1825, when the Decembrists shouted for the Constitution in Palace Square, what truly enraged the Tsar might have been Duke Trubetsky, the rebel commander, whose trousers violated regulations. According to court tailor records — His Majesty once fiercely stabbed the costume patterns of the rebels sent by the attendant with a diamond cane, shouting: ”A sagging crotch is more dangerous than a sagging loyalty!”

For a detailed discussion of this issue, I shall analyze it from four parts.

One: The Aesthetics of Taut Power

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Two: The Contradiction Between Concealment and Exposure

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Three: The Tyranny Codes Within the Fabric

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Four: Viewing Tyrant Psychology from Fashion History

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Conclusion: Unfasten Autocratic Breeches, Release Russian Freedom!

Arthur observed the manuscript, pinched his chin and pondered for a long time, the air in the room almost solidifying.

Blackwell’s forehead was dotted with beads of sweat; he knew that the Sir was surely furious beyond measure this time.

How did he know about this?

It was because Earl Dalamo had already raged at the embassy yesterday, cursing Sir David for this article for over ten minutes.

”I say...,” Arthur suddenly spoke.

”Sir, just curse a bit if you want, it’s hard to keep it bottled up. What Sir David did is indeed indecent, he actually dared to use such an article threatening the Foreign Office and the embassy that smashes everyone’s rice bowl.”

”Curse? Why should I curse?” Arthur eyed the brilliantly written article with a sigh: ”Truly deserving of an Oxford top student, almost reaching the professional level of the University of London’s classical literature department. By the way, you just said Sir David intends to publish this in The Times? Has he thought to send it to us ’British’?”

”This...” Blackwell’s mind couldn’t quite wrap around it at the moment: ”You... you really intend to help him publish this article?”

”Just kidding.” The sudden burst of fire from the fireplace startled the carrion crows on the windowsill, Arthur used a silver letter opener to lift a piece of dried fruit: ”The price must undoubtedly be hefty, and we, the ’British’ as a small outfit, certainly can’t afford such a big package. So, what kind of terms has this romantic warrior offered us?”

”Fifty tons of rye flour, three hundred boxes of canned corned beef.” The secretary’s fountain pen screeched across the inventory: ”Two thousand Baker Rifles with a hundred thousand rounds of ammunition, along with surgical instruments and medicines, he specifically notes no East India Company inferior goods. Also, two thousand sets of winter clothes, of course, all must be made of Scottish tartan. If we don’t agree, then those eleven articles will soon see the light of day.”

”How thoughtful, sparing the Russian customs the trouble of checking labels.” Arthur used the silver-plated letter opener to lift a fragment of sealing wax: ”It seems Sir David has developed a sense of Cossack humor after lingering in the mountains for so long. Has he never considered? As long as we send a box of wool socks to the Caucasus, the Tsar’s spies might turn the entire ship into their coffin board? What stance does Earl Dalamo take on this?”