The Shadow of Great Britain

Speaking of which, he shrugged. "Later that boy was killed in Spain. Whether he confessed to the Priest before he died, I’ve no idea. Precisely because of that, I appreciate your view all the more. If faith exists only to evade responsibility, then one might as well not believe from the start. Someone like you, at least on the battlefield or in politics, will not blame failure on God."

He turned his head toward Napier. "Today I have the pleasure of reminiscing with an old Peninsula comrade, Sir William Napier, and of looking to the future with a young talent like Sir Arthur. Your country has truly gone to some trouble."

Seeing Soult so delighted, Arthur also let out a small breath of relief.

As with Talleyrand, what he had said in front of Soult was not entirely the truth.

He was quite certain that God existed, because there was, objectively speaking, a Devil walking right beside him; as for whether he believed in God, that would have to be analyzed in detail when he was staring death in the face. For at least for the present, within this patch of land called Great Britain, most internal administrative affairs were discussed and compiled by the Home Office, then submitted to the Privy Council, and finally decided upon by Her Majesty the Queen.

At the same time, as the head of the Anglican Church, Her Majesty the Queen also enjoyed the authority to decide religious affairs in Britain.

As for that place Arthur spoke of, the one that could define the dead, it was no Heaven, but the editorial office of Imperial Publishing; and the foremost task of that editorial office was to execute the resolutions of the company’s board of directors, while those resolutions largely depended on Sir Arthur Hastings, whose voting-weight share exceeded forty percent.

After applying a simplifying formula and converting the terms: in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Sir Arthur Hastings—who held the post of Permanent Under-Secretary at the Home Office, enjoyed the trust of Queen Victoria, and controlled Imperial Publishing—was approximately equal to half a God.

As to why only half a God and not a full one, this was mainly because Sir Arthur’s influence in White Hall was confined to the Home Office; his position as a coordinator between the two parties was facing a severe test; the people Victoria trusted were by no means limited to him; and Imperial Publishing, on Fleet Street, likewise had to contend with such renowned publications as the Chronicle Morning Paper, The Morning Post, Sun, The Guardian, and others.

Of course, one cannot grow fat in a single bite; these matters would have to be dealt with one by one.

After a slightly abrupt deceleration, the carriage finally passed over that inconspicuous dividing line.

Once across that threshold, they were within London’s bounds.

Was it the change in the road that first met the eye? The country post road, broad enough up to this point, suddenly narrowed here, its surface hardened and gleaming from being crushed under countless wheels.

The scenery on either side of the windows shifted from low fences, orchards and mills to a continuous run of brick and stone buildings—warehouses, workshops, taverns, inns—crowded one against another, as if forcibly crammed into this artery leading to the heart of the Empire.

Groups of pedestrians began to appear on the streets: clerks and shop assistants in dark coats, hurrying along; dockworkers, faces black with coal dust, pushing handcarts; coachmen shouting abuse at one another at narrow intersections, speaking so fast they hardly needed to draw breath. And farther off, the spire of Westminster Abbey and the chimneys pierced the grey-white sky in a jagged tangle, proclaiming the Empire’s supreme authority.

Napier, eager to play guide for the newly arrived Soult, explained London’s street scene. "Your Excellency, what you see now is the Southwark area. A little farther on is the main road leading to Westminster. The bridge over there is not as handsome as the ones in Paris, but it has the advantage of being solid and durable. Londoners have always valued practicality in this regard."

Soult followed his gestures with keen interest, nodding from time to time with a sigh. "If not for Nelson, I ought to have visited London thirty years ago."

Taking advantage of this brief lull, Arthur calmly drew out his pocket watch, pressed open the cover, and glanced at the time.

The movement itself was inconspicuous, yet in the eyes of a man like Soult it was hard to overlook.

"What is it?" The Duke of Dalmatia of France tilted his head slightly, casting Arthur a sidelong look. "You have barely entered London and you are already walking to a schedule?"

Arthur snapped the watch shut, his expression still unruffled. "No discourtesy is intended, Your Excellency; it is merely force of habit."

Soult seemed suddenly intrigued. "All the better. I was just thinking that London No.1 of the Duke of Wellington should be quite lively tonight. His Grace is hardly likely to refuse to share a drink with me. If you do not mind the company of a few old men, why not stay and join us?"

"If it were only a matter of my personal inclination..." Arthur said frankly, "I would be very honoured to accept your invitation. But unfortunately, I fear that today I cannot."

Soult clearly had not expected Arthur to dare refuse him; his eyes narrowed slightly. "Duty calls?"

Arthur nodded. "An affair entrusted to me personally by Her Majesty the Queen."

𝕗𝐫𝐞𝕖𝕨𝐞𝗯𝚗𝕠𝘃𝐞𝚕.𝐜𝗼𝚖

At these words, the playful expression on Soult’s face immediately faded somewhat.

"It sounds important," Soult said. "Is it something you can disclose? Or is it the sort of thing a Frenchman like me ought not to inquire about?"

Arthur smiled. At that moment the carriage happened to enter a busier stretch of street; a brief burst of clamour outside covered the silence within the compartment.

When the noise subsided a little, he spoke again, his tone noticeably more relaxed.

"It is no secret," Arthur said. "It is merely that private matters and public duties happen, for once, to overlap."

Soult gestured for him to go on.

"Her Majesty the Queen’s cousin, Prince Albert, arrived in London just yesterday."

The name made Soult lift an eyebrow. "The one from Saxony-Coburg? I have heard of him."

"The very same." Arthur nodded with a smile. "I have some personal acquaintance with Prince Albert. On this visit, Her Majesty hopes that I can assist him in certain matters, and His Highness himself has named me, requesting to see me at the earliest opportunity after my return from Dover."

"So that is it." Soult waved a hand, granting him pardon. "Then I can understand why you keep checking the time. It seems tonight is ill-starred for my purposes; I did not expect someone else to have booked you in advance."

Arthur’s smile deepened at that. "You need not mind, Your Excellency. You will not find yourself lonely this evening."

"Oh?"

"London No.1 is not merely the town house of the Duke of Wellington today. As far as I know, there are quite a few British generals currently in the city. Sir Henry Harding and Lord Raglan, staff officers of the British Army at Waterloo; Viscount Hill, commander of the right wing; Sir John Colborne, who commanded an infantry brigade; and the Cavalry Commander, the Marquis of Anglesey—every one of them will be there tonight. If it pleases you, you will be able to settle all your old accounts from those days at the drinking table in one go."

Soult burst into hearty laughter at this, patting his knee lightly with his hand. "So you plan to send me to another crushing defeat, do you?"

Arthur shook his head with a smile. He rose to his feet and straightened his coat. "How could I, Your Excellency? Then allow me to wish you, in advance, a most enjoyable evening."