Pax Britannia

Travels of a Cobbler 10: Ill on the coach

We stayed overnight in Viljandi, in a small inn that was absolutely packed with people. Clearly, this route was popular with Baltic Germans heading to the coast. I slept terribly, even though the bed was comfortable, warm, and relatively free of bugs, and when I did finally catch the dream, it was full of frightedness. I felt even more unwell in the morning, but not wanting to let down my companions, Risto and Liis, I pushed on and boarded the coach heading for Pyarnu.

It was raining the whole day, but it was the gentle summer rain now, not the downpour that had fallen on the ship on my way to Mežha. Still, it made me feel even more miserable, and I proved dull conversation for my new friends. I found myself annoyed by the stories that yesterday, I would have deemed interesting: how one of the passengers had been training to be a glassblower but had his career foiled by consumption that ruined his lungs; another claimed to be an illegitimate son of General Suvorov; and one spoke about bandits roaming these lands, seeking to profit off wealthy Germans travelling on this route.

As we were passing through the beautiful Buzinniy Lez (Elder Forest), a huge ox cart carrying hay approached from the opposite direction. It was too wide to pass, so we were forced to pull off the road in a small clearing to wait. At this point, I was starting to feel quite weak indeed, and I was truly not in the mood for the events that transpired next. The moment the cart was slowly dragging past the siding, from among the hay appeared six men armed with pistols. They were of reasonably strong build, bearded, and quite short - but then again, so was most everyone in the countryside.

"Fine day, is it not?", one of them shouted, mockingly. "No need to exit the coach, just throw your purses on the ground and you can be on your way."

Most of the passengers were facing a big dilemma: they were not wealthy people, and handing over their purse might mean the difference between life and death. In my weakened state, I knew I could not fight back, and put a moderate amount of my savings in a small pouch that I was ready to cast out of the window. However, the self-proclaimed Suvorov had no intention of parting with his money. He produced a revolver that looked like it had not been fired once. "French. Six rounds in the cylinder. The robbers have single-shot pistols. I can take them all out without even reloading."

He seemed to put a lot of faith both in the weapon and his own skill as a marksman. Admittedly, the robbers were less than 10 paces away, so none of the passengers expressed too great concerns about this. The man threw out his purse with such vigor that it flew under the ox cart, providing a short distraction as the robbers were following it with their eyes. Then, he opened fire.

The first shot, aimed at the leader of the band, missed completely. The second shot found flesh, hitting the second robber in the stomach. The third shot never fired, as the revolver jammed and the man was killed by three six-line pistol balls to the head. "You bastard!", the leader shouted, not realising the aptness of his insult. "Out of the coach, all of you!", he then barked. "I didn't want to force you out in the rain, but so it goes. Any of you good at dressing wounds?"

I watched the robber bleeding on the muddy ground and felt a scrap of pity for him, forgetting my weakened state for a second. "I'm a cobbler, not a physician, but I know my way around a glover and thread. I can patch him up."

"Very well", the leader said. He promptly executed the other male passengers, to the accompaniment of the shocked screams of the few women who were present. The five robbers got to work enjoying their spoils, while I got to work trying to save the sixth one.

(Read the previous chapters here: nation=russiya/detail=factbook/id=main)

Travels of a Cobbler 11: Bandits' lair
Once I had dressed the wound left by the revolver bullet as well as I could, we carried the patient to the bandits' lair. It was quite a way away, but the wounded man was not too heavy: keeping him calm in his shocked state was the main challenge. I was expecting a cave or a hidden hut or something like that, but the hiding place was a perfectly normal farm, surrounded by oat fields and onion patches. A goat was tied up in front of the barn, pigs were roaming in the yard, and I could hear the sounds of a bunch of other animals inside. However, we headed for a small hut with a chimney at the back of the yard: the banya, which they called "pirts".

Assuming my role as the unofficial medicine man of the group, I barked orders at the bandits: bring water and alcohol, light a fire, find some kind of pliers and heat them up... at this point, I was forced to leave the patient alone for a while in order to use the outhouse, and there, I could instantly diagnose myself: I had cholera. I remembered all the childhood friends who had perished to the disease while no one could help them in the slightest. Think, think, I told myself. Why did your friends die but you and your brothers survived? What did your family do differently?

Returning to the sauna, I found the fire burning in the stove, a bottle with a little bit of vodka left, and a bucket of water for cleaning the blood off the patient. But something was not quite right. Nevermind that, I started heating the pliers so I could extract the revolver bullet. I was losing focus due to the illness, but what was off? I was ready to start removing the bloody bandages I had quickly wrapped around the stomach, when I noticed the water in the bucket was not clear. In fact, it looked more like beer than water.

"What's this? Where did you get this water from?"

"Uh, from that pond just outside. We get all our water from it."

I went to take a look at the pond. It was murky brown, and hoofprints of pigs led right to the water: farm animals had obviously been drinking from it and had probably bathed in it, too. It reminded me of the swamp water puddles that were used for vegetable patch irrigation in the suburbs of St Petersburg, but there, it wouldn't occur to anyone to drink out of those: that's what wells and water vendors were for. Clearly, the countryside was a world of its own.

I was too weak to express my disgust, so I simply asked whether there might be a well or a spring nearby. One of the robbers stated knowing of a small spring in the woods, so I asked everyone to grab some empty vodka bottles and fill them with spring water. Meanwhile, I collected some willow branches the wounded man could chew on while I performed the operation. He was unconscious, but still breathing softly, which gave me hope.

Eventually, the youngest bandit returned running with one bottle full of perfectly clear water. "The spring trickles really slowly, so it takes a while to fill a bottle, but here's the first one", he stated, out of breath. It had to do; I could delay no longer. I removed the bandages, letting the man's black blood flow again. Wait! Is it better to leave the bullet inside him rather than try to remove it with untrained hands and these rudimentary tools in this dank sauna? Well, it's too late to think about that now. I grabbed the sterilized pliers and shoved them inside the man's stomach.

Immediately, he woke up and began to scream. My young assistant shoved the willow bark in the man's mouth, as I shuffled around, looking for the bullet. This is stupid, I thought. There is no way I can save him, they need a proper physician. But he's a highwayman, who cares if he lives or dies? Living here on this desolate farm with his brothers... what? Brothers? Why did you think that? Well, they all look and talk the same, for one. "Is he your brother?", I asked the young robber. "Yes, his name is Aabolins. It means 'clover'", he answered. I wished he hadn't told his name. Now, there was no going back; I had to find the bullet.

After what felt like days, I pulled it out. It can't have been more than a minute, though: the patient was still alive, even if unconscious again. The next clean bottle of water arrived at the same time, and I used all of it to clean the wound before taking my glover needle and stitching it up. Slowly, as the thread pulled his skin to close the gaping hole, the bleeding became slower, but didn't quite stop. I took this to be a good sign: there is still some left inside him. Aabolins was still breathing when I covered his stomach in new bandages.

"He has lost a lot of blood", I explained to his brothers as soon as all five had returned, "so he will need a lot of rest. And a lot of water. Clean water. Believe me..." I was going to say something about unsanitary conditions and child mortality, but at that moment, I felt myself collapse on the floor, as everything went dark.

(Read the previous chapters here: nation=russiya/detail=factbook/id=main)

Good news, everyone.

I have answered a 13th Easter egg issue.

Travels of a Cobbler 12: Recovering from cholera
I awoke some days later in the main room of the farm house. At first, I thought I was alone. Then, as my consciousness slowly returned, I noticed there was a cat looking at me. It was dirty white and stood on top of the vast baking oven that dominated the interior. Looking at it exhausted me, and I closed my eyes for a few more minutes. I felt like I had been struggling for my life, but could not remember any of it. I had collapsed in the sauna, not here, so the bandits must have carried me here. Listening closely, I heard the sound of a scythe cutting nettles outside. Then, the sound of heavy boots on the porch steps: one of the bandits walked in. I tried to sit up but was too weak.

"Medicine man!", the bearded robber shouted. "Did you sleep well?"

"I suppose so... I have cholera... but it seems to be on the mend", I managed to say. He walked over and gave me a bottle of water someone had brought from the spring.

"That's good, means all the water we carried for you and Aabolins wasn't completely wasted. I'm happy one of you survived."

I could not believe what I heard. The patient I had tried so hard to save had perished? The man, named Paimis, explained what had happened while I was passed out. Aabolins had not lived to see the next morning after my crude operation. He had awoken for a moment, but nothing he had said had made any sense. One sentence Paimis remembered was "Do not save the Aablontskii", or something like that. Aabolins must have been extremely delirious to forget his own name like that and curse his own life. They had buried him under a huge spruce tree, as handing over a body with a huge gunshot wound to the undertaker might have raised suspicions.

In the following days, I regained my strength, and soon enough, I was strong enough to make my own way to the spring to fill the water bottle. I firmly believe that the water had healing properties, as it managed to cure my cholera, even though it failed to save the bandit. Anyway, to pay my debt to the men who had spared my life, taken care of me and put a roof over my head, I repaired their shoes and did light chores until I felt strong enough to be on my way again.

Finally, on a sunny June morning two weeks after the coach robbery, I woke up, packed my tools, and was about to say my goodbyes to the five brothers. The youngest one had gone to the river to fish, and I was in no hurry to leave, so I waited for him to return. This I should not have done, for he did arrive soon, but escorted by a squad of mounted soldiers. I had seen many regimental facings while living in St Petersburg, but these were unlike any I had seen. "Search the buildings! There should be six men!", the junior lieutenant shouted. This was shocking to hear: I was certain the soldiers were about to arrest us all for the brutal murder of the coach passengers, and I had no identification to separate me from the bandits. Even my beard had grown to look a bit like theirs.

However, as the bandits were dragged to the yard, it became apparent that the soldiers were on a law enforcement mission of a different kind. The officer developed a piece of paper and read it. "Brothers Iilay. On three occasions, you have been delivered an order to send a recruit to the draft call-ups, and on three occasions, you have failed to report. You have thus been found guilty of conscription evasion and lose your right of limited conscription. All six of you are henceforth in the service of Her Imperial Majesty's Armed Forces and your property will hereby be surrendered to the crown. In Sigaste on the 12:oe Juniya 1857, Junior Lieutenant Nat HaLevi Swerdlove, as vested by His Highness Heinrich Magnus Wilhelm von Essen, Governor of Livonia. Let's go!"

At this point, resistance was useless, so off we went, dragged towards the German border by the mounted scouts of the Riganskaya Fusiliers. As horrified as I was, I felt this might be the start of a whole new adventure.

I daf

Kingdom of France and Kingdom of Russia Sign Trade Agreement

After some time of negotiation between French Ambassador to Russia, Charles Duc de Morny, and Andrey Fedorovich Budberg, a historic Trade Agreement has been agreed upon. This liberalization of trade is expected to benefit both nations by reducing the barriers to trade and setting a cap to tariffs to goods from both countries. This comes at a time when rising industry in France has increasing demands for raw goods that can be provided by Russia, with future negotiations on the sharing of technical and industrial capabilities likely.

A secondary point of the treaty is recognizing Russian claims to Greenland, which while a matter of interest more for the Russian delegation, falls outside of the sphere of concern for France. The diplomatic measure is more of a formality and is not necessary to an endorsement of France’s other interested partners for diplomatic and economic support in regards to the great white Atlantic.