The Shadow of Great Britain-Chapter 1729 - 72: Offend Sir and Still Expect to Leave?

In the morning, the mist at the West Indies Pier seemed to creep silently up from the bottom of the Thames River, transforming into a layer of damp and cold gray fog in mid-air.

Stacks of cargo boxes piled up on the pier, and through the light brown canvas, one could see the dazzling array of goods inside, including Jamaican sugar, Indian face creams, Chinese tea, and West African ivory.

A large number of laborers carrying burlap sacks shuttled between pulley cranes and lifting towers, alongside low small horses pulling carts, carrying bags of printed fabric and spices to the customs shed.

Not far from the berthing area, a batch of wooden boxes marked with "E.I.C." (East India Company) was being carefully transported by Port Authority people, while several men with metal armbands stood nearby supervising. Given the tax seals, manifests, and invoices in their hands, these were evidently inspection officers from the Royal Customs.

They occasionally whispered with a company representative wearing a tall hat and sporting a beard. From their conversation, it seemed these goods were prepared as an annual special supply for the gentlemen of the War Department and the Navy Department, and would, as usual, spend a night at the West Indies Pier, before being taken away by a Military Supply Bureau convoy.

Henry Blackwell descended the gangway with his leather case, his shoe soles pressing into the soaked wooden boards with a dull creaking sound.

He paused, looked up at his surroundings, and watched the white mist from his breath swiftly blend into the pier’s moisture: "What a great transformation..."

Blackwell recalled eight years ago when he boarded a ship to Russia from the West Indies Pier; the place wasn’t so orderly back then.

At that time, workers shouted bare-chested as they unloaded cargo from barges, with boxes often casually stacked by the dock, occasionally rolling into the water if not careful.

The hand-cranked cranes for moving goods were of old models, mostly crooked wooden poles matched with rusty iron wheels, relying entirely on manpower to move up and down.

And now?

The cranes stand tall like church bell towers, even with overseers on small platforms commanding winch lifts. Damn, if you stripped him of his garment and dressed him in priest’s robes, you’d think it was some priest giving a sermon.

The row of rusty warehouses on the north dock is gone, replaced by three neatly arranged, numbered new warehouses. Even the pier passage has been paved with brand new stones, with new fences and gas lamp posts set along the road.

As Blackwell walked, he marveled at London’s changes over the years.

He quickened his pace through the iron gate at the exit, inevitably glancing back at the row of impressive, neatly lined lamp posts.

The avenue outside the pier was much wider than he remembered, and the poplar trees on both sides were evidently planted in recent years. The river breeze brought the scent of fresh soil.

Across the road was a freshly painted three-story red brick building, which, when he left eight years ago, was merely a dilapidated warehouse, its walls covered in vines and pigeon droppings, now gleaming anew. The window frames had been painted white, and the copper door handles shone glaringly under the sunlight, as if gilded. They even dug a small drainage ditch under the eaves, as if this building was too precious to endure even a bit of weather.

Though, when linking it to the plaque on the door, all explanations fell into place, as it read prominently: London Customs Headquarters Royal Customs Office at West Indies Pier.

Blackwell shook his head, muttering: "Customs is really wealthy, even the curtains at the windows look cleaner than those at the embassy..."

He couldn’t help but sigh: "Back then, if I had the chance to come here to copy documents, why would I have wasted those eight years in Russia?"

Holding his leather case, he stood by the roadside looking around as carriages, barges, and cargo trucks passed by.

Logically, the Foreign Office wouldn’t let him stand on the road blowing in the wind for too long.

After all, the Foreign Office is different from other departments at White Hall. Because of the nature of their work, these professional diplomats always strive to master details.

Normally, if the Foreign Office says they’ll arrive at a certain time, they usually arrive around half an hour early, ensuring guests never wait long.

Especially since he was specially recalled by a Foreign Office dispatch from St. Petersburg. Generally, this is a sign of promotion, and the Foreign Office even specified in the letter for him to wait by the customs office, so... they surely wouldn’t forget this, would they?

Blackwell pondered this, but after waiting for half a minute, only an East India Company marked cargo truck, a high-sided customs carriage, and a fruit vendor pushing a wheelbarrow swerved past him.

"Perhaps they really did forget about me." Blackwell thought half-jokingly: "After all, I’m not some big shot."

He adjusted his hat brim, using the shop window next to the customs office to check his reflection in the glass.

His hair was slightly disheveled, collar a bit crooked, and stubble unkempt for several days. The reflection looked like a refugee escaping a military disaster, perhaps intimidating to a ninth-grade official in a small Russian town, but among the White Hall gentlemen, it was evidently quite shabby.

If he, with this appearance, entered Downing Street number 15 directly, those senior civil servants would surely think he was begging. If Permanent Under-Secretary Sir John Bickhouse were to see him, then...