usatvline Chapter 83 War Stuffed into a Fish's Belly
Chapter 83 War Stuffed into a Fish's Belly
Seamus sat on a bundle of hay, carefully wiping the bolt of a Charville rifle with a piece of linen.
The cold metallic sheen of the gun took on a warm, smooth feel in his calloused hands.
He didn't answer Finn's complaints, but just focused on what he was doing, as if the gun was another child he needed to protect.
Finn's frustration went unanswered, which fueled his anger. He walked up to Seamus, his imposing figure blocking the light streaming in through the hole in the barn.
"Hey, Seamus, say something! The master entrusted this to the two of us; if things go wrong, we'll both be feeding the fish!"
Seamus stopped what he was doing and placed the rifle flat on his lap.
"The master has his own plans." There was not a trace of doubt in his tone, as if the words themselves were an unquestionable truth.
Just then, the sound of horses' hooves came from the farm path.
Fiona arrived alone, riding a black steed.
She dismounted nimbly, her dark dress looking somewhat out of place in the desolate farm.
"The master's orders."
Without any further pleasantries, she handed Finn a letter directly.
Finn tore off the sealing wax and read it in the dim light.
His expression shifted from annoyance to confusion, and finally settled into a strange mix of absurdity and admiration.
"Damn it..." He crumpled the letter into a ball. "Buy fish? Buy the biggest cod in all of Boston?"
Fiona ignored his profanity.
"Mr. Finn will be in charge of execution. Mr. Seamus will provide technical guidance. You need to completely disassemble the rifle, wrapping each part tightly in tarpaulin to ensure there is no gunpowder or rust smell leaking out."
"Then, stuff it into the fish's belly, and our people sew it up again. The workmanship must be excellent, so that no one can tell the difference."
"These are the gentleman's exact words."
This sounds like the ravings of a madman.
However, after reading the letter, Seamus simply stood up and put the cleaned rifle back into the box.
"I'll arrange for people to disassemble the firearms; it's a delicate job," he said, and then headed straight for the warehouse.
Finn stared at his matter-of-fact attitude for a long time, then stomped his foot hard.
"Fuck them! They're insane! They're all fucking insane!"
He cursed as he strode after them, shouting to gather more men.
Two days later, Oak Bay Estate.
Martha Boyle used the pretext of discussing the bakery's new quarterly supply to get a private meeting with Levi.
The previous night, Mr. Boyle, who was so clear-headed that he seemed a little foolish, was excited about winning a big order to supply cod to the military camp, completely unaware of what lay behind this deal.
During dinner, he gesticulated wildly as he described to Martha how Finn's men had generously chartered all his wagons and how they had specified that they should source their goods from the largest fishmonger in Fanil Market.
Martha simply bent down to straighten his bow tie, but in her mind, she pieced together these fragmented pieces of information to form a complete picture.
At this moment, in the study, Li Wei was rhythmically tapping the table with his knuckles.
"Mr. Li, I've heard that you've recently developed a strong interest in Boston's fishing industry."
Martha's voice was gentle, as if she were talking about the weather.
Li Wei's tapping stopped.
He neither admitted nor denied it, but simply looked at her calmly.
"Mrs. Boyle, your bread is the best in all of Boston."
"Thank you for your compliment." Martha smoothed out a wrinkle on her skirt.
"But even the best bread can't mask the smell of gunpowder under the noses of military dogs. I've heard that Governor Thomas Hutchinson has had a new batch of hunting dogs brought in from England, with an exceptionally keen sense of smell. Last week, a ship smuggling tobacco was thoroughly searched at the dock."
"Although the fishy smell is strong, it may not be enough to mask everything for a well-trained hunting dog, especially since metal and gunpowder emit a very distinctive rusty and musty smell when they get damp."
Hearing this, Li Wei moved forward and became even more interested in what Martha had said.
She paused, then looked up to meet Li Wei's scrutiny.
"However, even the most sensitive dog's nose can be afraid of a certain smell."
"What does it taste like?"
"The aroma of yeast and spices fermented at high temperatures. That intense, sweet and sour smell is enough to desensitize any sense of smell."
"In my bakery, there are leftover linen cloths that are soaked in this smell every day. If you put these linen cloths in the lining of a fish wagon, I think even Cerberus wouldn't be able to smell anything else."
The study was quiet, save for the crackling of the burning wood in the fireplace.
After a long while, Li Wei finally spoke again.
"Fiona".
Fiona, who had been standing in the corner, stepped forward.
"Yes, sir."
"Extend the exclusive supply contract between the Heilongjiang Chamber of Commerce and Boyle Bakery for another two years."
Li Wei stood up, walked over to Martha, and offered her a cup of tea.
"In addition, starting this month, Mrs. Boyle will receive an extra one percent of the profits from all catering businesses under the Black Dragon Chamber of Commerce. This is as a token of our gratitude for your valuable suggestions on the quality of our products."
Martha slowly stood up, a meaningful smile on her face, and gave Li Wei an impeccable curtsy.
"Thank you for your generosity, sir."
She knew she had made the right bet.
From this day forward, she is no longer just the wife of a baker.
……
Faneuil Market, the heart of Boston.
This place is always bustling with people, and the air is filled with a mixture of thousands of smells.
The cries of fishmongers, the sounds of butchers chopping meat, the songs of drunken sailors, and the complaints of wealthy women haggling over prices rose and fell in waves.
Samuel Adams wore an unremarkable rag coat and his tricorn hat was pulled low over his head.
The blacksmith Silas beside him stood like a wall, his imposing figure separating him from the throng of people.
At this moment, they disguised themselves as purchasing agents for a small tavern, pushing a creaking wheelbarrow and struggling to make their way across the slippery stone road.
As agreed, they stopped in front of a fish stall in the far corner of the third row.
The stall owner was a lean man working for Finn, with an old scar on his face that made him look particularly fierce.
He was wielding a thick-backed machete, chopping a huge cod into pieces, splattering blood and ice fragments everywhere.
"Fresh cod! Just hauled up from George Sandbar!" the stall owner shouted in a hoarse voice, his eyes casually scanning the passing crowd.
Silas took a step forward, his heavy boots making a "plop" sound as they stomped on the fish-scale-covered ground.
With his calloused hands, he pointed to the remaining whole cod on the cutting board, which looked to be the most substantial piece.
"Fishmonger, how much is this one?"
The stall owner glanced at him, then at Samuel, who looked like a lackey behind him, and slammed the knife into the chopping board with a loud thud, making the fish head jump.
"Four shillings, not a penny less."
Silas did not immediately counter-offer.
He stared silently at the fish, then raised his hand and, seemingly casually, rubbed his thick index and middle fingers against the bridge of his nose, as if wiping away the fishy water that had just splashed on it.
He then stepped forward, extended three fingers, and tapped them on the cutting board.
Two short and one long.