While Britain Fared Averagely, Russia Could Only Shed Tears
Around the same time Britain was muddling through, Russia had no choice but to weep.
"France isn't buying our grain? Why the devil not?"
"The logistics costs are too high, Your Majesty."
It was because France had rejected Russia's offer to sell them grain.
"Their bellies must be full! Everyone in Europe knows about the hailstorms."
"Your Majesty, France has overcome the famine."
"How in God's name?!"
France had managed to weather the famine by importing food from America and cutting back on in-kind aid shipments to Italy.
"And so, they say they have no need for our unreliable and expensive Russian grain."
In truth, Russia couldn't sell grain to France at any price. Trade via the Baltic involved convoluted sea routes and long overland hauls, driving the cost per sack of wheat over a thousand francs.
"What about shipping through the Black Sea?"
"Ever since the last Crusade, tensions around the Bosphorus Strait have been sky-high. It's effectively blockaded."
Black Sea shipping was impossible too. The Treaty of Küçük Kaynarca after the 1774 Russo-Turkish War had allowed Russian merchant ships into Constantinople, but circumstances had changed. Austria's internal pacification war had taken on a Crusader hue, inflaming Ottoman anti-Christian sentiment. The treaty still existed on paper, but only just—devoid of any real force. They couldn't abrogate it without cause, but the moment a Russian merchant vessel entered the Bosphorus, Ottoman bureaucrats would seize the pretext to tear it up.
British merchant ships passed freely, of course. Britain had accumulated so much infamy since the Age of Sail that the Ottomans just cursed them and let them go.
"Our spies say France's famine will end soon. Ukraine's grain stockpiles are bursting; if we don't offload them fast, we might have to dump them in the Dnieper River."
"In that case, we'll have no choice but to seize Constantinople."
The immediate windfall of France's famine had suddenly become attainable only by stepping on the springboard of Constantinople, and this only excited Catherine II all the more.
"What's the situation in the Baltic?"
"Austria's pursuing an independent line. The governors in the occupied territories are old Schlächta nobles, and they say they'll open the roads in exchange for protection when war breaks out in Europe later."
"Excellent. That fat Wilhelm dolt won't notice even if we drag cannons into his backyard, so press on."
Until now, conquering Constantinople had merely been the goal of Russia's southern advance policy. But with the Ottomans effectively blockading the Bosphorus, Russia could now frame itself as the "benevolent Russians aiding famine-stricken France" obstructed by the "irrational, wicked infidel Ottomans."
"For now, distribute the excess Ukrainian grain to the new cities first. We can't abandon industrialization entirely."
With this, Catherine II began remodeling Russia with an eye toward the post-Constantinople era.
"Build a new city near the Dnieper estuary. It'll serve as a supply base for the next Ottoman campaign and a midway logistics hub between there and Constantinople afterward."
She marked a spot on the map west of the Dnieper, right on the border with the Austrian puppet state.
"The city's name will be Odessa. Records say there was once an ancient Greek colony here called Odessos."
She dotted Moscow and St. Petersburg too, connecting the three points. They formed a gaping maw toward Europe.
"Odessa supplies food to Moscow and St. Petersburg. Moscow sends daily necessities to Odessa and St. Petersburg. St. Petersburg provides steel and textiles to Odessa and Moscow. Any surplus funnels straight to Odessa for export through Constantinople to Europe. What do you think?"
This was Catherine II's grand vision.
The European powers hadn't failed to anticipate Russia's territorial ambitions. Any fool could see that Russia's current map was one conquest away from perfection—just gobble up Constantinople.
"Why the hell isn't France checking Russia?"
Britain grew anxious over the situation.
"If they're going after Arabia and Suez, shouldn't they be stopping Russia from marching on Constantinople?"
It was France's lack of cooperation. If Britain had been at full strength—or even had the power to project abroad—it might have been different. But still reeling from the economic depression, Britain lacked the muscle to stop Russia. The capabilities restored by the Eden Treaty were all being sucked into investments for the East India Company's grip on India.
"Lord North, it seems France has no intention of checking Russia."
"Once Russia has Crimea, they'll want Constantinople next. After that, Anatolia. Then Jerusalem, and after Jerusalem, Suez. Don't they know the pattern?"
The British Tories felt a twinge of betrayal. France's indulgence of Russian expansion unnerved them.
"A powerhouse like that just sits by because of one famine? Why are the Whigs hesitating to demand action against France?"
This irrational slide from anxiety to betrayal was the hallmark of vassal states under a hegemon. Vassals always overestimated their own agency and underestimated their patron's protection.
"My lord, given our recent moves, shutting up is the right call."
"The grain imports? That was legitimate trade under the Eden Treaty."
Britain was no different. They had bought up France's famine-inflated grain under the Eden Treaty pretext.
The Eden Treaty had been negotiated in December 1781 and signed in the first quarter of 1782. With its five-year renewal clause, it should have expired on March 25, 1787, by custom.
"That's over a year and a quarter ago. If they wanted to protest, they would've by now."
Yet Britain had quietly extended the treaty while France was busy with Central American colonization, American negotiations, and the opium problem. They twisted the treaty's closing line about "the permanent interests of both nations" into an auto-renewal provision.
It had sorely tested the French Foreign Ministry, but France held its tongue. They were future partners in carving up colonial hegemony, and even as a vassal, Britain was a regional powerhouse—not worth alienating over "profit-seeking behavior."
"We're exporting plenty of steel, materials, and coal to France. Lately, even outdated machinery."
"That's the Tory view. Secret Service Bureau intel says most Whig MPs and East India Company execs want to avoid provoking France further."
The problem was that this magnanimous silence struck Britain as only natural.
They saw the Eden Treaty not as mutual exchange of surpluses, but as Britain's one-sided benevolence.
"That's the wrong lens. Grain can be grown anywhere but France. British steel and textiles? No one else makes them. The invisible hand of the market, you see."
"Didn't Sir Smith tell you not to spout that invisible hand nonsense?"
"Did he?"
And so the sense of betrayal festered.
"In any case, it's a damn shame France isn't checking Russia."
Britain had sold France heaps of steel and bought their pricey, famine-hiked grain—yet France wouldn't lift a finger against their common foe Russia. It felt like tepid commitment to their secret pact.
"Well, we'll put it on their tab."
Thus, Britain resolved to check Russia on France's behalf.
"Lay the groundwork in Constantinople. Stoke anti-Russian sentiment among the Ottomans."
Said "check" amounted to sprinkling agents around Constantinople to spread rumors, but to Britain, it was faithful service to France.
"Something vague like 'Russia's about to attack Constantinople' should do."
"My lord, that's too hot a topic. Our agents lack the skill for it."
No matter how outlandish the rumors,
"Then how about 'Ukraine's farmers thriving amid Russia's grain glut famine'?"
"Still too risky."
Britain figured they'd done plenty for France already.
"Fine, what's safe then?"
"We can't touch satire or politics. Local rich folks' scandals or smears on non-power players at best."
"The Secret Service Bureau's prowess ends there? Shocking."
"With a monthly budget of just 5,000 francs? And agents paying their own passage to Constantinople?"
Britain dirtied its hands for France once more that day.
"Then hitch a ride on the next Sevastopol-bound convoy?"
"Return trip... Sigh. Fine, I'll handle it."
Very dirty, by British standards.