Chapter 26: It's Not a Celebration, It's a Funeral

The truth was, everyone knew.

The reality that if they kept on like this, all the way to the fortress at Port Arthur, and threw themselves at it, they would be annihilated.

March from the Yalu River to the fortress at Port Arthur purely overland, through enemy territory, trudging a distance of more than 500 kilometers on foot, and then attack?

Unless every soldier turned into a herbivore and grazed on grass as they advanced, it was not within the realm of physical possibility.

Fortunately, Kuroki Tamemoto, the man currently commanding the army, did not think they could load their provisions onto oxen and horses and then, once the artillery shells ran out, simply eat the oxen and horses they no longer needed….

Naturally, without weapons there could be no battle, and supply could not be sustained on captured enemy stores alone.

Human beings are not herbivores; they must eat food to live.

But Imperial General Headquarters kept pressing him to achieve military distinction, and the fortress at Port Arthur was far too distant.

So what was he supposed to do?

“There is no choice but to settle this somewhere in between.”

But the goddamn Russians refused to give battle no matter how hard he tried to bring them to it, so a fight on equal footing was out of the question from the start.

So he chose a defensive position the Russians had built at a midpoint, one that at least looked feasible.

Judging that, since it was smaller in scale than Port Arthur, this was a fight with at least a 1 percent chance.

The problem was that it merely looked easier than the fortress at Port Arthur; the fact that they would be charging into trenches and entrenched positions the enemy had dug remained unchanged.

The clearest proof of all was that the Russians, who until now had refused to fight at all, had begun to fight back.

“Charge! All forces, charge!”

The home government’s instructions to conserve shells went in one ear and out the other as he poured out every artillery shell he had left.

If they couldn’t win here, there was no point in saving anything anyway.

Ka-ba-BOOM!

When the bombardment he had dumped out with everything at hand came to an end, the infantry began their charge.

“Uwaaaaah!”

“Kill every last one of the Russians!”

“For His Majesty the Emperor!”

Rrrattattattat!

Of course, war in the 20th century did not run on guts and fighting spirit alone.

“Your Excellency! The 12th Regiment has been wiped out!”

“…What did you say?”

“Our forces failed to break through the trench line! The Russian machine gun emplacements were so thick that our losses are enormous…!”

He had judged that the bombardment had suppressed the Russian defensive line, but the machine gun emplacements hidden deep within the trenches had survived untouched.

A hail of machine gun fire poured down on the charging Japanese infantry, and the 12th Regiment melted away without mercy 300 meters short of the trenches.

Tat-tat-tat-tang!

“Aaaaargh!”

“S-save me! General!”

It was not as if he hadn’t known what would come of throwing his men headlong at an enemy position built nearly to fortress standard, without proper supply or support.

But what choice did he have?

This was the only place left where he could fight.

“Your Excellency! The 3rd Brigade is withdrawing as well! The casualties are….”

“Damn it… if only we could have received seaborne supply….”

“Your Excellency… we are still tallying, but casualties are expected to reach nearly 2,000….”

Wham!

“Damn it!”

Kuroki’s fist slammed down on the map.

He had known it would come to this.

Not just the general; any officer worth his rank would have predicted most of this outcome.

Supply was too thin for a flanking march, there weren’t even enough troops for an encirclement, and if they played for time, the only future was withering to death.

No option had existed except frontal assault, so he had followed that road, and sure enough, here they were, one step from the edge of the cliff.

That was all there was to it.

“…We retreat.”

Kuroki gave the order with bloodshot eyes.

Push any harder, and the entire First Army might melt away.

If they were annihilated here, the Japanese army in Manchuria would cease to exist, and the Russians might drive all the way down into the Korean Peninsula, so the troops had to be preserved.

If he wanted to salvage even the survivors, retreat was the only option for now.

“All units, withdraw! Fall back toward the Yalu River!”

The order to withdraw came down a mere six hours after the charge began.

And Kuroki wired a telegram home.

[Attack failed. Casualties approximately 3,000. Renewed attack impossible; ammunition exhausted. Request a decision.]

He didn’t need to spell out what kind of decision he meant, did he?

But the reply that came back from Imperial General Headquarters shattered his common sense yet again, without mercy.

[If you have suffered a defeat, then achieve military results sufficient to redeem it.]

“…You insane sons of bitches, then why don’t you come here and fight yourselves!”

Kuroki’s roar of fury rang through the headquarters tent, but there was no one to hear it.

By any sane standard, a normal country would have sued for peace the moment its surprise attack, launched without a declaration of war, had failed.

Had they done so, this war would never have begun in the first place; Manchuria could have been ceded to Russia, and things could have been wrapped up with Japan exercising a moderate degree of influence over Joseon.

They would have been gouged for a massive indemnity, but the money they had already burned through was, if anything, more than that, not less.

Of course, if they could draw a foreign loan from Britain, which had to block Russia’s southward expansion, there might still be hope.

…Perhaps the home government kept demanding attacks precisely because the negotiations were making progress.

But contrary to the hopes of the battlefield.

[British Government Fails to Persuade Private Banks]

[American Financiers Withdraw All Plans to Purchase Japanese Government Bonds]

The sound of Japan’s last lifeline snapping rang out from London and New York, one after the other.

* * *

When news of the defeat in Manchuria arrived on top of the failed surprise attack, the value of Japanese government bonds broke through the floor and kept falling into the basement.

The British Foreign Office had for some time been unofficially sending the City’s financiers the message that ‘purchasing Japanese government bonds serves the interests of the British Empire’.

It was indirect support, meant to honor the Anglo-Japanese Alliance and keep Russia in check, but the private banks’ response was cold indifference itself.

“They got smashed at Port Arthur, and now smashed again in Manchuria, did they not? At this point this isn’t an investment, it’s a donation, is it?”

“Minister, not even the government can force the private sector to invest.”

The British Foreign Minister, the Marquess of Lansdowne, scratched his head as he listened to the Treasury official’s report.

“…Given our relations with France, it would be awkward for our government to step in directly….”

It wasn’t that he hadn’t considered a government-led purchase of the bonds, but the Entente Cordiale concluded in April had them by the ankles.

France, at present, was Russia’s ally.

If Britain openly propped up Japan, Russia’s enemy, while pursuing reconciliation with France, would France simply stand by?

If the private sector did it, they could at least keep up a fig leaf of deniability, but if the government poured in the money, it would naturally have to shoulder the corresponding risk.

And frankly… even to Lansdowne’s eyes, buying Japanese government bonds looked like nothing more than dumping money into the Thames.

There was being bad at fighting, and then there was whatever that spectacle was supposed to be.

“Convey our regrets to Japan. Tell them the government cannot overturn the judgment of the private sector.”

If they didn’t like it, they should have made their surprise attack succeed, or at least achieved some military results in Manchuria.

Hating Russia was no reason to scatter money that could never be recovered.

The British Empire officially concluded that it was washing its hands of this war.

And America, of course, was no different.

Only days earlier, Jacob Schiff had been wavering, moved by Takahashi Korekiyo’s impassioned appeals.

He had formally notified them that support was impossible, but if the situation improved even a little, he was ready at any moment to persuade the American financial world.

But when an Okhrana agent from the London station secretly made contact with him, the situation changed completely.

‘His Majesty the current Emperor of Russia, unlike his predecessors, has taken a conciliatory position on the Jewish question. Since the Kishinev pogrom he has actively implemented measures to prevent further massacres, and the reports that he is considering a relaxation of the Pale of Settlement are proof of exactly that.’

Schiff took off his glasses and slowly rubbed his eyes.

He hated Russia.

He could never forgive a country that had massacred his fellow Jews.

But it was an undeniable fact that, just as the Okhrana agent said, the Tsar’s policies had changed from everything that had come before.

Then what would come of lending money to Japan at this very moment?

Wasn’t there every chance that anti-Semitic sentiment would boil up in Russia all over again, on the grounds that Jewish capital had propped up a collapsing Japan?

If Japan had even a chance of winning, that would be one thing, but with news of yet another defeat in Manchuria arriving only recently, the mood in the City and on Wall Street had gone stone cold.

“I cannot pour money into a war that will be lost anyway and put the safety of my people at risk.”

Schiff threw Takahashi’s letter into the fireplace without even reading it.

“I had best return to New York. It’s a pity, but any proposals that come from the Japanese side, simply send them all back.”

Both America and Britain had reached their final conclusion.

This war was Japan’s defeat.

* * *

The pathetic defeat the Japanese army had displayed in Manchuria, and Britain and America cutting their losses completely.

As it happened, these two pieces of news arrived on August 12, 1904.

They arrived while Nicholas II, overjoyed at the news of the Tsesarevich’s birth, was offering up prayers of thanksgiving.

“Ohhh! Misha! Come in, come in!”

When I was called into the bedchamber, I saw the Tsar spread both arms wide and come rushing toward me.

It was the first time I had ever seen him, a man forever trying to maintain his dignity as befits a Tsar, without even the presence of mind to wipe the tear tracks from his face.

“You’ve heard? They overreached with their attack, suffered a crushing defeat, and now their money has been cut off. For such news to arrive on the very day a Tsesarevich is born to this imperial house… how can the timing align so perfectly!”

“Congratulations, Your Majesty.”

“No, no. This is all thanks to you. Have you not offered dawn prayers every single day, and produced one uncanny strategy after another in this war? You truly are a gift from God, sent for me and for this imperial house.”

The Tsar rattled off this rapid-fire stream of words, then took me by the shoulders and led me toward the bed.

In the arms of the Empress, who lay drenched in sweat, a tiny baby was cradled.

“Hold him. You, of all people, have earned that right.”

Everyone in this room knew what this meant.

How many people in this country would ever enjoy the right to hold the newborn Tsesarevich who would carry the Empire’s future on his shoulders?

-Huh, the Empress isn’t even objecting for once?

The Tsar, beaming, carefully passed the Tsesarevich into my arms.

Small, red, wrinkled hands.

I can feel this life, only hours old in the world, squirming in my arms.

“Do you think it is easy, offering dawn prayers for 10 months without missing a single day? God must have heard your prayers. There is no doubt of it.”

From the bed, the Empress was watching me.

Her face was utterly exhausted, but her eyes, at least, were sharp and alive.

“Your Majesty, and Your Majesty the Empress. I will keep striving, so that I may become someone who can protect and serve His Imperial Highness the Tsesarevich.”

A complicated tangle of emotions flickered through the Empress’s eyes, but soon she nodded.

“…Thank you, Misha.”

With reports of victory arriving one after another, and the birth of a Tsesarevich as the crowning touch, what was left to worry about?

A happiness beyond words hung over the entire imperial household.

But the sun that rises must set, and the moon that waxes must wane; such is the way of nature.

The next day, before dawn.

This time, as I was heading back after finishing my dawn prayers for the Tsesarevich’s health, a commotion echoed down the corridor.

I quietly followed the noise to its source, and understood the reason at once.

I could not go inside myself, but the sounds spilling out were enough to paint the whole picture with perfect clarity.

“…The bleeding from his navel will not stop! It has been hours since the umbilical cord was cut….”

I could hear Empress Alexandra weeping and murmuring something.

The Empress must have known perfectly well.

The disease, closer to a curse, that had begun with her grandmother, Queen Victoria.

Her own brother Friedrich, for a start, had died at a young age because of hemophilia.

Since any son she bore might be born a hemophiliac, she may even have counted it a mercy when only four daughters arrived, one after another.

“No… no, no….”

The Empress’s weeping, close to a scream, rang through the bedchamber.

The Tsar, who was surely inside, was sunk in a silence that offered not a single word.

He had been walking through heaven on a run of double blessings; what must it feel like to plummet from there to rock bottom in a single day?

-Hemophilia. I had a hunch, and yep, there it is.

So it was. With so much already changed, I’d hoped this might change too, but apparently that was wishful thinking.

-Then again, if history had completely changed, a little sister might’ve been born instead. And then all those dawn prayers of yours would’ve been for nothing.

Even so, that would have been better than an innocent child being born with hemophilia and suffering for the rest of his life.

Half-brother though he was, he was still my blood, and I had hoped he would not be born into so cruel a fate.

My own standing in the imperial household was something I could always carve out for myself with my own two hands.

-Well, it’s not like hemophilia is completely impossible to deal with, anyway. There’s a lot of technical research that’d have to be done, but if you know the principles, a few things should be doable even with this era’s tech.

I swallowed the bitter aftertaste and returned to my room, and the Tsesarevich’s hemophilia was, as a matter of course, buried under the strictest secrecy.

Even within the palace, only a tiny handful knew the truth.

The princesses, knowing nothing, giggled with delight over the birth of their baby brother and chattered away about their youngest sibling as if nothing were wrong.

“We got a baby brother because you prayed every day, Misha! Papa was so, so happy!”

“You know, right, Misha? Our brother’s name is Alexei!”

“I hope our brother grows up smart and healthy, just like Misha.”

“I hope so too.”

These children would learn it someday, but this country, as it stood now, could do nothing for their precious little brother’s disease.

In the original history, the reason the imperial family ended up dancing in the palm of a pseudo-religious con man named Rasputin came down to pure incompetence, nothing more.

But according to Seong-jun’s knowledge, even if a full cure was impossible, so long as one understood the principles, extending his lifespan considerably was entirely within reach.

“Then Misha can teach our Alexei! When Alexei is bigger, will you be our brother’s teacher, Misha?”

“That isn’t something I can do just because I want to. His Majesty would have to give his permission.”

“Papa would say yes, obviously! He’s always praising you, saying Misha is far smarter than the grown-ups!”

“That’s right, that’s right! Misha, look after our brother too. Please?”

“…I suppose I have no choice. I’ll do my best.”

My adorable little sisters were begging me this earnestly, after all.

So, if only so that poor child could live long and suffer even a little less, I would have to be the one to drag Russia forward.

One more reason to stand at the very top of this country.

~~~

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