Beiyang Dream

Chapter 64 We can't let Chang Desheng get away with this!

Chapter 64 We can't let Chang Desheng get away with this! (12th update)

January 18, 1891, 9:00 AM, Berlin Zoo train station, VIP waiting room.

The heating here was very strong, and a layer of white fog covered the windowpanes, making the people and cars on the platform outside sway in the fog. Shogo Iguchi slammed his coffee cup down on the coffee table with a loud bang, almost breaking it.

"A city-building expert can be the chief?" He sneered several times, looking unconvinced. "On the battlefield, who would wait for him to finish repairing the fortifications before attacking? I think he's just a theorist who doesn't understand what it means to be certain to die."

Yoshio Yamaguchi, legs crossed, frowned deeply. "Speaking of which, his major course, castle construction, is abnormally strong. Could his ancestors have come from a family of architects who built palaces for the Qing emperors?"

Kenichi Fujii nodded in agreement: "What's the point of building a fortress if a real war breaks out? Are we supposed to measure and construct it on the battlefield, building a turtle shell to crawl inside?"

The three of them took turns speaking, but they all conveyed the same message: they were not convinced.

They were not satisfied with Changde's victory over them for a year and a half, and they were not satisfied with the fact that the first place in the graduation assessment had fallen on the head of a Qing Dynasty person.

Hideki Tojo remained silent.

He sat upright in the single sofa, his back ramrod straight, his eyes fixed on the figures of people coming and going on the platform outside the window, as if he were counting how many passengers in overcoats had passed by.

"Ring ring..."

'

The bell rang, and a waiter pushed open the door and came in: "Gentlemen, the train to Paris will depart in a quarter of an hour."

7

Iguchi, Yamaguchi, and Fujii all stood up, some putting on gloves and others taking out hats.

Only Tojo remained unmoved.

Fukushima Yasumasa waved to the three men: "The three of you get in the car first. Tojo-kun and I have something to talk about."

"Hi."

The three men saluted, pushed open the door, and left. Once the door closed, only Fukushima and Tojo remained in the VIP room.

Fukushima picked up his black coffee and took a sip. It was too bitter; he'd forgotten to add sugar. He frowned, put down the cup, and looked at Tojo: "What are your thoughts on losing to Chang Desheng?"

"No," Tojo answered crisply.

"Oh?"

"Because Chang Desheng died very soon."

Tojo's voice was steady.

Fukushima raised an eyebrow: "What if Genyosha fails?"

"It's alright."

Tojo turned his face, and his eyes suddenly turned cold.

"I've figured out his strengths and weaknesses completely." He paused, a slight smile playing on his lips. "His strengths are defensive construction, logistical calculations, and battle organization. His weaknesses...."

""

He raised his eyes: "He has no loyal followers under his command, and no powerful nation behind him. He's dealt a terrible hand—a nation without fighting spirit, and generals without the will to fight."

Fukushima put down his coffee cup, a hint of approval on his lips.

"Qing Dynasty," Tojo said, enunciating each word clearly, "is ultimately not a country of the Han people. The Huai Army, in the end, is Li Hongzhang's private army. Therefore, the skills that Chang Desheng can use in the academy will be completely useless on the real battlefield."

"He is very strong, but he was born in the wrong place, or perhaps in the wrong era."

After saying this, he resumed his seated posture, like a stone Buddha.

Fukushima stared at him for a full ten seconds before slowly nodding.

"Being able to see the whole table, not just staring at the card in your hand, is good. You didn't waste your year and a half in Berlin." He pulled a manila envelope from his pocket and pushed it on the table. "This is a letter of recommendation for Vice Chief of the General Staff, Kawakami. He needs eyes like yours to go to Korea and keep an eye on that table that concerns the fate of the Empire."

Tojo stood up, bowed ninety degrees, and accepted the envelope with both hands. Without saying anything more, he carefully put it into the inner pocket of his uniform, saluted again, and turned to leave.

Fukushima sat back down on the sofa, took a black sheepskin-covered notebook from his briefcase, and turned to the first page. Two names were written on it: Yuan Shikai and Chang Desheng.

He stared at it for three seconds, then pulled a red pencil from the inner pocket of the top bag and removed the cap.

The pen tip hovered over the three characters "Changdesheng" for half a second before swiping down.

A clean, sharp red X completely covered up the name.

Just after 11 a.m., in Wilhelm II's private study at the Berlin Imperial Palace.

The firewood in the fireplace burned brightly, and the aroma of pine mingled with the scent of cigars, filling the warm room. Wilhelm II stood with his hands behind his back, looking smug in front of the world map that took up an entire wall, his gaze sweeping back and forth between the Far East and Southeast Asia, finally settling on the Strait of Malacca.

Moltke stood by, holding a copy of the telegram that had just been delivered.

"Gone?" Wilhelm II did not turn around.

"The Britannia left yesterday," Moltke replied matter-of-factly. "Chang Desheng, Duan Qirui, and other Qing Dynasty Beiyang personnel, Miss Luo Jingrou from the Luo family of Lanfang, and the twenty-two-man training squad led by Sergeant Hessmann are all on board."

"Where are the weapons?"

Moltke paused for a moment: "Everything is arranged properly. It's under the guise of Schneider Electric exporting Qing Dynasty Beiyang munitions. The customs declaration, invoice, and tax payment receipts are all complete. Even if something goes wrong, Qing Dynasty Beiyang will cover it up. It has nothing to do with the Empire."

Wilhelm II turned around.

His face looked exactly like someone who feared the world wasn't chaotic enough; his impatience was practically bursting out of his throat.

"Tell me, Helmut," he said, walking behind the desk and plopping down in his high-backed chair, his legs slamming onto the table. "What will this deal bring the Empire in return?"

Moltke was already used to his emperor's mannerisms and took two steps forward.

"In the short term, the Chinese merchants in Southeast Asia have gained some military strength, and the Empire may be able to take over a small port that can serve as a coaling station for the navy. As for the Dutch rule in the East Indies, it will no longer be stable. With them in trouble, we will have no shortage of buyers for our weapons. The Chinese need guns and cannons, and the Dutch need guns and cannons too. They will both have to go to Krupp and Mauser."

Wilhelm II nodded: "In the long term?"

Moltke pushed up his glasses: "In the long run, the Chinese in Southeast Asia will eventually realize that what they can rely on is not the crumbling Tatar dynasty in the north, but the newest and strongest empire in the west—the Greater German Empire."

"What if they remain stubborn?" the emperor asked again.

Moltke shrugged: "Aren't there still the Dutch? The Netherlands will always be a friend of the Empire, and if a friend is in trouble, the Empire will always lend a helping hand!"

2:30 p.m., Tiergarten district, Berlin, Qing Dynasty Legation.

There were more than a dozen large wooden chests in the study. They were crammed full of books, documents, porcelain, and clothes. He was about to go back to Beijing to get promoted and make a fortune. The imperial edict had arrived, summoning him back to the capital to serve as Vice Minister of War and concurrently as an official in the Zongli Yamen (Foreign Ministry). This time, he had finally made it through the tough times.

Hong Jun was sitting at his desk, holding a document in his hand, staring at it for a long time.

The Berlin afternoon sun, weak and listless, streamed through the glass outside the window, illuminating the mahogany table and making the two lines of text on the paper clearly visible.

A line of German cursive script, written almost like a talisman.

The neat and tidy Chinese characters in small regular script are Guo Shigui's handwriting.

Sai Jinhua came in carrying a cup of tea and gently placed it on the corner of the table: "Master, you should rest. You need to catch the train to Hamburg early tomorrow morning, and then you'll be at sea for more than a month."

Hong Jun didn't look up, only asking, "Have you checked all the German documents in the archives?"

"I went through them all one by one." Sai Jinhua walked behind him, put her hand on his shoulder, and gently massaged it a few times. "The ones that shouldn't have been kept were all burned to ashes this morning. The ashes were poured into the yard, watered, mixed with soil, and no matter how skilled someone is, they can't tell what they were."

Hong Jun hummed in agreement.

The one in his hand was the last one that needed to be burned.

"Burn this too." He handed over the document.

Sai Jinhua took it and looked down at it.

The paper was the official document paper used by the Prussian War Academy, with the eagle emblem printed at the top. She recognized both the original German document and the line of small Chinese characters next to it.

"This student is exceptionally gifted, quick-witted, and eager to learn, especially skilled in staff work and strategic planning. Given time, he will surely become the Moltke of the East."

The letter was signed by Lieutenant General Brauchitsch, the Dean of the War College.

Sai Jinhua looked up, her eyes full of puzzlement: "Sir, that's a compliment. Lieutenant General Brauchitsch is an authority in the German military; his evaluations are invaluable. If Chang Zhenbang gets this assessment and mentions it to Li Hongzhang, he'll be in for a world of trouble—"

"What are you afraid of?" Hong Jun finally turned to look at her, smiled, and said, "I'm afraid he'll never have a chance to rise again!"

Sai Jinhua stood there, stunned.

Hong Jun snatched the paper back from her hand and tapped the five characters "Mao Qi of the East" with his index finger.

"Lieutenant General Brauchitsch, the director of the War College. His assessments, in Germany, would be authoritative, but in Qing China... humph!" He paused, lowering his voice, "they're a death warrant."

"You mean, the court—"

Hong Jun looked up at her and nodded.

"Just think about it, what will Master Weng's group do when they see these words? They'll act like they've struck gold. They'll definitely shout, 'Look at Li Hongzhang's excellent troops! Even the Germans call him the Moltke of the East! What is he trying to do? With someone like this under his command, does he still respect the court? Does he still respect the emperor?'"

Sai Jinhua opened her mouth, but couldn't utter a single word.

"At that point," Hong Jun gently placed the paper on the table, "just based on those four words, 'Eastern Mao Qi,' Li Zhongtang wouldn't dare use Chang Zhenbang at all. And then the Qingliu faction would swarm in again..."

""

He didn't continue, he just shook his head, kept shaking his head.

"But—but they really are talented." Sai Jinhua's voice was so soft it was almost a whisper. "Even the Germans say so—"

"That's right, he's really capable, a martial arts champion, no less." Hong Jun smiled again, with a hint of sympathy. "But the Qing court couldn't tolerate famous Han officials and generals. The more capable a Han person was, the less likely they were to be given important positions."

He picked up the paper and walked to the fireplace.

The fire in the stove was burning brightly.

Hong Jun squatted down, held a corner of the paper to the fire, and lit it.

The paper immediately curled up, turning a deep black, and then, with a whoosh, a small, golden flame leaped up. The flame climbed up the paper, swallowing the German cursive script, the Chinese regular script, and the five characters "Maoqi of the East."

Finally, they even swallowed Brauchitsch's signature.

"Burn it, clean it up." He stared at the piece of paper that turned to ash in the blink of an eye, muttering to himself, "As for Chang Zhenbang, whether he's a dragon or a worm depends entirely on his own fate."

It was 8 p.m. that evening in the first-class restaurant on the Britannia.

The light from the crystal chandelier shone softly, making the silver cutlery gleam. Chang Desheng cut a piece of steak and put it in his mouth. He chewed it a couple of times; the cooking was okay, but the sauce was too bland—not good...

Luo Jingrou sat opposite him, taking small bites of her salad.

Haruko Okura was sitting next to Jingrou Luo, drinking a bowl of cream soup with a spoon. Every now and then she would look up and smile at Jingrou Luo, chatting about old times at the British girls' school.

At this moment, the sea seemed to be getting bigger, and the Britannia was rocking quite violently. Haruko, who had been fine just a moment ago, frowned and gave an apologetic smile: "Mr. Chang, Sister Jingrou, I'm so sorry—I think I'm a little seasick and need to go back to my room to lie down for a while."

As she spoke, she stood up.

Luo Jingrou immediately stood up: "Qingzi, let me see you off—"

"No need." Haruko gently pressed the back of her hand. "You and Mr. Chang can eat slowly. I'll just take a nap."

After she finished speaking, she nodded to Chang Desheng again, turned around and left, her steps light and steady.

Almost at the same second that her toes turned towards the restaurant entrance.

Inside the large restaurant, four white men from four different directions simultaneously put down what they were carrying.

Knives and forks, newspaper, wine glasses.

Then, they all stood up simultaneously and slowly moved towards the table where Chang Desheng was sitting. It was like a fishing net suddenly being pulled back!