The Minutes of the Beasts' Assembly (1)

While the boy orator toured the three southern provinces, drawing steadily northward, a modest welcome was being held in Jeong-dong.

The guest of honor was none other than Baeg-on Kim Ok-gyun—the Enlightenment Party's leader in all but name—who had at last come home to Joseon after an odyssey stretching well beyond ten long months.

"Well now, my friends."

"Baeg-on!"

The door swung open on that distinctive, unhurried voice, ease overflowing from every syllable, and Kim Ok-gyun stepped through. The Enlightenment Party men shot to their feet and received him with smiling faces.

"You've had a hard road of it, Baeg-on."

"Yun-gyeong."

Those who greeted him most fiercely were Seo Jae-pil, Seo Gwang-beom, and Park Yung-hyo—the men who, in a court painted over with the pro-Qing faction and the Conservative Party, had opposed them most violently and most without reserve.

"We heard the news. A pity—but thank heaven you came back in one piece."

"I've no face left to show my comrades. That's all."

Seo Jae-pil spread his arms and drew Kim Ok-gyun into a light embrace, offering what comfort he could. Over Seo's shoulder, Kim glanced at the comrades standing blankly behind him and opened his mouth in a joke.

"I hear you all had a rough time of it while I was gone?"

"Look at this fellow! I expected you'd come ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠back a skeleton after half a year at sea—and instead look at that face, gleaming with oil! You're positively radiant!"

"I should've been the one to go to America!"

"Haha—you don't even speak English, do you?"

"I-I could learn!"

"I learned English, so I know. You'd never manage it. A man with a short tongue hasn't a prayer of the pronunciation."

Park Yung-hyo volleyed the joke Kim had tossed out to turn the mood, his short-cropped beard quivering as he laughed, and from there the room warmed all at once.

They stood a good while, laughing and trading news of one another's health, until Seo Gwang-beom clapped his hands and called to his comrades.

"Haha!"

"Come, come—let's sit. We'll startle the people who work here."

"Right enough."

And so they sat in two rows with Kim Ok-gyun—home at last from America and Japan—placed at the center, talking of this and that, and the wine had gone around several times when the one who opened was Park Yung-hyo, both cheeks already flushed.

"Baeg-on. Have you heard?"

"Heard what?"

"I thought as much. Look at this paper first."

"Oh?"

Kim Ok-gyun, who had been so buried in loan negotiations shuttling between America and Japan that he remained a stranger to Joseon's present circumstances, was handed a newspaper—Park's way of bringing him up to speed.

But for a man whose memories of Joseon had stopped in 1882, the thing in his hands was something else entirely from the Hanseong Sunbo. It had the look of Britain's London Daily, set in a mixed Korean-and-classical script, and he could not keep the astonishment off his face.

"Well, now. Will you look at this?"

Beside modern articles printed with photographs of the kind he had seen in America and Japan, the front page was written entirely in the Korean vernacular. Even for a radical enlightenment man, it was no small shock.

Whether from the wine or from the jolt of it, his fingers had begun to tremble. He stilled them and turned to Park Yung-hyo, who answered with a smile.

"This?"

"The Dongmaenghoe people have been putting it out of late. The Korea Daily News. Some rather entertaining pieces in it, I must say. Ah—and it's a 'Daily' News in name only. Apparently it means, 'If our people buy enough copies, you'll have a mountain of entertaining articles to read every single day—so buy, and buy again!' Heh."

"Ah, I've seen that. That's The Minutes of the Beasts' Assembly, isn't it?"

Seo Jae-pil, already thoroughly drunk, seized Kim Ok-gyun's shoulder with a flushed face, craned his neck forward, and pressed on.

"A masterpiece. A masterpiece. Damn it. Goddamn it all."

Breathing wine from the corners of his mouth, Seo Jae-pil repeated the words borrowing the tiger's majesty several times over. Then, all at once, he hurled his cup onto the table, went back to his seat, collapsed face-down, and sobbed there alone.

"Tsk, tsk."

The Enlightenment Party men watching him drank again in silence, or folded their arms and sank into their ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠own thoughts.

Kim Ok-gyun was astonished for a different reason.

Of everyone in that gathering, Seo Jae-pil was the strongest drinker, the sturdiest in body, the fiercest in spirit—and this was likely the first day he had ever shown such frailty. That not a soul in the room moved to stop him was a shock of its own.

Yes. The atmosphere had gone rather grim.

"They're worn down. That's all it is."

"Mm."

Only Park Yung-hyo, still a little clear-headed, sat with the newspaper in his hand and kept Kim company as he stared, at a loss.

A question rose in Kim Ok-gyun, and he gave it voice.

"Who wrote this?"

"Look at the compiler and the correspondent listed at the top."

At Park's answer, Kim Ok-gyun studied the upper portion of the paper he had been covering with a finger, and his speech stumbled.

"…Choe Ik-hyeon. Yu In-seok. Syng—Syngman Rhee? This is the man I—"

"Looks familiar, doesn't he?"

Park Yung-hyo smiled faintly at him and began to explain what had been happening in Joseon.

"You've been wandering foreign countries for two ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠years, so you wouldn't know—but these past two years, centered on the three southern provinces, a great deal has happened here."

"In the south?"

"A democratic political party was born in Namwon and Jeonju. The first of its kind. Almost certainly. Doesn't that please you?"

"I…"

Park delivered this astonishing news in the calmest of tones, and Kim Ok-gyun, startled by the manner as much as the matter, swallowed hard.

A democratic party—in Joseon? Suddenly? How? And it had actually been possible?

Kim Ok-gyun could not answer. He sat with his mouth open. Park reached out, took the corner of the paper, folded the photograph roughly in half, and held it up as he spoke.

It was another newspaper. The Asahi.

"There. The Storm's Return. They do have a gift for titles, I'll give them that. No wonder the literati and the city folk alike can't keep their hands off it. The Hanseong Sunbo was shut down on account of the Qing, yes—but I'd wager another reason was that the Tongmunhak never had a writer with a gift of gab like this."

"…"

"Inoue fumed after the Hanseong Sunbo folded and spent some time trailing the Dongmaenghoe lectures. The moment he got back to Japan he started filing pieces, apparently. His own little revenge, as he saw it, against the pro-Qing sycophants of this country."

And so Kim Ok-gyun found it all strange.

Park Yung-hyo and his Enlightenment Party comrades nodded along as if it were the most natural thing in the world, the talk blooming around the Dongmaenghoe and the boy orator who had become its living emblem—and not a soul so much as mentioned Kim's failure, which he had braced himself to be condemned and rebuked for.

To a comrade who had not yet found his feet, Park Yung-hyo laid out his own feelings without ornament.

"Baeg-on. What have we accomplished these past two years? What did we throw ourselves into the court for?"

"I—I…"

Kim Ok-gyun could not answer. He could not even find an excuse. Park went on, his manner humble.

"It's time we admitted it. We achieved nothing. The Conservative Party and the Sadae Party obstructed us, yes—but once you failed to secure the loan, the Enlightenment Party lost the people. The innkeepers' guilds of Hanseong, the Han River merchants, the city folk—every last one of them now longs, deep in their hearts, for the Dongmaenghoe and young Syngman Rhee to become their new sun."

"…"

"Though that day may still be far off. At any rate." Park added the words, and then he too fell silent.

And so the welcome sat wrapped in stillness.

Kim Ok-gyun rolled his eyes over the faces of his old comrades, taking in, one by one, that gloomy, leaden air, and he thought:

Defeatism has taken root.

As he saw it, his comrades had steeped themselves in self-mockery—watching the Dongmaenghoe swell its ranks with astonishing speed, while they, the Enlightenment Party, had nothing to show against the Conservatives.

"That's it!"

It was then.

The mind that elders had praised since his birth as uncommonly brilliant began to expand and contract with furious speed.

He braced his throbbing head with one hand—then suddenly shoved back his seat and roared at his old comrades.

The cry in his heart—We cannot go on like this—was ringing the alarm through his skull without mercy.

He surged to his feet, kicked the dishes aside with one boot, and planted himself in the space he had cleared, standing tall. The Enlightenment Party comrades started and stared up at him. The only calm face in the room belonged to Park Yung-hyo, who had goaded him into it.

"Comrades!"

The eternal optimist—the romanticist who, to put it unkindly, had never had a backup plan in his life—launched into a speech.

"What did we pledge as we wandered foreign lands, gazing upon the great powers and their advanced civilizations? That Joseon, too, would one day stand shoulder to shoulder with the nations of the world—that we would enrich the country and strengthen the army, and give our people lives of ease. Was that not our oath?"

Of all the comrades, the first to sober was Seo Jae-pil, who had been slumped and sniffling. That fierce spirit of his, old as their friendship, cleared his head in an instant and let him fix himself on the appeal of the man before him.

And so the Enlightenment Party, which had been sinking under its own weight, opened wide the eyes that had fallen shut at their leader's cry.

"Hardship is but another name for the soil that grows hope—a foothold from which we shall rise again…"

The romanticist met, one by one, the cleared faces of comrades waking from sleep. Then, like the boy orator in the newspaper, he clenched his right fist and thrust it toward the ceiling with all the force he had, and shouted.

The applause began with Seo Jae-pil, and for a long while the room did not stop ringing with it.

Among the wine cups tipped on their sides, there was only Park Yung-hyo—smiling with a joy that was also gratitude, at the comrades who had found their fire again, and at Kim Ok-gyun, who had become the spark.

And so the night in Jeong-dong did not go dark until late.

After holding a massive rally at Boeun, our Dongmaenghoe did not head straight for Hanseong. We regrouped around me, formed a body of one thousand elite party members, finished our preparations, crossed the mountains, and made for Chuncheon in Gangwon Province.

The people of Gangwon, where savage terrain had long stunted both roads and communications, could not tell dream from waking when the boy orator Syngman Rhee, whose name was riding high, appeared before them in the flesh.

To those people I said:

"When His Majesty Taejo founded this nation, against the Jurchens who were little better than barbarians—"

I vividly recounted the valiant struggles of Gangwon's people against enemies from the north and enemies from the south.

The Dongmaenghoe's northward march had a simple aim.

Not to remain in the three southern provinces, where the Confucian literati ran strong, but to take our place as the body that represented the Korean people of all eight provinces of Joseon.

To become, ahead of the cry of the coming twentieth century, the shield and rampart that would protect the people of Joseon.

Hamhung, Seongjin, Uiju, Gyeongseong, Pyongyang, Kaesong.

Before the great cities of the north I shouted myself hoarse.

Speeches, speeches, speeches.

Membership drives and lectures on the Three Principles of the People.

The rallying of national entrepreneurs and capitalists through the Federation of Korean Economic Persons.

The unification of a Confucian world split between the New Faction and the Old, who had done nothing but tear each other down.

"Donghak followers here!"

"Shamans who worship ghosts, too!"

"That bald monk! Grab him!"

"Round them all up and beat them until they talk!"

And, while we were at it, I loosed our trusty Vanguard to hunt down the Donghak remnants hiding in the villages, and, in the name of smashing superstition, to destroy the spirit tablets of the local shamans and the idols tucked away in hidden hermitages.

The campaign came back to us even more warmly from the people than I had expected.

A roar went up from the crowd.

No wonder the Confucian literati and students of every region were losing their minds over us.

When the rumor spread, by the time we reached the far edge of Hamgyong Province, a young Confucian student of the district came bursting out past the village gate and shouted at me.

"Haha! I'm afraid I'm already spoken for! By the people of Joseon!"

Of course, he was blocked by the burly shoulder of a Vanguard man guarding me at close range, and could only fl in place.

And so, passing through Seongjin in Hamgyong, then Uiju, we began to descend toward Pyongyang, Joseon's second city, our numbers swollen to a full three thousand.

Which is to say: three thousand who had followed me purely from the three southern provinces, and another three thousand from the north who had heard my name and my speeches and thrown themselves after me with equal fervor.

When the great northern city of Pyongyang came into view in the distance, a Vanguard man at the head of the column shouted.

"Pyongyang, dead ahead!"

At the van, seven hundred Vanguard in what had become our emblem—blue durumagi overcoats, black paeraengi hats, and red armbands—were clearing the road under Kim Gae-nam's command.

"Tell the Vanguard to ease the look in their eyes. The villagers are frightened."

"But after those Donghak scum last time, we have to stay sharp on your security—"

I laughed and chided him to loosen the guard a little. Kim Gae-nam's face went instantly stern.

"It's a blessing the bodyguards were nearby. That day you very nearly had us arranging your funeral."

He was still raw from the incident in which a Donghak believer, nursing a grudge, had tried to swing a blade at me as I—lost in my own speech—leapt down from the podium toward the crowd.

I gave him a wry smile and waved him off.

A politician, I believed, ought to carry the threat of assassination ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the way one carries a talisman. That there were men who wanted me dead was, by the same token, proof that I was doing very well indeed by those who stood with us.

"I walk with our fearless friends. Am I supposed to let the people see me flinch from a handful of cultists?"

And the power of my oratory reaches its peak in the moment when I, the speaker, share feeling and thought with the crowd. The excessive security of the present was poison to my standing.

At my earnest plea and the look on my face, Kim Gae-nam shook his head as if he had no choice.

"Haa. Very well. But you must wear the hidden armor under your inner clothes. It's the best thing for stopping a blade at close range."

"Understood."

With that conversation behind us, we arrived before the Eumildae of the northern citadel—standing high and proud to the north of Pyongyang, looking down upon us.