Five Days in Hanseong (3)

It was quiet.

Pinned beneath the walls of Gyeong-u Palace, crushed by the unholy firepower of the Gatling guns the suppression force had wheeled into the street, the soldiers of the Front Royal Guard and the members of the Enlightenment Party had been able to do nothing but curl into themselves and hide. Now, bewildered by the sudden vanishing of enemy shouts and gunfire, they rose one by one and cautiously craned their necks over the stone.

"What in the..."

Among them was Park Yung-hyo, the Geumneungwi, who had ducked the same volleys only to lose the right lens of his spectacles in the bargain.

"What... is going on?"

He was still probing the empty hole in his frames with a fingertip, peering toward the hush beyond the wall, when a sentry who had somehow stripped to the waist and crawled all the way onto the roof cupped both hands into a makeshift spyglass and shouted down.

"The enemy has ceased their attack, my lord!"

"I can see that."

Leaving the murmuring soldiers behind, Park Yung-hyo quickly picked out the command banners of the Capital Guard and the Palace Guard, and the Azure Dragon flag besides. The enemy's inexplicable change of heart left him baffled. A retreat would have been a blessing — but after the beating they had taken, one-sided and relentless, what kind of retreat was this supposed to be?

Surely not.

In that instant, Park Yung-hyo — a man who had always considered himself a rationalist — found himself thinking of the West's one God, and dared to entertain the possibility of a miracle.

Is the tyrant dead?

The odds were as close to nothing as odds could be. A hypothetical stacked upon a hypothetical. But if it were true — if a rope of salvation had truly been lowered into this hell they could not escape — Park Yung-hyo was fully prepared to convert to Christianity starting today.

Then the quiet front of the suppression force stirred all at once, and several prison wagons — the kind used to transport condemned men — rolled out onto the corpse-strewn road.

"Huh...?"

"What is that?"

By now everyone had realized the shooting outside had stopped. Enlightenment Party members, limping wounded, soldiers of the Front Royal Guard who moments before had been hugging the dirt under a storm of fire — every gaze in the compound converged on a single point.

"Aren't those prison carts?"

"What are they doing here...?"

The bewilderment lasted only a moment. Then every one of them raked a dull, disbelieving look over the wagons lined up against the palace wall — a wall already so battered it could barely stand on its own.

And then—

"Ah!"

A deep groan broke from every stretch of the wall, and then the weeping.

"Aigoo! Aigoo!"

"Father!"

A sound no Gatling gun, however furious, could ever have produced: the weeping of brave soldiers, bursting from every direction at once.

"Mother!"

"My husband — my husband!"

Familiar silhouettes, visible through the bars of the wagons. The hush that had hung around Gyeong-u Palace shattered, and the compound became a field of wailing.

"Aaaah!"

Park Yung-hyo's comrade Hong Yeong-sik, his face haggard, found his own father among them — Hong Sun-mok, in shackles — and cried out until his voice broke.

"This..."

Park Yung-hyo was no different. If anything he was worse — stunned, choking back a snarl of curses and fury and grief all tangled together, until the only word he could force out was:

"Good God."

Yes. Good God in heaven.

On that crude wagon sat his own father, once Minister of Public Works, and his elder brother Park Yeong-gyo. And between the two of them, a small figure that stirred and shifted: his nephew. The child he had treasured like gold and jade.

"You — you son of a— hngh!"

A shock like a spike through the skull sent him staggering. He caught himself against a collapsed stretch of wall, gasping, clutching at his chest.

He had, it seemed, looked at the world far too romantically.

Was this simply to break their morale? But then what was the meaning of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠this obscenity — dragging ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the families and parents of so many people into the middle of a live battlefield and shoving the muzzles of Gatling guns in their faces? And before that — tyrant, you tyrant — were you not supposed to be the greatest father of them all?

Park Yung-hyo, who had always prided himself on learning few men could match, groped through history and found he had never, in any age, seen a rebellion put down by a stunt like this. The tyrant he had once served had been, he believed, a man who knew where the line was. What kind of dog's work was this?

His molars locked. His jaw pulled tight against a reason that was about to snap. He stood trembling in place, rage roaring through every inch of him, when Seo Gwang-beom burst out at the commotion, took in the scene, and began jabbing a furious finger toward the far side of the wall, roaring at the top of his lungs.

"Tyrant! You are not even human!"

Park Yung-hyo, who had been able to say nothing in the face of the tyrant's incomprehensible cruelty, could only nod at his friend's voice.

"Tyrant!"

The people slumped against the wall, still sobbing, hurled their rage across the street.

"You sons of bitches!"

"You goddamn bastards!"

The people of Hanseong — courageous, and proud — did not take the tyrant's bait. He had shackled the families and parents of the Enlightenment Party, of the Front Royal Guard, of every citizen who had come here of their own will, loaded them into prison wagons, and spread them across the heart of a battlefield. He had not broken their courage.

The ugly, nauseating standoff held for a little while longer. Then several men who looked to be officers of the Gyeongsayeong — their faces screaming that they wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear — came forward and urged surrender, over and over. No one answered.

The suppression officers cursed them for it.

"A wretched end upon the rebels."

Having spat that much, they spun in place a few times, terrified a bullet would find the backs of their heads, and bolted.

The Enlightenment Party soldiers, their resolve only hardened, sent their fury after them.

"Go fuck yourselves!"

The other soldiers watching spat "idiots" after them and set about checking their weapons. The tyrant's grand design had failed, and failed in full view of everyone.

"Heh."

Kim Ok-gyun, who had come out late and taken in the situation — neither knowing the tyrant's intent nor wishing to understand it — pressed a hand to his brow and let out a long, deep sigh at the atmosphere in the courtyard of Gyeong-u Palace, heavier now than before, the hush before a storm.

Both sides had crossed a river from which there was no return.

"He's broken the bonds of heaven and blood."

Was this truly what it took to win? Was this how low a man would sink? But the sky Kim Ok-gyun glared at gave him no answer at all.

Meanwhile, the suppression command — which had wasted precious time on a stunt that had done nothing but raise the enemy's morale — was in complete chaos.

Hong Gye-hun had planted his officers behind him in a grim, intimidating line outside the building, and he was shouting.

"That's why I told you not to do it!"

Exactly as he had feared: the threat had not landed. It had only steeled the other side's resolve. The Gatling ammunition was gone. Now it would be man against man, over those fortress-like walls of Gyeong-u Palace, and Hong Gye-hun was afraid even to tally how many soldiers would die on both sides. He ground his teeth and glared at the men across from him.

Because of people who didn't know the first damn thing about this war, and because of a sovereign whose temperament produced a bizarre misjudgment at every decisive moment, more blood was about to be spilled for nothing.

"Damn it!"

The riding crop he had already broken lay discarded on the floor. He clutched a fresh one, trembling, and spat at the seated officials.

"Do you people even think? You drag their families out in front of soldiers who were trying to kill each other five minutes ago and tell them you'll murder the lot if they don't surrender? What is this, Gaixia? The Chu-Han Contention?"

To soothe the Capital Guard commander as he raged and stormed, Eo Yun-jung, Vice-Minister of Taxation, and Kim Hong-jip, Director of Diplomatic and Commercial Affairs, spoke up in turn.

"The commander's point is well taken. Of course it is. We understand completely."

"But the Enlightenment Party rebels, who harmed one another in a tragedy that erupted in a moment of chaos, are a precious resource for this country."

"And are they not already rats in a corner? A cornered rat will bite a cat. If His Majesty shows even a little mercy, pardons them, and gives them a chance to repent of their foolishness, then the subjects of Hanseong, too, will regard the present—"

"A resource? A reeeesource?"

What the hell were these people talking about?

"You are a military man, so you may not know — but they are the very talents who must stand at the head of the enlightenment to come."

"Good God."

Blood had already flowed as far as blood could flow. They had already killed each other as thoroughly as men can kill. And these two ministers wanted to protect the Enlightenment Party rebels as talent. Hong Gye-hun's breath caught in his throat.

What were these people? What about the soldiers lying dead in the dirt out there? And what, exactly, was His Majesty thinking? Was this how a negotiation was supposed to work?

He drew a long breath anyway, for the sake of appearances, and asked in a serious voice:

"Have you lost your minds?"

"No. We are perfectly sane."

Eo Yun-jung met Hong Gye-hun's glare with a calm, iron look of his own, and brought out that infamous stubbornness of his.

"Five days of slaughter have already dragged the authority of the court and the royal house into the dirt. Must we be still more savage than we have already been?"

"You've gone completely mad! You bookish little saints! Does this look like a children's game to you? This is war! War — where men kill each other and learn to hate!"

He slammed his fist down.

"But they are our people too! They are Joseon men!"

Kim Hong-jip and Eo Yun-jung's cry snapped Hong Gye-hun awake. He looked back at his own officers. He could scarcely believe it — but the eyes and faces of the Gyeongsayeong officers and soldiers charged with the suppression were not so different from those of the two men who had come to persuade him.

"Ah."

Then he understood. Kim Hong-jip and Eo Yun-jung had not come here as the king's inner circle. They had come with another purpose entirely.

They came to save them.

Hong Gye-hun's gaze went still and cold.

"What is it you want?"

Eo Yun-jung gestured toward the tent flap. A familiar figure entered. Hong Gye-hun recognized the face and spoke in surprise.

"The former commander?"

It was Cho Yeong-ha — the dismissed former commander of the Gyeongsayeong.

"...Things have taken a truly hideous turn."

Cho Yeong-ha sat, his already crumpled military hat held neatly in both hands, and spoke with a hard, set face.

"We have secured testimony from the duty royal secretary and the eunuchs. His Majesty has been in collusion with the Enlightenment Party from the very beginning."

Hong Gye-hun shook his head, unable to believe it. Cho Yeong-ha, as if he had expected exactly that, continued in a calm voice.

"The Enlightenment Party was to rise, entangle the Serving-the-Great faction and the powerful houses of the Yeoheung Min clan on charges of treasonous conspiracy, and dispose of them through the State Tribunal. This does not even rise to the dignity of a plot. It is a cheap little trick."

"Can you prove that...?"

"I have already lost His Majesty's trust and been stripped of office. What would I stand to gain by spinning a lie that would have my head cut off alongside the Enlightenment Party rebels?"

Cho Yeong-ha's gaze was steady, composed, and utterly sincere. Hong Gye-hun was left as mute as a man who had swallowed honey.

"Fire!"

"Open fire!"

But that did not mean the suppression force needed to open a path of retreat for the Enlightenment Party rebels trapped in Gyeong-u Palace. And the soldiers burning the last sparks of resistance inside the palace had no reason to surrender quietly either.

"Ghk!"

"They're exhausted too! Charge!"

"Waaagh!"

King Yi Hyeong, convinced that his last show of mercy had been flung into a latrine for all to see, did not take a single step from the safety of Changdeok Palace. He raged in his chambers and issued a solemn command: annihilate the Enlightenment Party rebels and exterminate their clans to the third degree. The last, desperate battle between the suppression force and the Enlightenment Party began.

A volley from the suppression troops swept the top of the wall.

"My lord, we have to abandon the wall!"

"We're out of ammunition!"

"My lord!"

The suppression force's final all-out assault had begun. From every side, soldiers were shouting for him. Park Yung-hyo, still directing them with a ring-pommel saber whose hilt had already been shot away, roared back.

"Recover the wounded first! Fall back to the inner palace!"

"Retreat! Get back— ghk!"

"Aaagh!"

He watched his men withdraw, slowly, toward the inner palace — their last line. With his own eyes he saw the command banner of the Capital Guard rise over the wall of Gyeong-u Palace, a wall that had done its duty to the end. Park Yung-hyo clenched his teeth.

It's over.

He found the Enlightenment Party leadership fast, weaving through a corridor where every threshold, every piece of palace furniture, every household object had been dragged in to build cover, and went looking for their supreme leader, Kim Ok-gyun.

"Baeg-on! Baeg-on!"

Yun Chi-ho, who had been comforting a hollow-eyed Hong Yeong-sik crumpled in a corner, came over with a puzzled look.

"What is it?"

"Where is Baeg-on? There isn't a moment to lose."

"Ah — I haven't seen him for some time."

"Out of the way!"

"Wha—!?"

Park Yung-hyo shoved aside Yun Chi-ho, who stood there looking lost, a saber hanging from his waist like a boy playing at soldiers, and began flinging doors open like a madman, hunting for Kim Ok-gyun.

"Baeg-on! Baeg-on! Where is this man!"

"What's going on?"

"The Geumneungwi is looking for Baeg-on and Baeg-on is nowhere to be found..."

"What?"

Park Yung-hyo shouted over them.

"We have to negotiate! We have to save the people!"

"H-hey!"

"Let go of me! Baeg-on! Baeg-on!"

The enemy was at their throats. Sensing the end, Seo Gwang-beom seized Park Yung-hyo, who was making a scene at the worst possible moment. They had sworn, in front of the people who had chosen to die with them, that they would see this through. What was this ugly display?

"Stop it!"

"You stop! Are you saying we throw away every one of these pitiful, precious lives here? We who started this — even if we have no right to call it injustice — what crime did the soldiers and the people commit, the ones our tongues led away from their families?"

"You...!"

"Enough! Get out of my way!"

Park Yung-hyo hurled away even the saber that had already lost its hilt and its purpose, wrenched rifles from the hands of soldiers steeling themselves for a last stand and from the people who were little more than children in this, and began raising hell in earnest — going so far as to free the court ministers they had been holding prisoner.

Then—

"...Enough."

Kim Ok-gyun appeared, his face serene. He dominated the room by walking into it. He came up to Park Yung-hyo, who was still shoving open doors and pushing the imprisoned officials out, laid a hand gently on his shoulder, and spoke.

"Geumneungwi."

"Baeg-on!"

Two burning looks met in the air. Understanding each other's intent, they slowly stepped apart.

"...You."

Park Yung-hyo had expected Kim Ok-gyun to be angry. When the man said that and stepped back, Park Yung-hyo's strength left him and he sank to the floor.

What have I done?

"My comrades."

While the court ministers fled outside, Kim Ok-gyun turned to the soldiers and the people staring at him in stunned silence, and offered, quietly, a last word of thanks.

He bowed deeply, took his leave, went into the leadership's council chamber, and sealed the door fast.

A moment later, the eyes of the court ministers, the Enlightenment Party members, the soldiers, and the people who had gotten out were filled with the sight of Gyeong-u Palace beginning to burn.

Yun Chi-ho, who had privately prided himself on sharing a historic hour of Joseon with his comrades, thought back over the five days behind them and could not accept the reality in front of his eyes.

"No."

The blaze of Gyeong-u Palace lit the night of Hanseong as darkness began to fall. Their leader, having driven out every soldier, every party member, every citizen who had fought beside him, had set himself on fire.

The revolution screamed, and came apart.

"No."

The moment their leader chose death, the defense, robbed of its center, collapsed at speed. And now they—

"Rebels, surrender!"

A suppression general whose tight little wrinkles of strain had smoothed with the relief of a long battle ending shouted at them again.

"Rebels, surrender!"

"Go fuck yourselves, you bastards!"

"Hold him!"

Seo Jae-pil, barely in his right mind, tore the blood-soaked bandages that ran from his shoulder to his waist and lunged — but Seo Gwang-beom and Hong Yeong-sik held him back. Hundreds of muzzles were trained on them. To charge that line was nothing but a dog's death.

As Seo Jae-pil was dragged back, the suppression troops, their nerve restored, shouted again.

"Rebels, surrender!"

The soldiers of the Front Royal Guard and the people still had rifles in their hands, but under that crushing cry the barrels sank, inch by inch, toward the ground. There was rage in their eyes. What they had lost, in the empty place their leader had left, was the will.

"Surrender!"

The suppression force's cry went on like an incantation. Yun Chi-ho looked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠around the disordered courtyard, tightened his grip on the blood letter their leader had written — the one that had found its way back into his hand — and sank to his knees, curling in on himself.

"...I will keep it."

He could ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠not think of anything finer to say. A simple thought, at least, was still possible. This was the blood letter Kim Ok-gyun had pressed on him in the moment before he took every responsibility upon himself and chose death. Even if they shot this body dead and tore the corpse limb from limb, the history of this revolution had to be passed down to those who came after.

The banners of the Capital Guard and the Palace Guard rose high.

"Advance!"

Judging they had given enough of a chance, the suppression force came over the wall. A forest of enemy spears and blades surged up above the stone.

"Comrades!"

Park Yung-hyo saw it, ran to the crouching Yun Chi-ho, appeared again with the hiltless sword in his hand, and shouted to his comrades.

"Comrades!"

"Comrades!"

At Park Yung-hyo's cry the stunned faces cleared and the people gathered again. They put their shoulders together for a last stand. Seo Jae-pil and Seo Gwang-beom took the two ends of the line, standing in front as if to shield the rest.

A suppression officer spotted them and shouted.

"Present arms!"

"Present arms!"

The order was echoed, and hundreds of muzzles sprang up before their eyes. With the burning Gyeong-u Palace at their backs, the people and the Enlightenment Party members stood in a line like a scaffold. The suppression force closed around them in a half-moon.

At the edge of that death, Park Yung-hyo — bitterly regretting the foolishness that had sown discord in the Enlightenment Party at the very last — called softly to Yun Chi-ho.

"Seongheum."

"Geumneungwi."

Park Yung-hyo's lips, already split and dry as a drought-cracked paddy, moved.

"I'm sorry. I am a very foolish man. I thought you were a child who had never even received an appointment, who leaned on his father's name and talked nonsense — like some pathetic idler. I am truly sorry."

Yun Chi-ho, briefly thrown by the sudden apology, smiled and answered with a touch of mischief.

"...I had my suspicions, but I didn't think you'd go that far."

"Haha!"

Death, it turned out, was not such a terrible thing. That a man could become this honest. That an apology could be accepted so readily.

Park Yung-hyo laughed, just for that sliver of time, and looked at the enemy fingers drawing back on their triggers.

"You are a brave man."

"Yes. So are you."

If only that honest conversation could have gone on a little longer.

"Load!"

"Load!"

A suppression officer drew his sword and raised it. The people standing with the burning palace at their backs went rigid. Some swallowed and shut their eyes. Some stared the enemy down, determined to meet death on their feet.

"Hurry up and shoot, you idiots! My legs hurt!"

Well. There was also the sort of man, like Seo Jae-pil, bold enough to mock the enemy to their faces. In any case.

Yun Chi-ho, standing with them, gripped Kim Ok-gyun's blood letter tight.

"Aim!"

"Aim!"

At the officer's cry, a clicking ran through the air from every side. Enemy hammers cocked back.

Death was at their throats.

Staring into those muzzles, black as a bottomless pit, Yun Chi-ho felt fear at the last possible instant and jerked his head aside to look at his friends. The faces of the comrades he trusted filled his vision.

The trembling stopped.

The officer's sword fell.

"Ope— fi—!"

In that instant—

"Wh-what?!"

The suppression officer, startled by a trumpet from behind him, wrenched his horse around — and the muzzles that had been trained on the rebels lost their target and wavered.

Where was that coming from?

The trumpet sounded again, heavy and deep — and then the earth itself shook under a vast tread of feet.

"Th-there!"

It was a red banner.

Far off, behind the command flags of the Capital Guard and the Palace Guard, a red banner was rising, clear as day.

"Wh...?"

Yun Chi-ho blinked at the unreal composition in front of him, and trembled. A red sea he had seen once before was unfolding before his eyes.

"This is...?"

Dozens of red banners — no, hundreds of them — had appeared, and they were rolling straight over the tyrant's army.

"Wha—!?"

Beneath the panicked officer's face, older men approached with smiling faces and drew him down from the saddle. Beside the suppression soldiers who no longer knew what to do, people in red armbands slung their arms around their shoulders. The crimson tide that seeped through their ranks slowly drove the cold from Hanseong.

The trumpet, which had been sounding low, reached even the ears of the Enlightenment Party members lined behind the burning palace.

And then—

The red banners that had struck the suppression force — or seeped into its ranks — were full of cheering.

A long moment later, the people who had been standing with their mouths open, unable to look away, threw their arms around one another and shouted.

"Ha — haha. Hahaha...!"

"This — this is—"

"Long live the revolution! We've won!"

"We've won!"

The Enlightenment Party members and soldiers who had steeled themselves, who had known this was the end, watched the red-clad soldiers coming toward them from across the way, arm in arm with suppression troops, grinning wide.

Yes. The revolution had won at last.

"Geum— Geumneungwi."

Yun Chi-ho hurriedly looked for Park Yung-hyo, who in the face of death had become a true friend. But what he found was a man on both knees, hands folded neatly, offering a devout prayer to the sky.

"Our Father, who art in heaven..."

A life saved, in the most literal sense of the words. Yun Chi-ho left his friend to that private moment, leaned into the crimson tide coming toward them, and looked down at the blood letter in his hand.

Then the moisture came, stinging at the corners of his eyes. He swallowed the sob rising in his throat and sought the comrade who had gone ahead.

"...Baeg-on. Baeg-on! The revolution has reached Hanseong at last — how can you not be here to see it...!"

Only the flames rising from Gyeong-u Palace answered his weeping, crackling softly, as if to comfort him.

Like the Enlightenment Party members who had barely crawled back from the threshold of death, Hong Gye-hun, commander of the suppression force, could not believe what he was looking at.

"You."

He swallowed. The intuition that everything had been overturned sat in his throat. A vast shadow fell across him — as vast as the fear rising inside him.

A boy in a robe of solid red, astride a white horse, came riding slowly forward.

Hong Gye-hun remembered the face. He had seen it several times before Gwanghwamun. He managed to open his mouth.

"Boy orator."

"General."

The boy orator — Syngman Rhee — spoke with a grave formality.

"I take it you have nothing more to say."

The time it took for the banners of the Capital Guard and the Palace Guard to run red as well was vanishingly short.