The Red Team Forms (3)

There was, meanwhile, a time for farewells as well.

France, the home country of Collin de Plancy, vice-consul stationed in Shanghai, had not yet established formal diplomatic relations with us. And so he boarded a ship in secret, taking the same route by which he had entered—through Busan, bound for Nagasaki.

"Time has flown, Vice-Consul."

"Your Excellency."

I saw off the French mission, whose luggage had doubled since the day they arrived, swollen now with New Year's gifts sent from every branch office and political organization, and spoke to Plancy.

"Until the day we meet again, I hope you remain in the best of health."

"The feeling is mutual, Tongnyeong. I shall do everything in my power to secure the consent of my government and the expeditionary command as swiftly as possible, and bring you glad tidings."

On the day he left Hanyang—after the fervent welcome from the Republic's principal delegates and the Dongmaenghoe party congress, and the unmistakable anti-Qing resolve they had displayed—he had sworn to me that he would obtain his government's backing. I had affirmed him in turn, and promised to accelerate our own preparations to send troops.

"A moment."

Lucius Foote, who had joined the farewell ceremony for the French mission, shook off a thoughtful expression and turned to me.

"Shouldn't this alliance have a name?"

"Pardon?"

"If you think about it, we are currently doing something enormous—breathing new life into a stagnant international diplomacy. What I mean is that this is not simply an alliance for carving up the cake that is Qing China."

When I asked what he was driving at, Foote drew one arm inward, folded his arms across his chest, and spoke to Plancy, who was watching him with an expression of genuine interest.

"You know this well, Vice-Consul Plancy. The world's press and intellectuals mock us diplomats as slave hunters, calling the present age a scramble among the European great powers. But even within that scramble, a clear hierarchy of power exists."

When Foote had said this much, I answered promptly.

"Britain and Russia."

"Precisely, Your Excellency. The world is currently in the thick of the Great Game."

At Minister Foote's words I traced the still-downy fuzz along my chin with a finger and fell into thought. He was right. The world was a contest among the great powers, yet the majority of European nations were walking a tightrope between Britain and Russia. Or, to put it more accurately, rather than standing with the Russian Empire, they were picking up leftover crumbs without crossing the British Empire's temper.

What larger picture is Minister Foote after?

I had a hunch, but it was too soon to be certain. Still, following the trail of clues that came next, Foote and Plancy—

"You want to use the opening with our Republic to expand your markets from China all the way to the empires of Southeast Asia, and Siberia besides."

"You've hit it exactly again. The people of Joseon who elevated such a brilliant leader as the head of their republican government are truly blessed citizens. Of course, Vice-Consul Plancy would rather shift France's Far Eastern influence—driven out of Japan—into Your Excellency's republican government as an investment destination, more than expanding markets and colonies."

Foote gave the tip of his splendidly waxed mustache a slight curl with his index finger and grinned with a touch of mischief.

Then Vice-Consul Plancy spoke to me.

"Yes, Minister Foote's thinking is correct, Your Excellency. I shall be frank. At present, the French Republic's once-vigorous colonial expansion has been checked by military defeat, internal division, and labor unrest. This war with Qing China is not merely a matter of Qing prestige—it is a dispute of the utmost importance, bound up with the prestige of our Republic as well."

"And if a negotiation that can satisfy both sides is impossible, then in the end—"

"Yes. One side must die. Inevitably."

At Plancy's resolute manner, I nodded. That one side must die meant, in the end, either the demise of the Great Qing Empire or the collapse of the French Third Republic's coalition government.

If France collapsed?

It might be even more terrible.

And Foote and I were men who assigned far greater probability to the disintegration of the Great Qing Empire than to the collapse of the Third Republic's cabinet. At a scale that had grown a little larger than I had anticipated, I let out a light, almost childlike sigh and answered.

"This has gotten bigger. I was the one who proposed drawing Britain to the negotiating table, but you're telling me you two had already considered consequences of that magnitude. Our Republic thought we were simply fighting for our own survival."

At this, Foote laughed, wrapped a hand around my shoulder, and praised me.

"That is the most important thing, Your Excellency. Your decision, on which the survival of your nation and people hangs, has become an opportunity for us as well."

Taking up Foote's words, Plancy continued.

"The formation of our alliance may appear to be nothing more than the expulsion of Qing influence from the Indochina Peninsula. But from the standpoint of Britain, which regards every sea in the world as its own parlor, it will look like a challenge."

At his warning, I answered with a grim expression.

"They'll see it as a new player appearing in the Great Game."

"Yes. The game is no longer a simple two-sided contest—a fight between champion and challenger."

The British Empire, which gripped the world's oceans, and Russia, which styled itself the gendarme of Europe.

To put it kindly, they are evenly matched. Strictly speaking, the British Empire is a cut above Russia in every field.

Everyone who knew, knew. Those who didn't, didn't exist. It was merely that, out of respect for both nations' faces—and because Russia was the only country that could check Britain, the world's strongest power at the height of its golden age—the European nations were forcibly propping Russia up. And among Europeans, who lived on the taste of their own excellence, there was a nasty traditional habit: whenever one of their own became insufferably outstanding, they would all swarm in and punch him in the nose.

But now a traditional rival—fused like a chimera with a second-rate republic and a third-rate newborn republic—was rising again, stretching its claws toward Asia, which Britain had always regarded as its jewel box?

They'll be displeased.

Even so, Britain would have reasons that sat poorly with interfering in our course. Why? Consider this. What would happen if our alliance suddenly took Russia's side?

I put the question to both Plancy and Foote, just in case.

"If there were business investment merits in Manchuria and Siberia, would your home governments invest in Russia?"

At my question the two men glanced at each other's faces, then chuckled and answered in turn.

"Just as our French Republic has reasons to invest in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Russia."

"If our United States also had a justification for investing in Russia, then yes. We would, Your Excellency."

"I see."

A little disappointing—or, looking at it long-term, was it bleak? Then again, from the American and French standpoint it was only natural. France needed even one important ally against Germany in Europe, and from America's perspective, if British power in Asia was to be dispersed in the future, a strengthening of Russia's naval power to counter it was desirable. No matter how supreme a fleet the British Empire possessed, it could not dominate the vast oceans alone.

To escape Qing China's shadow, and to survive Japan's future invasion, this is unavoidable. We have no choice but to use this affair as an opportunity to draw as much capital as possible toward Manchuria and Siberia.

Then—

"However."

Just as I was about to turn away with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a regretful face, Plancy caught me and continued.

"An Eastern nation that shares the same ideology would appear to us a far ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠more attractive investment destination."

"Eh?"

"The same is true of our United States, Your Excellency. The Russian Empire, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shall we say, has something in common with the Great Qing Empire wearing a mask of Westernization."

I said nothing.

"By contrast, Your Excellency and the people of the Republic are, how shall I put it, a living volcano. Just awakened, unable to contain your energy."

At the two men's words, my eyes flashed open. So what they were saying was that our Republic was a little more attractive than the Russian Empire?

"Your Excellency."

Foote gave my back a light push, as if to tell me to take heart, and opened his mouth.

"About that new alliance name. I've thought of something—would you care to hear it?"

"…I'll hear it."

When I nodded, Foote planted a hand on his hip and bellowed in a booming voice.

What?

When I looked at him with a face of bewilderment rather than the expected expression, Foote hurriedly added an explanation.

"Ah, I forgot to explain! You see, the history of our United States, the history of the French Republic, and Your Excellency's Republic all have something in common. And what is that?"

"Hmm. A government for the people?"

"Pull it a little further back—the point that our peoples shed blood together! Red blood!"

Nodding his head vigorously up and down as if seeking Plancy's agreement as well, Foote continued.

"F—Freedom. The abbreviation for liberty. D! Democratic—likewise a word meaning the rule of the people. And lastly, A is Alliance! A word referring to the alliance of our three nations. Put it all together:"

I said nothing.

"Magnificent, Minister."

Unlike me, who wore a dubious expression, Vice-Consul Plancy seemed genuinely moved by the alliance name Foote had produced after careful deliberation, and murmured the English words for quite some time. That proud Frenchman, no less.

At any rate, excluding myself, the great crowd attending the farewell ceremony saw off the departing French mission and shouted in one loud voice.

God help us.

Meanwhile, at the strategic stronghold called Lang Son on the Indochina Peninsula, another piece of grim news arrived at the expeditionary headquarters, which was still reeling from the Guangxi Army's ferocious combined assault in concert with the Yunnan Army.

"Urgent dispatch! The 1st Brigade, which crossed the river to break the encirclement, has fallen into an ambush and is retreating! The 2nd Brigade is also requesting withdrawal due to the Qing army's pressing offensive and insufficient ammunition!"

"What the hell kind of nonsense is that! The 1st Brigade retreated of its own accord without a withdrawal order?"

Startled by the messenger's shocking news, Admiral Amédée Courbet snatched the report from the man's hands with a motion as sharp as a hawk's talons.

"What in God's name has the staff been doing while things reached this state!"

The admiral's hands, clutching the report soaked yellow with sweat, trembled. Defeat. Retreat. Annihilation. Words that must never exist in an expeditionary force report were stamped there in stark letters.

Good God. France was losing? To that tottering old dragon?

The admiral, considerably shaken, swept back his graying hair and flung the report to the ground. The staff officers, who had been watching his face, hurriedly picked it up and began passing it among themselves. Courbet, ignoring the considerable sighs that followed, sank into thought.

Now was the time to make a real decision. An honorable withdrawal, or a courageous counterattack to drive back those damned savages.

Does the expeditionary force have any remaining strength?

It could not be said there was none at all. At present the Qing southern coast, including the Guangxi region, was in the grip of the French expeditionary fleet, and the Beiyang Fleet that might have opposed them had gone into hiding. The Qing batteries located in the southern coastal port cities, including Taiwan, had long since been smashed by the expeditionary fleet. Yes—it was no exaggeration to declare that the navy had already won.

But the army?

It's enough to drive a man mad. What on earth are we lacking that we're losing?

On top of the support troops dispatched time and again, the expeditionary army was even devouring the vast munitions and ammunition that should have gone to the navy once the navy had nothing left to do. No matter how many Chinese there were, could they possibly outnumber the ammunition?

Meanwhile, unlike the staff officers murmuring and worrying over the successive defeats, Admiral Courbet was also concerned about another problem that would arise back home.

If news that the additionally dispatched brigades have been defeated reaches the home press, the cabinet will collapse. Such a disaster must never occur.

Unlike the other colonial empires, France was a republic. And it had to pay a great deal of attention to the eyes of its citizens and public opinion. If word reached their ears that their nation's young men were dying in droves at Chinese hands in some nameless jungle—

The admiral, his thoughts having reached that point, issued an order to the disordered officers.

"Immediately inform not only the journalists attached to the fleet but every war correspondent throughout the expeditionary force that they are not to leave the barracks."

"Sir?"

"What are you dawdling for! Those jackals will write up our defeat ever so prettily and plaster it across the papers! Get the hell out there!"

"Wah—yes, sir!"

At the admiral's furious kicking, the officers hurriedly clutched their heads and fled the tent.

But Admiral Courbet did not know. He did not know that the expeditionary officers, who ought to have been braver than any newspaper journalist, would submit to the home government a blood-soaked report detailing their own defeat down to the last particular.

The French expeditionary force was collapsing from within, crushed not by a Qing army whose very existence was uncertain, but by a fear they had manufactured themselves.