The War Doesn't Change #6
I'm truly sorry for Sir Thomas, who was happily firing off dispatches back home. It's a real shame for such a gentlemanly fellow, but I'm dead serious about devouring Britain. Part of the cause of our late queen's recent passing? Gotta be me, right? The guy who gobbled up half of northern China and slapped an iron curtain right across it? Yeah, that's me.
And then hoarding gold instead of dumping it on the world market? Flooding the market with companies that only depreciate? That's me too. Counterfeiting pounds and smuggling printing presses into India? Tilting U.S. policy from Atlantic trade toward western expansion? Letting Japan slap Britain in the face? All me, all me, all me.
If some future historian pins down one cause of this era's global economic slump, they'll point straight at me. Of course, no one knows the real culprit right now. They've had downturns before, so they just figure this is more of the same. Only I know the original history's Belle Époque—to me, Europe looks like it's in the shitter, but to them, this slump is just a constant, like background noise.
It's the era when Das Kapital and the Communist Manifesto drop, after all. Europe's intellectuals see the problem as global wealth inequality—a worldwide trend—not some gold-hoarding backwater at the far east end. They think fixing that imbalance will end the slump; stealing gold from that eastern speck never crosses their minds. No wonder the flaws of the gold standard are coming to the fore.
If their ancestors—who stripped South America bare to spark industrialization—could see this, they'd just yell, "Go loot it!" like some Standish or Gordon. So I struck from the shadows at Britain. Hit Britain hard, and the world focuses inward on Europe's problems instead of the East. Britain drives world trade right now, so shake her, and the global economy wobbles—giving an edge to someone like me, who preaches free trade up front but runs a closed economy behind the scenes.
The key? Never let on that I threw the punches. So I eased up just enough to keep Britain from going full berserk. Starve a lion too long, and it'll eat rabbits too, right? Instead, I invested worldwide, flooding markets with gold, coal, oil—plenty for all. Took smaller dividends, focused on sales and market growth. To outsiders, I looked like some genius investor. All I did was point Britain's gaze elsewhere.
But lately, with my internal expansion and Japan-watching, I've maybe taken my eyes off distant Britain too long. She's getting hungry. And closer than I thought. So now, she's eyeing a rabbit snack. Ironically, that means I need to hand over some bait while teaching her: I'm a max-level rabbit. Otherwise, she'll swallow us whole like India.
First move: toss 'em Ganghwa Island. Isn't that what they wanted? Let 'em choke on it and get dysentery. My pro-me-but-anti-me intellectuals cried foul at the disaster; I pushed ahead. The lunatic pro-Japan crowd screaming "ally with Japan!" called it insane; I pushed ahead. The few intellectuals who got why we had to poke the bear still opposed; I stayed silent but pushed ahead.
The Supreme Leader pursued centralist radical reforms in Korea proper, but as an empire, he showed a more reserved, local-autonomy vibe. Didn't mean his grip was weak, though. When he raised his hand to act, a million reservists mobilized nationwide at his iron command.
So yeah, time to teach those rude Brits—in the name of their daddy Adam Smith, six feet under—that trade's about mutual benefit, monopolies are sin, and voluntary markets beat corrupt government privilege economies. Worst case, stick a virtual tombstone in the harbor. I could already see the Brits thrilled to bits.
Sir Thomas, dispatching home that we'd leased Ganghwa, panicked at this madness and rushed back to the Supreme Leader's residence. How many times was this guy gonna drag his precious ass here? Thomas figured this leader had it rough. How many in the world summon the British ambassador home like a servant? But duty called.
"What are you sending to our Ganghwa autonomous city?"
"Seems like we've got some repeated misunderstandings."
"...What misunderstandings?"
"Ganghwa's currently an ownerless wasteland, not under British administration, right?"
"Yes, but?"
"Problem is, people still live there."
"Yes."
"And Hong Kong to the homeland guarantees freedom of movement, right?"
"Yes. Free trade port."
"Exactly. So they're just heading there temporarily for work."
"...?"
"If residency and mobility rights are recognized, going there to work should be too."
"Per the Ganghwa treaty I gave you, locals' land private property rights are acknowledged, correct?"
"Yes."
"But strictly speaking, most current Ganghwa residents don't own land outright. Just cultivation rights."
The ambassador's eyes lost focus as it clicked.
"Our state doesn't sell land to individuals. We grant it to 'cooperatives' formed by groups. Members get shares, earning cultivation rights via dividends. Ganghwa land runs the same way."
"So by treaty, those cooperatives become massive landlords owning most of Ganghwa. Pretty ambiguous, no?"
"Yes."
"Can't just leave it. So I bought it all back from the co-ops. Hired the now-landless folks temporarily."
"That's why you're cramming hundreds of thousands onto Ganghwa?"
"Precisely—we bought it to resell to Britain. What do I need it for?"
Hire 'em all, build infrastructure, erect buildings, then flip it. The incoming workers? Labor for that.
Thomas's eyes sharpened. Not a bad deal. Natives could be muscled out by force, but gentlemen knew that looked bad.
"Gotta wash and polish it clean before selling. Gets a better price."
"Talking with you feels so aligned and comfortable, Leader."
"Secret: that's how I made my money."
"Haha, next time something this good comes up, please tip me off beforehand. I'll smooth it over."
I nodded with a laugh at his weighted words. Fat chance, but months later, British Ambassador Thomas showed up again—this time with U.S. Ambassador Richard Dickey Longshaft and French Ambassador Jean-Baptiste Le Petitgro.
By now, gentleman Thomas couldn't play nice. His opposite wasn't.
"Your Excellency?"
"Hello, Ambassador Thomas—no, now it's Ambassador Thomas."
"Couldn't believe it, had to come myself. Leasing Incheon to America and France too?"
"Yes."
"You nodded at our investment figures."
Ignoring the fuming witnesses, the ambassador fixated on my mouth. Ganghwa's an island—great defense, lousy trade compared to mainland Incheon. Didn't matter if Incheon's raw mud; Britain could pave it overnight. Every coast's mud somewhere—Ganghwa's name means "yellow sea," all mudflats.
"Said you'd develop nearby islands into international trade zones like Ganghwa; had to nod."
"Like Ganghwa?"
"Yes. Not sure if you'd agree now, Ambassador, but with permission, we'll link it to Ganghwa later."
"Big island. A very big one."
"'Venice of the East' got my heart racing a bit."
"We know how to stir a man's heart. Fellow men, right?"
"True. Seemed feasible."
Thomas's chest burned black. Britain spends the cash, France and U.S. snag the trade, Ganghwa's geography neutralized. And that wasn't even the end, he knew.
"Your Excellency."
"Yes?"
"Heard you smashed the coastal cliffs."
"Did I? Ordered coastal civil works, yes. But for an island, start with ports, no?"
No cliffs meant poor sea control. Ganghwa's military edge plummets—every shore a landing spot.
"Don't worry, Ambassador Thomas. I'm confident this investment won't fail."
"Really?"
Couldn't say those were cannon spots, so Thomas just smiled. We smiled at each other.
Should've wired first to designate the coast as a military base.
If he had, Cabinet would've screamed "too late," but no such humiliation back home.
"We'll dream the British Dream together."
"Mind if we join that British Dream, Leader?"
"Ask Ambassador Thomas."
"Let's make the Ganghwa-Incheon special zone a success!"
"Cheers!"
Thomas smiled without smiling.