Chapter 96
Chapter 96
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 96
Chapter Title: Bloody Tuesday
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"God save the Tsar~!"
"Hm?"
December 13, 1904, St. Petersburg.
The soldiers of the Imperial Guard defending the Winter Palace—the heart of the Russian Empire and home to the family of Tsar Nicholas II—tilted their heads in unison at the faint song drifting in from afar.
It wasn't just the soldiers. Any Russian would recognize that familiar tune and those familiar lyrics.
It was the national anthem of the Russian Empire.
"Not even a hymn on St. Andrew's Day, but the national anthem? What's going on?"
One guardsman muttered in bewilderment.
But as the singing grew louder, a creeping unease began to stir in the hearts of the guardsmen.
"Mighty and sovereign Tsar~!"
"Damn it...!"
And soon enough, their anxiety proved spot-on, infuriatingly accurate.
"Reign in glory, for our glory~!"
Tens of thousands.
Tens of thousands of people were marching toward the Winter Palace, clutching icons and placards.
Judging by their shabby, ragged clothes, they were unmistakably St. Petersburg's hidden "attraction"—those tiresome laborers who stirred up trouble every other day.
"Inform Grand Duke Vladimir Alexandrovich immediately!"
"Form ranks! Don't let them get close to the palace!"
At the officers' commands, the guardsmen hurriedly lined up in a long row, rifles in hand, blocking the laborers' march.
The laborers, spotting them, halted a safe distance away.
As workers and guards faced off tensely in the square before the Winter Palace, Father Gapon—the leader of this St. Andrew's Day procession—stepped forward from the crowd.
"Soldiers! Do not shoot the people!"
Father Gapon cried out.
"We have come only to deliver the voices of the poor and hungry to His Imperial Majesty. Voices asking for a handful of bread and God's peace!"
"His Majesty is attending Mass for St. Andrew's Day. We'll relay your words later, so disperse and leave at once!"
But neither Father Gapon nor the Russian masses budged at the officer's rote warning.
No one in a position of power ever actually passed on laborers' pleas after saying "We'll tell the higher-ups later, so go home."
It was common knowledge among Russia's toiling workers, learned the hard way.
"We will not leave until His Majesty himself answers our petition!"
Father Gapon, who knew this truth better than anyone, declared to the guardsmen that he wouldn't disband until he met Tsar Nicholas II in person.
Of course, the guards officer—who had never intended to fetch the Tsar from the start—scowled.
Damn laborers. Even when spoken to nicely, they never listened—just stubborn, foolish idiots with heads full of pointless obstinacy.
But this time, the Guard couldn't chase them off as usual.
Today was St. Andrew's Day, the feast of Russia's patron saint, and this was the Winter Palace, where His Majesty resided.
It was neither the place nor the day to shed blood lightly.
Besides, there were at least 40,000–50,000 of these paupers by rough count.
A mishandled response could spark chaos, so the Guard held back, waiting for orders from above.
"Has word been sent to Grand Duke Vladimir?"
"Yes, sir. They're holding position until they can report to His Majesty."
The officer nodded at his subordinate's reply.
Whether the Tsar showed mercy and appeared, or crushed the laborers with force as usual, it was the Tsar's choice.
All the Guard—mere swords and servants of the Tsar—could do was await His Majesty's will.
For St. Andrew's Day, the devout Tsar Nicholas II was attending Mass at Kazan Cathedral with his family, his face etched with reverence.
Tough times. For the Russian Empire, and for Nicholas II himself.
The war with Japan dragged on as sluggishly as the Germans had warned, and the Black Sea Fleet's sortie—meant to turn the tide—had backfired spectacularly. One battleship mutinied, sparking an accidental naval clash that sank Dvornik Apostolov and damaged several others.
Nicholas II had been furious enough to shock his wife, but with the situation as it was, he had no choice but to bury the incident.
But that didn't mean the Tsar sat idle in despair.
To salvage his and the Empire's honor—and make up for the Black Sea Fleet's blunder—he now planned to send the Baltic Fleet to the Far East.
p>Of course, Witte—dismissed as Finance Minister upon his return to Russia—had opposed this stubborn folly with a near-suicidal defiance. So had the other bureaucrats, generals, admirals, and even the nobility.
Everyone just opposed, opposed, and opposed again. It left Nicholas II frustrated and irritated to no end.
But what truly tormented him more was something else.
His firstborn son and only boy, Alexei, born just recently.
He already had four daughters, but thanks to Emperor Paul—who despised his mother Catherine the Great—women couldn't inherit the throne in the current Russian Empire.
So the long-awaited son's birth brought immense joy to the Tsar and Tsarina.
But that happiness was all too brief.
Their precious son Alexei had been born a hemophiliac, just like his mother's brothers.
Well aware of the tragedies that had befallen his brothers-in-law, Nicholas II mobilized every doctor in the Empire to cure his son. But they all parroted the same line: hemophilia was incurable; they couldn't heal the Tsarevich.
Alexei showed no signs of improvement, and the royal couple wept over their son's suffering.
Thus, at Mass on St. Andrew's Day, Nicholas II closed his eyes and prayed fervently to God and Jesus Christ above.
That his Empire might weather the looming crisis.
And that his dear son—the future of the Russian Empire—might recover.
"Niki."
As Nicholas II immersed himself in prayer, a familiar voice whispered in his ear.
It was Grand Duke Vladimir Alexandrovich, brother of his late father Alexander III and the Tsar's uncle.
"Riots have broken out in front of the palace."
"Handle it yourself, Uncle. Isn't that why I entrusted the police and security to you? I'd rather focus on praying to the Lord than waste time on such nonsense."
The Grand Duke nodded at his nephew's words and promptly left the cathedral.
St. Andrew's Day—a day for piety—marred by riots.
Truly impious wretches.
Nicholas II muttered inwardly and returned to his prayers.
It was the most important thing to him now.
Yet he had no inkling how those careless words would unfold.
"Open fire."
Arriving at the Winter Palace from Kazan Cathedral, Grand Duke Vladimir Alexandrovich issued the order without hesitation.
The Guard officers stared at him, eyes questioning if he meant it. But to the misfortune of Father Gapon and the laborers, the Grand Duke cared nothing for lowly rabble.
In his eyes, Father Gapon and his bread-hungry followers were rioters threatening the Russian Empire and the Romanov dynasty—rioters to be quelled with lead and cavalry.
"Impious rebels stirring unrest on a holy day. Show no mercy!"
Click!
"Wha? What?"
At the Grand Duke's command, the guardsmen aimed at the masses before them.
The laborers still couldn't fathom that the Tsar's soldiers would actually shoot.
But the Guard pulled their triggers without qualms, shattering the Russian people's last faith in the Tsar.
Bangbangbangbangbangbangbang─────!!!
Thus began the St. Andrew's Day Massacre.
"Kyaaah!!"
"The soldiers are shooting at us!"
"Run!"
The Tsar's Guard mercilessly reloaded and fired at the laborers like emotionless machines, over and over.
The Russian people, who had come begging the Tsar for mercy, spilled their blood and collapsed on the frigid Winter Palace square. Witnessing the horror, Father Gapon screamed curses at the wicked Tsar.
"Nicholaaaaaas───! Butcher unworthy of the title Tsar! You and your family will never rest in peace! Hell alone awaits you!"
But his screams were drowned by the charging Cossack cavalry.
Thus trampled under hooves and gunned down, Russia's laborers finally realized—as if in a deathly wail—that the Russian Empire had no Tsar, no God.
"Dear Nicholas has gone and caused an incident after all."
Potemkin, then Bloody Sunday—no, Tuesday.
Or should it be the St. Andrew's Day Massacre?
Whatever the name, it only drew a wry smile.
Enemy blunders were delightful, but gifting lead to his own people chanting for bread and peace? Even I, having met him in person, couldn't help but curse Nicholas II for it.
The Allied powers like Britain didn't refuse him asylum after the Russian Revolution for nothing, branding him a butcher.
Maybe our Kaiser was a sage king after all?
'Under Wilhelm II's reign, the German Empire had no major internal issues, even if externally...'
Without World War I, Wilhelm II might have gone down as a decent emperor, diplomacy aside.
Of course, World War I was inevitable, Sarajevo or not—a meaningless hypothetical.
Anyway, this was tantamount to a death sentence for the Russian Empire.
Furious laborers nationwide sparked strikes and riots after the St. Andrew's Day Massacre. Anti-Russian protests raged daily in Poland, Finland, and other oppressed regions.
Revolutionaries funded by Japan and Britain seized the chance to rampage.
The First Russian Revolution had begun months early.
With Witte still active and Stolypin—the Empire's last great reformer—on hand, it wouldn't collapse yet.
The Reds like Vladimir Lenin and Trotsky lacked real power too.
But the revolution's time bomb would never vanish.
When its fuse burned out, the Romanovs would fall, and all Russia would be dyed red.
"Enough with the apocalyptic prophecies."
Turning 14 by Western count soon—or middle school age in Korea—must be bringing on that eighth-grade syndrome early.
"Anyway, the Russo-Japanese War is over."
Hobbled by self-imposed chains from Bloody Tuesday, Russia lacked the strength to continue.
Word from the German Embassy in Russia: As his Empire burned, Nicholas II recalled exiled Witte, accepted U.S. mediation, and ordered hasty peace talks.
Japan, who'd been waiting eagerly, gladly accepted.
Soon after, to cut the horns cleanly, talks between Russia and Japan began in Portsmouth, New Hampshire—a port city—to end the war.