The Xinhai Revolution (3)
Late 1910.
"Are the soldiers settling in yet?"
"They've received their uniforms, finished their drill instruction, and every man has been to the firing range at least once."
"And individual combat training?"
"Er, well, I've got them all doing it, for the time being."
"Then I'd say they're proper soldiers now."
Slurp.
I took a sip of the coffee I'd gotten from Master Zhang Ziyun by special request just this once.
Ah. There it is.
How I'd missed this feeling — caffeine racing along my veins, waking my whole body up.
"Jeom-san, Jeom-san, my boy. Want some?"
"I find I prefer green tea to coffee, sir."
"Sounds like someone with no palate."
"Taste... I beg your pardon? What's that, sir?"
"Someone who can't tell what tastes good."
"You truly do invent the strangest expressions, sir."
Hey, old man. That's just how we MZ-generation folks do things these days, you know?
I set my cup down and spoke. "Anyway, the boys have all finished the course. Starting today, we begin quick-reaction drills."
"And what might those be?"
"A drill where, the moment something happens, every man grabs his full kit and weapons and is outside in five minutes."
"Why on earth would we—"
"Has listening to me ever done you wrong?"
"No, sir."
"Then we drill it."
"Yessir."
Midway through this exchange with Jeom-san, a soldier came up and saluted.
"Major, sir. There's a man at the guard post asking for you."
"For me?"
"Yes, sir. He says he's an instructor at the Fengtian Army Primary School."
"Is that so."
An instructor would rank roughly as a captain. No telling why the man had come calling on me personally, but leaving him standing out in the cold would be poor manners.
"Show him in."
"Ahh! What an honor to meet the famed hero of the Northeast!"
"Haha, you flatter me. I only did as I was told — the reputation is far too generous. I'm embarrassed by it."
"Not at all! Guo Songling is my student, you see, and I have heard a great deal about you. There is no one in this whole Northeast more a soldier than you, Major!"
Thick, high-set horn-rimmed glasses and a memorable mustache. The man who introduced himself as Zhang Rong, ethics instructor at the Fengtian Army Primary School, was — how to put it — a man who reeked of books from every pore.
And his questions weren't of the 'so, tell me about your exploits' sort; the vast majority ran along the lines of: Do you know Abraham Lincoln? Do you know Rousseau? Have you read such-and-such a book?
"And what is the Major's opinion on this matter?"
"Mm. Indeed."
"The Major strikes me as a man of most enlightened mind."
Honestly.
He slathered flattery over every sentence that left his mouth, and I couldn't tell whether this was a professional flatterer at work or genuine feeling. Better to assume the former. If I assumed the latter and it proved false, I'd be left believing there was no such man in the world at all.
Then, after a long stretch of honeyed words, he wet his throat with tea and eased into his true subject.
"And how does the Major view this Northeast of ours, as it stands today?"
Hmmmm.
What's this? Are we close enough now for him to go casting political bait around like this?
Ah. No, wait. He's only asked how things are in the Northeast.
Prices have been climbing lately~ the children's tuition went up again~ — surely just small talk, the kind exchanged between passing acquaintances.
I'd been hearing news of uprisings and rumors of revolution of late, and it had made me oversensitive. In moments like this, the textbook play is to answer with something like 'ah, the economy's been rough lately' and take a leisurely sip of coffee.
Just as I opened my mouth to do exactly that, he spoke first.
"Major. I believe this Northeast — and, beyond it, China herself — is sick."
Oh, you son of a—
You teach ethics, you said, and by God, you really are an ethics teacher.
The sort who shows up to class in a modernized hanbok with a danso flute at his hip and hurls dangerous political fodder at his students, mouth first.
Over Zhang Rong's Western suit, the phantom of just such a modernized hanbok flickered and superimposed itself.
"Below, opium peddlers run rampant; above, injustice, corruption, and treason gorge themselves. This nation's Mandate of Heaven died the day the British took Guangzhou."
"······."
"Major. I believe that enlightened young men such as yourself must gather together, and reform this nation."
"Reform, is it? Or else—"
Revolution?
When I added that, his face transformed into that of a fisherman who had just hooked a monster catch.
"New wine must be poured into new wineskins. The vessel that held us was never ours to begin with. It belonged to the Manchus."
"So you mean to overturn it all?"
"Once the foul, stagnant water at the top has been vomited up entirely — who do you suppose will sit in its place?"
Having said his piece, he pointed at me.
"Men like you, sir. Men of lofty learning and clear reason."
Pulling down an emperor who was no longer great, scattering his majesty and his power, and smelting the whole of it into the foundation stones of a new government.
In Zhang Rong's eyes, I saw flames that burned conviction for kindling.
"We will make China a great nation again."
"···You're with the Tongmenghui."
"I am."
"Doesn't that frighten you? I could have you arrested this very moment and handed over to the Shengjing General's Headquarters."
"You might take my life. But even if this Zhang Rong dies, a second and a third Zhang Rong will keep coming."
"And if we keep cutting them down?"
"I don't know who the executioner might be, but he will have quite a lot of cutting to do. By my count, we Han number four hundred million against their three million Manchus."
Zhang Rong pressed on.
"If the Major shuns the Tongmenghui because he has eaten the Qing's rice, that is a misreading. We believe every man must have his chance — save for traitors-to-the-Han like Zhao Erxun."
"So that's why you came to me today?"
"It is, Major! Let us stand together beneath the banner of the republic and the banner of Zhonghua, and make this continent great once more!"
"······."
When I stared at him in silence, Zhang Rong smiled.
"Heh heh. I understand if the Major finds me untrustworthy. But know this: countless officers of the Fengtian army are already moving with us."
"So you have men on the inside."
"Even if the Major reports all this to the Shengjing General's Headquarters, Fengtian crawls with men who could make your life miserable for it. For your reference — one of our brigade commanders is a member of our Tongmenghui. Do judge wisely."
One of the four brigades guarding Fengtian was Tongmenghui?
So now it's half-threat, is it.
The tide has already half-turned, so either become one body with us, or quietly keep your mouth shut. And if you get in the way, we'll kill you — that's what this was.
I chose my words with care.
To dig out the ideology and conviction buried deep in the man's heart.
"You said earlier that you'd take anyone in — so long as he isn't a traitor like Zhao Erxun."
"That's right! We are all Han here; I can't cast a man out for the crime of having eaten a little rice. Don't worry yourself, Major. If I write a letter to my comrade Sun Yat-sen—"
"I am not Han."
"···Not Han?"
"I grew up an orphan. I don't know what people I come from."
Zhang Rong's frozen expression broke apart, and he threw back his head and laughed.
"Hahahaha! And here I was wondering! How could a man like you not have Han blood in his veins? And even if that were so — judged by the merits you have won, how could you be anything but an honorary Han?"
"···Honorary Han?"
"Since antiquity, the law and the Way of Zhonghua have lain in the civilizing of foreign peoples. Just as Gao Xianzhi of the old Tang — born of Goguryeo exiles — was a true and proper honorary Han, so are you. So rest easy, Major—"
Whatever else Zhang Rong said, it no longer reached my ears.
I didn't particularly want to hear it, either.
Honorary Han. Honorary Han.
How could a pairing possibly fit together any worse?
A ballerina-orc would match better.
I could picture an orc in a ballet costume stepping onto the stage of Swan Lake. But some man puffing out his chest, brimming with confidence, declaring himself an honorary Han — that, I could not picture at all.
For better or for worse, though, my conversation with Zhang Rong had let me establish exactly what kind of outfit the Chinese Tongmenghui was.
Expel the Manchus.
Build a republic.
Zhonghua supremacism.
The first two were no business of mine — I could respect them gladly enough.
But the last one, I could gladly answer with a raised middle finger.
You people and I can never walk the same road.
Of course, they weren't objectively sons of bitches.
From China's standpoint, they were patriots.
And from mine, they were unforgivable.
Because I intend to tear Manchuria clean out of China's side.
China has to be split apart.
For the Korea I want — and for a better future.
"Major? Did the meeting with that instructor go well—"
"Second Lieutenant Ma Jeom-san. Go fetch Guo Songling."
"···Sir?"
"And have every officer of the 1st Battalion assembled in the operations room by 1500."
"Y-yes, sir!!"
The moment Lee Tae-oh addressed him by full name and rank instead of 'Jeom-san, Jeom-san my boy,' a chill crawled up Ma Jeom-san's spine. He dashed out, seized Guo Songling by the arm, and hurried back.
"Second Lieutenant Guo Songling, as ordered."
"Wait outside."
"Yep."
Ma Jeom-san fled the room, and Guo Songling — hauled in for reasons unknown — stood blinking blankly into space.
"Guo Songling. Do you smoke?"
"Oh — yes, sir."
"Lend me one, then."
"Sir? I thought you didn't smoke?"
"How should I know, damn it. I'm past twenty now, so give me one."
Guo Songling opened his cigarette case, drew out a smoke, and handed it over.
"Light, too."
He produced his lighter and brought the flame to the cigarette between Lee Tae-oh's lips.
Click — and it caught.
"Slurrp— kgh! Koff! Hack!"
"Why on earth would you take up smoking when you never—"
"Well then what the hell am I supposed to do, not take it up!?"
Cigarette resting between his index and middle fingers, Lee Tae-oh looked at Guo Songling.
What did I do wrong?
Guo Songling wilted under eyes that seemed to bore straight through him.
"Lieutenant Guo."
"Yes, Major."
"Are you with the Tongmenghui?"
"···Sir?"
Tongmenghui? Those revolutionaries?
"N-no, sir! I'm not with any Tongmenghui!"
"Then why would that bastard Zhang Rong sell you out."
"Sir? Instructor Zhang? What do you mean, all of a sudden—"
"······."
"I — I truly don't know anything!"
Silently, Lee Tae-oh took another drag, then held out a blank sheet of paper.
"Write down everything that instructor Zhang has been teaching at that school."
"Y-yes, sir."
It took him a long while to scratch out the page. A few drops of sweat fell onto the blank paper.
"That's enough. Give it here."
"Yes, sir."
Lee Tae-oh took the sheet and wagged the cigarette in his mouth.
"······."
"······."
Only the tick of the clock settled into the silence between them.
"···Good."
"I-is that so?"
Though he had no idea what was good, Lee Tae-oh, having read the page through, did not look displeased.
"Guo Songling."
"Sir."
"What do you think of the Tongmenghui?"
"···That — well."
Patriots.
The words rose to his throat — and swallowed themselves back down.
'Are you with the Tongmenghui?'
'Then why would that bastard Zhang Rong sell you out.'
'The Major clearly thinks poorly of the Tongmenghui.'
Here Guo Songling sensed that something was off.
Those who rejected or loathed the Tongmenghui were, for the most part, imperial loyalists devoted to the Qing and its throne.
'People usually cite loyalty to the crown, and the like. I suspect that Cadet Guo Songling, in any case, foresees an age of chaos coming.'
The Lee Tae-oh he knew was more trustworthy than anyone, more capable than anyone, and saw farther than anyone.
That man — a musty old throne-protector? Nonsense.
Then why did Lee Tae-oh look askance at the Tongmenghui?
Just as Guo Songling failed to reach an answer, Lee Tae-oh spoke.
"Guo Songling."
"Yes, Major."
"Which comes first for you — China, or Manchuria?"
"···Sir?"
"What is the most fundamental identity that defines you? Han? Chinese? Or else a Manchurian?"
"What kind of question—"
The questions came like a burst of rapid fire.
"When the American Civil War broke out, the Confederate commander Robert E. Lee said, 'I am a Virginian before I am an American.' So which are you? Are you a Manchurian before you are a Chinese? Or a Chinese before you are a Manchurian?"
"······."
"You had best decide."
Guo Songling swallowed dryly.
"······."
"Hard to decide? Then let me offer you an example. Say the Tongmenghui succeeds. The Emperor in Beijing is deposed, the Qing falls, and in its place stands the Republic of China. Huzzah, all hail, manse."
"······."
"Now let's pin one thing down. To that Republic of China — what is Manchuria? A space from which to drive out the Manchus. Nothing more, and nothing less."
The land of savage nomads. The land of a foreign people. Yet the claim to it, theirs.
"I know a word for such a place. 'Colony.'"
"······."
"Suppose someone invades the continent. Soldiers will be conscripted from Manchuria. Manchuria's resources will be smelted into weapons. Manchuria's land will be scorched and made into a front line. If that isn't a colony, what is?"
"···That's pure speculation, sir."
"Then tell me — will this continent make Manchuria the best place within it to live? This Manchuria, rather than Shanghai or Beijing or Nanjing? This Fengtian? Who would fight for a mere eighteen million votes instead of four hundred million?"
"······."
In place of his own silence, Lee Tae-oh looked at his wristwatch.
"It's 1400 now, so I'll give you one hour until the commanders' meeting at 1500. Think it over properly."
"Y-yes, sir."
"Is everyone here?"
"Yes, sir."
The operations room buzzed with gathered officers. Ma Jeom-san sat at the adjutant's seat; Du Lisan beside him; Jo Do-seon and Woo Deok-sun across the table.
And Guo Songling — perhaps for lack of seniority — sat at the very end.
"All of you, draw your sidearms. Now."
"···Sir?"
"Now."
When Lee Tae-oh drew his pistol first and laid it on the operations table, the others — however baffled — followed suit, laying down their weapons one by one.
"Major, what on earth is this about?"
"I have one question for you all."
Bracing both hands on the table, Lee Tae-oh swept his gaze across the faces before him and spoke.
"Do you men trust me?"
"···We do?"
"I trust you, sir!"
"Yes!"
Voices rose from here and there. Lee Tae-oh asked again.
"Come what may, could you follow me?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Of course."
He asked once more.
"If I were to stake every one of your lives on a cause I believe to be right — could you still follow me?"
An uneasy question. The officers exchanged glances.
Screech — the sound of a chair dragging across the floor broke the silence.
"I will follow the Major!"
"Second Lieutenant Ma Jeom-san. Do you trust me?"
"What reason could I possibly have not to!?"
Screech — the sound followed.
"I will follow the Major!"
"Second Lieutenant Du Lisan."
"I will follow the Major!"
"Second Lieutenant Jo Do-seon. Second Lieutenant Woo Deok-sun."
One by one, the seated men rose to their feet.
"I'll follow too!"
"If not for you, Major, I'd have died back in the bandit suppression."
"And thanks to you, Major, I've finally scraped together my wedding fund!"
Lee Tae-oh swept his eyes over them once more, then spoke.
"I don't think very deeply. I fight for this land where you men live and I live. Will you follow?"
"Yes, sir!!!"
"Even if I wage war on the Tongmenghui — will you follow!?"
"Yes, sir!!!"
At the far end of the room, the one man still seated rose.
"Second Lieutenant Guo Songling."
"···Sir."
"Will you follow?"
"Yes."
"I asked whether you would follow."
"······."
Guo Songling lifted his head and looked Lee Tae-oh square in the eye.
"Are you a Manchurian?"
"···Yes! I am a Manchurian, of Fengtian!"
"Good. One last question. Will you follow?"
"Yes, sir!!!"
"Understood."
Lee Tae-oh beckoned Guo Songling forward with a gesture.
"Write down everyone currently in the Fengtian army — classmates, seniors, juniors, all of them. There's no telling who that bastard Zhang Rong has approached."
"Understood."
Reading over the list Guo Songling had written, Lee Tae-oh looked up and asked again.
"Any suspected Tongmenghui men in our brigade's direct-command units?"
"None, sir. The direct-command units answer to your word alone, Major."
"Good."
With every eye fixed on Lee Tae-oh's mouth, he looked back at them all and spoke.
"The moment they raise the standard of revolt, we seize the justification — and sweep them away first."
"Yes, sir!!!"