The British Legation in Beijing was an island of Victorian England transplanted into the heart of the Orient. Heavy velvet curtains, dark mahogany furniture, and the faint scent of beeswax and old leather. In the minister's private study, a cloud of thick, fragrant cigar smoke hung in the air, blurring the edges of the room. Through this haze, the three most powerful European envoys in China were dissecting the astounding news from the Yellow Sea over glasses of French brandy.
Sir Claude MacDonald, the British minister, a man whose crisp mustache and pragmatic demeanor were the very embodiment of the Foreign Office, swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "Gentlemen," he began, his voice a study in diplomatic understatement. "It appears we have a situation. The Japanese, whom we all privately backed as the more 'progressive' horse in this particular race, have had their noses bloodied. Rather spectacularly, I might add."
Baron von Ketteler, the German Minister, a man with a military bearing and a dueling scar on his cheek, let out a short, barking laugh. "Bloodied? Sir Claude, their entire invasion force is currently providing a banquet for the fishes! And the Chinese spin on the affair…" He picked up a copy of the Imperial Edict that had been delivered that morning. "It is a masterpiece of cynical hypocrisy. 'With heavy hearts, we were forced to defend the peace.' My God, it's beautiful. They sink six thousand men and then mourn the loss of life." He took a long draw from his cigar. "It's admirable, in a ruthless, thoroughly unsporting sort of way."
Monsieur Gerard, the French Minister, a man who viewed the world through a lens of weary cynicism, smiled thinly. "The key, my dear Baron, is not whether it is admirable, but whether it is effective. And it is. Utterly. I have already seen the telegraph summaries from Reuters in London and Havas in Paris. The press is eating it up. 'Plucky China Defends Itself Against Unprovoked Japanese Aggression.' The Japanese have not only lost a fleet; they have lost the narrative completely. In the drawing rooms of Europe tonight, the Chinese are the heroes."
Sir Claude leaned forward, setting his brandy down. "Which brings us to the heart of the matter. The question is not what happened at sea. The question is what is happening in that palace." He gestured vaguely in the direction of the Forbidden City. "A few months ago, this was the Qing dynasty we all know and, frankly, despise—corrupt, stagnant, hopelessly inefficient, run by a Dowager Empress whose primary concern was the construction of a marble boat. Now?" He ticked the points off on his fingers. "A political purge of terrifying speed and efficiency. A sudden, inexplicable surge in industrial production at their arsenals. And a naval victory planned and executed with a precision that even our own Admiralty would respect. This is not the work of Prince Gong, who is a competent but uninspired administrator. Nor is it Li Hongzhang, who is too cautious by half. This is the new Emperor."
Baron von Ketteler snorted. "They say he is a boy. A child who has only just taken the throne. A prodigy, perhaps?"
"A prodigy does not simply solve the metallurgical problems of Bessemer steel production by looking at a furnace," Monsieur Gerard countered, his voice low. He was leaning in now, the consummate purveyor of secrets. "That is the rumor my sources at the Tianjin Arsenal are whispering. Impossible stories. They say the boy Emperor walked into the foundry, pointed at the machinery, gave a series of impossible commands, and produced perfect steel. They speak of him as if he is not a boy at all, but some kind of… sorcerer."
Sir Claude waved a dismissive hand, though his eyes showed he was not entirely dismissing it. "Let's not get carried away with bazaar rumors and the superstitions of Chinese laborers. We must deal in facts. And the fact is, China is changing at a pace we did not anticipate. And it is not changing into a compliant, Western-friendly nation that will gratefully buy our goods and follow our lead. It is changing into something else."
"Something strong," von Ketteler supplied, his military mind assessing the threat.
"And unpredictable," Sir Claude added. "That is the danger. Our entire commercial interest in the Far East, the entire foundation of our trade policy, is predicated on a weak, pliable, and slightly chaotic China. A strong, unified, militaristic China under a ruthlessly effective Emperor is a direct threat to our entire position in Asia. Let's be frank, gentlemen. We wanted Japan to win this war. We wanted them to give the Qing a bloody nose, keep them weak, keep them focused inward."
The German minister nodded in agreement. "Perhaps they still can. Japan's industrial base is sound. Their military is modeled on our own peerless army. This defeat will not break them; it will enrage them. It will forge them in the fires of humiliation. The German position is, and will remain, to continue selling them our best rifles and cannons. A wounded tiger fights hardest."
"And France will, of course, continue to honor our contracts to sell our finest cannons to the Chinese," Gerard said with a sly smile. "A protracted, bloody war that weakens both of them and enriches our arms manufacturers is, perhaps, the most profitable outcome for all of us, is it not?"
Sir Claude sighed, the crass mercantilism of his colleagues wearing on him. "Profitable in the short term, perhaps. But dangerously unstable in the long term. A victorious Japan is manageable. A victorious China under this new Emperor…" He let the thought hang in the air. "I do not believe he will be content to simply rule China."
He reached into his jacket and produced a thin, coded telegram. "I received a cipher from the Foreign Office in London this morning. The official British position is to express 'grave concern' and publicly call for a peaceful, negotiated resolution." He paused, took a sip of his brandy, and lowered his voice. "The unofficial directive is quite different."
The other two ministers leaned in, their interest piqued.
"My new orders," Sir Claude continued, "are to gather any and all intelligence, no matter how trivial or outlandish, on this new Emperor. His habits, his advisors, his moods, his diet, his weaknesses. Everything. London wants to know who he is. They want a psychological profile. They want to know if he is a man who can be… managed." He looked at von Ketteler, then at Gerard, his eyes grim. "Or if he is a threat that needs to be… contained."
A thoughtful silence descended upon the room, the three men contemplating the smoke from their cigars. They had come to China to manage the decline of a dying empire. Now, they were faced with the terrifying possibility that they were witnessing its violent, unpredictable rebirth. The Great Game in Asia had just become infinitely more complex, and they had a sinking feeling that they were no longer the primary players.