The autumn sun hung low over Tianjin's harbor, casting long shadows across the wharves where British, German, and Chinese vessels sat at anchor—a visible reminder of the unequal balance of power that governed these waters. In the offices of the China Merchants Steam Navigation Company, two men prepared for very different futures.
Captain Jack Morrison sat in his third-floor office, the franchise proposal spread across his desk alongside the separate, much thicker document marked Confidential: Naval Rearmament and Industrial Development Program. He'd spent three days studying both, working through the implications with the methodical patience of someone who'd learned that hasty decisions in unfamiliar waters led to shipwrecks.
He still remembered his conversation with Yang and Fu three days ago…"
"Fu entered first, impeccably neat despite the tension of their mission. Yang followed, carrying the primary proposal.
Yang placed a crisp, detailed document on the desk. 'Captain, the franchise proposal, as promised. It is the framework for the immediate survival of CMSNC,' he stated, his voice tight with controlled urgency.
Morrison picked up the document, his eyes scanning the title: The CMSNC Commercial Restructuring and Franchise Plan. 'Brilliant work, I'm sure,' Morrison said, a hint of genuine satisfaction in his tone. He didn't open it immediately. He looked up at Yang, then around the room. 'Where's Zhao? I'd have thought he'd want to see this over the finish line himself.'
He then turned his attention to Fu, who clutched a separate, much thicker document close to his chest.
Morrison's lips curved into a slight, dry smile. 'Fu, my boy, tell me something. Yang hands me a plan that could save this company, and you're still clutching that brick of a manuscript. Based on the size alone, I'd guess I recommended the right people to you. Whatever that is, it looks like it could save the entire Qing Dynasty.'
Fu maintained his serious expression, the joke failing to reach him. 'Captain, the immediate plan is for your eyes now.'
Morrison, ignoring Fu's gravity, spread the franchise plan on his desk and began to read with focused attention He absorbed the commercial structure, the operational feasibility, and the political astuteness, his mind already calculating profitability. He made no comment on the brilliant commercial proposal, simply absorbing its logic until he was fully satisfied.
Once he finished with the franchise plan, Morrison gestured toward the thicker document Fu held. 'All right, Fu. Let's see your brick.'
Fu approached the desk and formally presented the second document. As Morrison read the title on the cover—Confidential: Naval Rearmament and Industrial Development Program—his expression shifted from satisfaction to genuine surprise. He looked sharply at Fu, his gaze now intense and searching.
'Should I read this?' Morrison asked the question less about choice and more about the gravity of the revelation. 'This isn't simply a business proposal; this is an entire strategic roadmap, military and political.'
Fu leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. 'Captain, as one of the key executors of this entire project—the man who will shepherd CMSNC into the new era and secure the foreign partnerships necessary for this development—you need to read it. Only by understanding the complete plan and its full gravity will you truly be on board. Your name and support aren't just for the company, Captain; they're necessary to bring the foreign expertise and investment we desperately need to fund this.' Fu tapped the thick document. 'This is the real game, Captain. The franchise is merely the first piece of capital.'
Morrison settled back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the heavy document. The simple business deal he'd endorsed had just transformed into a high-stakes play for national power."
"The franchise plan was brilliant—commercially sound, operationally feasible, politically astute. It would save CMSNC from bankruptcy while potentially restoring profitability. Any competent administrator would approve it.
But the naval program... Morrison set down his tea and stared at the document. This wasn't just about saving a shipping company. This was a comprehensive blueprint for rebuilding Chinese maritime power—disguised as commercial enterprise but unmistakably military in purpose.
Seventy-five million taels over twelve years. Joint ventures with foreign firms. Engineering universities. Coastal defense squadrons. All structured to appear as if private merchants and commercial interests were driving decisions, when in reality it was systematic state-building wearing a merchant's clothing.
He understood now why Yang and Zhao—no, why Fu Weihong as listed primary author—had structured the documents separately. The franchise plan could stand alone, be approved by middle management, implemented incrementally. But the naval program required someone with vision and authority to see its potential.
It required Li Hongzhang.
Morrison had served in Asian waters for thirty years. He'd watched the Beiyang Fleet being built, had seen Li's modernization efforts, had observed the catastrophic defeat in the recent war. He knew what losing that fleet meant to Li personally—not just military disaster but the destruction of his political legitimacy.
And here, on Morrison's desk, was a path to redemption. Not just rebuilding what was lost, but creating something more sustainable, more integrated, less vulnerable to the corruption and factional politics that had crippled the original Beiyang Fleet.
The question was: how to get this to Li Hongzhang without it being filtered, diluted, or stopped by the bureaucratic machinery?
A knock interrupted his thoughts. Huang Yucheng entered—his counterpart in the company's management structure, nominally equal in authority but serving very different masters.
"Morrison," Huang said in serviceable English. His Mandarin was flawless, but he'd learned early that speaking English with Morrison created useful ambiguity about what exactly had been said in later reports. "Senior management meeting scheduled for next week. Sheng Xuanhuai himself will attend. We must prepare recommendations for addressing the company's financial situation."
Morrison kept his expression neutral. "I see. What recommendations are you preparing?"
"Standard measures. Operational efficiency improvements, route consolidations, workforce reductions." Huang's tone suggested these were formalities rather than genuine solutions. "Enough to demonstrate we're taking the crisis seriously."
"Will that actually solve the crisis?"
Huang smiled slightly. "Morrison, you've been in China long enough to understand. The goal isn't to solve the crisis—it's to manage perceptions until circumstances change. Sheng knows this. We know this. Even Li Hongzhang knows this, though he pretends otherwise."
Morrison felt a familiar frustration. Huang wasn't incompetent—he was simply operating in a system where actual solutions mattered less than political theater. Where appearing to address problems earned more reward than fixing them.
"What if," Morrison said carefully, "there was a genuine solution? Something that could restore profitability while also serving larger strategic purposes?"
Huang's expression flickered—brief interest followed by practiced caution. "If such a solution existed, and it had merit, I'm sure it would receive proper consideration."
"Through official channels? Filtered through multiple levels of review, each level extracting their share of credit and benefit?"
Now Huang's caution deepened. "What are you suggesting?"
Morrison made his decision. "I'm suggesting that some opportunities require direct communication with decision-makers, not bureaucratic processing. I have such an opportunity on my desk. I'm choosing to wait for the right moment to present it."
"To whom?"
"To someone who can actually implement it."
Huang studied him for a long moment. Their relationship had always been cordial—they'd worked together effectively despite serving different factions within the company's complicated power structure. Huang was part of Sheng's network, yes, but he wasn't stupid, and he recognized when Morrison was serious rather than merely diplomatic.
"You're going around Sheng," Huang said flatly.
"I'm waiting for an opportunity to present a proposal to the appropriate authority."
"That's dangerous. Sheng doesn't forgive being bypassed."
"Sheng," Morrison said with unusual bluntness, "has run this company into the ground through corruption and incompetence. If I present a solution through him, he'll either steal credit while sabotaging implementation, or he'll reject it because it threatens his control. Either way, the company continues dying."
"And you think Li Hongzhang will see you? Will he listen to a British merchant captain over his own officials?"
"I think," Morrison said, "that Li Hongzhang is desperate enough that if the right opportunity presents itself, he'll listen to anyone with a genuine solution. And I'm patient enough to wait for that opportunity."
Huang stood to leave, then paused at the door. "Be careful, Morrison. You're not wrong about Sheng's corruption. But you're underestimating how vicious bureaucratic warfare becomes when someone threatens the system. Even if Li Hongzhang supports your... solution... implementation will face resistance from every official who sees it as a dangerous precedent."
"Noted," Morrison said. "I appreciate the warning."
After Huang left, Morrison locked both documents in his desk safe. He'd wait. Watch for the moment when circumstance aligned with opportunity. And when that moment came, he'd make sure Fu Weihong was ready to present their proposal directly to the man who could make it reality.
Three hundred kilometers away, in his offices in Shanghai, Sheng Xuanhuai reviewed reports on CMSNC's financial situation with practiced disinterest. The numbers were terrible, as expected—the company had been bleeding money since the war, with no immediate prospect of improvement.
But Sheng had weathered financial crises before. The key wasn't actually solving problems—it was managing perceptions while extracting maximum personal benefit from the chaos.
His assistant, Cao Liang, waited respectfully. "Deputy Director Xu Run will arrive tomorrow from Beijing. He's prepared proposals for operational restructuring."
"Which means more meetings," Sheng said with distaste. "Tell me honestly, Cao—do any of these restructuring proposals actually work?"
"Some might, if implemented properly with adequate funding and political support."
"So no." Sheng set down the reports. "Because proper implementation and adequate funding require sustained attention and commitment. Which requires believing the company matters. Which I don't."
Cao said nothing. His job was to manage details, not question Sheng's priorities.
"The company matters to Li Hongzhang," Sheng continued, thinking aloud. "It's part of his modernization portfolio. Proof that Chinese enterprise can match foreign competition. Except it can't, really—not with the current system. So we perform the theater. We hold meetings, write reports, implement 'reforms' that sound impressive in documents but don't actually change anything fundamental."
"The Empress Dowager's court will expect visible action after the war losses," Cao observed.
"Then we'll give them visible action. Reorganize management structures—that's always popular. Announce new efficiency measures. Perhaps close some unprofitable routes, which we should have done anyway. The key is looking decisive while avoiding anything that actually threatens existing arrangements."
"And if Li Hongzhang demands real change?"
"Li Hongzhang just negotiated a humiliating peace treaty," Sheng declared, his voice dismissive. "He's politically vulnerable right now. The last thing he can afford is another visible failure. So he'll accept whatever we present as long as it looks like progress. He needs to show the court he's still in control, still capable of managing his portfolio. We give him that appearance, and he'll protect our positions in return."
As he spoke, he retrieved a prepared memorial intended for the Emperor. The document detailed his plans to establish a modern higher education institution in Tianjin. This wasn't merely a civic act; it was a brazen political maneuver.
Sheng planned to establish the Peiyang Western Study College on his own—outside of Li Hongzhang's shadow and without his patronage. By securing the Guangxu Emperor's approval (the Emperor was famously fond of reform and Western ideas), Sheng was cultivating a direct relationship with the Emperor and his faction.
This move was Sheng's final act of defiance—a bold declaration that he was no longer just Li Hongzhang's protégé but an independent power broker. His disregard for his patron was absolute; he saw Li only as a politically crippled figure whose utility was now limited to simply covering Sheng's tracks.
It was cynical but pragmatic calculus. Sheng had built his career on understanding that bureaucratic survival mattered more than substantive achievement. Results were temporary—positions were permanent, as long as you maintained the right relationships and avoided spectacular failures.
"Schedule the meeting with Xu Run and other senior managers for next week," Sheng instructed. "Prepare the usual presentation materials. And make sure we have contingency proposals if Li Hongzhang asks for something more aggressive—nothing that would actually work, of course, but impressive-sounding enough to satisfy political requirements."
After Cao left, Sheng returned to the financial reports briefly, then set them aside. The truth was that CMSNC's fate mattered less than maintaining his network of controlled enterprises and just stepping stone for his political rise and his moneybag. The company could fail entirely as long as his other ventures—the telegraph administration, his textile mills, his mining interests—remained profitable.
If Li Hongzhang eventually replaced him at CMSNC, so be it. Sheng would still control enough of the economic machinery to remain wealthy and influential. That was what mattered.
What Sheng didn't know—couldn't know, because his informants reported only what their patronage networks revealed—was that Li Hongzhang's calculation had changed. That the old statesman's desperation had reached a point where theater would no longer suffice. That the ground was shifting beneath the comfortable arrangements Sheng took for granted.
Somewhere in Bohai sea
The steamship that carried Li Hongzhang from Shimonoseki to Tianjin moved through the Bohai Gulf under gray autumn skies. The old statesman stood on the upper deck despite the wind, his injured face still bandaged from the assassination attempt that had paradoxically saved China from even harsher terms.
Behind him, his son Li Jingfang waited silently. Jingfang knew better than to interrupt when Li was in this mood—brooding, calculating, weighing the catastrophic present against an uncertain future.
"They're calling me a traitor," Li said without turning. "The scholars, the students, the common people. The man who signed away Taiwan, who paid 200 million taels in indemnity. Li Hongzhang the humiliated."
"You had no choice, Father. The military situation—"
"I know the military situation." Li's voice was harsh. "I built that military. I created the Beiyang Fleet that was supposed to protect our coast. And I watched it burn at Weihaiwei because we had inadequate ammunition, incompetent command coordination, and officers more concerned with political connections than professional competence."
He turned to face his son. The bandage couldn't hide the fury in his eyes.
"Do you know what the British told me during the negotiations? They said Chinese officials are more interested in squeezing profit from military budgets than building actual military capability. They said our defeat was inevitable not because of inferior equipment—our ships were actually quite good—but because corruption had rotted everything from within"
"The British—"
"Were correct." Li cut him off. "The truth hurts more because it's true. We had the resources, the technology, the opportunity. We failed because the system is broken. Because officials like Sheng Xuanhuai use state enterprises as personal profit centers. Because naval funds go to the Summer Palace instead of ammunition. Because promotions depend on family connections rather than competence."
Jingfang ventured carefully, "Father, you've always understood these problems. Why does it feel different now?"
Li was quiet for a long moment, watching the coastline emerge from the haze.
"Because I'm seventy-three years old," he said finally.
Li Jingfang remained silent, recognizing his father needed to speak these thoughts aloud—thoughts that couldn't be voiced in court or to subordinates.
"Because I've spent fifty years building China's modernization—the factories, the navy, the telegraph lines, the railways. And in one year, almost all of it was destroyed or revealed as hollow. Because I'm running out of time to fix what's broken, and the Empress Dowager's court still doesn't understand that we're one more defeat away from complete collapse."
He paused, his hands gripping the railing. "The Japanese expansion, the Russian ambitions in Manchuria, the British in the south, the French in the southwest—they're all circling. Waiting. Testing. And we have nothing to stop them with. No navy, no modern army that isn't under my direct control, no industrial base that can sustain prolonged conflict."
"Then what can be done?"
"I don't know yet," Li admitted. "But I know this: half-measures won't work anymore. Appearances won't satisfy. The next reform has to be real—has to actually change how things function, not just rearrange who controls what. Otherwise, we're just managing decline until the empire shatters completely."
Jingfang absorbed this. In all his years with his father, he'd never heard such naked desperation.
"Father, the court won't accept radical change. The Empress Dowager, the princes, the conservative faction—they've spent the last decade blocking your reforms. Why would defeat make them more open to—"
"Because they're terrified," Li interrupted. "For the first time in their lives, the people who run this empire are genuinely afraid. Not of losing face or status, but of losing everything. The war proved we can't protect ourselves. The indemnity proved we're vulnerable financially. They know, even if they won't admit it publicly, that the old system has failed."
His voice grew more intense. "That means I have leverage. If I can present a concrete plan—something comprehensive, something that addresses not just military rebuilding but the underlying problems of corruption and incompetence—they might accept it because they're too frightened to reject it."
He paused, a flicker of pain—part wound, part bitter recognition—crossing his face. "But this cuts both ways. I am at my weakest, too. Stripped of my feathers and my navy. I have no army to back my words, and they know it. The Manchu rulers are terrified, and I am politically fragile. It is a moment of absolute mutual weakness."
Li pressed his fingers against his temple. "In a deadlock like this, the one who makes the first decisive move gains the upper hand. To maintain my political relevance, to protect what little influence I have left, and to genuinely save the situation, I must make those changes now. I have to strike while their fear is greater than their spite."
"Do you have such a plan?"
"Not yet. But I'm going to demand one. From everyone in my administration who claims to serve modernization. No more theater, no more performance, no more clever schemes to preserve their positions while changing nothing. I want actual solutions, or I want those positions given to people who can provide solutions."
Li Hongzhang straightened, his voice hardening with decisive authority. "The goal is not just to receive a plan, jingfang. It's to smoke out the field. I'm laying a trap. The bureaucrats like Sheng who are only prepared for a performance—will be caught completely off guard, their obstructionist nature laid bare."
"This meeting will be a crucible. I need to understand, right now, who are my friends, who are my enemies, and who is simply incompetent among the very men who are supposed to be implementing my vision. I need to know whose hands to trust the future to, and whose positions I must seize."
The ship was approaching Tanggu, the port that served Tianjin. The harbor was quiet—eerily quiet, after the war. Ships that should have been there had burned or sunk or fled.
"Jingfang, when we dock, I want you to arrange an immediate meeting. Everyone who controls a major enterprise in the Beiyang—CMSNC, the textile mills, the machine factories, the telegraph administration, the arsenals. Officials, managers, foreign advisors, remaining naval officers, and Yan Fu from the naval academy. Everyone."
Jingfang looked startled. "Father, that will require—"
"Organize it. Tonight if possible, tomorrow morning at latest. No advance agenda, no time for preparation, no opportunity for people to coordinate stories. I want them in a room, and I want honest assessments of problems and genuine proposals for solutions. No bureaucratic performances."
"This will cause confusion. Panic, even. People will wonder—"
"Good. Let them wonder. Let them panic. Confusion creates opportunity for change." Li's expression was grim. "I've spent fifty years being patient, diplomatic, and politically careful. And where has it gotten us? Defeated by Japan, humiliated internationally, watching everything I built collapse. No more patience. No more careful politics. We either change fundamentally or we die slowly."
As the ship entered harbor, Li Hongzhang stood at the railing, a seventy-three-year-old statesman who'd risen from imperial examination, calming down rebellions to the most powerful Han Chinese official of his era, now facing the probable end of his career and his legacy. The weight of history pressed down like the autumn wind—cold, relentless, indifferent to his intentions.
But Li had learned, across five decades of service, that history sometimes offered moments when the impossible became achievable. When a crisis created the leverage for transformation that normal times would reject. When desperation became the parent of change.
This was such a moment. He could feel it.
The question was whether anyone in his administration had the vision and courage to match his desperation with genuine solutions.
__________
Morrison received the summons at eight in the evening, delivered by a breathless clerk who'd run from the harbor messenger station.
"His Excellency Li Hongzhang requests the immediate presence of all senior management of enterprises under the Beiyang administration. Meeting tomorrow at nine a.m. at the Viceroy's residence. Attendance is mandatory. No agenda provided. Bring all current operational reports and any proposals for addressing enterprise failures."
Morrison read it twice, his heart accelerating. This was it—the opportunity he'd been waiting for. Not some filtered bureaucratic review but direct audience with Li Hongzhang himself, and Li was clearly in no mood for performative nonsense.
He immediately sent a message to Fu Weihong: "Meeting with Li Hongzhang tomorrow morning. Be at my office at 7 a.m. Bring both documents. This is our chance."
Then he pulled out the franchise plan and naval program, reviewing them one final time. Seventy-five million taels. Twelve-year timeline. Comprehensive restructuring of Chinese maritime power. It was ambitious to the point of audacity.
But Li Hongzhang, if Morrison's reading was correct, was now in the market for audacity. The old careful incrementalism had failed. Li needed something big enough to be worth the political capital required to force it through.
Morrison allowed himself a small smile. The merchant faction that had been pushed aside when Sheng Xuanhuai took control of CMSNC was about to get its opportunity. And Morrison, if this succeeded, would emerge not as a foreign employee of a Chinese company but as a key link in China's naval rebuilding.
The professional advancement alone would be extraordinary. The historical significance—being part of a nation's attempt to rise again after its humiliation—that was something far more valuable.
He began preparing materials for the morning presentation.
Fu Weihong received Morrison's message at his small rented room near the docks. He'd been reviewing naval specifications, trying to refine the emergency squadron timeline further, when the knock came.
After reading Morrison's note, he sat motionless for several minutes, the weight of the moment settling over him.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would present his life's work to Li Hongzhang. The man who'd built the Beiyang Fleet. The statesman who'd championed modernization for fifty years. The official who'd just signed China's most humiliating defeat into treaty form.
If Li rejected the plan, it was over. Fu would spend the rest of his career captaining merchant vessels, his naval expertise unutilized, his vision unrealized.
If Li accepted it... Fu's hands trembled slightly. If Li accepted it, Fu would become central to rebuilding Chinese naval power. Would train the next generation of officers. Would design the institutions that might prevent future catastrophes. Would prove that competence and merit could matter more than connections and corruption.
He pulled out his naval uniform—the one he'd worn as a Beiyang officer before resigning to join CMSNC. He'd kept it maintained even after leaving service, unsure why. Now he knew.
Tomorrow he will wear it again. Not as a defeated officer of a destroyed fleet, but as an architect of its successor.
He carefully packed both documents—the franchise plan that would fund everything, and the naval program that represented four days of collaborative brilliance between men who'd come together because they all believed China could be more than its current brokenness.
As he worked, Fu thought of the others: Yang's operational genius, Tan's financial rigor, Xu's legal frameworks, Jinliang's political intelligence, Chen's grassroots knowledge, Zhao's strategic vision that had somehow coordinated all their talents into coherence.
They'd built something together. Tomorrow would determine whether it was just a beautiful theory or the foundation for real change.
Fu didn't sleep much that night. He rehearsed presentations, anticipated questions, and prepared responses. By dawn he was exhausted but focused, his mind sharp with the clarity that comes from knowing the next few hours will determine the course of years.
At seven a.m., dressed in his naval uniform and carrying the documents, he arrived at Morrison's office.
Morrison looked up from his own preparations and nodded approvingly. "You look like what you are—a professional naval officer with something important to say. Good. Li Hongzhang responds to competence, not flattery. Present the facts, answer questions honestly, and don't apologize for proposing something ambitious."
"I understand."
"One more thing, Fu.' Morrison's expression was serious. 'Don't take any action until I give the signal."
Fu met his eyes. "I know."
At eight-thirty, they departed for Li Hongzhang's residence. Throughout Tianjin, other officials and managers were doing the same—some confused, some anxious, some irritated at the sudden summons. They converged from different directions, all moving toward the same destination, unaware that among them walked two men carrying a document that might reshape everything.
The autumn sun climbed higher, burning off the morning haze. At Li Hongzhang's residence, servants prepared the main meeting hall for what promised to be a very unusual gathering.
In his private study at his Tianjin residence, just moments before the surprise meeting was to begin, Li Hongzhang stood alone, reviewing the latest pile of reports. the total wreckage of the Beiyang Fleet, the catalog of strategic mistakes from the war.
The numbers were devastating. But numbers could change. The question was whether anyone in the room today had the vision and courage to propose how.
He was about to find out.