The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 1000 Comrade Ulianov

Berlin, Wilhelmstrasse, Reich Chancellery.

In June 1887, the summer heat of Berlin, carrying the fragrance of locust blossoms, flooded the windows of the Chancellery. Bismarck's office, however, was still shrouded in cigar smoke, the heavy curtains half-drawn, filtering the afternoon sunlight into a dim, yellowish hue.

Quartermaster General Waldersee stood before a map of Europe, his fingertips tapping heavily on the location of St. Petersburg: "His Majesty has approved Operation 'Northern Hammer,' but Norway is only the first step. Russia must be completely collapsed, or they will return sooner or later." His voice was deep, with the characteristic coldness of a Prussian soldier.

The door was pushed open, and a gust of hot air, carrying street dust, rushed in. Schlieffen strode in, his military boots striking the floor with a resounding rhythm. He clutched a telegram in his hand, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead in the dim light: "Your Excellency, the liaison in St. Petersburg has replied."

Bismarck raised his eyelids slightly, the sparks from his pipe flickering in the shadows: "The People's Will Party has accepted our terms?"

“We accepted it, but,” Schlieffen paused, took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead, “they are more radical than we expected.”

Waldersee frowned, walked to the window, and pulled the curtains wide open. Blinding sunlight instantly flooded the room, illuminating the mountain of documents piled on his desk: "What do you mean?"

Schlieffen handed the telegram to Bismarck: “They are not the workers’ association of Red France, not the kind of revolutionary party with a program and organization.” His finger traced the telegram. “They are more fanatical, more irrational, more impatient—they are not satisfied with strikes and demonstrations, they want the Tsar’s head.”

Bismarck stared at the telegram, a cold smile slowly creeping onto his lips. Sunlight shone on his white beard, outlining a silver silhouette: "Radical, fanatical, irrational, and impatient," he put down his pipe, his voice laced with sarcasm, "isn't that the very nature of the Russians?"

Waldersee and Schlieffen exchanged a glance. Outside the window, the Berlin summer cicadas' chirping suddenly became shrill.

“Your Excellency the Prime Minister,” Schlieffen stepped forward cautiously, the medals on his uniform gleaming in the sunlight, “if we fund them, they might spiral out of control. Once a revolution breaks out, Russia could descend into anarchy, or even…”

"Even more chaotic than we want?" Bismarck sneered, standing up and walking to the window. His shadow cast a long shadow in the sunlight. "That's even better."

He gazed out the window at the carriages passing by on Wilhelm Street and continued, “Russians are only in two states—either slaves of the Tsar or mad beasts. Now, we’re going to help them become the latter.”

Waldersee walked over to him and whispered a reminder: "But the armistice agreement still has a month to go. If things get too out of hand, the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom's observers might..."

“The Taiping Heavenly Kingdom?” Bismarck suddenly turned around, a glint of light flashing in his eyes. “Luo Yaoguo proposed a ninety-day ceasefire, wasn’t he just trying to see Europe continue to bleed?” He walked back to his desk and took out a document from the drawer. “This is the intelligence we received yesterday. Taiping Heavenly Kingdom merchant ships are transporting cannons and shells ‘produced’ in Korea to Britain, and the British are immediately selling them to the Russians.”

Schlieffen took the document and quickly scanned it: "Directly transporting weapons and ammunition? That violates the spirit of the armistice agreement."

“An agreement?” Bismarck sneered. “Agreements are for restraining the weak. Since everyone is playing with fire, let’s see whose torch burns brighter.” He picked up the brass bell on the table and shook it. “Notify the General Staff Intelligence Bureau to immediately execute ‘Operation Winter Palace’.”

In June, St. Petersburg was bathed in an eerie glow by the light of the White Nights. The Neva River shimmered with a silvery-gray light, reflecting the ever-shining sun. In the basement of an unassuming apartment building on Vasilievsky Island, the flame of a kerosene lamp flickered in the sweltering air, casting the shadows of a dozen or so people onto the mottled brick wall.

Alexander Ulianov stood before a wooden table covered with documents, his linen shirt soaked with sweat. His eyes were bloodshot, and his fingers tapped incessantly on the table, his knuckles yellowed from long-term exposure to chemicals. Scattered on the table were leaflets, explosive formulas, and a hand-drawn floor plan of the Winter Palace.

"Comrades, the time has come!" His voice was deep and fervent. "The weapons have arrived and are stored in the dock warehouses, enough to arm five hundred men!"

In the corner, a man in a faded naval uniform jumped to his feet, the chair scraping loudly on the floor. “But what about the Baltic Fleet?” His voice trembled with agitation. “After the armistice ends, they’ll be sent to their deaths! I saw the order with my own eyes—'Break through the German blockade at all costs!'”

A commotion immediately broke out in the room. Several sailors exchanged uneasy glances, some muttering curses, others clenching their fists. Ulianov sneered, pulled a document from his pocket, and slammed it on the table; the paper gleamed a worn yellow under the kerosene lamp.

"see this!"

In the dim light, the sailors made out the contents of the document—it was a forged fleet order, stamped with the Admiralty's seal, ordering the Baltic Fleet to launch a full-scale attack on July 15th (the first day after the armistice ended). The order ended with the words scrawled in red ink: "No casualties."

“This isn’t real,” a young sailor muttered to himself. “Does it matter?” Ulianov’s voice suddenly rose, echoing in the sealed basement. “The Tsar would rather send you to your deaths than improve the lives of the workers!” He abruptly threw back the tablecloth, revealing several revolvers and bundles of explosives hidden beneath. “Now, choose! Go to sea as cannon fodder, or fight for freedom on land?”

Silence. Only the flickering flame of the kerosene lamp danced uneasily.

Finally, an old sailor with a full beard stood up, his uniform cuffs worn smooth. "I've served in the fleet for twenty years," he said in a hoarse voice, "but I won't die for the ambitions of a bunch of old men." He reached for a revolver and expertly checked the magazine.

Ulianov's lips curled into a slight smile. "Very good." He turned to the others. "Tomorrow, the railway workers will strike, and the city's food supply will be cut off. When St. Petersburg descends into chaos, we will make the steps of the Winter Palace stained with the Tsar's blood!"

"And then?" a thin student asked. "The Tsar is dead, who will rule Russia?"

Ulianov's eyes blazed with fervor. "The people! Workers, peasants, soldiers—ourselves!" He pulled a bronze badge from his pocket, engraved with the symbol of the People's Will party. "This isn't murder, this is revolution!"

Outside the window, the distant hoofbeats of Cossack cavalry echoed, but the men in the basement were no longer afraid. One by one, they took up their weapons and swore an oath under the kerosene lamp. Ulianov watched them, as if he saw the flames of the future—flames that would engulf all of Russia, and then reshape it.

“Remember,” he concluded, “July 15th is not the end, it’s just the beginning.”

Late at night on June 30, 1887, a touch of coolness finally arrived in Berlin. In the conference room of the Reich General Staff, the heavy wooden doors were tightly shut, and the curtains were drawn, blocking out all outside prying eyes. A huge crystal chandelier cast its light onto the table covered with maps and documents, while Bismarck sat in the shadows, the smoke from his pipe creating a gray haze around him, as if he himself were the embodiment of this conspiracy.

Schlieffen stood at the table, his finger resting on an operation plan. His voice was calm and precise: “The first batch of weapons has arrived in St. Petersburg via Swedish fishing boats, including 500 Mauser rifles, 30000 rounds of ammunition, and 200 kilograms of explosives.” His fingertip traced a dotted line on the map, stretching from the Baltic coast to the mouth of the Neva River. “The second batch will be transported in three days through Prussian merchants—disguised as industrial machinery parts, entering the country overland from East Prussia.”

Waldersee bent down to examine the map, his brow furrowed: "Russian police have recently increased border checks, especially around the Gulf of Finland."

Schlieffen's lips curled into a sly smile: "So we changed our approach—rifle parts were hidden in machine parts, bullets were mixed in flour, and fuses were disguised as clockwork parts." He paused. "Our informants reported that the People's Will party had received the first batch of weapons, and they planned to launch a general strike in early July, while simultaneously assassinating the Tsar."

Bismarck slowly exhaled a puff of smoke, his grey-blue eyes gleaming in the smoke: "How will the Tsar respond? Surely he won't be completely oblivious?"

“According to inside intelligence,” Schlieffen pushed up his glasses, “he has ordered Cossack cavalry to occupy the main railway stations, and any workers who attempt to sabotage the railway will be shot on the spot.” He sneered, “but the more we suppress them, the more intense the resistance will become—the People’s Will has infiltrated the Guards, and even the sailors of the Baltic Fleet are beginning to waver.”

Waldersee pondered for a moment, tapping his fingers on the table: "If the People's Will party succeeds in assassinating the Tsar, Russia might collapse immediately, but... who will take over?"

“Nobody.” Bismarck’s voice was as cold as iron. “Russia will descend into civil war, with warlords, nobles, and the People’s Will tearing each other apart. It will be unable to threaten Europe for at least ten years.”

Schlieffen nodded and added, "And the British will lose their last continental ally."

“Not only that,” Waldersee suddenly straightened up, a sharp glint in his eyes, “we can also take advantage of the chaos to launch a fierce offensive on the Eastern Front.” He strode to another military map, pointing to the border between Poland and Ukraine, “once a revolution breaks out in Russia, we will immediately attack, capture Riga, Kiev, and even Minsk—and then cease hostilities.”

Bismarck paused slightly while smoking his pipe, then turned his gaze to him: "Ceasefire?"

“Yes, a ceasefire.” Chief of the General Staff Moltke’s voice was deep and cold. “We don’t need to occupy the whole of Russia, just take the most fertile land, and then—” He drew a circle on Russia’s vast territory with his finger, “provide the remaining factions with weapons and equipment, and let them kill each other.”

A hint of admiration flashed in Schlieffen's eyes: "Let the various factions of Russians kill each other, consume each other, and perish together."

“The best course of action,” Bismarck replied slowly, his voice echoing like a deep abyss, “is to plunge Russia into civil war forever.”

(End of this chapter)