The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 925 Paul, the American people need you
On June 23, 1883, in Paris, summer sunlight streamed through the shutters of the People's Commissariat for Foreign Affairs office, casting dappled patterns on the mottled whitewashed walls. The office, less than twenty square meters, was almost shabby: an oak desk, two rattan chairs, an iron filing cabinet, and on the wall hung only a yellowed world map and a bright red flag. The desk was piled high with documents, telegrams, and books; a brass ashtray was half an inch high with cigarette ash, and next to it sat a half-cup of cold black coffee.

People's Commissar for Foreign Affairs Karl Moore sat behind his desk, his silver sideburns gleaming metallically in the sunlight, his deep-set grey-blue eyes still sharp as ever. His fingers tapped lightly on the table, the rhythm slow and heavy, as if counting down to some momentous decision.

The office door was gently pushed open, and Paul Lafargue walked in. The forty-one-year-old revolutionary wore a dark blue woolen coat with a small gold badge pinned to the collar—a symbol of the victory of the Paris Revolution. His face was refined, but his brow was etched with the marks of hardship, and the scar on his left cheek from resisting the German invaders was still clearly visible.

“Sit down, Paul.” Moore gestured to the chair opposite him, his voice hoarse but strong. “How’s the weather in Cuba?”

Paul smiled slightly, fine wrinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes: "More humid than Paris, hotter than London. But I haven't been back for twenty years."

Moore nodded, took a stack of telegrams from the drawer, and pushed them in front of Paul: "Take a look at these first."

Paul flipped through the telegrams, his brow furrowing. These confidential reports from the United States detailed the latest developments in the war between the Eastern Union and the Western Union: on the Montana front, soldiers from both sides were locked in a stalemate on opposite banks of the Missouri River, with small units harassing each other daily, only increasing casualties; on the Wyoming front, the two sides were locked in fierce but deadlocked fighting around Highway 65 and Fort Bellevue-Weld; in Chicago, workers in munitions factories were working twelve-hour days, but the value of their dollars was depreciating daily; on Southern plantations, enslaved people had become black serfs, but their treatment had not improved, and was even worse than before.
“Teacher,” Paul put down the telegram, his voice low, “you didn’t call me here just to show me these things, did you?”

Moore stood up, walked to the map on the wall, and pressed his finger heavily on the North American continent: "Paul, go back to the Americas where you were born. Cuba is just the starting point; the entire United States is the battlefield!"

Paul walked to the map, his gaze sweeping over the battle lines marked with red and blue pencils. From the Great Lakes to the Gulf of Mexico, from the Atlantic coast to the Rocky Mountains, the entire North American continent was divided into two major camps.

“Teacher,” Paul pointed to the map, “are you saying that the Eastern Federal Government would raise the red flag after its defeat?”

"Raising the red flag after defeat" is the most valuable revolutionary experience of Red France, and it also conforms to common sense—winning means the rulers are awesome! So how can you rebel? Defeating them means the officials above are idiots, so what are you waiting for if you don't rebel?
“No!” Moore declared resolutely. “The red flag shouldn’t just fly over the East Coast—it should cover every inch of land from the Atlantic to the Pacific!” He grabbed a copy of the Wall Street Journal and slammed it on the table. “Look! Those capitalists have torn America in two, making the poor slaughter each other for their gold, silver, and oil!”

Paul stared at the winding battle lines on the map: "But who still considers the East and West of the United States as one country these days?"

“This is the most vicious lie!” Moore slammed his fist on the table, startling the ashtray. “If America is permanently divided, the children of the working people will be cannon fodder for generations!” He suddenly sneered. “Paul, tell me—of the white workers on the East Coast, the black serfs on the Southern plantations, and the yellow laborers on the West Coast, who deserves to be called the ‘master of America’?”

“None of them!” Paul’s eyes flashed with a sharp light. “The real ‘masters’ are Huang Shiren, who controls the Pacific Railroad; Carnegie, who makes steel in Pittsburgh; and Morgan, who controls the national debt in New York!”

“Exactly!” Moore grabbed a charcoal pencil and drew a large, blood-red circle on the map. “The American West belongs to the True Covenant factions like the Hong Tiangui family, the Zhao Si family, and the Hong Daquan family; the American East belongs to the oil trusts, the steel trusts, and the bankers of Wall Street. Not the ordinary working people!” He sneered. “All that belongs to them are the graves of their fallen soldiers! Not even graves! And on the continents of Europe, Africa, and Asia, there’s a constant stream of cannon fodder ready to join this dirty war!”

A sudden downpour began outside the window, large raindrops pounding against the glass. Moore's voice pierced the rain: "Your task is to make all Americans crawling through the mud understand that their common enemy is not each other, but the bloodsucking monopolies!" He unfolded a statistical report—recording the enormous profits made by arms dealers of the Eastern United States and the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom in the first quarter of 1883. "Look! In the capitalists' calculations, there is only profit, not life!"

Three days later, Cherbourg harbor was shrouded in a leaden gray fog before dawn. The Red Wave 1—the steel behemoth whose hull was camouflaged by the worm-eaten Norwegian timber ship—quietly raised its mast adorned with the Greek flag. Below deck, the barrels of four 152mm rapid-fire cannons gleamed coldly under tarpaulins, while the cargo holds were piled high with parts needed to produce the Lebel rifle.

Military Industry Commissioner Friedrich stuffed a bundle of secret letters into Paul's bag: "Comrade Debus has set up a 'rifle factory' in Chicago. These Lebel rifle parts will allow them to produce the best rifles of Red France in North America!" He pointed to the ocean, "Remember, make sure the American workers know—their weapons should not be pointed at their fellow countrymen in the West, but should be used to crush the vaults of Wall Street!"

Laura Moore-Lafargue, wrapped in an old wool shawl, waved goodbye to her elderly father, Carl Moore.

As the ship's horn blared, Moore stood like a rock on the dock. The sea breeze ruffled his sparse white hair, but it couldn't carry away the shout that pierced the waves: "Tell America! The land belongs to the sower, the factories to the laborers!" With the roar of the steam engine, the Red Wave 1 slowly sailed away from Cherbourg harbor. Paul stood at the stern, watching the French coastline recede into the distance. Laura walked to his side and gently took his hand.

“Do you remember Father’s assessment of capital?” Laura asked softly.

Paul nodded: "'Capital comes into the world dripping from head to toe, from every pore, with blood and filth.'"

“And we will cleanse it with blood and fire,” Laura’s voice was firm and calm.

The ship's bow cleaved through the North Atlantic waves, heading towards the New World. In the hold, Paul's assistants were carefully inspecting crates of rifle parts—not to be smuggled into America, but to enter through legal channels—as planned by Moore and Friedrich, the American workers' associations would raise funds for the revolution by selling arms to the military of the Eastern Union.
Paul returned to his cabin and retrieved Moore's final instructions from his baggage. In the notebook, the familiar handwriting read:

“Remember, you are not going to start a war, but to end one. Not to divide a country, but to unify a class. When the white workers of the East Coast and the yellow coolies of the West Coast realize that they shed the same blood, the capitalists’ carefully woven lies will crumble.”

At that very moment, thousands of miles away in Central Asia, a dusty Western carriage rolled across the loess roads of the Fergana Valley. Yuan Shikai lifted the carriage curtain, and before him stood a towering brick and stone wall—the new Tongguan Pass—at least fifteen zhang high.

As the city gates opened, Sogdian merchants in Hanfu with cross-collar and right-fastening robes led camels, Uzbek peasant women wore Ming-style silver hairpins in their hair, and Uyghur scholars hurried along carrying apricot-yellow flags bearing the words "By Imperial Decree to Take the Examination." A group of Imperial Guards in flying fish robes rode by on horseback, their embroidered spring knives clashing against Colt revolvers.

"Lord Yuan, Commander Tan of Tongguan requests your presence at the yamen!" A messenger rushed in.

Yuan Shikai's carriage slowly entered the grand city gate of Xintongguan, its wheels churning over the cobblestone streets with a dull thud. Shops lined both sides of the street, their signs swaying gently in the breeze. Merchants dressed in Hanfu (traditional Han Chinese clothing) with cross-collared tops and right-fastening hems called out their wares, while scholars wearing square headscarves strolled by in twos and threes, their swords jingling at their waists. In the distance, the sound of students reciting the Analects drifted up, their voices loud and clear, as if transporting the listener back to the Tang Dynasty—no, to the prosperous Ming Dynasty.

However, as Yuan Shikai's gaze swept across the street corner, he saw a discordant scene: several soldiers in modern uniforms were patrolling, carrying "New Chang'an Made" rifles, while an officer's revolver gleamed in the sunlight. These foreign guns contrasted sharply with the antique surroundings, as if reminding people that times had quietly changed.

The carriage finally stopped in front of the Governor-General's Office. Yuan Shikai alighted, straightened his clothes, and stepped into the Ming Dynasty-style government office. The office's architecture was simple and elegant, with upturned eaves, carved beams, and painted rafters, showcasing the legacy of the Ming Dynasty. However, when Yuan Shikai entered the main hall, he discovered that instead of traditional landscape paintings, the walls were adorned with a meticulously drawn world map, marking the territories of various countries and railway lines.

In the center of the main hall, Tan Jixun, the military governor of Tongguan, sat upright. He was dressed in Ming Dynasty-style official robes and wore a black gauze hat, his face serious and dignified. Beside him stood a boy of sixteen or seventeen, his son Tan Sitong. The boy was dressed as a Confucian scholar, with delicate features, but his eyes revealed a rebellious spirit.

"Lord Yuan has come from afar; I am sorry for not greeting you properly." Tan Jixun stood up to greet him, his voice steady and powerful.

Yuan Shikai bowed and said, "Governor Tan, you are too kind."

Tan Jixun nodded slightly, gesturing for Yuan Shikai to take a seat. Servants served fragrant tea, the aroma of which could not mask the tense atmosphere in the air.

"I heard that Lord Yuan has just returned from St. Petersburg," Tan Jixun said slowly. "I wonder how things are in the European countries these days?"

(End of this chapter)