The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 970 If you can't deal with the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom, can't you deal with Mexico?

In late April 1885, the heavy oak doors of 4 Downing Street were tightly shut in London. A stark contrast to the opulent public summit at Buckingham Palace just days earlier, the air in the Cabinet meeting room was so thick it was almost suffocating.

The windows were tightly shut, and velvet curtains blocked out the spring sunlight. Only a few bamboo-filament lamps cast a dim, yellowish glow on their brass bases. Cigar smoke swirled and lingered in the light, condensing into an impenetrable mist.

Russian Chief Minister Benger pulled out a linen handkerchief and vigorously wiped the sweat from his forehead. The Russian Ambassador to Britain, Giles, sat beside him, his face etched with worry; clearly, the Russian Empire had not gained any advantage over the Germans and Turks in the past few months.

British Prime Minister Gladstone coughed a few times, breaking the silence: "Lord Granville," his gaze sweeping over the Foreign Secretary, "Earl, please brief our friends on the situation in Western Europe. After Lille, can Blanqui and the others hold on?"

Foreign Minister Count Granville rose to his feet, a military telegram trembling slightly between his fingers. His dress uniform remained crisp, but the dark circles under his eyes were unmistakable. "Gentlemen," he cleared his dry throat, "ten days ago, the last banner of the French Red Guard fell in the smoke of the Lille fortress. Fifty thousand of the most elite Red French soldiers, along with half the city of Lille, were reduced to ashes. German engineers have already repaved the railway on the ruins of the former fortress. A steady stream of troops and heavy artillery will soon flow south through this new artery."

He paused, tapping his fingers on the French map spread out on the table, the tapping sound unusually clear in the room: "And Bertheney has become a German forward base. The heart of Red France in Paris and Nancy now faces the German advance!"

He made no mention of the French's potential resistance. The grim map, with its iron-gray arrows representing the German army, spoke volumes—according to the newly formed Reich General Staff, if the Germans marched on Paris immediately, the Red French regime could collapse within three months! If the Germans chose to abandon the Battle of Nancy, then Red France could potentially fight another "Lille-style" siege in Nancy, and perhaps even have the opportunity, with British support, to build up a larger army to defend their capital.
But the choice now lies with Berlin, not London or Paris!

Silence fell over the conference room. Gladstone lowered his eyes, his silver pipe slowly twirling between his fingers.

The next to take the baton was Russian Foreign Minister Giles. His carefully maintained composure crumbled, a barely perceptible worry creeping into his voice: "Regarding the Eastern Front..." He spoke rapidly, clearly wanting to quickly move on, "towards Romania. Our troops encountered a large enemy force on the outskirts of the Ploiești oil fields... Superior forces launched an attack, but failed to achieve a breakthrough... Follow-up troops were bogged down in the complex terrain and forced to retreat for reorganization..." His words were vague and hesitant, desperately avoiding the word "rout." But the knuckles gripping the report betrayed the truth—it wasn't a retreat, but a near-total annihilation! The Russians hadn't even had time to sabotage the oil fields before the Germans routed them, leaving them utterly defeated!

Giles took a breath, avoiding the crowd: "In the Turkish Straits, our landing forces are pinned down by the Turkish army in a narrow salient—Karamisel Beach. The two marine brigades deployed earlier are still holding their beachheads, unable to advance an inch!" His voice lowered, "An even more serious loss is... the Black Sea Fleet flagship, the battleship 'King Nikolai'... unfortunately struck a mine and sank. The armored cruiser 'Prinz Alexei' was severely damaged by 280mm shore guns and is undergoing emergency repairs in Sevastopol... In the short term, a direct assault on the Straits... is no longer possible." He used "unfortunately" and "struck a mine" to lightly gloss over the devastating loss of a fleet's core battleship, as if it were merely an insignificant stumbling block at sea.

The silence seemed to freeze even the smoke from the cigars. Russian Foreign Minister Giles felt his face burning and was speechless. Minister Benge coughed and took over for him, managing to squeeze out a glimmer of hope: "The only front that has made progress is in the Caucasus. Our army has penetrated deep into the heart of the Anatolian Peninsula and is approaching the Erzurum fortress."

“Every hill there has a mosque,” ​​the British War Secretary coldly remarked, “and every valley may be teeming with thousands of fanatical believers.” These words were like cold water, extinguishing that faint glimmer of hope.

All eyes turned to the other end of the round table, to U.S. President Garfield and his Secretary of War, Robert Lincoln—the former president’s son, standing tall in the president’s shadow, began to speak on behalf of the North American battlefield.

Lincoln's voice was hard, the kind of unyielding tone that comes from struggling to maintain composure after a major setback. "The situation is equally urgent in North America and the Eastern Pacific." He opened the black leather folder in his hand. "The primary threat remains the Nicaragua Canal! The combined forces of the Western United States and Japan have joined forces, and nearly 100,000 troops have completely blocked all land routes to Kulenca Bay. The intensity of naval bombardment is continuously increasing. We... organized three large-scale counterattacks, attempting to tear open the land route to Kulenca Bay—" He looked up, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, "...all were repelled! Hong Tiangui and Luo Xinzhong tightened the noose." He turned a page; the statistics on it were cold and ruthless. "Within the encirclement, ammunition, medicine, food... all supplies are only enough to last no more than eight weeks. Once that time comes, the Kulenca Bay fortress... will fall!" His finger pointed to the prominent red circle on the map at the throat of the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans.

"As for Hawaii..." Lincoln's voice betrayed a suppressed weariness, "Oahu became a millstone of steel and flesh. The Taiping Heavenly Kingdom's Eastern Pacific Fleet, relying on the fortified shipyards of Pearl Harbor and the pre-laid minefields off the south coast of Oahu, fought to the death. They dared to drive battleships worth millions into the pre-laid minefields! They were willing to sacrifice capital ships to lure the enemy!" He seemed unable to comprehend this insane tactical logic, letting out a heavy sigh, "Our forces were forced... to also lay down minefields, turning the waters south of Oahu into a vast ocean of mines! Both sides were firmly pinned down!"

His fingers traced rapidly across the east, north, and west sides of Oahu: "Other places? Landing? Sure!" The word "sure" carried an undercurrent of extreme helplessness and a hint of sarcasm. "The north shore, Waimea Bay, has waves three meters high, steep cliffs, and the only passage is a corridor of Maxim machine gun fire; the east, Kaneohe reef is densely packed, landing craft would be sitting ducks, and landing would be easy targets; the west? Pearl Harbor's main fleet's guns are pointed there! What good would it do for a few thousand men to painstakingly climb onto the beach? The garrison numbers in the tens of thousands, and the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom has even built a railway on the island; their reinforcements can quickly reach any battlefield along Oahu's coast by train!" Lincoln slammed the folder shut. "The reality is that the main force of the Anglo-American fleet can only be crammed into Christmas Island Atoll for repairs and resupply!" He practically spat out the last sentence through gritted teeth. "That place... can barely accommodate ships! But the port facilities and shipyards are far too rudimentary! Even scraping barnacles off the hulls of ships relies on makeshift floating platforms! As for ammunition replenishment? Any transport ship on that long transport route could be lost in the Pacific! Without a reliable deep-water port off the west coast of Mexico as a transit hub, our Pacific Fleet can hardly even transport the most basic food and coal!"

He abruptly raised his head, his gaze sweeping across Gladstone and Garfield like a knife: "And on the other side of the Pacific, our enemies have just smashed open the gates to the South Pacific. Port Moresby! Once they've established themselves there, they'll advance south..." Lincoln's voice suddenly rose, tinged with almost uncontrollable anxiety, "Who in the entire Pacific can stop that steam behemoth? Imagine when they've completed their conquest and integration of the world's largest continent, and then turn north! A fleet of ten thousand tons will bombard the west coast of North America all the way to Panama! All our resistance now will become a futile footnote in the history books!"

A heavy, suffocating feeling gripped everyone's throats. Earl Granville instinctively loosened his tightly buttoned collar. Giles began coughing again, this time with a heart-wrenching cough. Even the old fox Gladstone tightened his grip on his pipe. The entire conference room fell silent once more.

Just then, a firm voice suddenly broke the silence.

Click! The bronze ashtray made a crisp sound. All eyes suddenly focused on it.

U.S. President James Garfield stood up. He didn't look at anyone, placing one hand on the heavy oak conference table. He stared intently at the map of the Americas spread out in the center of the table, his gaze passing over the blue of the United States and locking onto the "remaining" territory of the Republic of Mexico, which the Americans had previously looked down upon.

"Gentlemen!" His voice wasn't loud, but it was cold and hard. "We've wasted far too much time on the Mexican question!" He abruptly raised his head, his gaze piercing, sweeping over Gladstone and the Russian's bewildered faces. "That old fox Diaz! He's been sitting on the fence for too long, reaping the spoils of war, casting ambiguous smiles at both God's camp and the devil's temptations! It's time... for him and the entire Mexican Republic to make a decision!"

Gladstone stared at him with his grey-blue eyes, pipe dangling from his lips, without saying a word.

Garfield met his gaze, a barely perceptible smile playing on his lips. "The Prime Minister has reservations? Worried about getting bogged down in another quagmire?" His hand, resting on the table, clenched into a fist. "Merciful God is my witness! We may not be able to handle that industrial monster of 6 million people! But..." his voice suddenly rose, "can't we at least deal with... Mexico?!"

The old fox Gladstone finally took his pipe from his mouth. He didn't speak immediately; his grey eyes lingered on Garfield's face for a moment, then swept over the Russian at the conference table. The Earl of Granville's face was tense, his gaze anxiously fixed on the Prime Minister, hesitant to speak.

Breaking this suffocating balance was Russian Chief Minister Benger. He seemed to have just unloaded a tremendous burden, relaxing slightly as he leaned back in his chair. "The United States' determination," he began, his voice regaining its usual composure, "will certainly turn the tide. Russia awaits good news from the Americas." This was a clear expression of support.

Garfield paid no heed to the Russians' opinions; his gaze was fixed solely on Gladstone: "Time is the greatest enemy! The United States Army and Navy are fully prepared... to put Mexico on the right track. No real war is needed, just a decisive 'special military operation' will be enough to make Diaz see the direction history is heading!" He emphasized the words "special military operation" with extreme clarity. "Taking Mexico will open up the West Coast ports, secure stable supplies, and allow us to counterattack California! It will break the strategic isolation on both the Pacific and Caribbean fronts! Your Excellency," he leaned forward slightly, his imposing presence radiating, "this is the only chance to stop the scales from tipping completely into the abyss! We have no time to wait or hesitate!"

"...Mr. President, what is the planned start date for the operation?" British Prime Minister Gladstone did not look up, his eyes fixed on the pale yellow area of ​​Mexico on the table map.

Garfield's eyes sharpened. "Within a month, sir. The warm southern coast of Mexico... will raise the Stars and Stripes and the flag of the United Kingdom! This will be... the first glimmer of victory for the united action of the free world!"

(End of this chapter)