The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 984 War and Revolution

The turbid flow of the Seine reflected the gray, leaden clouds of the Parisian sky, as three steel behemoths cruised slowly on its surface. The "Red Seine III," its massive funnels belching thick smoke, its enormous twin 8-inch guns raised, aimed at the vast northern plains—now belonging to the legions of the German Empire. The white lettering of "Liberty," "Equality," and "Fraternity" on the grey-blue ironclad hull was somewhat faded. On the stern mainmast, the Union Jack and the bright red revolutionary flag fluttered side by side, whipping in the damp, cold river wind, a constant reminder to the defenders of this city's fortress: these 1200-ton "Red Seine" class ships were all aid from the British Empire to Red France!
This shows that Red France is not alone; the British Empire is standing with her!
Behind the left bank of the embankment, on the winding railway tracks, the "International" armored train lay like a steel dragon, with the muzzles of several 6-inch howitzers protruding from the heavy diamond-shaped turrets, pointing to the deserted railway line to the north. This armored train also came from Britain across the Channel. Although Britain itself was facing enormous pressure from the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom, it was still doing its best to aid Red France.

A divided Europe was far too important to Britain!

At the top of the steep Montrouzhe Hill on the right bank, inside a massive circular fortification, the muzzle of a 6-inch cannon, covered with a rainproof tarpaulin, pointed obliquely towards the sky. The white-haired Lafargue, a veteran of the 1869 street fighting, hunched over, repeatedly wiped the cold, rough steel barrel of the cannon with his calloused hands. Young Private Victor approached, carrying a piece of bread—a "French baguette," so rough it could almost cut your throat.

"Dad, stop wiping it. You can't eat cannons." Victor broke off half a piece of bread and handed it over; the crumb was mixed with a lot of sawdust.

Lafargue didn't answer, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the trenches. In the distance, farmland had been repeatedly shelled, reduced to scorched mud; further still, gray observation balloons, symbols of German presence, hung in the shadows. "In 1869," the old man's voice was like a shovel scraping sand, "we were in Saint-Antoine, just as hungry, watching the Prussian encirclement tighten... things are much better now."

Behind the sandbags, someone began humming "La Marseillaise" in a hoarse voice, but was interrupted as soon as he started.

“Save your energy! You might as well think about how many meals of the canned bacon from London are left,” another young Parisian worker complained, puffing on a homemade cigarette.

Lafargue's cloudy gaze swept over the faces, young and old, weary, hungry, and fear hidden beneath the grime, but not despair. He patted Victor on the shoulder, picked up half a loaf of bread, and took a big bite, the coarse sawdust rubbing against his gums. On the river, the "Red Seine No. 5" sounded its horn, the deep sound echoing throughout the fortifications along that stretch of the river, like the final growl of a lion before its doom.

“Things are different now, my child,” Lafargue finally spoke, his voice not loud, but it drowned out the Seine’s sobs. “Comrades, France may be vast, but we have nowhere to retreat! Look at this river! This is the Seine! Look at this city, this is Paris! Who is defending it? It is ourselves! It is the Parisians! In 1869 we were isolated and helpless, but we held on in the end. But today… our resistance is the torch raised by all the poor people of the world who are trampled underfoot! Queen Victoria’s navy can retreat to the English Channel, Bismarck’s Grey Legion can surge across the Marne… but to set foot in Paris?” The old man spat out the sawdust in his mouth, and a startling light burst forth in his sunken eyes. “They will have to fill our Paris fortress inch by inch with their flesh and blood, exchange their lives for ours. We Parisians have never known what surrender is!”

A dull war drumbeat resounded in the hearts of the young man. Victor gripped his cold rifle tightly, his gaze towards the north no longer lost. The scattered complaints around him vanished, the weary workers extinguished their cigarette butts, leaving only the whistling of the spring breeze through the barbed wire and gun covers. Inside the Revolution Hall of the Palais des People in Paris, maps almost covered the old conference table. On that enormous French military map, the huge black arrow symbolizing the German Imperial Army, like the scythe of death written in bold ink, had carved itself deep into the south bank of the Marne with overwhelming force. Another, slightly thinner but equally dangerous blue current—representing the Restoration Army of "Bonaparte France"—was entrenched around the fallen Lille fortress northwest of Paris, watching with predatory intent. The air seemed to be thick with the smoke of gunpowder, choking everyone.

Prime Minister Blanqui's gaunt face was clouded with gloom; his fingers tapped unconsciously on the table, each tap like a blow to the hearts of those present. The shadow of losing Lille and Nancy, two strategic strongholds, weighed heavily on everyone's shoulders. In this suffocating silence, Moore's voice, like a thunderclap piercing the thick fog, was calm yet contained a thunderous force:
"Comrades!" He stood up, his thinning hair illuminated by the candlelight. "The land beneath our feet is not mired in despair; on the contrary, we stand at the forefront of a turning point in history! We only need to grit our teeth and hold on for a few more months, or even less—the old world of old imperialism will be utterly torn apart by the torrent of revolution! Comrades, listen—!"

Moore took a deep breath and solemnly pulled out two coded telegrams translated into French from his inner pocket. The sound of the pages turning was unusually clear in the deathly silent meeting room, as if foreshadowing an impending storm.

"Right now! In the heart of America! The foundations of the United States of America, that 'paradise' held by corrupt slave owners and greedy capitalists, soaked in the blood of black slaves and impoverished whites, have completely collapsed! This is the latest report from Comrade Paul Farag in New York!" He held up the first telegram, his voice suddenly rising, "Their industrial gears are worn down and jammed by the war, banknotes have become worthless, and a basket of bread costs an ordinary worker three days' wages! The troops on the northern front are bleeding inch by inch in the swamps along the Missouri River, the southward-bound legions are being scorched by the Mexican desert, and the forests of Nicaragua are swallowing up countless American youths! War-weariness? No! It's not just simple war-weariness! It's a raging fire of anti-defeat burning in every city and every rural tavern from Washington to New Orleans! Soldiers curse the stupidity and incompetence of their commanders, and factory workers accuse capitalists of sucking their blood! The intellectual class? They have long since given up hope on Washington's foolish decisions!"

He put down the first telegram, then picked up the second, his gaze sharp as a hawk's: "And in our vast East—the Winter Palace of the Tsar in St. Petersburg, built on frozen ground and bones, is also crumbling! Urgent report from Comrade Peter Kropotkin in St. Petersburg! Because of the Tang army's intervention in Asia Minor, those fanatics, long indoctrinated with Pan-Slavic expansionist ambitions by the Tsarist government, have reached a morbid peak! They are not satisfied with the blood already shed; they want to seize Constantinople! They want to fight for control of the world! However—" Moore's voice suddenly turned cold and sarcastic, "Where is the bread? Where is the steel? Where is the ruble that sustains this mad war? The Tsar has squeezed the last copper coin from the national treasury for that vain ambition, and conscripted the last able-bodied man of the empire." The battlefield at the front is piled high with corpses, yet progress is impossible; at the rear, the country is already mired in a desperate situation due to blockades, labor shortages causing supply disruptions, and currency becoming virtually worthless. The poor are starving due to soaring food prices, and the urban middle class faces bankruptcy due to inflation. The very foundations of the Russian Empire's army—the maintainers of the old order—are crumbling. From the most ordinary privates to the officers wielding power, their admiration for the Tsar, who sits on the golden throne yet leads them to destruction, has turned to suspicion, and from suspicion begins to breed resentment! The entire empire's emotions are like a volcano, sealed off and suppressed, but its internal pressure has reached its limit! These two volcanoes… will erupt with our unwavering persistence! Then, Red France will no longer be a solitary beacon of resistance, but a revolutionary cradle illuminating the entire darkness!

At the conference table, General Dombrovsky, Commander-in-Chief of the Army, slammed his fist on the table, making the thick map jump! "Comrade Karl Moore is right! We must fight to the end! Like an iron wall, we must hold back the fangs of the wolf that is the German Empire! Every day we hold this position, the foundations of America and Russia decay an inch more, and the flames of revolution burn a little longer! And once the red flag flies over the White House and the Winter Palace, Red France will win the final victory!"

Moore's gaze met Blanqui's deep, worried eyes. He nodded firmly, his composure revealing a profound understanding of the situation: "Comrade Chairman, I fully understand your concerns. But the British peace negotiations were never about saving lives, much less about peace! It was a stopgap measure forced upon them by the vampires of the City of London—to concentrate their forces against the hegemon of continental Europe, that aggressive German Empire! They withdrew from the Pacific to turn their guns on us and fully support our fight against Berlin! London needs our presence as urgently as we need their ammunition! This decisive battle, backed by the Seine and relying on every street and alley… we must fight! And we will fight! Because London's financiers have no other choice!"

Blanqui took a deep breath. The heavy pressure hadn't disappeared, but under Moore's analytical gaze, it seemed to have taken on a new, rock-solid meaning. His fingers, gripping the table, finally stopped trembling unconsciously. "Then let's fight to the end!" His voice wasn't loud, but every syllable was resolute, landing squarely on the heart of this symbol of the French people's will. "Let every paving stone of Paris become a new grave for the old world!"

(End of this chapter)