Chapter 27: Watching with Cold Eyes

When construction began on the "Emperor William," it did not cause a sensation. This was due not only to the effects of earlier publicity but also to the international events of the time.

The greatest attention was fixed on the Russian Tsar, Alexander III, who was determined to build the Trans-Siberian Railway. Two years earlier, after Britain and Germany intervened, Alexander III temporarily abandoned the project, and the Franco-Russian alliance collapsed as a result.

Within Russia, the importance of the Trans-Siberian Railway was common knowledge. Despite the fierce opposition of Britain and Germany, neither the Tsar, his ministers, nor the Russian capitalists ever forgot that only with the completion of this railway would Russia become truly whole.

As the German Empire strengthened its naval armament, Alexander III saw his opportunity. In just two years, relations between Britain and Germany had cooled considerably. Though the two great empires maintained a facade of friendship, Britain had already begun to guard against the German Empire, wary that this continental power might become a great naval force and threaten British supremacy at sea.

Seizing the moment, Alexander III once again proposed the construction of the Trans-Siberian Railway. This time, he was resolute.

To ensure the project's success, Alexander III gave Witte full authority over the railway's construction and entered negotiations with France for a loan. Before Britain and Germany could respond diplomatically, Witte submitted the engineering plans to the Tsar and secured the unwavering support of both the cabinet and the Duma.

Soon after, the French parliament approved a loan of 1.4 billion francs to Russia. With the establishment of the "Trans-Siberian Railway Construction Company," the building of the railway with French assistance became a certainty.

Naturally, Britain and the German Empire were incensed.

Faced with a common threat, Britain and Germany, despite their strained relations, set aside their differences for the time being, each hoping the other would serve as a counterweight to the Franco-Russian alliance.

Thus, Tsar Alexander III’s obstinacy proved a boon for the Empire. With the easing of Anglo-German tensions, the Empire now had ample justification to continue building large warships.

And indeed, the justification was plain to see—there was no need to search for it.

At the year’s end, when the "Emperor William" had already been laid down, Feng Chengqian, representing the German Empire, announced that in response to the threat posed by Russia’s Baltic Fleet, the German Empire would construct one battleship per year for the next five years.

Britain not only refrained from objecting but even offered to assist the Empire in building its warships.

This gesture from Britain was not an act of goodwill but pure self-interest. If the German Imperial Navy could tie down the Russian Baltic Fleet, Britain would face far less pressure in the Mediterranean, the Black Sea, and the Far East, thereby safeguarding its own interests.

At this time, Russia was the world’s second greatest naval power, surpassed only by Britain. Despite Russia’s less-than-ideal geography and its limited access to the sea, since Peter the Great, Russia had sought southern ports and built fleets for territorial expansion. At present, Russia had three fleets: the Baltic, the Black Sea, and the Far Eastern Fleets. The Black Sea Fleet was ideally positioned, needing only to pass through the straits between Europe and Asia to reach the Mediterranean. Yet, hemmed in by the Ottoman Empire, the Black Sea Fleet could do little. The Far East was remote from Russia’s heartland, with no effective land communications, and thus received little attention. As St. Petersburg sat on the Baltic coast, the Baltic Fleet was the pride of Russian naval power, boasting several battleships and ruling the Baltic.

Geographically, the Baltic opens directly onto the North Sea, controlled by Britain.

Should the Baltic Fleet break out, it would pose a grave threat to Britain.

The British Royal Navy, limited by geography and a lack of suitable bases in the Baltic, was unlikely to send a fleet into those waters.

If Germany’s navy could tie down the Russian Baltic Fleet, it would be a great advantage to Britain.

Building a powerful fleet takes time, just as constructing a transcontinental railway stretching thousands of kilometers across Eurasia takes time.

Feng Chengqian understood this well.

As long as the Imperial Navy was not yet strong enough to pose a mortal threat to the Royal Navy, Britain would continue to regard ambitious Russia as its chief potential adversary.

With Russia standing in their way, Britain and Germany would at least maintain a façade of friendship.

Thus, Feng Chengqian had to maintain the right balance—so long as he did not overtly provoke Britain and kept shipbuilding within reasonable limits and pace, he would not draw disaster upon himself.

One new battleship per year, for a five-year program, was not excessive.

Even after five years, the Imperial Navy would have only seven battleships, and not all would be in service; this was insignificant compared to the Royal Navy’s numbers.

Russia’s construction of the Trans-Siberian Railway, however, was not Feng Chengqian’s chief concern.

Before this, an event occurred that was closely related to Feng Chengqian—even initiated by him: Japan placed an order for warships with Britain.

After nearly a year of negotiations, Britain and Japan reached an agreement: Britain would provide loans for the construction of four ironclad warships for Japan.

Japan, too, was an ambitious nation. Unlike Russia, however, it lacked vast territory, a large population, and abundant resources. In short, Japan’s ambitions far outstripped its capabilities.

The driving force behind this was the Tsar’s unyielding will.

At first, Britain was reluctant to make a loss—lending money to Japan was a gamble, with no guarantee of repayment. The shrewd British recognized that Japan’s naval expansion was not for home defense but for grand designs in the Far East. Even the simplest observer saw that a conflict between Japan and the Qing was inevitable, though the victor was unclear. If Japan lost, Britain’s loan would be lost entirely, with no hope of recovering even the principal.

British financiers, ever astute, were not inclined to risk their capital.

It was only when news broke of the Tsar’s decision to build the Trans-Siberian Railway that Britain changed its stance, recognizing the importance of supporting Japan.

In the Far East, Britain had no better option.

The Qing was weak and impoverished, still cloaked in imperial arrogance, and would never join Britain in containing Russia.

Thus, rapidly rising Japan became Britain’s sole potential ally in the Far East.

Yet at this time, Japan was not strong enough.

After signing the loan and warship procurement agreement with Britain, Japanese diplomats traveled to Berlin, seeking to purchase several warships from the Empire and hoping for loans as well.

Previously, Japan had indeed ordered warships from Germany—the Vulcan Shipyard that built the "Dingyuan" had once built a small warship for Japan. But the Empire’s finances were already stretched thin, and with the navy itself expanding, there was no possibility of lending to Japan.

Feng Chengqian had been watching these events closely and had long foreseen Japan’s appeal for German support.

Accordingly, before the Japanese diplomats arrived in Berlin, Feng Chengqian had already submitted a five-year naval development plan to Frederick III.

In doing so, he absorbed the Empire’s surplus capital, preventing its bankers from extending loans to Japan.

Feng Chengqian did not outright oppose lending to Japan or aiding in the construction of its warships, for that would have aroused Frederick III’s suspicions of his loyalty.

Under Feng Chengqian’s subtle interference, the Japanese diplomats left Berlin deeply disappointed.

Before the great powers of Europe had even sounded the starting bugle for a naval arms race, the Far East was already engaged in one—an even fiercer contest.

The direct result of this naval arms race would be a large-scale war.

Though history had already shifted, certain fundamental truths remained unchanged—such as the Sino-Japanese War provoked by Japan’s expansionist ambitions.

By Feng Chengqian’s estimation, this war—the First Sino-Japanese War he knew well—was inevitable.

Judging by the pace of each side’s naval expansion, the war would break out around 1895, for by then both Japan and the Qing would have reached the peak of their naval strength, and Japan’s national power would no longer suffice to continue the arms race.

Before its economy collapsed under the burden of armaments, Japan would certainly launch the war.

This would be the first large-scale naval battle of the steam age—a watershed moment. It would not only change the fates of the two nations involved but also alter the course of naval development.

At the time, Feng Chengqian was deeply conflicted.

In his heart, he did not wish for a Japanese victory, for it would bring great calamity upon the people he loved. Yet he knew full well that this war would dig the grave of the corrupt Qing dynasty and eventually bury this backward, rotten empire.

Had the Qing not been defeated in this war, it might have lingered for decades more.

Would the continued rule of the decaying Qing dynasty have benefited the Chinese nation in any way?

Other than preventing the Empire from building warships for Japan, Feng Chengqian did nothing further to interfere with history, for he had no wish to aid the Qing, whose rule had brought untold disaster to his people, nor to become an accomplice to their enemies. As for the ultimate outcome of the war between the Qing and Japan, Feng Chengqian could not predict it; he could only follow the tide of history, a cold and distant observer.

That year, while wind and thunder swept across Eurasia and the Far East, Feng Chengqian led a relatively peaceful life.

To avoid conflict with the army, the Kaiser had divided the Ministry of War into two parts; Feng Chengqian retained the honorary title of Minister of War but was, in fact, the Minister of Naval War. To his slight surprise, the new Minister of Army War was not Waldersee but Schlieffen.

Freed from empty titles, Feng Chengqian felt all the lighter for it.

Besides, dealing with Schlieffen was far more straightforward than constantly scheming against Waldersee.

Still, with high office comes no shortage of troubles.

By year’s end, a certain matter had left Feng Chengqian with a splitting headache.