Chapter Twenty-Eight (Patreon)

Official celebrations were a rarity in Irkutsk. That is not to say there were not festivities–birthdays, holy days, and anniversaries were well-celebrated throughout Siberia. But they were celebrated by the people of Siberia, not its government. Officially there were only two government celebrations in Eastern Siberia: Easter and the Anniversary of Tsar Nicholas’ coronation. Other days, such as Epiphany, the overthrow of the Bonapartes, and (due to the large Jewish population) Yom Kippur were days free from work, but there were neither processions nor feasts. The days were celebrated with one’s family and neighbors. Even the Tsarevich’s marriage and his firstborn were not celebrated with a parade.

Yet on the 8th of October 1841 a celebration was ordered by the Governor-General.  Money was sent to Chita, Gargan, Yatkutsk, and Krasnoyarsk, to Mukden, Seoul, and Pyongyang, and to thousands of smaller villages and towns inbetween so that every settlement could honor the occasion.

As befitting the capital Irkutsk’s celebration was by far the most vibrant. Long ribbons of gold and black flew through the air, tied to earth by sticks and the workers who waved them. Paper lanterns hung on long lines connected rooftop to rooftop, a tradition borrowed from the city’s growing Han population. Even a dusting of snow did not dissuade the crowd. Packed in so closely and wearing thick fur hats and woolen coats they barely noticed the change in temperature.

A whisper spread through the crowd. Sons jostled their mothers’ arms. Daughters pulled on their father’s hands, asking to be picked up so they could see.

Then the hero of the hour emerged and the crowd burst into cheers. The wave of noise broke upon the horse’s ear and he reared. The hero clutched the reigns, making a show of confidence before leaning forward, whispering into the chestnut’s ear.

His horse calm, Lieutenant-General Nikolay Muravyov turned to the crowd. His brown eyes surveyed the crowd, a grin on his face that made faint crinkles grow on the corner of his eyes. His hand rose, and the crowd fell silent.

“To Russia!” he shouted. “God is with us!”

The crowd roared with approval, the imperial motto falling from forty thousand lips.

Nikolay touched his heels to George’s–his horse’s–side and rode down the snowswept streets. He waved as he passed by the cheering throngs. Winter flowers were thrown. Most landed on the street, soon crushed under his horse’s hooves. One bundle of ivory snowdrops caught on George’s mane. With a laugh Nikolay took up the bundle, resting it by the point of his saddle.

At last he arrived at the Palace Square. Not even Irkutsk’s canned goods were so firmly packed. Thousands had already occupied the square when Nikolay arrived at the train station. As his procession rode past thousands more had followed them. The streets leading to and from the square were crowded. The square itself closed in as the horses rode past.

At the gates of the palace stood the Governor-General. The Tsarevich cut quite the figure. Clad in a General’s uniform complete with gold tassels, a handful of medals pinned to his chest, and a sword sheathed in his belt, Alexander Nikolaevich was the very image of Russian Royalty. From his frame–more than six feet in height with a chest that rivalled a horse’s for bredth–to his expression–stone-carved solemnity that hid pride and success in icy blue eyes–spoke to a mean destined to lead.

Nikolay halted his horse ten yards from the Tsarevich. His men soon halted as well. On his signal they dismounted, the sound of their metal spurs against the stone masked by the crowd’s adulation.

“Your Imperial Highness,” Nikolay greeted. He bowed, deep enough for the crowds to see.

“Rise, Lieutenant-General, and embrace us as you have embraced your duty these past years.”

Nikolay did as he was bid. His medals and awards clanked against those of the Tsarevich as they embraced, strong arms wrapping around the two men. The Tsarevich let go, and so did Nikolay. At the Tsarevich’s gesture, Nikolay moved to stand at his right. The other officers stood beside him.

With the horses led away there was nothing between the Tsarevich and the crowd. Their cheers, already loud when Nikolay entered the square, had grown to a cacophony at the embrace between the Empire’s heir and its latest hero. Yet now they fell silent at a single gesture as the Tsarevich raised his hands.

“My people.” The Tsarevich’s voice was not loud. It did not boom like thunder over the crowd. It did not break over them like a crashing wave. Yet it carried like strands of cotton upon the wind, borne all the further by its deceptive softness. “I stand before you a proud man. Proud not in my achievements, but in yours. It is your might that conquered Joseon, liberating their people from the cruelties of a corrupt and decadent system. It is your efforts that even now feed and supply the soldiers who occupy Korea.

“Beside me is the man who proved greatest in these efforts. It is the courage and fortitude of General Muravyov that saw the army through the Joseon’s endless skirmishes. It is the brilliance of General Muravyov that pinned their army and broke them. It is the mercy of General Muravyov that brought the Korean people to our side. To that end I honor him, not merely with his long-deserved promotion but with a new name. The ranks of nobility are not mine to give, but I can and will ensure all will know of his deeds. Hail, General of the Infantry. Hail, Nikolay Muravyov-Joseonsky.”

“Hail!” some shouted. Other cried “Joseonsky!” or “Muravyov!” A great number shouted “Alexander Tsarevich!”

Nikolay turned to his Tsarevich. “Your Imperial Highness, I–”

“It is the least of what you deserve,” the Tsarevich replied. His eyes did not match his tone. They were cold, weighing him as a jeweler did a gem.

Nikolay swallowed. “Thank you, Your Imperial Highness,” he said. “I shall endeavor to live up to your gifts.”

The Tsarevich nodded. “See that you do.”

Alexander turned back to the crowd. His hand rose, and silence fell across the square once more. “It is General Muravyov-Joseonsky who is the greatest hero of this effort. But he is not the only one. Your sons and husbands who march in the army are heros. Your brothers and sisters who work in the factories, your cousins who work the fields. The countless men in the mines and women who care for their families–all are heros. So are you. You are heroes not because of a single act, but because of your relentless dedication. You kept our soldiers clothed and fed. You kept them armed and ready. You kept their homes warm and their families cared for. You did not do this because you must. You did not do this because you should. You did this because you can, and you believe, as I do, in our collective purpose.

“The war is over, but our purpose is not. The former subjects of Joseon have been liberated. Now they must be uplifted. This is a great effort. Not since my first years in Irkutsk have we seen such a challenge. It is not something I can do on my own. And so I come before you, not as Governor or Grand Duke but as a Russian. I come not to demand, nor to challenge, but to ask for your assistance. Will you help me?”

“Yes.” Nikolay did not know who said it first. Perhaps it was a baker. Perhaps it was a seamstress, or a small child. Perhaps it was Nikolay himself. He would never know, for the moment that a single voice spoke all of Irkutsk felt its echo in their souls. They echoed the sentiment upon their lips. They cheered, “Alexander,” “Tsarevich,” and “Five more years!” Nikolay cheered with them. Even Alexander’s Directors, whose desks would surely see the bulk of this increased work, cheered. He knew some of the Directors held doubts. The loyalty of the Joseon and Han, their ability to work with modern machinery, their willingness to serve the Imperial State–none of these were certain. But Nikolay had faith. He had been here from the beginning. He had left his prestigious post as a Captain in the Life Guards for a backwater colonelship so he could grow close to the future Emperor. He had expected to comfort the Tsarevich in his failure, perhaps to put down a few revolts. Yet in the last six years the furthest corners of Siberia had changed from icebox to goldmine. Irkutsk held but a fraction of Saint Petersburg’s population yet rivalled the capital in terms of industry. The provincial army had not even a tenth the regulars that the Imperial Army did, yet defeated the Qing and Joseon while the Imperial Army struggled against Khiva. The Tsarevich had done that with icy wastes and two million displaced Jews. Nikolay looked forward to seeing what could he could do with fertile Manchuria, a warm-water port, and twenty million Asians.