Chapter Thirty-Three (Patreon)

Alexander did not like travel. It was a tedious, tenuous, and dangerous thing. Even on the recently build railways and accompanied by a few hundred guards it was an unpleasant thing. Yet duty called, and Alexander had never been one to refuse it.

Tempting though it was to simply travel to Busan swiftly as possible, Alexander decided to make the most of his time travelling. If he was passing through so many towns, surely he should see them. Speak to the people. Talk to the local officials. Ensure things were well. If it had the advantage of letting Alexander sleep on an actual bed each night instead of the cots they managed to fit onto the train, well, that was just a bonus.

Even with the new locomotives progress was slow. The new trains could reach thirty vyersta an hour, but that required flat steel track. On the mountainous circum-Baikal that speed was halved and the ups and downs of uneven track often left Alexander unable to even conduct his paperwork in peace. Instead he read or, in moments of self-indulgence, watched the landscape from his window. On the one side were the towering mountains that they climbed through, the Khamar-Daban. Snowcapped peaks and vast forests of cedar, birch, and pine were interspersed with alpine meadows. At the higher peaks and vales these meadows were little like the ones he vaguely recalled of Switzerland. So far north and so high up only the top few inches of soil thawed for the summer. Grass was absent, replaced by moss, lichen, and the occasional bit of shrubbery.

On the other side of the train was Lake Baikal itself. In winter the lake froze over, a beautiful turquoise ice forming overtop, sometimes several feet thick. In spring the ice melted, and by summer the clear waters of the lake gave it a deep blue appearance. Fat, dark-skinned seals rested upon outcroppings of rocks by the shore. Flocks of white-grey gulls and brown-teal ducks floated on the water, occasionally diving to catch their lunch. Around the lake, to either side of the train, were further animals. Birds of a dozen different shades flitted from the trees to the tall grasses, reindeer munched upon the vales of lichen, squirrels and hares darted to and fro across the ground. Once, to his amazement, Alexander watched as a tiger leapt from its hiding place between a pair of rocks. The beautiful orange-furred creature fell upon the lone moose. Though a giant for its kind–it must have been no less than seven feet tall at the shoulders–the moose fell swiftly to the tiger, throat severed by the cat’s sharp maw.

That first night they stopped in Vydrino. The settlement was barely above a Mir in size, only a few hundred people who decided they’d prefer fishing and working on trains to farming or raising cattle. The village was so small they lacked a proper inn. Instead the Starosta (the elected village elder/headman) offered up his own bed, something Alexander was forced to accept. His men slept on the train.

Come morning the Starosta was eager to assure Alexander that the village was doing well. They had plenty of grain and vegetables, even fruits that came fresh from local berries or preserved from recently-conquered Manchuria. When pressed the Starosta admitted that the local river–the Snezhnaya–could occasionally flood during Spring and that the docks needed to be improved if the village was to fish on a larger scale, but really everything was fine. Alexander made a note of the Starosta’s desires, and went back to the train where his guards were waiting with their reports. It seemed the Starosta’s hesitancy was as much due to fear as awe; six of the villagers alleged the man was overcollecting taxes. Alexander made another note, this time to send an investigator. The Starosta seemed nice, but Alexander had always preferred loyalty to pleasantries.

From Vydrino they went to Selenginsk, where thousands of the Korean yangban were held prisoner. The leader here was not an elected Starosta, but an appointed Colonel and his thousand-man garrison. Under the direction of their guns the yangban worked against the muddy banks of the Selenga river, charting for it a new and more even course. The yangban were continuing to be as much of a problem as they were an asset. Alexander could hardly let them go in their current numbers, yet neither could he keep them forever. A million rebels would be a deadly curse on Siberia, yet a million slaves would forever blacken Russia’s name. Only fifty thousand or so had died so far, but Alexander was encouraged by what he heard of the Baikal-Amur Canal. There was more than five hundred vyersta of canal to be dug through harsh mountains–a fact that necessitated picks, explosives, and hard labor. If that didn’t remove these corrupt aristo-bureaucrats, Alexander was truly out of ideas.

*

Verkhneudinsk was a small city, and a rather beautiful one. Industry was pushed to the outskirts, leaving the city center largely free from smog and noise. Said center was not a public square as might be expected, but rather a large park, with the railway marking one end and the city hall another. Green meadows and manicured copses of trees were filled with playing children. Would-be artists sat by the fountains and miniature lakes to sketch the squirrels and birds amidst man’s creation.

Alexander exited the train station accompanied by his guards. As protocol demanded he visited the Odigitrievsky Cathedral, home to the newly-created Bishop of Verkhneudinsk. Though the vast majority of his diocese were Jewish or Buddhist the Bishop nonetheless had a magnificent cathedral. Built of the course of forty-four years during the 18th century the Odigitrievsky Cathedral was a pinnacle of Siberian baroque architecture. Alexander, who ordinarily misliked the excessive nature of the baroque, was stunned by the Cathedral. Rather than the gaudy imitation of French styling he expected, Odigitrievsky was a wonderful mixture of Siberian understatedness and luxury. The cathedral’s walls were made of white stone arranged in the classic ship style of an Orthodox church–a symmetrical design consisting of (in Odigitrievsky’s case) two large spires–one onion dome and one spike–that appeared as masts, a third, lesser tower at the rear to act as a quarterdeck, and a protruding front that appeared as if a bow. All of these buildings possessed roofs of bright blue tiles that stood in delightful contrast to the white walls and grey skies of winter alike. Both the large spike upon the belltower and the onion dome over the Cathedral proper were gilded and possessed large crosses sticking out of them, visible for miles. Yet in contrast to the French aesthetics seen in the Winter Palace (where there was not an inch of building without facade, nor a single room that did not have a grand theme) the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Cross–that being the formal name–possessed no special decoration upon its walls. The windows were of clear glass held in place by brass bindings that made the shape of the cross. The walls themselves were plain, portraying a great white monolith summoned by God himself so that people may worship His glory.

The Bishop himself stood by the entrance as Alexander approached. The Bishop was a young man for his post, of an age with Alexander who had only just turned twenty-four. He was dressed in understated robes for an Orthodox Bishop, evidently preferring a plain black cassock and a white mitre to the silk brocade and demask to which he was nominally entitled.

“Your Imperial Highness,” the Bishop bowed. “It is an honor to welcome you to Verkhneudinsk.”

“The honor is mine,” Alexander replied without meaning or feeling. “Walk with me. I would have us discuss matters before we pray.”

“As your Imperial Highness wishes,” the Bishop acquiesced. “What is it you wish to discuss?”

“Let us begin with your name.”

The Bishop smiled. “I am Macarius, your Imperial Highness. I was educated at the Kiev Theological Academy, and graduated last year.”

“You hold an impressive post for a recent graduate.”

“Certain members of the Church were less than pleased with my theology,” Macarius answered the unspoken question. “Nothing that contradicts the bible, nor the Church Fathers, only the interpretations thereof.”

“What is your theology?”

“It is my belief that the Church must preach not to the world we desire, but to the world we inhabit. As the world progresses in science and understanding, the Church must adapt to the coming circumstances while maintaining our sacred heritage. Similarly we must adapt to the cultures of those we wish to convert. When in Greece Saint Paul the Apostle did not enforce the customs of Judaism upon the gentiles, nor did he demand the forfeiture of their cultural customs.”

Alexander eyed the Bishop. This was interesting. Very interesting. The Bishop was an opportunity in black cloth. If Alexander could sway the Bishop to his version of modernity, to embracing the Collective Purpose, his new ideology would gain no small amount of power and legitimacy. All the more if he could support Macarius in forming a new faction, prone to reform and church obedience.

“I do not disagree,” Alexander said after a long pause. “The strength of the Church is the same as that of the Empire. It is diversity bound by a strong core. For the Empire it is the Emperor and his family. For the Church it is as you say, the bible and the Church Fathers. Have you met his Eminence Palladius, the Archbishop of Mukden?”

“I have not had that pleasure. I have only recently arrived to my Diocese, and am reluctant to abandon her so quickly.”

“I would recommend beginning a correspondence. The Archbishop is of a similar disposition in regards to cultural customs. Considering the number of Confucians and Buddhists in both dioceses, a discussion on the matter may prove useful in your conversion efforts.”

“A wise suggestion,” Macarius agreed, bowing his head. “I thank you for it.”

“You may thank me by following through. Now, about the state of the Church in your Diocese?”

“It is, to borrow a common term, a mixed bag. Your support and local tithes have ensured we do not lack for any material possessions necessary to our ministry. However the actual number of believers remains low. By best accounts there are more than twenty-thousand households in my diocese, of which perhaps four or five thousand may be honestly called Christian. The majority of non-believers are Jews and, as ever with their sort, intransigent when it comes to the faith of their forefathers. A fact that I fear has only grown more true following their expulsion to Siberia. Yet the real issue is not the Jews, but the Papists. While the Jews hold fast to their beliefs, they do so largely in peace. The Papists do not. They agitate for a representative of Rome to be appointed.”

“Absolutely not.” The Orthodox Church Alexander could manage. He was the Tsarevich, the son of their Most Holy Autocrat. There was commonly held to be a sacred bond between the Church and the Emperors, as well as centuries of cooperation. Alexander could use those. The Pope was beyond his reach.

“I entirely agree. I merely wish to warn you of their growing ire.”

“Szlachta,” Alexander sneered. In hindsight it was unsurprising that they were causing issues. In Poland the szlachta were convinced they were Barons by right of their pigsty, and that their huts were an inviolate castle. Not even the honest labor of railway construction and the healthy commune of the Mir could purge such poisonous ideology. And while Alexander would need to let the fools act first, that did not mean he could not provoke them.

“You may rest assured that the matter will be handled,” Alexander said. An edict banning Catholic services, coupled with a regiment of soldiers being deployed would do nicely. All the more so for his soldiers’ composition. While there were a growing number of Chinese and Korean Buddhists and Confucists, the majority of the footsoldiers remained Jews. There was nothing like religious tension to start a fight. Perhaps Alexander could even turn the blood libel on its head. It was certainly worth some thought.

*

After four days of staying in minor villages, Alexander was grateful to see a city again. Though the Mir of Ablatuiskii-Bor had been pleasant with its sprawling fields and fawning people, there was a sort of spirit that came about only when the masses humanity dwelled close together. It was why Alexander favored the Mir over individual farms–one of the reasons, at least. But while the Mir had a semblance of that unifying community spirit, it could not reach the heights of a city working towards a single goal.

In Chita that goal was armaments. Copper, zinc, and lead flowed from across the province to Chita, where they were turned into brass cartridges and bullets. Chilean saltpeter was brought in from the Port of Busan and, through a sequence of chemical processes, turned into gunpowder. Yakutsk steel was brought south in bars and turned into rifles and artillery. Despite Alexander’s efforts to spread out industry in case of an invasion, a quarter of Eastern Siberia’s ammunition and a third of their rifle and artillery parts were manufactured in Chita.

After his brief visit to Chita’s cathedral Alexander gladly accepted an offer from the local administrators: he would tour the armories.

They began at the brass foundries, themselves divided into three sections, each with more than a thousand workers: the men who melted copper and zinc into brass and cast it into ingots; the men who rolled the heated brass ingots into ever-longer, thinner sheets; and the men who took those sheets, cut them into disks, and stamped the disks into the proper shape. The empty cartridges where then tossed into barrels and hauled off to the next stage: the assembly. The primer, the powder, and the bullet were carefully placed into the cartridge. The newly filled cartridge was tested to ensure it wouldn’t fall apart–Alexander watched as many of the workers simply turned the objects over and shook once–and placed in barrels. These barrels were brought to the second part of the assembly, who fit the ammunition into the new rifle’s five-round magazines.

After the assembly Alexander toured the powdery. Wearing a heavy mask and goggles, the Russian heir watched as great vats of chemicals were carefully mixed in exacting ratios. A single mistake would see a batch ruined. A larger error–such as mixing the chemicals for the primers with those for the gunpowder–could see truly disastrous results. Miraculously, no such apocalypse occurred while Alexander was present.

If the brass foundry had been impressive for their size and the powdery for its awesome potential, the rifle factories were splendid in their precision. In this heaviest of heavy industries machines were used at every turn. They bore holes rods of steel to make them gunbarrels, then cared spiraling lines to make them rifled. They slammed and stamped and extruded steel into tiny screws, pins, springs, and other parts. Each rifle consisted of the same forty six pieces; twenty-eight internal, seventeen fixed external, and the sword-bayonet. Every piece was made in Chita, though they specialized in the precise internals.

It was with some sorrow and great pride that Alexander left this city of lethal industry. Yet above those feelings was a powerful sense of contentment: the governor informed him that, starting the next year, all regular soldiers would be equipped with bolt-action rifles.