Chapter Fifty-Three (Patreon)

Alexander had tried many cures for this anxiety, though nothing yet worked. The waiting, of course, was of no help. Nor was reviewing the procedures, ensuring that they were fully updated. This time he had turned to his normal activities, and found the calming nature of habit to be utterly unequal to the anxiety of a new birth.

“Your Imperial Highness?”

Alexander ignored his secretary. His teeth clenched.

“I don’t think he heard you. Let me–”

Alexander turned sharply, meeting Konstantin with a sharp glare. His younger brother, his beard now nearly worthy of the name, took a step back.

“Just making sure you’re present,” Konstantin tried. “I would hate for Alexandrine to give birth only to learn her husband is gone.”

“Do naval officers often laugh at your jokes?” Alexander asked.

Konstantin blinked. “Usually.”

“If that is your normal fare, I think they laugh at you.” Alexander turned back to his correspondence. He tapped the message, hand-delivered. “So they will not be called ships of the line?”

To his credit Konstantin took only a moment to accept the change in topics. “No,” Kontanstin agreed. “Admiral Lazarev believes they are a new type of ship, due to the lack of masts and swiveling guns.”

“What does he wish to call them?”

“Bronenosets.”

It was a good enough name, Alexander supposed. A familiar one, though he failed to see the similarity between an American oddity and a well-built ship. Alexander turned back to the paper. 300 millimeters of steel armor, two ten dyuym guns (fore and aft) twenty-four lesser guns, a cruising speed of eight knots with a top speed of ten knots and a range of forty-four hundred nautical miles at cruising speed. “And the ship itself?”

“The Smoliani.”

Not exactly a stunning Russian victory, but better than calling their new ship the Leipzig or Waterloo.

Knock knock knock.

Alexander straightened. His fists tightened, twisting the paper that bore the Smoliani’s details. “Enter.”

“The birth–”

“Is it done?” Alexander asked. He stood, towering over the servant. “Are they safe?”

“Yes, your Imperial Highness. You have a son.”

A hand landed on Alexander’s shoulder. “Congratulations,” Konstantin said, grinning ear to ear. “Any chance you have space for an extra godfather?”

*

“The Emperor has approved of our efforts regarding Alaska and the Irish,” von Stieglitz reported. “There are conditions, largely at Nesselrode and Ugarov’s insistence.”

“You were not able to argue against them?” Alexander asked.

“With Minister Cancrin’s retirement your greatest supporter on the council has been lost. Nesselrode is the dominant force, though Prince Cherneyev has his supporters as well.”

Alexander frowned. Something would have to be done about that. He had been content to build his base of power in the East, to gather Russian strength for the war and bide his time. But if Nesselrode—the man most opposed to Alexander’s policies and preferences—ruled the council fully, even his greatest projects could falter. Alexander had supporters in his father’s court, but none were in a powerful enough position. Perhaps there was someone he could bribe or threaten? Not for the first time, Alexander missed Beria’s abilities, if not the man himself.

“What are the conditions?” Gretsch asked. “Orthodoxy? Russian lessons?”

“I was able to argue against demands of outright conversion, but there are to be no Catholic priests allowed in, unless they forswear their vows.”

Alexander nodded. He would not have allowed them in anyways. “What else?”

“No Catholics are to be given government jobs in the Table of Ranks.”

“That places them below the Jews and Pagans,” Hess noted. “We have Buddhist Generals and Jewish Majors, but a Catholic Lieutenant is too far a reach?”

“Neither the Jew nor the Buddhist answers to a foreign head of state,” von Stieglitz replied. “At least, that is Uvarov’s argument.”

“At least we can still use them as farmers,” Hehn said. “It is not as if Siberia lacks for land, and while only a small portion of Alaska is worth farming, it is still a great deal of land. At rough estimate a million desyatina could be farmed there, with significantly more land devoted to herding, especially if the reindeer herding experiments prove successful as hoped.”

“What do the estimates look like?” Arsenyev asked.

“Five thousand tons of cheese and five hundred tons of smoked and salted meat,” Hehn rattled off. “With the rail lines reaching to the sheltering stations, the need for the large-scale slaughter is significantly lessened. The herds–”

Alexander silenced Hehn with a look. He turned back to von Stieglitz. “Are there any other conditions?”

“No, your Imperial Highness.”

“Then it is acceptable.” Alexander turned to Arsenyev. His former tutor straightened at once, papers shifting on the table before them. “What is the state of the yangban?”

“Their numbers have fallen significantly,” Arsenyev answered. “There remain seven hundred thousand workers and two hundred sixty thousand others. So far eighty-five thousand children have been rehomed.”

“What progress has been made with the canals?” Alexander asked. In the corner of his eye Haass doubled over. Alexander reluctantly gave the doctor a pass. His soft heart made him useful for convincing others, but a liability in meetings such as these. Perhaps he should be pushed into a role more befitting such mentality.

“The Tunguska-Lena Canal has been finished. The Lena-Baikal Canal is projected to be finished by August of 1846, and the Yensei-Ket Canal by 1850. Most of the current work is focused on canalizing the rivers.”

“What of the Selenga-Amur Canal?” Hess asked.

Arsenyev grimaced. “Bald has concluded any route to be too mountainous for current methods of construction. Steam-powered machinery holds promise, but it remains too early to properly plan. There are other canals that can be built in the east, connecting the Amur and the Liao, but for now a true connection between Baikal and the Amur remains out of practical reach. Instead Mr. Bald has proposed a rail link, capable of quickly loading and unloading cargo between the closest ports.”

“What advantage would that possess over the existing rail lines?” Anosov asked.

“It is primarily a matter of more direct routes,” Arsenyev replied. “Without the need to wind through the mountains the steamships will expend significantly less fuel and reduce the travel time by as much as a quarter.”

“Have it done,” Alexander ordered. “Immediately.” Even if it proved to be a waste of time, a winter in the mountains would rid him of a few thousand of the troublesome yangban.