Beiyang Dream

Chapter 59 Little Moltke: Hurry up and hug him, this is Emperor William's golden thigh!

Chapter 59 Little Moltke: Hurry up and hug him, this is Emperor William's golden thigh (Seventh Update)

December 7, 1890, Sunday. Berlin, Kurfürstendamm, headquarters of the German East Africa Company.

Chang Desheng was slumped in the oak chair in the East Africa Company's conference room, feeling as if the ice shards from the East Prussian training ground were still embedded in his bones.

He has a fever.

The Germans at the War Academy kicked him out of school for his "extraordinary interest in winter warfare," sending him to East Prussia for those damned winter field exercises. He spent a whole week lying in the snow at minus fifteen degrees Celsius, eating frozen black bread and drinking soup made from melted snow. When he returned to Berlin yesterday afternoon, his forehead was so hot you could fry an egg on it, and his nose was so stuffy it felt like it was covered in cement.

This guy really asked for trouble!

He had planned to take a day off and sleep until noon. But just as dawn broke, Guo Shigui started banging on the door.

"Zhenbang! Get up! Lieutenant Colonel Moltke sent someone to say that Sergeant Major Hessman has arrived from Africa and will sign the contract this morning!"

Chang Desheng was in a daze at the time, and muttered, "Sergeant Major—let him wait, I'm sick."

Guo Shigui stamped his foot impatiently: "Wait! Wait! That's someone personally appointed by His Majesty the Emperor! Your teacher is accompanying him personally!"

So he was dragged out of bed, dressed in the dark blue uniform of the War Academy, and shoved into a carriage in a daze, and brought here.

Chang Desheng sat in the conference room, his head spinning, his nose stuffy, and his eyelids drooping. He cursed inwardly: "These Germans are truly heartless capitalists! They make you work overtime, they make you revise plans, and they won't even let you take sick leave!"

The meeting room was quite large, but the atmosphere was oppressive.

A huge map of Africa is pinned to the wall, stretching from the Cape of Good Hope all the way to the Sahara. The map is covered with arrows marked in red and blue pencil.

Circles and German annotations. In the corner stands a specimen shelf with a lion's head stuck on it, its glass eyes staring blankly ahead.

Chang Desheng thought to himself: This place is like a colonial-themed museum.

The door opened.

Moltke walked in first, dressed in a neat gray casual suit. He was followed by someone.

Chang Desheng was half awake in an instant.

The man wasn't tall, maybe 1.75 meters at most, but he was strong—as solid as a lump of iron. His shoulders were so broad they could touch a door panel, and his neck was as thick as an ox's, all wrapped in a faded, old-fashioned Imperial Army uniform. There was a scar on his forehead that looked like it had been slashed with a knife.

The most amazing thing is that look in his eyes.

It was a grayish-blue color, cold and chilling. When it swept over, Chang Desheng subconsciously sat up straight, feeling as if he were being watched by a leopard ten paces away.

"Zhenbang, let me introduce you." Xiao Maoqi walked to the head seat, took off his gloves, and said, "This is Sergeant Hans Hessmann, a former sergeant major of the 3rd Infantry Division of the Imperial Army, a former senior instructor of the German East African Protection Army, and currently the Chartered Security Director of the East African Company."

Hessman didn't speak, but nodded slightly to Chang Desheng and Zhang Zhensheng. His demeanor was very "de-san" (a term of respect for the elderly and children), he was just missing a gesture of respect.

Moltke sat down and placed his hands folded on the table.

"Zhenbang, Mr. Zhang," he introduced, "Sergeant Major Hessman and his team are one of the Empire's most valuable assets in Africa."

Chang Desheng scoffed inwardly.

Assets. That's a good word. Unscrupulous capitalists see everything as an asset—land is an asset, minerals are assets, and people are assets.

Moltke continued: ...He served for eight years, participated in three large-scale operations, and served as a commando leader under Commissioner Wiseman. The Askhali troops he trained were the most formidable in East Africa.

As Chang Desheng listened, his mind raced.

Hermann. He knew the name; his full name was Hermann Weissmann, a "Reich Specialist" personally appointed by Bismarck. But this "specialist" didn't cost money; he was deadly! Last year, Berlin newspapers had reported on him as a "bloodthirsty commissioner" who had slaughtered countless insurgent tribes in East Africa.

If Hessman was one of his men, the blood on his hands could stain half a river red. His hands were stained with the blood of the African people!

"The sergeant's team has twenty-three men in total." Little Moltke held up two fingers. "Artillery, infantry, supply, engineers, cavalry..."

Communication and medical care are all available. Everyone has spent more than three years in Africa.

He paused, then looked at Chang Desheng: "Zhenbang, do you know how long it would take to train a group of lazy, stupid black men who couldn't even tell left from right into a regular army capable of skillfully operating Mauser rifles and carrying out complex maneuvering missions?"

Chang Desheng remained silent.

Moltke answered his own question: "Sergeant Major Hessman only needs three months." He added, "And the casualty rate is kept below ten percent."

The casualty rate... is ten percent?

Training people to the point of death?

Chang Desheng understood instantly.

This Hessman team wasn't intended for Lanfang's group at all—why would those indigenous sultans in Borneo, wielding machetes and bamboo spears, need such a luxurious setup?

This was the golden opportunity that Wilhelm II had prepared for his "Far East agent".

But it's still a dog leash.

Twenty-three sergeants, who had trained with black men in East Africa—if they went to Korea and trained their own Huai Army "Zhenzi Battalion," there would probably be a bunch of "German fans" in the ranks.

However—

Chang Desheng began to make his plans. Now was not the time to worry about the "German fans"; that was a problem to consider twenty years from now. The most important thing now was to settle things in Pontianak, secure the territory, and make money.

Wilhelm II invested so much, he was bound to expect a return.

One port, Pontianak, probably couldn't satisfy Wilhelm II's appetite. Didn't this guy later develop Jiaozhou Bay? His ambitions were much greater!

I'm afraid we'll have to build him a port in North Korea later.

As he was thinking, his arm was bumped.

It's Zhang Zhensheng.

.

The fifth uncle leaned closer, his voice low but unable to contain his excitement: "Zhenbang, look—are these Germans any good?"

Chang Desheng turned his head and glanced at him.

Well, this Fifth Master Zhang is beaming with pride. It seems that this wealthy merchant from Southeast Asia still holds the "German foreign soldiers" in high regard.

Chang Desheng sighed inwardly, but didn't show it on his face. He simply replied in a low voice, "Don't worry, I guarantee a win."

"That condition—"

"Whatever they bring up," Chang Desheng said, "you should agree to it."

"You...you agree to everything?"

"If we agree, we'll cling to Emperor William's coattails and become his traitors." Chang Desheng's voice lowered, becoming nasal. "If we don't agree, we'll just have to wait to be slaughtered by this or that sultan's troops. Fifth Uncle, which do you choose?"

Zhang Zhensheng remained silent.

By this time, Moltke had finished speaking. He raised his hand to Hessman: "Sergeant Major, I've covered everything I needed to say. Do you have anything to add?"

Hessmann had been sitting upright the whole time. He raised his eyelids, his gaze sweeping over Zhang Zhensheng, lingering for half a second on his silk jacket, before moving to Chang Desheng's face. Finally, it settled on the silver badge of the Prussian War Academy on Chang Desheng's chest.

Chang Desheng clearly saw that Hessman's brows were tightly furrowed, and he looked defiant.

Hessman spoke, his voice even harsher than his appearance: "Me and my men only kill people of color."

The meeting room fell silent for a moment.

"Black people, Asian people, and Red people," he added. "We don't kill white people."

Chang Desheng scoffed inwardly.

He's a racist. This guy should be thrown into a 21st-century Berlin train station—full of Black, Turkish, and Arab people—and see if he'd still kill them.

Zhang Zhensheng's face changed, and he muttered a curse in Hakka.

Chang Desheng patted Zhang Zhensheng's leg under the table, then looked up at Hessman and forced a smile.

"Sergeant Major," he said in perfect Hanoverian German, "in the Dutch East Indies, the whites are not our enemies; the sultans and natives are."

Moltke interjected at the opportune moment: "Furthermore, several principles must be made clear. First, Lanfang cannot be restored as a nation; second, your people cannot initiate attacks on the Dutch army; even if attacked, you must prioritize avoiding conflict."

Zhang Zhensheng frowned again.

Chang Desheng nodded: "No problem... We Beiyang people never wanted to have a conflict with the Dutch."

"According to the intelligence we have," Chang Desheng continued, "the total number of white people in the Dutch East Indies is less than 50,000, the vast majority of whom are concentrated on Java. There are no more than 1,000 white people on Kalimantan, and they are mainly concentrated in a few coastal trading posts. The ones who are really in conflict with the Chinese, looting manors, and massacring villagers are the local indigenous sultans and their tribal militias."

He emphasized the term "tribal militia" particularly.

After listening, Hessmann remained silent for a few seconds.

Then he said, "Mr. Commissioner, what you just said needs to be written into the cooperation agreement. And—" He looked at Chang Desheng, "you, as the representative of Beiyang, also need to sign this agreement."

Chang Desheng smiled and nodded: "No problem."

He answered so quickly that Hessman was momentarily stunned.

"However," Chang Desheng continued, "I also have a condition."

Hessman frowned again: "What are the conditions?"

"Sergeant Major," Chang Desheng sat up straighter, his head still spinning, but his eyes becoming serious, "I will not allow you and your men to go and make enemies of the white lords of Southeast Asia. But during the contract period—whether it's one year, two years, or three years—you must strictly obey my other orders. In the East, you must regard me as your supreme commander."

He paused, then added, "Of course, this is on the premise that it doesn't violate your 'don't kill white people' principle."

Hessmann's face darkened.

He didn't agree immediately, but turned to look at Moltke.

The meaning in his eyes was clear: This Easterner wants command?

Moltke smiled, nodded to Hessman, and said in a relaxed tone, "Sergeant Major, Zhenbang is one of my best students at the War Academy. He won't let you down."

Hessman turned back and stared at Chang Desheng for several seconds. Then, he leaned forward and spoke.

"Committee member, since you've requested command, I have a question I'd like to ask you!"

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