*
ON HORSEBACK, YAMADA GENZO WAS surveying this scene as coldly as he’d regarded any battle with Korean rebels. Yamada paid little mind to their anger, but he couldn’t tolerate their abject ignorance. What did they think to achieve by this? Did they really believe they could survive the twentieth century under their own feeble-minded monarch and his cross-eyed, sterile son? Their colonization by a world power was inevitable, and better Japan with its shared Asian heritage than America, England, or France. Japan was the sun that would shine on the entire continent and lead it to the new age of enlightenment.
His chestnut charger was picking its way through the crowd as if wading through mud, while on all sides the Koreans scattered away, pushing and screaming. He felt nothing, inured to the indistinguishability of people in combat. Every battle was the same—there was your side and there were your enemies, and nothing more. Yamada watched indifferently as several young students in secondary school were shot in the back. It was only when they fell forward onto the snow and blood spread across their bodies that he suddenly felt something like a sharp jolt. It reminded him, he realized, of the old merchant who had lain facedown on the snow, his warm blood soaking through his silk package. Yamada had known viscerally even then that Hayashi’s execution of the man was wrongly done. A shiver ran through his spine. He turned to his left and saw Major Ito astride his black stallion. At Ito’s order, delivered with crisp alacrity, the troops aimed their guns and fired.
Yamada’s eyes found one man who was standing his ground as the other marchers fled the shower of bullets. Raising the Korean flag high in his right hand, he started running toward the troops. His face was brown, weathered, and common like a day laborer’s; it made a stark contrast against his carefully combed black hair and the snow-white gentleman’s robe, which had the appearance of extra conscientiousness, as if he had known this would be his last day. In spite of himself, Yamada was arrested by this sight. Meanwhile, Ito effortlessly swung his legs over his horse and dismounted. The young officer’s steps were calm and confident as he pulled out his sword and in one swift motion, struck down the protester’s right arm. Severed above the elbow, it fell to the ground like a tree branch struck by lightning, still encased in a white sleeve.
The man screamed out in pain, but by an unaccountable strength of will, he remained standing. In the next moment, he bent down and picked up the flag with his remaining hand. Ito swung again without hesitation, and the left arm fell to the ground as well. The armless man tried to keep running, still shouting hoarsely, “Manseh! Manseh!” until Ito’s sword plunged cleanly into the center of his back.
Yamada was still motionless on his horse while Ito wiped off his bloody sword on the dead man’s white robes. Meanwhile, the marchers who saw this scene began rallying again. Somehow, they seemed to have regained their courage after witnessing the man’s unbreakable will.
Another hailstorm rained upon the marchers, and this time, they took the bullets in the front. Piercing screams and smoke filled the avenue. Even Ito, now back on his stallion, was wiping the sweat on his brow and cursing. When the smoke cleared, Yamada saw that a group of women had made their way to the front with locked hands. With their elaborate braided crowns, expensive outfits, and fashionable makeup, it was clear to him that they were courtesans. The troops looked questioningly back at Ito, and even he was momentarily speechless. Yamada raised his hand, shouting, “Hold!”
At the same time, Ito ordered, “Fire!”
The troops hesitated, then started loading their guns again when Ito repeated his order. The courtesans still stood unflinchingly, only tightening their grip on one another. With their tear-stained, powder-streaked faces, hoarse voices, and bloated lips, they looked nothing like seductresses or even exactly like women. And yet, the very fact they were so undone made them feel so female to Yamada.
Guns were pointed at their chests when, farther along the avenue in front of number 10, a deafening cheer was heard.
“America! America! America!”
The cries filled the frosty white sky, and beneath it the sea of flags quivered.
“Hold!” Yamada shouted again, and the troops slowly lowered their guns, sensing an important shift in the situation. The gates of the American Consulate had just opened.
The crowd continued to chant as the consul-general walked out the gates, flanked by a red-haired deputy and a translator. A male student stepped forward and recited the Korean Declaration of Independence in English. “Help us. Please tell President Wilson what is happening here. Help us get justice,” he said at the end, looking straight at the consul-general.
Yamada held his breath to see what the consul-general would do. If he closed the door of the consulate now, that would mean there would be no consequences from America—as well as the rest of the West.
“Yes, I will help you. I will tell President Wilson what I’ve seen,” the consul-general said loudly in English, and the translator repeated it in Korean. “The world will hear your cries. America will not forsake you! I promise you that.”
There rose a deafening cheer from the crowd. The red-haired young deputy sponged off his eyes with one hand and clasped the translator on the back with the other. With the shift in the crowd’s energy, Yamada looked in the direction of Ito, who met his eyes and curled his lips in anger. They stood momentarily frozen, both knowing they could not attack in front of the consulate and risk American involvement. A silence enveloped them like volcanic ash. In the quiet, Yamada heard his arteries pulsing with no soldierly wrath, only a shameful hope that the carnage was over.