Chapter Six: A Long-Term Plan

The residence the Emperor arranged for Feng Chengqian was situated in the Berlin district—a relatively modest villa by local standards. Though it was somewhat smaller than he might have wished, Feng Chengqian was quite satisfied. Before coming to this world, he had never enjoyed such a spacious dwelling.

Because Feng Chengqian had neither relatives nor connections, Frederick III had specifically instructed Gustav to assign him several servants.

“Count, behind the house is the garden, though it’s still being tended and not quite ready for a visit yet,” Gustav explained.

“A garden, too?” Feng Chengqian asked with surprise.

Gustav smiled. “By His Majesty’s order, everything in your residence is to be arranged with care. As for the garden’s plantings…”

“I have no particular preference,” Feng Chengqian replied indifferently.

“Then perhaps I’ll have the gardeners plant some peonies.”

“Peonies?”

Gustav’s smile broadened as he explained, “Eight years ago, when the Great Qing ordered the warships Dingyuan and Zhenyuan, Minister Li Fengbao brought several peony plants as a gift to the late Emperor.”

“If it was the late Emperor’s favorite, how could I—” Feng Chengqian began, hesitating.

“His Majesty said, as long as the Count likes it, that’s all that matters.”

“Then please convey my thanks to His Majesty,” Feng Chengqian said with a polite nod.

Gustav nodded in return, beckoning to the young man behind him. “This is Schmidt, my attendant. He will be responsible for your daily needs from now on.”

“That seems unnecessary,” Feng Chengqian protested.

“His Majesty insisted. Your affairs are not to be taken lightly.”

Feng Chengqian sighed. “Very well, let him stay. But I’ll not need the others.”

“But—” Gustav hesitated.

“I prefer peace and quiet and dislike being surrounded by people. If I need anything, I will let you know.”

Gustav seemed troubled, knowing all his actions were according to the Emperor’s explicit instructions.

“I’ll explain to His Majesty myself, so you won’t be blamed,” Feng Chengqian reassured him.

“In that case, I’ll leave only a few gardeners to tend the back garden. If you need anything else, please let me know.”

“Of course. Besides His Majesty, you are the only one I know here.”

With a courteous smile, Gustav took his leave.

At last Feng Chengqian was alone and let out a deep breath. As he strolled through the rooms, he noticed that Gustav’s attendant still stood at the door.

“Your name is…?”

“Schmidt. Wolfgang Schmidt. How may I serve you, Count?”

Feng Chengqian appraised him. Like Gustav, Schmidt bore the mark of rigorous training—an attendant skilled in serving the nobility.

“Where are you from?” Feng Chengqian inquired.

Schmidt hesitated. “I’m an orphan, so…”

“An orphan?”

Schmidt nodded, offering no further explanation.

“How long have you been with Gustav?”

“Three years.”

“And how old are you this year?”

“Twenty-one.”

“You’re quite young.” Feng Chengqian smiled, but found conversing with his attendant rather tedious. “It’s still early. Come with me to the Ministry of War.”

“Please wait a moment, Count. I’ll fetch the carriage.”

Without his attendant, Feng Chengqian realized he would be quite lost, as he had no idea where the Ministry of War was.

Ten minutes later, Feng Chengqian was on his way by carriage from the Brandeburg Count’s Residence to the Imperial Ministry of War.

In some respects, the Imperial Ministry of War was much like the later Ministry of Defense, except that at this time, the term “defense” was not in use—war was synonymous with defense.

Since the departure of Count Rohn, the Ministry of War had been left vacant, with the Army and Navy Ministries jointly holding military authority.

Having taken office less than two days prior, Feng Chengqian found the Ministry of War not yet fully operational; there were more guards at the entrance than staff inside, lending the place an air of desertion.

Indeed, few people recognized the new Minister of War.

It took considerable effort for Feng Chengqian to familiarize himself with the sprawling institution and to have the staff bring him all the relevant documents on the Imperial Navy.

Though the Emperor had decided to take him to Britain, Feng Chengqian was determined not to let the month slip by in idleness.

Since he was now in charge of naval affairs, he intended to accomplish something—if only to earn his salary and the Emperor’s trust.

At this time, the Imperial Navy was practically nonexistent.

Its only noteworthy assets were five Saxony-class ironclads, each barely exceeding five thousand tons in displacement. The rest were small cruisers—outdated and shabby.

Could this even be called a navy?

As far as Feng Chengqian knew, ships like the Saxony-class didn’t even qualify as pre-dreadnoughts. They were far from modern warships.

And a navy with no modern warships—could it truly be called a navy?

The situation pained him. He had boasted before the Emperor and now was expected to build a world-class fleet from nothing—a formidable challenge, to say the least.

Starting from scratch, he needed to understand the navy’s origins and development.

Compared to the Imperial Army, the navy’s history was exceedingly brief. Before Emperor William founded the Empire, there was no navy—only an army. The so-called “navy” was a riverine force, able to operate only within the Empire’s borders, its main duties being to assist the army in transporting troops and supplies. It was not until thirteen years ago, in 1875, that the first Saxony-class was launched at Vulcan Shipyard.

Thirteen years had passed, and still the navy’s main force was these few vessels.

For the German Second Empire, not yet eighteen years old, this was hardly surprising. Given the Empire’s geographical situation—France to the west, Russia to the east, Austria-Hungary to the south—it was clear that the army, not the navy, would determine the Empire’s fate.

A heavy emphasis on the army and a neglect of the navy was common to all land powers.

Only when national strength was great enough to compete with the great powers globally would the Empire need a navy and begin to build a fleet.

But by then, would it not be too late?

As history had taught him, the downfall of the German Second Empire was closely tied to the loss of sea power—or, rather, to a failed naval strategy. If, in the First World War, Germany had not lost sea power—or even if it had not won it outright—would the outcome have been different?

Feng Chengqian did not dwell on the question. He only knew that if Germany had possessed a powerful navy and used it wisely, the outcome of the war would certainly have been different.

His task was to change that outcome and win a chance for himself and his nation.

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. However arduous the road ahead, Feng Chengqian had no alternative—he would not resign himself to obscurity in this turbulent era.

Once he had calmed his mind, he resolved to draft a long-term development plan.

Building a navy was unlike building an army—it was not simply a matter of recruiting men and putting them through a few months of training. Everything had to be built from the ground up.

A navy was founded on two things: men and ships.

History had shown that Germany never lacked outstanding personnel; even the navy’s officers and men were superior in quality to their opponents.

What the Empire lacked were sufficiently powerful warships.

And building warships depended on two things: industrial strength and technological prowess.

As an emerging continental power, the German Second Empire was not deficient in industrial strength. Even without any change in history, within ten years Germany’s industry would surpass Britain’s, making it the preeminent industrial power in Europe and a potential rival to Britain.

Clearly, what the Empire lacked was technological capability—above all, the accumulation of technical expertise.

Looking at the long term, if the war was to break out in thirty years, then the immediate task was to lay the scientific and technical foundations, not to rush into building ships.

With his mind made up, Feng Chengqian set to work.

On March 13th, he went to the Potsdam Palace and presented his personally drafted “Thirty-Year Development Plan for the Imperial Navy” to Frederick III.

“Have you shown this to the Chancellor?” the Emperor asked.

“Not yet,” Feng Chengqian replied.

Frederick III nodded. “That’s for the best. There’s no need for the Chancellor to know just yet.”

Feng Chengqian smiled, understanding perfectly.

“You’ve considered everything—even the situation thirty years from now.” The Emperor set down the document and, after a long pause, said, “But you know, building a powerful fleet requires enormous expenditure. As things stand, not just the Chancellor—no one else would agree.”

“That, Your Majesty, is precisely why I’ve come to consult you.”

Frederick III paused, signaling him to continue.

“As you said, now is not the time to invest in the navy. But we must think ahead. If we wait until the need arises, it may be too late.”

“So you mean…”

“My request is modest—just one-fifth of the army’s budget,” Feng Chengqian said.

Frederick III’s brows furrowed; he sensed there was more to come.

“Of course, that’s only for the first five years. During the next five, naval spending should rise to thirty percent of the army’s budget, and then increase by ten percent every five years.”

“Eventually reaching eighty percent of the army’s budget?”

Feng Chengqian nodded. “Your Majesty has reason to believe that in thirty years, the Empire will need not only a powerful army, but also a powerful navy.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“The sooner a decision is made, the better.”

Frederick III exhaled slowly. “There’s no rush today. After we return from Britain, I’ll discuss it with the Chancellor and try to secure support for you.”

With the Emperor’s words, Feng Chengqian could ask for nothing more.

Though his requests seemed modest, they placed Frederick III in a difficult position. Previously, the navy’s budget had been only five percent that of the army. In other words, if army funding remained unchanged, naval spending would triple—a significant sum.

In an era of underdeveloped finance and limited government resources, finding several hundred million marks annually for the navy was no small feat.

Fortunately, Frederick III did not doubt Feng Chengqian’s foresight.

As he left the royal study, lost in thought, Feng Chengqian failed to notice a young man approaching.

“Your Highness!” Schmidt, ever alert, stepped forward and bowed to the young man.

Only then did Feng Chengqian come to his senses and notice the man before him, about thirty years old. At that age, only two people could be addressed as “Your Highness”: the Crown Prince Wilhelm and Prince Heinrich. On seeing the left arm held close to his side, Feng Chengqian knew it was the Crown Prince Wilhelm.

Running into the Crown Prince by chance, Feng Chengqian felt a sudden sense of reassurance.