“Today we seek only to build ourselves, not to destroy another. We do not want vengeance. We only seek to right the wrongs of the Japanese Imperialists who oppress and plunder us, so we can live in a fair and humane way . . . A new world is coming. The era of Force is past, and the era of Righteousness is here. After a century of preparation, Humanitarianism has begun to shine its bright light all over the world, and a new spring is giving life to every being on earth. We have nothing to fear . . .”
JungHo didn’t understand much of what was said, but he saw around him the rapturous faces, many wet with tears, and was surprised by the hotness welling up in his own eyes. JungHo had never had a day of schooling. What he now understood was that the world was a desperately dark place, not just for his family and for the beggar boys, but for everyone standing there. Their shared pain reverberated through his body like a common heartbeat.
Finished with the speech, the student held up a flag, white with a red and blue symbol in the center. “Korean Independence manseh!” he shouted, and after the first time the crowd also joined in.
“Manseh! Manseh!” It felt as though their voices could be heard all across Seoul, carried by that same cold wind. The crowd had more than tripled in the plaza by this point, and somehow they were each holding a flag over their heads. The thousands of white flags waving and shimmering in the wind resembled a flock of cranes about to take flight.
Soon the crowd began to move, marchers standing shoulder to shoulder as they walked westward across the city. JungHo and his gang joined in, making their way down the entire length of Legation Street, from the American Consulate at number 10 to the French Legation at number 28. A slender female student walked up to the ornately carved front gates of the Legation and knocked as people shouted, “France! France! Friend of liberty! Liberty, equality, fraternity! Help us!” But it remained shut, and no sound or movement could be perceived from the curtained windows of the limestone mansion.
A whole minute had passed with enthusiastic chants of manseh before JungHo realized that the French would not open their doors. The strange whisper returned to his ear—a sound as soft as snow falling on snow. He turned to his right and left, and saw Loach, YoungGu, and all his blood brothers shouting with the crowd—and felt the stretching and slowing of time.
“Guys! We must leave. Now!” he yelled. The boys looked at him, mouths open.
He grabbed Loach and YoungGu by the arm and ran as fast as he could. The dog was barking madly, as though it had seen a ghost.
As JungHo slid into an alley, the chanting died down and turned into shouts on one end of the avenue. A Japanese squadron had arrived, led by cavalry officers. Within seconds, the marchers began running from that end, pushing the others farther into the avenue. Loud cracking noises erupted just ahead of piercing screams; the troops were firing into the backs of the people as they fled.
*
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.