The grand harbor of Bangkok, usually a bustling mix of Siamese trading barges and European merchant steamers, was now dominated by a sight that chilled the blood of every foreign observer in the city. A massive Qing naval squadron, led by the battered but still formidable ironclad Zhenyuan, sat at anchor in the mouth of the Chao Phraya River. It was not an invasion force; the flags of parley and friendship flew from its masts. It was, the Chinese ambassador had cheerfully explained to the Siamese court, a "goodwill tour," a chance for the sailors of the Beiyang Fleet to enjoy some shore leave after their recent exertions, and a symbol of the Dragon Emperor's newfound friendship with his Southeast Asian brothers.
No one was fooled. It was a fleet of iron-toothed wolves offering a paw of friendship, their claws barely concealed.
In the opulent, humid audience hall of the Grand Palace, King Chulalongkorn of Siam, a monarch known for his shrewd intelligence and his delicate balancing act between the colonial ambitions of Britain and France, sat on his throne. Before him stood Admiral Ding Ruchang. The Chinese admiral was no longer the hesitant commander of the past; he was a man imbued with the absolute confidence of his Emperor, and he spoke with the weight of the ironclads sitting in his king's harbor.
"Your Majesty," Admiral Ding began, his voice a respectful but firm rumble, translated by a court interpreter. "The Dragon Emperor sends his warmest greetings to his royal brother in Siam. He has watched with admiration as you have modernized your great kingdom, and with sorrow as you have been forced to suffer the indignities of the Western barbarians."
King Chulalongkorn, Rama V, gave a slight, noncommittal nod, his mind racing. He knew this was no mere courtesy call.
"The Emperor believes that the age of European dominance in Asia is over," Admiral Ding continued, getting to the heart of the matter. "It is time for the great nations of Asia to reclaim what is rightfully theirs. He has noted, with great historical accuracy, that the territories of Laos and Cambodia were once integral parts of the Siamese kingdom, stolen from you by the French through trickery and force of arms." He paused, letting the statement hang in the air. "The Emperor suggests that the time has come for this historical injustice to be rectified. He believes these lands should be returned to their proper place, under Siamese administration."
The King's ministers, standing behind him, stirred uneasily. This was an offer of astonishing audacity.
"And to that end," the admiral concluded, delivering the final, crucial point, "His Majesty, the Dragon Emperor, has authorized me to inform you that he will provide the full and unwavering backing of the Beiyang Fleet to support your… 'just claims.'"
The offer was laid bare. It was not an offer of friendship. It was a command, wrapped in the guise of an opportunity. The Qing were not asking Siam to act; they were anointing Siam as their chosen proxy, their dagger to be plunged into the soft underbelly of French Indochina.
Later, in a private council with his most trusted ministers, the full weight of the dilemma was debated.
"It is a trap!" one minister, the foreign secretary, argued frantically. "This is a tiger inviting us to help him hunt a leopard. The moment the leopard is dead, the tiger will still be hungry, and he will be standing in our house!"
"But what choice do we have?" countered the war minister, a pragmatist. "Look at that fleet in our harbor. Look what they did to the Japanese. If we refuse this 'generous offer,' how long until the Dragon Emperor decides that Siam, too, is in need of his 'benevolent guidance'? To refuse is to make ourselves his next target."
"To accept is to become a vassal of China," the foreign minister retorted. "We would be trading a French leash for a Chinese cage."
The King listened to them all, his face a mask of careful thought. He was a survivor, a master of navigating the treacherous currents between two powerful European empires. He knew a third, far greater power had now entered the game. He could not fight it. He could only try to ride the wave it created. He made the pragmatic choice.
"We will accept the Emperor's… support," King Chulalongkorn announced, his voice heavy. "Draft the diplomatic note to the French Republic immediately. We will cite our ancient territorial claims to Laos and Cambodia. We will speak of the 'instability' caused by their colonial rule and the suffering of the people. We will demand an immediate withdrawal of all French presence. Send the note to their legation in Beijing as well. Let them receive the news in the dragon's own den."
In the French Legation in Beijing, Ambassador Monsieur Gerard was enjoying a glass of fine Bordeaux when the message arrived. First came the diplomatic protest from the Siamese embassy, which he almost dismissed as a joke. The Siamese, making demands? It was preposterous. Then, an hour later, a formal summons arrived from the Qing Foreign Ministry.
He was shown into a grand reception room. Prince Gong, his face as impassive as carved jade, stood waiting for him. There were no pleasantries.
The Prince read from an official, dragon-crested scroll, his voice cold and formal. "A message from the Son of Heaven, the Dragon Emperor, for the representative of the French Republic. The Dragon Emperor recognizes the historical legitimacy of the Siamese claims on the territories of Laos and Cambodia. As the self-proclaimed guarantor of peace and stability in all of Asia, a role we have now assumed, we cannot stand by and watch while our neighbors are oppressed by distant colonial powers."
Prince Gong looked up from the scroll, his eyes meeting Gerard's. "France has one month, starting today, to withdraw all military personnel, all administrative officials, and all commercial agents from Laotian and Cambodian territory. You will hand over all government functions and infrastructure to the Siamese authorities in an orderly fashion."
Monsieur Gerard, who had been listening with a growing sense of disbelief, finally found his voice. It was sputtering with outrage. "This is preposterous! Absurd! Indochina is a sovereign territory of the great French Republic! You have no right, no authority, to make such demands! This is a declaration of war!"
"It is not a declaration of war, Monsieur Gerard," Prince Gong replied, his voice chillingly calm. "It is a statement of an unalterable fact. And a courtesy. We are giving you a chance to leave with your dignity intact." He took a step closer. "Perhaps a report from your naval attaché will add context. Admiral Ding's Beiyang Fleet is, at this very moment, conducting extensive 'live-fire exercises' in the Gulf of Tonkin, right off the coast of your main port at Haiphong. And the Emperor's new Southern Army, a force of fifty thousand men armed with modern rifles and artillery, has been massing on the border of Tonkin province for the past week. They are there to 'ensure a peaceful transition.'"
The Prince leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, menacing whisper. "One month, Monsieur Gerard. Or we will remove your presence for you. And if we are forced to do that, if we are forced to bloody our own hands, we may decide that your administration in Vietnam is also a source of instability. We may decide that all of Indochina is better administered by its Asian neighbors."
The ultimatum was absolute. The threat was unmistakable. The French were being given a choice: abandon their most valuable colonies in Asia, or face a full-scale war with a modern, powerful, and utterly ruthless Chinese Empire that they could not possibly hope to win alone. The Dragon had made his first move on the global board, and he had aimed it directly at the throat of the weakest lion in the pride.