Morning in Saint Petersburg was cold and gray.
Low fog hung over the Neva. Carriages rattled along the streets while people hurried along the sidewalks wrapped in their coats.
Near a newspaper stand a small crowd had already gathered.
A young newspaper boy stood on a wooden crate and shouted at the top of his lungs.
— "Fresh news!"
— "Battle of Tsushima!"
— "The Russian fleet destroyed!"
People began to stop.
Some immediately reached for coins.
Newspapers were bought quickly.
A man in a long coat unfolded the paper right there on the street.
He read several lines and frowned.
Another passerby stopped beside him.
— "What does it say?"
The man slowly lowered the newspaper.
— "The fleet is gone."
Several people nearby turned their heads.
— "What do you mean gone?"
— "They say… almost the whole squadron."
For a few seconds no one spoke.
Then someone said quietly.
— "Then the war is lost."
An elderly man nearby shook his head.
— "First Mukden… now this."
The newspaper boy shouted again.
— "Extra edition!"
— "Tsushima Strait!"
— "The Russian squadron destroyed!"
The crowd around the stand grew larger.
People read their newspapers right there in the street.
Some cursed.
Some said nothing.
One young worker quietly said.
— "How many men must have died there…"
No one answered him.
Everyone kept reading.
Saint Petersburg was slowly waking up.
But the news spreading through the streets was already changing the mood of the city.
The war in the Far East was coming to an end.
And everyone understood it.
The Winter Palace was silent.
Several men sat around a long table.
Ministers, generals and admirals.
Maps of the Far East lay spread across the table together with several telegrams.
Nicholas II stood near the window.
He held a sheet of paper in his hands and slowly reread the lines.
No one in the room spoke.
Finally the emperor placed the telegram on the table.
— "The fleet is destroyed."
The naval minister sighed heavily.
— "Most of the squadron was lost, Your Majesty."
One of the generals said quietly.
— "After Mukden the army was already retreating."
Nicholas remained silent for a moment.
Then he asked.
— "Do we have the strength to continue the war?"
The war minister shook his head.
— "The army is exhausted."
He pointed at the map of Manchuria.
— "Our units suffered heavy losses."
An admiral added.
— "There is no fleet left in the Pacific."
Silence filled the room again.
One of the ministers spoke cautiously.
— "Perhaps… negotiations should begin."
Nicholas did not answer.
He looked at the map.
Red and blue lines stretched across Manchuria.
At that moment the door opened.
An officer entered quickly and stopped beside the table.
— "Your Majesty."
Nicholas turned.
— "Report."
— "Disorders have begun in the city."
Several ministers exchanged glances.
The officer continued.
— "Workers are gathering in the streets. There have already been clashes with the police."
One of the generals frowned.
— "How many?"
— "Crowds are forming on several squares."
Nicholas slowly approached the table.
He looked at the officer.
— "Restore order."
The officer nodded.
— "Yes, Your Majesty."
He turned and quickly left the room.
The hall became quiet again.
The emperor looked once more at the map of Manchuria.
— "Prepare proposals for negotiations."
No one argued.
Everyone understood that the war was coming to an end.
The Russian army camp stood in a valley between low hills.
After the retreat the troops were slowly regrouping.
Rows of tents stretched along the road. Wagons stood nearby together with horses and artillery pieces.
Soldiers were busy with ordinary tasks.
Some repaired equipment.
Others sat near fires warming their hands.
Medics were dressing the wounds of the injured.
The war had quieted for a moment.
But exhaustion could be felt everywhere.
Skoropadskyi stood beside a folding table where a map was spread out.
Krasnov and several officers stood nearby.
One of the infantry colonels whose division they had covered during the retreat removed his gloves and looked at Skoropadskyi.
— "I must say, Colonel…"
He paused.
— "Your regiment saved our lives."
Another officer nodded.
— "If you had not held the Japanese back we would have been surrounded."
Krasnov gave a small smile.
— "We were simply in the right place."
Skoropadskyi calmly shook his head.
— "We only gave you time."
The infantry colonel looked out across the valley.
Columns of soldiers were still moving along the road.
— "You gave us more than time."
He paused again.
— "Two divisions managed to withdraw."
For several seconds no one spoke.
Then a young officer said quietly.
— "But half the men remained there."
Skoropadskyi did not answer.
He simply looked at the map.
At that moment a signal officer approached quickly.
— "Gentlemen."
Everyone turned.
— "News has arrived from Russia."
Krasnov frowned.
— "What happened?"
The officer unfolded a telegram.
— "The fleet has been defeated in the Tsushima Strait."
For a moment no one spoke.
— "The whole squadron?"
— "Almost all of it."
The officer folded the paper.
— "The losses are enormous."
Krasnov exhaled quietly.
— "Then… it is over."
One of the infantry officers spoke slowly.
— "Now they will end the war."
No one disagreed.
Everyone understood that after Tsushima it would be impossible to continue fighting.
Skoropadskyi looked again at the map.
Then he said calmly.
— "Then we may soon go home."
That evening the camp became quieter.
Smoke from the fires rose slowly into the cold air.
Soldiers sat in small groups.
Some warmed their hands over the flames.
Others stared silently into the fire.
Conversations were quiet.
After long battles men rarely spoke loudly.
Near one fire several infantrymen were sitting together.
One of them held a tin cup of tea and watched the flames.
— "They say the fleet was destroyed."
Another soldier shrugged.
— "Everyone is talking about it today."
A third soldier raised his head.
— "If it is true… the war will end soon."
Someone gave a quiet laugh.
— "That would be good."
For a moment they were silent.
Then one soldier said.
— "I would like to go home."
Another nodded.
— "I have not seen home in almost two years."
The third man looked into the fire.
— "First we must survive the road back."
Someone nearby added quietly.
— "As long as they do not send us somewhere else again."
Several soldiers smiled faintly.
One of them threw another branch into the fire.
The flames grew brighter.
For a moment everyone simply watched the fire.
After such a long war the thought of home still seemed unreal.
But now it was being spoken aloud.
Perhaps everything would really end soon.
Night fell over the camp.
The fires slowly died down.
Some quiet conversations could still be heard but most of the camp was already asleep.
Inside a tent a small lamp was burning.
Skoropadskyi sat at a folding table.
A sheet of paper lay before him.
For a moment he simply looked at it.
Then he picked up his pen.
The ink slowly spread across the paper.
He wrote carefully.
He wrote that he was safe.
That the fighting had stopped and the army was regrouping.
That negotiations might soon begin.
Sometimes he paused for a moment.
Outside the wind could be heard moving through the camp.
Horses occasionally stamped and snorted in the darkness.
He continued writing.
There were almost no words about the war.
Only a few short lines.
He did not write about the losses.
He did not write about what he had seen.
He wrote only what mattered to his family.
That he was alive.
And that he hoped to return home soon.
When the letter was almost finished he added one final line.
"I hope to see you very soon."
Skoropadskyi put down the pen.
For a moment he looked at the letter.
Then he folded it carefully and sealed it.
The lamp flickered quietly.
Outside the tent the camp slept.
The war in the Far East was coming to an end.