Chapter 564: Washington's Anger and London's Mockery

Washington's winters are always damp and cold. The cold snap at the end of January 1917 rose like an ominous omen from the surface of the Potomac River, seeping into every crevice of Capitol Hill. Yet on this day, the chill could not dampen the crowd's enthusiasm—more precisely, their angry enthusiasm.

At ten a. m., more than five thousand people had already gathered in front of the east steps of the Capitol building. They held placards bearing bold black letters: "Punish the German murderers!", "Avenge NY-107!", "Meilika can no longer stay silent!". A few youths who looked like university students climbed onto a street‑lamp base and led the crowd in shouting slogans. Their faces were frozen bright red, and the white breath they exhaled condensed into fog in the cold air.

Reporters crowded into the reserved area, their camera lenses pointed at the building's entrance. AP senior reporter Tom Hudson rubbed his frozen fingers and said to the young assistant beside him, "Record this— a historic moment. Since the Civil War, the Congress has never seen such a surge of public fury."

"Will Wilson announce entry into the war?" the assistant asked.

"He must," Hudson said, staring at the massive oak doors of the building. "Forty‑three lives were lost on the high seas by torpedo. If the President still talks peace now, tomorrow the New York Times will call him a coward."

Inside the building, the atmosphere in the House chamber was even more solemn than outside.

Three hundred and fifty‑five legislators were almost all present. The usually empty visitors' seats were packed to the brim today—cabinet members, Supreme Court justices, foreign envoys, senior military officers. Yingguo ambassador Sai Xi Er·Si Pu Lin-Lai Si sat in the front row of the diplomatic section, his expression calm, though the hand on his knee was slightly clenched. The ambassador of the Sakura Nation sat diagonally behind him, his demeanor focused as if attending a ceremony concerning his nation's fate.

Lanfang's envoy to the United States, Li Weimin, sat in the third row. He had deliberately worn a dark‑gray Zhongshan suit today, standing out among the sea of diplomats in Western suits. The French ambassador beside him leaned over and asked in a low voice, "How are President Chen Feng's talks in Hawaii going?"

"Everything that needed to be said has been said," Li Weimin replied in fluent French, his tone even, "The rest is up to history's choice."

The French ambassador was about to ask another question when the chamber suddenly fell silent.

The Speaker struck the gavel: "All rise. Welcome the President of the United States of Meilika, Mr. Wu De Luo·Wilson."

All eyes turned toward the entrance.

Wilson entered the chamber with a slightly slower gait than usual. He wore a deep black suit, his white shirt collar fastened meticulously, but his tie was dark red—later the fashion editor of the Washington Post wrote, "It's the color of blood, or the color of anger, depending on how you look at it."

The President's complexion was pale, his eye bags more pronounced than a month earlier. He stepped onto the podium, placed his speech on the slanted lectern, and adjusted the microphone—this was the first time Congress used electronic amplification for an important address. Technicians had finished installation the previous week, and it was said the sound would reach the very last row clearly.

"Mr. Speaker, members of the House, distinguished guests," Wilson's voice rang through the loudspeakers across the hall, calm, even a little low‑pitched, "I stand here with an immeasurably heavy heart."

He paused. In the chamber, only the camera shutters and the faint hiss of the heating ducts could be heard.

"Four days ago, in the central Atlantic at 45°12′ north latitude, 35°08′ west longitude, two merchant ships flying the Meilika flag—the Ocean Merchant and the Atlantic Glory—were struck without warning by German submarine torpedoes."

Wilson drew a sheet of paper from his inner jacket pocket and unfolded it. His hand was steady.

"The captain of the Ocean Merchant, Tuo Ma Si·Mi Le, is fifty‑seven, a New Jersey native, with two sons and a daughter; his eldest son is a junior at Princeton University. The ship's structural engineer, Luo Bo Te·Chen, is forty‑two, a Chinese‑American from San Francisco who naturalized ten years ago; his wife is just expecting their third child. Sailor Zhan Mu Si·Ke Er Te, nineteen, is on his first trans‑ocean voyage; before departure he wrote his mother in Brooklyn, saying, 'When I get back this time I'll have saved enough money to buy the family a refrigerator.'"

He read twelve names. After each name followed the age, hometown, and family situation. With each name, the air in the chamber grew heavier.

After the twelfth, Wilson lifted his head. The lenses of his glasses reflected the light, obscuring his gaze.

"We have recovered the bodies of these twelve. Another thirty‑one remain missing. In the North Atlantic in January, anyone who went overboard could survive no more than thirty minutes. Thus we can essentially confirm that in the NY-107 Convoy incident, forty‑three Meilika citizens perished."

He paused again. This pause was long, unsettlingly long.

"Forty‑three lives," Wilson repeated, his voice finally showing emotional fluctuation—not fervent, but a suppressed ache, "They were not soldiers, not combatants. They were merchants, sailors, engineers—ordinary citizens engaged in lawful international trade on the high seas. Under international law, the high seas are the common heritage of all nations, and citizens of any nation have the right to navigate them freely."

He removed his glasses and wiped them with a cloth. The gesture gave him a few seconds to compose his emotions.

"When the Deguo government announced last year the implementation of 'unrestricted submarine warfare,' we lodged a stern protest. We pointed out that this indiscriminate attack on all vessels violates the Hague Convention and the most basic standards of civilization. The German response was: it is a matter of military necessity."

Wilson put his glasses back on. Now his eyes were visible—blood‑shot, yet his gaze remained sharp.

"So today I ask: what is military necessity? Is firing torpedoes at unarmed merchant ships military necessity? Is killing forty‑three civilians military necessity? Is turning the Atlantic into a graveyard for merchant ships military necessity?"

His voice did not rise, but each word struck the silent air like a hammer.

"If this is military necessity, then what distinguishes humans from beasts? If war means we can discard all rules, all morals, all humanity, then what are we fighting for? To prove who is more barbaric?"

In the visitors' seats, the Yingguo ambassador gave a slight nod. The French ambassador produced a handkerchief and dabbed his eye corner. Li Weimin recorded the proceedings with a blank expression.

"I have spent my life upholding reason and law," Wilson continued, his tone returning to a scholarly steadiness, "I believe disputes between nations can be resolved through negotiation, that humanity has progressed enough to transcend violence. Yet the past two and a half years of events in Europe have been eroding that belief. And now, war has reached our own citizens."

He braced both hands on the podium, leaning forward. The posture gave his words greater force.

"Today I stand here not to declare war. War is a last resort, the worst choice. But I must make it clear to you, to the world: Meilika will not sit by while its citizens are slaughtered, will not tolerate the trampling of freedom of navigation on the high seas, and will not accept a ruthless, survival‑of‑the‑fittest international order."