Chapter 4Inadvertent Expansion on the Eurasian Steppe Russia
Such has been the fate of every country which has found itself in a similar position. The United States of America, France in Algeria, Holland in her Colonies, England in India—all have been irresistibly forced, less by ambition than by imperious necessity, into this onward march, where the greatest difficulty is to know when to stop.
—Prince Alexander M. Gorchakov, 1864
This chapter examines inadvertent expansion in two cases from the Russian Empire in Central Asia. The first case focuses on the Russian acquisition of territory in the Khanate of Kokand in 1864–66. The second case examines the Russian Empire’s nonacquisition of the Ili region of western Qing Dynasty China in 1871–81. The purpose of this chapter is to present the book’s second pair of comparative theory-testing cases, showing how variation in geopolitical risk across the two cases helped produce the divergent outcomes observed. The comparison of the Russian Empire in the Khanate of Kokand and in the Ili region is useful in that the two cases hold many factors fixed—the same great power, operating in the same region, with most of the same leaders in the capital, and separated by only five years—while the outcomes vary for reasons of geopolitical risk.
Russia in the Khanate of Kokand, 1864–66
The Russian Empire acquired the Khanate of Kokand’s cities of Chimkent (now Shymkent, Kazakhstan) and Tashkent (now Tashkent, Uzbekistan) between July 1864 and August 1866. The conquest of these cities was independently planned and executed by a local officer of the Imperial Russian Army, both exceeding (in Chimkent) and disregarding (in Tashkent) the orders of his civilian and military superiors in the capital, Saint Petersburg. The theory of inadvertent expansion makes three central arguments that are borne out in this case. First, that peripheral expansion is the result of a principal-agent problem: that a combination of a divergence of preferences between leaders in the capital and their agents on the periphery and information asymmetries favoring the agents lead to a loss of control over the agents’ actions. In the case of Russia in Kokand, there was a significant divergence of preferences between leaders in the capital and members of the Imperial Russian Army on the Central Asian frontier, and the vast distances separating the two led to dramatic information asymmetries in favor of the army. Second, that once a territory is partly or wholly acquired, a number of constraints emerge that make it difficult for leaders in the capital to simply withdraw. In the case at hand, the frontier army’s striking successes in acquiring these cities sunk the costs of their acquisition, and broader concerns for Russian national honor meant backing down seemed out of the question. And third, that a lack of perceived geopolitical risk associated with acquisition will encourage leaders in the capital to accept the fait accompli, resulting in territorial expansion. In the case of Russia in Kokand, the Central Asian khanates were relatively weak, and concerns over a potentially adverse reaction by the British were quickly alleviated by their muted response. These facts strengthened the case for central authorization, which would occur when Tashkent was formally annexed to the Russian Empire in August 1866.
Historical Background
The Russian Empire began to advance deep into the Kazakh Steppe of Central Asia in the 1840s. From its base in Orenburg, at the southern tip of the Ural Mountains, a string of forts was established through the late 1840s and early 1850s, culminating in the conquest of Ak Mechet and the founding of Fort Perovsk there in 1853. Further to the east, from Omsk in Western Siberia, a similar southward advance ensued, which itself would culminate in the founding of the town of Vernyi in 1854. These two lines each penetrated over 1,000 km southward into the Kazakh Steppe, fully enveloping it. Yet they themselves were separated by over 1,000 km of uncharted territory.1 To the south of the Russian lines were the three Uzbek khanates of Bukhara, Khiva, and Kokand.2 Established at the turn of the previous century, these Islamic kingdoms were militarily weak, prone to warfare among themselves, and often internally divided in ways that made them vulnerable to outside influence and attack.3 The Khanate of Kokand—with a population of approximately 1.5 million—sat further north than the other two, and its affluent urban centers of Chimkent and Tashkent made it an enticing target for the expanding Russian Empire.4
By the early 1860s, the central question of Russian imperial policy in Central Asia was when—and, more importantly, where—to connect Russia’s two strings of forts and establish a defensible southern border for the empire.5 The foreign minister at the time was the esteemed diplomat, Alexander Gorchakov, who was unusually cautious and averse to the use of military force for interests he deemed peripheral.6 The war minister was Dmitry Miliutin, a brilliant military strategist who tended to be more forward leaning in his advocacy for the use of force.7 Their principal role in imperial policy was to inform and advise the Russian czar, Alexander II. These three individuals—Gorchakov, Miliutin, and Alexander II—were the leaders in the capital who were primarily responsible for Russian imperial policy. It is they who would be dragged unwittingly into more territorial acquisitions than they had bargained for in Central Asia.
In February 1863, a special committee on Central Asian policy was held in the capital, Saint Petersburg, and it was agreed that reconnaissance between Russia’s two lines was a necessary first step.8 The individual tasked with this reconnaissance would be a lieutenant colonel in the Imperial Russian Army, Mikhail Grigorevich Cherniaev. A career military officer and decorated veteran of the Crimean War, Cherniaev had a strong independent streak and was often impatient and quarrelsome with his superiors.9 Lieutenant Colonel Cherniaev was the key actor on the Russian imperial periphery who would independently launch the conquests in the Khanate of Kokand.
Cherniaev began his reconnaissance of the territory separating Fort Perovsk and the town of Vernyi in the spring of 1863. The instructions given to him by the governor-general of Orenburg were to “display the greatest peaceableness, and use arms only in case of extreme necessity.”10 However, Cherniaev’s actions on this exploratory mission would be a strong indication of what was to come. On May 30, he came upon the town of Suzaq, some 400 km down the Syr-Darya River from Fort Perovsk. Cherniaev was then fired on, and he ordered a retaliatory bombardment of the town, leading to its prompt surrender. News of the acquisition of Suzaq shocked the governor-general of Orenburg but was met with praise in Saint Petersburg. Even the usually cautious Foreign Minister Gorchakov noted in July 1863 that the “successful actions of Colonel Cherniaev, without special expenditures and sacrifices have brought us closer to the goal [of connecting the lines] which we had in view originally.”11 The following month, Gorchakov and War Minister Miliutin agreed that the lines should be joined expeditiously, and this was officially ordered by Czar Alexander II on December 20, 1863.12 The key question was where they would be connected.
It was agreed in early 1864 that an initial line would be drawn north of the Syr-Darya and Arys Rivers, and it would be connected from Suzaq through the town of Aulie-Ata. The line could then, according to Miliutin, be moved further south and connected through Chimkent “when the time is favorable.”13 On February 9, 1864, Cherniaev was appointed commander of the Western Siberian detachment based in Omsk and was given orders to occupy and fortify Aulie-Ata.14 While Cherniaev’s orders do mention that there were longer-term plans to incorporate Chimkent into the empire, his specific orders were to capture and garrison of Aulie-Ata and then to connect with another Russian force to the west, thereby establishing the empire’s Central Asian frontier.15 In late April, Cherniaev departed Vernyi with twenty-five hundred personnel, and he succeeded in taking Aulie-Ata by early June.16 By the end of the month, the lines between Perovsk and Vernyi were connected, and Cherniaev was promoted to major general.17 His orders had been fulfilled with striking success, and Cherniaev clearly understood this. As he wrote to his parents in a letter on June 6, 1864, the capture of Aulie-Ata was “the final goal proposed for the force’s activities this year.”18
Saint Petersburg and Russian Central Asia
Saint Petersburg suffered severe principal-agent problems with respect to Cherniaev and its other agents on the Central Asian frontier. First, the vast distance between Saint Petersburg and Russian Central Asia, and the rudimentary state of transportation and communications technology, meant that there were important information asymmetries favoring the periphery. While Orenburg had been connected to Saint Petersburg by telegraph since the 1850s, Russian territory deep in Central Asia would not see a telegraph station until 1873, and the region would not be fully accessible by rail until 1898.19 It took a full month’s difficult journey to travel the approximately 1,500 km from Orenburg to the front lines in Russian Central Asia, and, therefore, communications sent from Saint Petersburg would take at least two months to receive a reply.20 According to historian David MacKenzie, this distance “stimulated initiative and independent judgment but encouraged ambitious commanders seeking decorations and promotion to commit their government to a course contradicting its general policy.”21 It also meant that frontier agents such as Cherniaev were often the only source of information on happenings in the region, and they could (and did) distort events in their favor, exaggerating the severity of local threats and glossing over their own mistakes and misdeeds.22
Second, there was a divergence of preferences between the leaders in Saint Petersburg and the actors on the Central Asian frontier when it came to Russian imperial policy there. In general, leaders in Saint Petersburg were not in favor of significant expansion in the region.23 Perhaps, in the relatively near future, Chimkent could be added to Russian holdings, but Tashkent, further to the south, was seen as off limits by most. While there had been regular calls from within the Russian government for Tashkent’s acquisition since the late 1850s, those whose opinions mattered most—Alexander II, Gorchakov, and, to a lesser extent, Miliutin—were opposed.24 They preferred to consolidate existing Russian gains in the region rather than add to them, were concerned about the potential for sparking conflict with Britain, and thought it better to influence these territories as independent entities from the outside rather than directly controlling them from within.25 In sum, leaders in the capital embodied what I referred to in chapter 1 as the “view from the capital”—the responsibilities of rule were weighty, the dangers were distant, and the incentive to act quickly was weak.
In contrast, many actors near and on the Central Asian frontier advocated for a more expansionist policy for Russia there. As MacKenzie notes, in Central Asia, the Russians “close to the scene of action were usually the most militant and impatient.”26 Cherniaev, in particular, had long argued for a more forceful policy in the region and had come to see Chimkent and Tashkent as particularly enticing possibilities. As he wrote, while posted on the Central Asian frontier in the late 1850s, advocating for an advance beyond Fort Perovsk, “We have the resources for this, but they are being kept under wraps . . . We need this region to extend our influence over Central Asia.”27 Hardened frontier agents such as Cherniaev exemplified what I referred to as “the view from the frontier”—their responsibilities were narrow, the dangers were near, and, therefore, their temptation to act was high. Thus, as a result of a divergence of preferences and information asymmetries, leaders in Saint Petersburg had a very difficult time controlling the actions of agents on the periphery, and this opened the door to a great deal of independent action.
Chimkent
Within just days of taking Aulie-Ata and connecting the Russian lines, Cherniaev began eyeing Chimkent, a Kokandian city roughly 160 km to the southwest. In the first week of July 1864, Cherniaev resolved to advance on the city, writing to the governor-general of Western Siberia that because “Kokanese concentrations grow daily . . . I have decided to protect Aulie-Ata and nearby nomads by advancing toward Chimkent and operating there according to circumstances.”28 Cherniaev then set out from Aulie-Ata with a force of fourteen hundred toward Chimkent, arriving at the city walls on July 19. After a battle with Kokandian forces that resulted in a resounding Russian victory, Cherniaev realized his own force was insufficient to capture the city outright and so returned to Aulie-Ata.29 This initial, abortive attempt did not dissuade Cherniaev from his goal of acquiring the city. In an August 1864 letter to the Imperial Russian Army’s general staff, Cherniaev wrote that by “taking Chimkent we shall deliver a decisive blow to Kokand,” and he argued that the city’s “seizure before winter is not only beneficial but essential for the region’s peace.”30 Cherniaev then pointedly asked, with characteristic threat inflation, “Should we wait until, with the help of Europeans, military science in Kokand compares with our own, or should we now remove their power to resist?”31 The major general summed up his message by declaring: “I have decided to conquer Chimkent on my own responsibility,” and this is precisely what he would do.32
On September 12, 1864, Cherniaev once again set out from Aulie-Ata, this time with a force of seventeen hundred.33 The number of Kokandian forces at Chimkent had declined in the preceding weeks, and the prospects for a successful attack looked much improved. Cherniaev’s forces arrived at Chimkent on September 19, and after a two-day siege, they stormed the city. The invasion itself reportedly took place through a sixty-foot water pipe extending through the city wall, with Cherniaev audaciously plunging into the pipe before any of his subordinates.34 Within a few hours, Chimkent had fallen and Cherniaev was in control of the city. He had pulled off his fait accompli and the Russian Empire had gained a new territory.
When news of Cherniaev’s attacks on Chimkent began to filter back to Saint Petersburg, reactions were mixed. When he heard of Cherniaev’s first, abortive attack on the city, War Minister Miliutin grumbled that such “an extension of our frontiers never entered into our plans; it lengthens our lines unduly and requires considerable increases of forces.” The problem they faced, the War Minister added, was that “communications are so slow that any instructions arrive too late.”35 However, this would not stop him from engaging in the largely futile exercise of telegraphing the governor-general of Western Siberia the following day, ordering him to instruct Cherniaev “in no case . . . to go further than was proposed.”36 A few weeks later, when he learned of Chimkent’s successful acquisition, an exasperated Miliutin asked, “Who will guarantee that after Chimkent Cherniaev won’t consider it necessary to take Tashkent, then Kokand, and there will be no end to it.”37 Foreign Minister Gorchakov felt similarly and was ultimately in favor of withdrawal.38
However, the very fact of Cherniaev’s successful acquisition of Chimkent placed constraints on leaders in Saint Petersburg, making the territory very difficult to readily relinquish for two reasons. The first was the simple fact that the territory had already been acquired: the costs of acquisition had been sunk. While leaders may not have wanted it to be taken just then and there, longer-term plans to add Chimkent to the empire existed, and so Cherniaev was largely insubordinate with respect to the timing of the conquest rather than the conquest itself.39 And once it was in Russian hands, some in Saint Petersburg, such as many in the War Ministry, saw it as too strategically valuable to give up.40 The second were the concerns over Russian national honor, particularly those of Czar Alexander II. He was far more enthusiastic than his advisers regarding the whole venture, awarding Cherniaev with the Saint George’s Cross, Third Class, and referring to the conquest as “a glorious affair.”41 Alexander II was prone to fall prey to concerns over Russian national prestige, and given that it was his opinion that mattered most, his enthusiasm meant that reversal was not an option.42 Chimkent was to be part of the Russian Empire. Cherniaev would get his way.
Tashkent
After the fall of Chimkent, history would repeat itself with the next major Kokandian urban center, Tashkent. Sitting just 120 km south of the walls of Chimkent and being the largest and most prosperous city in Central Asia, it would prove to be an even more enticing target for Cherniaev and his forces. Again, just days after the successful conquest of Chimkent, Cherniaev decided to move on Tashkent. Citing rumors of a threat from the neighboring Khanate of Bukhara, Cherniaev informed the governor-general of Western Siberia on September 25, 1864, that he was advancing on Tashkent, “not to occupy it, but if circumstances prove favorable, to forestall the plans of the emir of Bukhara.”43 Two days later, he departed Chimkent, heading south toward Tashkent with fifteen hundred personnel.44 Cherniaev and his forces arrived at the Tashkent city walls on October 2 and initiated a preparatory barrage. Thinking the walls had been breached, Cherniaev’s force advanced, only to find the wall intact and themselves in a highly vulnerable position. Cherniaev ultimately ordered a retreat, but only after suffering sixteen dead and sixty-two wounded, including the deaths of two of his top commanders.45 While not an enormous loss in an absolute sense, with no gains to show for it and in terms of Russia’s wars of empire in Central Asia, this was seen as an unmitigated disaster.
When news of Cherniaev’s advance on Tashkent reached Saint Petersburg, leaders there were infuriated. In a memo to the emperor on October 31, Foreign Minister Gorchakov argued that such a move was “extremely dangerous and not only would place no limits on our advance into the heart of Central Asia but would . . . involve us directly in all the wars and disorders there.”46 That same day, Gorchakov memorialized that “we have firmly resolved not to occupy additional lands” and recommended that Tashkent be promptly evacuated if it were occupied.47 A few weeks later, Gorchakov and War Minister Miliutin penned a joint memorandum, arguing that every “new conquest, by lengthening our frontiers, requires a considerable increase in military resources and expenditures . . . and weakens Russia,” and recommended drawing the line at Chimkent.48 While Cherniaev would deliberately drag his feet in filing the report on the disastrous results of his attack, details of his failure and the associated casualties reached the capital in late November, and this only made matters worse.49 When the czar finally heard of Cherniaev’s failed attack on December 2, he wrote: “I greatly regret that he decided upon a useless assault costing us so many men.”50
Foreign Minister Gorchakov was particularly worried about the reactions of the other great powers and, especially, that of the United Kingdom. In an effort to allay any concerns, he wrote a memorandum on November 21, 1864, to be circulated among Russia’s European embassies and presented to local counterparts.51 In what has become known, simply, as “The Gorchakov Memorandum,” the foreign minister justified recent Russian expansion by pointing to the challenges posed by the Russian Central Asian frontier. In order to ensure the security and prosperity of its frontier regions, the foreign minister argued, Russia is forced to choose between two unwelcome alternatives: to “abandon its frontier to perpetual disturbance” or to “plunge deeper and deeper into barbarous countries, where the difficulties and expenses increase with every step in advance.” However, with the connection of Russian lines through Chimkent, Gorchakov assured his counterparts that this advance would come to an end. Going forward, they would make every effort “to prove to our neighboring states . . . that Russia is not their enemy, [and] that she entertains towards them no ideas of conquest.”52 While some scholars have dismissed the memorandum as merely a “smoke screen” for further expansion, the evidence suggests that Gorchakov’s message was sincere.53 The plan in Central Asia, as far as Saint Petersburg was concerned, was for Russia to expand no further.
But Cherniaev, predictably, had other ideas. Cooling his heels for the winter at Chimkent, he itched for another shot at Tashkent. As he complained in a letter to a friend on the Russian general staff on January 22, 1865, “The attack on Tashkent was not as pointless as my friends in St. Petersburg claimed. Had it not been for my instructions, by now I would have driven the Kokanese from that little town.” But “in St. Petersburg,” he continued sarcastically, “of course, they know better.”54 But his orders were clear. On February 2, War Minister Miliutin dispatched a message to Orenburg, reminding them that Cherniaev should “undertake nothing” without specific orders and reinforcements, and, in a separate dispatch on February 23, Foreign Minister Gorchakov noted that “we have decided not to include [Tashkent] within the empire, because we consider it incomparably more beneficial to limit ourselves to indirect influence over it.”55
However, even these most direct of instructions would not deter the major general. Once again citing a Bukharan threat to Tashkent, Cherniaev set out from Chimkent in late April 1865 with a force of thirteen hundred personnel and twelve cannons.56 He sent a message to the governor-general of Orenburg on May 2, arguing that he “could not remain indifferent to the [Bukharan] Emir’s machinations and was compelled, without awaiting the arrival of reinforcements on the line, to advance now along the road to Tashkent.”57 Cherniaev’s force first cut off Tashkent’s water supply from a nearby fortress then laid siege to the city itself on May 7.58 Cherniaev’s sieging army was attacked, by the Kokandian warlord Alimqul with a force of six thousand, but made easy work of them, inflicting three hundred deaths on the Kokandians, including Alimqul himself, and losing only twenty wounded of their own.59
By early June, the effects of the siege were beginning to bite. Hunger and drought were affecting the populace, and a Bukharan army had surreptitiously slipped into the city one night to take over its defenses. Cherniaev saw his window of opportunity closing, and, at this point, he did not see backing down as an option. As he wrote to the governor-general of Orenburg on June 11, to “withdraw from the city would give the [Bukharan] Emir vast prestige in Central Asia and strengthen him with all the sinews of war concentrated in Tashkent. Consequently, I decided to seize the city by open force.”60
With a reinforced army of 1,950 personnel, Cherniaev launched the assault on Tashkent in the early morning of June 15.61 Despite being surrounded by a moat, 26 km of twelve-to-fifteen-foot walls, twelve fortified gates, and sixty-three cannons, Cherniaev’s forces were able to penetrate the city with the aid of internal collaborators.62 Tashkent’s much larger Kokandian and Bukharan force of 30,000, it would turn out, was no match for the Russian army, and on June 17 the city surrendered.63 Tashkent, a city of 150,000 and the largest in Central Asia, had been acquired at a cost of twenty-eight Russians killed and eighty-eight wounded.64 He triumphantly reported to Orenburg that, with Tashkent’s occupation, “we have acquired in Central Asia a status consonant with the interests of the Empire and the might of the Russian people.”65 The fait accompli was complete. (See figure 4.1.)
The reaction from Saint Petersburg was, again, mixed. On the one hand, official policy was still guided by the Gorchakov Memorandum: Russia’s Central Asian border was to run through Chimkent, and Tashkent was to remain firmly outside the bounds of the empire. Gorchakov and Miliutin agreed that Cherniaev should, ultimately, withdraw and that Tashkent should be independent, in line with this policy.66 On the other hand, many leaders in the capital found it difficult to not get swept up in the excitement of the moment. Czar Alexander II, employing the same language he did after the acquisition of Chimkent, referred to Cherniaev’s actions as “glorious” and ordered the presentation of “rewards to those who distinguished themselves.”67 The Russian interior minister captured the mood of many in Saint Petersburg when he summed up the situation on July 20, 1865: “General Cherniaev took Tashkent. No one knows why or to what end. . . . There is something erotic about our goings on at the distant periphery of the empire.”68
Figure 4.1. Mikhail Cherniaev Kokand campaign, June 1863–June 1865. Created by Beehive Mapping.
Cherniaev’s successful acquisition of Tashkent, as with Chimkent, placed constraints on leaders in the capital that made withdrawal appear very difficult. The most important of these was the engagement of Russian national honor and prestige, and the Bukharan emir’s demand that the Russians withdraw only strengthened these pressures. On July 29, in a memo to the governor-general of Orenburg, Miliutin argued that “the dignity of the Empire and the interests of Russia do not allow us even to consider the possibility of retreat or concession to the Emir of Bukhara’s arrogant demands. Our whole future in Central Asia depends on [it].”69 Even the usually cautious Gorchakov raised such concerns. In a memo to Miliutin on July 23, he complained about Cherniaev’s insubordination but affirmed, “We cannot retreat now. It is unthinkable to bow before the emir.”70 The need to defend Russian honor, and to not appear weak before Central Asian rivals, was a powerful motivating force in this instance.71
And, besides, there were few geopolitical risks associated with retaining Chimkent and Tashkent. The Kokandian armies had shown themselves to be no match for the Russian forces, and the armies of Bukhara and Khiva, too, were poorly equipped, trained, and disciplined and tended to fight among themselves.72 The khanates were highly unlikely to be able to mount an effective collective defense. There were also few rival great power interests at stake. Chimkent and Tashkent were at least 350 km from the Afghan border and nearly 600 km from British India. During Russia’s conquests, the Kokandian leaders sent envoys to Calcutta, requesting aid and protection against the expanding Russian Empire, but the British were unwilling to get involved.73 The United Kingdom, in this period, embraced a policy in Central Asia known as “masterly inactivity,” a strong commitment to avoid potentially entangling alliances and interventions in the region.74 Once Tashkent fell, London, for its part, was willing to accept Russian assurances and largely acquiesced to the conquest.75 The lack of adverse reaction by Britain weakened arguments made within the czarist cabinet for withdrawal from Tashkent, and strengthened arguments for its retention.76 It would take two more decades of steady Russian gains for the British to push back, as they did with the Russian annexation of Panjdeh in 1885, nearly sparking a war between the two great powers.77 This is where Russian expansion in the region would come to an end. As MacKenzie notes, “What eventually set limits to Russian expansion in Central Asia were . . . mountain barriers and British power.”78 Both were conspicuously absent in this case.
Cherniaev, it would turn out, was a better warrior than administrator. He not only continued to routinely defy the orders of his superiors in Orenburg and Saint Petersburg but badly mismanaged the finances of the occupation as well.79 By November 1865, Saint Petersburg had had enough, and the emperor ordered Cherniaev recalled. As Miliutin later explained the decision, Cherniaev’s “willfulness, disobedience, and petty tyranny amounted to clear violations of the basic rules of the military service.”80 However, it turned out that removing so popular an officer was not totally straightforward, and it would take until the end of April 1866 for Cherniaev to finally arrive back in the capital, where he was received at the Winter Palace. After a frosty reception by both Gorchakov and Miliutin, Cherniaev was brought in for an audience with Czar Alexander II. While Cherniaev was initially apprehensive, the czar’s warm welcome and affectionate embrace moved the major general to tears.81 It also is noteworthy that official War Ministry accounts written soon after Cherniaev’s dismissal largely exonerated the major general and placed the blame squarely on the shoulders of Bukhara.82 Saint Petersburg, it seemed, was eager to quickly and quietly put the past behind it.
Tashkent was formally annexed to the Russian Empire by the governor-general of Orenburg in August 1866. Renewed conflict with Bukhara that had bubbled up since Cherniaev’s conquest put an end to any idea of its independence.83 In July 1867, after much discussion, the area was organized as the governate-general (krai) of Turkestan, with Tashkent as its political and administrative center.84 Chimkent, Tashkent, and their surrounding areas would not see true independence until the collapse of the Soviet Union over 120 years later.
The individual who would be given the difficult task of administering this new Russian territory was a lieutenant general in the Imperial Russian Army, Konstantin Petrovich von Kaufman. Unlike Cherniaev, Kaufman was not expected to engage in insubordination. As he personally told Czar Alexander II before departing for Tashkent, “I do not fear supervision over me and my activities . . . , nor do I seek to escape it.”85 However, things would be different once he was on the ground in Russian Central Asia. And Kaufman would prove to be just the latest peripheral agent to nearly drag his superiors in Saint Petersburg into an unplanned territorial acquisition.
Russia and the IIi Region, 1871–81
The Russian Empire refrained from acquiring the Ili region of western China (now Ili Kazakh Autonomous Prefecture, Xinjiang, China) between June 1871 and February 1881. The conquest of this area was planned and ordered by the governor-general of Russian Turkestan, acting without orders from his superiors in Saint Petersburg. The theory of inadvertent expansion makes three central arguments that are supported in this case. First, that unauthorized peripheral expansion is the result of a principal-agent problem, combining a divergence of preferences between the capital and the periphery and information asymmetries favoring the latter. In the case of Russia in the Ili region, the absence of rapid communications greatly hampered central control, and there was a divergence of preferences between those in Saint Petersburg and those on the Chinese frontier. Second, that once territory is acquired, a number of constraints arise that make it difficult to readily relinquish it. In the Ili region case, concerns over domestic political pressure and Russian national honor gave leaders in Saint Petersburg pause before they decided to withdraw. And third, that significant geopolitical risk associated with acquisition of a given territory will discourage leaders from subsequently authorizing their peripheral agents’ faits accomplis, leading to relinquishment. In the case of Russia in Ili, China’s clear willingness to fight over the territory, and a locally adverse balance of power in China’s favor, pressed Russian leaders to return the territory, which they did with the Treaty of Saint Petersburg in February 1881.
Historical Background
On the eve of the Russian invasion in 1871, the Ili region was an area of roughly 3,200 km2 in the northwest of Qing Dynasty China’s protectorate of Xinjiang, right on the Russian border.86 The Ili region was lush and fertile compared to its more arid surroundings, consisting of the Ili River and its valley, which flowed from its source in the Tian Shan Mountains westward to the border with Russian Turkestan.87 It was also remote, sitting nearly 3,000 km from Beijing and over 3,800 km from Saint Petersburg. Qing China’s presence in the Ili region—and Xinjiang more broadly—was thin, and its hold over the region, precarious, and the region experienced regular unrest and rebellion.88 One such rebellion would eventually serve as a precipitating cause of the Russian invasion.
A major Muslim rebellion broke out in 1862 in the northern Xinjiang region of Dzungaria.89 By 1864, it had reached the Ili River valley, and it began to cause problems all along the Russo-Chinese frontier, including the interruption of trade, cross-border raids, destruction of Russian property, and massive refugee flows.90 Observing events from across the Russian border in Turkestan was its governor-general, Konstantin Petrovich von Kaufman. Kaufman had an esteemed military career and was a veteran of the Russian conquest of the Caucasus and the Crimean War. He had also been a personal aide to War Minister Dmitry Miliutin, which won him the minister’s friendship and confidence—and, eventually, his recommendation for the governor-generalship in 1867.91 This would be a challenging assignment for Kaufman: the territory had just recently been conquered, he had no regional experience, and he needed to establish an administrative structure from scratch, all while being overseen by superiors some 3,500 km away in Saint Petersburg.92 But Kaufman had their every confidence, being granted broad economic, political, and military powers to enable him to organize the new governate-general as he saw fit.93 And, contrary to his earlier-mentioned assurances of obedience, Kaufman would show an independent streak once he was on the ground in Tashkent, effecting the conquest of the Khanate of Bukhara in June 1868 without authorization from Saint Petersburg.94 Kaufman was the frontier agent who would nearly drag the leaders in the Russian capital into acquiring the Ili region.
The cast of characters in Saint Petersburg had changed little from the conquests of Chimkent and Tashkent just a few years earlier. Alexander II was still czar and Dmitry Miliutin, war minister. Alexander Gorchakov was technically still the foreign minister, however, the director of the ministry’s Asiatic Department, Nikolay K. Giers, was increasingly acting in that role, partly due to Gorchakov’s health and, later, partly due to his political sidelining after Russia’s embarrassing political defeat at the Congress of Berlin in 1878.95 These were the leaders in the capital who would be dragged unwittingly into nearly acquiring the Ili River valley from China.
Saint Petersburg and Turkestan
Saint Petersburg faced serious principal-agent problems with respect to its agents on the Chinese frontier in Russian Turkestan. First, there were stark information asymmetries in favor of the frontier agents such as Kaufman. The region would not see a telegraph connection with Saint Petersburg until 1873, when Tashkent and Vernyi extended connections.96 The closest existing telegraph station to the Ili River frontier with China was in Omsk, nearly 1,400 km away. Under these circumstances, it was incredibly difficult to communicate with, and thereby potentially control, wayward peripheral agents. According to a contemporary member of the Russian Finance Ministry, due to “the remoteness of the region and the lack of telegraph, [Kaufman] was compelled by force of circumstances . . . to take measures for which under normal conditions he would have needed to ask permission.”97 Even after the installation of a number of telegraph stations in the region, it was still widely known that the government in Saint Petersburg was “very badly informed as to what actually goes on” in Russian Central Asia.98
Beyond the information asymmetries, there was also a divergence of preferences between the leaders in Saint Petersburg and their frontier agents, with leaders in the capital tending to be more defensively oriented and the frontier agents more expansionist. This was put in stark relief with Kaufman’s unauthorized conquest of the Khanate of Bukhara in 1868, where, when ordered by the capital to return the territory, Kaufman flatly refused to “commit such sacrilege against the prestige, honor and rights of Russia.”99 With respect to China in particular, leaders in the capital, and the Foreign Ministry in particular, did not want to disturb Russia’s good relations with the Qing Empire and, therefore, were opposed to any territorial acquisitions there.100 When Kaufman suggested in 1870 that Russian forces should occupy the Ili River valley, the idea was summarily rejected by the government in Saint Petersburg.101 Thus, information asymmetries favoring the periphery, and a preference divergence with the capital, made unauthorized peripheral expansion a distinct possibility in this case.
The Ili Region
By April 1871, the turbulence along the Sino-Russian border had only gotten worse and the Russian government in Saint Petersburg decided it was time to develop a plan to work with the Chinese government to put down the uprisings.102 However, Kaufman was a few steps ahead of his metropolitan superiors. While he understood, as he wrote to Miliutin in February 1871, that he was prohibited from conquering Qing territory “by categorical order from the Highest Authority,” he had been working on a plan to occupy the Ili River valley on his own accord since August 1870.103 And when he received intelligence that Yaqub Beg’s armies were moving on the Ili region, Kaufman decided he could wait no longer.104 In May 1871, he ordered the military governor of Semirechye, Major General G. A. Kolpakovskii, to conquer the Ili region. On June 24, 1871, with a force of 1,850, Kolpakovskii crossed the Chinese border and began to move rapidly up the Ili River, eventually creating a Russian occupation area that extended roughly 400 km up the valley.105 While there were armed clashes with local rebel forces, they were, ultimately, no match for the Russian army, and, on July 4, 1871, Kolpakovskii declared the Ili region annexed to the Russian Empire “in perpetuity.”106 This had all been accomplished without the knowledge or authorization of leaders in Saint Petersburg.107 Kaufman’s fait accompli had been successfully executed.
Saint Petersburg Reacts . . . and Delays
It took about three weeks for news of the conquest to begin to filter back to Saint Petersburg and even longer to reach Beijing.108 In his report back to the capital, Kaufman justified his action based on the danger associated with rebel forces looking to consolidate power in the Ili River valley.109 Once most of the facts had become clear, the Russian minister in Beijing was instructed to inform the Chinese government of the conquest, which he did on September 1, 1871. China’s control over, and communications with, its western territories was so weak that this was when its government first became aware that the Ili River valley had come under foreign occupation.110 However, to their relief, from the get-go Russian officials were interested in discussing when and how they would retrocede the territory back to China. The Russian position was that the occupation was a necessary, but temporary, expedient to protect their border from Muslim rebels. Once China had suppressed the rebellion and retaken control over Xinjiang, the Russians argued, they would be prepared to return the territory.111 According to a report from the Russian Foreign Ministry, the return of the Ili region “can only take place in the event that the Chinese Government presents us with adequate guarantees of an enduring reestablishment of its authority there.”112 This policy was made official in December 1872, when Czar Alexander II issued orders requiring the return of the Ili region once China had reestablished control in Xinjiang and the Russian border was secure.113 And, having lost control of most of its western territories, China was hardly in a position to resist.
The Chinese took these conditions seriously; perhaps more seriously than the Russian leaders had expected.114 The government entrusted the recovery of Xinjiang to the famed Chinese general Zuo Zongtang.115 General Zuo had spent decades suppressing the Taiping Rebellion, and then various Muslim rebellions in the west, and so he was the perfect person for the job.116 General Zuo began his campaign in March 1876 and, in less than two years, had successfully pacified the rebellion and was in control of all of Xinjiang except the Russian-occupied Ili River valley.117 Chinese leaders felt they had accomplished what the Russians had required of them and were ready to negotiate Russia’s withdrawal.
In March 1878, Czar Alexander II constituted a committee under War Minister Miliutin to discuss the Ili problem. The committee, again, recommended the return of the Ili region to China but had moved the goalposts in the intervening years. According to Miliutin, the committee “came to the conclusion that dignity of the state demands from us the honourable fulfillment of the promise” to return Ili, “but not before we have received from the Chinese the appropriate concessions.”118 These concessions would prove to be onerous. China’s newly constituted foreign office, the Zongli Yamen, sent an envoy to Saint Petersburg who would arrive in late 1878 to negotiate the return of the Ili region.119 For reasons that remain a matter of historical debate, the envoy effectively agreed to all of Russia’s terms and came to an agreement, against the explicit orders of the Zongli Yamen.120 The result was the Treaty of Livadia of October 2, 1879, which granted to Russia the Ili region’s most strategic territory, a five-million-ruble indemnity, the right to establish seven new consulates in Xinjiang, and substantial new trading privileges, among other benefits.121 It was an overwhelming diplomatic victory for Saint Petersburg and an outright disaster for Beijing.
The Qing court was thrown into turmoil by news of the treaty’s signing.122 The territorial cessions in the Ili River valley were particularly alarming, including key strategic passes through the Tian Shan Mountain range, which would have given Russia effective military control of the entirety of Xinjiang.123 China’s leaders were furious. Upon learning of the concessions made by the envoy, Empress Dowager Cixi, China’s de facto ruler, was said to have burst out in exasperation that he “must die!”124 In February 1880, a conference established by the Qing court officially renounced the Treaty of Livadia, disavowed the actions of the envoy, and threw him in prison with a sentence of death by beheading.125 The court then appointed another envoy to renegotiate the settlement of the Ili crisis, who would arrive in Saint Petersburg in July. The envoy carried with him a document of core principles for the negotiations and was under strict orders to follow them precisely.126
Saint Petersburg’s Calculus
After hearing the demands of the Chinese envoy, the czar convened another grand conference on August 13, 1880, which was attended by War Minister Miliutin and the acting foreign minister Giers, among others.127 The committee, which would meet several times over the coming months, was tasked with making a final decision on the fate of the Ili region. Despite Chinese demands for a prompt withdrawal from the territory, it was not quite so simple from the Russian leaders’ perspectives. This is because the conquest itself, and the now-nine-year occupation that followed, had placed some constraints on Russia’s leaders that made relinquishing the Ili River valley somewhat difficult. The first and most straightforward of these was that the costs of the conquest had been sunk. Kaufman had acquired the Ili River valley at minimal cost, in terms of lives and treasure, and the territory was effectively theirs for the keeping. Perhaps aware of these pressures, from the outset, Major General Kolpakovskii made the case for retention of the Ili region in economic terms, arguing that “millions” could be made from the local tea trade.128 And, as the occupation continued, Russian properties and businesses would be established in the area, and abandoning these would come at a cost for Saint Petersburg.
A second reason leaders in Saint Petersburg felt bound to seriously consider retaining the Ili region was concern over domestic politics in Russia. Despite the harsh autocracy of the czarist regime, Alexander II’s program of domestic reform in the 1860s had helped create a modicum of space for popular dissent, and this was recognized by leaders at the time.129 For instance, in the run-up to the signing of the Treaty of Livadia, the acting foreign minister Giers repeatedly showed concern over what newspapers were printing about the possibility of returning the Chinese territory.130 After China had renounced the treaty in early 1880, leaders in Saint Petersburg agreed that in view of Russian “public opinion, it was desirable that the restitution [of Ili] was not carried out purely and simply.”131 The acting foreign minister Giers was of this mind as well, writing to one of the Russian negotiators in September 1880 that Russia needed serious concessions from the Chinese in the Ili negotiations, “so as not to hurt public opinion.”132 Thus, Russian leaders were clearly concerned about the public’s reaction to any return of the Ili River valley.133
A third reason Russian leaders had difficulty relinquishing the territory and turning it back over to the Chinese was concern over Russian national honor, prestige, and reputation.134 Some, for instance, argued that conceding too much would only invite further demands and challenges, from the Chinese and others in the region. In September 1879, War Minister Miliutin opposed the return of China’s territory on the grounds that “the Asiatics will attribute generosity, or even justice, solely and simply to incapacity to retain what had been taken.”135 A government committee held in the spring of 1880 agreed, arguing that, if Russia returned the territory outright, “we would appear to have claimed an excessive territorial extension only to renounce it following threats from the Chinese”—an unacceptable outcome.136 And the acting foreign minister Giers shared these concerns, writing in October 1880 that “it is to be feared that [Russian] moderation only serves to encourage” the Chinese to ask for more.137
There is also a striking number of references to Russian “prestige” and “dignity” in correspondence between leaders in these months. For instance, the spring 1880 committee cited Russian “prestige” as a reason to avoid promptly returning the territory.138 In September of that year, an exasperated Giers wrote, “We want to emerge with dignity from this detestable affair.”139 Giers reiterated these concerns the following month, writing in mid-October that Russia would “not be able, without compromising our dignity, to submit to Chinese demands and give in on all points.”140 In some cases, Russian leaders seemed to take these honor concerns personally. For instance, Giers wrote on October 14 that “we will have to show them our teeth, because it is impossible to allow us be scoffed at by these wretches.”141 A few days later Giers claimed that the Chinese envoy’s attitude “revolts me” and argued that “the more we show ourselves to be conciliatory and polite towards him—the more arrogant he will become.”142 Thus, for reasons of sunk costs, domestic political pressure, and concerns over national (and personal) honor, it appeared difficult for Russian leaders to simply and straightforwardly return the Ili region to China.
However, as the crisis unfolded, it became increasingly clear that there were serious geopolitical risks associated with standing firm and refusing to withdraw from Ili. China appeared to be willing to wage war over the territory, and as Russian leaders would learn over the course of the crisis, they themselves were not.143 After China’s rejection of the Treaty of Livadia in February 1880, many in and around the Qing court began to call for a campaign to retake the territory by force.144 In March, the Chinese government put General Zuo in charge of defense of the northwest, with orders to raise new forces, reenlist veterans of the pacification campaigns, and develop a plan to invade Ili.145 In May, Zuo moved his headquarters to Hami, in eastern Xinjiang, and dramatically carried a coffin with him in order to show his willingness to die for his country.146 Beijing also began to acquire a large number of guns and other munitions from the United States and other European countries.147 Russia, too, would begin preparing for war in April 1880, with Kaufman shifting his headquarters from Tashkent to Vernyi, near the Chinese border, and Saint Petersburg sending a powerful naval fleet of twenty-six ships to the Chinese coast.148 In late October and into November 1880, the negotiations became tense, involving open talk of the possibility of war.149 As the Chinese negotiator said to his Russian counterpart on November 5: “China does not want there to be war. Should this misfortune come to pass, the . . . Chinese can endure difficulties imposed by others and work long hours. Even if China were not to win the first battle, as China is the largest country in the world, were it to go on for a decade or more, they could still endure it. I think that your honorable country definitely would not be able to avoid losses.”150
However, despite their preparations, Russian leaders had little real interest in fighting over the Ili River valley. This was so for three key reasons. First, the local balance of power strongly favored China.151 While Russia had a relatively large and powerful military, the Ili region was a long way from Saint Petersburg, and transport and supply were slow and incredibly costly. Russia had only approximately 5,000 military personnel in the area and would be hard pressed to produce many more. The Chinese, by contrast, had been waging pacification campaigns in the west for years under General Zuo and were believed to have as many as 180,000 troops in the area.152 These numbers, and China’s preparations more broadly, were sobering for Russian leaders.153 As a Russian negotiator wrote to the acting foreign minister Giers in October 1880, “Of course, [the Chinese] don’t want war and they dread it. But they have convinced themselves that we want it even less and that we are hardly in a state to wage it.”154
Second, the balance of resolve also appeared to favor China in Ili. From the perspective of Saint Petersburg, the territory was small, distant, incredibly difficult to administer and defend, and without much intrinsic value. For Beijing, in contrast, it was highly strategically valuable. As noted earlier, the Ili River valley contained key mountain passes in the Tian Shan range and was critical to the military control of Xinjiang as a whole. And Xinjiang itself was viewed as an important strategic buffer with which to defend Beijing and the Chinese heartland from the west.155 This, too, was recognized by Russian leaders at the time.
As the Russian negotiator wrote to the acting foreign minister Giers in August 1880, referring to Ili, “this territorial concession, so precious to the Chinese . . . so worthless to us.”156 This sentiment was reiterated by this same negotiator six weeks later, who pointed out to Giers that the “final possession of [Ili] . . . would hardly compensate for our expenses” in any war over it.157
Third, Russia had only recently finished waging a major war in the Balkans, the Russo-Turkish War (1877–78), having mobilized 934,000 personnel and suffering 118,000 deaths in its victory.158 This had two effects on the Ili crisis. First, many of Russia’s best and most experienced military personnel were still tied up in the Balkans, with few left to spare for a distant Far Eastern contingency.159 And second, the Ottoman War had been very hard on Russian finances, and Russia was simply in no position to wage another costly war.160 And its leaders were keenly aware of this. As the Russian negotiator wrote to the acting foreign minister Giers in October 1880, “Only a good beating can bring [the Chinese] to their senses. But I admit that while this is a necessity, it would be very hard on our poor finances!”161 Chinese leaders were also aware of the dire state of the Russian treasury, and this increased their confidence that their coercive diplomacy would soon bear fruit.162
All of this meant that time was clearly on China’s side.163 As the negotiations dragged on, the perception among leaders in Saint Petersburg was that it only redounded to China’s advantage, giving them more time to increase their troop numbers, import arms from Russia’s European rivals, and put further strain on the Russian treasury. From early on in the negotiations, Russian officials showed concern that the Chinese might be “dragging us along so they can complete their armaments.”164 Russian negotiators also saw great importance in “putting an end to current expenses as quickly as possible.”165 Similar views were present among key Russian leaders in Saint Petersburg, such as the acting foreign minister Giers. As he wrote on September 23, 1880, “what matters most to us is to carry out the negotiations as quickly as possible so that we can recall the fleet and put our troops back along the Chinese border on a footing of peace.”166 An important reason for this haste was a concern that the conflict with Turkey might reignite—a far less peripheral concern—and that the Russian navy would be tied up thousands of kilometers away in the East China Sea.167 As Giers wrote on September 25, they needed “a good solution as soon as possible—because all our attention must be directed towards Turkey where one can foresee great complications.”168
This clash of incentives put Russian leaders in a bind. On the one hand, they had incentives to retain the Ili River valley, based on sunk acquisition costs, domestic political pressure, and concerns over Russian national honor and prestige. On the other hand, there were severe geopolitical risks associated with retaining the territory—namely, the risk of war with China over a concern that was, at best, peripheral to Russia’s interests. A key Russian negotiator described the position as an “inextricable dilemma,” lamenting that he did “not forgive those who got us stuck here by protesting last year against the outright restitution of the territories which we had temporarily occupied with the promise to return them!”169 The problem, he wrote a few days later to the acting foreign minister Giers, is that the Russian government was rapidly approaching a point at which it would have “no choice but between a risky war, costly and dangerous, or an evil and precarious peace.”170 It was an unenviable position, to be sure.
Saint Petersburg Decides
The determination to avoid war with China would ultimately be Saint Petersburg’s primary political aim, necessitating the relinquishment of the Ili region. The central importance of avoiding war had been present in the writing of Russian leaders over the months of the negotiations. The key Russian negotiator, for instance, wrote on October 1 that “war would be a deplorable end. It would be ruinous, endless, and of no benefit to us.”171 This sentiment was echoed by the acting foreign minister Giers, who wrote that same month that “it is to avoid war that we enter into negotiations” with the Chinese.172 Even War Minister Miliutin—who had strongly opposed returning Ili a year earlier—would agree. By mid-October, he reportedly saw a potential war with China as “a misfortune without any possible compensation” and argued that it was “necessary to absolutely avoid it.”173 For nearly a decade, the Chinese and the Russians had stood toe-to-toe over the Ili region. In the end, Russia would blink.
Czar Alexander II called a final conference in December 1880 to settle the Ili crisis, attended by Giers, Miliutin, and other key Russian leaders.174 All present agreed that, to avoid war with China, the return of the Ili region was necessary.175 After a few days of discussion, the Russian negotiators approached the Chinese with a compromise, the core of which would result in the Treaty of Saint Petersburg of February 12, 1881.176 Under the terms of this treaty, the Ili region would be returned to China, Russia would receive minimal trade and political concessions, and their shared border would remain almost entirely unchanged.177 While Russia was awarded a rather large nine-million-ruble indemnity, and a small strip of territory west of Ili was ceded to Russia to settle refugees of the rebellion, this was a clear diplomatic victory for China and a complete reversal of fortunes from the Treaty of Livadia less than two years earlier.178 After the treaty was ratified in the respective capitals, the Ili River valley was returned to China in February 1882, nearly eleven years after Lieutenant General Kaufman had independently ordered its occupation.179
One month after the Treaty of Saint Petersburg had been signed, an assassin’s bomb detonated and killed Czar Alexander II on March 13, 1881.180 The news of the czar’s death badly shook Kaufman, who himself would suffer a massive stroke only three weeks later, leaving him paralyzed and without the ability to speak.181 He would technically remain governor-general of Turkestan for the following thirteen months as his health deteriorated, until he died on May 16, 1882.182 Kaufman’s dying wish, as a true Russian nationalist and imperialist, was to be buried in Tashkent, “so that everyone will know that here is true Russian ground where it is no dishonor for a Russian to lie.”183 And, in a final twist of irony, Kaufman’s replacement as Turkestan’s governor-general would be none other than Mikhail Grigorevich Cherniaev.184
This chapter has presented the comparative case studies of inadvertent expansion and nonexpansion by Russia in the Khanate of Kokand and the Ili region of western China. Both cases strongly support the theory of inadvertent expansion presented in chapter 1. First, both cases showed how inadvertent expansion is a manifestation of a principal-agent problem, based on divergent preferences and information asymmetries. Divergent preferences for expansion between Saint Petersburg and Central Asia, as well as the lack of a telegraph connection in Kokand or the China border region, hampered central control and enabled unauthorized peripheral expansion to take place. Second, both cases showed how unauthorized peripheral expansion can create constraints on leaders in the capital that make it difficult for them to easily withdraw. In Kokand and the Ili region, unauthorized peripheral expansion sunk the costs of acquisition and generated concerns over prestige and national honor in Saint Petersburg. In the Ili region case, there were also some domestic political concerns weighing on the minds of Russian leaders as they navigated the crisis. And third, in both cases the decision of whether to accept the territorial fait accompli was importantly conditioned by the geopolitical risk associated with acquisition. The absence of such risks cleared the way for acceptance of Cherniaev’s fait accompli in Kokand, whereas the risk of war with China led to the rejection of Kaufman’s fait accompli in Ili.