Graduation Exam
“Th-those bastards, thinking they can keep poking us!”
About two weeks before France declared war on Britain.
Britain's increasingly brazen provocations had already worn France's pride to the bone.
Of course, Britain had no real intention of going to war with France.
What was Britain best at?
Scanning the enemy's forces precisely and beating them just hard enough that resistance felt iffy.
This time too, Britain's plundering playbook unfolded as smoothly as ever.
The British navy stopped French merchant ships on all sorts of absurd pretexts, forcing inspections that left the merchants enduring massive humiliation.
“Your Majesty, the La Parfaite departing from New France (Canada) was forcibly searched by the British navy, with two crewmen detained for blasphemy. The 60 bales of fur they were carrying were seized as contraband, and petitions from the involved nobles are flooding in.”
“Good. Tell them to keep stacking up the justifications like that. Once the nobles' and people's rage hits its limit, we'll smash those arrogant noses of theirs.”
Louis XV deliberately leaked news of his merchants' ordeals at the hands of the British navy to the public.
At the same time, he shipped Franz Rifles to Governor Montcalm's forces in New France and Commander Dupleix's garrison in the East Indies.
These couldn't be allowed to fall into British hands, so he used the strongest warships available for transport—and the cunning British left such cargoes untouched.
What they targeted were always the easy, plump victims ripe for fleecing.
But one of the world's hardest things is knowing exactly where to draw the line in schoolyard bullying without setting off an explosion.
Most idiots cross that line, escalating from slaps to punches to headbutts, only to get reverse-ganged or hauled off by the cops.
Britain prided itself on mastering that line better than anyone—but they were oblivious to France secretly stockpiling Franz Rifles en masse.
That fatal intelligence gap was the root of the problem.
“Alright, this time our targets are the merchant ships from Martinique. Loaded with sugar, so even a light shake-down will cover our salaries for a year.”
“But isn't sugar treated as a vital commodity even in France? Won't they just sit still for it?”
“What are they gonna do if they don't? And we're not taking it all—just enough to taste the sweet profits.”
How could anyone pass up free money just floating by?
“According to intel from the homeland, France won't be able to counterattack for at least a year, maybe two. Just don't cross any critical lines. Skip the high-and-mighty types. If anyone looks noble, politely tie 'em up and leave 'em be—don't forget.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Heh heh heh, good, good. Let's snag exactly five ships—no more, no less.”
A limited-time money-printing event granting permission to turn the Atlantic into the greatest highway ever.
For surprise inspections, contraband checks and deserter hunts were justification enough.
No matter how copycats rampage, they can't match the savory depth of the original soul food joint.
The British navy, living up to its pirate heritage, methodically and viciously stripped French ships bare—until even the moderates among the nobles reached their breaking point.
“Your Majesty, we can no longer endure this!”
“Indeed. Those pirate scum have gone too far.”
“We must sternly reprimand their ambassador and warn that if they don't cease immediately, we declare war.”
The voices were loudest from the Brittany and Normandy nobles, who had suffered the heaviest losses this time.
As patrons of the sugar, fur, and slave trades, their profits had been juicy—now their damages were incalculable.
And Louis XV had been waiting for exactly this swell of noble opinion.
“We can no longer stand idly by. It is Our duty, as representative of this nation's citizens and nobles, to protect their property. We shall respond decisively to show the world that France has not yet perished. Yet the wounds from the last war remain unhealed.”
Louis XV surveyed the nobles who had come to Versailles to plead their case and continued.
“If you share some of the burdens ahead, We shall gladly be the umbrella shielding this nation from the downpour.”
“Do you mean... we must help bear the costs of war?”
“Not simply hand it over, of course. Nobles contributing to the realm will be repaid via state bonds, and those giving generously shall share in the rights we reclaim.”
Letting this drag on would only balloon the damage to their estates.
In the end, the answer had been decided from the start.
With the final hurdle of funding cleared, there was no reason to hesitate.
Louis XV declared war on Britain—to restore France's tarnished honor and show the world it still stood strong.
London, St. James's Square.
The Prime Minister's office.
After Robert Walpole's resignation, the PM had moved from Downing Street to his private residence—and was little more than a figurehead.
Henry Pelham held real sway in Parliament, while John Carteret, backed by the king's favor, matched him in power.
But as nominal head of government, even a puppet PM's ears caught the empire's most vital intelligence.
And devising countermeasures was his duty too.
Especially if that crisis was war.
“How did this happen? Why is France declaring war? You said they lacked the capacity!”
“...You tell me. Those War Office fools with their useless predictions again...”
“No, did field commanders do something outrageous? Harm a noble directly, perhaps?”
“French nobles don't sail merchant ships themselves. We warned them to verify status thoroughly just in case.”
Compton's eyes quaked for a moment, but Pelham and Carteret puffed their pipes and looked away.
Cleanup was the PM's job anyway.
Everyone—from Pelham and Compton to the king and Lords—had eagerly backed the France-plundering plan, but no one expected actual war.
Had they known, they'd have dialed it back.
“We need countermeasures first.”
“Stall by claiming a misunderstanding and smooth it over...”
“No, no, Mr. Pelham. We can't go soft. What does Great Britain lack that we grovel to France?”
With the two powerhouses split, the PM sighed and glanced between them.
“...Cabinet's stance is to avoid unnecessary war...”
“Sit tight, Prime Minister. Mr. Pelham, scared of losing to France?”
“It's not that—war just costs a fortune...”
“Under Walpole, you criticized him for being too passive. Now you're sounding just like him.”
This timidity was unlike Pelham.
Politicians flip stances between bathroom trips, sure—but so blatantly? He'd catch heat.
Carteret pounced like a predator; Pelham dodged glances, circling vaguely.
“I'm speaking purely from fiscal health.”
Carteret, scenting blood, tore in relentlessly and assured the PM.
“France has been crushed twice by Austria, its power gutted. His Majesty won't tolerate compromise with them—nor will the Lords. You grasp my meaning, Prime Minister?”
“Of course. We can't bow to France.”
Compton glanced at Pelham, who stayed mute.
Why was that guy acting weird? But pushing apology here would end Compton's tenure on the spot.
The PM and Earl Carteret hashed out plans, sidelining Pelham—the next PM frontrunner.
He rose silently, shook his head ruefully, and left.
“Hoo... is this really right?”
“Well played.”
As Pelham emerged, waiting Pitt swiftly lit his pipe.
Pelham inhaled deeply, exhaled with a whoosh, and met Pitt's eyes squarely.
“I trusted you and flipped my stance entirely. If it doesn't pan out, you're done for.”
“MP, haven't I already staked my entire fortune?”
“True enough. That's why I greenlit this mad scheme.”
Pelham's sudden about-face wasn't senility or Walpole's ghost.
To minimize damage from the bloody truth Britain would face in this war.
He trusted Pitt's advice, backed by his full wealth.
“If it unfolds as I predict, don't forget my role.”
“Naturally. If I become PM, you're Southern Secretary that day.”
The Foreign Office split into Northern (Nordic Protestants, HRE, Russia) and Southern (France, Spain, Italy, American colonies).
Pitt coveted the Southern post, with greater colonial sway.
And at his tender age, he needed a solid patron to shine.
If Pelham bested Carteret here, even the Hanover-obsessed king couldn't stem the tide.
“It might sting a bit, but it's time we awoke from slumber. Make Great Britain great again!”
“...In my view, it already is.”
“If you think so, just watch. You'll see clearly where we must head, MP.”
“Fine. We'll hold off rash moves till the Vienna ambassador's report arrives.”
The key was the HRE's response, led by Austria.
If Austria sided with France, things would tangle badly.
Britain's power players fretted more over that than France's declaration.
“Urgent bulletin! Austria declares neutrality! No sides in this war.”
“It's settled, settled.”
“Time to rip the legs off those clueless frogs. Make sure they never rise again.”
Crushing France here could net the world's top sugar producers, Saint-Domingue and Martinique—not a pipe dream.
The pro-king faction, led by the PM, resolved to teach the presumptuous French some manners.
And three weeks after war's outbreak, Oswego-Fort Henry (northern New York) fell to France.