Episode 111: Declaration of War (5)
Episode 111: Declaration of War (5)
April 1, 1791.
Kingdom of France.
Outskirts of Paris.
After the biting winter had passed, it was the season when spring shoots began pushing up green here and there.
“Your Grace, there!”
“I see it, I see it!”
The Englishman, unaware of the fate soon to come, slowly raised his gun toward the deer stepping calmly forward.
As always, he held his breath so his hands would not shake and rested his finger on the trigger.
A British rifled musket, painstakingly crafted with a master’s labor, spat fire.
Bang!
“Minister Lebrun, did you hit it?”
“I think so… Ah, it’s going down over there. A hit!”
The two mounted again and urged their horses along the blood-spattered trail the prey had left behind.
At the end of that trail, the deer—still not dead—panted in ragged breaths.
“Damn… you nailed the neck cleanly. As expected, Duke of Sutherland, your skill is incredible. Every shot lands dead on. I cannot possibly keep up.”
“Haha, for some reason my aim is better than usual today. Then since I have taken two more than you, I have won today’s wager, yes? The chess pieces that died in my reckless gambling last night can finally rest in peace.”
“Well now. You are exacting revenge for losing at chess yesterday quite thoroughly.”
“Haha. I did sharpen my blade overnight for that.”
The Duke of Sutherland, Britain’s Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary, said that, then called over the servant following from afar and had him begin dressing the deer.
“Now, it will take time to dress the deer properly. Shall we take a walk in the meantime, Minister?”
“That is a fine idea, Your Grace.”
They tied the rifles to their saddles, each took a small canteen, and set off.
It was called a canteen, but something else was inside.
“Minister, is yours wine as well?”
“And yours is whiskey, Duke of Sutherland?”
“Just as one would expect of a diplomat—you guessed at once. Scottish Scotch. I have always preferred barley to grapes.”
With that kind of trivial chatter, the two diplomats walked for a long while, putting distance between themselves and the servants.
“……Now there is no one who can overhear us, Minister.”
“The Tory Party? His Majesty the King of Great Britain? Or Prime Minister William Pitt? Whose words are you referring to?”
“Assume it is all of them.”
The Englishman opened the canteen, swallowed a mouthful of Scotch, and continued.
“Prussia and Russia will soon issue a declaration of war against France, Minister.”
“Mm… that is heavy, straight from the first sentence, Your Grace.”
“I did not wish to do it this way either, but I ask for your understanding.”
This time, the Frenchman took a sip of wine and spoke.
“Catherine of Russia, fine. But why is Prussia suddenly doing this?”
“You could say: Poland.”
“Hah.”
Foreign Minister Charles-François Lebrun let out a short groan.
So they are determined to tear Poland apart until they are satisfied.
The Englishman also shook his head.
“There is quite a lot of debate over it back home as well.”
“Does the Holy Roman Empire have nothing to say?”
“That side is unlikely to provide direct military support to the alliance, but will provide supplies instead. As you know, the Holy Roman Empire is suffering considerable internal turmoil.”
As the Englishman lifted his shoulders, the Frenchman asked again.
“Is that all Britain is conveying? That Prussia and Russia plan to declare war, and that the Holy Roman Empire will not enter the war?”
“No. There are a few more items.”
“What are they?”
The Englishman stopped, looked the Frenchman in the eye, and said:
“Intelligence indicates that Prussia’s suppression of the Dutch independence movement will likely conclude soon.”
“……How many Prussian troops are stationed in the Netherlands?”
“Five thousand elite troops, commanded by a Prussian cavalry lieutenant colonel named Gebhard Leberecht von Blücher.”
“That is substantial.”
“Britain will try to use diplomatic measures so Prussia cannot pass through the Netherlands, but consider this a warning to remain cautious, just in case.”
“Mm.”
A brief furrow appeared at the corner of Lebrun’s eyes.
Five thousand elites—cavalry stationed in the northern Netherlands.
If cavalry skilled in raiding pierced into northern France like an awl, the damage would be obvious.
Lebrun turned it over in his mind, then asked the Englishman in front of him:
“If we counterattack, how far would Britain consider appropriate?”
“His Majesty believes France should be allowed as far as necessary to preserve its right of self-defense. The Tory Party and Prime Minister William Pitt would prefer that France not cross the Rhine.”
“……Is Britain neutral?”
“Well. Neutral…”
The Duke of Sutherland took another sip of Scotch, then answered with a faint smile.
“Let us call it: the guardian of balance.”
April 2, 1791.
Man… the lineup of people who came through here was dazzling as hell.
If you mapped it to the twenty-first century, it would be the Speaker of Parliament, members of Parliament, the Defense Minister, the Foreign Minister, and the Finance Minister all in one place.
Who would look at this and think it is just an ordinary company office? It looks more like the meeting site of the Illuminati—some secret society that controls the world.
With a sigh, I ran a hand through my hair.
“What is it, Finance Minister? Are you unwell?”
“My head… hurts, Commander.”
“Oh dear. How truly unfortunate.”
“Your expression does not look very unfortunate.”
“The tea is quite good.”
Marquis de Lafayette sipped his tea and nodded.
“So, when are you giving the National Guard its budget, Finance Minister? You said Prussia and Russia will be declaring war on us soon.”
“I will squeeze out what I can and give it to you, so wait a bit.”
Do you have any idea how hard it is to overturn a one-year budget plan I already finished and draft a new one from scratch? Soldiers, seriously—do they think money just pops out if you say, “Money, appear!”?
“More importantly, how many do you think the enemy will bring, Commander?”
“The staff estimates around fifty thousand, Finance Minister.”
“Fifty thousand… Commander, where do you think they will come through?”
Marquis de Lafayette looked away from me for a moment and stared into the distance before answering.
“Metz, Meuse–Argonne, Verdun, Reims—in that order. Their target will be Paris.”
“I see.”
If you draw a straight line from Prussia’s border to France’s capital, Paris, those are the regions that appear.
Metz, Meuse–Argonne, Verdun, Reims.
After naming those four, Marquis de Lafayette fell silent.
I set the pen I had been scribbling numbers with gently aside and asked him:
“Among those, is there a place you are considering as the decisive battlefield?”
“……If we engage in the field while using the Verdun mountain range, we can defeat them through numerical superiority.”
“Can we not crush them early at Metz?”
“It will be difficult.”
Marquis de Lafayette shook his head and answered firmly.
“Our standing army numbers two hundred thousand, but it is dispersed across the country. The enemy will concentrate a sharpened force of fifty thousand at a single point and try to punch through us. To match that, we need time to draw troops out and assemble them. But if we begin assembling troops now, public order becomes unstable, and we are left exposed to military threats from other countries.”
“……Understood, Commander.”
Silence fell between us for a moment.
“Commander.”
“Yes, Finance Minister.”
“I suppose… there will be many casualties.”
Marquis de Lafayette drained the remaining tea in his cup in one go, then looked at me again.
“Finance Minister. I am Lafayette, Commander of the National Guard.”
“My job is to send people back home in one piece.”
Mid-April, 1791.
Holy Roman Empire, under Prussian control. Dutch Republic, Amsterdam.
Prussian Suppression Army Headquarters.
“Good! Those revolution and independence bastards—did we round them all up with this?!”
“““Yes! We did, Lieutenant Colonel Blücher!”””
“Wahahaha!! Good! Good! With Blücher and the brave Prussian army here, how dare you talk about independence and revolution while oppressing Germans, you orange bastards! Isn’t that right, men?!”
“““That is right!”””
At the words of the middle-aged cavalry lieutenant colonel with a thick mustache, the headquarters officers responded crisply.
There was respect for their superior, Lieutenant Colonel Gebhard Leberecht von Blücher, but in truth, none of them wanted to provoke his temper.
Despite bearing the noble “von” in his name, he was a boor among boors—Prussia’s lunatic.
A lunatic among lunatics who had even thrown his resignation in the face of the previous king, Frederick the Great.
A lunatic who did not even know how to read a map, the bare minimum for an officer.
A lunatic who, despite commanding thousands, would stand in the very front rank, draw his cavalry saber, and charge.
A lunatic who treated noble officers as pack animals or as machines for reading maps, yet looked after common soldiers like a grandfather watching children near water, fussing over them with concern.
Was it not only recently that an officer who had been roughing up soldiers was caught by that lunatic and received a brutal boot to the shin?
So for Prussian officers, remaining tightly on edge to avoid displeasing Lieutenant Colonel Blücher had long since become routine.
In the end, the officers could only swallow hard and pray this roll call would end soon.
Just then, a messenger ran in from outside the headquarters building.
“Loyalty! Lieutenant Colonel Blücher, a letter from the Duke of Brunswick!”
“From the Duke of Brunswick? Soldier! Place that letter into Blücher’s hand immediately! Execute!”
“Execute!”
As soon as he received the letter, the lieutenant colonel tore the envelope open with his hands, pulled out the paper, and read.
“……Does it not look like the lieutenant colonel is trembling right now?”
“If you do not want a boot to the shin, Captain, be quiet.”
Barely parting their lips, the officers whispered to the man beside them, afraid Blücher might go berserk depending on what the letter said.
“Heh… hehehehe!!”
Blücher, apparently finished reading, let out a harsh laugh and began rolling his eyes.
After laughing like that for a while, he turned his gaze back to the officers lined up before him.
“Men!”
“““Yes! Lieutenant Colonel Blücher!”””
Once again, saliva slid down the officers’ throats as they waited for what that lunatic would say next.
“What do you think is the Prussian virtue?!”
“O-obedience!”
“Good! Next!”
“L-leading by example!”
“Yes! And next!”
“The spirit of conquest!”
“Wahahaha! Yes! That is right! In that sense, I—Blücher—believe that you and I are splendid Prussians! Am I wrong?!”
“““You are right! Lieutenant Colonel Blücher! We are splendid Prussians!”””
“Wahahaha!!”
The mustached lieutenant colonel laughed loudly, then held the letter high for all to see.
“The Duke of Brunswick has ordered an attack on France! Pack your gear and prepare to march! Follow me—Lieutenant Colonel Blücher, Prussia in human form!! Wahahaha!!”
The officers’ minds went blank.