Chapter 130: A New Era Begins (5)
Chapter 130: A New Era Begins (5)
February 10, 1792.
Port of Toulon, Revolutionary Kingdom of France.
The sailors who had disembarked from HMS Agamemnon and twelve other British warships that had entered Toulon were busy repairing ships and moving supplies.
Despite careful maintenance, barnacles had inevitably built their homes along the hulls. The sailors scraped them off with iron scrapers.
They replaced sails torn by wind with new, sturdy ones.
Wooden crates filled with fresh water, salted meat, and ship biscuits were carried aboard.
And above all, the oak barrels filled with alcohol—an absolute necessity for sailors—could not be forgotten.
Even if it was not British whiskey or rum, many in the Mediterranean squadron agreed that the French cognac they had taken aboard during their last stop was quite drinkable.
Then again, sailors who would light fires aboard wooden ships just to distill alcohol from grain were not exactly in a position to complain about what kind of liquor they received.
After wandering the Mediterranean Sea and Malta for two months since their last stop in October, the once nearly empty supply holds of the Mediterranean detachment were gradually filling again.
“Ronald! What are you doing? Hurry up and finish so we can go drink wine!”
“You go ahead, you lanky bastard. I’m going to see that lovely lady I met last time.”
“Lovely lady, my ass. Do you think women like that chase after men who stink like the sea? Wake up, idiot. Leave her, Johnny, leave her. You sing that damned song every day while working and still don’t understand?”
“Tsk tsk. People from Derby really have no sense of romance. And the reason you stink is because you don’t bathe. I don’t smell like that. So don’t lump me in with you.”
While the sailors were desperate to finish work so they could visit taverns and women in the harbor, the officers were already heading toward elegant clubs and cafés in Toulon, tipping carriage drivers generously.
And as befitted a squadron commander, Colonel Horatio Nelson was personally being hosted by Charles de Toulon, the harbor master.
“Welcome, Admiral. This is your second visit to our harbor.”
“Haha, I returned for the food. French cuisine is far superior to English food.”
“Hoho, hearing you say that makes this old man quite pleased. The carriage is ready—please come along. General Bonaparte is waiting for you at the residence.”
“Bonaparte? Excellent. I look forward to it! I suppose we’ll spend another night talking together.”
Nelson grasped the harbor master’s extended hand warmly.
And Charles de Toulon felt genuine delight watching the cheerful English officer climb into the carriage.
Guillaume, my son… thank you. You are feeding both Toulon and your father.
As the term naval port suggests, Toulon’s primary source of income had always been the spending of naval sailors and officers.
But the past four years had been anything but ordinary.
In distant Paris and Versailles, the king had been replaced twice.
Aristocrats and magistrates who had once squeezed the people for wealth had been stripped of their fortunes and driven away.
Army officers from the Paris Military Academy had largely cooperated with the revolution—perhaps because of Guillaume de Toulon, or perhaps because they were more open-minded.
But the more conservative officers from the Naval Academy had been horrified by the revolution and fled abroad long ago.
A ship without a captain cannot sail.
What remained of the French Navy had been forced to leave Calais, Brest, and Toulon to protect vital trade routes connecting the Caribbean and the East Indies.
As a result, Toulon had fallen into economic decline after the revolution.
Taverns that once sold alcohol to sailors closed their doors.
Wine merchants had no customers, leaving barrels of wine aging uselessly in warehouses.
For Charles himself—whose son was one of the wealthiest men in France—the temporary recession was not a serious blow.
But for a man newly reappointed harbor master after more than a decade, responsible for the entire port of Toulon, it was a disaster.
If the city’s economy collapsed, tens of thousands of citizens would curse him and drive him out.
And then suddenly—
Twelve British warships arrived.
Not frigates or small vessels, but ships of the line—floating fortresses.
Each carried five hundred to six hundred men.
Twelve such ships meant six to seven thousand sailors flooding into the city.
Toulon instantly regained its lively harbor atmosphere.
In fact, it was even more vibrant than before.
Before boarding the carriage, Charles looked north toward Paris, where his son Guillaume lived, and smiled contentedly.
Then he climbed aboard.
“Colonel Nelson, did you know something? I once tried to join the Royal Navy.”
“Haha! Really? In that case, Brigadier General Bonaparte might have served under me. What a shame! If someone like you had been on my staff, I would never have let you go.”
Nelson spoke regretfully to Napoleon Bonaparte, who was cutting meat across the table.
“Well then, I’m glad I didn’t join. Otherwise I might have worked myself to death under you, Admiral.”
“Worked to death? Aren’t you quite the workaholic yourself, Brigadier General Bonaparte? I doubt you’d collapse just because I gave you a few more tasks.”
“A workaholic? Admiral, I’m the type who only does exactly what must be done.”
“My dear Napoleon, that’s precisely what we call a workaholic.”
Cough! Cough!
At Charles’s remark, Napoleon cleared his throat and took a sip of wine.
“Oh dear, our hardworking General Bonaparte seems to have choked!”
“Come now, sir! Why are you teasing me like that?”
“My apologies. Would you prefer I call you Commander of the Toulon Region instead?”
“…Never mind.”
“Haha. Just like Guillaume’s friend—you sulk exactly the same way.”
Charles laughed.
After all, Napoleon was only twenty-three.
For a man accustomed to dealing with shrewd merchants and dockworkers, teasing this young rising general—who also happened to be his son’s friend—was rather amusing.
“Well then, they say appetite decreases with age. I’m completely full. Admiral, did you enjoy the meal?”
“Yes, very much. It was delightful thanks to you. And you, General Bonaparte?”
“I’ve finished as well.”
“Then let us clear the table. I must attend to some work upstairs. Admiral, please rest in your room. The voyage must have been exhausting.”
“Thank you for your hospitality.”
Nelson stood and placed his hat back on his head.
“Colonel Nelson, may I speak with you privately for a moment?”
“Of course, General Bonaparte.”
“Thank you.”
The two soldiers walked through the corridor and entered Napoleon’s room.
“What matter did you wish to discuss with me?”
“I wanted to speak briefly about Russia.”
“…Russia?”
Nelson’s brow twitched slightly.
“Please sit.”
“Thank you.”
They sat beside a table in the middle of the room.
Napoleon unrolled a map across it.
“This appears to be a map of southern France and the Mediterranean.”
“Colonel Nelson, where do you believe Russia will attack from?”
“…Most likely by land. Russia is primarily a land power.”
Nelson pointed toward Metz and Provence.
Russia’s army had once defeated the Prussians of Frederick the Great, the so-called God of War.
If Peter III had not been such a fool, Prussia might have disappeared from the map entirely.
“I think differently.”
“You believe Russia will not come by land?”
Napoleon gave no direct answer.
Instead, he pointed to an island in the Mediterranean beneath France.
Corsica.
A massive island closer to Italy than France.
“…Corsica? Surely Russia would not attempt an amphibious invasion?”
“Prussia has signed a ceasefire, and Austria does not want its own territory to become a battlefield. That leaves only one path.”
“The sea.”
Nelson stroked his chin thoughtfully.
February 15, 1792.
Paris, Revolutionary Kingdom of France.
Office of the far-left magazine Père Duchesne.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Robespierre! Danton! You cowards! And I once thought these scum were comrades!”
Jacques René Hébert slammed his fists onto the desk, his hands trembling.
What?
They were afraid France might fall into chaos again?
These bourgeois lackeys!
Had they become so absorbed in the childish games of the National Assembly that they forgot their great revolutionary mission?
“Comrade Hébert! The workers of the Cordeliers are ready to follow you at any time.”
“I know well the revolutionary spirit of the workers.”
Hébert spoke to the ragged laborer with the red cloth tied around his arm.
“As you all know, France today is no republic of workers and peasants. It has long become a dictatorship of the bourgeoisie led by Guillaume de Toulon.”
Those feudal relics with “de” in their names were still alive and breathing.
If that was not betrayal of the revolution, what was?
“I, Jacques René Hébert, believe that this moment is the final opportunity to realize the ideal of a republic of workers and peasants—a nation where everyone is equal!”
The people did not realize they were being deceived by Guillaume, Sieyès, Mirabeau, and Lafayette.
The land reforms.
The recent war.
All of it had merely been concessions forced from the bourgeoisie to preserve their own wealth.
The people might be naïve enough not to see it.
But Hébert could.
They were all traitors.
Guillaume de Toulon.
Sieyès.
Mirabeau.
Lafayette.
All traitors.
And Robespierre himself was also a traitor to the revolution and the Jacobins.
He should have known from the moment Robespierre started talking about God.
And what about that smug attitude of a well-educated lawyer?
A typical petty bourgeois.
“Soon summer will come, and in autumn the Cossacks and Russians from the frozen lands will invade. If we rise then, overthrowing the government will be easy—but we cannot guarantee the republic’s safety from those barbarians.”
So now was the right moment.
If the enemies of the revolution were eliminated now and true workers took power, France could resist Russia’s invasion.
“The leader of the bourgeois Plain faction—Emmanuel-Joseph Sieyès—must be assassinated!”
“Long live the workers! Long live the republic!”
“Long live the workers! Long live the republic!”