Chapter 172: Sleeping Lions (2)
Chapter 172: Sleeping Lions (2)
450,000 pounds.
Converted into present value, it amounted to roughly 337.5 billion won—a sum large enough, in modern terms, to launch two first-rate ships of the line, strategic weapons of the eighteenth century comparable to aircraft carriers.
Over the course of ten years, Francis Baring spent that money without hesitation across the world.
London, where financiers from across the globe gathered.
Saint Petersburg, the heart of the Russian Empire.
Madrid, capital of the Kingdom of Spain.
Amsterdam in the Dutch territories of the Holy Roman Empire.
Even as far away as Boston in the United States.
Wherever there was a bowl of rice that smelled of delicious meat, hungry wild dogs gathered.
And the capable Francis Baring gently slipped collars around the necks of those wild dogs as they tore into the meat.
“It’s been quite some time, amigo.”
“…I don’t believe we were ever that close.”
“What are you saying? Don’t we live under the same roof? The roof called Baring.”
“….”
“Well, whether our dear amigo likes it or not, reality does not change. Quite unfortunate, isn’t it? Heh. Truly a cruel world.”
“If you only intend to irritate me with pointless words, then go on your way.”
Only after they had eaten their fill of meat—placed there by someone unknown—did the wild dogs realize a strange rope had been tied around their necks.
They whimpered and resisted, but the more they struggled, the tighter the leash became.
“It’s an order from the old master.”
“…What do you want from me and my trading house?”
“The old master wishes for a war with France.”
“A war with France? Are you insane?!”
“I don’t understand why you’re so angry. If you’re a merchant, shouldn’t you be worrying about where to buy bronze for cannons and which warehouse to stockpile it in? There’s no reason to be angry.”
“How could Spain possibly defeat France in the first place!”
“Tsk. Grand strategy is decided by the old master. It’s not something a lowly subordinate like you should think about. Why try to act beyond your station?”
Realizing resistance was futile, the wild dogs had no choice but to become obedient hunting dogs, whether they liked it or not.
And now—
“I will arrange a meeting with Manuel Godoy in the near future.”
“Excellent. The old master will be pleased. Ah… that reminds me. I almost forgot something.”
“…What is this?”
“I hear that Godoy rather likes gold. There’s quite a generous amount inside. Take a few pieces for yourself and give the rest to Godoy. Tell him it’s a gesture of goodwill.”
After a very long time, the master had finally issued a mission to his hunting dogs.
Russian Empire.
Saint Petersburg, Winter Palace.
“What do you think?”
Not again. Again. How many times has this been already? At well past sixty years of age, had she begun to lose her senses?
Duke Ostermann sighed inwardly but spoke firmly.
“The rebellion in newly annexed Poland still continues in various regions. Expanding the front to two theaters would not be beneficial—”
“Duke Ostermann.”
The Tsar—Catherine—cut him off impatiently.
“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.”
“Last time you blocked my proposal with talk of two fronts and such nonsense. And what has the result been? That man Vilgelm has shaken our ally Britain with nothing but his silver tongue!”
The sixty-four-year-old empress frowned deeply and continued.
“That man removed the king he served twice with nothing but his tongue. Next he might bring Prussia, Italy, and the Holy Roman Empire to his side!
By the time that happens, even if we finish settling Poland, there will be nothing left we can do! This is our last chance to crush him while he is still a seed!”
“…Then where does Your Majesty intend to attack?”
“We must show Britain that the Russian Empire remains strong.”
The empress paused briefly before speaking again—slowly and clearly.
It was an old habit of hers, meant to display the authority of a sovereign.
“We will pass through the Bosporus Strait and strike French Corsica.”
“…What?”
“You remember the Baltic Fleet incident, do you not?”
“…How could I possibly forget.”
You madwoman.
Duke Ostermann swallowed the final words he dared not speak aloud.
If one forgot how Catherine had once sent the Baltic Fleet through the North Sea—the vital artery of Britain—toward the Mediterranean, how could one still call oneself a Russian official?
If there had at least been a grand reason, that would be one thing.
But the truth was that Russia’s reckless act had been nothing more than the empress’s childish stubbornness.
Look at me! Pay attention to me! If you don’t listen, I’ll throw a tantrum!
Because of that incident, the Russian ambassador to Britain had apologized countless times, while officials sent letter after letter to London saying, We never intended this. Please spare us.
“It will be the same as before. If we demonstrate Russia’s strength and reaffirm the alliance with Britain—”
This madwoman. Completely mad.
As the empress declared her intentions proudly with clenched fists, Duke Ostermann stood below her throne, silently praying for time to pass more quickly.
Normally, when he stalled for this long, the ministers present would step in and calm the empress. That had long been the custom in the palace.
But today something felt strange.
Why are the ministers of the Treasury and the Ministry of Commerce saying nothing?
Ostermann glanced toward them.
Strange. Why were they avoiding his gaze?
Ah. Finally someone was stepping forward. Thank goodness.
He was not the only person in this palace who still possessed a functioning brain.
“Our Ministry of Commerce has obtained intelligence indicating that the King of Spain expressed views in the State Council similar to those of Your Imperial Majesty.”
“What? Minister of Commerce, what do you mean by—”
“Oh!! So there is still a monarch in Europe whose head functions properly! Truly, God has not abandoned this world!”
What are you talking about? No. No!
“Now is the time to commence the Holy War. Recall the Commander-in-Chief Suvorov from Poland to the capital, and select elite troops from Kiev and Novgorod to place under his command.
Also contact Admiral Fyodor Ushakov in Crimea so the navy may sortie at any time!”
Duke Ostermann felt his mind go blank.
July 14, 1793.
Exactly four years since the Bastille.
At last, freed from Pitt’s grasp, I could finally be free from politics.
All that remained for me was to tidy up a few matters so the business could settle properly in this land, appoint someone suitable to manage the British branch of the Nation of Isaac, and then return to Paris.
Yes.
That was what should have happened.
“How impressive is our Portsmouth dockyard, Your Excellency! It is a massive naval harbor capable of repairing three ships of the line at once!”
“It’s veeeery impressive. Hahaha.”
“This is the ordnance depot responsible for the Royal Navy’s weaponry. Normally we wouldn’t show this to just anyone, but Director, you’re a special guest. Hahaha!”
“Truuuly amaaazing…”
Wow. Sugoi. Khorosho. Wonderful. I love it. Live commentary.
Damn it, this is driving me insane. Complimenting things like this is fine once or twice—but every single day I have to praise and flatter until my mouth cramps. I’m running out of compliments.
Had my relationship with the navy grown too deep?
No sooner had I escaped Pitt’s grasp than Admiral Jervis issued an order: Show our distinguished guest the greatness of the Royal Navy.
As a result, I had been incredibly busy.
Of course it was exhausting, but what could I do?
When the invitation arrived with gold leaf—if not hearts—turning it down bluntly might damage my reputation and business in this age of social etiquette.
Right now they might laugh and treat a foreigner like me warmly, but if relations soured somewhere along the way, they could easily grow cold again.
Better to raise my favorability now and prevent future trouble.
Sob… my body, I’m sorry. Endure a little longer for your master.
“Ah, the First Lord of the Admiralty asked that if it would not be inconvenient, would you consider joining a hunting trip this weekend?”
“Hunting? I’d be delighted.”
“Very well, Your Excellency. Ah, by the way…”
“Yes? Is there something else you wished to ask?”
“Are there any stocks worth buying at the moment?”
“Well, as it happens, a company called the Nation of Isaac is about to be listed…”
Well, it wasn’t all bad.
I could build relationships with these future VIPs who might one day become admirals of the Royal Navy.
I could also draw them deeper into my business and place them aboard the same ship as me.
If relations between Britain and France ever worsened because of certain matters, these men would prefer improving relations rather than sinking with me.
“Come to think of it, Captain Hardy.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“Do you remember the question I asked you last time?”
“You mean whether there was anything naval officers needed for life aboard ships?”
“Yes. That one.”
“Hmm.”
And besides, I could use them as a free idea bank.
“After living aboard ship for a long time, life becomes quite tedious.”
“Tedious?”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
Captain Hardy nodded.
“The sea is beautiful, but honestly, after about a week aboard ship, that feeling disappears. At that point the ocean no longer looks beautiful—it only feels suffocating.
And once we leave port, the navy spends two or even three months on the open sea. At first we pass the time gambling with wine or whiskey, but even that becomes tiresome after about two weeks.”
That sounded plausible.
“Toward the end of a voyage, there’s no sense of ceremony or purpose. We simply play cards with empty hearts. Without something like that, a person would go mad.”
“Are there no other entertainments?”
“…Chess.”
How terrible. Two months with nothing but cards or chess.
Naval officers… need something to entertain themselves on the open sea…
Entertainment. Entertainment.
Computers are impossible. Radios and phones don’t exist either.
Wait.
Haven’t I experienced something like this before?
During my GOP days, when the golden wagon didn’t arrive… what did I do to pass the time?
…Board games?