Chapter 193: Members of the Grand Army (6)
Chapter 193: Members of the Grand Army (6)
92,415 rounds of ammunition.
316 artillery shells.
1,208 pairs of worn-out boots.
1,680 uniforms.
394 military caps.
And 67 ponies—the eternal love of our Polish horse-mad friends.
Forty-three tons of wheat devoured by soldiers going, “Waaah, I’m just a baby soldier, feed me.”
218 crates of tangerines eaten as dessert because eating bread alone got boring.
Then someone said, “Just tangerines? Isn’t there something sweeter?” So seventy crates of apples were purchased from the locals.
And because prisoners saw the well-fed French soldiers and started shouting, “We’re hungry too! Give me bread!” an additional eight tons of wheat had to be issued separately.
What? Why feed prisoners?
Then what, starve them?
Are you perhaps… a feudal reactionary who hates equality and fraternity? Want to take a trip to the Temple Tower? Come to think of it, it might be about time to send a new guest there.
“But that’s all paid for with the blood-like taxes of the French people.”
“We’ll record it in a separate ledger and collect it later as war reparations. Surely that Tsar woman has at least a triangle of conscience in her heart.”
“Understood.”
And finally, the wine Napoleon drank from my personal supply—
twenty-three bot—
“Uwaaah! Napoleon, you bastard! Come out here! Duel me!”
“Y-Your Excellency! Please restrain yourself!”
“What are you doing?! Grab him!”
While I’m stuck working happy overtime with the finance clerks dispatched from the Ministry, someone else is drinking wine and shouting things like:
“Citizens! If you support Bonaparte, I will bring prosperity to Corsica!”
“Waaah! Long live Buonaparte!”
They even toss him into the air in celebration.
How could he not be my mortal enemy?
Thus, in return for France kicking the feudalists of Russia square in the backside, I spent the second week of November trapped in blazing paperwork hell.
Finally, Saturday arrived.
“Everyone, good work! Let’s go home!”
“Waaah! Let’s go home!”
“Grrr! Woof woof!”
When I said those words with hollow eyes, the finance officials collapsed foaming at the mouth. One of them looked more like a dog than a crab, but well—close enough.
“At last, we’re going home!”
“Long live Commander Bonaparte! Long live! Long live!”
The soldiers of our National Guard were not much different.
Even soldiers are wage earners in the end. Just like office workers waiting for the end of the workday, they all wanted to return from distant lands to their comfortable homes.
So when we boarded a ship and arrived in Toulon…
there stood a man bowing repeatedly with almost pitiable sincerity.
“Your Excellency the Finance Minister! I, Horatio Nelson, have worried day and night that even the smallest scratch might come to you!”
“Thank you for your concern. Your bravery has deeply impressed me as well, Admiral. I shall speak well of you to our Prime Minister.”
“Th-thank you! Thank you very much!”
[To William Pitt, who must be sipping tea today in damp London.
I received the gift you sent. The postman who delivered it was also quite excellent. As it happened, a robber broke into my house, but thanks to that postman I managed to keep my life.]
Now that I’ve laid on the flattery thick enough, it’s time to give a small warning.
Why?
Because when you buy something online and every review is five stars and glowing praise, you start to get suspicious.
Rational consumers always read the four-and-a-half-star reviews.
“Oh this product is amazing, but it does have this one small flaw, hoho.”
That way people can think, “Ah, so this is the product’s weakness,” and make a rational purchase.
If you only give praise, people start thinking: Is this a scam? Are these fake reviews? and trust plummets.
[However, some say that this postman is somewhat… talkative. It would be wise to use him, but not keep him too close. My apologies for the long message. I trust that Prime Minister Pitt, being a wise man, will understand my meaning.
I hope to visit Downing Street for tea someday.
—Guillaume de Toulon]
Even I have to admit that’s a pretty excellent review.
With a review like that, the shop owner should give complimentary dumplings and a sweet-and-sour pork coupon.
Once the work in Toulon was finished, the only thing left was to head to Paris.
Passing through Marseille, then Avignon, then Valence, and finally Lyon—
Damn, the road is long.
Fortunately, our brilliant Lavoisier’s first graduate student—no, slave number one—DuPont had brought the automobile.
“Wow, Dupont. You’re looking well. Professor must be treating you nicely.”
“You crazy—… ahem. Are you perhaps running a fever, Your Excellency?”
“Stop grumbling and give me some motion sickness medicine.”
“If you weren’t funding the research, I’d poison you.”
Hey now.
How dare a mere graduate student talk like that to the man funding the research?
Grab the wheel and start this steam automobile.
With this steam carriage, I can go anywhere—
Except that turned out to be wrong.
There were already huge numbers of prisoners marching alongside soldiers.
Add a strange mechanical vehicle to that procession, and our column heading toward Paris quickly turned into a massive public spectacle.
Without the banners it would already be a circus.
[The city of Avignon welcomes His Excellency the Finance Minister and the soldiers of the National Guard!]
Ah.
Now there are banners too.
First a businessman, then a politician—must I also become a circus ringmaster?
“Your Excellency, it is an honor to meet you!”
“Haha, thank you.”
“As mayor of Avignon, I will wholeheartedly host you and the soldiers!”
Excellent.
If they’re going to put on such a noisy circus, they should at least feed us well.
“But Your Excellency, what exactly is that machine you are riding?”
“Ah! You know about steam automobiles? This thing is really amazing!”
Since I met him anyway, I might as well talk his ear off.
After all, this is sales.
“This is the must-have item of the future, the starting point of a civilization that will dominate the next hundred—no, two hundred years!”
“I… see.”
“Your Excellency?”
“I’m a little busy right now. Let’s talk in a moment! Mayor, if you invest now, this thing will skyrocket—no, it will go straight to the moon!”
“Your Excellency. It’s urgent.”
Who is this interrupting me?
“I’m from the Ministry of Finance.”
“Well then, come in. Mayor, I’ll see you at dinner tonight.”
“Y-yes, Your Excellency…”
I sent the mayor away and seated the finance officer from Paris.
“What is it? I thought the Russian reparations would be calculated in Paris.”
“It’s about Spain.”
“Spain?”
“Well… the thing is…”
…Damn.
What did I just hear?
The island of Saint-Domingue in the West Indies was actually divided in two.
French Saint-Domingue and Spanish Saint-Domingue.
France and Spain, both seeking colonies, agreed to split the island in half since it produced the gold mines of sugar and coffee.
And as neighboring kingdoms ruled by the same dynasty, that agreement had held firm until now.
But then a revolution erupted in France.
The king abdicated twice.
After that, for several years the throne—the supreme seat of the monarchy—remained vacant.
The Bourbon monarchy of Spain found this reality extremely unpleasant.
And frightening.
They feared a republic might emerge.
Spain, already heavily influenced by France, might not remain stable if France established a republic.
Rumors spread in the royal court that the plague of liberalism and democracy was already quietly spreading among Spanish intellectuals.
Meanwhile ministers, generals, and even Prime Minister Godoy whispered that if Spain sternly reprimanded France, the world would regain stability.
The answer was obvious.
Two weeks earlier.
Spanish Saint-Domingue, east of French Saint-Domingue.
“Gentlemen! We are the warriors of the noble and glorious Spanish Empire! Are we not?!”
“Yes, we are!”
“In our veins flows the blood of the great conquerors Cortés and Pizarro who conquered the Americas!”
“Yes!”
“Now we shall follow in their footsteps and crush those French negroes who babble nonsense about freedom and equality—and place the proper bit back into their mouths!”
“Waaah! Crush the negroes!”
“Forward! Show them the might of the Spanish Empire!”
The colonial army of Spanish Saint-Domingue marched into the jungle with rifles in hand.
Those damn blacks.
Slaves daring to repeat absurd words they did not understand.
Since their true master, France, had gone mad, Spain—as the friendly neighbor—would kindly put the bit back into the slaves’ mouths until sanity returned.
However—
“Aaaah!”
“The blacks are too strong!”
“Help!”
Black soldiers in blue uniforms burst from the jungle and opened fire, stabbing Spanish troops through the chest with swords.
The Spanish forces quickly collapsed into a chaotic retreat.
Think about it.
The blacks of French Saint-Domingue had spent nearly three years fighting desperate battles against suppression forces numbering almost ten thousand.
And they had done so without formal military training.
But after the government in Paris and Versailles withdrew colonial troops and integrated Saint-Domingue into metropolitan France, these black soldiers were granted French citizenship.
Their leader Toussaint became a deputy representing the district of Saint-Domingue.
Which meant these men now received formal military training under French doctrine and curriculum.
“Drive out the invaders! Save our brothers!”
“Saint-Domingue National Guard, First Regiment forward! Show them we are part of the Grand Army of France!”
“Long live liberty, equality, fraternity! Long live the Grand Army!”
And that also meant a mere fourth-rate colonial force could never stop them.
Northern Pyrenees.
National Guard Toulouse Regional Command.
A battlefield where gunfire flashed and the acrid, sweet smell of gunpowder drifted through the air.
Spain had launched surprise attacks in Saint-Domingue while simultaneously attacking along the Pyrenean frontier in Europe.
Fortunately for France, however, the Toulouse command in the Pyrenees had been assigned the nation’s greatest expert in defensive warfare.
“Damn it! Damn it! I can’t do this anymore! I’m resigning!”
“General! The enemy is advancing!”
“Aaaah! Pull the Third Battalion and plug the gap!”
The famous guardian of the Revolution—
Brigadier General Charles François Dumouriez.