Winter Descends
Late 1784. An unprecedented cold snap swept in. It had hit hard last year too, but this winter was fiercer still. A king didn't just sit idle and watch it unfold.
"Preparations for the thaw?"
"We've focused on the major rivers with high flow rates—breaking up the frozen waters, dredging the sediment, and deepening the riverbeds. In theory, we've secured 2.5 times the normal flow capacity. The excavated soil went first to depleted farmlands nearby, with the surplus mixed with lime to build concrete embankments."
Last year's freeze and floods had caught them off guard, but not this time.
"Steel supply must be short."
"We made do with waterproofed timber. Famine drove food prices sky-high, so funding the tar and pitch was no issue."
As the saying goes: what happened once could happen twice. I'd started disaster prep for next year the moment the autumn harvest wrapped.
"The Iceland expedition?"
"They should have arrived by now."
Of course, I'd neglected no angle on the cause. Both the Academy and the papers were pointing to Iceland's volcanoes as the culprit behind this cold, so the famine would drag on until volcanic activity fully ceased.
"Here's hoping for results."
The French Revolution in original history probably stemmed from this too. Common folk don't care much about what the powers-that-be get up to, so long as it doesn't crimp their daily bread. Not that they're pigs or dogs—it's just human nature. Unless you're into politics or gunning for a bureaucracy spot, why bother? Better days ahead don't spark interest in court intrigue. Folks fret more over lunch tomorrow, or if machines will steal their jobs down the line, making skilled labor training the smart play. As the proverb says: in peaceful times, even the king's name goes unknown. Stick to your tasks, eat well, live well—no need to poke into politics for entertainment.
"With most of the Academy's researchers shipped out, they'll drag something useful back."
That's why this cold snap felt suspicious. What force had stirred the apathetic masses into political fever? High school history glossed it over as "financial woes," but bankruptcy was just one cause among many.
"Last year's food self-sufficiency rate?"
"Forage crops like hairy vetch and beans took almost no hits, but wheat suffered badly. Overall self-sufficiency clocks in at 199%, but for staple wheat, it's a mere 86%."
Financial crisis was the symptom. Fallout from the Seven Years' War and royal extravagance. The Revolution it birthed? Another symptom. And its root causes? Symptoms still.
When bellies are full, the people ignore politics. If they suddenly care, it means hunger's at the door.
"Revolution's brewing."
From now until the historical Revolution's timeline, famine would likely persist. Iceland's volcanoes the prime suspect.
Famine drags on, and revolution follows—same story, different backdrop.
"Pardon?"
"Not us. Other countries."
What must happen, will. Austria looked ripest right now—their plight was direst. Britain could dodge starvation thanks to Eden's treaty. Prussia would squeeze Poland. Spain and Portugal had vast colonies. Italy's petty states enjoyed a milder Mediterranean climate, blunting the cold's edge. Only Austria teetered: no colonies, no annexed lands to exploit, internal politics a powder keg. National Intelligence said separatist revolts could erupt tomorrow without surprise.
"Not good."
This famine's prelude had pushed France's trade surplus to record highs, but it rang hollow. To bind Europe in the franc zone, France needed to spread cash far and wide—but rivals buying up French grain shrank that influence instead. Worse, what good was the windfall? No one had goods to sell anyway. Couldn't offload grain to fix foreign famines either; France's surplus wouldn't feed the continent.
Hyperinflated currency values ironically bolstered the deliberately devalued franc... but issuing assignats was no fix. Post-famine, they'd be worthless paper again. Dumping subsidies for intangible perks had limits too. Most-favored-nation status soured if overplayed.
"No answers. Ignore foreign woes. France first. Solve our problems, then eye others."
Wars always flared in times like these: the weak and grain-rich plundered, the weakened exploited. Armies rolled in first. But each move built infamy. And cleanup? The real nightmare.
Luckily, Prussia would flounder into the twentieth century.
* Iceland, Reykjavik.
A lone Danish bureaucrat and dozens of French scholars had hunkered down in an abandoned building. They were France's volcanic survey team, dispatched to probe the freak weather scientifically.
"As I said, these findings will be shared with the Danish crown."
Once the French had their research setup in order, Christian—secretary to the Danish fiscal administrator—broached the topic.
"Laki volcano ceased activity early this year, but its parent peak, Grímsvötn, still rumbles."
Christian laid out basic precautions for the French team.
"Iceland's a Danish possession, after all. At minimum, notify me before acting."
Mostly formalities. France, fretting currency collapse from trade surpluses, had paid 50 million francs to the Danish government for the expedition, plus a modest 10 million "gesture" to the crown. Virtual carte blanche resulted.
"I'll be at the harbor. Send word via courier horse."
Christian bolted for safer shores. The French dove straight into work.
"Limewater status?"
"Plenty."
Graduate student Berthollet in chemistry slathered professors' masks with tar and pitch. Meteorology prof Luc layered limewater-soaked cloth and charcoal like a sandwich. They loaded the gear onto shaggy ponies that looked half-dead from toxic fumes already, then headed for Grímsvötn.
"Squad One! Umbrellas!"
"Right—nearly cracked my skull. Thanks."
Acid puddles in mind, they donned leather boots coated in natural rubber over tar, gripped leather umbrellas against pumice hail, and pressed on.
The trek brimmed with perils.
"Halt. Not gravel."
One "gravel field" proved a sulfuric river afloat with pumice.
"Pumice. Grab that and head back."
Geology prof St-Fon collected samples from the acid stream and retreated.
"Rotten egg stench. Sulfur vent. Sample and go."
Meteorology's Luc gauged volcanic sulfur via fumarole gas, then withdrew.
"Stomach's churning."
"Return?"
"Nah. Manageable. For now. Safe time left?"
"Nineteen minutes thirty-two seconds. First day—fifteen minutes on-site, then out."
One hour daily fieldwork max: rule to avoid poisoning.
"Vicious steam vent!"
New mechanical engineering prof Perrier fitted a mini waterwheel to a fumarole, verifying high-pressure steam engine potential firsthand.
"Spinning like mad. Sulfur melted the wheel, but... mission accomplished for our group. Seniority exit order, it seems. Last test—acid melt on glacial ice—yours."
France's team shipped findings to the Paris Academy.
"Sulfur. Sulfur..."
Academy head and chemistry prof Lavoisier compiled the report for Versailles.
"Sire, Academy dispatch. Grímsvötn's eruptions spewed sulfur and ash into the air. This sulfuric haze blocked sunlight, birthing the cold snap. No end date in sight, but impacts linger three years post-activity. If it quits this year, 1788's the peak crisis."
Louis XVI pivoted policy on the spot.
"Halve wheat exports to unfriendly states."