Why Is This Your Money?
August 4, 1777. Prussia, Berlin. Early morning.
The blacksmith Franz clutched his promissory note as he headed to the "Prussian Porcelain Specialist Eastern Trade Shipping Company." By the date, the interest repayment was due on August 2, but that happened to be a Saturday, and the company was closed. Still, like a miser guarding his vault, Franz was remarkably optimistic thanks to the Europe-wide boom of the past few years. A two-day delay is nothing, he thought as he approached the company.
With a light heart, Franz knocked on the door.
Knock knock.
No response.
Knock knock.
Still nothing. Sensing something off, Franz pressed his ear to the door.
—
Not a sound. No sign of life at all.
Curiosity piqued, Franz pushed the door open. It wasn't locked.
And inside... nothing.
Truly, nothing.
The ornate wall clock, the ebony reception desk, the room brimming with gold and silver where he'd always collected his interest payments, the temporary warehouse stuffed with Qing Dynasty porcelain, even the stables packed with nearly white-gray horses.
All gone.
Only ledgers recording to whom and how many notes had been sold, along with the contracts. Nothing else.
August 5, 1777. France, Versailles Palace.
I was still playing the role of the puppet king.
Aside from the Europe-wide boom of nearly three years that had skyrocketed tax revenues, and using those taxes to inflate the royal budget so I personally owned dozens of stocks and plots of land, it was just another ordinary day.
If anything, once I expanded the royal budget, both the First and Second Estates seemed relieved. They thought I'd reverted to the classic monarch act—honest about luxury and personal greed—making me a predictable ruler.
Apparently, Louis XV had acted similarly at first, so the First and Second Estates figured they'd won. The factional compromises within the Second Estate had reverted to square one, and private armies were starting to disband bit by bit.
The First Estate in particular was emphasizing ties between the crown and the Church, demanding patronage funds and political alliances.
I played the indecisive king torn between reform and stability, keeping the First and Second Estates on edge while enjoying peaceful days.
"I understand Your Grace's point well. But fiscal health is paramount. Our kingdom's coffers are sturdy, yet dragging around a bunch of debts is unseemly, no? Thus, until the Seven Years' War reparations are fully repaid, we cannot provide patronage. That said, given the current surge in revenues, we should be able to within three years."
Refuse while dangling hope. Can you really hold out three years?
"Present the next matter."
"Yes. Recently, several major Qing trade shipping companies have abruptly collapsed."
"Common enough. Investment is a personal choice. Do not bring such matters again."
"Yet, Your Majesty—"
"Typhoons or pirates, no doubt. Rescuing every such case would spoil the commoners."
It's because the investors cashed out early with their whiskey money, idiots.
"Speak the next matter."
"Yes. Recently in the Rhône-Alpes region, illegal dumping of oak barrels has become rampant..."
August 12, 1777. France, Brittany region. The manor of a certain Breton viscount.
The family head was arguing with representatives from the Amsterdam bondholders.
"You don't seem to understand."
"I understand perfectly. But this is excessive! Why must I repay the notes from that Qing silk shipping company?"
One of the Amsterdam bondholders read from the promissory note contract.
"See here: 'Sous France' notes involve additional paid-in capital stock issuance at face value, with joint and several liability."
"Liability? I never agreed to that!"
"Then whose is this seal?"
One noble among those holding hundreds of thousands of livres in notes was now bankrupt due to joint liability.
"You should have read the contract before investing. Even the Bible warns against sureties. Lads, with interest, that's 2.26 million livres. Appraise it properly."
The bailiff seized all the noble's assets: heirloom swords passed down for centuries, the founder's portrait, decades-old wines from the cellar, kilograms of bullion from the safe.
Not enough—so they took the manor, the estate, even bank accounts.
Still, 80,000 livres in debt remained. At 20% compound interest annually, it was now their burden.
"Don't take it personally. At auction, any surplus will be returned. With bidding, you might get tens of thousands of livres."
"But if it fails to sell, we lose half!"
Auctions traditionally allowed 2-3 rounds of no-sale to depress prices and give original owners a chance—unwritten rule, though not mandatory.
"We must protect creditors' assets, no?"
"I'm a creditor too!"
Of course, when other debtors' assets sold, he'd get a pro-rata share—as long as it stayed normal debt. But with notes issued in tens of thousands of times the company's assets, even sales of others' property meant he'd see virtually nothing.
"A contract is a contract. Lads, let's go."
The seizures had only just begun.
August 21, 1777. Italy, Republic of Genoa.
"You bastards! Give me my money back! My money!"
"A contract is a contract. Lads, here it's 810,000 lire!"
August 22, 1777. Austria, Linz.
"Milord, please spare me. If you take everything, I can't repay the remaining 150,000 florins."
"A contract is a contract. Join a mine gang."
"No, I make 2,000 florins on the moon handling glass. Sending me to a mine paying under 5 a day?!"
"Hey, why are you speaking French? French POW?"
"Yes. I want to go home. Can I?"
"Ha. These Austrians..."
August 23, 1777. Netherlands, Amsterdam.
"Not a penny."
"I should be the one saying that. You held 400 guilders in notes."
"Pardon? What do you mean?"
"The contract. You thumbprinted it. Qing-style contract law. Remember?"
"Ah, yes, I do. But why?"
"Lads, seize it. With interest, 770 ducats."
"But I didn't receive that money."
"Then who took it?"
"The coffeehouse owner over there. He has the contract."
"Ha... Fine. Don't sign contracts lightly next time. We're going easy because it's us—others wouldn't. Why'd he substitute the contract anyway?"
"Eh, got a few bottles of booze for the thumbprint."
"Goddamn it."
August 23, 1777. Prussia, Berlin.
"Your Majesty Frederick the Great, thus you must repay 189 million gulden in principal and 141.41 million in interest."
"Finance Minister, explain. Why is unknown debt in our treasury?"
"It must be... Austrian spies' doing."
"Ha. Debts must be paid regardless. Use treasury assets to settle, investigate thoroughly. Use the army if needed."
"Yes, sire. Fortunately, we hold many French reparations bonds, so our own funds won't be heavily tapped."
"Hope they don't go unsold."
August 23, 1777. Russia, Moscow.
"Your Imperial Majesty, you must repay 1.1 billion rubles in principal and 988.48 million in interest."
"At least the state bears the loss instead of the people—optimistic."
"Th-that said, Russian subjects' debt ratio is 0.08%. Almost all nobles."
"Insolent wretches. Strip their titles and ship them to Russian America."
August 23, 1777. Britain, Palace of Westminster.
"Squandering taxes like that—I knew it!"
"Shut it, Tories!"
"Instead of blame, offer solutions. How to repay notes costlier than all Britain's wealth?"
"Swelling 20% yearly—you'll pay it off splendidly! Radicals take responsibility!"
"Responsibility doesn't erase debt."
"Without you investing despite the guarantee clause, this wouldn't have happened!"
August 23, 1777. France, Versailles Palace.
Finally, it had arrived.
"All told, 65 billion livres."
But default? No reason for me to cover the nobles' debts.
October 1, 1777. France, Tuileries Palace. The king's office.
"Your Majesty, it's unfolding as planned. Europe is in chaos, auction items repeatedly unsold, fetching under 5% of value."
"It can drop further. Keep watching. How are our reparations claims?"
Normally, auctions draw hyena packs at half price—or 20-30% if unsold. Rich folks buy early to preempt... but right now, no one in Europe has cash?
"The Seven Years' War reparations claim of 125 million livres starts at 2.2 million. Endless no-sales have upstart bourgeois waiting for rock-bottom. We've sent National Intelligence Agency agents to bid and acquire all listed assets."
"Keep watching. Share some with my letter-sent loyalists and loyal nobles. They've hoarded cash for months, enough to expand influence."
Distributing spoils to meritocrats is essential. To command later, bestow favors now for momentum.
"Watch longer. Even freebies—they'll hesitate over remaining tens of thousands in debt. Tell Mont Blanc to sort gold, silver, copper into ingots, styled like from New France in Central America."
"Why not expand privateers now?"
"Good. Plunder all South American gold and silver. Sell letters of marque like a blockade. Perfect alibi. Use proceeds to mass-build sloops at Toulon and Brest shipyards, sell to pirates. Chance to grip the Atlantic."
We'll catch flak, but inevitable. Cash-strapped nations will privateer too. Buy European assets with laundered pirate gold, and they'll build fleets. Brits ran Drake 200 years ago—no reason we can't.
"Start light: 2,000 letters?"