If It Bothers You, Just Don't Use the Money.
May 25, 1778, Lorraine region.
Farther out than the cities of Lorraine, in the middle of barren wasteland. Young men with nothing to do were crawling out of temporary tents. They were all victims of the economic depression that had swept across Europe nine months earlier. Waitstaff, dockworkers, construction laborers, a few years into their apprenticeship as blacksmiths... all they had were sturdy bodies. Young men without any special skills, scraping by on day labor. They were the weakest of the weak, fired the moment work dried up even in normal times. With a continent-wide economic panic hitting now, there was no way jobs would come in at the docks or construction sites.
A carpenter with skills or a blacksmith in a guild might hold out on their savings, but these guys had no such skills. Employment contracts? They were null and void with the single excuse of "recession."
"I see. So you know how to swing a hammer, then?"
"Pardon? Uh, yes... at least I don't smash my own fingers."
"Guys who say that are always good. Steel mill team!"
This place was different.
"Go to the back, sign the contract, get your work clothes, and start right away. You know how to make iron bars, right?"
"Haven't learned steel yet."
"Who said anything about steel bars? Wrought iron bars are fine."
Standardized work contracts. Daily wages paid in cash. And above all, backed by the crown.
This was the French Royal Ironworks. Nicknamed the Lorraine Ironworks.
Still barren wasteland now, but it was set to become France's largest ironworks within three years.
"I've worked in the mines for twenty years! I'm confident in heavy labor!"
"Really?"
"Yes. It was a traditional asbestos mine worked since Roman times."
"Oh, I know that place. My hometown was nearby."
"Oh, really?"
"Nice muscles. Mind if I feel?"
Thwack!
"Urk!"
"All show, no go—total scam."
"You hit me out of nowhere..."
"I didn't even hit hard, and you're whining? You're on rock-grinding duty. Sit in the shade over there and crush asbestos with the stone roller."
"Thank you!"
There were a few misfits, but the hiring officer took them on anyway.
"Heh, hey, Charles! You think three guys hanging off that tiny plank like monkeys will get the job done?"
"Better than standing around twiddling thumbs, right? Teach the newbies, get some work done. It's all good intentions."
With so many people came plenty of clashes.
"His Majesty said build fast but safe. This is all His Majesty's will."
"Is it? Then add the new hires—five of you now. Safe-ly."
"That guy's personality is totally fucked. Sigh, must be the Aquitaine blood—twisted as hell."
But money outweighed the arguments.
"Um, senior? They really pay cash?"
"Hey now, when has His Majesty ever broken a promise?"
"I heard the French bankruptcy declaration happened because he didn't keep his word..."
At the newbie's words, the four carrying planks all stopped dead.
"Newbie. You a spy?"
"A spy? I'm a guy."
Pfft! A few burst out laughing.
"Heh... ahem! Hey! No laughing. What I mean is, you a noble spy?"
The senior worker barely held back his laughter and questioned the newbie.
"Maybe one in every thirty or forty above me. But me? Lifelong dock rat, real sea dog!"
"Fair enough. If the nobles were competent enough to plant spies here, they wouldn't have gone bankrupt to begin with. Don't worry about pay—it's all handed out when the sun sets red. But why the rumors His Majesty breaks promises? I hear it from one guy a week."
The senior's sensible question got an instant reply from the junior.
"Noble bullshit, right? Nobles are all the same."
"Yeah. Two, three years back? Around May, nobles crying poor harvest—chaff in the grain, weak kernels—all excuses to grab more yield. Bread dropped to one sol for two loaves, remember?"
They recalled the 1775 price crash.
"Streets flooded with flour, no one buying bread—bakers rioted. Happened on the Paris outskirts..."
"Ah! I heard. Bread riots. Thought they were just fat greedy pigs at the time. Still think so. No conscience."
Plop.
They propped the plank in a quiet spot and gossiped behind it.
"Fancy a drink?"
The quick-witted junior pulled a beer bottle from his pocket. The neck was crusted with recrystallized sticky sugar from reuse.
"Whoa, where'd you get beer? No shops around."
"Mom's from East Prussia."
They passed it relay-style, one sip per word.
"In France, that's nobility. Look at Austria or Prussia—just collapsed."
The senior started it off.
"Collapsed? More like crumbled. Prussia can't even make iron."
The bottle passed on.
"Russia sells asbestos at cost, right? Most here is Russian."
It circled from right end to left.
"Cost? They're pocketing double. You still trust nobles?"
Half the beer left.
"All Britain's fault."
It came full circle back to the senior.
Then a shadow fell over the plank from behind.
The safety officer and work supervisor of the French Royal Ironworks. He spotted the slackers, confiscated their booze, and downed it with, "You punks, bring good stuff to me first."
"Hey! Don't chug it like that!"
"Got a problem?"
"No, sir."
Such scenes were commonplace in this era. No labor laws, no unions. Slacking off? As long as it wasn't sabotage, they looked the other way. An era where honest work killed you from exhaustion. Fourteen hours a day, six days a week.
"This all you brought?"
"Uh..."
The junior eyed him warily, hand to pocket—like advertising "beer here." The supervisor snatched another bottle and took a swig.
"Ahh, a drink mid-shift. That's beer."
"Don't you have construction to oversee?"
"Plenty others to watch."
France overflowed with the unemployed amid the panic. Construction especially—work dried up, everyone from grunts to architects idle.
"Hundreds sitting where one would do..."
Practically every builder in France had gathered. Temporary tents turned into midsize towns as buildings rose around them.
"Getting sleepy... tilt that plank for shade. I'll nap."
"Sure."
"You guys rest too. Booze kicking in, right?"
"You drank it all."
"Hey."
This wasn't unique here. Elsewhere, asbestos grinders raced without kicking up dust; levelers plowed earth like fields with picks. And everywhere, armbanded safety officers joined in.
Two hours after clock-in, no one worked. Only teams soured by harsh words or all-newbie squads bothered.
Yet the ironworks built at record speed. Even those chilly teams and rookies equaled five times normal crews. Passive building, slacking, newbie fuckups—overwhelming numbers overcame it all.
The three-year schedule shifted to "within three," then tentatively locked at two years eight months. Not much time passed.
Workers clocked in at dawn, out at dusk. Hundreds of safety officers herded their slacker charges to the pay shack for wages.
Sparkling clean silver coins.
"Whoa, shiny. Freshly minted?"
"Next! Yeah, old gold and silver all went to Qing China—gotta mint new. Next!"
"This'll inflate prices..."
"Hate it? Don't take it."
"Not that."
They pocketed the new coins—mostly silver—and headed to tents. At quitting time, mailmen hovered near site. Workers peeled off nine-tenths or all their pay, stuffing letters for the mail coach. Meals at site, wasteland around—no spending spots.
"Few years of this, shops'll pop up."
"Better money selling food here than building."
Post-work tents jingled with silver like crickets. Most slept early under evening glow; some lit fires for gambling.
"Aaaah!!!"
A few newbies shot up, enlightened.
"What's with him?"
"Senior! Something wrong with these silver coins!"
The senior brushed it off.
"Don't sweat it. They're paying—that's something."
Newbies rubbed coins, scraping surfaces.
"See! Plated! Rust under the peeled silver!"
"Heh, waste. Scrape too much, won't fetch value later."
Seniors shrugged indifferently.
"Europe's wrecked—why would France hand out pure silver? Especially chunks this big? Pre-crash, that's three sols. Iron alone's worth one sol silver."
"Still..."
"Shut up and sleep. Dawn start tomorrow. Hate it? Don't spend. I'll spend fine."
Thus, the shoddy currency replacing pure gold and silver spread.