Three Men Make a Tiger

Three years after Europe froze solid in the economic panic of September 1780, the first agreement between European powers was signed. It was christened the France-Spain Free Trade Agreement. France supplied grain and goods to Spain at family-like prices. Family-like in name only—it was outright aid. Sure, logistics, storage, and labor costs made it about 2.5 times pricier than buying domestically, but to Spain, where the economy had all but evaporated, it was manna from heaven. Spain's ships harvested the stockpiles piled high in ports along the French coast. They sailed with most of their cannons and powder removed, supposedly an "effort not to provoke our brother nation or other vessels." In truth, they had few sailors who knew how to work the guns anyway, and ditching the weight let them cram in more cargo.

Still, no major issues arose.

"Captain! Check out that ship! She's got barely a third of her guns on the starboard side!"

"Yeah? Hm. Leave ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠her be."

"Why?"

"Even a pirate like me won't touch a homeland merchantman."

Normally, unarmed ships were perfect pirate bait. But these were the romantic days of the golden age of piracy. Pirates who prized merchant honor and chivalry just waved them on.

"Captain! The others are going to raid her! Shouldn't we—"

Crack!

"...not go, right?"

Of course, a frigate was still a frigate. Hobbyists on small sloops or cutters couldn't plunder her. Any ignorant pirate boat that got too close merely scratched her hull before shattering to splinters. The wreckage served as a stark warning to pirates along the French coast.

Setting such incidents aside, the governments of France and Spain touted the trade as "the finest accord to strengthen bilateral friendship and pull each other's economies forward." The Spanish government especially viewed the free trade pact as the wedge to end the dragging American Revolutionary War. Some clamored for revenge at the Battle of Calais; others demanded a decisive fleet battle to wrap it up.

Compared to Spain's fervor, reactions inside France were more nuanced.

"Setting a floor price is smart. But wouldn't we make more just selling it outright? Honestly, our wheat might not top Jacques's, but it's solid mid-to-upper tier."

"Right? Our flour could fetch a fair price even at market."

This was because the free trade deal had locked in a grain price floor before full-blown oversupply hit. Even self-sufficient farmers hauling grain to city markets faced floods from surrounding countryside, sending prices into a nosedive.

"That flour's yellowish, and those beans are rotten. Low-grade junk across the board. Force us to sell at the same price? I could make five times that in Paris!"

"Exactly. Our flour gleams bright golden yellow, and our beans are perfectly round! Fifty francs a sack? Absurd. This is wheat, not potatoes!"

Every farmer thought the same. Others' flaws glared; their own quirks seemed natural perfection.

"That confident, are you?"

"Damn right. And who the hell are you?"

"Just finished paving roads, heading back to Paris. My wagon's empty after hauling materials—sell to me? I'll pay upfront; once sold, I'll deduct my fee and remit the rest."

Truly confident growers used tax collectors or traveling merchants as agents to ship to Paris. The proxies profited from side gigs over empty hauls; farmers got chances to sell premium goods for premium prices.

And it crashed spectacularly. Because everyone had the same idea.

Paris market air turned hazy white from flour dust billowing out of burst sacks. It hung thick as fog, dense enough in spots for dust explosions and fires.

Mid-to-low and mid-to-upper grade flour piled up like mountains. City grain prices weren't just hitting rock bottom—they were tunneling underground.

Market price: 43 francs a sack. Factoring in the bureaucracy buying any quality at a flat 50 francs, it was effectively negative pricing.

Beggars scrubbing flour from brick crevices could buy mid-low grade after three days' labor. Wage-earning commoners ate mid-upper. A laborer out for cheap low-grade ended up with mid-upper-to-top for 80 francs. Elites dined on the finest, once reserved for royalty.

With top-grade flour flooding markets, nouveau riche and intellectuals snapped it up. Beef, grapes, and spices hadn't surged in production, but the flour crash warped everything. Panic that other staples would tank dumped even more volume faster. Some goods saw yearly output drop—yet prices fell anyway.

They hired ex-noble chefs—now unemployed—to open members-only restaurants.

Thus, anything mid-grade or below sat as unsold stock, forcing sales to the state.

"Wasn't it 85 francs a sack as of January 1st this year?"

"Read the damn poster! Everyone who comes here whines the same—huge print right below: not 80% of 1780's January 1st for lack of data, but this month's opening rate!"

The commoner clerk, fielding the complaint for the hundredth time, jabbed furiously at the notice plastered outside the office. But if they'd read it, they wouldn't complain.

"I remember clear as day! New Year's wheat sack at 85 francs six sous; potatoes went for a sou to lunatics, but averaged three to four..."

"Again with this. Guards! Handle this malicious pest!"

But this was 18th-century France. A one-on-one with the police turned complainers magically meek.

In the end, they traded sacks of gold for hundreds of plated profit. Gainful, sure—but factoring labor and time, catastrophic loss.

Merchants and officials ground their teeth and fired off post.

But replies weren't apologies or cash—they were outrage.

Since farmers ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hadn't gone to Paris themselves, they saw scam everywhere. Subjectively, their grain wasn't top-tier but solid upper-grade. Demoting it to junk or mid-low and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠dumping at the office? Obvious fraud. To them, the letter screamed classic grift: sell dear, lie about dumping cheap, pocket difference.

Farmers bolted to the preliminary magistrate with letters in hand. The newly established local court wasn't glamorous but teemed with similar cases.

"Dealt with a proper merchant, did you? Your fault too. Think God descends to bind every contract? Scammers scam anyway. Contracts aren't magic. If they worked perfectly, we wouldn't need 'em!"

The magistrate wearied of self-proclaimed "scam victims."

"You: proxy sale scam. You: proxy sale scam. All identical MO? This ain't isolated—it's organized crime! Don't come solo; bring the village!"

"What? You too?"

"Henri, you as well?"

Only then did self-sufficient farmers clock the crowd: neighbors or distant kin.

"Whew, you lot got off light. I sold everything!"

"Sold? I didn't even get advance."

"Didn't get? Or didn't take?"

"Come on, man."

Sharing scam tales, they pieced together the plot.

"Ordinary trader for me."

"Tax man for me."

"Now that you mention—his accent was off. Sounded English."

As crowds swelled, facts fabricated themselves.

Hours of debate ended in one collective writ: Fleurence Grain Fraud Complaint.

By the time the magistrate received it, a few hundred farmers' gripe had ballooned into a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠colossal 1.61 million franc mega-scam.