Presses Ablaze and Alpine Whispers
November 21, 1780. Marseille.
Separate from the British Parliament mired in its quagmire, the atmosphere within France was subtly tense. The country had gone bankrupt, and there were rumors of chaos abroad, but no one could gauge the full extent. Occasionally, refugees fleeing across the borders brought tales from foreign lands, yet without personal experience, it all felt unreal.
Sensing this hunger for information, France's press and publishing industry began to flourish. Established heavyweights like the trusted central outlets—Journal de Paris and Gazette de France—along with upstart new publishers, all shrieked with joy amid waves of new subscribers. Local papers rooted in provinces started popping up too.
The owners of these papers were mostly sons of urban artisans or independent farmers—middle-class stock. Continuous benefits from Louis XVI's land redistribution and tax cuts had rapidly enriched their families, freeing their children to pursue businesses not for survival, but for self-realization. These ventures carried bankruptcy risks, but France was in a high-growth boom. Anything with a shred of viability succeeded on launch. Thus, newspapers and publishers became a safe bet. Capital flowed abundantly, demand overflowed, competitors sprang up—the invisible hand worked tirelessly, indeed.
Journal de Marseille, the local paper of the port city on France's southeast coast, was one such success. Uniquely, it had skyrocketed in under a year to become the second-largest private outlet after Journal de Paris, France's top civilian press. This was thanks to the elite army units—effectively exiled—redeployed en masse near Marseille, snapping up subscriptions in droves.
"Print faster! If we don't hit ten thousand copies before sunrise tomorrow, you're all fired!!"
The print shop workers toiled day and night, collapsing from exhaustion as orders poured in.
"Hey, Guillaume! Guillaume! Boss, we'll really die like this! Two guys already dropped today!"
"Drag the collapsed ones outside. Hey! Spot opened up out there! Front guy, get in here and work! You lot, hustle! Don't you know losing subscriber trust means we're done? No pay if you drop. Now work! We pay overtime on the dot—why slack?!"
"At least get more presses, boss. Four machines mean printing nonstop all day! Think of the candle costs—add presses! Eight men can't handle this. Bump to six, and we could finish in half a day. Please, boss!"
"Tch! Plenty want the job without you. Wanna get canned? See that line outside? Wanna shovel sewers or muck manure for one franc a day, or pull overtime here for twelve francs? I shell out 144 francs to you lot daily—144! That's top-grade flour sacks poured into you every day. Why gripe? Work right or don't bother. Half-ass it, and get out! Don't wreck my business! Damn, another down. Next! Spot open!"
A few issues aside, it was no big deal.
"Whew, scraped through another day. Alright, one-hour break! After that, we print tomorrow's. Editors, drop tomorrow's copy here in thirty minutes. Start printing as soon as the mail runners arrive. Got it?!"
"Yes, boss!"
Workers overflowed.
"Uh, boss, about today's pay..."
"Ah, you? Mid-shift hire, right? Here's four francs."
"What? I heard twelve."
"That's full overtime. The guy who collapsed worked twelve hours—you did eight. Hourly ten sous, fifteen with OT. Twenty-hour base is ten francs. Hell, expecting twelve for eight hours? Shady. Don't come tomorrow. Others'll fill it. Spot open! Who wants in after the hour?!"
"Me!"
"I'll do it!"
"I'll bury my bones in this company!"
People slotted in like parts. But no major problems. Workers abounded.
*Same day, elite army temporary garrison.
The newspapers, printed with workers' tears and sweat, arrived via post at the army camp. Officers received personal copies. They rose at dawn around six, starting their mornings with coffee from aides and the daily paper.
Soldiers began theirs with reveille, as self-proclaimed Enlightenment NCOs read aloud. At twenty-four francs yearly per subscription, it was staggering demand. Yet it rolled smoothly. Officers had high ranks and pay; NCOs pooled squad funds. These were elite vets of months in the American War of Independence—base pay alone set them apart. Hundreds of officers, thousands of NCOs, hundreds of bourgeois third and fourth sons propelled Journal de Marseille to ten thousand subscribers in six months—a giant. Journal de Paris, half state-run at 130,000, dwarfed it for second place, but against other locals, it was monstrous. Third-place Le Matin de Rennes hovered at 800.
This gap stemmed from Paris and Marseille's demographics. Illiterates heard papers read aloud, or literates loaned to non-subs for sharing. But Paris, a 1.7 million behemoth, saw rushed influxes limiting shares—personal subs dominated. Marseille rode eighty thousand elite troops into squad-level bulk buys.
Even if 130,000 and 10,000 were bubbly tallies, their sway was undeniable. Facts and tones shaped regional and group mindsets.
For instance, Journal de Paris treated Atacama guano development and the French-Spanish free trade pact as discrete political events. Parisians thus debated early American war ends or French hegemony.
Journal de Marseille, contrarily, framed them economically. Subscribers fixated on guano, grain, and linked industry booms.
"Sergeant, question."
"Shoot, what's up?"
And perspectives warped through retellings into fresh slants.
"That joint development pact in the Atacama Desert."
"Ah, colonies, eh? Sharp question—hits the core. Colonial policy ain't just resource grabs. Take the French-Spanish free trade..."
"Sergeant, not that complex stuff. Don't know where Atacama is. But guano dug up there boosts our gunpowder stocks, right?"
"Right."
The sergeant bristled at the interruption but magnanimously overlooked the rudeness.
"So, less burden on military spending?"
"Y...eah?"
He sensed unease but shrugged it off. Sounded logical on surface.
Enlightenment-touched or not, NCOs were soldiers. They viewed all through military lenses.
"Less spending means we can war freely?"
"Th...at so??"
Caught in the private's leap, the NCO tumbled in. Enlightenment mimicry aside, soldiers were soldiers. Especially these elites—all late teens to mid-twenties, battle-hardened. Force-biased conclusions were inevitable.
"Heard lots in Sardinia Kingdom view France favorably lately. How about we slip over for 'local recon'? Not Piedmont plains—Alps only. Scout to Mont Blanc range. What say?"
Teens who'd survived war, some with medals and bounties. Assigned to the king's special "elite" legion, arrogance brewed inevitable. Grateful to Louis XVI for a land worth living in, they sought royal gifts. And the paper's "guano" sparked it.
"Genius, you. Yeah, Savoie or Nice suffices. Spend like on leave—no suspicions. Suggest leave to company commander? Hell, weren't we sent to Marseille for R&R? Permission means we exit garrison anytime."
"Exactly. Elaborate on that? Alps interest me too."
To Louis XVI's misfortune, most Marseille elites hunted royal presents.
"Hm, Sardinians liking France... Heard the rumors. Especially near Mont Blanc."