Woo Woo Boom Boom! Bread Floods Annecy
Wooo wooo! Honk honk honk! January 28, 1781, Annecy Free City.
Annecy Free City brimmed with countless sacks of wheat flour, meat, iron, timber, and more. This was no aid from France itself. Wealthy merchants and officers residing in Marseille and Lyon had heard of the plight in Savoy and Nice, taken pity, and sent relief.
As the benevolence of these rich merchants and officers piled up in Annecy and other border regions between Sardinia and France, the Sardinian populace expressed their fervent gratitude. Mostly by stringing up tax collectors' heads on spear tips or hurling stones at mercenaries hired by those collectors—putting their joy into action.
With things unfolding this way, the Kingdom of Sardinia's government couldn't just sit idle. They mobilized troops to suppress the provincial revolt and dispatched them to Annecy. And those troops mercilessly massacred the residents of Annecy—
"Bang! Bang! It's bread!!"
"Meat too!"
"Potatoes? Who cares if it's fodder—as long as it's edible!!"
—they did not.
Ever since the Qing Dynasty trade company bills evaporated overnight, the Kingdom of Sardinia's finances had plunged past zero into the negative. There were no salaries to pay bureaucrats, of course, and supplies to the army had dried up. Four years dragged on like that. Even the most duty-bound official couldn't work on an empty stomach. In peacetime, they pursued private economic ventures, popping into the offices only on Sundays or whenever they had a spare moment to half-heartedly clear the backlog. Local administration collapsed entirely, and the army devolved into armed civilians.
In the midst of this, they clumsily aped France by introducing public works programs, which only compounded the disaster by creating food-consumption hotspots—even the few cities still functioning began to starve. Industrialization was, to the Kingdom of Sardinia, mere rumor from across the sea in England or over the mountains in France. They lacked every single prerequisite. Half-baked industrialization without surplus food reserves brought famine crashing down. Unplanned industrialization launched without accumulated capital bankrupted the already bankrupt kingdom once more. With a population too small compared to Britain or France, and disposable income among the populace too low to buy produced goods, there were no consumers. Bourgeoisie saw no reason to set up shop amid the kingdom's murderous tax rates. This bungled industrialization, pieced together from hearsay and shoulder-surfing, snapped Sardinia's spine.
To salvage the mess, the government accepted taxes in kind, funneled all goods to the cities, and somehow kept public works grinding. Another half-baked copy of France's approach. But Sardinia overlooked one crucial detail. France collected taxes directly through a centralized treasury. Sardinia, having auctioned off tax rights to freelance collectors, started off shackled by massive corruption—nominal taxes at 50%, but effective rates at 300%. Of course, getting caught fleecing the people meant a death so agonizing you'd regret ever being born. If you got caught, that is. With central authority long uprooted, no officials remained to expose the tax farmers' gouging. Farmers endured brutal exploitation; laborers slaved to produce goods they couldn't sell, only to have them requisitioned. Soldiers and bureaucrats starved without pay or rations. Yet taxes kept rolling in relentlessly. Revolution seemed imminent, but it never quite ignited. The educated intellectuals who might have sparked it had all fled to France. Sardinia teemed instead with half-baked agitators, fake Enlightenment poseurs, conspiracy nuts, and cultists. They hunkered down in small villages, spouted plausible rabble-rousing, and incited peasant uprisings. The mobs stormed granaries and offices to reclaim their seized shares. Days later, troops arrived on suppression orders and looted the civilians in turn—a vicious cycle. The soldiers felt pangs of conscience attacking civilians, but survival demanded it. They were state-designated rebels with bread in hand. To avoid starving, compromise with reality was essential. That had been the pattern—until now.
Before Sardinia's army could shed its last scraps of conscience entirely, they received orders to suppress Annecy Free City. Had Annecy been just another poor village raiding granaries for its property, Sardinia's army would surely have turned bandit. But the Annecy they marched on was no destitute hamlet. Its warehouses overflowed with flour sacks stacked haphazardly outside; new buildings rose with steel skeletons. They poured expensive lime and clay to fill the earth, erecting structures of unyielding strength. The people of Annecy welcomed the troops with open arms, ushering them to roaring hearths piled high with firewood, serving soft white bread and potato soup thick with sugar. Even chunks of beef—six or seven finger-sized pieces per bowl. The 4,000 Sardinian infantrymen tasked with sweeping from Annecy through Chambery to Nice melted at a single bowl of warm soup. Their loyalty shifted not to the state, but to the bread.
Days later, the emissary from Louis XVI, towing dozens of wagons laden with French government supplies, arrived to find a French captain commanding a division-sized militia—and could only stare in bewilderment.
February 11, 1781, Versailles Council Chamber.
A rather annoying mess had unfolded.
"By the time the emissary reached Annecy, local forces had already taken unilateral control of the area."
While I issued the preemptive edict candidate and the emissary headed toward Sardinia, the elite army units exiled to Marseille had seized the region on their own initiative.
"Chambery, Nice, and all other confirmed revolt zones—our forces had already occupied them."
"Any rebellions or further chaos?"
"None. It was a systematic incursion, buying up stockpiles in Marseille at low prices to establish regular supply lines."
Incursion. Incursion, indeed...
"M-Mr. Foreign Minister, isn't 'incursion' a bit strong?"
"Be silent, Army Minister. My heart is troubled enough as it is."
"My apologies, Sire."
The military knew they'd overstepped and offered no vigorous defense.
"The situation is chaotic, my mind unsettled. In any case, the preemptive edict has gone out, so we'll discuss disciplinary measures later. Prohibit the Sardinian occupation forces from any combat beyond self-defense and civilian protection. The Foreign Ministry shall seek Sardinia's understanding and express our willingness to abide by their intentions."
Ugh, headache. They'll probably whine it was all out of loyalty after this.
"Sire. The Foreign Minister begs to speak. I implore you to issue detailed orders to the army."
"Detailed orders?"
"Self-defense and civilian protection allow too much subjective judgment. For instance, they might form line infantry for 'self-defense' and wheel on open ground, or arm civilians for 'protection' and treat them as soldiers."
"Surely our French army wouldn't stoop to such barbarism..."
Ah.
"Order the southern army to cease arbitrary actions and adhere strictly to my intent. Their role in Sardinia is solely securing local order and providing temporary protection."
Having to spell out every commander's intention... Like hitting hold—they won't charge ahead now, right?
"Summon the southern army division commander as well. Discipline seems to be slipping lately."
Not that I had much conscience throwing 80,000 Kwantung Army troops around while lecturing on unit management, but a division commander launching an invasion without reports deserved dismissal.
Same day, Madrid, Council Chamber.
Spain had agonized for days over France's proposal.
"'Family prices,' they said—what kind of family is this?"
"Calm yourself, Foreign Minister. It is family pricing. Forty-five billion livres' worth of flour and beans—that's 40% of France's annual agricultural output. Over five years? This price is perfectly normal."
It stemmed from the 9.439 billion francs owed for grain borrowed from France. They'd forgive 920 million francs via merino sheep purchase rights, but accepting that outright would turn Spain into France's puppet.
"I share your fury, gentlemen. But a deal is a deal. It was rushed, I'll grant, but we couldn't refuse then."
"His Majesty's words are wise. Rejecting France's offer might have sparked uprisings like Sardinia's. And their demands aren't outrageous—the grain runs the gamut from low to high grade. If France pushed, they could've charged a fortress per sack. Eighty-one francs average? Family pricing indeed. We just ordered too much. Do you know what a sack of Spanish low-grade flour costs in the cities? Two hundred eighty francs minimum."
"Sire, the Finance Minister has a point, but we must repay this debt. France pretends benevolence while goading bankruptcy—acceding means eternal loss of sovereignty. If we bankrupt, let it be by our sovereign choice; if we repay, on our sovereign terms."
The council couldn't refute the minister outright. But it was practically impossible. France had proposed; Spain had to respond.
"Even at the risk of rudeness, we must counter with a bid to reclaim Spanish autonomy."
"And concretely?"
Foreign Minister José Moñino jabbed at New Spain—the entire North American continent—on the map.
"Choose and focus. Pour everything into South America's guano and gold mines; toss unmanaged North America wholesale to France?"
The chamber erupted in chaos.
"We have the pretext. Didn't we generously give them 60-40 on Atacama guano shares?"
"Foreign Minister, that's a separate matter."
"Sire, that's not my point. When France developed Atacama, they supplied prospecting, tech, capital—and absorbed every local unemployed mestizo as labor. From New Granada to Peru Viceroyalty, La Plata—most of the jobless mestizos. Two hundred fifty thousand! Two hundred fifty thousand! Fifteen more than Spain's 100,000 standing army. Sure, any revolt would be militia-grade, no match for our regulars. But on that continent? Two hundred fifty thousand militiamen would be a nightmare. France turned that nightmare into workers. They penned Caesar's victory."
"I recall Indies Council papers saying our colonies stabilized thanks to France. Half a year ago?"
"Yes. And since then, France has paid mestizo wages without a single default. Daily rates are rock-bottom, so only about 35 million francs spent—but the ripple effect is immense. Creole elites chafing under peninsulares shifted to Atacama admin roles, drawing fat French paychecks and mostly content. Peninsular rule efficiency soared; Creole gripes evaporated."
Carlos III sank into deep thought at Moñino's words. As he said, France had dumped massive capital into South America, solving everything with money. On the brink of Creole revolts fueled by economic woes and peninsular dominance, France placed Creoles atop mestizos to sate their power lust, absorbed unemployed mestizos into labor to neuter rebel recruits. They busied idle intellectuals, exhausted jobless youth to thwart agitation. Not just pruning separatism's buds—they uprooted, burned, and salted the earth.
"With France's capital might, they could spawn new industries in Central America to placate those Creoles, and handle North America's Comanche or Apache savages with ease."
"Mere speculation, ultimately."
"But France has demonstrated it to us."
"Hmmm."
After hours of deliberation, Carlos III stamped his seal on Moñino's plan.