Sack of the Coalition
1781 May 1, east of the Rhine River. At the break of dawn, the Anti-French Alliance—the Pan-European Order Preservation Coalition—forded the Rhine. Their first objective was the Lorraine region, which produced sixty percent of France's steel and weaponry. The army of seven hundred thousand crossed the Rhine bloodlessly and marched into Lorraine.
En route to Lorraine, they discovered a massive ironworks the size of a middling city.
"So this is the famed Lorraine Ironworks we've only heard rumors of. It's utterly monstrous."
Ernst Gideon von Laudon, supreme commander of the Anti-French Alliance, offered his appraisal. Trailing him were his legion commanders: Prince Heinrich, Archduke Karl, the Swiss mercenary captain, and counts or marquises from the various states of the Holy Roman Empire.
The Lorraine Ironworks had evidently prepared for evacuation weeks prior—no blueprints remained, only traces of massive paper burnings in the nearby fields. Not a single worker lingered; bellows, great hammers, even steam engines had been dismantled. Furnaces were melted into unrecognizable, twisted hulks, and blast furnaces filled with dirt to render them useless. All they salvaged were unmoved lumps of pig iron, iron ore, and coal. In truth, there were no meaningful spoils. A few nail-shaped iron scraps, perhaps, but nothing of value.
"I never expected we'd seize the facilities intact to begin with. Engineers, analyze the ironworks' equipment. Restore what you can and commence local resupply."
"Yes, sir."
Three thousand Italian unemployed mercenaries were left behind to attempt repairs. The remaining seven hundred thousand—Austrian and Prussian forces from myriad states, divided into legions of one hundred thousand each—pressed toward Paris.
"Your Grace, look atop that hill. There's a suspicious structure. Could it be a fortress?"
One of the Italian mercenary captains pointed to a building south of the Lorraine Ironworks. Laudon peered through his spyglass at the southern hill as instructed. It resembled a windmill, its blades crossed into some shape.
"An abandoned windmill. Fierce winds must have snapped the blades."
"Shall we not inspect it? There seem to be a few people around..."
"Civilians, no doubt. What threat is a tiny fort like that? No need to bother. How many years have you been a mercenary?"
"This is my first major campaign."
"Then heed my advice. I understand your thirst for glory, but don't bring such trifles to me. Consider rank and station."
"...Yes, Your Grace."
And so, the Lorraine Ironworks fell without a fight. An empty shell of an industrial zone, devoid even of green apprentices—but seizing the massive complex responsible for sixty percent of France's steel output was an extraordinary feat.
"They must have fled in terror of Your Grace's splendor."
An Austrian colonel and viscount sidled up to the archduke with flattery.
"Flattery isn't unpleasant to the ear. Press on to Metz."
"A wise decision, Your Grace."
"We'll dine in Metz tomorrow at lunch. All that swagger from their wealth, and they're no sturdier than rotten doors."
As they ignored the windmill-like structure to the south and marched west, the Chappe telegraph twisted its semaphore arms into ever-changing shapes, moment by moment.
*
As the Austrian coalition advanced westward, the wheat fields of the French plains came into view. A few peasants dotted the surrounding flats, but it was May—harvest season loomed. To them, French farmers were mere local requisitions.
"Aigoo, sirs! Please spare our lives!"
France's smallholders and laborers flung themselves flat before the Anti-French Alliance, begging mercy.
"Aren't you civilians? You'll soon be subjects of our Holy Roman Empire—no need for such fear. In exchange, we grant you the honor of supplying our great Pan-European Order Preservation Alliance. We'll leave a supply detachment; sell us your entire upcoming harvest."
"Truly?"
The farmer pondered the grain prices plummeting daily. Better to sell abroad than take a mere twenty percent profit after labor costs.
"Eighty francs per sack of wheat. Fair price, no?"
"Aigoo!! Thank you!"
Current French flour prices hovered at twenty to thirty francs; official procurement was twenty-five. Eighty per sack from the Holy Roman Empire troops was a golden lifeline. Of course, if France won, they'd face collaborator charges later—but only if acting alone. No one would refuse triple market rate; with so many implicated, even for local sentiment, they'd turn a blind eye. The smallholders' calculus panned out; they agreed to sell flour to the Anti-French Alliance.
"This is last year's unsold stock—ninety-two sacks total. What say you?"
"Stale grain's a hard sell. Four thousand francs for the lot."
"Hm. Very well."
The farmer bristled at Laudon slashing the price as if joking, but it beat twenty-four francs. Beyond him, other Lorraine smallholders—tempted by triple rates—emptied their stores, even their own flour rations. Laudon and his requisition officers invariably decried "stale grain," halving to double market. In the end, the Alliance requisitioned some forty thousand sacks from four hundred fifty farmers—enough to sustain seven hundred thousand for a fortnight. A staggering haul.
"Heh heh. Sirs, about the payment..."
"Ah, yes. But three million two hundred thousand francs for forty thousand sacks? Can't carry that much cash on campaign. Our quartermaster will note it as credit instead."
"...Pardon?"
"On to Metz, then. Quartermaster—clean up neatly."
"Yes, Your Grace."
The seven hundred thousand Anti-French troops left three thousand supply men and marched west.
"Here—promissory note in my name. Keep it safe; come to Austria after the war, and we'll redeem at face value. Oh, and it expires year-end—don't dawdle."
"Notes? And Austria? For folk like us, in such busy times..."
The quartermaster pressed gun and blade to the farmer's throat.
"Dissatisfied?"
"Urk..."
The farmer seethed but yielded. Grain was precious, yet cheaper than life.
"Then take the note."
"S-Sir. If the war drags past year-end..."
"Praying for our Pan-European Order Preservation Alliance to dawdle?"
The quartermaster snatched back the note and berated him.
"N-No, sir!"
"Then take it quietly."
No choice but grudging acceptance. Once the quartermaster passed, farmers huddled, muttering in French.
"Tch, promissory notes of all things."
"Who guarantees this scrap? Solid francs, fine. Notes? Notes?? It's just refusing payment."
Europe's credit for notes and bills had cratered after the Da Qing trade scandal—not merely lost trust, but plunged sub-basement. Handing over paper fledged what little faith remained; notes and checks were default declarations. Mere show, or dodges from lawsuits—devoid of real value.
"Couldn't even honor face value. Slashed it for 'stale grain'."
"Why cling to paper? They won't pay anyway."
Treated as requisitions despite "trade," they felt plundered.
"It's not the paper. We've collaborated with the enemy! Real coin might've eased the sting. Now we're insurgents for sure."
Grain seized, crimes committed—worst of both worlds left them reeling.
"Isn't it the royals' fault for not protecting us?"
Some blamed the French crown and army, but others swiftly quashed: "You Austrian spy?" "How much did they pay you?"
Year after year, peasants got land, labor, fertilizer, advanced methods researched and taught free, state buyouts guaranteeing livelihood despite slumps. They'd done everything—griping over unguarded borders felt shameless even to them. Above all, guilt stung from handing over every last crumb for "high prices."
"Sigh, complaining changes naught. Hey, got spare potatoes?"
"Didn't sell those. Cheese slices?"
"Yeah, perfect."
Munching potatoes, they eyed the Alliance supply detachment keenly. Twentysomething bumbling Italians sorted hundreds of flour and dairy sacks.
"Hm?"
"Franz, you too?"
"Jean, you as well?"
Spotting vulnerabilities, they glimpsed opportunity.
"Better militiamen earning merit than plundered peasants, eh?"