Mind Control
July 16, 1781. The Lorraine ironworks had been quiet throughout the dawn. The French army showed no sign of attacking, and the soldiers inside the ironworks were trembling in terror after hearing the whips cracking against their officers.
But silence didn't mean there were no grievances.
"Your Excellency, the mood among the Italian mercenaries is far from normal. Since last night's punishment, their movements have grown suspicious."
"What complaints have they been voicing?"
"That's just it—we can't tell. Whenever our officers or soldiers approach, they act as if nothing's wrong. It seems like some kind of solidarity within the Italian ranks."
"Solidarity among the Italians..."
There were too many possibilities that came to mind. The self-proclaimed romantic warriors who had come to the battlefield seeking glory must have grown utterly disgusted by the string of defeats. Those chasing pay would be unhappy about receiving promissory notes instead of their salaries this month. With their commander dead, there might be awkwardness toward the new one; or anxiety about future battles among these ragtag troops who had gained no combat experience and received no proper training.
Among them, the most likely culprit was...
"The promissory notes?"
"It's not just that. I can think of about five issues myself, but it's probably not any one thing—it's all of them combined."
They were paid in notes instead of cash, given no work or training, forced to fight and lose without even a skirmish—hell, they'd been routed by peasants. This wasn't some minor defeat in irregular warfare; it was a targeted shot at their commander, leaving them leaderless and scattering in panic. A perfect rout.
"Even blacksmith apprentices would run if treated like this. Admittedly, we've botched this campaign."
Loudon's words drew awkward expressions from the regimental commanders.
"No choice for it. Having felt out the defenses of this ironworks industrial complex, the buildings themselves rival the sturdy walls of Metz. We won't crumble even under cannon fire here, so we'll reorganize as best we can, bypass Sharpshooter Village, and withdraw. We'll fall back to the Rhine, then head to the Austrian Netherlands."
"The Cologne legion commander would like to raise an opinion on that point. Couldn't we just head straight north and return to the Principality of Saarbrücken?"
"No."
"Why not? The Principality of Saarbrücken is another employer's territory. They couldn't send many troops due to national circumstances, but aren't we equal allies?"
The Cologne archdiocese's mercenary captain—who lacked real combat experience—asked with a genuinely puzzled look. The mercenary captains and officers from other imperial states felt the same. A short trek north would shake off French pursuit into safe territory, so why was Loudon insisting on skirting the west bank of the Rhine toward the Austrian Netherlands? It wasn't even Austrian land—why prolong their stay on French soil with this circuitous retreat?
"It's a political decision from Austria. Has nothing to do with the army—mind your own business."
Once again, Loudon was factoring in political fallout. Better to loop back to the orderly Rhine front—where the offensive had begun—toward a secure zone, rather than plunge north into the tangled web of the Holy Roman Empire's relations like a routed mob.
But that was Loudon's concern.
"Your Excellency, this isn't the time for political considerations. I beg you—prioritize the survival of the troops."
"Hamburg concurs. We acknowledge Austria and Prussia's heavy influence, but you must understand other states' positions too. Even combined, we're 100,000—no, now just over 70,000—but we're still equals on paper, aren't we?"
The Holy Roman Empire's patchwork states no longer felt any need to respect Austrian politics. They'd joined for pay, only to get notes that shattered allied trust, meager gains, and now an irrational retreat route. Who could believe in this anymore? Deep down, each state wanted to go their own way like the Dutch had.
"I understand your grievances well. But this is precisely when our forces must cohere, moving as one without disorder—like the ties between our homeland and yours."
Yet the root of this war was money running dry, forcing an economy of barter in grain and salt—they couldn't defy Austria, who supplied their food. From the start, the 70,000 imperial state troops had collars around their necks held by Vienna. Relations between Austria and the minor states would sour to the worst, but they couldn't do a thing about it. Grievances would pile up, but that was the end of it.
"Your Excellency, at least give us funds to pay the mercenaries. Last month, we scraped together officers' and NCOs' personal savings to cover salaries, but this month we have nothing. Remember, of the remaining mercenaries, 50,000 are from our imperial state forces."
"Who's saying we won't pay? We gave notes, didn't we? Austria will settle up when the war ends."
That was how such high-handedness was possible. The imperial states had no choice but to swallow their fury. Austria was the great power; their homelands, the weaklings.
* Near the ironworks, a village occupied by the French regulars.
20,000 French troops had gathered the Italian mercenaries in the square. Disarmed, they looked up at Senior Colonel Lafayette on the platform.
"Are these all the prisoners?"
"Yes. The escapees will have ditched their weapons and scattered as refugees across France. Isn't a Journal de Paris reporter wandering around over there by the prisoners? If local papers run war stories, folks will take in the refugees without a second thought."
"Still feels off. I'll note it in the report."
Finishing with his aide, Lafayette surveyed the prisoners before his speech. They didn't look like mercenaries—more like civilians. Mismatched clothes, dressed light for midsummer like peasants in linen shirts and coarse fabric, bound with ropes—it gave the French troops the impression they were mistreating civilians.
"Gentlemen, I'm giving you two choices. One: go to the mines as prisoners until the war ends."
As he spoke, ragged men in coarse tunics cracked whips in the air and took positions to the right of the platform.
"Of course, the war will end soon. Our enemies will kneel before great France. But our victory won't mean your release. Postwar treaties will negotiate prisoners, and you'll labor until contractors are found, contracts verified mutually—that process alone could take fifteen years. Some won't pay ransom and deny the contracts outright."
These Italian mercenaries were all green on their first outing, clueless about a captive's misery. They'd only heard tall tales mixed with truth from veterans. Now, trembling at the prospect of those tales becoming real.
But Lafayette had no intention of abusing them from the start.
"The other choice: become French citizens. You don't look like pros anyway. Meddling in foreign wars is galling, but France is generous. Whatever happened before, we'll wash it away. Choose this, and we'll send you to a job placement office for room-and-board work."
As he finished, officials-looking men stepped up to the platform's left. Two paths, but really only one. Most prisoner-mercenaries shuffled left. A few dithered, but Lafayette ignored them and pressed on.
"This isn't my doing—it's His Majesty's gift. Be forever grateful."
With that, Lafayette stepped down. Approaching the undecided prisoners, they burst into tears, begging mercy.
"Please! Please spare us!"
"Invading our land and now no conscience, no honor. Toss the lot in the mines. They need their minds set straight."
"We're slaves captured by pirates! The pi... pirates sold us as mercenaries!"
Lafayette didn't even acknowledge it, striding into the command post.
"Strange bunch. Pirates? In this day and age?"
Inside hung a massive map of Europe.
"Mediterranean captains. Got time on your hands? Especially you—aren't you first mate to that lad Nelson under direct orders from His Majesty?"
The "pirates"—French civilian special shipping operators—were there.
"Heh heh. Just a quick visit. Skipper sent me to scout France a bit. Thought I'd grab some limes for the lads while at it."
"Limes? Plenty in Perpignan. Why come all the way to Lorraine?"
"Ah, well, our crew's grown so big, southern limes ran dry. Kept heading north... ended up here."
"I see. Still, you're command-level now. Must be a hassle. But no more special couriers needed—some clever kid invented a wonder."
"Oh? What is it?"
"Classified for now."
Lafayette glanced at the small windmill-like structure on the hill by the command post. The Sharp telegraph was spinning its huge wings, sending a summary report to Paris.
"Got it. Oops, we've chatted too long. That's why I'm here, but we came for the Italian mercenaries."
"Hm, no issue. War's war—mistakes happen."
"Thanks for the leniency... but it wasn't us. I swear to heaven, we've never touched Italian civilians. We're busy hunting Barbary pirates. And we don't deal in Europeans. We sell one thing only."
"Havana, you say... blacks?"
"Yep. Best value, right? Blacks heading to South America are paying off big lately."
"Eh, keep it moderate. I see His Majesty often—trust me, that business is due for the hammer soon. Best wash your hands of it quick."
"Prime intel. Thanks. Oh, mind if I leak counterinfo to the British?"
"That much is fine. Slave emancipation's the tide of the times anyway."