Pirate Purge and the Paris Demonstration

After the Paris insurrection and the Tripartite Secret Pact, the remnants of the Hundred Days' War were gradually being cleared away. France signed a peace treaty with Britain, dissolving mutual hostilities, and even concluded a naval disarmament treaty.

"Your Majesty. Isn't the disarmament treaty going a bit too far?"

"Pirates can't be swept clean unless it's now."

It was called disarmament, but in truth, it was a pirate purge. In the past, following the MEPO bills scam operation with the Great Qing trading company, France had sold massive numbers of privateer licenses to disrupt Europe's economic recovery. From late 1777 to mid-1778, they issued a staggering 10,000 licenses. It was tantamount to selling them to every pirate in Europe.

Normally, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠such reckless issuance of privateer licenses would amount to declaring oneself ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a pirate nation. But France faced no real backlash for peddling 10,000 of them. Why? Because everyone else was doing it. Britain sold about 10,000, Spain around the same, and even a minnow like Genoa hawked 10,000.

Privateers who bought these licenses were supposed to prey only on the issuing nation's enemies. But amid the chaos of the MEPO bills scandal, when Europe's economy had evaporated, pirates seized the opportunity. They bought British licenses to raid French merchantmen, French ones to hit British ships, and Genoese papers to plunder Neapolitan vessels—reckless gambles they'd never dare in normal times.

Such gambles would usually get them caught when fencing the loot. Ship registries, license verification—everything was checked to confirm the privateering was legit. But these weren't ordinary pirates. They sailed ships "built somewhere" with impeccably forged papers.

Thanks to that, over 2,000 pirate vessels roamed freely under various nations' licenses, pillaging without regard for flags. The problem? That "somewhere" was France, which now "possessed" 2,000 small warships on paper because of them.

Yes, this naval disarmament treaty was designed to erase those 2,000 phantom warships from the books. Until now, they'd blended in with 1,800 American privateers to evade scrutiny, but with the American Revolutionary War over, those 2,000 paper ships screamed "piracy evidence."

"Ah, those privateers from 1777?"

"Exactly. Those headaches."

The raids on the French coast in early 1778 were their handiwork too. A perfect operation that crippled provincial nobles and provided alibis. Back then, their antics were so endearing I almost wanted to ennoble them. They even blockaded the seas on their own and started minting new francs—the livre replacement—prompting them to slink into French ports to fence their spoils.

Still, it was time to cut them loose.

"Admiral Grass's report, Your Majesty. The procurement of steel and other war materials for the Hundred Days' War has sparked an economic boom in Europe. The issue is that as European civilians grow wealthier, pirates are turning their eyes toward civilian targets."

Now their expiration date had truly come. Not figuratively—the literal shelf life had expired.

"With the war over, continued raiding makes them not privateers, but pirates. Telegraph the Mediterranean admiral: Protect French merchantmen and vessels of all nations respecting France."

We'd signed peace with Britain, after all. Privateer licenses typically lasted "until the war ends," so every pirate in the Mediterranean now had to pack up and come home.

"How many have turned in their licenses?"

"Out of 10,287, just 886."

"Heh."

In such cases, the issuing nation bore responsibility.

"Contact Britain. Ask how they plan to handle these pirates."

"Understood."

But as mentioned, this era's pirates didn't carry just one license.

"A joint naval operation to foster bilateral friendship sounds ideal."

"I'll convey that to Lord Sackville."

*

Late November 1781. The kind of season where you think it can't get any colder, only to wake up the next day to unimaginable chill. Parisians lamented as they read the papers.

"Gaining land is great, but isn't it too little for a victory?"

They were eyeing the peace treaty results. On the Holy Roman Empire front, they'd crushed 700,000 with 20,000 but gained only half the west bank of the Rhine. Against Britain, they'd sunk their entire navy yet got nothing.

"It's not too little gained—it's too much lost!"

French citizens, unaware of the Tripartite Secret Pact, branded the treaty bureaucratic incompetence.

Political essays and newspaper op-eds daily decried ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the treaty's injustice.

"Wait, this can't be... 'English spies'?"

As conspiracy theories piled up, public opinion spiraled out of control.

"English spies in the Foreign Ministry! How else do you explain this pro-British deal?!"

Parisian citizens began lambasting the government's incompetence.

"The bureaucracy is rotten to the core!"

The boiling sentiment paradoxically bred tolerance.

"The old days were better!"

"Hear, hear!"

Any criticism of the current regime was blindly embraced.

"Honestly, the nobles didn't screw up that badly, did they?"

"Hmm... maybe not?"

83 protesters marching west of Tuileries Palace gathered 1,000 sympathizers, then swung east for more.

"Amateur commoner bureaucrats, step down!"

"Step down!"

But entering east Tuileries, the crowd didn't snowball.

"What's with those guys?"

"No idea? Really into national affairs, huh."

West Tuileries, as a planned upper-class district, housed many tied to old nobles. East was middle and upper-middle class, less keen on feudal restoration chants. Most were self-farming yeomen and small businessmen elevated by Louis XVI's land reforms.

"What are they yelling? Folks who've never missed a rent payment. Just thinking of the old days makes my teeth chatter."

Instead, they faced thorough indifference and turned backs. Caught off-guard by the cold reception, the protesters hastily switched slogans.

"France first!"

*

November 26, 1781. Versailles Palace, Council Chamber.

"Your Majesty. Telegram from the Paris mayor. Anti-government protests have erupted in Paris."

"What are they saying?"

"'France first,' sire."

What? That slogan rings a bell.

"Prepare suppression for now, and halt the council. Where's the Paris garrison?"

"Fontainebleau."

"Hm. Looks like that day has come already. Will you gentlemen follow?"

"Yes. Wherever Your Majesty is, there lies the palace."

"Good."

I mounted my white steed and rode into Paris.

"Your Majesty. It's Termidor. The rebels are all gathered east of Tuileries Palace, near Les Innocents Cemetery."

As I passed the Paris gates, Termidor-Robespierre naturally fell in, reporting on the old factions' movements.

"Suppression forces?"

"Fontainebleau has the Paris garrison on defense under the National Intelligence Agency director's command. Paris proper has the Swiss Mercenary Legion. Colonel Levin is assembled at the projected suppression point. Civilians are being herded to safety by police."

"Noted. To the suppression point."

At Île de la Cité, 20,000 Swiss mercenaries stood assembled.

"Your Majesty. Suppression ready. Loaded with 4-inch shrapnel shells to avoid collapsing nearby buildings—utmost care taken."

"Very well. Protest size?"

"About a thousand. Same as initial. No east Tuileries residents joined them."

Good. Exactly 1,083.

"Commence suppression."

"Artillery, prepare!"

At my order, Colonel Levin directed the gunners. Loaded cannons awaited the others' readiness.

"By the way, Colonel Levin. Any kin in France?"

"None. Swiss men are all much the same, no?"

"Fortunate."

"Even if family were in there, I'd honor the contract."

Levin spoke needlessly heroically, but it wouldn't come to that. Because they were all family.

"Fire!"

Young nobles, aged clerics, priests posing as rural magistrates, lords who'd plowed under wheat fields for vineyards, bishops who'd condemned me when they couldn't refute my words, noble judges who'd resisted the lit de justice.

Their relatives.

Ah, but one wasn't kin. I-Myeonghun.