Solid Anglo-French Alliance!!
As rebellion erupted in Paris, Europe held its breath in tension. "They wouldn't come after us just to distract from their internal troubles, would they?" That was the chief concern among the minor states of the Italian peninsula.
France had just crushed the Kingdom of Sardinia—which had been neck-and-neck for first or second place among those states—the Holy Roman Empire, and Britain. It was now, in name and reality, the supreme power.
To make matters worse, true to the name of the Hundred Days' War, it had been a lightning campaign with negligible losses on the French side. If France decided to expand, these states would be annexed without a fight. In fact, hadn't France quietly seized places like Nice and Savoy on Sardinia's western flank, right along their shared border? Desperate to preserve their sovereignty, they sought any path to survival.
"Um, the Austrian envoy?"
"Ahem. Even we're in a bit of a bind right now..."
The most hopeless part was the lack of anyone to turn to for help. Prussia was too far away, Austria's power had waned, and Britain had no interest in the Mediterranean.
"Mr. British Envoy, why on earth won't Britain commit to the Mediterranean?"
"Britain has always desired lasting peace and justice in the Mediterranean ports. It's simply at peace right now."
The British envoy brushed off the diplomats of the Italian peninsula with diplomatic platitudes, glossing over the crisis. In truth, after ceding Gibraltar to Spain in the recent Hundred Days' War, Britain lacked the projection power for the Med. Even with promises of hegemony-sharing, defeat was defeat—they couldn't emerge entirely unscathed.
"No choice but to bet everything on India."
And so Britain staked it all on India.
"Lord North, are you quite sure about that?"
Lord North relayed what he'd heard in the tripartite secret pact to those who needed to know. "You can take the Indian subcontinent—and even Oceania."
"The Indian subcontinent?"
"Ah, but first, let me brief you on the continental division."
Britain's core bureaucrats planned to set aside the icy lump of North American colonies for now and pour investment into India, where money flowed like water.
"Is that certain?"
"Absolutely."
"For real?"
But with the treaty's ink barely dry, the MPs and companies who didn't need to know harbored endless skepticism toward the India investment push.
"Then forget India for now—let's just restore our lost African influence with a naval blockade."
The core bureaucrats reluctantly stepped back, shifting to rebuilding maritime trade networks.
"Uh, Captain? Why are you waiting here? Didn't you say you were leaving last week?"
"Haha, just a few more repairs. You go ahead."
"We just arrived. We'll unwind at the local tavern first."
Just three weeks earlier, British shipping firms—still reeling from France's naval blockade—had idled in port like penguins awaiting the first plunge.
But nothing lasts forever.
"Screw it. Bankruptcy next month anyway. Better to sink and leave the insurance payout for the family."
"I loaded up on policies too. Let's go!"
As a few desperate ships set sail, the firms took notice. They sent those same vessels ahead—like canaries in a coal mine—ready to bolt at any sign of trouble, crossing the Dover Strait.
But the sea was calm, contrary to expectations.
"Tighten up passing Calais!"
No pirates, no cannon fire. French coastal batteries had crews, but they just watched the British merchant fleet pass.
"This seems legit?"
When a few bold ships ventured along the French coast and began coastal navigation, the merchants finally relaxed. Sails billowed as they hugged the French shoreline, resuming safe shipping. Some even docked at French ports for supplies—and intel.
One such ship, Henry Shipping's vessel, stopped casually at Calais to check local prices.
"Calais has flour piled to the heavens. What's going on here?"
Flour went for 2 to 30 francs a sack; potatoes, no more than 2 francs a sack.
"All thanks to His Majesty's grace, no doubt."
British sailors who dropped in on a whim heard this premium intel and dumped their entire cargo, snapping up every grain sack in Calais. Prices spiked temporarily to 22 francs a sack.
"Back home! Not Africa! France is where we're headed!"
The British merchant returned to Dover just six hours after departing.
"Huh? Captain, weren't you sailing this morning? Ship trouble? Or is the blockade still on?"
Henry Shipping's boss, Henry, had planned to stay in Dover a few days, just in case.
"No, sir. The lads were craving limes, so we popped into Calais market. Flour's only 20 francs a sack!"
"What? 20 francs?"
"Dunno if it's logistics or bottlenecks, but supply's overflowing. We sold all our steel, crammed the hold. Look—enough for two ships, cost us just 45,000 francs. Few competitors, but they're thinking the same, so we locked in a 130,000-franc contract."
The boss eyed the docked merchantman. 2,200 sacks of flour streamed nonstop into company warehouses.
"Ahem, Mr. Henry? Customs."
"Ah, yes. Taxes?"
Relations improving or not, duties were due.
"Yes, taxes. About three-quarters per five sacks—2,220 sacks makes 1,332 quarters. Grain prices are low, so tax is high: 3 francs 10 sous per quarter, total 4,662 francs."
Henry had merely shipped flour from Calais to Dover, yet owed 4,662 francs—nearly ten years' wages for an average British laborer.
But against the cargo's value? A drop in the bucket.
"Good. No cash on hand—bill of exchange?"
"No bills."
Henry grew anxious. Calais grain was likely temporary; the customs man seemed clueless about the glut.
"Agent's at the office—he handles Dover vaults and logistics. Collect from him."
"Right. Prosper, then. Farewell."
The customs man left without suspicion. Henry schemed for max short-term profit: London flour was 80 francs a sack. Arbitrage goldmine. One ship: 60,000 francs net.
"Captain! Prep next voyage now. Call agents—charter merchants, split crew. Agents! Taxes paid? Hire every docker and cart! Time to make money!"
Of course, Henry's ploy didn't stay secret long.
"London flour prices crashed from 80-90 to 50 francs in a week?"
"Landowners are furious."
Parliament reeled from the plunge but, true to form, recovered: "But aren't the Whigs awfully quiet lately?"
"We'll overlook past profits—just vote to hike duties."
"Shame."
"Heartless bastards."
Corn Law amendments passed in eight days, sparing London prices major shock.
"Everything up but wages. Thought bread'd drop—now it's rising again. Sob."
Over just a week, workers grumbled but moved on: "Bread was cheap that one week, I guess~"
"Flour's sorted, but the real issue remains."
"What?"
"Weren't we promoting shipping to restore West African trade?"
As Parliament noted, this fleet aimed to rebuild blockade-wrecked networks—for ivory, gold, slaves. Buying grain instead was a total deviation.
"No grounds for punishment."
"Why not? Government ordered West Africa restoration. This is treason!"
"It doesn't say 'to West Africa.' France is closer than that..."
Parliament floundered amid the French import flood.
"We must block French goods. Any countermeasures?"
"Raise tariffs."
A Tory MP spoke up.
"Label origin on domestic goods?"
A Whig countered.
"Realistic ideas, please. Labels won't raise prices. Tariffs are stopgap." Parliament teetered toward deadlock again.
Then a Tory MP tossed out: "What if we don't block them?"
All eyes turned. He clarified: "We need to sell too, right? Free trade pact—sell ours, buy theirs. Open our grain, flood France with iron. Everyone knows the Lorraine steelworks got wrecked last war?"
He bolstered with history.
"Then you propose, you own it. What say, Lord Eden?"
"Hell, I'll give it a shot."