Chapter 122: A Businessman in War (1) September 5, 1791.Holy Roman Empire, Trier.
Ten pairs of military boots, twenty uniforms, and even embezzling a platoon's meal allowance. Wow. You really looted quite a lot. What are you, some kind of Arsène Lupin?
"S-Sergeant…? Even if you were going to play tricks, to think you'd try it during wartime—especially with military supplies. That's impressive in many ways."
"P-please spare me, Your Excellency! My family circumstances are difficult…!"
No matter how serious their crimes were, many of the corruption offenders dragged before me ended up looking like this—kneeling and begging as if groveling alone would erase their sins.
I let out a sigh and spoke to the military police officer who had brought in the prisoner.
"Second Lieutenant Nicolas Oudinot. The interrogation is finished. You may take him away now."
"Yes, Your Excellency! You pig bastard! Get up!"
"Your Excellency! Your Excellency! Aaah—let go! Let go! Your Excellency! Just once! Please, just once…!"
Under the rough grip of the burly military police officer, the prisoner—his hands tightly bound—could not even resist properly and was dragged out of the office.
Because of the terrible road conditions of the eighteenth century—and enemies within who skimmed supplies like this—the precious provisions gathered from Paris and across France quietly vanished along the way. On the roads. At river crossings. In towns.
Bastards.
The most passionate supporters of the revolution and the literate intellectuals had been selected as valuable resources and sent to the front lines. As a result, among the soldiers left in the rear there were inevitably men whose only thought was how to skim a profit somewhere.
In the end, recalling the lesson I learned during two years of military service—our soldiers' greatest enemy is their own officers—I brought a large number of Finance Ministry staff with me and rented a mansion in Trier to establish a temporary office.
Of course, the Finance Ministry employees who had been abruptly dragged from comfortable Paris to the rear of a war zone stuck out their lips and grumbled throughout the office. But once I personally began inspecting each unit's accounting reports, everyone obediently followed along without complaint.
Mm-hmm. As expected, our Finance Ministry employees are diligent and upright.
Which is exactly why you, sir, could afford to be a little less diligent.
"…Your Excellency the Controller-General of Finance, perhaps you might consider reviewing the proposal I suggested."
Deputy Robespierre, who had personally come here with lawyers who followed him—claiming he wished to assist the struggling Finance Ministry in this distant land—once again spoke to me with those frightening eyes.
"I will pretend I didn't hear that."
With my eyes closed, I shook my head toward the direction of the voice.
However, it seemed that Deputy Robespierre—who had grown stronger after the incident of the guillotine that beheaded the fake head of the Duke of Orléans—was not deterred by my refusal.
"Didn't you just see it yourself, Your Excellency! Even now, throughout France, selfish and greedy bast— ahem. Reactionaries still lurk in the shadows!"
"I will pretend I didn't hear that."
"Your Excellency!!!"
Robespierre slammed his hand on the table, rose from his seat, and strode toward my desk.
"Wh-why are you like this?"
"Your Excellency, please look at this!"
"…What paper is this? And who are all these names written here?"
How many are there? One, two, three… roughly fifty, I'd say.
Robespierre answered proudly.
"These individuals are the corruption offenders you and I arrested so far. Shameless men who sucked the lifeblood of the people!"
"Right…"
"If revolutionary commissioners or political officers were assigned to each unit and monitored every action strictly, such incidents would never occur! Please consider it carefully, Your Excellency!"
"…Have you perhaps been drinking in the daytime? German beer may be delicious, but it seems you've had far too much."
"I am perfectly sober, Your Excellency. Revolutionary commissioners! Political officers! Are these not roles absolutely necessary for our National Guard?"
Revolutionary commissioners? Political officers?
What the hell is that? That sounds terrifying…
As Robespierre openly voiced ideas that sounded like something a puppet military organization beyond an armistice line might imagine, I waved my hand dismissively.
"Isn't it unnecessary… when we already have military police doing that job, Deputy?"
"Your Excellency, I am aware that military police exist. However, rather than a small number of them briefly passing through units, a system where political officers constantly monitor them—"
Fortunately, Robespierre's offensive was interrupted by a messenger who opened the office door.
"Um… Your Excellency the Controller-General of Finance? Brigadier General Napoleon Bonaparte, commander of the Fourth Army, has arrived… Are you busy?"
"Perfect timing—… ah, what a pity. Deputy Robespierre, I have a prior appointment and must leave now. Besides, I'm not responsible for military affairs in the first place. You might have better luck proposing it to Commander Lafayette."
"Hmm… If Your Excellency says so… there is little I can do."
Leaving behind the sighing Robespierre, I quickly put on my coat and asked the messenger,
"Where is Brigadier General Bonaparte waiting?"
"Yes, Your Excellency. At the teahouse just ahead that we reserved."
"Hey, this coffee's really good. What's it called?"
Napoleon—his golden epaulettes shining like the dream of every uniformed soldier—spoke leisurely while sipping his coffee.
"Einspänner. Apparently it's commonly drunk in Vienna."
"Really? It's pretty addictive…"
"More importantly, did you really have to come all the way here from the front line? If you waited, it would have arrived by carriage soon enough."
"Tch. The soldiers kept pestering me so much I couldn't stand it anymore."
Napoleon set down his cup with a frown.
"The nicotine withdrawal is… pretty bad, isn't it?"
"…Pretty bad? You call that pretty bad? Give it another week and those bastards might actually start a mutiny."
Unlike the First, Second, and Third Armies, the Fourth Army consisted mostly of volunteers and militia—men who had been farmers, miners, and market traders until suddenly becoming soldiers overnight.
At first they had picked up rifles in righteous anger, shouting that they must defend the nation.
But after driving the enemy away from Paris and escaping the immediate crisis, they realized something.
One of the few hobbies available in the entertainment-starved eighteenth century—tobacco—did not exist in the army.
"The goods are reliable, right? If I go back empty-handed, those guys might beat me to death."
"Of course the goods are reliable. They were developed with great effort by Lavoisier and DuPont, the chief developers of Ears of the Nation."
"…Isn't that man a chemist?"
I crooked a finger and called over the messenger.
"There should be a wagon that arrived from Paris yesterday under my name. Please bring it here."
"Yes, Your Excellency."
After the messenger left the café, a wagon soon stopped outside.
I stepped out, opened the cargo compartment, cracked open a wooden crate, and took out one of the long white sticks lined neatly inside.
I handed it to Napoleon.
"What's this? Not a pipe—just loose cigarettes? Isn't that stuff strong?"
"That's why two chemists worked on it. It's refined—cleaner than ordinary tobacco, even if it's not quite like pipe tobacco. If you're still suspicious, want to try one?"
"No, that's fine… Anyway, the goods look reliable. Good work."
"Future customers asked for it. Of course I had to deliver."
People dislike change and rarely break small habits easily.
Just think of baseball fans—true enthusiasts always want the pitchers and batters they've watched for years, not new rookies.
If the twenty thousand soldiers of the Fourth Army became accustomed to Ears of the Nation cigarettes, once they returned to Paris they would buy them every single day.
Ah… even thinking about it tastes sweet.
Sweet enough to rot your teeth.
"Ahem. By the way, Guillaume."
"Yeah?"
I was in the middle of a wonderful train of thought—why interrupt?
"Do you think you could find a way to shorten the soldiers' mealtime?"
"Shorten mealtime?"
"Yeah."
"…Why?"
"Why? Because every time they eat, the soldiers have to take out the pots, wash them, fill them with water, and cook. If they do that three times a day, that wastes three hours."
Napoleon shook his head in frustration.
"Like those convenience meals you made before—think of something the soldiers can eat while marching. They could probably cover at least ten extra kilometers a day. That damned cooking keeps slowing them down."
"Hmm. I see."
I stroked my chin.
"Well, I'll try to find a method."
September 10, 1791.Holy Roman Empire, Nürburg.French National Guard Fourth Army.
"Hands up! No—Hebe deine Hände!"
Now promoted to private first class, Philippe shouted loudly while pointing his musket at the enemy.
"I surrender! I surrender!"
But despite Philippe's effort to memorize German, the enemy answered in fluent French.
"What, you French speak French, don't you?"
"Huh? You can speak French?"
"Ha! We're Dutch. Speaking two languages is nothing. More importantly, where is your officer? If we're surrendering, we have to hand over our swords."
At the Dutchman's words, Philippe turned and shouted for his company commander.
Soon the commander ran over and lifted his hat politely toward the mercenaries.
"Second Lieutenant Jean Lannes of the French National Guard. Please hand over your sword."
"Here you are."
"Very good. Your surrender is accepted. Allied forces are approaching behind our company, so you will be placed under their protection."
"Very well."
Shing.
With a sharp metallic sound, the sword slid from the mercenary's scabbard and was handed to Company Commander Jean Lannes.
"Private Philippe, keep a close watch on the prisoners. I will inform the company following behind."
"Yes, sir!"
Holding the sword carefully, the company commander disappeared into the distance.
"Well, your commander accepted our surrender. Could you lower that gun? I'm afraid you might put a hole through my heart."
"Ah, sorry."
Philippe slung the musket back over his shoulder.
"Um… but why are Dutchmen in the Prussian army?"
"Why? Never seen mercenaries before?"
"…I've been farming my whole life."
"A farmer? Hah. Even the military powerhouse Prussia has declined since that homosexual Frederick died."
"…More importantly, is it really okay for mercenaries to surrender?"
"From the looks of it, Prussia is getting completely smashed by you French. Why fight for an army that won't even be able to pay us? In the first place, those bastards used us as meat shields while they ran off to Düsseldorf."
"…Where is Düsseldorf?"
"Well… if I say it's near Bonn, where there was a riot before, would that help?"
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