France
Paris
The Society of the Colonies, or La Société Des Colonies was hardly an official organization. It was in fact a club, a salon that met in the private residences of one of its members. It's body was made of the various sub-ministers of the government that had become disgruntled at the lack of governance by their superiors, and whose boundless ambitions had elevated them to the realm of imagination. They had learned in the intervening years that though they held no strong presence in their organizations, that with enough of their own collective effort they can make things happen. If they were a ring of spies and revolutionaries, they were at the least protected by the anger of the government by their insubordination by admiral and minister of the Navy and the Colonies, hero of the Greek War the elderly Admiral Henri Daniel Gauthier, the comte de Rigny; who from time to time patronized the meetings himself, but other times chose to stay aloof.
In the late evening of the private quarters of tonight's patron host in the winding alleys of the Sentier district the men gathered. The room, small and dimly lit by the warm glow of lamps and candles was awash with tobacco smoke and the smell of brandy and wine. It was decorated with taste and good care with dark mahogany furniture; actually purchased second hand from a Dutch supplier, and oak wainscoting and pine skirting on faded yellow wallpaper. The host, Henri Conte-Therry decorated the walls with maps and small landscapes he had collected over the years. On a mantle over an unlit fireplace sat a plaster statue of a woman draped in only a light cloth that accentuated the shapeliness of her bosom and butt as she lay reclining in an equally plaster recliner, this in most times was hidden by a velvet curtain which was today open for the edification of the guests.
“The rumors have it that the Prime Minister and the Minister of War took prince Louis to Vienna.” said a tall man with a high nasal voice, due probably in part to the long hooked nose he had. As a boy in the private academy his family sent him to in the country-side – if to avoid the Revolution – the kids had picked on that and made fun of him for being a suspected Jew. He had become self conscious about it from those days, and to try and hide it he grew a beard and mustache to alter its proportions relative to his face. His large wide eyes gazed out through spectacles to the outside world, the dimming haze of evening was falling on Paris and the effect of her street lights was beginning to show.
The host, Henri producing another bottle of wine from a cabinet said, “Yes, it's true. I personally saw them leave from the palace today. They went out in three full coaches and what looked like a company of Swiss Guard on horse back. It was rather splendid, though they were quick about it; I don't know if they're anxious of being seen to work, or if they are simply terrified of Paris.” that last statement may be true. Henri was broad shouldered, athletic and powerful; a soldier once, officer. Clean blonde hair swept back across his head, a wedding ring glimmering finely in the lantern light of the salon's room; proud, prominent. He looked side to side with blue eyes, seeming to ask wordlessly who wanted some wine. The answer was of course a unanimous yes, a proper Frenchman would not forego his evening red.
“It's a 1827 vintage, a good year. Avignon.” he said, describing it.
“It should be a good year then, and a good place. Avignon! The wine is thick with papal blood then.” said another man, long haired and dandy. His eyes glowed with an enthusiastic and ambitious fire.
“Steal yourself Jacques, Catholics though they may be they are still members of the right honorable Holy Catholic Church of France. No matter what the Pope in Rome says. The men of Avignon are countrymen all the same.” the host chastised.
“I only mean to play.” Jacques said with a laugh.
“Besides, nothing has happened in Avignon for a long time.” another man said, square, slightly dark in complexion. “They were no Lyon.”
“Now there is a cursed name.” said the host.
“Never-the-less, what was that about the Duc de Polgniac leaving, Henri?” said the squared man.
“Yes, well as I said simply: they left the city and headed East. If I were to guess it might be related to what's happening in Russia.”
“I think you're right. I was reading the Le National and a story was published in the inner pages about the court playing host to the Austrian Ambassador at the opera. They speculate that the ministry is on the war path yet again.” Jacques said.
“They must be going by way of Stuttgart.” the tall hooked nose man, Pierre mused to no one in particular.
“Yes, we've been warned in the ministry offices. Apparently several of us are being secretly selected to follow to Vienna soon.” the man said with the large nose, turning from the window, “The word is that yes indeed: we will be going to war in Russia. It's just a matter of formalities to assemble a coalition.”
“Who might be the coalition?” Henri, the host asked.
“The usual suspects: the British, the Czar, the Prussians and the Ottomans. And who ever else might come in through the door looking to leverage the moment. If the Ottoman Turks show up we can be certain Pharoah Muhammad might send a man to castigate the whole lot over who knows what.”
“Speaking of, Pierre, have you heard how people are talking he might close the Sinai?” Jacques asked, “I read about it in the papers. What a spectacular blunder I believe that would be!”
Pierre, the large nose nodded. “Yes, so I've heard. I've personally had to deal with credit lenders who have simply 'stopped by' to ask what position the government has if he does.”
“And your answer?” Jacques asked.
“That there won't be an answer from the government until it's done.”
“Oh, that's a shame.”
“Well, we do talk about it is if he will and then we ask what the Prime Minister does with the memorandum when he receives them. We hope he's not sending them to the Pope for comment.”
“
Le roi règne mais ne gouverne pa” the room opined, [i]The King reigns but does not rule[i]
“Charles and de Polgniac will jump for war with Russia, but won't ever give a moments thought if Egypt disrupts trade with the west!” Henri protested. As he did, others gathered. “Good evening, gentlemen.” he said to them as they made themselves comfortable at the chairs.
“Who are we discussing? The Russians or the Egyptians?” one of them asked.
“One or the other.” Henri said.
“What do you think, of either of them?” one of the new guests asked, “Or rather should I ask: which is more important?”
“Honestly, if war with Russia: the summons of Metternich then they might be more pressing.” Jacques said. Pierre agreed.
“However if I may,” one of the new men interjected, “war in Russia may be a time off yet, and we may have time in the night yet for them. But you mention Egypt also, and what Egypt brings to mind is cotton, and what cotton brings to my mind right now is the English. And whether or not there is war in Russia I wonder about the British. It doesn't sit right to me that we leave the British with dominion over one of the largest suppliers of European cotton; I refer of course to the United States. True: US Cotton does continue to flow but only under British permission and practically: British export. Between them and India they have the bulk of the market.”
“What are you getting at, Maurice?” asked Henri.
“Well, namely, the source of cotton in France needs to be re-diversified in the event a war with Britain re-arises or at least more heated competition with them.” said the man, Maurice, red hair and short. He cleared his throat and added, “Namely perhaps we should concern ourselves with French-controlled sources. As it stands our options are instability or the immense vacuum of the China trade. Were it in our power, we would have to grow it here, or in our overseas territories.”
The men in the room looked at each other. “Come to think of it, he may have a point here.” Pierre said.
“Exactly. And I have friends in commercial investment. They're uneasy too. Though it may not be continental bloodshed yet we do not see the Americas as being stable for long. What are we to do if European cotton dries up? Or French access to cotton, at least. It would devastate industry!”
“Yes, but what do you propose? We go to Egypt?”
“No – but also yes – France should begin diversifying our source of cotton. But we can't just begin buying from Egypt.” said Maurice, “Not while we have the time to plan things. That's the conclusion I and my credit friends have come to. No: we shouldn't, but if the Egyptian government is willing to sell us their cotton at a lower rate than in England: Yes. But for long: no. We have to reach long term solutions. The government's tariffs see fit to make no one all that appealing unless anyone can dare leverage a lower retail rate. And between Brazil and China the costs are markedly higher than British cotton, if not much more at the least. So the real long-term goal to any cotton project would be for a native source of cotton to France, one which can avoid the tariffs. There are also preferential tariffs to compete with the British, but by and large it may amount to a subsidy, and we are still put at foreign mercy.”
“Out of curiosity: what makes Egypt a not long term solution?” Henri asked.
“Namely that he is a warlord from Greece. We have all observed the Ottomans as of late, and their state is not looking healthy. Muhammad Ali may be the Ptolemy to Mahmud II's Alexandrian Empire. And so Ptolemy went, so will he in time. Us or the British will be his Rome to someday end the project, but I am digressing.
“Given the erratic actions or intentions of Muhammad Ali, we shouldn't trust him in the long term. The Navy already holds him at canon's reach. There are so many planks and mast timbers destined for French ships that we can afford to sell to him and not inflame the British glands. If at least they are willing to sell lower, than the fact remains on this front at least we can encourage the British to themselves sell lower.”
“So wait, I think I missed the point of your suggestion: we buy from Egypt to force British suppliers to sell lower?” Pierre asked.
“Yes. But that is only the temporary option.” Maurice explained.
“So what is the long term?” Henri asked.
“French grown and processed cotton.” Maurice reminded them, “Well that we have all this empty land overseas that we are not using. We met before and talked about Algeria and I have not stopped thinking about Algeria. But those lands are already occupied by the native Moslems. Over time they can be bought out or forced off the lands by the military. But I hesitate on seriously calling for that based purely on the long-term military expenditures. It is as it stands at the least a gradual process of the
colons introducing modern civilization to those lands we may find ourselves in the position to use Algeria to cultivate cotton. This is the most severe of long-term goals, and the possibility can be examined with time from Algiers to Oran; who knows what will happen.
“I and my associated have also examined other plans that we think are more interesting-”
“And the others?” Jacques impatiently asked.
“Well simply: we put the men imprisoned in Guiana to use and oblige them to grow cotton for the kingdom! There may be some technical expertise needed, but I've come in touch with Albert Gallatin. We all remember him, don't we? The old American fellow with the Swiss accent that came over to get away from the British at the conclusion of their War. Apparently he may know some people who can get us in touch with some groups out of country that can provide some aide.
“In particular he dropped mention that General Jackson would know of some men, so I wrote to him and he recommended some names, most of them still in the Americas, but have since moved outside of the grip of the British. There's a man with the name Houston he seemed to recall as being notable, came from Virginian stock I guess but also a Tennessee man like General Jackson. But like many men, he had to flee further west to avoid reprisals from the occupying force. I sent a letter to seek him out, but I suspect it might be some time.”
“Over eager, aren't we?” laughed Henri.
“All for the god of the kingdom!” cheered Maurice, “Besides, I'm very curious of the man and his cause. If at the least it is information I may forego if anyone is willing to offer me any money.” he added, laughing.
“Maurice Lachelle does more governing than the king does in a week!” joked one of the other recent arrivals.
Laughing Maurice said, “Thank you Damiens, but anyways: the other option might be to just rely on the West Africans. Senegal is flush with slaves, and from what I understand the business of growing cotton is very slave intensive; it is why we considered the prisoners of Guiana. If not us doing it directly, it would be our trading posts off the coast of Senegal directing our influence towards it. And since deposing the Barbary nomads in the area, commercial activities have only been allowed to expand. It's a growing area with a lot of potential. The dynamism is ripe for new industries. The business of trading in peanuts and gum-arabic has produced substantial capital that we would be fools to not have re-invested.”
“Fascinating options, Maurice.” said Henri, impressed with the little man, “How though should we consider them?”
“Well, with a little private funding and some manipulation of regular ministry operation, of course.” he said with a smile. “At worst we may be able to get away with one in full. Two at best, depending on how deals with Americans go; for them it may just be as simple as starting a new life and allowed to have some capital. We certainly can not do all three. The government does not have the energy for that sort of thing. Algeria in particular is a gentle thing to bake. The abandonment of the country by the Dey has seen to that. If it is not French citizens at risks by the Barbary, it is themselves.”
“But wait, you left out Brazil.” Damiens added, somewhat distantly, “Would Brazil be responsive?”
“Yes well, Brazil I think is sketchy. But if for some reason their plantation men are willing to engage in a bidding war then so be it. But the Brazilian countryside from what I hear leaves much to be desired for transiting goods. Besides maybe the palace in Rio, they are more backwards than Portugal.”
Algiers
The band began playing marching songs before the lighter reached the shore. Departing from the steam ship that carried them, now parked at lane a distance from the shore the newly appointed commander for the Algerian occupation made his approach. The man whom he would be replacing, Amédée-François-Régis de Pérusse des Cars stood at the ready at the docks, a Berber servant holding an umbrella up to shield him from the harsh Algerian sun. He saluted his peer as the boat came up to the docks and the man from the mainland stepped off onto Algeria propert.
“Good after general François-Gene Buellant, and welcome to Algeria.” Amédée said with a loud voice.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you.” François said unsteadily as he stepped to shore. His body still rocking from the steamer journey, short as it was. He had not been to sea much in his life and every moment he had been at water was broken by years of on land. He was not a man for such voyages, and he relished being on dry land once again. He looked around at the old Moorish port, the old city, and the band. Every man's face here besides the Moors looked to be baked cherry red in the sun. The light of the desert day blinding him even. With a knowing signal Commander Amédée, Viscount of Cars summoned an attendant who held up over the new man's head an umbrella to shield him.
“I'll be glad to show you around Algiers, but I'm afraid first we have to meet with the Grand Colon.” Commander Amédée said, “But we'll have wine and bread with them all the same. Please, with me general: I have a carriage waiting.”
François was lead brusquely with his few attendants away from the docks of Algiers onto a carriage while the band still played. Stepping into the shaded carriage he was despondent to find that it was hotter inside than it was outside. “Don't worry, once it begins moving and the air comes through it gets much more tolerable.” Amédée told him. Francois was sweating under his uniform and he added: “It was a poor decision to come dressed in your parade uniform.” he said it knowingly, teasingly.
“By God it's so damn hot.” Francois bemoaned, tugging at his collar. He looked over Amédée finding that the older man was dressed in a lighter uniform. He allowed himself to wear his jacket unbuttoned and he had wrapped a neckerchief around his neck to collect the sweat. He wore his forage cap, and not the usual shako. The carriage began moving, slow at first. But as the horses picked up speed the air did begin to flow through the windows and a amount of relief came to the new general.
To the discredit of François he had chosen to land in Algeria in the full regalia of the general officer, with feathered shako and heavy multi-layered uniform. He had underestimated the weather of the North African coast. A man from Normandy, he was too familiar with milder weather, of gray skies and misty dewy mornings. His severe Norman face was rapidly melting in the heat, turning a man in his late thirties to a sopping wet rag of someone fifty or older. A need for water was darkening his blue eyes and the blood felt hot through his entire face. He ran his hand over his mustache, finding it wet with perspiration and sweat already and finally removed his shako to relieve his thinning blonde hair.
Amédée laughed at the discomfort of his peer and slapped him in the shoulder, “Such is the mistake of all men who come to Algeria. Here it is not so insulting to dress so heavily. Many of my men and officers go to war in work-shirts and forage caps, with nothing else besides their red pants. On most days they are indistinguishable from the native levees we raise.”
“Is that so?” François asked.
The older commander nodded. “
Les zouaves are our men of necessity in this hostile country, they're mostly locals with rivalries of the tribes we have to fight. From the tribe of the same name. And they taught us well how to dress out here. Without care and plenty of water a strong man can expire from exhaustion before lunch is even served to them. You'll learn it fast, as you are now.”
“I will note that.” François said. He turned exhausted to look out the window and watch the city pass by. He observed the many Arab faces in the crowd, the men and women both in lose robes and veils to protect themselves from the heat. They pressed themselves back as the carriage and the mounted entourage before and after them passed.
“The country was in chaos as soon as the Dey surrendered and went into exile in Sicily.” Amédée explained, “The campaign was not long, only several weeks. I believe it was all over before any news got out. Even I was surprised. I was charged with taking Oran and as soon as the city surrendered after several days of fighting I learned the Comte de Bourmount had secured the surrender of the government and the city was rooted through. As he said the opposition was smashed and their spirit broken. It was a month by the time the whole coast from here to Morocco was brought to heel. Apparently Duperre's Sphinx had been the first to arrive and shell Algiers before the Algerians could even assemble their ships for battle. She and the Vanguard were here for days raiding along the coast. I'm sure you read the stories.”
“How is the food and wine here?” François asked.
“The wine?”Amédée answered, “Awful. The vineyards are just starting. No one has figured the terroir out. The food however is fine. You will not miss for home but you will not be praising it over it. I am convinced the interior tribes persist on dry unsalted meat.”
“Oh dear.” exclaimed François.
“Quiet. But cosmopolitan civilization will soon arrive to them.”
“Anyways, commander I would hate to make small talk,” François went on to say, “But what thoughts do you have on your new deployment?”
Amédée laughed, “I can not say I will appreciate the redeployment if the congress makes a resolution, nor will my men. Russia will make a staggering change in pace. And we will arrive to the country late.”
“God preserve you.”
“God preserve us all.” Amédée agreed, the carriage was pulling up to a palace.
The palace Dar Aziza and its complex of buildings at the heart of Algiers was a magnificent building, even despite the scars of the invasion that still lingered on it. For its ornateness and classical nature, as well as its centrality and proximity to the port of the city the French military authorities had taken to settle within its walls. The carriages came to a stop within a courtyard in front of the buildings, surrounded by a galley of white-washed walls and coiled scrolling columns. White as a pearl, it stood gleaming in the sun and blinded François as he stepped out of his carriage, and he was forced to hold his shakko up against it to protect his face and as he looked at the mosaic of the court yard floor. There to greet them at the great geometrically patterned wooden doors was an entourage of officers and attendees who stood in the shade, welcoming the men as they approached. Behind, the carriage of François's own men arrived, and deposited those men sweating out into the sun.
Swiftly retreating inside, they realized they could cool off in the interior. The halls were tall and open, air moved effortlessly through the palace. Young boys came forward with bowls of water the men used to cool their brows and wipe away the sweat with rags. Another appeared, bringing them wine and they took their glasses.
“Welcome to Dar Aziza.” Amédée said, welcoming François and his men. “God and King willing and conditions allow this will become your residence in the city. You'll also be sharing the palace with the bishop, who attends to the spiritual men, the colons, and the people nearby. The bishop is a profoundly good man, and a gentle roommate to your staff. But he administers by other missions.
“Though we reside here, this is not where the Dey surrendered from. He had another palace not too far from here, built atop a hill. But it was partially shelled, and we left it to be abandoned for the time being. On his surrender he took much of his belongings and women and left for Naples, and in the time since we have redecorated this space at least.”
True to his statements, the palace halls were decorated with flags and paintings of officers in the Algerian military government, and landscape scenery of France. Here and there Parisian couches and armchairs were positioned around delicate coffee tables were men sat drinking coffee or chocolate. There was an interior courtyard that they pass through, but with the plants growing in it and the water fountain at its middle, as well as the closed in walls it was not as hot or intense here as it was outside the palace's walls. François saw in here a spectacular magic that he had not seen before throughout Europe, and he walked slow to admire the building, forcing Amédée to pause and wait. “We shouldn't keep them waiting any long than we have to.” he'd say, impatiently.
On the far side of the palace they came to an open room with windows opened out onto a walled garden just outside. Silk curtains rolled gently in the breeze, and sitting on couches and chairs in the room were various men. Military officers in forage uniform, civilians men in casual dress, and several old Berbers.
“Gentlemen,” Amédée said, giving a slight bow, “I would like to introduce you to the new commander of the Algerian mission.”
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