The Drums of War
The news of the Concorde assassination fell on Versailles' court like a spark on a powder trail. The sulky, brooding plot of the Old Guard and young nobles' idealistic fervor exploded into a unified, collective roar for vengeance. Delicate, hard-wrought peace within the palace was shattered, consumed by a bloody war frenzy that would devour them all.
Art called an urgent session of the Royal Council for the following day. And as he entered the room, he felt the change. It was no longer a room of careful argument or politicking. It was electric with a feral, bloody passion. This was a war council in reality, and he was badly outnumbered.
Vergennes, who nursed his wounds ever since the trial, was a new man. He stood in front of the council, his face flushed with moral indignation, his voice resonating with an passion he hadn't displayed for a very long time. He waved the letter from the Caribbean like a martyr's cloak.
He opened with a reading of a sensationalistic, thoroughly inaccurate account of what did happen, painting a graphic portrait of brave, unarmed Frenchmen shot down by a cowardly British broadside. He wrote of a captain of one of the vessels gasping a dying supplication for his King as his vessel disappeared beneath the waves. It was stagecraft of the worst sort, but very effective.
"The days of secrecy, of plots and back-channel diplomacy, is over, Your Majesty!" Vergennes raged, slapping his open hand down on the highly polished table with a crack that sent the inkwells trembling. "This is aflagrant, unmistakable outrage against the flag and honor of France! It is an act of state robbery, a deliberate provocation to test our mettle. Not to strike back with overwhelming force would be to tell the world that France is a pack of cowards, that our ships can be sunk and our men slain with impunity!"
He surveyed the room, his gaze meeting the keen gazes of the assembled nobles. "The people of Paris crave vengeance! The army seethes at the bit, hoping to avenge losses of our past war! Our navy, with its new frigates paid for with your own treasury, craves an opportunity to prove its value! Let us call for an immediate, blanket apology, full damages for our lost ship, a public trial and execution of that British captain who commanded her! And when, as I hope they will, they refuse, then it is war!"
A clamour of assent echoed through the room. Cries of "War!" and "To London!" went up from young nobles.
The Marquis de Lafayette, his face illuminated with a passion, sacred nearly, arose from his seat. "Minister Vergennes is right! This is our moment of grace from God! A cause of right, an insult that cannot go without vengeance! Delay now would be a stain upon our honor for a generation. We must act!"
Amongst this whirl of emotion, only two men were subdued and sullen. Necker sat bowed over his papers, his face as wan as yellowed vellum. He looked a man who watched his life's work go up in smoke. Beside him, Art felt a frigid, too-real terror seep into his stomach. He was watching a mob spirit take hold of the strongest men of the land, and he alone stood in its path.
He waited for the uproar to subside before he spoke to them, his voice subdued and thoughtful, a marked contrast to the passion of rage that preceded him. "Gentlemen, you speak of honor, of vengeance. I must speak of strategy. Take a deep breath, ask yourselves a very simple question: why would the British do this now?"
He stood up and moved to the great wall map. "They know our navy isn't quite at full strength yet. They know our treasury is still tenuous at best. They know an overt war would divide my council and test our resources to their very limits. That was not an act of senseless bellicosity. That was a deliberate goading. Whatever our wrong, if they have one, the British desire for us to wage war. They are provoking us, hoping to draw us into conflict sooner, on their terms, before our navy is at its full strength and before their American rebellion is a real, festering sore. Whatever our wrong, if they have one, they hope to goad a premature war they can rapidly and easily decide. You are not charging into a divinely sanctioned war; you are walking straight into a British trap."
A cold, rational argument, a deflator of spirits perfect for a room full of bellicose energies. For a moment, the councilors were all still, digesting his argument. Vergennes was too fine a politician to let reason get the better of him. He arose again, his face no longer flushed with wrath but pale with sad disappointment.
"The King talks about traps and calculation," he said in a tone of utmost condescension. "These are a merchant's phrases, not a king's. I talk about the twelve French sailors who rest at the bottom of the Caribbean Sea right now. Will we tell their widows and orphans that their men were slain as a consequence of a 'calculated provocation'?"
Then he delivered the death blow, a masterpiece of political rhetoric especially against Necker, but truly against Art. "Will the King of France, the Most Christian King, be true to his standard's honor and his subjects' lives? Or will he listen to the weak estimates of his foreign banker, a man who can tell you the price of everything and the value of nothing?"
It was a brilliant, poisonous attack. He had framed the argument as honor of France versus foreign finance, courage versus cowardice. He had put Art in a no-win position. Standing with Necker would be to substantiate Vergennes's tale of him as a timorous monarch, who was dictated by a bean-counter.
The mood in the room swung decisively back to the war hawks. Those nobles who for a moment had been impressed with Art's argument were once more goaded by appeal to honor. Those who could be seen to be taking a stance alongside the "foreign banker" against defense of France were not to be tolerated.
He looked at his HUD, and the numbers confirmed the disaster.
Faction Support: War Hawks - 85%
Public Opinion (Paris): Support for War - 75%
Personal Authority: -10% (Perceived as weak/indecisive).
Alert: Risk of being marginalized or overthrown by pro-war faction if definitive action is not taken: RISING.
He was being railroaded into a war he knew, with utter certainty, would be a disaster. He could not win this argument this day. Emotion's tide was too strong. He was obliged to offer them something, a compromise to soothe their honor, for a priceless amount of time.
"Enough," he said, his voice sharp with a tone of authority that silenced additional muttering. "My vigilance for the treasury is not an indication that I am callous to pressures of French honor."
He set his eyes on Vergennes. "You will draw up an ultimatum to St. James's court. Let it demand a solemn apology, handsome reparations to the relatives of our murdered sailors, and immediate and public punishment for the captain responsible for this outrage. Let it be made clear that anything less will be considered an intolerable insult, driving us to take all measures necessary for vindicating national honor."
A murmur of agreement went around the room. It was a strong, resolute action. Vergennes beamed, a victorious look on his countenance. He had won.
But Art had bought himself a few weeks. Time enough to get word of an ultimatum out and wait for an answer. It wasn't much, but it was a beginning. He'd been pushed onto their game, onto the trail of escalation. He could only pray he might be able to buy an out before it took them all over a cliff. He set the council on its way, the war drums beating in his mind.