Consequences

Thank you DaoistuQngeZ, Daoistssr6xe, Donut_Halo, George_Bush_2910, TheHumble_Dogge, Mium and ThisguyAEI for the power stones!

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Just a few days earlier—August 10, 1758.

CRACK

The quill held by Minister William Pitt snapped cleanly between his fingers, spilling black ink across his hands and the documents spread out on his desk.

Immediately, the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. The man standing across from his desk shuddered visibly, unconsciously holding his breath.

The minister looked him straight in the eyes, but from the perspective of the young man, a humble clerk named Mr. Blackwood, it was as if he was staring down a tiger. And indeed, a tiger might have been less frightening; this man held an influence capable of crushing another to the point of making one envy those who'd merely met a tiger.

"Where is that captain at this moment?" demanded the minister in an icy tone.

"...S-sir, he is being received by His Majesty at Saint James's Palace."

"Have my carriage prepared. I'm leaving at once."

"Yes, sir!"

The young assistant dared not contradict the minister and bolted from the office like a convict who had just finished his sentence.

William Pitt was left alone and looked at his ink-stained right hand. Black ink was smeared everywhere, even on his sleeve. His hand trembled with anger, and that poor quill had been its first victim.

BANG!

Without warning, he slammed a furious fist into the sturdy wood of his desk, though only he felt the pain. Yet it wasn't enough to calm him.

BANG! BANG!

Pitt struck the desk twice more, each blow fiercer than the last. His knuckles were scraped raw and bloodied in some spots. Still, he felt no pain—his anger was too overpowering for that.

So, Louisbourg has not fallen, and our army has been defeated…

BANG!

Ah, damn it! That's a bit better. Now I must learn just how grave the situation is.

Pitt passed a hand, veined with pulsing purple tendrils, over his tightly pursed lips. His muscles were so tense that he could feel them twitching beneath his skin.

If he could, he would lift his desk and hurl it through the window.

The room fell eerily silent. Even the footsteps in the hallways seemed to fade away.

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Not long after, he was informed that his carriage was ready. He climbed in quickly, commanding the coachman to set off. The whip cracked, and the carriage lurched forward.

Fortunately, the palace wasn't far. But here, that wasn't necessarily an advantage, as the minister hadn't had time to calm down.

He had no trouble passing the guards at the entrance and was swiftly guided through the familiar corridors. His footsteps echoed like musket fire in the silence. He was only mildly surprised to find the Duke of Newcastle already waiting outside His Majesty's study door, standing despite the abundance of chairs nearby.

The duke resembled a palace guard, motionless as a marble statue. His back was lit by the bright light streaming through tall windows, highlighting a few stray hairs missed by the servant who tended his clothing.

The Duke of Newcastle wore a light violet breeches and jacket embroidered with silver thread. As usual, a large, heavy, white wig of the finest quality rested upon his head, partially draping over his shoulders.

"My lord duke," greeted Minister Pitt a bit coolly.

"Mr. Secretary of State," the principal minister replied in kind.

"Should I be surprised to find you here before me, considering I am responsible for the Southern Department? Unless, of course, another matter brought you here."

"I think we are here for the same reason. What do you know?"

"Almost nothing, only that the expedition was a failure, once again."

"Is that all? Then we are equally informed."

The white-and-gold door between the two men opened silently, and a narrow, angular face appeared, almost skeletal. The man had a long, hooked nose like a bird of prey's beak and deep-set black eyes. If one had claimed he was Death itself, Pitt might have believed it.

"His Majesty will see you now, my lord duke and Mr. Secretary of State," he announced, his voice reminiscent of a crow's caw or chalk scraping on a blackboard.

The two men entered and were ushered into George II's study, where a man of average height with broad shoulders and a solid neck was already waiting. He seemed quite intimidated, as was only natural, holding his hands firmly in front of him like a prisoner.

"Ah, you're here. Perfect. This is Captain Rous, commander of HMS Sutherland. Gentlemen, this is our principal minister, the Duke of Newcastle, and the Secretary of State for the Southern Department, Mr. Pitt."

"Sir," the two statesmen said in unison, bowing slightly.

"Captain, repeat to these gentlemen everything you just told me. Leave out no detail."

"Yes, Your Majesty!" stammered the sailor, who seemed older than his fifty-six years. "I… I am Captain John Rous, and as His Majesty has said, I command the HMS Sutherland. I accompanied Admiral Boscawen's squadron to Halifax, then Louisbourg. The… the operation was a disaster. His Majesty's troops, led by Mr. Amherst, quickly encircled the town, taking all strategic points. Some ships were trapped in the harbor, but our vessels prevented them from escaping or counterattacking."

The man paused briefly to catch his breath, reflecting on what he had seen and thought then.

"On June 16, everything changed," he continued, his voice now graver. "A French fleet appeared out of the north like a phantom and swept us away, freeing the vessels trapped in the port. Taking advantage of our ships and cargo being at anchor, they attacked us with almost demonic ferocity, using disgraceful tactics! Several of our ships were sunk or captured. The admiral is safe and retreated to Halifax, but the enemy managed to land a sizable force that promptly assaulted our men on land."

William Pitt and the Duke of Newcastle wanted to interrupt, but a discreet gesture from the king silenced them.

"General Amherst's troops were spread so thoroughly around the city to isolate it that the French had no trouble crushing them, unit by unit. They finally captured our headquarters and took the general prisoner. Fortunately, Brigadier Generals Wolfe and Lawrence, Colonel Fraiser, and Mr. Quennedy managed to organize a retreat through the woods, saving a large number of our soldiers."

Slowly, King George II extended two letters from mid-June, signed by Admiral Boscawen and Brigadier General Wolfe. The handwriting was very different but precise. While the words varied slightly, the message was essentially the same.

What is this… Oh, my God!

"These are their reports and casualty figures from the battle."

The two politicians remained locked in a heavy silence, which seemed to stretch endlessly—quite improper, yet the old king took no offense. He, too, had needed time to process the information.

Finally, the two men straightened and looked at each other silently before turning back to the old king.

"Do you understand the situation? The Crown needs your counsel. We await your recommendations."

The Duke of Newcastle was the first to speak.

"Your Majesty, this outcome is nothing short of catastrophic. It's more than the public can bear. We must prepare for the worst."

"Are you advising that we lie to the people? To report more acceptable figures?"

"At least figures that are more tolerable, Your Majesty. And we should frame the events in a way that gives the public something to hold onto."

"For instance?"

"Make heroes of these men—Wolfe, Lawrence, Fraiser, and Quennedy. Praise their bravery."

"Even though they fled?!" Pitt burst out. "They let the headquarters fall and General Amherst be captured! They abandoned their commander and turned their backs on the enemy!"

The Duke of Newcastle shook his head and sighed lightly.

"I understand that young Brigadier General Wolfe isn't one to back down easily from the enemy. Wasn't that why you pushed for his promotion on this expedition? If he deemed retreat was necessary, he must have had a good reason. We need a bit of heroism, Mr. Pitt."

William Pitt, fuming, forced a smile and stepped back to avoid making a scene before the king and this captain.

"Very well. In that case, we'll downplay our losses and celebrate these four men for their bravery in retreating from Louisbourg. Let laudatory accounts be published in the newspapers. All operations against New France will be put on hold, and Admiral Boscawen will be ordered to return to England."

"It will be done as you command, Your Majesty!"

"Mr. Pitt, you're currently organizing new expeditions against France, aren't you?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. His Royal Highness Prince Edward Augustus, accompanying General Blight, should return shortly."

"Good. Let our soldiers and ships prepare to set out again as soon as they return. Strike the French coasts, make them pay for this disgrace. Let French blood flow, let their homes burn, and their ships litter the seabed!"

"Your Majesty!" the minister replied energetically, bowing deeply while hiding a satisfied smile.

"Ah, we nearly forgot. Although we need heroes to cover the shame of Louisbourg, someone must still be held accountable. This," the king said, presenting a folded document, "is a pardon request for Admiral Hawke."

Before their surprised eyes, King George II tore the document in half and then in half again, letting the pieces fall onto the polished floor.

To the Duke and the Secretary of State, it was like watching an executioner's axe fall on a condemned man's neck.

"This disaster," the king said coldly, "would never have happened if Admiral Hawke hadn't let those ships leave Brest. He shall be executed alongside Captains Evans, Speke, and Geary. We want it reported in the papers that all of this was the result of their weakness and hesitation. Now go. We wish to be alone."

The three men left the room in silence, and as the duke prepared to leave, he couldn't resist asking Minister Pitt.

"Between us, are you satisfied?"

"How could I be? Louisbourg still stands, meaning it will take another year to bring down Quebec. Even if Fort Carillon falls and Montreal is taken, it will take considerable time and resources to topple all of New France. A two-front assault was critical to the success of the campaign."

"I meant about Admiral Hawke."

"Admiral Hawke… It's unfortunate, of course. I would have liked to defend him, but under these circumstances, it's impossible. And I cannot go against His Majesty's orders."

"But you told him you would defend him."

"Until his sentence is known. But the destruction of our invasion army in New France… This consequence is far too great to ignore. His Majesty is right; someone must be held accountable. Unfortunately, General Amherst is not in our hands."

"Hmm, would you have asked for his head as well? Interesting. You are frightening, sir. With you, it seems death is the only punishment possible in the face of failure. I wonder if they'll ask for your head if one of your expeditions fails."

"If my incompetence is proven, I will bring it to His Majesty myself. Sir, I still have much work to do. I wish you a good day."

The minister crossed the hallway, feeling the duke's gaze on his back until the very end.

My head, I am prepared to sacrifice it for the good of the kingdom. But you, Duke, are you willing to do the same?

William Pitt thought back to His Majesty's wise words, which had warmed his heart. His hatred for the French finally seemed to have been reignited. He was no longer as hesitant as before, a good thing, in his view.

His Majesty will be more inclined to accept my plans. Let's begin with the essentials. Mr. Howe's squadron will return in a few days—a week at most. That gives me a bit of time, though it may not be enough.

His gaze fell briefly on a painting depicting a massive battle in Europe involving tens of thousands of soldiers and thousands more on horseback.

France… If only they didn't have so many soldiers at their disposal, we wouldn't have to worry. We must keep them all on alert, including those still in Hanover. Prince of Brunswick-Lüneburg… I didn't expect him to hold out so long alone against so many enemies.

A satisfied smile crept across the minister's face as he passed a gleaming suit of armor, adorned with countless engravings and holding a massive sword he wouldn't even be able to lift.

That man is impressive. Now there's a real man. If all our officers fought with such energy, we would be unstoppable on every continent! What a shame he wasn't born in the right century—he would surely have built himself a kingdom!

Before he realized it, William Pitt arrived before his carriage, and without a word, he climbed inside. He remained silent for a moment, and the coachman awaited his instructions.

"Take me back to the office."

"Yes, sir."

I will grant him a few additional credits. If he can keep the French suffering in that miserable heap of mud for a few more months, it would be perfect. Prince de Soubise isn't a serious threat, but I fear his men. Place them under another commander, and our situation could worsen further.

His gaze drifted outside the carriage. Nothing seemed to have changed, but the reports he received daily indicated that the tension had not eased in the city.

Most frequently, they complained of prices being too high.

Money is truly at the heart of everything. Why, despite all our efforts, are the coffers not filling? How many new taxes will we need to create to remedy this situation? Bah, at least we're not the only ones affected. From what I hear, nearly every day brings signs of unrest in France. Ha! If they could suffer a good famine, that would be ideal!

As soon as he arrived in his office, he summoned young Blackwood, who was surprised to find his employer in good spirits after earlier resembling a furious demon.

"Sir?"

"Mr. Blackwood, bring me a new quill and several sheets of letter paper."

"I took the liberty of bringing one and have tidied your desk. I've placed all the ink-stained documents on this side."

"Mr. Blackwood, you're adorable when you wish to be. Leave me for a moment, please. I'll call you when I'm done."

"Very well, sir."

Let's start with the Duke of Brunswick-Lüneburg. Then, all my agents in France. I want them to sow chaos in Paris, Rochefort, Saint-Malo, Le Havre, Brest, Marseille, Toulon, and Bordeaux. I can promise them all the money they want; it matters not. Even if the odds are slim, they should be able to drive that degenerate old wretch completely mad. If just one of them manages a major coup, then it will not have been in vain.

As he wrote, he envisioned a magnificent scene. Like Rome under Nero, he imagined one of his agents succeeding in setting fire to a major French port. He could almost smell the wood burning and feel the heat of the flames on his skin.

Of course, he envisioned his agent getting caught, but with the entire port ablaze. The fire, out of control, would reach the warehouses, ropewalks, and ships under construction and repair.

What a splendid spectacle that would be, he thought with an ever-widening smile. Now there's a show worth watching. I'd pay fifty thousand pounds for a seat! Ah, if only that could happen, then nothing would please me more! No matter if all my agents are caught and hanged!

His mad gaze settled on a map of Europe, and he even imagined a perfect world. A world where all of France would be in flames. Cities, fields, churches, forests.

Then, we would truly be safe. We could spread our wings and conquer the entire New World, beginning by expanding our colonies westward! We'd take India, then drive the Spanish and Portuguese out of America. Finally, Europe would be forced to bow to our power and recognize us as their master. Peace would reign at last within a British Empire over which the sun would never set.

"But first, France must die."