The Value Of An Enraged Man

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On a floor as polished as a giant mirror, the footsteps of a tall, slender man in his fifties echoed like cannon blasts.

The man walked briskly, determined, without sparing a glance at those who turned to look at him.

Most frowned with disdain, muttering a few words under their breath as he passed.

But William Pitt, unperturbed, couldn't care less about what people said about him. For him, all that mattered was the welfare of the kingdom.

Dressed modestly despite his position, he still wore a very elegant powdered wig that partially draped over his thin shoulders, barely broadened by his coat, and swayed over his shoulder blades. His clothing wasn't meant to impress like most of his colleagues', but it revealed a subtle attention to detail.

He could hardly be considered a handsome man.

His long, hooked nose resembled a bird's beak, while his eyes, too small and set too high, gave his face a peculiar oddness.

For years, he had been self-conscious about these features, especially his nose, inherited from his father, Robert Pitt. He had been ridiculed for it as a child, but now, he was immune.

Tucked under his arm were a few sheets of paper, the key points of the speech he had just delivered in Parliament, and he was eager to get back to work. With bad news arriving in an endless stream, anything unrelated to finding new ways to weaken France seemed a waste of time.

Debating, persuading, negotiating, seeking compromises, forging alliances—everything felt like a waste of time to him.

What a bunch of fools! he thought, seething with anger inside, though outwardly he seemed so calm. Do they not understand the gravity of the situation? Do they think we are invincible?!

There were almost as many opinions on how Britain should wage this war as there were parliamentarians, though a few general trends had emerged.

Some, like him, wanted to strike France and Spain everywhere at once, while others wanted to concentrate efforts in specific areas. Still others advocated for a defensive stance, believing it would be just as effective and far less costly than funding large operations.

These last were the ones William Pitt despised the most.

We are proud Britons, not sheep! We should attack with all our might, deploy every resource we have to crush the enemy! So they can never rise again and challenge us! Fools! And they wonder why they're so unpopular!

The politician pushed open a white door adorned with exquisite golden moldings and entered a room that reflected his own nature.

The contrast between the beauty of the corridor and the simplicity of the office was striking. There was almost no furniture and very few decorations. Everything had a specific function and utility, so that at first glance, one could get a sense of the personality of its occupant.

He carelessly tossed his papers onto his desk, circled around it, and sank heavily into a deep, comfortable armchair.

The room was very quiet.

Only the regular ticking of a clock, a small marvel of technology, the muffled conversations in the nearby corridors, and the heavy footsteps overhead could be heard.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

"Come in," he said firmly, his voice slightly hoarse after four hours of fiery oratory, which he had spent nearly as long drafting.

"Sir," one of his clerks or assistants said—a dignified young man of about twenty-seven, acting as his aide—"a message has arrived from the continent."

William Pitt sat up straight and extended a long, almost skeletal hand, weary from holding a quill for so long.

Quickly, he opened the message from one of his agents in France, specifically in Brest. It was slightly outdated, but that was inevitable given the long journey it had taken to reach him.

He swiftly read through it without uttering a word.

His features were drawn from lack of sleep, as he constantly sacrificed rest for the affairs of state. Indeed, in his position, he was under immense pressure. His Majesty King George II and his numerous political adversaries seemed to be waiting for the slightest mistake to remove him, as had happened to his old rival, the Duke of Newcastle.

Despite their many differences, they shared certain commonalities, which is why they had formed a sort of coalition. He was popular with the people, while Newcastle remained highly influential in the House of Commons. Together, he was convinced, they could achieve great things. As he had once told Newcastle, two lions are better than an army of sheep.

The news was grim. A French squadron had gathered in the port of Brest, Brittany, which was very concerning. Even more alarming was another report about a convoy passing through the English Channel, carrying troops in that direction.

If, as he immediately suspected, these soldiers were to board those ships, Britain would be in immediate danger!

Thanks to his spies, he knew this force came straight from Prussia. He had even been informed that among them was a marshal!

Damn it! If only we could have sunk them when they were within our reach!

Their objective was still uncertain, but what was certain was that it couldn't be good for Britain.

While this letter didn't provide much new information, he now knew more about the composition of the squadron. By estimating the number of cannons, he could gauge the number of men aboard and thus determine the force needed to stop them, regardless of their mission.

Hmm, according to the intelligence from Newcastle's agents, they must have now boarded several thousand men under Marshal Richelieu's command. He likely won't be able to do much now that he's aboard one of those ships, but caution is warranted. He's the one who defeated and captured the King of Prussia.

His observers in the Channel had reported that Richelieu had made a significant effort to embark with as many men as possible to return to France.

Their number was estimated at five or six thousand, which was laughable for a conventional battle, but could be disastrous if they landed in an unexpected location.

If only we had landed troops in Hanover, this wouldn't be happening! Fools! This is what happens when you don't take your enemy seriously! I tried to warn them, but they didn't listen! We should have done everything to trap those soldiers on the continent! Now they are a direct threat to our interests! And yet, they still refuse to deploy the necessary resources to stop the French! Have they all been bought off, or are they just idiots?!

William Pitt was furious, but it was too late to cry. Now, it was time to act.

He knew every port and arsenal in France as if he had visited them personally, having studied the maps so extensively.

He was well aware that Brest was nearly impregnable. Britain and its allies had broken their teeth on it in the previous century, during the reign of Louis XIV of France.

All he could do now was send a substantial fleet to blockade these ships in the harbor of Brest.

Indeed, while there was only one point of entry, there was also only one point of exit. By controlling what the French called the Goulet, he could paralyze an enemy fleet, no matter how powerful, for months or even years.

This fleet would include about twenty warships and a great number of supply ships. It's not good, but it could have been worse. The most humiliating thing, though, is that some of these ships belong to us! Bah! Perhaps we can reclaim them if they try to pass through anyway? And if not, too bad, we'll sink them!

Just thinking about it made William Pitt's blood boil.

The loss of those few ships had been a real humiliation. That Spain had joined France didn't surprise him, as he viewed them as being of the same breed, with the King of Spain being a Bourbon like the King of France.

Consequently, like their old enemies, they were deceitful, cruel, greedy, and without honor.

No, the true humiliation was that they had lost an admiral because he hadn't realized he was being targeted. His tragic death hadn't absolved him of his mistake.

Ah... This is what happens when we don't take these wretches seriously. Now, it's up to me to solve this problem.

Even though he had made his decision to blockade Brest, he couldn't help but wonder. What was their goal? Why Brest?

This port was in a highly strategic location. From there, ships could head north and enter the North Sea or attack English ports in the Channel; they could head west to support their colonies or attack English colonies in the New World; or they could sail south to the Mediterranean, Africa, or the Indies.

There were so many possibilities, so many risks!

Brest is practically at the entrance to the Channel. If they want to, they could land in southern England, just as we had attempted to do at Rochefort only a few months ago. If they succeed, what would the consequences be, and what would be the most likely targets? Plymouth? Portsmouth? Bristol? London?

Even though the latter option was the least plausible due to the distance and its defenses, with these damn French, anything seemed possible!

And what if it's just a distraction? What if those dogs decide to attack us from another port? Those damned French are capable of it! Ah, I hate this! These ships should be out hunting French ships all over the world!

William Pitt briefly massaged his temples as he felt a migraine coming on. It had been too long since he'd had a full night's rest.

With all these eyes on me, it seems I have no choice. I must ensure the kingdom is safe by blocking a few good ships, or else I'll be blamed for the slightest incident. All this because of those cowards in Parliament! Our ships would have been much more useful elsewhere for the war!

The only relief he found in the letter was the mention of an illness spreading like wildfire inside the city, typhus, apparently.

A faint smile appeared on his lips as he imagined a mountain of bodies waiting to be hastily buried in a mass grave outside the city. He could only hope the disease would continue to wreak havoc and immobilize that fleet long enough for his blockade to be ready.

William Pitt took some letter paper and drafted a message to be sent to his agent in Brest through various covert channels, encouraging him to continue providing information.

He hesitated to ask him to try and set fire to the port, but at the last moment, he changed his mind, as the chances of success were very slim. It was more likely that his agent would be caught and hanged, which would be problematic for the continuation of the war.

He enclosed the letter with a note that would allow the agent to collect a small sum of money, trivial to the minister or the king but substantial for a simple worker, greedy enough to sell his country's secrets.

"Sir, there is something else," said the clerk, his face troubled.

"Oh? What is it?"

"It's… um, His Majesty had a word about you."

"Oh? I have a little idea of what it might be, but perhaps you'll surprise me. What did our good king say?"

"H-he said you were an 'enraged man,' sir."

The clerk lowered his eyes, fearing to meet his employer's gaze. But to his surprise, William Pitt did not get angry.

"That's all? Well, I suppose that's not so bad."

"Sir?"

"In your opinion, Mr. Blackwood, what's worse? An enraged man or a moderate?"

"A-a moderate?" the man responded hesitantly.

William Pitt chuckled softly and moved closer to a tall window framed by thick red curtains held by a gold cord.

"You say that because I'm called enraged, it's nothing. You see, the difference mainly comes down to the amount of energy a man is willing to expend to achieve his goals. The moderate will hesitate, seeking to accomplish his objectives without paying a high price. As a result, he will limit himself. In the end, it's very likely that he'll accomplish nothing but still pay a price. Worse! He'll wonder why he failed. Maybe I went too far in that direction, maybe I didn't go far enough? So he'll try again and again to fulfill his mission, wasting everyone's time and squandering his own energy. Of course, he'll place a considerable burden on all those he's asked for an effort."

The servant said nothing and stood still, dignified like a true English nobleman, his hands clasped behind his back.

"While the moderate stands still, unable to decide, the enraged man will be determined to implement every possible strategy to fulfill his duty. He's not insane; he's driven by an iron will. He'll demand considerable effort, but if he fails, it means either the approach was wrong, or the resources at his disposal weren't enough. Then, he'll have only two options left: unlock more resources or change strategy."

"Sir, what you're saying seems very reasonable to me, but... isn't it a risky gamble? If... um, if an enraged man leads us into a wall, he might take the entire kingdom to ruin.

"That's an interesting thought, Mr. Blackwood. You have a good head on your shoulders, but don't underestimate the English people. Even if we are ruined, even on the verge of collapse, as long as we have the will, we will rise again. If we hit a wall, we will find a new path and put just as much energy into it, no matter the sacrifices."

The seasoned politician's gaze shifted to a portrait of the King of England hanging on the wall, to the right of a large, richly decorated fireplace.

"Naturally," he continued in a heavy voice, "I am ready to sacrifice myself, for the interest of the State far outweighs my own interests. I am not like those people in Parliament. That's why being called an enraged man doesn't bother me in the least. On the contrary, it means His Majesty has acknowledged my determination. When this war is over and she has regained her precious Hanover, she will understand the value of an enraged man."