Chapter 190: Declaring War on Natural Disasters
Charles received an audience with the Assistant Minister of the French Navy at Versailles. A small commendation ceremony was held specifically for him, and he was awarded a bonus of 500 livres.
Charles certainly deserved such praise. Without the intelligence he purchased from smugglers regarding the pirates, the combined fleet might still be adrift, relying on luck across the vast Mediterranean Sea.
However, after the commendation ceremony, a French official informed him that the original arrangement for him to testify at the pirates' public trial had changed. He was now required to return immediately to Algiers to help French "diplomatic personnel" contact Younis Pasha.
...
Bourges, in north-central France, was a very impoverished region, and La Beaune parish was one of its poorest villages.
The Annual Tribute Farmer, Alberic, sat on a wooden barrel, gulping the dry, hot air. The parched, cracked earth before him filled his face with despair.
He simply had no strength left to continue carrying water.
As the weather grew hotter, the small river that once flowed past the village had dried up. Now, he had to walk one kilometer to fetch water from the neighboring village to irrigate his fields.
Indeed, there were too few communal horses in the village, so his family only got to use one once every ten days or so.
After the hailstorm disaster, he had applied for government-relief potato seeds, but to his dismay, it hadn't rained since.
He had only managed to plant about a third of an acre of potatoes so far, which was the maximum he and his son could irrigate by carrying water. Planting more would only lead to the potatoes withering from lack of water.
Alberic was already contemplating whether he should eat the potatoes set aside for planting – even though it was a serious violation of regulations. But the priest had said they would only keep for a couple of weeks, so he couldn't just let them rot, could he?
Just then, a young tenant farmer from the village passed by, shaking a bell and calling out loudly as he walked:
"All men, gather at the church!"
Alberic quickly waved at the man and asked loudly:
"Didier, is it work for the Baron?"
"No, it's to help out," Didier replied. "To move stones for Yanar parish."
"Stones? What kind of stones?"
Didier nodded impatiently. "Yes, they were specially brought by the government. They call it some kind of fertilizer. Supposedly, it makes crops grow better. But it just looks like rocks to me."
Alberic quickly called his son, and together they hurried towards the church.
Forty to fifty people had already gathered near the church, murmuring among themselves:
"Why are we going to work in Yanar village?"
"I heard from Mr. Audréan that the government has a 'Water Pump Rental Act,' and they've acquired a water pump!"
"But what does that have to do with us?"
Yanar parish was in a relatively better position and could barely afford to rent a water pump, whereas La Beaune parish was utterly destitute, unable to even pay the monthly rent of 200 livres, let alone maintain a parish bank.
A villager immediately spoke up: "Mr. Audréan said that, according to the rental act, Yanar village will lend us the water pump for eleven days each month, and in return, we need to help them with their work."
"A water pump?!" Alberic exclaimed excitedly. "I heard that thing can irrigate dozens of acres in a single day! We're saved!"
Soon after, Audréan, the parish Stadtholder, arrived at the church. He first counted the attendees, then instructed:
"Today and tomorrow, we'll be moving fertilizer for Yanar parish. The day after, we'll move our own.
"And after that, we'll help them repair their irrigation ditches."
He spoke with a joyful expression. "But, they'll be sending the water pump over tomorrow night!"
The tenant farmers immediately erupted in cheers. With water came hope for survival. Without hesitation, they disregarded the scorching sun overhead and followed Audréan towards the neighboring village.
Two days later, Alberic's family also received those light gray "stones" with black specks. According to the priest, these were very precious fertilizers. All they needed to do was crush them into powder, soak them in water, and then pour the mixture onto the fields to significantly increase crop yields.
All the fertilizer had been acquired on credit by the parish after signing an agreement with a company called "Gemini Trading Company." It would cost between five and seven sous per acre, payable after the autumn harvest. However, the company guaranteed that if the increased yield didn't exceed the cost of the fertilizer, they wouldn't collect a single sou.
Yes, these stones were what Joseph had arranged to be brought back from Nauru. Their scientific name was Phosphate Ore, essentially mineralized guano.
This substance was absolutely the best fertilizer obtainable in this era!
It was a known fact that Nauru, in later generations, became one of the wealthiest nations in a short period by selling "guano rocks." Its citizens each owned a supercar, bought properties freely in Australia, and even flew abroad for common colds.
Of course, once the ore ran out, they became impoverished overnight, but that's another story.
Limited by transport capacity, only two shiploads of Phosphate Ore, totaling over 600 metric tons, had been brought back so far, temporarily supplied to the more struggling regions of France. However, the second fleet, comprising seventeen ships, had already reached the Pacific. Once they returned, France's agricultural output would be greatly boosted.
However, Britain remained the world's maritime hegemon, so France could not publicize this matter for now and could only secretly transport these "stones" back. Should word ever leak out, they would likely face forcible seizure by the British.
Therefore, Joseph had also prepared an alternative plan: promoting composting.
Composting, as it was known, involved processing organic matter such as leaves, straw, food scraps, and even manure with microorganisms, breaking them down into humus—the very fertilizer plants could absorb.
Before the widespread use of chemical fertilizers, this was considered humanity's best method for producing fertilizer, capable of maintaining soil fertility for many years without needing fallow periods.
While rudimentary composting existed in Europe in the 17th century, it was based purely on experience—organic materials were simply mixed and left for a while, resulting in very mediocre fertility. It wasn't until the mid-19th century, with the advent of scientific composting theories, that fertility gradually improved.
Joseph had learned the general principles of composting from documentaries in his past life: essentially, alternating layers of organic matter and soil, controlling moisture, and excluding air. Then, turning the pile once a month, it would mature in three months.
However, theory was one thing; the exact execution, and the precise ratios of organic matter and moisture, would require professional expertise.
Joseph entrusted this task to the Church.
Indeed, compared to inefficient bureaucrats, the Church was quite dedicated to matters of public welfare. By having priests from dozens of churches experiment with composting using different ratios and observing the effects, the most suitable composting method could be determined and then promoted nationwide.
Late at night.
Alberic and two villagers returned to the village with the horse cart. They then lit torches and unloaded the coal from the cart next to the water pump.
The coal had been transported from a small mine over ten kilometers away. Such small mines were now ubiquitous. Recently, the government had enacted the "Coal Mining Promotion Act," encouraging coal extraction, and would provide subsidies to mines whose sales reached a certain level.
Since then, investors operating small coal mines with a dozen or so workers had sprung up like mushrooms after rain, and the price of coal continuously dropped. Now, as long as villagers transported the coal themselves, the village could easily afford the amount of coal consumed by the water pump.
Watching the water, illuminated by the torches, continuously surge through the irrigation ditches towards the vast farmlands, Alberic and the others, though weary and aching all over, wore smiles on their faces.
Clearly, eleven days of irrigation per month wouldn't cover all the village's arable land, but it would at least save over sixty percent of the crops. Coupled with the supposedly miraculous stone fertilizer, this autumn should yield enough grain to sustain their families.
La Beaune parish was fortunate. Restricted by the output of French steam engines, many areas desperately needing irrigation had already submitted applications under the Water Pump Rental Act but could only anxiously await the life-saving water pumps.
...
Sfax City, Eastern Tunisia.
A man in his thirties, with deep-set eyes and a thin, high nose, alighted from a carriage and strode quickly into a French-style candy shop on the street.
French merchants were abundant throughout Tunisia, especially in high-end shops selling silk, sugar, tea, and similar goods; many were French-owned.
The shopkeeper glanced at him, then casually opened a door on the counter, allowing him to walk directly into the back room.
Prosper, from the Police Intelligence Bureau in Paris, was sitting in the room, dressed in a grey-white robe typical of Tunisians, wearing a golden, bucket-shaped hat, and idly fiddling with dates on a plate.
When the man with distinctly North African features entered the room, Prosper quickly saluted him with his hat and spoke in French:
"Fabian... ah, my apologies, Mr. Ishaq, how are things?"
Ishaq first picked up the water on the table and took several large gulps before excitedly replying:
"I met the officer named Imanzadeh. He certainly knows Younis, or rather, he deeply admires him.
"The most fortunate thing is that this Imanzadeh is close to retirement and holds only a nominal position in the Tunisian military."
"What's so fortunate about that?" Prosper began to say, then stopped mid-sentence. Suddenly, his eyes lit up. "You mean he has plenty of time to travel to Algiers."
"Exactly!" Ishaq nodded. "He just doesn't seem to trust me completely yet, so he's unwilling to commit to anything. Next, our Consul Joanne will need to step in."
Prosper hadn't expected the progress to be so smooth. They had been in Tunisia for only ten days and had already contacted Younis's former subordinate.
Of course, this was also thanks to Ishaq, a member of the Police Intelligence Bureau with North African heritage. Previously, his ancestry often subjected him to discrimination. But here, his command of Arabic and familiarity with North African customs allowed him to truly excel.
Prosper also gulped down several mouthfuls of water – in this scorching place, if you didn't drink enough before going out, you'd soon be uncomfortably thirsty – then he pulled Ishaq and headed for the door:
"We're going to find Consul Joanne now."
Three days later, after several meetings between the French consul and Imanzadeh, the latter finally boarded a smuggling ship, which had been waiting in the harbor, along with the agents from the Police Intelligence Bureau.
They would proceed directly to Dahra in Algiers, to meet Younis, who had left Tunisia over thirty years ago.
...
Versailles Palace Square.
The square was teeming with people, tens of thousands probably gathered. They had all flocked from Paris to attend His Majesty the King's birthday celebration.
A month prior, newspapers had announced that grand singing, dancing, and fencing competitions would be held here for three days surrounding the King's birthday. Of course, the most attractive feature was the free food distribution every day at 5 PM.
Naturally, many were also drawn by the lottery advertised in the newspapers, with a prize fund of up to 3,000 livres—a single sou could buy one ticket.
On the King's birthday, His Majesty himself would announce the winning numbers and publicly award the substantial prize.
Parisian citizens were very interested in anything that offered the chance to get rich overnight. Most who had spare cash bought a ticket, and some even bought several, or dozens, to increase their odds of winning.
Although the festivities hadn't officially begun, many vendors were already selling snacks and small toys in the square, and street theater groups were performing outdoors. Everywhere was a scene of joyful, bustling festivity. People had long since put the hailstorm that had previously destroyed 65% of France's agricultural harvest out of their minds.
In the ground-floor hall of the Palace of Versailles, a slightly stout official seated behind a wooden table checked his watch, then stood up, preparing to put away a wooden sign that read "Fencing Competition Registration" beside him.
Just then, a slender young man, whose hat brim was pulled low, stepped forward and politely stopped him, speaking in a strange voice:
"Please wait, I wish to register."
"Oh, very well, you've arrived just in time," the official said, resigning himself to sitting back down and picking up his pen. "You cannot register on behalf of another. Please tell me your name."
"Jean-François Henri de Fraise."
The official swiftly wrote down the name, stamped it, and then handed him a slip of paper:
"Please keep your registration slip, Vicomte de Freize."
"Thank you," the latter said, taking the slip and turning to leave.
The official suddenly recalled something and reached out to him, saying:
"Wait! Did you say you were Vicomte de Freize?"
The young man made no reply, lowering his head and quickening his pace.
"Stop him!" the registration official shouted.
Three guards immediately surrounded the "Vicomte de Freize," blocking his path.
The registration official walked over, looking at the registrant with suspicion, and said:
"If you don't mind, would you please remove your hat?"
The "Vicomte de Freize" sighed, reluctantly removed their tricorn hat, and offered an apologetic smile.
With sparkling eyes and a sweet smile, it was clearly a beautiful lady.
"Just as I thought! You are Miss Sorel, the Vicomte de Freize's sister, aren't you? You mustn't do this," the registration official said, reaching out. "This is a gentlemen's competition; fighting and brawling are not suitable for a lovely lady like yourself. Now, please return the registration slip to me."
"But if I don't compete, who will claim the championship?" Sorel smiled faintly, then suddenly yanked the guard on her left, hooked his ankle with her leather boot, and, as he lost his balance, darted past him to the left.
The first guard had blocked the view of the one opposite, and the last guard quickly gave chase, but after only two turns on the stairs, Sorel was nowhere to be seen.
Meanwhile, on the raised wooden stage in the center of the Marble Court, the noblewomen's competition was in full swing.
Centered around Queen Mary, five to six hundred nobles gathered in a fan shape before the wooden stage.
A row of soldiers stood behind them, separating them from the thousand or so commoners who stood watching from the outer circle. The people of Paris rarely had such an opportunity to witness noble ladies showcasing their singing talents.
Suddenly, the nobles let out excited cries: "Madame Galland! It's Madame Galland!"
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