Chapter 216: Provinces and Colonies
Chapter 217: Provinces and Colonies
The Tunisian Janissaries retreated, leaving a trail of corpses. The rebel forces, under the command of French officers, immediately launched a counterattack.
Seeing this, Gemile drew his scimitar and charged onto the battlefield, shouting as he led his soldiers, pursuing and clashing with the Ottoman forces.
Though tens of thousands of rebel soldiers surged forward in a chaotic, disordered mass, the Janissaries had completely lost their will to fight, fleeing headlong. The battle quickly devolved into a one-sided slaughter.
After more than two hours, almost all the Tunisian Janissaries were driven into a small area north of the city. Seeing that the tide had turned, Khoja had no choice but to order his men to lay down their weapons and surrender.
The rebel soldiers, eyes bloodshot from the killing, showed no mercy to the Janissary "masters" shouting for surrender. The slaughter only ceased when Gemile personally intervened to restrain them.
By this point, the tens of thousands of Janissaries had been cut down to just over 7,000 men. Khoja and other senior officers were all hacked to death in the chaos.
Gemile left some soldiers to guard the prisoners. He then led his main force into Tunis City, seizing the opportune moment.
The bustling capital of Tunisia was quickly brought under rebel control. The city's Janissaries had long since fled. The native residents poured into the streets, cheering loudly and celebrating the rebel forces.
Haj, trembling, arrived at the palace entrance, escorted by Police Intelligence Bureau agents like Pruspur. Before he could speak, the rebel soldiers around them erupted in a roaring tidal wave of shouts:
"Execute him!"
"Kill the Ottoman!"
"Kill him, he's one of the Janissaries too!"
"Behead him..."
Haj's face instantly went ashen. He had never imagined that he would face a death sentence before he had even warmed his seat as Bey.
Gemile and the native tribal leaders beside him exchanged silent glances, then nodded subtly.
He drew his scimitar, adjusted his headscarf, and strode towards Haj:
"You Ottoman dog, your sins must be washed away with blood!"
Haj gazed in terror at the blood-stained blade, stumbling backward in fright, but Gemile closed the distance in a few strides and abruptly raised his scimitar.
In the nick of time, a loud shout echoed from the back of the crowd:
"Hold your blade!"
Gemile and the others turned, spotting Joanne, the French Consul in Tunisia, approaching. He was accompanied by Elder Alai, scholars like Hilada, and several French officers, all pushing past the native soldiers.
Gemile and the native tribal chiefs quickly bowed respectfully to the group of over ten people. Then, they heard Joanne speak in fluent Arabic:
"Respected General Gemile, I believe you might be mistaken."
"Ah? You mean?"
Joanne bowed slightly towards Haj, gesturing:
"A Bey is a Bey. He is absolutely not a Janissary, nor is he an Ottoman."
The gathered natives immediately looked at each other in dismay, thinking: 'Wasn't Hussein, the first Bey, an Ottoman Janissary officer who drove out the previous Janissary leader and thus seized control of Tunisia?'
'How could that not be the case?'
Joanne immediately explained, following the Crown Prince's instructions:
"The Bey is the ruler of Tunisia; he belongs solely to Tunisia, not the Ottoman Empire. Strictly speaking, it was the Janissaries who betrayed him, secretly colluding with the Ottomans and persecuting the Roman Descendants of Tunisia!"
He gestured towards Haj again:
"Bey Haj's grandmother was Genoese, and his mother was from Touggourt. Even if he possesses a trace of Ottoman blood, it would have long since become extremely diluted."
Hearing this, Haj secretly wiped a bead of sweat, grateful that his grandfather and father, driven by their pursuit of beauty, had not strictly adhered to Janissary traditions. Otherwise, he would surely be dead today.
Joanne then looked at Haj and declared loudly:
"Wouldn't you agree, honored Bey?"
Haj instantly jolted, desperately seizing this last chance to live, and nodded vigorously:
"Yes, yes! I am and always will be a Tunisian, a... oh, a glorious Roman Descendant! I have nothing to do with those damned Ottomans!"
A native tribal chief frowned, raising an objection:
"But the Bey is also a Pasha appointed by the Ottoman Empire."
Joanne immediately waved his hand:
"That was all due to the Ottoman threat. Moreover, Bey Haj has never actually accepted that appointment."
Haj continued to nod emphatically:
"Yes, yes! I will never be an Ottoman Pasha!"
Gemile and the native tribal chiefs exchanged another look, full of doubt. Seeing this, Joanne subtly gave Elder Alai a wink.
The latter immediately stepped forward, speaking in a melodious tone:
"Friends, the Bey is a ruler acknowledged and served by all the tribes. He is not an Ottoman, and he should not be betrayed by you."
Ishaq stepped out from behind Gemile at an opportune moment and was the first to bow to Haj with a hand on his chest:
"I shall forever remain loyal to you, great Bey."
Seeing the rebel leader set the example, the native tribal chiefs hastened to pledge their allegiance to Haj in turn, followed by the officers.
Finally, thousands of natives present, including Gemile, bowed to Haj. The latter finally let out a long sigh of relief, looking with immense gratitude at Joanne and the others who had saved his life.
Southern Bizerte.
In a villa heavily guarded by Swiss Guards in red uniforms, Joseph yawned, moved his "knight," and captured a black "pawn" on the chessboard.
Having promised the Queen to "stay on the ship," he couldn't go anywhere, confined to this "wooden ship" within the room, passing the time by playing chess.
Berthier, sitting opposite him, moved his "rook" three squares forward. After a moment of hesitation, he voiced the doubt in his mind:
"Your Highness, why are you so concerned about the Bey of Tunisia? I mean, perhaps allowing those rioters to vent their anger on him would be a viable option."
Joseph moved his "queen," protecting his "knight":
"Haj has, after all, cooperated with us. Though his motives were revenge and reclaiming his beloved, morally speaking, we shouldn't just abandon him. Moreover, while he holds no real power, he remains a symbolic figure for Tunisia. Edicts issued from Qahil Palace in his name can be implemented more swiftly. If he were to die, it's anyone's guess how long it would take for the local Tunisians to balance various interests and establish a new government."
What he didn't voice was that Haj, being rather incompetent, would be easier to manage. If a native Tunisian with exceptional cunning and strategy were to gain power, it could prove troublesome.
Berthier, holding a chess piece, nodded continuously:
"Your Highness's concerns are indeed very valid; I was thinking too simply."
Joseph smiled faintly:
"Furthermore, having a Bey in place can prevent the possibility of a military dictatorship. It also facilitates Tunisia's future merger with France."
Berthier seemed surprised:
"Are you saying Tunisia won't be a French colony, but rather... a province?"
"That is my intention. That's why we've been promoting identification with France here from the very beginning."
"But, Your Highness," Berthier hesitated, "won't the cost be too high?"
People of later generations often imagine colonies as places of bloody oppression, exorbitant taxes, and widespread destitution.
In reality, most of the time, colonies only faced certain trade restrictions, such as prohibitions on buying from or selling to specific parties. Tax rates weren't necessarily high; for instance, before its independence, America's various tax rates were even lower than those within the mother country, Britain.
The greatest difference between a colony and a non-colony lies in investment. Even if a colony's tax rates were low, the revenue collected would ultimately be spent on the mother country. Colonies received no development funds, had no money for disaster relief, and their local residents inevitably grew resentful.
Moreover, if problems arose in a colony, the mother country could simply wash its hands of the matter, free of any psychological burden.
Thus, the investment required to build a province would actually be far greater than for a colony.
Joseph looked at the chessboard, reluctantly trading his "rook" for his opponent's "knight" and "pawn," and nodded:
"You're right. This means we'll have to invest a significant amount of capital in Tunisia, especially in the initial stages." He then changed his tone. "However, it will be worth it. Tunisia is rich in resources, boasts fertile land, and possesses excellent deep-water ports in strategic locations. Once developed, it will quickly recoup the initial investment. In fact, it could become a vital economic pillar for France in the future!"
He was well aware of North Africa's future significance to France. Even without extensive development, North Africa had once served as a cornerstone for France to become a global power.
In the 20th century, Jacques Chirac, the last respectable French president, once said, "Without Africa, France will be relegated to a third-rate country."
Currently, if France wished to contend with Britain, merely plundering resources from North Africa wouldn't suffice. After all, this region was far less extensive than Britain's colonies in America and India.
Since they couldn't compete in quantity, they had to compete in quality.
Developing Tunisia into a core region of France, achieving a level of productivity comparable to European territories — such a region's contribution to national strength would far surpass anything from America or the Far East.
Joseph looked at Berthier and continued:
"Do you know, compared to the colonies of Britain and Spain, North Africa possesses an unparalleled advantage: its close proximity to us? Marseille and the Port of Bizerte are separated only by the relatively narrow Mediterranean Sea. From Corsica, even a slower ship would reach Tunisia in just three days—a shorter journey than from Lyon to Paris.
"The British are destined to lose America, because edicts dispatched from London take over 40 days to reach Philadelphia. Similarly, any incident occurring there would only become known to the British after a month and a half.
"Mark my words, India will also break away from Britain in the future, as it too is an extremely distant land.
"Tunisia, however, is different. As long as we establish a firm foothold here, no one will be able to tear it from France's embrace."
He added mentally: 'Unless a sense of national consciousness awakens here and stirs up internal calls for independence. Therefore, before the storm of national awakening spreads across Europe, we must quickly foster a shared identity between France and Tunisia. Afterward, it will truly become an unbreakable entity.'
Of course, beyond fostering a sense of shared ancestry and origin, the most reliable method would be to encourage more French citizens to emigrate to Tunisia.
After all, Tunisia currently has a population of less than 1.8 million, with over a hundred thousand of those being European descendants. With the right immigration policies, it wouldn't take many years for this place to become "of the same ancestry and origin" in a literal, physical sense.
Berthier had previously only known the Crown Prince for his extraordinary military and strategic vision, and his impressive political acumen. He had never expected such a profound understanding of the international landscape from him. The words 'Son of Divine Favor' immediately resurfaced in his mind.
Because, apart from that reason, he simply couldn't conceive of how to explain the young Crown Prince's multitude of groundbreaking insights and strategies.
His thoughts swirled, yet his hand didn't pause. He moved the "queen" a few squares forward and said softly:
"Your Highness, General."
Joseph surveyed the chessboard, chuckling helplessly:
"It seems to be a checkmate. Your chess skills are truly formidable."
"You're too kind," Berthier said casually as he gathered the chess pieces. "Speaking of chess skills, a Hungarian named Kempelen invented a machine called 'The Turk.' It was a chess-playing machine. I once played against it and was defeated in just 14 moves."
'That impressive?' Joseph's first thought was 'AlphaGo,' but he immediately dismissed the notion. 'In an era when even steam engines aren't fully perfected, how could artificial intelligence exist?'
He then recalled having seen something about it on a forum once. It had ultimately been proven a hoax—someone was hiding inside the machine, manipulating the chess pieces with magnets.
So he winked at the Chief of General Staff:
"Lieutenant Colonel Berthier, I can tell you a trick to easily defeat 'The Turk.'"
As the two men were speaking, Perna knocked and entered. After bowing to each of them, she nervously fidgeted with the hem of her dress and said:
"Your Highness, Commander, I've heard that quite a few soldiers in the legion have recently contracted dysentery. Perhaps I can be of assistance."
People of this era completely rejected female doctors. Perna could only serve alongside the open-minded Joseph. She hadn't been able to help at all since arriving in Tunisia, and had even been cared for by His Highness throughout the voyage due to seasickness. Thus, at this moment, she yearned to do something to prove herself.
Joseph nodded. "On behalf of the soldiers, I thank you, Doctor Perna. However, you will need to change into men's attire first."
"Understood! Thank you, Your Highness!"
...
Paris.
Palais-Royal.
The Duke of Orléans comfortably read the latest Paris News, basking in the sunlight from the window. The paper reported on events in Tunisia; though the exact situation remained unclear, it was said that the region had plunged into chaos, with war spreading everywhere.
Clearly, the Crown Prince, with his complete lack of political experience, had messed up!
He happily hummed a dance tune to himself. As he looked up, he caught sight of his son passing by the window.
He sensed something was amiss with Philippe, so he quickly rubbed his eyes, called out to his son, and scrutinized him closely.
In the bright sunlight, large red pustules covered the latter's neck, and his left eye was severely bloodshot.
The Duke of Orléans immediately frowned and asked with concern:
"Philippe, are you ill?"
The Duke of Chartres offered a nonchalant smile:
"It's nothing, just a touch of romantic 'Cupid's disease,' dear father."
Upon hearing this, the Duke of Orléans felt as though he had been struck by lightning, freezing in place—the so-called "Cupid's disease" was merely the nickname nobles gave to syphilis.
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