Life of Being a Crown Prince in France

Di Chaiya didn’t hold much hope, but still asked, “Do you have any way to bypass the British fleet?”

“No, we don’t need to bypass them.” Demville half-lowered his head, saying, “You know, I used to do business in England. Later, when the Strait became too strictly monitored, our captain thought of trying his luck in the Ottoman Empire…”

“Get to the point.”

“Oh, yes, General.” Demville quickened his pace, “We used Piraeus Port as a transit point. The supplies there are very abundant.”

Di Chaiya frowned, “But it’s too far away; we won’t make it in time.”

Piraeus Port is in the Moria region of Greece, more than 700 nautical miles away from Genoa.

“No, we can make it, General. I’ve heard that Piraeus has been conducting trade using steamships since half a year ago,” Demville said. “Many French merchants are doing business there.”

He took a deep breath, “Most importantly, the British absolutely wouldn’t expect supplies to come from the east.”

Di Chaiya exchanged a look with his staff officer. Up to this point, they had instinctively believed that transport ships were slow-moving, forgetting that Franco-Ottoman trade had already adopted steam paddle ships.

These vessels could travel from Piraeus Port to Genoa in less than a week.

The staff officer nodded, then shook his head again, “But the cargo capacity of steam paddle ships is relatively small, and no supplies have been prepared in advance.”

“This,” Demville nervously stepped back two paces and murmured, “I indeed didn’t think about this. I truly apologize. Please just treat my words as nonsense.”

“Wait,” Di Chaiya raised his hand to signal to the staff officer, “Presently, there’s no other way. Send someone to Piraeus. I remember Baron Meimark runs a trading company there; ask him to think of a solution.”

The Port of Marseille couldn’t transport goods, Corsica couldn’t manage to gather enough supplies in the short term, and near Tunisia’s Bizerte Port, the main fleet of the British Mediterranean Fleet was stationed. Therefore, the direction of Greece was the only hope.

…

A few days later, the “Cape Parrot” appeared outside Piraeus Port.

That afternoon, in a room on the second floor of the port’s administrative committee building, Styler, the general manager of the Franco-Eastern Mediterranean Trading Company, now newly titled as Baron Meimark, looked at the ship owners in the room with a solemn expression:

“The situation is essentially like this.

“The troops in Genoa need a total of 4 million pounds of flour, 35,000 barrels of wine, 50,000 pounds of gunpowder, and large quantities of cannonballs, medicines, and other supplies.

“I hope everyone can take on the transportation task. As for the remuneration, I assure you it will be satisfactory to everyone.”

Unfortunately, at this moment, the Eastern Mediterranean Trading Company’s own ships were mostly out at sea, with the fastest ones needing at least five more days to return. Hence, Styler had no choice but to summon private French ship owners, intending to hire their steam paddle ships.

Immediately, some people shook their heads and stood up, ready to leave. “Baron Meimark, as everyone knows, the British fleet is patrolling near Genoa. This is far too dangerous.”

“Exactly, if there were no risks, why not send the supplies from Marseille instead?”

“Additionally, you’re asking us to advance part of the cargo costs. This is absolutely not a profitable deal.”

The Eastern Mediterranean Trading Company’s funds were mostly tied up in places like Syria and Egypt, as those were primary procurement locations. Styler’s current funds weren’t even sufficient to purchase the supplies needed for Demoblin.

If they could wait another half month—or no, even just ten days—Styler could solve all these problems effortlessly. But at the moment, the one thing he lacked most was time.

“Please wait.” Styler hurriedly stopped a few people, saying, “I can guarantee that everyone will not encounter the British fleet. As for costs, the Eastern Mediterranean Trading Company can offer 25% interest.”

“Forgive me, Baron Meimark, but I fear I cannot take this business.”

“Who knows where the British battleships might suddenly appear.”

“Frankly speaking, the risks are simply too high…”

Seeing several people determined to leave, Styler was sweating profusely and raised his voice, “30% interest, plus insurance premiums. I’m begging you, for the sake of Jesus.”

Still, a few people were about to rise and leave.

Although these ship owners were French, they were primarily businessmen.

When the ratio of profit to risk dips too low, they wouldn’t care about patriotism or loyalty to the King.

Just as the door was being pulled open and the ship owners were stepping out, a man seated in the corner, about 30 years old with rough skin and wearing a black coarse cloth jacket, suddenly stood up and called out:

“Baron Meimark, I’m willing to lend you my ship and advance the funds to fill it with flour.”

Instantly, a ship owner who knew him well tugged at his arm and whispered, “Leon, are you crazy? If you encounter the British battleships, you’ll lose everything!”

“Thank you, Ferry. But I’ve already made up my mind.”

Leon Trok then turned to those who had reached the door, saying, “You may know that from my great-grandfather’s generation onward, my family has been in the sea trade between France and the Far East.

“During my grandfather’s golden years, we owned four sailing ships, including the ‘Ocean Current,’ a three-masted vessel measuring a full 43 yards long.”

Ferry silently nodded beside him, verifying his claim.

The ship owners stopped in their tracks and turned to Trok. A maritime merchant owning four ships undoubtedly ranked among the elite.

Trok sighed before continuing, “Later, France lost to the British in the Seven Years’ War, and as you all know, we lost all of our Far East trade.

“The ‘Ocean Current’ was seized by the British at the Cape of Good Hope and two years later, my family’s business went bankrupt.

“Afterward, my father went to Naples, drawing maps for others to make ends meet before quickly dying of illness.

“My mother took me and my brother to Marseille, where she worked repairing fishing nets. By the time she was 30, all her fingers had rotted away. My brother and I both contracted malaria, and with no money for medicine, we barely survived…

“Luckily, I had some fortune when a friend of my father’s helped me restart a shipping business, and eventually, I managed to purchase a ship.”

An impatient voice interrupted, “Excuse me, but what exactly are you trying to say?”

Trok raised his hand to signal, “Most gentlemen here rely on Mediterranean trade for their livelihood.

“So have you ever thought about what would happen if our troops in Genoa were defeated by the Austrians?”

The ship owners exchanged glances, unsettled.

Trok continued gravely, “What my father went through will happen again to me and all of you. And our children might face dying from disease because we can’t afford medicine!”

“Is it really as dire as you say?”

“No, I’m not exaggerating in the slightest,” Trok said. “If the troops in Genoa are annihilated, the southern parts of France will lose all defensive capability.

“By then, the Austrian Army will occupy the Port of Marseille, severing France’s Mediterranean access. North Africa will lose contact with the homeland and quickly surrender to Britain.”

His eyes burned as he looked at the group of ship owners, “At that point, all Mediterranean trade will be monopolized by British merchant ships. You, me, and everyone here will be ruined!

“This is our only chance. Believe me, we must hold Genoa.

“Not for the King, nor for Baron Meimark, but for ourselves—to stop being humiliated by those British bastards!”

He extended his hand:

“Who is willing to join me in a journey to Genoa?

“To deliver supplies for the French soldiers there and teach those Austrian scum a hard lesson!”

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