I transmigrated as a french soldier during XVIIIth century

The air was still warm in London despite the late hour, and there was barely a breath of wind, making the air hardly more breathable than during the day.

At least, thought William Pitt, resting his chin in the crook of his hand and vaguely watching the cityscape pass by the carriage window, everyone has gone home. I thought we wouldn't be able to attend tonight's performance.

Until the last moment, he doubted he could go to the theater as his wife had planned, hoping to distract him. London had been particularly restless for almost three months now, ever since Admiral Hawke's arrest, but other concerns kept the people of London in a constant state of agitation.

There wasn’t a day that went by without the people deciding to express their discontent. In Hawke’s case, it was either to demand his head or to save it.

More than during Admiral Byng's time, it seemed to Pitt that the people were divided.

Perhaps that is because I myself am divided.

Pitt despised weakness and incompetence. Watching British army and Royal Navy officers display these two traits filled him with disgust. An officer should be, on the contrary, inflexible, brave, competent, and always in control of the situation.

Hawke had failed miserably, though the disaster at Ouessant was not entirely his fault.

He had failed to keep his officers in check, costing many sailors their lives and losing several warships. Moreover, he hadn’t been clever enough to track the movements of the French ships, which allowed them to quietly return their precious vessels to Brest and later sail out unchallenged.

If one word could describe the situation, it would surely have to be invented, because “humiliation” would be too mild.

The minister Pitt was still furious. Fortunately for Hawke, most of that anger was directed at the captains who had openly disobeyed his orders, rushing at the French but only managing to wreck their ships on rocks and sandbanks.

Ah, and now I have a headache again...

William Pitt closed his tired eyes, worn from lack of sleep, and ran his long, thin fingers over his face. It was something his wife would sometimes do to relax him, but it had been a long time since he could spare even a few minutes to rest and talk with her.

Going out with Esther Pitt tonight to clear his mind was truly an exception.

He no longer slept more than a few hours a night, and often spent them in his office to avoid wasting time crossing the capital, whose narrow, filthy streets often resembled a labyrinth.

Ah… Prices are rising, discontent is brewing, Hawke’s trial is coming to an end, we need to maintain our advantage at sea, hold onto Saint Louis in Senegal against the French, who will surely try to take it back, the Spaniards threatening us in the southern colonies, the slaves constantly revolting on the islands, our African partners always wanting more wealth and arms, or they’ll sell their slaves to others, Portugal doing nothing, our coffers emptying, new taxes...

"William?"

"Hmm? Yes, my dear?" the minister replied tiredly, turning to his wife, who sat beside him.

"You're thinking about work again."

William Pitt couldn’t help but smile and looked into his wife’s face.

"Sorry."

"Don’t push yourself too hard. You'll end up collapsing, and then you’ll be forced to rest for weeks."

"In that case, may God protect the kingdom."

"That’s why," she said, gazing deeply into his eyes, her affectionate hand resting on his left hand, "don’t think about anything. You’ll see, it feels good. Oh, we’ve arrived."

William Pitt looked outside in surprise and saw that they had indeed arrived in front of the grand Royal Theatre in Covent Garden. He hadn’t noticed the journey pass, so lost had he been in his thoughts.

He wasn’t sure, but it seemed to him that he hadn’t uttered a word throughout the ride, even though it wasn’t short. A sense of guilt washed over him as he looked at his wife, who smiled at him. She seemed to read him like an open book.

"Are you coming?"

"Yes, I’m right behind you, my dear. Hmm, it’s still early, but there’s already so many people?"

"Of course, fufu! It’s clear you haven’t been out in a long time."

Strange. Our coffers are emptying, people are complaining about market prices, yet here they are in such numbers for a mere play. Very strange.

Indeed, in front of the grand theatre, one of the finest in the kingdom if not the world, the crowd was bustling with activity. A long line had formed at the entrance, illuminated by numerous lanterns.

Quickly, the wealthy spectators were ushered through first, naturally including Minister Pitt and his wife, Lady Hester.

For the occasion, Pitt had dressed smartly. He wore a new suit—coat, waistcoat, and breeches—plum-colored with a rather original cut, and silver-buckled shoes so polished they gleamed under the enormous chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

Lady Hester, for her part, wore a delicate azure blue gown that perfectly highlighted her fair, delicate skin. Her dress was richly adorned with azure lace, but in a slightly darker shade to enhance the fabric.

Though Pitt knew nothing of fashion, he had to admit that the dress suited her perfectly.

The halls of the Royal Theatre were simply sublime, worthy of a palace. They followed a long, wide red carpet embroidered with gold thread, keeping a polite distance from the other spectators, all heading to the private boxes from which one could enjoy the performance with some privacy.

Guided by staff members, Pitt and his wife arrived at a dark wooden door adorned with golden moldings.

Is this our box?" Pitt asked, quickly surveying the space as they entered.

Hmm, a good choice. We won't miss any of the show from here. By the way, what are we seeing tonight? I think Hester told me once or twice, but I can’t remember. Ah, she’s right, I work too much. But the interests of the Crown must come first!

Pitt furrowed his brow slightly.

"Is something wrong?" asked Esther, delicately holding her husband's arm as they approached the deep red and gold seats.

"Oh, no, it's nothing. I was just thinking..."

"Stop thinking for a bit, my dear husband, and enjoy the evening. Sit here."

The minister silently obeyed and settled into a comfortable armchair that rivaled the one in his office. It was so important to have a good chair—nothing was worse than working in poor conditions.

Most people paid the same attention to their beds, as a good night’s sleep was essential.

Goodness, I hope I don’t fall asleep during the show. Hester would be disappointed. She arranged everything so we could have a pleasant evening.

From their seats, they had a perfect view of the stage, several meters below. For the moment, only thick red curtains were visible, drawn tightly shut.

William Pitt then noticed they weren’t alone in the box. An old man with long white hair, so hunched over he looked as though he was bowing, was sitting just a few steps from the couple.

Hmm? Since when was he here? I didn’t see him come in... Was he here from the start?

The man seemed to be in his last months, perhaps days. His trembling, wrinkled hands—like an overripe apple—pulled a kind of horn from a small bag, an instrument to help him hear better.

The old man began to hum softly. It sounded more like a long creak or lament, a little tune Pitt couldn’t identify.

Perhaps it’s just a series of random sounds strung together?

Then, a young man rushed into the room, his face covered in sweat and his clothing slightly disheveled. He was tall and as thin as the minister, but his eyes were full of energy. He seemed very nervous and a little clumsy.

"Oh, sorry! Excuse me. My apologies, a thousand apologies. I... I believe this is my seat. Right. Oops, I knocked over your cane, sir. No, no, please, let me pick it up!"

William Pitt furrowed his brow deeper and did his best not to watch the ridiculous scene unfolding right before his eyes.

Hester sensed her husband’s tension and placed her soft, warm hand on his cool, dry one.

Soon, the lights began to dim, and the curtains opened. Characters appeared on stage as an orchestra played a gentle melody.

Pitt, unsure of what to expect, tried to follow the plot.

Ah, I see... A comedy. Hmm, the actors aren’t bad. Is that rotund man dressed like a colorful fool supposed to be a ‘nabob’?

Indeed, the main character was what they disdainfully called a ‘nabob’—a Briton returning from India after making a fortune there, but lacking in elegance and social graces. In short, he was a boor trying to integrate into the highest circles of society, acting the fool, ignorant of etiquette, and making a spectacle of himself wherever he went, all while flaunting his wealth.

Soon after the play began, the first bursts of laughter echoed from the audience.

Pitt, who unfortunately had encountered such characters, found it difficult to laugh. He had seen people, though exaggerated here, return to England suddenly wealthy from India by exploiting the work done by His Majesty's soldiers, convinced they had become the equals of the highest nobles of the kingdom in just a few years.

To him, they were nothing more than clowns who didn’t know their place, wrongly believing that money could turn a commoner into a true noble.

This play clearly criticized that, but it also portrayed the English nobility’s anxiety about the emergence of such characters, multiplying to form a new social class. That anxiety was real.

Esther had once told him of an absurd situation at a tea party hosted by Lady Fox. The wife of a ‘nabob’ had been invited and shamelessly announced that her husband had bought the estate of a young nobleman from an illustrious family, even though it didn’t date back to the Wars of the Roses!

Burdened with debts thanks to his father and grandfather’s poor investments, he had no choice but to sell a property passed down through generations!

William Pitt, who was not a noble and had no desire to become one so he could keep his freedom and the love of the people, could fully understand the old nobility’s anger and fear. These nabobs were disrupting the social order, and perhaps one day they would wield real power.

The thought of these upstarts, whose only merit was having invested at the right time and place, sitting in Parliament and making decisions that would determine the fate of the kingdom, enraged him.

Another burst of laughter startled William Pitt as his thoughts began to wander.

Ah, the nabob accidentally tore the baroness’s dress. And here comes the husband, of course.

The play wasn’t very original, but it was well-acted. It echoed many concerns within society, not just among the old nobility. Everyone in British society feared being displaced by the rise of these new rich.

Pitt then heard a door open and close behind him, and a man discreetly approached the minister.

The figure, cloaked in darkness, slipped between the seats like a vengeful ghost, silent as death, and settled into the empty chair behind Pitt.

Who is that?

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the clumsy young man watching him intently, but it lasted only a fraction of a second.

That look... Ah, now I remember seeing it before! Tsk, I see. So that’s how it is.

"Minister," murmured the man behind him, so close to his ear that Pitt could feel his warm breath.

"Please, let me enjoy the evening," he said so softly that one had to strain to hear him.

"It's about Admiral Hawke and Captains Evans, Speke, and Geary. The court has ruled. They are all sentenced to death. Their sentence will be announced tomorrow morning, and a petition for clemency will be sent to His Majesty for these four men."

William Pitt remained silent for a few seconds, then leaned slightly to the side, though from this position it was impossible for him to see the face of his interlocutor.

"The Royal Navy," he said in a voice clearly audible, "needs its officers now more than ever. We must remain masters of the oceans. If the petition is rejected by His Majesty as it was for Admiral Byng, I fear it will send a terrible message to all our officers. Executing Admiral Byng was already a mistake, but if His Majesty decides to apply the death penalty to all officers who fail, there is a risk they will all behave like kittens. I could understand Byng. His death might have even encouraged our officers to be brave, but four more officers, including an admiral... no, it's too much! We must do our best to protect them! After all, everyone can make mistakes."

"Very well, sir."

"This can wait until tomorrow. Enjoy the play. It’s entertaining, and it feels good. I now understand why so many people came tonight. It’s important to laugh sometimes and not think about anything."

Pitt then saw out of the corner of his eye the young man sitting to the left of his wife, a row behind, rise and leave hurriedly. William smirked slyly and leaned again towards the man behind him.

"The leech is gone," he whispered. "Do we know who he belongs to?"

The man immediately understood the question.

"It’s the man we spoke about, sir. He has been watching you for some time now. He appears to serve the Duke of Newcastle. He is very suspicious of you."

"And I of him. An amusing alliance, don't you think? But seriously, I want the heads of Messrs. Evans, Speke, and Geary to roll. They disobeyed a direct order from their admiral. The failure at Ouessant is largely their fault."

"And Admiral Hawke?" the man asked in a flat voice, devoid of any emotion.

"Mr. Hawke... well, I hesitated a lot about him. It only takes one error in judgment, one hesitation, and a well-laid plan can collapse. I’m afraid he must also pay the ultimate price, for his own mistakes and those of his subordinates."

The man sitting behind the minister remained silent, digesting his employer’s words. In the darkness, it was impossible to see his expression. He was just a shadow in a room plunged into darkness.

"Since this tragedy, no, even before it, I’ve questioned Newcastle’s decision to sacrifice Byng. His motives weren’t good, but... I must admit there were results. Our officers are more daring. Before Byng, I’m not sure Evans, Speke, and Geary would have charged the French ships with such rage as they did."

"Sir?"

"I don’t excuse them, but I appreciate their thirst for blood. If they hadn’t destroyed their ships, maybe they would have been hailed as heroes? Who knows? What the Royal Navy needs are fierce lions, not mad dogs. Hawke and the others... don’t meet these conditions."

"W-what are your orders?" the man asked in a grave voice.

"Circulate new testimonies about the Battle of Ushant by tomorrow afternoon. Let the public’s anger focus on the captains, and highlight the admiral’s errors in judgment. Emphasize his hesitations and the visible and potential consequences. Officially, I will take no sides. The decision rests with His Majesty."

"Very well, sir."

With that, the man left, even though the play wasn’t over.

***

When the lights came back on, after the actors' bow and a fine round of applause, William and Hester Pitt rose and left their box.

Soon, only the old man remained, eyes closed, hunched over as if searching for something on the floor.

Slowly, he straightened and opened his eyes. His back cracked, but his expression didn’t change.

His eyes were calm and cold as ice. He put away his hearing horn and adjusted his coat.

Well, that was interesting, thought John Ingham as he grabbed his cane.

The theater was almost empty, as everyone had been eager to leave after the performance.

This will certainly interest the Duke. He won’t be reassured, I think, but that’s not really my problem. He’ll pay me generously.

***

The next morning, at ten o’clock, Captains Thomas Evans, Henry Speke, Francis Geary, and Admiral Edward Hawke were informed of the decision of the military court presided over by Vice Admiral Thomas Smith. All were sentenced to death.

Soon, the news spread from Plymouth, then from town to town across England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, and the continent.

As in the time of Byng, the news stirred passions. The people of London took to the streets as if the price of bread had multiplied by ten, and made their voices heard all the way to the windows of old King George II.

Almost every day, new testimonies emerged, incriminating the captains. It was like pouring oil on an already out-of-control fire. London seemed on the verge of revolution, much to the dismay of the king and Parliamentarians, who wanted nothing more than peace within the kingdom to better conduct the war outside it.

On the afternoon of July 26th, George II received the kingdom's most prominent figures to hear their advice.

Some insisted on being uncompromising, but above all consistent. According to them, you couldn’t have an admiral shot one day and merely slap another on the wrist the next for an equivalent humiliation.

The Duke of Newcastle, however, suggested sparing Hawke to avoid setting a precedent. On the other hand, he was relentless with the captains.

Without their actions, as he forcefully declared, the battle off Brittany would have certainly turned in their favor, and the severely damaged French squadron would have been forced to seek refuge—or rather, imprisonment—in the Brest roadstead. Hawke’s decision to withdraw to reorganize his ships and care for the wounded, as well as the survivors of the stranded and sunken ships by Captains Evans, Geary, and Speke, was at least understandable, in his view.

As for Pitt, he remained neutral, claiming that they should wait for the consequences of this tragedy, once they knew where exactly the squadron had gone and what it had done since.

The king listened to each of them but made no decision that day, for the lives of four men were at stake.