The Accountant Becomes Louis XVI to Save His Neck

The long wait was at an end on one drizzly, grey spring morning. Off the coast of Brest was spotted a lone French frigate with its rent sails and gun-scored hull. It had made the perilous crossing of the Atlantic in record time with favorable winds and the urgency of its message. A mount relay with horses changed at each post brought the message towards Versailles at mad gallop.

When the final courier rode into the palace courtyard on his lathered and stumbling steed, the entire court was convening in the Royal Council chamber. The word of the frigate's arrival spread like lightning and the room was gripped with intolerable tension. Everything else was set aside — political posturing and personal aggrandizement — there remained on the lips of all men there one question, the one that would be life or death to all of them. Victory or defeat?

Louis was at the foot of the long council table, his face set behind an impassive visage of calm power. But within his chest his heart knocked against his rib cage. It was now. The culmination of all plotting, all risks run, all sleepless nights. Marie Antoinette was right behind him, her hand on the back of his chair with the gentle pressure of support. Vergennes, Necker, and Lafayette were there as well, their faces tensed with anticipation.

A dust-dried, sun-scorched naval officer, his dirty white uniform speckled with sweat and grime, was ushered into the room. He bowed low, presenting a sealed leather dispatch case. The room was so silent the creak of the leather as he extended his arm was audible.

Louis took the case. His hands, he was glad to see, were rock steady. He broke the wax seal, the small crunching sound echoing through the hall. He unrolled the heavy parchment, the admiral's official report.

He sat to read, his eyes sweeping over the fine close script. The room watched him to divine the news from the look on his face. For a minute his face remained unchanging, the face of the monarch receiving dispatches. Then his eyes simply expanded with surprise. There was the twitch of a muscle in the jaw.

He was not reading just a summary. He was reading the battle through the account of his admiral.

The early chapters were a relief. The fleet had slipped off the Cuban coast unnoticed. Greater speed with the new copper-sheathing on the new ships had brought the fleet to the edge of British patrols and assured it complete surprise tactically. The early landings on land went extremely well with the French troops clearing the beaches and quickly overpowering the outworks of the largest port on the island, Kingston.

But then the report took on a somber tone. The British garrison, as outnumbered as it was, was composed of seasoned veterans fighting with stubborn, desperate courage. The assault on the main fort covering the harbor was becoming a bloody grinding affair. Louis's eyes scanned lists of the dead, the names of men he himself had personally approved to lead, now marked down as killed. The personal price of his gamble stretched out in harsh black script.

And then came the word he feared. The British relief fleet, under the legendary Admiral Rodney, was present. A grand, decisive sea battle had been fought off the coast just across Kingston harbor. The future of the invasion, and everything else, hung on this one battle.

As Louis read further, his countenance changed again. A flash of burning, focused enthusiasm lit up his eyes. The report of his namesake admiral de Grasse was converted into a triumphant narrative. The nippier and more agile French vessels flatly rejected the old-fashioned stationary line of battle. The admiral had availed himself of their speed to the uttermost, holding aloof, pounding the British vessels with long-range shot, and not being at the receiving end himself. He had used the old-time naval trick of "crossing the T," hoisting his fleet across the course of the advancing British line so that his vessels might give full broadsides and the enemy could only answer with their forward guns. The Dauphin Royal, the pride and joy of the fleet, had acted like a champion, revolving around the clumsily moving British flagship.

He read to the final lines of the report, his breath stuck in his throat. After two days of violent combat, the British fleet was broken. Three of their ships-of-the-line were sunk; five were captured as prizes; and the rest scattered and on the retreat. Admiral Rodney himself had been forced to strike his colors. The French had won at sea a success so utter, so decisive, it was scarcely possible to credit. The Kingston garrison, their fort destroyed and all hope of relief taken away, had formally surrendered.

Jamaica was down.

For what felt like an eternity when he finished reading, Louis simply remained there, the parchment trembling somewhat in his hand. He looked up, his eyes meeting Marie Antoinette's. A slow smile of disbelief appeared on his face.

A whisper of inquiry swept through the frozen council room. "Your Majesty?" Vergennes asked, his voice tense with eagerness.

Louis took a deep breath. He waved the dispatch. "Gentlemen," he stated, his voice sounding with a rich, joyous authority he had not possessed hitherto. "Admiral de Grasse presents his compliments. He has captured a British fleet. And he has brought us the island of Jamaica."

The room was shocked into silence for one heart-beat. Then it erupted. Lafayette let loose some sort of demented yell of "Gloire!" and embraced the nearest general. The stern financier Necker stumbled into his chair and covered his face with his hands and wept with pure, unadulterated relief. Vergennes sat staring at Louis with his face set into one of pure, blind awe. This peculiar little king, this numerals-crazed bookkeeper, had just achieved one of the greatest, most decisive victories the French people ever experienced.

Louis was hit with a wave of victory so tremendous, so massive that it might just take him down to his knees. The HUD was a dazzling, gorgeous cascade of green alerts, the numbers so enormous they could not possibly exist.

JAMAICA GAMBIT: COMPLETE SUCCESS.

British Economy: CRIPPLED.

War Aims: ACHIEVED.

Personal Authority: +100 (STATUS: ABSOLUTE).

Nobility Popularity: +60% (STATUS: ADMIRING).

Third Estate Popularity: +80% (STATUS: IDOLIZED).

REVOLUTION RISK: -50%.

He had done it. Despite all odds, despite all advice, he had succeeded. He had won the war, he had secured his throne, and he had saved his family. In the joyous uproar, as his ministers thumped each other on the back and celebrated, there rushed into the room a second courier, white-lipped and distraught. He rushed up to Vergennes and delivered to him a sealed letter. It bore the British diplomatic envoy staying on in Paris' seal.

Vergennes ripped the seal open and read the letter. He went white. He stumbled to Louis with horror on his face.

"Your Majesty," he gasped, trembling, all the rejoicing lost. "A letter from London. From King George III himself."

"What is it?" Louis demanded, victorious adrenaline that flowed through his veins turning to ice.

"The British Parliament... with panic... from a potential economic collapse because of the loss of the sugar trade and from a total military defeat in the Caribbean... they voted to immediately start the peace talks," Vergennes stuttered.

"This is victory!" cried Louis.

"No, you don't understand!" Vergennes burst out, waving the note. "To lighten their armies, to salvage as much as they can from this disaster... and to spite us to the very utmost possible degree... they have bestowed full and complete independence on the American colonists. They are formally recognizing the United States."

Louis stared at him, the entire force of the news crashing down on him. He had won his war so precociously, so overwhelmingly, that he had broken the world. He had not desired America to be a strong, independent power. He desired it to be a festering sore, an open drain on British resources. But him winning the war inadvertently and prematurely contributed to the creation of a nation, years ahead of schedule, its destiny and power now a whole unknown quantity. The global chess board had been wiped away.

The HUD that had been full of green color now throbbed with one massive, whole-ship alarm, its color he hadn't seen before—an ugly, threatening gray.

NEW WORLD STATE DETECTED: United States of America - INDEPENDENT.

GEOPOLITICAL STABILITY: UNKNOWN.

WARNING: Historical trajectory has been irrevocably altered. All future projections are now void.

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