Chapter 108: Declaration of War (2) The nice thing about becoming a nation's Finance Minister was that the quality of information coming in became different.
—Minister Lebrun. Does England have newspapers or magazines?
—Yes. There is a newspaper called The Times, the most successful one in London, Your Excellency.
—T-The Times? …Then could you request that the English delegation coming to France add one person from that newspaper and bring them along?
—Well… it's not a difficult matter, but why?
—Because I have things I'd like to discuss here and there, between people in the same business.
—Understood, Your Excellency. I will inquire with the British embassy.
And if I added one more thing—since it was still the 18th century, it was possible to exert a tiny bit of influence on another country.
—Your Excellency. Something awkward has come up.
—Huh? What is it?
—The proprietor of The Times. A man named John Walter—apparently he is currently imprisoned in Newgate Prison.
—…What? Don't tell me he stabbed someone or something—
—Nothing like that. He received a two-year sentence for defamation of the Duke of York, Prince Frederick.
—Defamation? Damn, this is insane. One guy gets charged with blasphemy for writing smut, another goes down for defamation. Journalists all seem like they're missing a screw.
—Well… what will you do, Your Excellency? Withdraw the request? Or shall we ask the British government for a pardon? He isn't a violent criminal who harmed anyone, so if we request a pardon, it seems likely they'll grant it.
—…Is that allowed?
—There's no reason it wouldn't be.
"Th-thank you so much, Your Excellency! Thanks to you, I've been able to return to the world like this!"
"Haha, it's nothing. Don't kneel like that—sit down and talk. There's plenty of time."
"Yes, Your Excellency!"
This was the result: a man in his fifties clutching my hand and bowing repeatedly.
Mister Walter sat down with a beaming smile—plop—in a refined chair. Of course, I sat in the chair opposite him.
"To be honest, when the staff member from the French embassy first told me that His Excellency Finance Minister Guillaume wished to see me, I couldn't tell whether I was dreaming or awake."
"Haha, is that so?"
"Of course! Sitting on the freezing prison floor, hearing that message—how I thanked the God in heaven!"
The businessman, newspaper founder, reporter, and pressman who had acquired a small printing shop in London in 1785 and launched The Times spoke with tears in his eyes, overwhelmed by emotion.
"You don't need to be so moved. Though I am French and Mister Walter is English, aren't we, in a sense, journalists in the same field? Please think of it as professionals helping one another."
"Thank you, Your Excellency!"
"This is wine my father back in my hometown sent me. It isn't a top luxury like Bordeaux or Provence, but it suits my palate well enough. Have a glass."
"Yes, Your Excellency. I will drink it gratefully!"
Mister Walter and I tipped our glasses, wet our throats with wine, and spoke again.
"However, Your Excellency—why did you wish to meet me badly enough to even arrange my pardon from prison?"
"Ah, that. I have a proposal I'd like to make—between our Ears of the Nation magazine company and Mister Walter's newspaper, The Times."
I set my glass down on the table as I spoke.
If 21st-century America had famous newspapers and media groups like The Washington Post and The Wall Street Journal, then in England you could name The Times and The Guardian.
Which meant: if we built a cooperative relationship properly from now, we could establish a valuable connection usable for centuries to come.
"…May I ask what, specifically, you are proposing?"
Mm. The way his eyes changed the instant business came up—I picked the right one.
"Shall we set up a joint-stock company?"
"A joint-stock… company?"
"Yes."
"…But my Times and your Ears of the Nation's Forbes and Maxim are newspapers and magazines. We're not trading companies—why would we form a joint company?"
"Hmm. Would it be all right if I explained while smoking a pipe?"
"Yes, I have no objection, Your Excellency."
"Thank you for your consideration."
I lit my pipe and continued.
"Prime Minister William Pitt has slapped a full prohibition on the English editions of our Forbes and Maxim. Because of that, our magazine company took a sizable hit. Two weeks' worth of magazines that were crossing the Dover Strait all became kindling."
Damn it—how much money was that? At least several hundred livres. The more I thought about it, the more it hurt.
"That is… unfortunate…"
"That's why I'm proposing the joint company to you, Mister Walter. France will now significantly loosen censorship and guarantee freedom of publication, but England—well… as you've seen, it may suddenly tighten censorship again."
"You mean you intend to slip past potential risk—like a snake gliding over a wall—by forming a joint company between an Englishman and a Frenchman. A truly ingenious idea."
Mister Walter stroked his chin with a serious gaze.
"I understand well what benefits His Excellency Finance Minister Guillaume and Ears of the Nation will gain. Then what advantages will I and The Times receive?"
"Simple. Through the joint venture, Mister Walter will now be able to sell The Times in America."
"…Ha. That is tempting, Your Excellency."
At my words, a sharp gleam flickered in Mister Walter's eyes.
Relations between America and England? Do I even need to say it? The worst of the worst. It hadn't even been ten years since the War of Independence ended, where they pointed guns and blades at each other—of course it was.
Civil trade between private parties had restarted, but the two nations were still snarling at each other at the border over the Canadian colonies, and declaring import bans against each other was routine.
And yet, both countries spoke English, didn't they? It wasn't as if the language didn't connect—so to someone who made a living by writing, it naturally looked like a very attractive market.
But what American would want to read a newspaper printed by an Englishman? What—an English limey bastard's paper? They'd dump it into the bottom of Boston Harbor along with the tea.
But France? Americans' favorable feelings toward France were climbing higher by the day.
France had sent troops to help during the War of Independence, and America's independence had been inked and approved at Versailles—so it was the natural result.
"If you sell the newspaper under a French company name, it might sell very well, but it certainly won't become a negative for you, Mister Walter. Isn't that right?"
"I agree, Your Excellency. The Times will cooperate faithfully in establishing the joint company."
"Excellent! Let's work well together from here on, Proprietor Walter."
"Haha, likewise—I look forward to it, Your Excellency!"
Mister Walter and I clasped hands and laughed together.
February 20, 1791.London, England.10 Downing Street.
A day when cold winter rain poured beneath the leaden rainclouds that suited London.
Prime Minister William Pitt sat in the reception room, reading through a letter sent by the Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary Ambassador to France.
"'Furthermore, the current French government is quite favorable toward dialogue and compromise with our Britain, and this may be interpreted as a positive signal regarding the expansion of Britain's influence in India and Bengal. —Duke of Sutherland, Leveson Gower.' Not a bad result. Wouldn't you say so, William Wilberforce?"
"If you think so, then I suppose that's what it is."
"You've been bland since university, and you're still bland now."
"What, as if I ever wasn't."
Tory MP William Wilberforce shrugged and spoke to his friend, William Pitt.
"Still, with this, we can wrap up the France matter. You and I can finally stop looking at that damn European map. No matter how I look at it, aesthetically, the Asia–India map is easier on the eyes."
"Of course it's easier—on the India map, you can only see British land. Isn't that right, Pitt?"
"Well, doesn't that prove you and I worked hard?"
"At least on that, we did work hard."
Like ten-year friends, the two smiled and tipped their teacups.
"Ha—Chinese tea really is the best, isn't it? Damn it, because of tea we always run a trade deficit. Even the devil doesn't have a devil like this."
"Haha, that's true."
"Should we just declare war on China and seize the trade rights?"
"Haha, you're talking nonsense. Do you know, if seventeen million Englishmen are to defeat four hundred million Chinese, how many each man would have to face? I have William Pitt as a friend, not King Leonidas."
"It's a joke, a joke. After living on edge for over a year, you snap even at jokes now, Wilberforce?"
For the first time in a while, Pitt could enjoy a relaxed afternoon and answer his friend with a laugh.
Then someone entered the reception room and spoke to Pitt and Wilberforce.
"Um, Your Excellency the Prime Minister? An urgent message from the Foreign Office. Could you spare a moment?"
"…From the Foreign Office? Why would the Foreign Office suddenly—?"
"You should hurry over first, Pitt. In any case, there's nothing an MP like me needs to do at the Foreign Office. I'll take a walk and follow after."
"Then I will excuse myself first."
Pitt quickly put on his coat and hat from the rack, opened the door, and left the Prime Minister's residence.
After a short while, cold raindrops tapped against his hat and coat, and Prime Minister Pitt climbed into a sleek black carriage.
"Driver, move out at once. To the Foreign Office."
"Yes, Your Excellency. Hyah!"
With the driver's vigorous whip-crack, the carriage set off, passed through Westminster, and stopped before the British Foreign Office building.
Pitt put his hat back on, dashed through the rain, and hurried inside.
"I'm here. What is it that you've called me for like this?"
"Prime Minister Pitt! It's fortunate you've come at last! There's no time even to shake the water off—this way, quickly."
The Foreign Secretary led Pitt—who had been brushing raindrops from his clothes—deeper into the Foreign Office, toward a reception room inside.
"What is this, Minister?"
Entering the reception room, Pitt looked at the Foreign Secretary and asked with a baffled expression.
"…A diplomatic document sent by Catherine II of Russia."
Without further explanation, the Foreign Secretary handed Pitt a letter.
"…Official? Or unofficial?"
"Both."
"Then it'll be a troublesome one."
Pitt furrowed his brow and began reading the letter.
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