Chapter 170: The Midas Touch (4) Long ago—before I dove into the Han River—when I lived as an ordinary college student in my early twenties in South Korea,
there were always certain stories that came up whenever I met friends who had just finished their military service. We would gather at a pub, eating fried chicken and drinking beer.
"Hey, do you know how rough our unit was? Our battalion commander was obsessed with promotion, so we had seven training exercises a month."
"Damn it, try hauling 20-mm Vulcan ammunition crates up a mountain four times a day."
"Seriously. Have you ever actually seen North Korean soldiers? Ever been to the DMZ? In the DMZ giant eagle monsters fly in the sky."
While everyone exchanged stories from their miserable two years of conscription, there was always one friend who would simply shake his head sadly.
"Come to think of it, you're the only one here who served in the navy. Why are you so quiet?"
"Why? Because I don't even want to remember. …Do you know why naval ships keep shotguns in the armory along with rifles?"
"No idea."
The friend, who kept gulping down beer as if the memory alone made him shudder, muttered quietly.
"To stop sailors from starting a mutiny."
Working in a forty-degree engine room that swayed constantly with the waves until you could barely breathe.
Standing watch with your face exposed to seawater at minus twenty degrees.
And in the middle of all that, certain high-ranking politicians trying to cut the food budget.
After hearing the stories of a corvette engine-room operator—spicier than any pepper—we all humbly admitted defeat.
Looking back on that conversation, I learned two things.
First, if I ever had a son, I would never send him to the navy.
Second, if I ever became an officer, I would do my best to look after the sailors' welfare.
"Hm. Since officers must use the same place as the enlisted men, do you plan to construct a separate shop for officers, Minister?"
"…How are you still alive?"
"I beg your pardon, Minister. My French is not very good yet. When you speak that quickly, it is difficult for me to understand. If it is not too much trouble, could you say it in English?"
"I said there are no such plans for now."
"I suppose constructing another building like this would cost quite a lot."
Captain Thomas Hardy sounded disappointed.
If a Frenchman had said something like that, someone might have stabbed him in the back with a spear by now. What a remarkable aristocratic mindset.
"…Is something wrong? Is there something on my face?"
"No. Let's go."
"Yes, Minister."
The reward I had obtained for participating in the "play" produced by the theater owner William Pitt the Younger was unbelievably sweet.
A conditional ten-year tax exemption and exclusive rights to supply daily necessities to sailors.
If I made a strong first impression on the sailors, this business would fill my pockets for at least ten years.
Unless the British Navy suddenly vanished after being struck by a meteor.
"We've arrived. This is the PX you mentioned, Minister."
"Thank you for guiding me."
The PX Hardy brought me to was a square wooden building.
"Why did you use wood instead of stone? If you used stone, it could have been much grander."
"You have to match the customers."
"The customers?"
"That's right."
Hardy looked confused, so I lit a cigarette.
"You may not realize it because you are a straightforward soldier, Captain, but people naturally gravitate toward environments similar to themselves."
"…Is that so?"
"Of course. Didn't you just suggest building separate shops for officers and sailors?"
"Ah."
"The vast majority of customers here will be sailors. If the PX were built from expensive marble, many sailors would hesitate to enter."
"To understand even the hearts of common sailors… your sense for money truly is remarkable, Minister!"
"…Ha."
I dropped the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under my shoe.
Even sailors aboard twenty-first-century steel warships secretly carved spears in their hearts. I wondered how many spears sailors aboard gloomy eighteenth-century wooden ships were carving.
"Captain Hardy. What time is it?"
"Nearly eight in the morning."
"It will open soon. If you have other business, you may leave first. I'll stay a little longer after it opens."
"Yes, Minister."
Watching Hardy disappear into the distance, I lit another cigarette.
"Inhale… exhale."
Spending time with aristocrats really isn't easy.
9:00 a.m.
The PX had just opened—and, to exaggerate slightly, flies were buzzing around from the lack of customers.
Still, this was the first time the concept of a PX had been introduced. I hadn't expected success immediately.
"But only two customers in an hour is a bit much."
I crushed the empty cigarette pack into my pocket and entered the building.
Inside, the PX resembled the kind of military convenience store one might find on a base.
Instead of instant noodles there were dried fish; instead of towels there was linen cloth. But overall, it was similar.
There was just one difference.
Instead of college students or soldiers working behind the counter—
there were children.
"Oh! It's the man who came with Uncle Florence!"
"You idiot! You should call him boss!"
"Boss is here!"
Damn it. I was still in my early twenties, and they were calling me "uncle." Florian clearly needed better employee training.
"Employees. How long has it been since opening?"
"Me! It's 9:10 now, so one hour and ten minutes!"
"Good. How many customers came?"
"Two!"
"And you still look so relaxed?"
"But customers aren't coming."
Damn it. Where should I start fixing things?
The children who had worked small jobs while helping us stir up chaos in the London Stock Exchange were now employees of this new PX, after Florian insisted he could not send them back to dangerous factories.
The children liked the work because they no longer had to risk their lives beneath spinning machinery.
And I didn't have to worry about hiring employees.
A perfect arrangement.
If it worked well for me too, that would be even better.
"Sigh. Kids, did you divide up roles?"
"Well… we tried."
"But?"
"We've never worked in a shop before…"
Unbelievable.
"…Fine. If it fails, I'll just deduct it from Florian's salary. Kids, who here has polished shoes or sold newspapers?"
"Me!"
"Me too!"
"Good. You two handle attracting customers."
I tore a page from the calendar on the wall, rolled it like a megaphone, and handed it to them.
"The rest of you organize the shelves. Snacks and drinks near the counter. Clothes and necessities on the corners. Understood?"
"Yes!"
Fortunately, the children who had survived the harsh streets of London understood instructions quickly.
"Who said they could read the clock?"
"Me!"
"You handle the register. Change money slowly but accurately."
In the military, rumors spread quickly.
I only needed one successful round of marketing.
"Cheap! Cheap! Linen from Angers in France—only ten shillings!"
"Wine from Toulon, the famous French wine region—only five shillings! If you prefer stronger drinks, we also have cognac!"
"Tobacco! Pipes, cigarettes, loose tobacco!"
"…Why are children shouting in the barracks?"
A sailor named Edward from HMS Victory tilted his head while cleaning his rifle.
"Oh, they built some strange building called a PX earlier. Must be that."
"…PX? What's that?"
"A shop in the barracks. They sell daily necessities."
"Daily necessities?"
Edward looked interested.
"Those kids said linen, wine, things like that."
"…Really?"
"Why? Going to check it out?"
"No, I'm just curious."
"Curious about French wine, more like."
Edward ignored the teasing laughter.
"Bring me a bottle when you come back!"
"Yeah right."
Edward swore under his breath and waved two fingers at his friend.
He hadn't spoken like this when he first enlisted. His growing vocabulary of curses only made him feel more miserable.
Creak.
"I came to buy cloth for underwear. Do you sell—"
What… am I looking at?
"Welcome! How can we help you?"
"…Is there no adult here?"
"Um… not yet. But you can still buy things!"
"I see."
Edward nodded without realizing it.
"Then give me two bottles of wine."
"Two bottles! Yes, sir!"
The small child placed two large wine bottles on the counter and handed him a piece of paper.
"What's this?"
"Our boss gave it to us. If you collect twenty stamps, you can buy one item at half price!"
"What?"
"Two bottles means two stamps!"
"…I see…"
Edward simply stared blankly as the child stamped the card twice.
Two weeks later.
"Two bundles of linen! Hurry!"
"I want three bottles of wine! I filled the stamp card—one bottle half price!"
"Yes! Right away!"
Ten-year-old cashier John worked busily with his tiny hands.
His friends hurried to restock the shelves whenever items sold out.
Even while sweating, they kept smiling.
After all, they had once worked beneath spinning blades in factories. Compared to that, this was paradise.
The items too heavy for them were placed on shelves every morning by large dockworkers.
All the children had to do was collect the money correctly.
And so, the PX at Chelsea Harbor in London buzzed with life.
Mid-July 1793.
"Therefore, this High Court rules by a vote of five to two in favor of the petition filed by Prime Minister William Pitt and Price Accounting concerning the revocation of the East India Company's monopoly on Indian trade. The company's charter will also be temporarily suspended, and the Treasury's anti-corruption office will conduct an audit."
Bang. Bang. Bang.
"This cannot be! Impossible!"
At last, the hammer of justice struck the head of the East India Company.
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