Paris Falls: Paris turns on itself

By Dick Bauch

It is 1870. French armies are annihilated. Paris is encircled, bombarded, starved and humiliated. A Prussian Emperor is crowned in the Palace of Versailles. French Governments fail their citizens. Paris turns on itself in shame. The Commune is born.
1870 -1871 saw a catastrophic failure of French political and military leadership. 'Paris Falls' examines the war through the eyes of those who were there.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dick Bauch
• Release date: Dec 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9780646598239

Book preview

Africa.

1 La belle vie

Gaston Alexandre Auguste, Marquis de Gallifet,

July 13, 1870

Dear Rougé,

The whole bloody affair’s become a black comedy! That brat Murat has been sniffing around Florence for weeks now and I’ll be damned if she isn’t starting to sniff back. Damn it Rougé, I just can’t have it! She may be no nun, but Florence is my wife and this young pup is a mere subaltern in my regiment.

He put in for furlough the other day, saying to me that he felt ‘languishing thoughts come into head. Just like Lord Love’, and he urgently needed to go to Paris. I know what languishing thoughts he was having, and where and for whom, so I refused the furlough. Tore it up in front of him, should have seen the little sod’s face. Next thing you know, he’s been off to see Louis-Napoleon. God knows what story he heard but he approved his nephew’s leave and I’m, of course, outranked by the Emperor.

I need to find a way to scratch my itch and lay hands on that insolent pup. This Prince Achille Murat’s another fine example of that whole pasteboard dynasty. The real royal blood soaked into the ground at St Helena and they’ve pretended they’re up to it ever since. They are only good for spending other people’s money, these days, and feeling up other men’s wives. Life is just one gay party these days. No expense spared, particularly when it comes to Miss Howard. But I can’t speak ill of the dead, can I? And God knows how much money Haussmann has robbed from the royal uncle. We rebuild Paris, already a perfectly workable city before we rebuild the army. We need to match the Prussians, who surely will be coming soon. We’ll make it all pretty again and then with just the slightest pretext the Belleville rabble will wake up, crawl out of their holes again and set fire to it. I suppose the wider streets, at least, will make it easier to move cannon and men around and make it harder for Reds to block it off. We have no chance whatever going after them in those rabbit warrens they live in, so they’ve just multiplied just like rabbits. I hope they pop their heads up again soon, I’m getting quite bored. If we do have to go in there after them there, I’ll bet a royal won’t be joining us. The only thing the royal uncle’s ever conquered is a few cocodettes from his wife’s club. Still, I suppose that’s what they must do. You won’t get anything from these new Bonapartes’ till you spread your legs wide enough.

Anyway, this supposed Prince has got no hope with Florence. She’s well above his class. This royal nephew is ill-bred and will never rise above his cocottes. Certainly isn’t in his uncle’s class when it comes to the old jambes en l’air.

Gallifet

*

It was a private letter to my old friend Henri, the Marquis de Rougé, that got me into so much hot water. Rougé was never without female company and to entertain his latest young thing, I conclude that he showed her the letter. She, and I still don’t know who she was, was so taken by my words that she stole it to show to one of her friends of similar talent; who may just have been the Comtesse de Castiglione.

Versailles is only a village really. The Comtesse, to curry favour, may have shown my letter to another, who just happened to be another love interest of the same Prince Achille Murat, of whom I spoke so glowingly. He happened to be nephew to His Majesty the Emperor of France, Louis-Napoléon, Napoleon III, who happened to be the nephew and heir to our great departed Napoleon I.

Prince Achille simply didn’t see the humour. Being as dull witted as he is, I suppose he thought for a long while about what he should do with it. Finally, he decided he’d show it to the Emperor himself.

It travelled a great distance this private letter of mine. But not geographically, Versailles is only a village remember.

I had occasion to be at the court around then, nothing to do with Murat. The Emperor didn’t mention the letter or my remarks. He was polite, but I noticed he smiled at me a little too much. It unsettled me a bit and I even wondered if his tastes were on the turn. Can never tell, he’d probably already had everything else in the place. In case you have been exiled on New Caledonia and the world has passed you by, our glorious Emperor Napoleon III is quite partial to the wives of those over whom he reigns. It doesn’t matter whose wife it is, just so long as it isn’t his own. Florence swears she’s managed to give him the slip a few times, but she has an odd way with words, and with the truth I’ve discovered. Everyone in Paris knows of Miss Howard and all the other members of la ménagerie impériale.

Ah, Florence! I have the grave misfortune to be married to a woman considered to be one of the most beautiful women in all France. I had no idea that young lusty Florence Laffitte would bloom so famously. But she did and then she became a lady-in-waiting to that frumpy pomegranate Eugénie. Now she is so busy in these duties that I have agreed that she can take a local apartment. I hear she receives all manner of visitors there, even tribades, which I find oddly interesting.

Florence and I both have our own sets of friends. I suppose her position brings her in touch with all sorts, Lord knows the court is full of all sorts and they may have caused her to have stray a little. There has been mention of a fling with the Comte de Gallois at Maud'huy and Baron Emile d'Erlanger but then again, he married my sister Louise, and she would have kept him busy.

I myself am not perfect in these matters. I may have inadvertently strayed as well. But here in France we have a relaxed attitude towards that sort of thing and society only demands discretion.

I was at a soiree put on by one of my own friends. This friend of mine likes a bit of a joke, by the way. It‘s one of the reasons we get on so well. On a previous visit she thought it amusing to have my bed sheets dusted with flour and by the time I noticed it I was white from head to toe. Not to be outdone, I called my man and had him scrape the stuff off me with a spoon. I kept the mess and took it back to Paris with me. The day before her next party, I visited a baker and had him bake a cake which I presented to my friend as a gift. She liked it of course or said she did until I told her what flour it was made from.

This friend of mine not only has a sense of humour but also good ears and it was from her that I learned about the conniving of Murat. My letter to Rougé, I’d almost forgotten about it by then, had mysteriously fallen into Murat’s hands and he had gone to the Emperor with it. If I was white from my friends joke, I was even whiter with rage. And not just at him either. How the hell had Rougé, with whom I go back years, allowed it to fall into anyone else’s hands? That’s when I reached the conclusion I told you about earlier.

No point in hiding. I made a point of appearing before His Majesty at the first chance. The Emperor, with that common sense for which he is famous, saw that the note had been written in moment of exasperation and said nothing more. God bless him.

We go back a way together, perhaps he remembered. He personally ordered me to Mexico to support Maximillian when Juárez stopped paying his bills. It was a dirty, dusty place full of rebellious Mexicans. We couldn’t tell the good ones from the bad, so it was easier simply to treat them as all bad. The mission went well till the siege of Puebla where I was caught in the lower stomach by a large splinter of a shell fragment. It whisked across my front, below my belt, close enough to slice through my tunic and trousers and like the finest of razors opened my guts to the world. I didn’t feel a thing at the time and didn’t know I’d been hit till I saw my intestines poking out. We had to withdraw and I had to hold a cloth to myself for a day and a half to keep them all in. Finally, a French surgeon stitched a silver plate over my tummy. It’s still there and makes a comical sound when I knock it or have too many vegetables. The Emperor has heard my story a few times and always laughs at that hollow noise when I tap my guts. It makes me laugh too. Empress Eugénie once swore in sympathy for me that she’d give up eating sorbet till it was all healed.

But I digress. That popinjay Murat went too far showing the Emperor a stolen letter, one not even addressed to him. His offence wasn’t against me, of course. It’s poor old Rougé who’s the aggrieved party. I just need to make him angry about it.

*

‘Damn it all Rougé, you can’t let the little swine get away with this! He’s stolen a letter from you, your own private property, it has your name on it. How else would he have his hands on it? He found it lying in the street perhaps? No! He took it to Napoleon and attempted to make us both look bad. You’ve got no choice but to call him out, challenge the little bastard. It’s the honourable thing to do.’

‘We both know how this happened, Gaston. A little salope thought she could climb a rung higher on the ladder and borrowed the thing to show somebody else. It’s a small matter and you know it. And it’s not my honour at stake, it’s yours. And your old friend the Emperor cares so little about it that he hasn’t even reprimanded you for it.’

‘No, not yet but we go back a long way, and he may not be taking it out on me. Florence is in there all day, don’t forget. But he knows you were a party to it and is probably wondering what else you are involved in. He might have asked la sûreté if they know you. Might even have a cell ready in Mazas. Show him you’re offended, show him you are outraged, show him your honour. You must fight Achille. If you don’t, I’ll have to challenge you.’

Till that moment, fighting Achille or anyone else was the furthest thing from Rougé’s mind apparently. If there is a mental version of a double-take I think I saw it in his face. He’s no coward, my very good friend Henri, but he’s no soldier either. Anything he knew about fighting was learned defending himself from me when we were at school.

‘Me? It’s you the Prince is after. This will sound harsh, but he wants to move you out of the way for a very obvious reason. To follow in his uncle’s footsteps, take up the family trade as it were. And I’d be very sorry if I had to say that out loud.’

‘But it’s your property he’s seized and touted around town like a stolen watch. The letter has my name at the bottom surely, but it’s yours at the very top. Besides I can’t fight a junior officer in my own regiment and it will be expected that you will be the one asking him for an explanation. For God’s sake, think of your name!’

He finally did.

Being the husband of the most beautiful woman in France has many obvious drawbacks but also a few advantages. It makes finding out what is going on a simple matter. It was this privilege that informed us where Rougé may accidentally encounter Prince Achille Murat.

I advised Rougé to choose a very public place to meet and confront the Prince. Murat was a hothead, a mandatory characteristic among men of his young years. Add to that the arrogance conferred by having the blood of the great Napoleon in one’s veins, albeit heavily diluted in his case, and it was just possible that he’d want to fight it out then and there. We couldn’t have that.

We chose a ball to be given by Princess Mathilda. I informed my wife that I would be accompanying her, not really caring which particular mignon I was elbowing aside. I also double checked that Rougé and current companion were invited. The Emperor was too busily employed with politics to put in an appearance, but we knew that young Napoléon, the Prince Imperial, would attend with his mother the Empress Eugénie. We were quite satisfied that young Murat would not be taking any unilateral action that night.

Mathilda had an elegant city house in the rue de Courcelles that was built with only parties, receptions and balls in mind. There were three large entertaining rooms opening one into the other, and all three were encircled by a wide conservatory, through which you pass directly into the garden. The upkeep of the house would have kept most of us in the poorhouse, but Mathilda seemed to get by. The Emperor had almost married her years earlier, before he’d met Eugénie. If it was him supporting her financially, it was out of friendship because Mathilda had gone a little gras and had long since ceased to be the Emperor’s type. My wife was his and everyone’s type, but his current favourite type was the beautiful Comtesse de Castiglione. If they weren’t around, I suppose anyone really would have done. Quite the chap is our Emperor.

Murat, Florence told me, was also fond of Castiglione and I could only hope the Emperor found that out.

As soon as we stepped inside the door, Florence, stunning as always, was off swapping stories with her friends Mme. Canrobert and the Bazaine woman. Rougé and I went off into the garden to find Murat. He was happily chatting away with like-fellows out there but when he saw us the grin sort of froze on his face and became a sneer. He knew trouble was coming.

He saluted me as any young sub ought but kept his eyes on Rougé who had prepared for the encounter by rehearsing his best steely gaze. His companions, sensing action, took a backward step but stayed close enough to not miss anything.

‘Ah, Murat! I’ve been looking for you.’

‘Lucky you, Rougé, you’ve just about found me.’

‘What’s this I hear about you taking my private correspondence and showing it around?’

‘Oh, so that was yours? I thought it might have been the property of the colonel here. It had his signature on it. And so, what’s this, you are feigning this outrage at his bidding?’

Murat turned to me. ‘If you have concerns here, colonel, you could have approached me directly. You didn’t have to stand behind Rougé here.’ The onlookers took another full pace back.

My blood boiled instantly. ‘Listen Murat, I don’t need to stand behind anyone, ever and if you...’

I was interrupted by a very red-faced Rougé. ‘At his bidding? You don’t think I can deal with a fellow handling my pilfered property Murat? Tell you what, let’s meet elsewhere and sort this out. Two days enough for you to get ready?’

Murat almost laughed his acceptance.

The challenge made and accepted was a cause for celebration and it was only in the cold light of day that Rougé began to review his situation.

I’m a soldier. Guns and sabres are the tools of my trade. I’ve used them to defend myself and to kill, and very much hope to have to do so again soon. Perhaps Germans this time. Rougé’s tools are the paper and pen and law book. He once had excellent abilities with the épée but they had faded without practice. He was no coward, Henri, but courage would not have been enough unless it became a poetry contest.

Murat, as the challenged party, would decide between two choices of weapon.

The pistol in the hands of amateurs had always worried me. Generally, they missed what they aimed at but occasionally, by a lucky shot or unknown skill, they didn’t. A ball travelled very fast and any contact with the head or torso of the opponent was usually fatal. Colt multi-shot pistols from America were easily available but I would never allow Rougé to touch one of those. If Murat chose pistols, we would use my own single-shot Gastinne-Renette beauties and the outcome would then be a matter of luck.

A more likely and safer choice for all was the épée de combat. It requires concentration to kill a man with one of those. If worst came to worst and Rougé sustained an injury, the chances were that he’d get over it. We had a full day to get him brushed-up on the épée and set off for the fencing school of M. Pons that the Prince himself had occasionally attended.

That fencing master, true to an etiquette which he appears to have laid down for himself, declined to teach the adversary of a former pupil. Another maître d'armes, Gatechair, was ‘unavailable’ and we finally found ourselves at Ecole d’escrime Français in the rue Saint-Marc. Professor Robert agreed to do what he could.

He warned us that an emergency training session consisted only of teaching a few elementary thrusts and ripostes while giving the man a feel for the heavier épée. If he believed in his cause however, with just a modicum of luck, an unskilled student might just be able to inflict damage to a well-practiced foilist in a combat.

After two or three exercises Robert announced that he believed that Rougé was capable of killing an opponent well enough. He rushed him through the mysteries of tierce and quarte and impressed upon him the important difference between friendly fencing in a room and fencing for life and death on open ground. I don’t think that Rougé could comprehend anything, and Robert on our parting said to me in a hopeless tone, "Colonel when you come to the ground try to place your fellow en tierce, for if he is placed en quarte he is a dead man,"

*

Our appointment was in the Bois de Boulogne at the earliest of hours. The Prince and his second were already there waiting for us. His aide was an old colleague of mine, Captain Maurice d'Irisson d'Hérisson. Here was a professional staff officer who preferred an office chair to a saddle. I’d had some suspicions about him over the years, but one mustn’t judge. We exchanged polite greetings and I indicated our preference for épée even though it wasn’t our call. The Prince graciously agreed.

Rougé was very upbeat and rehearsed his moves with impressive dodges and jumps which he admitted were not quite right. I tried to bring him down to earth with some last advice. ‘You know your game well; engage en tierce, then retreat. The Prince will rush upon you, and you will spit him like a lark.’

The game began. Rougé assumed his position, feet perfectly in the L-position, blade pointed up, left arm out of harm’s way behind and up as if holding an invisible lantern. He stepped forward and bent his knees to balance his weight. If he was being assessed for form in a contest, he’d have won gold and I was momentarily optimistic. He prepared his lunge, arm extended, front leg forward. The Prince had also noted the preparation and when Rougé lunged forward, he stepped deftly aside and drove his foil deep into Rougé’s shoulder. Rougé dropped his blade and wailed like a boy who’d stubbed his toe. The Prince, unable to hide his mirth at the carryings on, took a step forward and held his blade to Rougé’s throat.

‘I’m within my rights to slice his throat open. Why wouldn’t I?’

Me and d'Hérisson shouted ‘no’ in unison and ran to stand close to the pair.

I answered the Prince’s question. ‘Because he’s no swordsman. He stood there with only his courage to back him. It would be unfair of you to take any further advantage. A gentleman should know when he’s won.’

The Prince’s second nodded his head in vigorous agreement.

Murat really was enjoying the moment. ‘I believe that I’ve won only when my rivals are bleeding much more than this. And are you saying I’m not a gentleman?’

‘If you don’t understand when enough is enough then it becomes an excellent point on which to speculate.

‘Well, it seems a pity to waste a journey. While we are out here, we could settle all the scores. Are you willing to take me on?’

It wasn’t in my nature to do anything but accept a challenge. I’ve always been that way. As a cadet, my brother-officers dared me leap my horse over the parapet of the bridge at Melun. I won the bet but lost my horse. He was a brave one too.

I had no second to stand behind me, but that seemed to be of no consequence. It was the fight we really should have had in the first place and would have had protocol not stood in the way. This was really about my dear wife’s honour not Rougé’s girlfriend’s ambition. With the assistance of d'Hérisson I moved Rougé back to the carriage. He’d at least stopped moaning, perhaps pride kept him silent. He was alert but oblivious to everything that wasn’t his shoulder.

I wasn’t going to give Murat the option of weapons and reinforced that by retrieving Rougé’s blade and warming up. It’s a fascinating sound the foil makes as it flicks through the air. Not unlike the sound the guillotine blade makes as it makes its way down the gantry. I’ve heard both sounds quite a few times. Unlike Rougé or Murat and certainly unlike d'Hérisson, I have run men all the way through with sword and lance and fought toe-to-toe battles with my country’s enemies. That’s the very purpose for which I was born.

Our combat began. Our blades struck, creating small sparks. Murat was impatient and seemed unbalanced. I thrust forward, he parried and retreated, but it was a feint. He was able to strain forward, thrusting his blade into my thigh as he did. I struck out at his face and managed to inflict the lightest of scratches. He withdrew in shock and only just managed to push my blade away. I moved to attack again and only then felt my wound.

When he was far enough away, he handed his foil to d'Hérisson and said ‘You are right. A gentleman should know when he’s won, and I believe I have.’ He pointed down at my thigh, which was already soaked with blood, and then at his cheek that bled no more than a shaving wound.

When d'Hérisson had retrieved the foils, my opponents wrapped a cloth tightly around my thigh and assisted me to the carriage where Rougé waited. He had been in a state of mute shock but snapped out of it at the sight of my wound. He might have smiled, I couldn’t tell. Murat cautiously leaned into the carriage and shook both our hands before heading off.

I need to assure you that I’m a much better fighter on horseback. I’m not making excuses, but that’s the way I’ve learned to fight. I’ve told you about being severely handled by the balls of the Mexican liberals. Having to have one’s guts stitched back in was bad enough I suppose but my leg wound refused to heal. Murat had divided one of the arteries of the thigh which renders it possible that I may limp through the world for the remainder of my days. Thank God for our steeds eh?

I don’t know how he found out, but the Emperor was furious when he heard of the duelling. He put both Murat and me on half-pay. Furthermore, Murat was transferred to Bordeaux. The Emperor didn’t mention Rougé and like the invisible man that he is, d'Hérisson remained out of site, as is his character.

This foolish act had endangered the life of his beloved nephew, Murat, and that of a trusted military advisor, me. These were his own Imperial words. He reminded me who I was. I am a French soldier who rode with the 5th Chasseurs at Bastion du Mat and who protected the colon in Algiers. I rode over the Alps to Italy with Louis-Napoleon, served under MacMahon at Magenta and helped the Emperor count the dead at Solferino. I am a French soldier who showed my guts to the Emperor in Mexico. We soldiers must be patient, he said. We must wait till they need us again. I said that I thought the time was close, that I could feel it. He smiled and moved on.

I’d gotten a little scratch, but at least there’d be no boy Prince worrying Florence.

*

The Prince and Princess of Wales stopped over in Paris on the way back from Egypt where they’d been shooting crocodiles and trying to forget Lady Mordaunt. This, of course, was an opportunity for the grandest of Versailles balls.

I was invited. I had only a vague interest in the guests of honour, and absolutely no desire to see the rest of our court, but I saw the invitation as an official welcome back into the Emperor’s fold. Besides, not attending might have made my half-pay permanent or there might have been a sudden staff vacancy posting at a ghastly African spot. Either would have made things awkward for Florence, who was an expensive filly to stable.

The Prince of Wales has always impressed me as a hunter sportsman, but it wasn’t crocodiles he specialised in. Like our own Emperor, it was the scent of woman he liked to follow. This was supported by the court rumour that the Prince was in a hurry to get home to London only because he heard Leonide Leblanc was playing there again. For those who’ve never heard of her, Leonide Leblanc is one of those actresses who manages to spend fifty thousand francs yearly on a salary of five thousand. As an actress she is a clever little lady but her real talents are much of a piece with those of Cora Pearl. We all must do the best with what we have I suppose.

The Grande Ball was at the Tuileries and I was to escort my beautiful wife for her grand entry. The Emperor and Empress entered the room about ten o'clock. He slowed and smiled benignly to me as he passed. All was forgiven then. The Empress looked to be without a care in the world. Her gay life surely would last forever.

Then it was our turn. My lovely wife, the Marchioness de Gallifet, had gone to an extraordinary length to impress the Prince of Wales. She was dressed as the Archangel Gabriel and drew all eyes. Her short petticoat of white cashmere was broidered in gold, the glittering scale armour of gold fitted tightly to her figure and her golden hair floated on her shoulders. Her wings of white feathers arched above her head and terminated below her knee. The golden sword grasped tightly in her fairy hand, was brandished even while dancing. Here was a soldier of Versailles, ready for combat.

I’m not a religious man and all I know about the fairy Gabriel is that he announced the birth of Jesus. I commenced to ask my wife whether there was a message in her uniform when the next arrivals were heralded, the Prince and Princess of Wales.

Edward himself was not what you’d describe as attractive, but he was interesting. His face showed those soft lines of the too-good life and he had what Florence called bedroom eyes; half closed but still following his prey. His rank as heir apparent to Victoria was sufficient for every grande-horizontal heart to overlook a loveable corpulence. There would be fierce competition for his time and, undoubtedly, there was a small wager on who would be able to win him right out from under the nose of his Princess.

I thought Alexandra herself was no great prize but don’t take my word for it. I’ve never met a Dane I liked.

There was the usual order of things, Edward danced with Eugénie and the Emperor took Alexandra in hand. I must be an excellent judge of woman-flesh because even he appeared bored with the Princess. I took my dance with Florence early to get it out of the way and then retreated to the back parlour where I could relax with the other bored partners. Time passed, and it was after two before I knew. I reappeared in time for supper where I saw the Empress holding a particularly animated conversation with the Prince of Wales, who seemed to amuse her greatly. It was another hour before I decided I’d had enough.

When I went to look for her the Prince had Florence on the dance floor. They seemed oblivious to all else. After failing to catch my wife’s attention I scribbled a note telling her I would see her at home and left it with the head footman. He would find her suitable transport home. Princess Alexandra had also called it a night.

I read that the last cotillion took place at five in the morning, led by the Prince of Wales and the Marchioness de Gallifet. This last dance, according to another account, lasted fully two hours. The alliance between Britain and France was mysteriously strengthened that evening.

A soldier must always do his duty, a soldier’s wife too. Florence did her duty for France that evening. All I could think of was when I could again do mine.

2 The Cannon King

Alfred Krupp

July 13, 1870

In those days it took ages to get an appointment with General Konstantin Bernhard von Voigts-Rhetz. He was an old friend but, much more importantly, he was the Director of the General War Department in Berlin and received many visitors. The King listened to him.

We had travelled a long way together. Over many years he had given me good support that hadn’t cost too much.

‘Nine-inch Armstrong British muzzle-loaders have been tested at Tegel!’ I watched his reaction.

‘You are very well informed about military secrets. But I expected that.’

‘I am also informed that standing next to that vile gang of admirals was the King, Herr Bismarck and General von Moltke. They all were very pleased with the result.’

‘Yes, the results from the Armstrongs’ were impressive but remember that they brought their own powder and their own gun teams. They had perfect conditions and left nothing to chance, so nothing could have gone wrong.’ He chuckled, inviting me to join in. ‘Would have been a shocking failure if there’d been another result, eh? We know that perfect conditions are not what we find on the battlefield. Everything goes wrong there.’

He raised his eyebrows twice in a signal I couldn’t grasp. ‘And of course the admirals were there, Alfred, because it’s the bloody naval contract that Armstrong is bidding on! We both know that sailors are dullest witted group in our entire military, but we must allow them their say. We know they will want to have new cannon that are identical to their old cannon, that were precisely like the ones their grandfathers used. If they worked last time, they will next time. All soldiers hate change. And the British think they rule the waves, so you can see why the admirals think their product is worth a look. And yes, we can ignore the fact that Prince Fritz is married to Queen Victoria’s daughter.’

Voigts-Rhetz knew me well enough to guess at my real complaint. I spoke it aloud before he could patronise me. ‘That equal opportunity has not been offered to me is the complaint I make. Kruppstahl, der Franzose Schneider, and the Britisher Armstrong, we all make guns. The deadly triumvirate. I love this phrase! But every test has shown over and over that Krupp is the leader. I have other customers who can recognise quality, thank God. The Czar’s admirals have given me testimonials that swear Krupp eight and nine-inch cannon are the most efficient they have found. Far superior to anything bearing another brand.’ This was true, they had loved my guns but had not purchased many of them at all. Voigts-Rhetz knew this I assumed.

‘And this is all for a very good reason. I have invested millions of thalers building a plant that can make cannon from steel. You have the best guns in the world being produced in your own backyard and here the navy thinks of buying cannon from those who we may soon use them on?

Quite frankly, Konstantin, that this foreigner Armstrong would be permitted to compete for Prussian navy funds is less a financial blow than an insult to my honour. Our nation’s honour! Dammit man, if the Prussian navy is upgrading its armaments, don’t you think the only native manufacturer should at least be given a chance at the contract? Von Roon’s behind this, isn’t he?’

Voigts-Rhetz had listened patiently to my tirade, chin in hand. ‘Well, Baron von Roon is the King’s Minister of War so he’ll naturally be interested in the result of the admiral’s rumination. If there was to be an examination of a foreign manufacturer’s cannon, then he certainly would know about it. So to answer your question, yes, he probably is behind the Armstrong tests. And you may have driven him to looking at other manufacturers. Remember that it was you who started the little war between you two. You do this a lot, Alfred, maybe you don’t mean to do so but you do annoy people with your pushiness. When they don’t give in to you, you overdo your apology and they think you are mocking them. Von Roon tells everyone you insulted him.’

‘Then they are altogether too sensitive for soldiers. And despite having evidence on the superior performance of my steel cannon, von Roon is now blocking Germany’s progress solely for the benefit of Roon’s ego. He’ll take us back to the bronze age.’

‘He is only expressing the same concerns the admirals have always had. They’ve been using bronze cannon for centuries. They’ve tested them over and over, they have won many battles with them and they know they work. Their enemy will still use good old reliable brass, but our navy will still be learning to use these new steel cannon. The brass men have told them that steel cools at different rates in casting and has weaknesses that can shatter. And this is partially correct. It has already happened,