The Fox of France - Chapter 329: Reaping and Resisting

President Idalgo relaxed a bit at his friend’s words. Indeed, the French had invested significantly in him. If the Spanish managed to suppress them, all that French investment would have gone to waste. But a troubling thought clouded Idalgo’s mind.

“My friend, what if we find ourselves drowning in debts after independence? No Spanish oppression, yet continually paying the French each year for this debt. Wouldn’t it mean swapping old oppressors for new ones? Getting rid of one villain only to welcome a darker one, continually reaping the Mexican people…”

“Mr. President, independence always comes with a price. Everything demands its due. Consider, if we perform well and swiftly crush the Spanish aggressors, our debt burden might lighten. And at least these debts offer a chance for repayment, unlike the unending rule of the Spanish.”

“Have you ever seen someone fully repay such high-interest loans?”

“Well… Mr. President, indeed, I have,” remarked Idalgo’s friend, the Portuguese merchant Peria. “I have a friend named Mendosa. He was reckless in his youth, drowning in high-interest loans. Yet, in the end, he cleared them all.”

“Your friend must be wealthy, or was he once wealthy?” Idalgo inquired.

“Mendosa indeed came from a well-off family. So, upon inheriting his father’s estate after his passing, he sold off a manor to clear the debt,” Peria replied.

“You see, my friend, people differ. Your friend had wealth, while Mexico, we are a poor country,” Idalgo shook his head.

“No, Mexico is rich, only its wealth remains untapped,” Peria countered. “The Spanish aim only for quick grabs, caring little for our progress. They fear that a prosperous Mexico might seek independence. But the French wouldn’t mind our development. In fact, they’d benefit from our prosperity. Besides, Mexico holds vast territories. While the northern lands might seem less valuable to us, the French are constantly migrating to the Americas. They need land, and their expertise in railways might find use here. They’d surely invest in these lands. If we decide, we could use these territories as collateral, borrow a considerable sum from the French, muster a significant army swiftly to crush the Spanish. That way, our cost might end up being minimal.”

“Peria, are you advising me to sell our nation?”

“Mr. President, this is the Americas, not Europe. Land dealings are commonplace here. How could this be deemed selling the nation? Moreover, our northern boundaries are ambiguous. And, sir, nations fundamentally engage in transactions—exchanges of national interests. Trade implies transactions. So, unless you sell it cheaply or pocket the money yourself, how could it be called selling the nation?”

“Peria, you always find yourself good justifications,” Idalgo sighed. “But…”

The New World lay distant from Europe. The revolution’s impact in the Americas hardly concerned the European continent. Even with Spain dispatching an expeditionary force of thirty thousand to the New World, European attention centered on London, where things were stirring.

An incident instigated by London’s Textile Workers Mutual Aid Society.

By late April, some employers noticed their workers joining a new organization. Initially, factory owners didn’t fret; worker associations were common. It seemed trivial. Until one day, a representative claiming to be from the London Textile Workers Mutual Aid Society knocked on the door of Mr. Rayne, the owner of the largest Rayne Textile Factory in London.

Rayne presided over a factory employing over three thousand workers, operating round the clock, annually yielding considerable income. This enabled him to acquire an estate from a fading aristocrat, marrying a young lady from a prestigious yet modest family—much younger than himself—fitting to be his daughter-in-law.

Rayne seldom stayed at the estate, distant from the commercial hub. He preferred residing, along with his young wife, twenty servants, a dozen bodyguards, in a grand building near Hyde Park.

As Rayne listened to his wife read Shakespeare’s “King Lear” in their cozy parlor, a cautious butler, Phileas, appeared.

“Anything of importance?” Rayne asked from his armchair.

“Yes, sir,” Phileas, looking uneasy, replied. “A few representatives claiming to be from the ‘London Textile Workers Mutual Aid Society’ insist on seeing you.”

“‘London Textile Workers Mutual Aid Society’? What nonsense is this?” Rayne scorned. “Phileas, you disappoint me. You can’t manage such lowly folks?”

Rayne’s voice, though not loud, struck Phileas like thunder. Pale-faced, Phileas answered in a quivering tone, “Sir, I’ve sent them away. But they left a petition, protesting your decision to cut wages. It’s all outrageous, but since it’s addressed to you, I didn’t dare to handle it myself…”

Rayne found some satisfaction. Phileas might be timid and dim, but he understood boundaries. Besides, a butler, timid or dim, was hardly a flaw.

“Bring the letter,” Rayne ordered.

Phileas cautiously approached, handing over the missive.

As Rayne read, his brows furrowed.

“Well, well! Impoverished scoundrels, relying on me for sustenance, dare negotiate? These rabble, I could find a thousand more like them on the streets merely by whistling!”

With these remarks, Rayne stood up. “Melissa, fetch my coat. I need to visit the office.”

As his wife brought the coat, Rayne instructed Phileas, “Take my card, go to the police station, find Chief Clark, invite him to my residence tonight.”

Phileas hurried off to prepare the carriage as Rayne swiftly arrived at the office, summoned several managers for a meeting, then returned home, engaging Chief Clark in lengthy discussions that evening…

The next morning, workers, following routine, arrived at the factory gates, only to find armed police guarding it. Members of the factory’s security team were there too, informing them that all workers who had put their thumbprints on the petition addressed to Rayne had been dismissed. Their work permits were revoked.

The petition bore twelve hundred thumbprints, nearly a third of Rayne’s workforce. But to Rayne, this wasn’t a concern. Unemployment was rampant, and textile labor required no extraordinary skills. New workers could be hired anytime.

As a renowned economist in the future would caution against any intervention in free markets, warning that without market freedom, implementing public ownership or similar heretical approaches would confine workers’ labor to a single buyer, leading them down the “path to slavery.”

But in a free market, could workers avoid enslavement due to their freedom to choose? Ha! How could that be true when the average lifespan of British textile workers was lower than that of slaves? No factory owner would willingly raise wages, for it increased costs, putting them at a disadvantage in competition. In a free market, capital was scarce, and labor was surplus. Just like there were few companies making Marvel movies while countless artists who could draw comics or write stories had no rights. Those dismissed workers couldn’t find a more benevolent capitalist elsewhere. For if such a capitalist existed, assuming this world had one, they’d have gone bankrupt due to costs in competition.

A worker representative stepped up, rallying all workers to strike. This time, the London Textile Workers Mutual Aid Society played a pivotal role, almost all workers standing outside the factories.