The English Channel was a wall of gray fog.
I stood on the quarterdeck of the HMS Victory, the damp cold seeping through my coat. My heart beat a slow, erratic rhythm against my ribs.
"He's late," William Pitt said, checking his pocket watch.
"He's not late," I replied, staring into the mist. "He's hesitating. Surrender is a bitter pill for a man who thinks he's a god."
"He isn't a god," Pitt sniffed. "He's a starving artillery officer."
A shape emerged from the fog.
It wasn't a warship. It was a small, unarmed cutter. A white flag hung limply from the mast.
"There," I said.
The cutter pulled alongside the massive British ship of the line. A rope ladder was thrown down.
A single man climbed up.
It wasn't Napoleon.
It was General Berthier, his Chief of Staff. He looked like a skeleton in a uniform. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes hollow. He swayed as he stepped onto the deck, weak from hunger.
He didn't salute the British officers. He walked straight to me.
"Citizen Miller," Berthier rasped. His voice was dry as dust.
"General," I nodded. "Do you have the answer?"
Berthier reached into his tunic and pulled out a sealed letter. He handed it to me.
"General Bonaparte accepts your terms," Berthier said. He looked at the deck, unable to meet my eyes. "The oats for the eagles."
Pitt stepped forward. "Does he surrender to the Crown?"
Berthier looked at the Prime Minister with pure disdain.
"General Bonaparte does not surrender to a foreign King," Berthier spat. "He surrenders to the man who holds the mortgage."
He pointed at me.
"He surrenders to the Accountant."
Pitt bristled. "This is irregular. You are a civilian, Mr. Miller. You cannot accept a military surrender."
I opened the letter.
It was short.
To Alex Miller:
You have bought the war. The invoice is paid. I am waiting on the barge.
— N.
"I'm not a civilian, William," I said, refolding the paper. "I'm the majority shareholder."
The meeting took place on a neutral barge anchored a mile off the coast of Calais.
The water was choppy. The barge rocked gently.
I stood alone on the deck. No guards. No weapons. Just me and a briefcase.
A boat approached from the French side.
Napoleon Bonaparte stepped onto the barge.
He was thinner than I remembered. His gray coat hung loosely on his frame. His face was gaunt, the sharp angles of his cheekbones cutting through the skin.
But his eyes were the same. Burning. Intelligent. Dangerous.
He didn't bow. He didn't offer his hand.
He walked to the railing and looked at the White Cliffs of Dover in the distance.
"You starved my cannons, Alex," he said softly.
"I cut your supply lines," I corrected. "Standard business practice."
Napoleon turned to face me. A faint smile played on his lips.
"It was... efficient. Cruel. But efficient."
"War is just logistics with louder noises, Napoleon. You ran out of inventory. I didn't."
I placed the briefcase on a barrel. I clicked it open.
Inside wasn't a treaty. It was a contract.
"The terms," I said.
Napoleon walked over. He picked up the paper. He read it quickly, his eyes darting back and forth.
"The Army of Italy stands down," he read. "I remain General of the Army. And the Regent... Louis-Charles... is removed from power immediately."
He looked up.
"You want me to depose the boy I swore to protect?"
"You swore to protect the State," I said. "The Boy is destroying the State. He is a liability. I am the asset."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then the blockade continues," I said simply. "Your men starve. Your horses die. And eventually, your own soldiers will hang you for a loaf of bread."
Napoleon looked at the contract.
He was a predator. But he was a rational predator. He knew when the trap had snapped shut.
"You aren't a King anymore, Alex," Napoleon murmured. "You're something else. Something colder."
"I'm what I need to be."
Napoleon pulled a quill from his pocket. He dipped it in the inkwell I had provided.
"The sword bows to the ledger," he whispered.
He signed his name. A sharp, aggressive scrawl.
He handed the paper back to me.
"Do you have the bread?" he asked.
"Look behind you."
Napoleon turned.
Out of the fog, the British fleet emerged. Dozens of transport ships.
They weren't lowering gunports. They were lowering cranes.
Nets filled with sacks of flour swung over the water. Barrels of salted beef. Crates of oats.
Napoleon watched the food arrive. His shoulders slumped. The tension of the last month drained out of him.
"You won," he said.
"We won," I corrected. "Now let's go fire my son."
The landing at Calais was surreal.
I expected resistance. I expected the National Guard to fire on us. I expected to fight my way to Paris.
Instead, I was greeted with cheers.
I walked down the gangplank of the British transport ship.
On the dock, thousands of French soldiers stood in formation. They looked like ghosts. Ragged. Starving.
But they weren't looking at me with hatred. They were looking at the crates being unloaded behind me.
"Bread!" a soldier shouted. "The Accountant brought the bread!"
A grenadier, a giant of a man with a scarred face, fell to his knees as a sack of flour was dropped in front of him. He ripped it open with his bare hands. He scooped up a handful of raw flour and shoved it into his mouth, crying.
It wasn't a military victory. It was a humanitarian relief mission.
I walked through the crowd. Soldiers reached out to touch my coat. Not to arrest me. To thank me.
I didn't feel like a conqueror. I felt sick.
I had caused this hunger. I had reduced these men to animals. And now they were thanking me for ending the torture I had inflicted.
"They love you," Napoleon said, walking beside me. He was eating an apple with savage intensity.
"They don't love me," I said bitterly. "They love the catering."
We reached the carriage waiting at the end of the dock.
"To Paris?" the coachman asked.
"To Paris," I said. "Fast."
We climbed in. The carriage lurched forward.
"A messenger arrived from the capital," Napoleon said, wiping apple juice from his chin. "The Regent refuses to step down. He has barricaded himself in the Tuileries with the Swiss Guard."
I looked out the window at the passing French countryside. It was green, beautiful, and empty.
"He thinks he's fighting a revolution," I said.
"I can bring the cannons," Napoleon offered. "We can blow the gates open. A whiff of grapeshot."
I shook my head.
"No. No more cannons. No more blood."
I patted the briefcase on my knees.
"I have the contract, Napoleon. I have the signature of the Army. I have the money."
I looked at him.
"I will bring the paper."
"He is your son," Napoleon warned. "He is dangerous. He has your blood."
"That's exactly why I have to stop him," I said.
"Drive faster!" I shouted to the coachman.
The carriage accelerated.
I wasn't racing to save the Kingdom. I was racing to save my son from himself.
I needed to fire him before he burned the office down.