I transmigrated as a french soldier during XVIIIth century

The streets of Berlin were plunged into darkness, wrapped in a light fog. It was barely possible to make out the dim glow of lanterns and candles through the windows.

At this time of year, night fell early, giving the false impression that it was very late. Few people walked these wide, well-paved streets in some areas; narrow, winding, and dirty in others.

The tranquility of the early evening was occasionally disrupted by the passage of a carriage pulled by one or two sturdy horses. The solid wooden wheels creaked and clattered over the polished cobblestones, jostling the passengers every time they fell into a hole where a cobblestone should have been.

With the recent rains, these holes had filled with water, forming large brown puddles where bits of straw and excrement floated.

The smell was foul, even in these fine neighborhoods where the houses competed with one another in their architecture and beautiful facades. At night and in this weather, there was nothing to distinguish Berlin from London or Paris.

In the end, John Ingham thought, all the major cities of Europe look the same. There are subtle differences, but the layout and architecture are the same. And the smell is the same.

The English spy frowned as he narrowly avoided a pile of dung left by a horse, visibly trampled on by a man with large feet. The tracks indicated that he had tried to clean his shoe on a cobblestone a little further along, and when that wasn’t enough, he had tried again a little further on.

Raising his gaze slightly, beyond a few rooftops, he could make out the massive figure of the royal palace. It was barely visible through the fog. The complex of buildings was difficult to distinguish in the thick grayness, reduced to a large, looming shadow in the darkness. One could easily have ignored it were it not for the many lights piercing through the tall windows.

Hmm, it really feels like London... What rotten weather! At my age, I should be warm by the fire, not out working like a dog! I really need to quit this job.

These thoughts had been recurring more and more often, and he was well aware of it. It was a clear sign that he no longer found any pleasure in playing a role in the shadow of great lords. The excitement had given way to weariness and bitterness. It wasn’t the life of lies that bothered him most, but rather the constant state of alert, the ever-present fear of being caught. After more than thirty years in the field—an uncommon feat—this fear had not disappeared. Without the excitement he had once felt long ago, thinking he was rendering a great service to the Crown and to a prominent figure in his kingdom, only the negative aspects remained.

Damn, not only do I have to work in this weather, but I also have to work in a hurry! I really hate this!

Indeed, John Ingham had been contacted through various intermediaries by the British ambassador to Berlin. He had been asked to do more to disrupt the ongoing negotiations between France and its allies on one side and the Kingdom of Prussia on the other. Apparently, it was urgent.

"Ah..."

A deep sigh escaped from his narrow lips and was lost in the silence of the night.

I really hate this. Does he think it's easy? That I’m all-powerful? I’d like to see him in my place!

John Ingham continued his solitary walk down a major street in the city, wide enough to let two carts pass without any problem, and saw a bright glow behind large windows. Cheerful, lively music escaped from the building, inviting those inside to dance and those outside to enter.

It was a fairly prominent tavern in the city, usually very busy. That had diminished somewhat due to the general circumstances, but it was doing better than other establishments whose business had plummeted.

This exception was explained by the regular patronage of foreign soldiers, particularly French ones. They had come to Berlin as an escort for the diplomats, but unlike them, they weren’t housed and fed at the Royal Palace.

There were many stories and rumors about them, so much so that the regular clientele had fled the place to avoid trouble. Fights fueled by alcohol were a daily occurrence, but they paid well.

Ingham’s expression became more serious as he approached the establishment.

Ah, I hate improvising like this...

He slipped into a dark alley nearby and took a deep breath before striking himself violently in the face. His fist hit his jaw with such force that he staggered back a few steps. As soon as he regained his composure, he punched himself in the face again and slammed his forehead against the nearest wall.

Bandits wouldn’t be any less violent with him, yet he didn’t make a sound.

If anyone saw him, they would probably think him mad and quickly walk away, pretending they had seen nothing.

There, that should do it. No, something's missing.

He then began to dishevel his clothes and rolled around on the ground like an animal.

When he emerged from the alley, he was unrecognizable. It was as if an entire squad had trampled him.

He positioned himself in a corner, across from the tavern, under a lantern to make himself clearly visible, and waited in the cold.

***

"Ahaha! Hey, Baptiste, order another bottle!

"Where are you going?" asked the soldier, his blurry eyes turning to his friend Joseph, who was getting up and heading for the exit. "Y-you’re leaving already?!

"No, you idiot, I’m just going to take a piss! I can’t take it anymore! I feel like I’m gonna explode!"

The laughter was so loud and plentiful in the large hall that everyone had to speak loudly to be heard. The louder one group spoke, the louder the next group had to speak to be heard in turn. Eventually, everyone was shouting.

The heat was unbearable, a stark contrast to the cold air outside the large tavern, but less so than the smell. It reeked of alcohol, sweat, and vomit, as one of them—a young lad—had thrown up in the middle of the room. He hadn’t had the time or energy to get up and relieve himself outside. In truth, he wasn’t even conscious. At some point, though no one could say exactly when, he had started to fall asleep in his chair while playing cards with his comrades, all older and more accustomed to such drinks.

Joseph, his steps unsteady, zigzagged toward the door and grinned foolishly when he heard the bell above his head jingle as he passed through.

He regained some of his senses when a cold breeze brushed his face, as hot as if he had a fever. He walked straight ahead, crossed the road, and began to relieve himself on the house opposite. The powerful smell in the area and the many wet stains on the wall gave an idea of how many soldiers had passed by to do the same.

"Ah, that feels good..." groaned the soldier, unshaven and very unkempt.

"Boohoo!"

He belatedly noticed someone nearby, curled up like a baby, crying loudly.

"Huh? Hey, w-what’s wrong with you, mate?"

Curious, the soldier approached and saw that the man sobbing in the corner was an old man. His body was twisted and filthy, his clothes disheveled, and his face was so battered that Joseph couldn’t just walk away without at least asking, out of politeness, if he was alright.

"Please, leave me alone, boohoo!"

Though he could have just gone back to his friends, Joseph didn’t. Never had he seen a man so miserable. And yet, he had seen plenty! This old man seemed to suffer as much in his body as in his soul. Above all, he spoke French.

"Hey, you’re French? What are you doing in Berlin? What happened to you?"

"Oh, sir, please, leave me be! Before you stands the most unfortunate of men! I don’t want to trouble you with my woes."

Growing more curious, the soldier moved closer to the old man.

"Tell me, I know that accent. Where are you from?"

"B-Bordeaux, sir. Why? Sniff!"

"Ah, like me! And my friends too! Hey, I can’t leave a fellow countryman like this! Come on, old man, get up, come inside where it’s warm, and tell us what’s wrong!"

Joseph roughly grabbed the old man’s arm, his long white hair framing a thin face covered in bruises, and pushed him toward the tavern filled with drunken soldiers.

"Hey, guys! I found an old man from Bordeaux! Look!"

"Damn it, Joseph, what did you do to that poor old man? He’s a mess!"

"You idiot! It wasn’t me! He was already like this!" Joseph shouted, his face red and his breath heavy with alcohol. "Come on, friend, tell us what happened! Baptiste, pour him a drink!"

"But..."

"Do it!"

John Ingham shakily took the glass handed to him and downed it in one gulp, which pleased the French soldiers greatly. They filled the old man’s glass again, but this time he didn’t drink immediately.

"My friends, thank you!" he said, his eyes brimming with tears.

"So, what happened to you? Did someone hurt you?" asked a soldier with an especially large jaw and a very round nose.

"Sir, a tragedy," Ingham replied in a broken voice. "A true tragedy! I am the most wretched of men! My granddaughter, oh, if only you could have seen her! She was the sweetest, kindest, and most beautiful! A little angel! She was traveling with me for business, for I had to protect her. She lost her parents when she was very young, you see? But the Prussians saw her and decided to have their fun with her before offering her to one of their diplomats! Boohoo! She was so sweet!"

"What?! They dared?!"

"Those animals!"

"The dogs! Revenge!"

All the soldiers had gathered around, their eyes red with anger.

"W-what happened to your granddaughter?" asked a soldier who seemed to have just woken up.

"I tried to stop them, but those cursed Prussians were too many and too strong. They beat me and then took my precious granddaughter to the royal palace by force!"

The soldiers were on the verge of tears, trembling with rage as they heard this tragic tale. But the old man’s story wasn’t over yet.

"My body was in pain, but I couldn’t let my precious Marie be violated by those monsters, so I went to the palace gates. I shouted, I begged, but all I received were blows from their sticks. But I didn’t give up! And that’s when they told me... That’s when they told me..."

Every soldier felt a lump in their throat, dreading and yet anticipating what the man would say next.

"W-what did they tell you?" Joseph asked in a trembling voice, so small it was barely audible.

"That’s when they told me she had been given to one of their diplomats to encourage him to work harder, a brute named von Podewils. I begged the guard to release her immediately, but he said there was nothing he could do and that she would eventually be freed once the man had had enough fun with her."

"My God! What wickedness! What injustice! What did you do?" asked another soldier, driven mad with rage by the cruelty of the Prussians.

"I stayed there for two days in the rain, the wind, and the hail, pleading with everyone entering and leaving the palace to free my dear granddaughter. And on the third day... on the third day," the old man said with increasing difficulty, visibly shattered by grief, "they told me she had taken her own life... She threw herself from one of the windows of the Royal Palace! Boohoo! They won’t even let me recover her body!"

The blood of the French soldiers turned to molten lava. Every man present had become a bomb, an infernal machine ready to destroy everything in sight. Their anger, too great to be contained, exploded at that moment in front of the tear-filled eyes of the old man with the ravaged body.

Without needing to utter a single word more, the large group of soldiers decided to leave the inn and seek justice for the poor child on their own. Striding firmly down the main street leading straight to the palace, they shouted in their language all their hatred for the Prussian nobility, starting with the despicable diplomats representing this decadent kingdom.

***

John Ingham, who had resumed his impassive demeanor, observed from a reasonable distance as this very conspicuous group marched toward the Prussian royal residence, severely criticizing their methods. They quickly arrived at the palace gates and attacked the guards, who were caught off guard by this assault. Fortunately for Ingham, there were few of them; otherwise, they would have easily overpowered this small group of drunken soldiers, too inebriated to fight properly.

Well, this wasn’t what I had in mind, but... At least, he thought as he watched them fight like rabid dogs, they’re causing a commotion.

The surprise among the palace guards was short-lived, and they quickly reorganized. This allowed them to push back the heavily intoxicated men. Using clubs and musket butts, they drove back these foreigners shouting in their strange language. It became even easier when reinforcements arrived. From his vantage point, he could clearly hear the soldiers’ screams and the sound of blows being delivered.

By “coincidence,” it was at this moment that a Prussian diplomat even found himself in action. It was Heinrich von Podewils, a sixty-five-year-old man with a round face and a well-rounded belly from decades of eating the finest dishes and drinking the best wines. He had developed the habit, long before the start of these negotiations, of discreetly going out at night to meet his mistress, the wife of one of Frederick II’s ministers.

It was from this discovery, a fortunate chance during an investigation of the palace and what was happening there, that John Ingham had devised his little plan to put an end to these negotiations that had resumed a few days earlier.

As expected, he went out to meet his mistress. Good! He was noticed by these idiotic soldiers! Go on, now! Kill him!

Ingham’s gaze, cold and unshakable like a snow-capped mountain, observed the situation, hoping for a fatal outcome for the diplomat.

With his death at the hands of the French, the Prussians would have no choice but to end the negotiations! If he could die in a gruesome way, that would be perfect!

But soon, reinforcements arrived, and all the French soldiers were subdued. As for the old politician, he did not seem injured. At most, he had been shaken and shocked by the events.

It failed...

John Ingham didn’t hold much hope for this operation, so he wasn’t too disappointed. It was barely prepared and relied heavily on luck.

I suppose it was inevitable. If I had had more time to prepare, perhaps I could have come up with a better plan. Too bad.

Despite his detached demeanor as he watched from a dark alley while the French were arrested, John Ingham was not at ease. He knew that the more he acted, the more his face would become known.

Hmm... Very soon, my description will spread throughout the city, and then I won’t be able to escape. It seems my time is up. I will leave a message for the ambassador. He needs to find a new agent for this mission.

Ingham didn’t know if it was still feasible. After all, if the highest authorities of the kingdom, starting with His Highness Prince Ferdinand, had understood his role and goal, then they could make him fail by hastening in the opposite direction.

The prince may not win this battle, but he can make us lose by finalizing this treaty. As soon as King Frederick is freed, this war for Silesia will be over, and Britain will find itself alone against its enemies. I wonder who they will send?

As the Duke of Newcastle’s agent feared, his identity was quickly discovered, and a manhunt was launched against him throughout the city the next day. With such a large target on his back, it would now be very difficult to leave the Prussian capital. But he was already gone.

For a very generous sum, he had boarded in the middle of the night on a barge bound for a port in the Baltic Sea.

As the first light of dawn appeared on the horizon, the old spy stood firmly like a captain at the rear of his heavily loaded ship. All around him were large bales wrapped in thick, poor-quality fabric, carefully stacked to take up as little space as possible. His ship, moving at an excruciatingly slow pace, glided peacefully down the river as calm as a lake. This tranquility was only disturbed by the regular movements of the pilot.

His powerful arms, taut like a bowstring, worked hard to propel the long vessel forward, creating a slight ripple on the surface of the Spree. On either side of the river were numerous empty plots, but they would eventually be golden in the summer.

This is exactly where I passed through to reach Berlin. It’s strange. Despite all the risks I took, I feel like I haven’t changed the course of events at all. Well, I’m just an old spy. Maybe in another time, I could have prevented the signing of this treaty.