In terms of relationship and office, Thuriot was André’s teacher and superior; in reality, the two were not even in the same world, and to place them side by side was hardly meaningful. Put simply, in Reims and épernay, André could rule with a single word, placing his own men wherever he pleased and trying his opponents at will.

  By contrast, in the provincial capital of Chalons, and in Aumê, Suippe, and other districts, Prosecutor Thuriot did not have such undisputed authority; even the Prosecutor of Chalons, nominally his subordinate, opposed him openly and in secret. If André had not instructed the United Investment Company to support the Prosecutor from behind the scenes, Thuriot might already have been impeached more than once by the provincial commune’s committee on charges of embezzlement.

  Unlike Deputy Prieur, who was comparatively upright and restrained, Thuriot—born to the nobility—was devoted to a life of splendour and indulgence. According to information in the hands of the Military Intelligence Office, Thuriot even assisted émigré nobles in selling off their estates and moving their funds abroad. Of course, he was not joining the Royalist Party overseas; he was simply taking the opportunity to enrich himself.

  Thus, when André took his leave, he offered a tactful warning by way of friendly counsel: Thuriot ought to curb his sympathy for the émigrés—at the very least, such an attitude could not be displayed in public. Whether Thuriot truly took the warning to heart, André could not tell.

  …

  United Investment Company’s headquarters lay southwest of Chalons-en-Champagne, near the quiet Marne. It had once been a broad stretch of wasteland, unsuitable for cultivation; across an area of 20 square kilometres there had been scarcely a soul. Yet from 1790 onward, the steam-engine firm under United Investment Company had broken ground here, clearing the land and building factories.

  Now, barely one year later, that barren ground had sprouted, as if after rain, an entire industrial complex: a steam-engine works, a cotton-spinning mill, textile workshops, metalworking shops, a precision-instrument factory, and—row upon row—quays and warehouses. More than 100 scientists and engineers and over 300 skilled craftsmen had gathered at the company’s industrial base, while more than 2,000 ordinary workers, together with their families, made their living by these factories.

  To secure the Chalons base, the gendarmerie stationed a reinforced company there and organised an armed patrol force drawn largely from the workers. Anyone entering or leaving the base—whether on foot, by vehicle, or by moored boat—was subject to strict inspection, to prevent sabotage, theft of materials, or leaks of core secrets.

  The United Investment Company headquarters consisted of two new five-storey buildings joined together, constructed with a special “reinforced concrete” technique: improved Portland cement, combined with low-carbon steel that possessed both toughness and sufficient strength. This was, naturally, another “major invention” born after André’s casual hint to the civil engineers.

  Compared with the purely brick-and-timber factory buildings, the headquarters had saved a great deal of construction time, and its exterior looked unusually solid. Add a wall, and the entire base would resemble a pair of fortresses that were difficult to storm. Its sole defect was an obvious one: the building was utterly devoid of classical beauty.

  On this point André’s taste ran in the opposite direction. He liked these grey-white, ungainly structures so much that whenever he came to inspect the base, he almost always lodged in the headquarters itself. Here he could constantly hear the tremendous roar of steam engines, and savour the vast force of the forging shop when the great hammer fell and red light flared into the air—every moment a reminder of the monumental power that industrial civilisation could summon.

  The next morning, André—short on sleep—was not in good spirits, and had to postpone his planned morning tour until the afternoon. Accompanying him was the group’s chief engineer, Périer (the older one). Say, the man who effectively ran the company day to day, was far busier than the behind-the-scenes patron.

  After sharing luncheon with André, Say hurried off to Paris, first to negotiate with American merchants; his next stop would be Spain. His purpose was straightforward: to secure diversified sources of cotton. As the cotton mill’s capacity rose rapidly, cotton from Lorraine could no longer satisfy demand; and the Lorraine cotton traders’ resistance, overt and covert, forced Say to consider importing cotton from abroad to ensure a steady supply of raw material.

  Say planned to proceed on three fronts: first, the American merchants selling cotton in Paris; second, the Spanish growers of Andalusia, which produced the finest cotton in Europe; and finally, via Marseille, to negotiate with the Mediterranean merchants gathered there for bulk purchases of long-staple cotton from Greece and Egypt.

  After watching Say’s carriage depart the base, André, escorted by Périer (the older one), went to an inconspicuous metalworking shop. A week earlier, in a report to André, the chief engineer had excitedly mentioned two major breakthroughs at the base. One of them was the very core of the “mother machine” André had spoken of repeatedly: the machine tool.

  When André first heard this, he had all but concluded that Périer (the older one) had worked himself ill—seriously ill. A machine tool was a complex and precise device; it was not something one simply produced on command, nor was it some empty boast invented to flatter a patron. From April—when André first raised the concept—to June was scarcely two months; to produce a breakthrough of such epoch-making significance in that time went far beyond André’s expectations. He had conservatively assumed it would take at least three to five years, perhaps longer (in actual history, the key developments came in 1797). For the existence of a machine tool at the heart of industrial machine-making marked the beginning of an entirely new era of manufacturing.

  In that wide infantry-sized workshop, André truly saw a trace of the lathes of later centuries: a heavy cast-iron bed that prevented workpieces from shifting; a sliding tool carriage meshed with a thick leadscrew, so the carriage could move left and right; cutting tools could be fixed to the carriage; and a handle allowed the tool to advance and retreat, controlling the depth of cut. In this way, the carriage resolved the front-back and left-right problem without dead angles, achieving a flexibility that was close to complete freedom.

  The inventor of this machine was a young English craftsman named Maudslay. He stood more than 1.8 metres tall, yet was slender; his face was ruddy, and he spoke with easy confidence. Standing before the machine tool, he explained it vividly and in detail to the visitors; and at André’s request, he demonstrated the lathe on the spot, turning bolts, threaded rods, and other parts.

  “…With the correct use of the sliding tool carriage,” Maudslay said, “we can develop the planers, drills, and boring machines that Monsieur Périer speaks of—an entire family of machine tools. On this lathe before you, I can freely manufacture any part to whatever dimensions are required; and for parts of the same specification, deviation can be held within 0.2 millimetres—which is the most advanced level at present. Next, we will focus on three important improvements: first, an automatic feed mechanism for the cutting tool—what you might call a feed box; second, combining the sealing device of the hydraulic press pump with the machine tool to raise efficiency and reduce scrap; third, coupling steam power to the machine tool, to obtain a continuous and stable source of motive force.”

  André listened attentively and examined the parts produced on the lathe. Compared with parts made by traditional methods, Maudslay’s lathe produced components that were faster, more precise, and with a higher yield. More importantly, the worker operating it required far less experience: with simple training, a man could take his place at the controls. That would not only free large numbers of skilled craftsmen for other work, but also substantially reduce labour costs.

  “How did you manage to recruit someone like this?” While Maudslay demonstrated, André asked Périer (the older one) in a low voice.

  The chief engineer rubbed his smooth back of the head and grinned ingenuously. “Heh—nobody recruited him. Maudslay came to our trade mission himself and asked to work in France.”

  At fifteen, because his family was poor, Maudslay persuaded his parents to let him apprentice at a nearby smithy, working iron. He laboured hard, became a capable assistant in a short time, and learned excellent metalworking skill. Among the basic techniques of a mechanic, his mastery of the file was unrivalled—no one surpassed him.

  By the age of twenty, Maudslay wanted to go out into the world rather than spend his life in Woolwich. But in the British guild conventions of the eighteenth century, an apprentice was required to serve seven full years before completing his term. To leave early and strike out on his own, Maudslay would have had to pay the smithy’s master ￡50 (about 2,000 livres) as compensation.

  Naturally, Maudslay did not have such money. He sought help from others, yet no investor was willing to lend ￡50 to a smith’s apprentice who had not even completed his training. After repeated setbacks, Maudslay finally grew discouraged and prepared to remain obediently for another two years. Then a friend told him of an opportunity: a group of Frenchmen with money to spare had come to Woolwich to recruit skilled craftsmen willing to work in Paris.

  And so the young Maudslay approached the French delegation and tried his luck before Périer (the older one). In practical testing, he produced iron components quickly and well; Périer (the older one) therefore hired Maudslay for the United Investment Company for at least two years, paying ￡100. At the time, Périer (the older one) had no idea he had, by accident, obtained a treasure.

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  During his time in Chalons-en-Champagne, Maudslay completed his assigned work, and then used the factory’s equipment to pursue the “perfect machine” in his mind—one that could greatly elevate metalworking technique. In the workshops of Europe, such behaviour was not permitted, for employers feared a waste of resources. Yet at the United Investment Company, engineers and craftsmen were encouraged to innovate boldly; once an innovation or invention was achieved, the inventor could receive up to half of the patent rights.

  Thus, in mid to late May 1791, Maudslay completed the manufacture of the cast-iron machine tool and became the first mechanical engineer in the world to pioneer the precision lathe by means of a sliding tool carriage. In later generations he would be honoured as “the father of machine tools.”

  After witnessing the astonishing performance of the “Maudslay machine tool” (a name André bestowed personally), André, on behalf of the United Investment Company, awarded the English craftsman a bonus of 3,000 livres. When they left the shop, André stopped and, with solemn deliberation, issued instructions to Périer (the older one) and to his intelligence aide:

  “Very good. I am extremely pleased that the Maudslay machine tool has been born within this base. Now two matters must be accomplished without delay.

  “First: effective immediately, classify the Maudslay machine tool as Category A secrecy within the base, equal in status to the 1791-pattern steam engine. Maudslay himself shall receive the treatment of a senior engineer, and you must assign him several capable French assistants. In addition, Lozère, inform the gendarmerie: the machine tool’s research laboratory will be guarded by them, and the relevant personnel must undergo regular political vetting.

  “Second: from now until the end of this year—more than half a year—Périer (the older one), you will personally persuade Maudslay to take French nationality. You may promise him as much as 40% of the machine tool’s patent rights, but the technology must not be disclosed externally for ten years. If, by 1793, Maudslay still refuses naturalisation and insists on returning to England, then Lozère, you will handle the matter in full. Remember: within ten years, the secret of the Maudslay machine tool must not leak from the United Investment Company.”

  In other words, after 1793, there would be no such person as an English Maudslay.

  The importance of the machine tool needed no elaboration: it was the machine that produced machines. The sudden appearance of the Maudslay machine tool meant that the technology for standardised metal parts was becoming mature. Put even more simply: previously, to use a large Watt-type steam engine, a customer would have to maintain a metal-parts workshop with more than twenty craftsmen; in the future, the customer would only need to order one or two skilled hands to replace a damaged part with a universal component.

  The difference in efficiency was not remotely comparable.

  After the tour of the Maudslay machine tool, Périer (the older one)’s next “major invention” was, astonishingly, a steam-belching iron monster—an eighteenth-century version of the steam automobile.

  The origin of this episode, naturally, lay in a sudden whim of André’s. He found eighteenth-century carriages too slow and missed the comfort of cars from his previous life. One day, in conversation with Périer (the older one), he learned that a French artillery officer named Cugnot had built a steam-driven vehicle back in 1769. Overjoyed, André instructed Périer (the older one) to send men to find the retired French officer, who had moved to Switzerland.

  Yet the man who arrived at the United Investment Company base was Cugnot (the father)’s son—“Cugnot,” in his forties—who was himself an excellent mechanical engineer. With Périer (the older one)’s support, and with the help of several French mechanics, he spent a little over three months producing an improved replica of the Cugnot steam carriage.

  But when André saw it in person, he was deeply disappointed.

  First, it looked absurd: a long chassis mounted on three wheels, with a large boiler at the front. Coal could be burned beneath the boiler; a pipe carried steam into a cylinder above the front wheel. The steam’s pressure drove a piston; the piston connected by a rod to a crankshaft, which in turn connected to the wheel. As the piston moved, it turned the crankshaft; the crankshaft turned the wheel, and the vehicle moved.

  And when it ran, it did so amid billowing smoke and hissing vapour. From afar it looked as though someone were trying to deliver a huge pot of boiling soup to some destination. Still, it had tremendous force: if it struck a stone wall on the road, it could topple the wall without much difficulty.

  After patiently watching the demonstration, André acknowledged a measure of success in the Cugnot steam carriage. Yet inwardly, he had almost pronounced sentence upon the “infernal thing that steams men to death”: it had nearly no practical value. On a broad road, it could indeed outpace a horse-drawn carriage, and its carrying capacity was many times greater. But there was a fatal problem: its violent vibration could reduce Portland-cement roads to shattered fragments in moments, and might even damage the steam carriage itself—along with driver and passengers.

  Before ending the inspection, André specifically called Périer (the older one) over and, with blunt candour, criticised the steam carriage. He said, “The Cugnot steam carriage is too large and too heavy. Once you mount the engine, there is scarcely any space or capacity left for passengers or cargo. Second, it often has to stop to add coal and water, which makes operation very inconvenient. Third, the steam engine continuously emits thick smoke and vapour in great volume; passengers and pedestrians alike are subjected to smoke and heat. In short, I am not optimistic about its future…”

  Thus André suggested that Cugnot and the other mechanics abandon further refinement of the road vehicle, and instead place the cumbersome giant onto metal rails, where its effectiveness might be greatly increased. Even without an Englishman like Trevithick, André still hoped that the steam locomotive would first appear on French soil, and that this convenient means of transport would be brought onto rails as early as possible.

  André’s approach to the modern “technology tree” was clear: what could be widely used in history was what truly mattered; what could not was, at best, a curious trick. Road vehicles driven by steam never became the protagonist of European transport history; only in wartime did Germany employ them in limited numbers. André had approved the steam carriage’s early development mainly to train craftsmen and pave the way for future steam locomotives, because trains and ships—not road vehicles—were the true core of steam power’s future.

  The moment his thoughts turned to ships, André recalled the American he had recruited—Fulton. His inspection list had originally included Fulton’s ship research workshop, but in the end André cancelled the visit, fearing he might add too much psychological burden to Fulton, who had already failed many times.

  By the inertia of history, Fulton’s first steamship designs still relied on paddle wheels—“side wheels”—driven by a steam engine. These were paddle blades shaped like great cartwheels, mounted on the ship’s sides or stern; as the paddles turned and struck water backward, the reaction force pushed the ship forward.

  When Périer (the older one) passed those drawings to André, André rejected six months of the American’s effort with a single stroke. André stubbornly believed paddle-wheel propulsion was inefficient. In heavy seas, the paddles often lifted out of the water and spun uselessly, causing the ship to roll violently; moreover, paddle wheels prevented the installation of gun positions and were themselves easily struck by enemy cannon, depriving the ship of power and turning it into a helpless target for enemy gunboats.

  So André personally “redesigned” Fulton’s ship, “inventing” a screw propeller shaped like a windmill—or like the blades of an electric fan. Mounted underwater at the stern and coupled to the steam engine, it replaced Fulton’s paddle wheels as the ship’s propulsor. When such a vessel sailed, the propeller remained entirely submerged; on the water’s surface, one could not find it at all…

  “But Fulton has already sunk two boats in the Marne,” Périer (the older one) complained without cease, “and turned a steam engine worth 20,000 livres into scrap iron! Besides, the forged steel propeller doesn’t last long underwater before it suffers serious damage and must be discarded.”

  André laughed loudly. “That’s still not enough. I’ll allow the American to sink another five boats, and waste another five steam engines. Don’t worry, Charles—I will endorse your report with this sentence: all losses are my personal investment and have nothing to do with the Joint Steam Engine Company. As for the propeller material, I will write to the Académie des Sciences; they will add a new research topic for it.”

  Once the direction was correct, and the scholars and engineers were in place, what remained was steady investment and patient waiting. André had no complaint about that. History proved again and again that in any conventional naval contest against the British, the result was written in capital letters: defeat—unless one could carve out a new path through future technology.

  To imitate German submarine tactics at the end of the eighteenth century was unrealistic; but fifty years early, using present technology with suitable enhancement, it was feasible to force a steam ironclad into existence. In fact, the thing itself had been invented by the French. In 1849, France built the world’s first battleship with steam power as auxiliary propulsion—Napoléon—which became a pioneer of the steam-powered battleship.

  On the second night at the Marne base, Lozère hurried into the sitting room where André was resting and reported a message that had just come through the intelligence bureau.

  “Hah—so the old obstinate man has finally agreed to come to Reims and establish an artillery branch school,” André said, clearly pleased. The director of the Metz Artillery School, Colonel Senarmont (the father), after much hesitation, had decided to dispatch an advance group to Reims. Under the pretext of establishing a branch, the Metz Artillery School would gradually be moved from the troubled frontier city into the calmer interior of Champagne.

  The process would likely take one year. Though Colonel Senarmont (the father) still was not certain that Austria and Prussia would unite to take military action against revolutionary France, opening an artillery branch school in Reims did no harm. At the very least, the great patron André was willing to provide every convenience: the choice of site, salaries for faculty, student recruitment, even the style of the school’s buildings—all would be decided by the Metz director and the school’s committee.

  Soon André noticed the yearning look in the eyes of his little follower, Meldar. The boy was once again thinking of how to withdraw from the University of Reims and apply to a military school, to fulfil his dream of becoming an officer.

  Before Meldar could make his request, André spoke first. “Very well—I can give you a chance. If, in next month’s entrance examination for the artillery school, your total score and your mathematics score both place you in the top ten, I will write to your mother and adoptive father in Paris.”

  Meldar agreed with delight. Ever since 1789, the Polish boy had been studying French with André; later he discussed mathematics with Monsieur Fourier, and even audited university courses for nearly half a year. In both mathematics and overall level, the seventeen-year-old Meldar was more than capable of overwhelming the great majority of applicants to the Reims artillery school.