A steady stream of supplies arrived at the field hospital from Paris. The first wave of volunteers also came in from the village, walking to the hospital with De Yoka. The group included men, women, young, and old—among them, Camille.
Due to her neighbors' trust in her, Camille naturally became the leader of the younger women, whose duties were to learn basic medical tasks from the nurses, like dressing wounds and changing bandages, to help fill the gaps in the nursing staff. They replaced old bandages on every patient, changed them daily, and sanitized the used ones, a monumental task.
Older volunteers, less suited for learning medical techniques, were assigned to help with daily care for the wounded. The younger men naturally took on the heavier labor.
"They're all volunteers," De Yoka told Charles. "I told them you'd pay a franc a day, but they refused. They said it's the least they could do. This is for France and their children—not just Master Charles's cause."
De Yoka looked around at his busy neighbors, his face softened with admiration. "They're truly kind-hearted people."
Charles nodded, then turned to his father. "Do you disapprove of what I'm doing, Father?"
De Yoka smiled. "No, Charles. Your mother and I have never been prouder of you than we are now. Look at her…"
He glanced toward Camille among the volunteers. Camille had just finished dressing a wound. Noticing De Yoka and Charles looking her way, she waved, then quickly turned back to help another patient, her face gentle and smiling as she asked about his injuries.
"There was a time I worried about you, Charles," De Yoka admitted. "I worried you might turn out like Francis. But now I'm at ease."
Of course he won't, De Yoka thought. Charles is generous with his earnings, spending freely on those who need it. How could he ever become like those callous capitalists?
Charles knew his father had misunderstood his true motives. If De Yoka and Camille knew his real intentions, would they still feel this proud?
But then again, that didn't matter—he was doing good, regardless. With that thought, Charles felt at peace.
Charles's plan was a success. Nearly every wounded soldier now had the same request as they lay on the operating table:
"Doctor, can you save my hand? If not both, at least one—I'd like to work for Master Charles someday."
The doctors would reassure them, "Don't worry. We now have enough people and supplies. We'll do our best."
Once, Charles was in for a shock as he walked along a path. An elderly woman in rags suddenly threw her arms around him, weeping so hard that her entire body shook. Charles froze, worried he had encountered a madwoman who might even be hiding a knife.
After a while, the woman's sobbing subsided. She stepped back, her wrinkled face full of warmth and sorrow, as she pressed an egg into his hand, holding it tight as she spoke in a trembling voice.
"Child, if…if Akshay had met a kind-hearted man like you, he might not have died so alone."
Charles learned later that Akshay was her grandson, only two years older than him. He had been wounded in the Battle of Meaux and sent back. By the time his family arrived at the hospital, he was already gone. His stomach wound had been roughly patched with nothing more than a dishcloth—a cloth meant for washing dishes.
No one could imagine his despair and helplessness before he died, or the anger he must have felt at his country.
Such stories were only the tip of the iceberg. Many stories about Charles began to circulate, some even unknown to him.
His reputation soon spread to Paris. Those sent to buy medicine or supplies shared Charles's story, and the drivers transporting goods reported back on the state of the field hospital.
When Francis heard the news, he was mildly surprised and scoffed. Thɪs chapter is updated by ɴovᴇl(ꜰ)ir(e).nᴇt
"That fool! I thought he was different from De Yoka, but they're all the same."
He sneered, "Of course, he's just a maid's son. I'll wait for him to go bankrupt."
But what Francis didn't realize was that Charles wasn't the one destined for ruin. This was merely the first step in Charles's plan.
With the people's support, Charles could proceed confidently, and he began to poach Francis's key workers.
The "Holt 75" tractor was an improvement over the "Holt 60," but both models were produced by the same company, with the former essentially an upgrade of the latter. Inevitably, the two shared similar designs, parts, and techniques.
For Charles, the challenge in producing the "Holt 75" wasn't funding—he had more than enough for that. Nor was it technical expertise; the British were eager to grant production rights and technical support to tap into the French market.
The real difficulty lay in finding skilled technicians and engineers. Such workers possessed knowledge passed down over decades, from one generation to the next, and many of their skills couldn't simply be bought.
So Charles approached Joseph.
Joseph had overseen production at Francis's tractor factory for years. No one knew better than him which workers had true technical skill.
Since Matthew's injury, Joseph had been going back and forth to the hospital every day, and he had lost weight from all the rushing around.
That evening, after finishing up at the factory, Joseph headed back to the field hospital as usual, arriving just before dark. Charles intercepted him at the entrance.
"We're looking after Matthew, Joseph," Charles assured him. "He's recovering well. You need to take care of yourself too."
"I know." Exhausted, Joseph sat down on the grass, answering weakly, "Thank you, Master Charles. But I can't help myself. Only when I see him can I rest easy, even if it's just while sitting in a chair."
Charles sat beside him, hugging his knees and musing aloud. "I've been considering something, Joseph. You know the situation between Mr. Francis and me."
"Yes, of course," Joseph replied, nodding.
"Francis and I are at odds. We're like fire and water, and someday we'll be competitors," Charles said thoughtfully. "But you work for Francis, while Matthew will work for me. So, how will that affect you and Matthew…"
"That won't matter, Master Charles," Joseph replied. "If you can offer Matthew a job, I'd happily retire myself if necessary."
This wasn't a question of wages. Joseph earned 53 francs a month, almost twice the average worker's pay, so quitting would hardly be financially sensible.
But for Joseph, the issue went beyond wages. Without a job, Matthew would feel useless, as though society had discarded him. With nothing to do, he'd eventually crumble.
Joseph was willing to sacrifice his own job if it meant Matthew could work.
I can find other work, Joseph thought. If only Master Charles had bought a tractor factory—it would have been perfect.
Charles nodded, then casually said, "I'm considering bringing in the Holt 75 from Britain and starting a tractor factory. What do you think?"
Joseph was stunned, his face lighting up with excitement.
"That…that's wonderful, Master Charles. I know it might be a lot to ask, but…may I recommend myself for a position?"
"Of course!" Charles extended a hand to him with a smile. "Congratulations on joining the team, Joseph. You're now the head of Charles's Tractor Factory, with a monthly salary of 60 francs! I'd like to send you to Britain to arrange the tractor's production. Any concerns?"
Bringing in the tractor model would require a team of technicians and skilled workers to travel to Britain for training and inspection before the production line could be safely introduced. For this task, Joseph would need to poach the most skilled workers from Francis's factory.
After a moment's hesitation, Joseph asked, "Then, Master Charles, would I be able to…bring along a few of the men?"
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