Wellington Estate.

That night.

The estate's halls were quiet, save for the low murmur of servants extinguishing lamps. Outside, the rain had faded into a whisper, leaving the windows glazed with silver.

The Admiralty's words still echoed in his head.

"Could such a machine drive a ship?"

He had answered honestly, but the implications were staggering.

Steam had already conquered the rails; now it would claim the seas.

He pushed aside a stack of ledgers and unrolled a blank sheet of parchment. His quill hovered only a moment before moving with purpose.

Across the top, he wrote in neat engineer's script:

Project: Steam-Powered Naval Vessel.

He leaned back, exhaling slowly.

A steam-powered battleship—it wasn't a fantasy. It was a problem of scale, balance, and endurance.

He began sketching the basic form of a hull, labeling its compartments as he went—boiler rooms, coal storage, propulsion chambers. Then he paused, eyes unfocused, lost to memory.

In his old world—the 21st century—steam had been humanity's first great mechanical revolution. The journey had begun centuries earlier, when ships depended wholly on the mercy of wind. Square sails and galleons had once ruled the oceans, but they were slaves to nature—fast only when the breeze was right, helpless in the doldrums.

Then came the paddle steamers—primitive by modern standards, yet revolutionary. The Charlotte Dundas in 1802, the Clermont in 1807. Their crude piston engines turned great paddlewheels on either side, propelling vessels up rivers and across calm seas. They were noisy, inefficient, and fragile—but they worked.

Phillip remembered standing once in front of a digital exhibit back in his old life, watching animations of those first ships churning against the currents. He remembered admiring the boldness of the men who built them.

And now, in this world, he was to be that man.

He dipped his quill again.

A new sketch took shape—a side paddle design, with dual boilers and a low, flat deck. He frowned.

"Too unstable in heavy seas," he murmured. "Center of gravity's too high. Vulnerable to broadsides."

He scratched the design out. Drew again. This time, he replaced the paddles with a shaft and angled propeller. A screw-driven design—what the future would call a screw steamer.

This would give the vessel greater balance, less drag, and more speed.

He wrote:

Propulsion: Twin-screw, aft-mounted. Enclosed shaft. Power output—estimated 1,500 horsepower.

Phillip's hand slowed, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. "The first of its kind," he whispered.

Still, even with this, there were complications—boiler pressure, coal efficiency, exhaust systems, and most dangerously, armor weight.

He turned to another page and began noting problems:

Fuel supply: coal limited at sea; may require supply depots.

Boiler safety: pressure regulation critical to prevent explosions.

Hull material: wrought iron or composite plating; balance between weight and buoyancy.

Maintenance: engineers trained to manage valves, condensers, and pistons during voyage.

He rubbed his temples. The sheer scope of it made his head ache—but it also exhilarated him.

He was building not just a ship, but a future.

A knock came at the door.

"Enter," he called.

His dad entered with a concerned look, the door closing softly behind him. "Phillip, shipbuilding is an arduous task. You don't have to force yourself to solve it all in a single night."

Phillip looked up from his cluttered desk, his eyes slightly red from fatigue but still sharp with focus. "I'm not forcing myself, Father," he said quietly. "I'm… consumed by it."

The Duke of Wellington sighed and crossed the room, stopping beside his son's worktable. Dozens of parchments were scattered across the surface—sketches of hulls, cross-sections of boilers, calculations for displacement, pressure tolerances, and torque. There were half-finished formulas on steam expansion ratios and rough diagrams of something that resembled a ship's propeller.

The Duke's brow furrowed. "Good Lord," he muttered. "You've already drafted half a navy."

Phillip smiled faintly, dipping his quill back into the ink. "Not yet. But soon."

The Duke folded his arms. "You understand what you're taking on, don't you? This isn't like your locomotives. Ships are living beasts. They must fight the sea, not roll on rails."

Phillip nodded without looking up. "I understand, Father. But the Admiralty's question was not if it could be done—they asked how soon. And the answer depends on how much they're willing to give."

The Duke raised an eyebrow. "How much?"

Phillip looked up at him then, expression firm, voice steady. "Everything."

The Duke blinked. "Everything?"

Phillip stood, straightening his coat as if to steel his conviction. "If they want a steam-powered warship that can defy the wind itself, then they must give me unlimited supplies of men, material, and money. Every shipyard in Portsmouth, every foundry in Birmingham, every machinist from Manchester to Leeds. I will need them all."

His father's eyes widened slightly at the sheer audacity of it. "Unlimited? Phillip, even the Crown does not spend without end."

Phillip gave a small, grim smile. "Then they do not yet understand what they're asking for. This isn't a vessel—it's a new age. A ship that runs without wind, that can chase a fleet even when the seas lie dead. If Britain builds it first, we will rule every ocean on earth. If another nation builds it first…" His tone darkened. "…we will never catch them again."

The Duke was silent for a long moment. He saw it—the same fire that had burned in his own youth, when wars had been fought with muskets and cannon, not engines and steel. That unrelenting drive to reach beyond what existed and seize what could be.

Finally, he exhaled. "You're your grandfather's blood, no question about it."

Phillip sat again, turning to a clean page. "The Royal Navy's ships of the line are wooden, slow, and vulnerable. The moment one shell ignites their powder stores, they're gone. But a ship made of iron—one that can take hits, keep moving, and fire back—will render every vessel in existence obsolete."

He began to sketch rapidly, the scratch of his quill the only sound in the room. The Duke leaned over his shoulder and watched a shape emerge—a massive iron hull, broad and low, built not for beauty but for endurance.

Phillip spoke as he worked. "The heart will be here—twin triple-expansion engines, fed by two high-pressure boilers. They'll turn dual propeller shafts at the stern. I'll use iron plating at first, but later we'll experiment with steel alloys once rolling techniques improve."

He scribbled side notes as he talked. "We'll need to rethink the hull framing. Wooden ribs won't do. We'll reinforce with iron bulkheads—compartments that can seal in case of flooding. It'll make the ship heavier, but survivability will increase tenfold."

The Duke was quiet, watching the birth of something that didn't belong to this century.

Phillip paused, tapping the quill against his chin. "Coal bunkers will line both sides of the engines to balance the load. The boilers will need to be insulated to prevent heat loss, and the pressure valves must be doubled for safety. I'll introduce condensing systems to reclaim steam—reduce waste, improve range."

He turned the parchment and began drawing the deck plan. "We'll mount rotating gun turrets here and here," he said, pointing to the fore and aft sections. "Two heavy cannons, rifled if possible, enclosed in armored casings that can turn on hydraulic bearings. No broadside firing. This ship will shoot forward—hunt, not drift."

The duke couldn't follow every words he said.

Then Phillip leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple. "I can make it work, Father. So long as I have the freedom to build it my way. I don't need interference from Parliament or the Navy's traditionalists. Give me the men and the means, and I'll give them a ship that will outlive their grandchildren."

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