Phillip arrived in Portsmouth after midday. The coastal road had been crowded with wagons, militia patrols, and merchant carts forced to slow their pace under the weight of rumors that had already spread farther than any official notice. By the time the carriage rolled through the stone arch of the Royal Dockyard, the air felt taut, like rope drawn tight around an unseen strain.

Henry stepped out first and looked around with a mix of curiosity and unease. "This place always makes me feel like I'm trespassing," he muttered.

Phillip didn't reply. His attention was fixed on the dry docks, where the hulls of half-completed ships loomed like dark ribs against the sky. The Navy was awake today in a way it hadn't been during his past visits. Men ran messages between buildings, officers walked in hurried lines instead of leisurely strides, and the air carried the sharp scent of tar, salt, and urgency.

Commander Vale stood waiting for them at the foot of a staircase that led into the temporary operations hall. He looked older than Phillip remembered, though it had only been weeks since they last spoke. Sleepless nights had carved thin lines beneath the man's eyes.

"Lord Wellington," Vale said. "Good. Follow me. The Admiralty delegates are inside."

Phillip nodded and followed him through the doorway. Henry trailed close behind.

The operations hall had once been a sail-making warehouse. It now held chart tables, signal flags stacked in bundles, and a glow of lanterns that turned the interior into a subdued haze. A dozen officers gathered around the central table in tense silence. Maps of the English Channel lay unrolled, weighed down with sextants and brass dividers.

Admiral Grant turned as Phillip approached. "You made good time."

Phillip lowered his coat collar. "Your message said it was urgent."

"It is," Grant said. "Sit. There is something you must hear."

Phillip joined them at the table. Henry stood to the side, notebook held tightly but unused.

Commander Vale pointed to a mark on the map one mile off the coast near Beachy Head. "Fishing trawlers reported strange silhouettes two nights ago. Too large to be merchant vessels, too slow to be cutters, and too quiet to be drifting debris."

Phillip studied the map. "What nation?"

"We don't know," Vale answered. "There were no identifying flags. No standard lantern signals. They moved in fog without any attempt to communicate."

Henry frowned. "How did you confirm they existed at all?"

Grant gestured to a second officer. The man laid a written log on the table.

"Signal Watch at Brighton reported faint lights the same night, moving west," he said. "It was not a storm reflection. And at dawn yesterday, a coastal battery spotted a dark hull at distance before it vanished behind morning mist."

Phillip absorbed the information slowly. "So you believe these vessels are scouting?"

"We believe someone is testing how blind our coast truly is," Grant replied.

Phillip leaned forward. "If they had hostile intent, they would not come this close so quietly unless they expected us to lack warning. Which we do."

Some of the officers stiffened at his bluntness, but none argued.

Grant rested both hands on the table. "This is why we contacted you. Telegraph wires along the coast will remove the enemy's greatest advantage. Silence. We will not wait until Parliament debates it for three months. We act now."

Phillip felt the weight of it settle across his shoulders. "How long until your shipwrights finish Vanguard's hull repairs?"

"Two months," Grant said. "Too long. A coastal telegraph network gives us eyes long before she is ready."

Commander Vale stepped closer. "We need a line from Portsmouth to Dover. Then branches north to critical batteries."

Phillip nodded. "I can plan the route. But you must understand: the railway lines are already stretched. My men are working full rotation. We cannot flood every stretch with workers overnight."

"We aren't asking for everything overnight," Vale said. "We need the first fifty miles. Enough to bind the most exposed naval points into one line."

Phillip considered it. "We can do that. But I will need additional men. Carpenters. Laborers. And we must adjust where the poles are planted. Coastal winds will tear them down if we set them like inland lines."

Grant looked to another officer. "Recruitment orders are ready. They'll be signed by evening."

Henry finally stepped closer, speaking with careful control. "Sir, I must ask. What exactly is the urgency? These sightings—do they point to France? Prussia? The Americans?"

Grant's expression hardened. "We do not speculate without proof. But foreign nations are not blind. They have heard rumors of our telegraph experiments. If they believe Britain is gaining the means to coordinate its entire coastline within minutes… some may seek to challenge our readiness before we finish."

Phillip folded his arms. "Then we finish faster."

Grant regarded him with a steady gaze. "We believed as much. Which is why we will give you full access to the dockyard's resources. Timber stores, tar facilities, metal shops. Anything you require."

It surprised Phillip, but only briefly. Desperation often made bureaucracies more cooperative.

"I will need a stable site," Phillip said. "Somewhere to construct the primary station."

"You will have one," Grant said. "The lighthouse fort at Southsea. It already has watch infrastructure. We will convert a section for your telegraph room."

Phillip considered the location. Elevated. Guarded. Close enough to Portsmouth to supply easily. "That will do."

They discussed practical matters next. Wire lengths. Battery storage. How to insulate lines against salt air. How often windstorms along the Channel tore lesser structures apart. Phillip described designs that used doubled anchoring stones, reinforced crossbars, and resin coating thick enough to withstand brine.

Henry scribbled every detail. Officers nodded grimly. Everyone knew this was no longer about innovation. It was about readiness.

After another hour, Grant dismissed the officers. Only he, Phillip, Vale, and Henry remained.

Grant spoke quietly now, voice no longer official but personal. "Lord Wellington, you pushed the railways into a new age. But the seas… the seas have always been Britain's shield. If that shield is tested, we cannot afford to answer slowly."

Phillip looked at the map once more. "Then I will give your shield a voice."

Vale stepped forward. "We start at dawn. My men will escort you to Southsea."

Phillip nodded.

When he and Henry finally stepped outside into the cold afternoon wind, the dockyard felt different. Not just busy, but alert. Every hammer strike sounded sharper. Every shouted order carried urgency.

Henry exhaled slowly. "We thought the rail crash was the worst thing we'd face this year."

Phillip looked toward the water, where dark waves rolled toward the shore.

"This isn't the worst," he said. "This is only the beginning."

Henry closed his notebook. "Then we work."

Phillip started walking toward the carriage that would take them to their lodging.

"We work," he repeated.

There was no turning back now. Not for the railways. Not for the Navy. And not for him.

The wires had begun their crawl across Britain.

Soon the coast would speak as well.

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