The wind at Southsea carried salt strong enough to sting the inside of Phillip's nose. It whipped across the ramparts of the old lighthouse fort where he and Henry stood with Commander Vale. Below them, the waves rolled in heavy sheets that crashed against the stone foundations. Several soldiers were already clearing a storage room inside the fort. Their movements were quick and disciplined, but Phillip could tell most of them had no idea what they were preparing for. They were working on instinct, driven by urgency rather than understanding.

Vale folded his arms. "This will be your station. It has its own watch rotation and a guard detachment at all hours. Communications will be safe here."

Phillip studied the structure. Thick stone. Narrow windows. Vent shafts. A low, vaulted ceiling. It could hold equipment, but not for long. Heat from the batteries would build up. Moisture from the sea breeze would seep in. They would need lining, sealing, constant drying.

"It needs wood paneling," Phillip said. "Two coats of resin. A raised platform for the telegraph tables. And a small furnace to keep the humidity down during storms. If moisture gets to the batteries, the entire line will die."

Vale nodded once. "I will order the paneling today."

Henry crouched near the window slit that overlooked the coastline and took measurements with a folding ruler. "If the wire runs along the rampart, we can anchor it outside the fort. The poles can start just beyond the seawall."

"Not too close," Phillip said. "Salt spray will eat the insulation if it hits the wire directly."

They stepped outside again. Soldiers carried crates across the yard while carpenters unloaded timber from wagons. Phillip walked past them and stopped at an open patch of sand between the fort and the first row of coastal houses. The ground here was soft but stable enough if they dug deep. A line of poles stretching east and west would be visible from nearly a mile away. A straight path for messages to travel.

He picked up a shovel. Henry gave him a quick look but said nothing. Phillip drove the blade into the sand.

Vale watched with an unreadable expression. "You do not delegate much, Lord Wellington."

Phillip dug again. "If I delegate what I do not understand, I risk failure. And we cannot afford failure."

The soldiers began digging additional holes, spacing them evenly under Henry's direction. Phillip inspected every placement. Some holes shifted too close to the seawall. Others were too shallow. He made corrections without raising his voice. The work became a rhythm. Dig. Check. Adjust. Each pole stood as a promise that the coast would not be silent again.

By midday the first row of poles was ready to raise. Carpenters attached crossbars and fitted the insulators. The copper wire had not arrived yet from Shropshire, but the poles alone gave the shoreline a changed appearance. Locals gathered behind the fences, watching with caution and curiosity.

A fishmonger stepped forward. "Sir, what is all this for?"

Phillip wiped sand from his gloves. "A line that carries messages."

"To London?" the man asked.

"To Portsmouth. To Dover. To every station the Navy needs."

The man nodded slowly. "Then I hope it works. Weather shifts too quickly along this coast. If something comes from the sea, we are blind until it arrives."

That was the whole point. Phillip continued supervising the pole raising.

When the sun was at its peak, Vale approached with a sealed paper. "A dispatch from Admiralty House. They want an initial assessment of manpower requirements by tonight."

Phillip took the paper but did not open it. "Tell Grant we will send it once we finish raising the first twenty poles."

"He will expect it sooner," Vale said.

Phillip met his eyes. "The wires will not stand faster because London demands it. They stand faster because we set them correctly."

Vale gave a small nod. "Understood."

The work continued. Soldiers tied ropes to each pole. Carpenters checked the anchors. Phillip walked to the front of the line, lifted his arm, and gave the signal.

"Raise."

The poles rose in a single movement. Sand shifted under the weight. Men strained against the ropes. The first pole leaned dangerously, but Phillip steadied it with his shoulder until the anchor stones were placed. The others followed with less effort. Soon all twenty poles stood tall against the skyline.

Henry stepped back and looked down the line. "They hold well."

Phillip looked for any sway, any weakness. There was none. "They will take a storm, but not a gale. We reinforce them tomorrow."

Vale approached again. "The officers want a demonstration once the wire arrives."

"It will arrive in two days," Phillip said. "Coating will take another day. Testing the line will take the morning after that."

Vale frowned slightly. "The Admiralty wants speed, Lord Wellington."

"And they will have speed," Phillip replied. "But they will have it done correctly."

He left Vale to consider the answer.

The afternoon shifted into the slow orange of early evening. The workers finished bracing the poles with diagonal timber supports. They covered the base of each pole with tar to resist salt water. Phillip inspected the work and approved only after checking every joint by hand.

Henry closed his notebook. "The men are tired."

Phillip nodded. "Let them stop."

Vale called the order. Tools were put away. Soldiers carried what they could back into the fort. Carpenters gathered their gear. The fishmonger had long since gone home.

Phillip stayed a moment longer, watching the rising line of poles. They stretched along the beach like a spine forming across a sleeping body. Tomorrow it would continue further. After that, further still. Eventually it would run the length of the Channel.

The coast would no longer be silent.

Henry stepped to his side. "You think we can finish the first fifty miles before the month ends."

"Yes," Phillip said. "If nothing interrupts us."

Something in his tone made Henry look at him. "You expect interruption."

Phillip looked toward the dark line where the sea met the horizon. "Foreign ships do not appear without purpose. The Admiralty is worried for a reason."

Henry was quiet for a moment. "And what do you think will happen?"

Phillip answered calmly. "I think Britain is no longer the only nation changing. We are only the first to show it."

They walked back toward the fort where the lanterns were being lit for the night. Work would resume at dawn. Messages would soon run along these poles. The Admiralty would have their eyes on the coast.

Phillip paused at the doorway, looking once more at the line stretching toward the east.

"Tomorrow we begin the second mile," he said.

Henry nodded. "And the next after that."

Phillip stepped inside the fort.

"It will not stop," he said. "Not now."

And as the last light faded behind the poles, he knew the wires would soon carry more than orders. They would carry the weight of a nation preparing for whatever came next.

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