Word of the Southsea telegraph test reached London before Phillip and Henry even finished their noon meal.

A naval courier had ridden straight from Portsmouth to Whitehall, carrying a slip of paper bearing only a few short lines. The Admiralty passed it to the Home Office. The Home Office forwarded a copy to the Post Office. By the end of the day, half of the civil ministries had read the report, and by morning, the newspapers had picked up rumors.

They did not have the full truth, only fragments. But the fragments were enough to send the entire country buzzing.

"Invisible messages sent by electricity."

"Orders traveling faster than the wind."

"The Navy testing a machine that carries speech through wires."

By the time Phillip returned to Shropshire, the streets outside the foundry were lined with vendors selling broadsheets. One headline shouted, NEW SIGNAL SYSTEM TO CHANGE EMPIRE. Another read, BRITAIN DEVELOPS SECRET NAVY DEVICE?

Henry held up one sheet with a wince. "You'd think we built a weapon, not a line of wire."

Phillip did not laugh, but the faint tension in his face eased. "People always imagine thunder before they hear it."

Inside the foundry yard, crews were already back to work. Telegraph poles lay sorted into stacks based on height and grain. Wire coils were cooling on metal racks. Carpenters planed fresh crossbars while apprentices stirred buckets of resin until they shimmered like dark honey.

Phillip had expected the excitement from the Navy. What he had not expected was the sudden presence of three carriages bearing the crest of the Home Office.

The men who stepped out were not military. They wore civilian coats, top hats, and expressions that suggested they had reviewed every rumor three times before leaving London.

Henry whispered, "The ministries are moving faster than Parliament usually does."

Phillip answered quietly, "They are afraid of falling behind."

The eldest official introduced himself. "Sir Rowan Atley, Undersecretary for Internal Affairs. This is Mr. Bishop from the Post Office and Mr. Wetherby from the Ministry of Transport."

Phillip resisted the urge to sigh. Three ministries in one visit. "What can I assist you with, gentlemen?"

Sir Rowan cleared his throat. "To be direct, Lord Wellington… Britain has taken notice. The demonstration at Southsea has convinced the government that your telegraph is no longer a speculative device. It is real. It works. And it must be implemented—not only for the Navy, but across the entire nation."

Henry froze for a moment beside him. Phillip remained still, but a ripple went through his thoughts. He had expected the railways to adopt it first, perhaps the Post Office later. He had not expected every ministry to converge on him within hours of the test.

Sir Rowan continued, "We are here to begin coordination. Britain must not fall behind France or Prussia if they develop similar devices. We intend to standardize the system across all domestic communication. That includes rail dispatching, mail networks, government directives, and provincial administration."

Mr. Wetherby spoke next. "We want a national plan. A blueprint for the entire kingdom."

Phillip folded his arms. "That cannot be done overnight."

"We do not expect overnight," Bishop said, "but we must begin immediately. Messages between cities take days. Between departments, sometimes weeks. This telegraph… your telegraph… would change everything."

Phillip had known this moment would come. The moment when the invention ceased belonging to him alone and became a matter of state. But he had imagined it later, after he had strengthened the lines, tested longer distances, refined the batteries. Now the ministries wanted the system while it was still developing.

He said slowly, "If you wish to deploy it nationally, you must understand the labor involved. Thousands of poles. Hundreds of miles of wire. Stations staffed by trained operators—people who know how to decode messages without error."

Bishop nodded eagerly. "We can recruit and train them."

Phillip shook his head. "Training is not enough. They must learn discipline. A telegraph station does not sleep. A single careless operator can delay or distort a message."

Sir Rowan's tone softened. "We understand the responsibility. But Britain has never faced a moment like this. The Prime Minister believes this technology may determine the kingdom's future strength. If messages can travel from London to Liverpool in seconds, our government would be transformed."

Phillip looked toward the workers hauling timber near the pole racks. "Transformations require structure. Coordination. If the ministries try to build separate lines, chaos will follow. This system must be unified."

"That is precisely why we came," Sir Rowan said. "We want you to draft the national plan."

Henry blinked. "All of it?"

Sir Rowan nodded. "Every mile. Every junction. Every station."

Phillip exhaled through his nose. It was not frustration, but calculation. "I will draft the plan. But I will not have three separate authorities dictating three different visions."

The men exchanged glances.

Phillip continued, "The telegraph system must operate under one body. One chain of responsibility. One set of standards."

Bishop adjusted his spectacles. "You propose a central authority?"

"Yes. A Telegraph Commission."

Sir Rowan raised an eyebrow. "And who would oversee it?"

Phillip looked him directly in the eye. "Someone who understands the system."

Henry nearly dropped his notebook. "You mean yourself."

Phillip did not answer, but the silence said enough.

The officials spent the next hour touring the foundry. They watched as wire drawers stretched copper into thin lengths, as mechanics calibrated the electromagnets, as apprentices coated fresh insulators. Every step fascinated them. They asked dozens of questions—about voltage, distance limits, variations in resistance, and whether storms could disrupt the current.

Phillip answered each question with calm precision. When they finished, the officials gathered near the yard gate.

Sir Rowan spoke with new resolve. "Lord Wellington, the government will support the creation of your Telegraph Commission. The Prime Minister will likely approve by week's end. But Parliament will want a formal address. They will want to hear the vision from your own voice."

Henry whispered, "He means a speech. Before both Houses."

Phillip felt the weight of that. He was not a politician. He preferred metal, wire, and structure—things that obeyed rules. But if this was what Britain required to move forward, he would do it.

"When Parliament is ready," he said, "I will speak."

The officials bowed and departed, leaving the foundry unusually quiet.

Henry approached. "You just agreed to plan the communication system for the entire country."

Phillip glanced at the stack of fresh poles. "Better to build it now than repair it later."

Henry shook his head. "Do you understand what this means? Every ministry, every railway, every port, every barracks—they will all rely on this."

Phillip did not hesitate. "That is the point."

The next days unfolded like a tide accelerating across the kingdom.

Messages arrived from cities Phillip had never visited. Edinburgh requested information on operator training. Manchester wanted to know how many poles were needed for twenty miles. Bristol asked if telegraph lines could be run alongside existing roads. Even Dublin sent a letter, inquiring whether an undersea cable was possible—something Phillip had not yet dared to propose.

Henry kept pace as best he could, drafting replies, sorting requests, and helping Phillip adjust new diagrams. The foundry expanded its output daily. Carpenters erected temporary sheds to store crossbars. Blacksmiths shaped more anchors. A team dedicated solely to battery production worked long hours in a ventilated annex.

One afternoon, Phillip stood at the center of the drafting room, comparing maps of railway routes, postal carriage roads, and naval stations. He marked intersections where lines could converge: Birmingham, York, Carlisle, Exeter, Norwich.

Henry placed a stack of new letters beside him. "More endorsements. The Duke of Rutland supports a Midlands line. The Bishop of Salisbury requests one for his diocese. The mining companies want lines too."

Phillip scanned the letters briefly. "These are endorsements, yes. But they also reveal something else."

Henry waited.

"Everyone wants speed," Phillip said. "Even those who do not yet understand what speed means."

A knock sounded. A telegraph runner—not from the Admiralty this time, but from the Railway Board—entered and handed Phillip a message.

He read it, then handed it to Henry.

"Board approves integration of telegraph lines into all future rail construction. Full national cooperation granted."

Henry stared at it. "They're endorsing you. Completely."

Phillip nodded. "Good. We will need their rails as pathways."

By the end of the week, the Telegraph Commission was formally announced.

It was met with enthusiasm, confusion, and a bit of fear.

Newspapers celebrated it as the dawn of a new era. Business owners speculated about being able to send market reports instantly. Provincial officials imagined issuing orders without waiting for couriers. Even ordinary citizens felt the shift. They gathered near construction sites, pointing at the long lines of poles and asking questions.

Some feared it too.

A few pamphlets warned that electricity was unnatural. That messages traveling faster than a horse were an offense to tradition. But these fears faded as quickly as they appeared. People might worry, but they also understood progress. Britain had changed before. It would change again.

And Phillip was at the center of it.

The chapter ends as Phillip stands in the yard at dusk, watching the first national telegraph pole being raised—not for a rail line, not for the Navy, but for the kingdom itself.

Henry stepped beside him. "It has begun."

Phillip nodded. "Britain is about to grow a new spine."

"And you are the one shaping it."

Phillip watched the workers secure the pole, the copper wire coiling behind them like a vein waiting to carry thought.

"No," he said softly. "Britain is shaping itself. I am only giving it a way to speak."

The wind carried the smell of sea and steel across the yard. In the distance, more poles waited. More wire. More men ready to work through the night.

The old world was already fading behind them.

The new one was rising—one message at a time.

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