The announcement came in the second week after the Southsea test, when Phillip's coastal line had already reached Fort Cumberland and crews were preparing the next stretch toward Dover. The weather had been harsh the night before, heavy winds pulling against the poles, but the lines held. The improvements Phillip demanded had worked. Stronger resin, deeper anchoring stones, brass connectors sealed twice over. The Navy sent word that the signal remained clear through the worst of the storm.

Then Parliament acted.

It happened faster than expected. Newspapers had begun printing stories about the telegraph trials, though most writers misunderstood the technology entirely. Some called it an electric semaphore. Others claimed it was a railway-only device. One paper insisted the Navy was secretly testing a lightning-based weapon. Public confusion grew, but so did public interest.

By the time Phillip returned to London for a scheduled report, the Palace of Westminster was already buzzing with debate.

He stepped out of the carriage with Henry at his side. The morning fog on the Thames made the entire riverbank appear suspended, as if the building itself rose from drifting cloud. Parliament guards opened the door without ceremony. Word had spread that the inventor of the telegraph system had arrived.

Inside the Central Hall, voices rang from every direction. Phillip walked past groups of MPs arguing in tight clusters. Some nodded at him. Others narrowed their eyes. One man whispered something sharply to a colleague as Phillip passed.

Henry leaned in slightly. "They look ready to swallow each other whole."

Phillip did not break stride. "That means they have already chosen sides. We will see which side wins."

When they reached Committee Room Four, the Sergeant at Arms opened the door. The chamber was filled. Two long tables faced each other, occupied by MPs, industrial representatives, military observers, and a few invited experts from universities. At the far end sat the chair, Lord Pembroke, who tapped the table lightly to signal quiet.

"Lord Wellington," Pembroke said. "Please take your place."

Phillip stepped forward. Several MPs studied him as though he were a weapon rather than a person. Henry stood a pace behind him with his notebook ready.

Pembroke cleared his throat. "We convene today to address the matter of national telegraphic expansion. Reports from the Admiralty and the Railway Board indicate that Lord Wellington's invention has succeeded in implementing real-time communication across significant distance. The question before us is whether this system should become a matter of national infrastructure."

A murmur went through the chamber.

Phillip remained silent until addressed.

Pembroke turned toward him. "Lord Wellington, your testimony. Begin with your assessment of the current network."

Phillip stepped to the center. "At present, we have three functioning lines. A short inland test line in Shropshire. A civilian rail line running six miles. And a coastal line from Southsea to Fort Cumberland, with extension toward Dover underway. All three are operational. All three have demonstrated stable message transmission. Failures occurred during heavy wind, but corrective measures have been implemented with success."

MP Randall, a stout man known for opposing any new expenditure, leaned back. "So we are to build wires across the entire country because three lines did not fall apart in a breeze."

Phillip kept his tone even. "If Parliament chooses not to act, private companies and the Admiralty will act regardless. The nation will have a telegraph network. The question is whether it will be organized or chaotic."

Small noises rose from several benches.

Pembroke gestured. "Explain your proposal."

Phillip stepped beside the large map pinned to the wall. Lines had been drawn in charcoal showing rough routes: rail corridors, coastal paths, trunk lines between major cities. Henry handed him a pointer.

"We begin with existing infrastructure. Railways already give us cleared land and right-of-way. Telegraph poles can follow the tracks with minimal disruption. From London to Birmingham. From Birmingham to Manchester. From Manchester to Liverpool." He tapped each line. "These are your first arteries."

He moved the pointer southeast. "The Navy requires swift communication along the coast. Portsmouth to Dover. Dover to Harwich. Harwich to Yarmouth. The same method applies."

"What of Scotland?" an MP asked.

Phillip marked the northern lines. "Edinburgh. Glasgow. Aberdeen. The terrain is more challenging, but the railroads there exist or are under construction. The poles follow the lines."

A second MP raised his hand. "And Ireland?"

Phillip faced him. "Ireland can build its own inland network. We cannot cross the sea. Telegraphy cannot yet reach ships in open water."

"Yet," someone muttered.

Phillip ignored it.

Pembroke leaned forward. "You are proposing a national build. That requires manpower, timber, copper, iron, and protected access across private land."

Phillip nodded. "Yes."

MP Randall scoffed. "And a fortune in funds. Britain has other priorities. Naval expansion. Education. Poor relief."

Phillip answered calmly. "A nation that speaks faster governs faster. Responds faster. Protects its people faster. Telegraphy is not luxury. It is the spine of modern administration."

Silence followed the statement.

An MP from the northern counties lifted a document. "We received testimony from the families of the railway crash victims. They attribute the accident to lack of timely communication. Is it true your system would have prevented the tragedy?"

Phillip paused. "Nothing prevents all tragedy. But the delay that caused the collision would not have occurred. The stations would have known each other's situation instantly. The track would have been closed."

Several MPs murmured approval.

Randall scowled. "We cannot base national policy on sorrow-driven sentiment."

Phillip looked at him. "Then base it on numbers. Every hour that Britain remains a nation of slow messages is another hour foreign powers can act before we respond. France and Prussia will not ignore what happened at Southsea. They know now that we are attempting to build a communication system faster than theirs. They will act. Your choice is whether Britain outruns them or falls behind."

The room grew tense.

Pembroke tapped the table. "Lord Wellington, explain the manpower requirement."

Phillip gestured to Henry, who handed him a list. "We need pole crews, carpenters, wire drawers, battery manufacturers, and telegraph operators. Many tasks require only basic training. Villages may participate. Town councils may coordinate. The work will employ thousands."

Another MP spoke. "And who oversees the system? The Navy wants their own lines. The Railway Board wants theirs. Will Britain end up with a web of competing networks?"

This question mattered. Phillip stepped closer to the center.

"We establish a National Telegraph Office."

Randall nearly rose from his seat. "Absolutely not. Another government department is the last thing this country needs."

Phillip did not yield. "Then the networks will clash. The Navy will build their lines first. The Railways will be pushed aside. Private companies will build their own. Each system will use different codes. Different equipment. Messages will not transfer cleanly. A man in Manchester will not be able to speak to a man in Portsmouth without sending three separate wires."

Pembroke raised a hand. "Lord Wellington, you propose national standardization."

"Yes," Phillip said. "One code. One set of instruments. One training system. One map."

A thin MP with grey hair spoke softly. "And who leads this office?"

Phillip shook his head. "Not me. I build systems, not bureaucracies. But whoever leads it must answer to Parliament, not to military command. Civilian oversight ensures balance."

Pens scratched across paper. Even Randall wrote something down.

Pembroke closed his folder. "Lord Wellington, Parliament will vote this week on whether to approve the National Telegraph Act. If passed, construction will begin by summer."

Phillip bowed his head slightly. "Then may the vote be in Britain's favor."

Pembroke dismissed him. Phillip and Henry stepped out into the hallway where noise spilled from adjacent rooms. Reporters waited outside the entrance. Once Phillip appeared, they rushed toward him.

"Lord Wellington, is it true the Navy has requested exclusive access to the coastal line?"

"Will telegraphs replace railway semaphore entirely?"

"How long until a message can be sent from London to Scotland?"

"Is it dangerous? We heard the wires can catch fire."

Phillip kept walking. Reporters trailed until guards blocked them.

Henry exhaled when they reached the courtyard. "That was one of your better performances."

Phillip folded his gloves. "It was not a performance."

"Parliament will still treat it like one."

Phillip looked across the Thames where barges floated past in the mist. "They will approve it. They must. Britain cannot stand still."

The next days moved quickly. Newspapers published sketches of telegraph poles spreading across the countryside. Cartographers began marking proposed lines on new maps. Merchants sent letters to MPs, urging them to approve the system to improve trade speed. Ship captains petitioned for coastal warnings and storm reports transmitted faster than lighthouse signals.

Industrial towns wrote petitions too. Cities like Manchester and Birmingham argued that telegraphy would allow factories to communicate with ports, reducing spoilage in shipments and coordinating labor schedules.

Even certain aristocrats supported it. Estates along the proposed routes argued that faster communication would help manage tenants and improve transport coordination.

Only a few groups resisted. Some rural communities feared the wires, calling them unnatural or dangerous. Certain political factions feared increased government oversight. A handful of railway companies disliked losing control to a national system.

But momentum outweighed caution.

When the day of the vote arrived, the gallery was full. Phillip did not sit among them. He waited outside on the stone steps, hands clasped behind his back, Henry pacing with a restless stride.

A messenger burst through the doors.

Henry straightened. "Well?"

The messenger smiled. "The Act passed. Overwhelming majority."

Henry let out a long breath. "Phillip, you did it."

Phillip did not celebrate. He simply nodded. "Then we begin."

Parliament's decision spread quickly across Britain. Word traveled faster than any coach. Towns began clearing routes. Villages offered local labor. Merchants pledged supplies. The Navy prepared resources for the coastal expansions. The Railway Board released detailed maps for pole placement. Copper mines increased production. Tar yards expanded output.

Within a week, construction teams assembled in every major region. Telegraph poles rose along the London to Birmingham route. Railside towns watched in fascination as crews hammered braces and hoisted the long timber beams into place. Children followed the crews at a distance, whispering that the wires carried trapped storms.

In the coastal regions, gale winds slowed progress but did not stop it. Poles marched across cliffs, dunes, and battery walls. Soldiers assisted where terrain grew dangerous. Lighthouse keepers studied the wires curiously, unsure whether they were witnessing a new tool or a new age.

Newspapers printed daily updates. Maps showing the expanding lines hung in public squares. Crowds gathered to watch the first messages transmitted between towns only miles apart. Some saw the wires as miracles. Others called them sorcery. But no one ignored them.

Henry spent his days riding between construction sites, recording progress. Phillip oversaw the major hubs. London. Portsmouth. Birmingham. Manchester. Each location needed a central station with secure battery rooms and trained operators.

Training became its own challenge. Telegraphy required precision. Operators needed to understand timing, rhythm, electrical resistance, and maintenance of instruments. Phillip created a simple handbook. Operators read it by candlelight in barracks and depot offices. A few grasped it immediately. Most required weeks of practice. But slowly, the workforce grew.

By midsummer, the first trunk line from London to Birmingham was complete. The inaugural message traveled the route in less than a second. Crowds cheered when the sounder clicked.

The coast expanded slower but steady. Dover linked with Portsmouth through a fused route. Signals travelled from one battery to another before the ink dried on the reporting sheets.

Phillip stepped outside Southsea Fort one evening, watching the sunset cut an orange line across the water. Henry joined him.

"You realize what has happened," Henry said. "The country is reshaping itself around your invention."

Phillip continued watching the horizon. "It is not mine anymore. It belongs to the nation."

"And the world will follow. They always do."

Phillip finally looked at him. "We are not done. The lines must be tested in all conditions. Storms. Frost. Heavy fog. Human error. We are building more than wires. We are building trust."

Henry closed his notebook slowly. "Do you ever stop thinking about the work?"

Phillip shook his head. "If we stop, the world does not."

Southsea's waves struck the stone walls in steady rhythm. Telegraph poles stood tall along the coastline, their wires humming in the wind.

Across Britain, thousands of men worked through the night. Hammers. Saws. Horses pulling carts of timber. Sparks rising from foundries. Copper glinting under lantern light.

The nation was speaking.

The wires were becoming its voice.

And Phillip knew the next challenge was already on the horizon.

The system was built.

Now it had to endure.

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