In the weeks preceding the departure of the Eastern Expedition, Arthur Lionheart, Prince Consort of the Realm, had already secured an unexpected victory: he had won the unwavering loyalty of the troops not through medals or proclamations, but by the simple expedient of feeding them properly. It was a novelty so rare in the British Army that it bordered on the miraculous.
Yet this was only the prelude.
Under his personal supervision, and with the considerable resources of the Future Industrial Group, a series of refined and modernised armaments had been produced—nothing supernatural, nothing beyond the horizon of engineering, but enough to make seasoned officers whisper to one another long after meetings had adjourned.
There were:
breech-loading rifles, whose improved mechanisms offered a rapidity of fire that left the old flintlock muskets hopelessly antiquated;
reliable six-shot revolvers, compact and lethal at close quarters;
artillery shells with reinforced points, designed to bite through timber hulls before releasing their destructive charge.
These were not the inventions of a dreamer, but the tools of a shrewd, relentlessly practical mind.
And the Admiralty, accustomed to cautious incrementalism, found itself unsettled by the vision of this young man who thought nothing of dragging the Empire a decade forward in the span of a single season.
The London press, ever hungry for spectacle, called the expedition the Triumph of Modern Industry.
The public, stirred by equal measures of patriotism and curiosity, expected the East to be shaken by Britain's new steel and discipline.
But at Westminster, the atmosphere grew increasingly taut.
For Arthur Lionheart, with that particular blend of serenity and inflexibility that made even political veterans uneasy, had prepared his boldest declaration yet.
The Supreme Military Council convened under the chairmanship of Lord Melbourne, whose weariness was beginning to show in the deepening creases of his brow. The grand map of the Eastern theatre dominated the room, its seas and capes cast in the pale glow of winter light.
It was there, before ministers and generals of every faction, that Arthur spoke.
«Gentlemen,» he began, voice composed, «I have resolved to accompany the expeditionary fleet in person.»
Silence—absolute, unbreathing silence—followed.
Lord Melbourne's pipe fell from his lips; the Duke of Wellington straightened as though dragged upright by invisible cords. The First Lord of the Admiralty nearly overturned his chair in shock.
«Your Royal Highness—! You cannot be serious! You intend to embark yourself?»
«Entirely so.»
The uproar that ensued resembled more a tempest than a council.
«It is unthinkable!» cried the Chancellor of the Exchequer. «You are the Prince Consort—Her Majesty's confidant, the father of the future sovereign! The stability of the Empire cannot hinge upon the hazards of a distant campaign!»
«No battlefield spares a prince!» thundered the Commander-in-Chief. «We cannot, and will not, allow such peril!»
Whig and Tory alike united in unanimous protest—a spectacle so rare that, had the matter been less grave, it might have been recorded as a political miracle.
But Arthur merely waited.
He did not interrupt.
He did not raise his voice.
He simply stood, serene as a column of marble, while their objections spent themselves in frantic waves.
When the room at last grew exhausted, he spoke again.
«I understand your concerns,» he said, his tone steady, faintly touched with something that might have been amusement—or disdain. «Yet permit me to pose three questions.»
He extended a gloved hand toward the dossiers.
«First: among those present, who is versed in the precise maintenance and calibration of our new breech-loading rifles?
Who can, in the heat of campaign, diagnose a fouled mechanism or instruct a company in proper care?»
No one answered.
«Second: who possesses adequate knowledge of the reinforced artillery shells?
They must be stored with meticulous attention to climate. Their fuses demand an exactitude not yet taught in Sandhurst nor Woolwich.
Can any of you guarantee their full efficacy in equatorial humidity?»
Faces shifted, but no voice rose.
«Third: regarding the preserved rations—the compressed biscuits, the improved tinned meats, the quinine tablets—who here understands their proper distribution?
Which of your quartermasters, accustomed to rum and ship's biscuit, can calculate the nutritional demands of a modern, mechanised marching force?»
The silence deepened until even the fire in the grate seemed hesitant to crackle.
Arthur Lionheart exhaled softly.
Then he delivered his final blow—a masterstroke not of military strategy, but of political economy.
«Gentlemen, you must also grasp a matter of principle.»
His gaze grew colder, keener.
«This expedition is not merely the undertaking of the British Empire.
It is, in no small measure, my own enterprise.»
He enumerated the facts with a coolness that bordered on merciless.
«The armoured cruiser Queen's Vengeance was financed by my private purse.
The patents for the rifles are held by my manufactories.
The preserved foods and medicines originate from my laboratories.»
«I have invested more than seven hundred thousand pounds sterling in this campaign.»
A murmur rippled across the council chamber.
Arthur continued, undeterred.
«And as the principal investor, I am obliged to ensure that my capital is neither squandered through ignorance nor rendered inert by misuse.
I must oversee the technical deployment, the logistical distribution, and the operational integration of every innovation I provide.»
His voice did not rise; it simply hardened.
«Thus, I do not embark as Prince Consort—nor as heir-presumptive to the throne.
I embark as Royal Chief Military Adviser, vested with supervisory authority,
and as Imperial Inspector for the Expeditionary Force.»
«I shall witness with my own eyes how my weapons are fired, how my provisions are administered, how my ship performs under the weight of its duty.»
A faint, razor-thin smile curved at the corner of his mouth—cold, political, unmistakably calculating.
«Surely, gentlemen… no one here is in a position to refuse.»
The chamber fell into utter resignation.
Lord Melbourne covered his face with both hands and let out a groan that seemed to carry the exhaustion of the entire government.
«He has bested us again,» he murmured.
«And with the remorseless logic of industry, He had found the most "reasonable" excuse for his crazy "personal expedition" in the most unconventional yet unassailable way..»