The white flag delegation was still ashore when the first ripples of panic began to ripple through the Qing fortifications.
From the deck of the Queen's Vengeance, Arthur observed the distant fortresses with detach.
Through his spyglass he saw officers in silk-trimmed coats hurrying along the battlements, pointing toward the British fleet, shouting orders that contradicted one another almost immediately. Soldiers jogged in lines that dissolved into chaos. Cannon crews struggled to move outdated iron guns—some too corroded to turn properly, others tilted at angles that made aiming pointless.
Yewell murmured, "They don't know whether to fire or bow."
"That," Arthur replied, "is the precise position we want them in."
Confusion made men unpredictable;
uncertainty made governments compliant.
But terror—properly applied—made them obedient.
On the shoreline, the British delegation was escorted into a low stone building. Qing banners hung limp outside, colors fading under the weight of humidity and neglect.
Arthur tracked their movements carefully.
Inside, the officers would be reading and re-reading the document that Arthur himself had drafted during the voyage. The language had been intentionally precise—every article polished into a scalpel.
The terms did not demand surrender.
They demanded participation.
Trade concessions.
Controlled port access.
The right to station "liaison officers" whose authority would, in practice, overshadow the local mandarins.
And most crucially:
If Qing forces fired upon the British while these negotiations were active, Britain would treat it as a deliberate attack on a diplomatic mission.
Internationally indefensible.
Morally indefensible.
Politically suicidal.
Arthur had not brought forty warships to force compliance.
He had brought them to make refusal irrational.
Yewell watched him cautiously.
"You believe they'll break quickly, sir?"
Arthur smiled without softness.
"They are not the target, Admiral. They are the example."
Yewell blinked, understanding dawning.
"You intend to use this moment to shape international law."
Arthur clasped his hands behind his back, posture immaculate.
"Power means little if it cannot be justified. What we establish here will echo across Asia for a century. Once it is accepted that industrial might enforces diplomacy—rather than replaces it—other nations will adjust. And every empire will seek Britain's favor."
He looked toward the distant fort again.
"Unless, of course, they choose to be foolish."
As if summoned by his words, a gunshot cracked from the shoreline.
Not loud.
Not aimed at anything.
A misfire—probably accidental.
But the effect was instantaneous.
Flags rose on the Qing battlements.
Men shouted.
The confusion thickened.
A single shot had broken the fragile illusion of calm.
Arthur did not flinch; he merely lowered the spyglass.
Yewell exhaled sharply.
"Do we respond, sir?"
Arthur shook his head.
"No. Not yet."
"Why?"
"Because the world is watching," Arthur said quietly, "and I want them to see who fires first."
A runner sprinted across the deck with a new report.
"Sir! Our delegation has been detained. The Qing officers are arguing among themselves whether to apologize… or to arrest them."
A murmur swept through the British officers.
Yewell's jaw tightened. "That borders on an act of war."
Arthur corrected him calmly:
"No, Admiral. That is an act of war. The question is whether we choose to acknowledge it now… or at the moment that benefits us most."
The sun climbed higher, burning away the last remnants of mist. Every fort was now visible. Every barrel of every outdated cannon pointed uselessly toward the sea.
Arthur stepped forward to the prow, placing one gloved hand on the chilled railing.
"Signal the fleet," he said.
"Form the line of advance."
Yewell nodded, then hesitated.
"And what message should accompany it?"
Arthur spoke softly, with the clarity of a verdict:
"We proceed under diplomatic protection.
If the forts fire, we respond.
If they do not, we advance."
"Advance how far?"
Arthur's eyes glittered.
"To the point where they understand that surrender is not humiliation…
but survival."
Below deck, engines roared to life.
Steam belched from exhaust stacks.
Metal plates shuddered as the pistons drove them forward.
The Queen's Vengeance began to move—slowly, deliberately—its shadow stretching across the water like the silhouette of a guillotine blade.
Fort by fort, flag by flag, the Qing garrisons watched as the British line advanced with the cold precision of a machine.
Yewell swallowed.
"They know we're coming."
Arthur did not look away from the narrowing distance.
"That," he said, "is the point."