The next morning, Portsmouth Dockyard did not feel like a place building a ship.
It felt like a place building a statement.
By now, the rumors had spread. Visitors came. Journalists from London stood on platforms. Politicians sent aides disguised as "logistics investigators." Officers from the French embassy had been spotted in the crowd. Even an American naval attaché lingered for a full hour, taking notes more discreetly than he thought.
Phillip ignored them all.
He walked straight into Dry Dock No. 4.
The ribs of the ironclad now rose like the skeleton of some colossal creature — curved, towering, precise. Workers didn't climb scaffolding anymore; they navigated between steel arches like engineers inside a machine.
Henry stood at the corner, rubbing his eyes, a stack of sketches in his arms. He looked exhausted — but there was fire in his expression.
"They're ahead of schedule," he muttered as Phillip approached. "Barron just told me we can begin plating by next week."
