That night, at the Governor's Residence, Havana
The banquet hall pulsed with the excessive enthusiasm characteristic of the Caribbean world.
To the rhythm of rumba music, Cuban dancers—scarcely dressed and expertly provocative—moved their hips in languid arcs, casting practiced glances toward every British officer present. Laughter, perfume, sweat, and sugar hung thick in the air.
Around them, Cuba's sugar barons and cigar magnates—men of Spanish blood and colonial privilege—circled Mr. Hanson and the senior British officers like obedient retainers. Aged rum flowed without pause. Vulgar jokes were offered eagerly. Every smile was rehearsed.
They all understood the truth.
They had seen the Victory Goddess anchored in the harbour—a steel leviathan breathing black smoke like a pagan god. They had heard how, overnight, the pirates of the Caribbean had "voluntarily" become loyal hounds of Her Majesty.
Against such force, resistance was not courage.
It was suicide.
And so, they crawled.
Yet Hanson appeared almost bored.
He ignored the dancers. He sipped his rum slowly.
Midway through the feast, he tapped his glass—softly.
The hall fell silent.
From his briefcase, he produced a document and an exquisitely crafted cigar.
"Gentlemen," Hanson said, wearing the same gentle smile so characteristic of Prince Arthur Lionheart, "His Highness is a man who deeply values peace and fair commerce. Violence, he believes, creates nothing. Cooperation, however, creates empires."
He handed the cigar to the nearest sugar magnate.
"This is a modest gift from His Highness. Produced by one of our British-aligned partners—the Republic of Texas. It uses the finest local tobacco leaves, blended with over twenty carefully selected spices, and rolled through a proprietary process."
He paused.
"We call it Lionheart's Cigar."
The sugar baron accepted it with trembling reverence.
Hanson personally lit it.
One draw.
The man's eyes widened.
A complex aroma—leather, cocoa, dried fruit—flooded his senses. Smooth beyond belief. It eclipsed even the finest Cuban tobacco.
"Extraordinary…" he whispered, unable to hide genuine awe.
Every cigar magnate present felt his pulse quicken.
They knew—instinctively—that a new luxury standard had been born.
And they knew who owned it.
"Of course," Hanson continued, calmly observing their hunger, "His Highness is… generous. He is prepared to share the production technology of Lionheart's Cigar with all friends present."
A collective breath was held.
"But," his tone shifted slightly as he laid the document upon the table, "there is one small condition."
He spoke gently.
"To better integrate Cuba's sugar and tobacco resources. To improve efficiency. And to facilitate deeper cooperation…"
"His Highness proposes the creation of a new entity—"
"—the Cuban Joint Sugar and Tobacco Export Company."
"This company will hold the exclusive overseas export rights for all Cuban sugar and cigars for the next thirty years."
"And the Future Industrial Group will retain… fifty-one percent controlling interest."
"In return, we shall provide advanced agricultural machinery, modern irrigation systems, and guaranteed purchase prices above current market value."
Silence fell like a blade.
Every man present understood the transaction.
With temptation in one hand and protection in the other, Britain had seized Cuba's economic artery without firing a shot.
These former masters were now—overnight—senior managers in a British system.
Resist?
Outside the window, the steel warship exhaled smoke.
No one even dared to imagine resistance.
Just as hesitation threatened to surface—
Hanson smiled at Governor Don Juan de Zavala, who had been restless all evening.
"Oh, Governor," Hanson added casually, "His Highness asked me to pass along one additional thought."
The words carried effortlessly across the room.
"While studying American history, His Highness has developed a deep admiration for the revolutionary ideals of Bolívar and San Martín."
A pause.
"He has also remarked that, in this age of Manifest Destiny and the Monroe Doctrine, the phrase 'America for the Americans' seems… rather logical."
The air froze.
"He is even considering the establishment of a Royal Promotion Association—a scholarly and humanitarian foundation—to observe and support liberation movements across the Americas."
The meaning struck like a thunderclap.
This was no academic curiosity.
This was a blade at Spain's throat.
The message was clear:
Accept Britain's civilized economic colonisation—profit together, politely.
Or watch Havana birth its own Bolívar, funded, armed, and "peacefully assisted" by British iron.
In that future, Spanish planters would harvest nothing.
And their heads would decorate the city walls.
Governor Zavala stared at Hanson's gentle smile.
He understood.
Cuba had no choice.
Neither did Spain.
From that moment on—
no one objected.