Washington, D.C. — The White House
A roar erupted from the President's office, the cry of a wounded beast driven into a corner by rage and humiliation.
"Enough! This is intolerable!"
President John Tyler tore a classified intelligence report from Cuba into shreds, his hands shaking, then swept everything from his desk onto the floor like a man on the verge of collapse.
"Arthur Lionheart… that shameless, infernal bastard!"
His face had gone pale. Old blood thundered in his ears.
The news had just arrived.
The British Prince Consort—under the elegant mask of diplomacy—had absorbed the entire Caribbean pirate network through methods so ruthless and underhanded that American intelligence could scarcely comprehend them. Then, with a banquet of smiles hiding daggers, sugar-coated bullets fired without a single public shot, he had seized total control of Cuba's economic lifeblood.
Worse still, he had openly threatened the Spanish governor—hinting at support for Cuban independence.
This was no longer subtle interference.
This was a siege engine smashing directly through the gates.
The Monroe Doctrine—America for Americans—now looked pitiful, a paper shield against a man whose logic was brutally simple:
Where my fleet flies a flag, that land is mine.
"Daniel! Daniel!" Tyler bellowed hoarsely.
Secretary of State Daniel Webster rushed in.
"Mr. President, please—calm yourself."
"Calm?!" Tyler snarled, pointing at the wreckage. "The British fleet is fouling our backyard! Cuba is now their sugar estate! Next they'll turn Florida into a royal hunting preserve!"
"We must respond. Immediately. Ask Congress for a declaration of war against Britain!"
Webster went pale.
"Absolutely not! Mr. President—war with Britain? With what navy? Our wooden ships wouldn't survive a glance from the HMS Victory. New York would be blockaded before we could even dream of London."
"Then what do you suggest?" Tyler demanded. "Do we simply watch as they turn the entire continent into their playground?"
Webster had no answer.
For the first time since the founding of the Republic, America's leaders stood face to face with their own insignificance.
They even began to consider—quietly—whether a humiliating envoy to London might be necessary.
Then—
A new friend knocked on the door.
A Few Days Later
A Private Cigar Club, Washington
Webster received two guests in utmost secrecy.
One was Adolphe Bascher, newly appointed French Minister Plenipotentiary to the United States.
The other was Colonel Ignatiev, chief military attaché of the Russian Empire in North America.
Two men from rival empires, seated together by coincidence—or design.
They spoke of only one thing.
"Mr. Webster," Bascher began smoothly, brandy in hand, "France observes with great concern the… excessive assertiveness of a certain maritime hegemon."
"No nation," he continued softly, "should monopolize global trade and technology. A world ruled by one power alone is not merely unhealthy—it is dangerous."
Colonel Ignatiev followed, his English thick, his words few.
"His Majesty the Tsar believes America is a nation of destiny. Russia values friendship with such nations."
Webster understood instantly.
America, bruised and cornered, had attracted protectors.
Or patrons.
Bascher slid a document across the table.
"We understand President Tyler's ambition to construct a Transcontinental Pacific Railway, to counter British influence on your western coast."
"France," he smiled, "possesses unparalleled expertise in mountain railways. And Parisian bankers possess… enthusiasm for investment."
Before Webster could respond, Ignatiev produced blueprints.
"Our army excels at one thing," he said. "Breaking fortresses."
"These are designs for a 120mm field howitzer. Superior range. Superior force. His Majesty authorizes… a friendly technical exchange."
The White House
When Webster delivered these offerings, Tyler stared in disbelief.
Then he laughed—wildly.
"So," he breathed, eyes blazing, "Arthur Lionheart believes himself master of the world?"
"He is wrong."
"With such arrogance, he has frightened every power into unity against him!"
He envisioned steel rails stretching westward, American capital, French engineers, Russian guns.
At last—strength.
He did not realize.
London
The Thames, Royal Pier
Two fast mail steamers arrived simultaneously.
One from Le Havre.
One from Kronstadt.
They carried sealed letters—one from Prime Minister Thiers, the other from Count Orlov, confidant of the Tsar.
Both bypassed foreign offices.
Both went straight to Buckingham Palace.
To Arthur Lionheart's desk.
He decrypted them leisurely, using his private cipher.
Thiers wrote:
Your Royal Highness, all proceeds smoothly. The Americans accepted your suggestion eagerly. The Pacific Railway survey team departs next month. France thanks you for these… opportunities.
Orlov was blunter:
Arthur, the Americans purchased the artillery designs you provided—designs our own arsenals do not yet understand. They paid handsomely. Thirty percent has reached your Swiss account.
Arthur Lionheart smiled.
A director watching his masterpiece unfold.
Everything—every outrage, every alliance—had been orchestrated.
He had provoked America into desperation.
He had whispered to France and Russia that Britain threatened their futures.
Then, with exquisite irony, he had allowed them to "aid" America—against himself.
Now three rising powers were bound together in suspicion, investment, and rivalry.
A beautiful, murderous triangle.
Britain could withdraw, pristine and calm.
And rule—from above.
Arthur glanced toward a portrait of Queen Victoria.
"My dear Victoria," he murmured with a playful softness reserved only for her, "while they struggle with ambition and fear… we shall dance."
Then his voice hardened.
"John Tyler… never gamble against the man who owns the casino—and deals every hidden card."