While Arthur , in London, was patiently pruning the branches of Britain's future ruling class — cultivating elite minds with new sciences and colder logic, like a gardener shaping a dangerous but magnificent tree —
Across the Atlantic, in **Washington City**, within the walls of the White House,
The President of the United States, **John Tyler**, was very nearly choking on his own fury.
"This is intolerable," he roared.
"Utterly intolerable!"
He slammed the latest intelligence report onto the great oak desk of the Oval Office with such force that the inkstand rattled.
The words on the page felt like a vice closing around his chest.
The British canal project in **Panama**, driven forward by their infernal high-yield explosives and relentless steam excavators, was advancing at a terrifying pace.
At the current rate, within three years at most, a golden artery would be carved through the isthmus — wide enough for Britain's ironclads to pass freely between the Atlantic and the Pacific.
Worse still, **New Granada**, nominally sovereign over Panama, had long since surrendered in all but name. British gold spoke louder than flags; British rifles ensured obedience. Its president now spoke of British engineers with greater affection than his own kin.
Tyler needed no strategist to tell him what this meant.
If Britain completed that canal, the American continent would be split like ripe fruit — its heart controlled from London.
The Royal Navy could surge from ocean to ocean at will, threatening the long, exposed western coast of the United States.
Manifest Destiny would be strangled in its cradle.
And the Monroe Doctrine — *America for Americans* — would become the most humiliating joke ever uttered on the world stage.
"We can wait no longer," Tyler growled.
"Another year, and it will be too late."
Steeped to the bone in expansionist fervor, he paced like a trapped animal.
He summoned the Cabinet. He summoned congressional leaders of both parties. The meeting that followed was nothing short of a national convulsion.
Standing before them, Tyler delivered the most incendiary address of his presidency.
"Gentlemen!" he thundered. "This land beneath our feet is the inheritance of the American people, ordained by Providence itself! Its destiny must be shaped by our hands alone!"
"But now," he continued, his voice thick with rage, "the English lion of Europe stretches its blood-stained claws into our hemisphere! Into the very throat of the continent — that waterway which belongs, by right, to the Americas!"
"They bribe governments! They dress conquest in treaties! They prop up artificial states like Texas — a malignant growth thrust into our rightful future!"
He swept the room with blazing eyes.
"Shall we endure this? Shall we bow?"
"No!"
"We are Americans! We fled British tyranny once — and we will never submit to its return!"
The chamber erupted.
Cries of war filled the air.
With public opinion aflame and Congress unified in rare belligerence, President John Tyler made his decision.
He drafted an **ultimatum** — personal, uncompromising, and reckless.
Days later, in the British Foreign Office, **Lord Palmerston** stared at the American diplomatic note in silence.
His expression was… peculiar.
Somewhere between irritation and disbelief.
He did not linger.
Within the hour, he was at **Buckingham Palace**.
"Your Majesty. Your Highness," he said dryly, presenting the document.
"The Americans appear to have lost their senses."
Arthur Lionheart read the note beside Queen Victoria.
It contained three demands — each phrased as if Britain were a minor republic rather than an empire.
1. Immediate and unconditional cessation of all British operations in Panama.
2. Total withdrawal of support from Texas and recognition of it as American territory.
3. Complete evacuation of British fleets from the Caribbean and a pledge of permanent non-interference in the Western Hemisphere.
At the bottom, the threat was unmistakable.
**War.**
Victoria's cheeks flushed crimson.
"The audacity," she said sharply. "How dare he address us in such a manner?"
Arthur finished reading.
Then he laughed.
Not a polite chuckle.
A genuine, uncontrollable burst of laughter that bent him forward, tears bright at the corners of his eyes.
"My dear," Victoria asked, startled, "what on earth do you find amusing?"
Arthur straightened slowly, wiping his eyes.
"I find," he said softly, "that President Tyler is a magnificent fool."
He looked at the ultimatum again — not with anger, but with delight.
A predator recognizing opportunity.
"He has played his final card," Arthur continued, his voice turning cold and precise. "And in doing so, he has invited catastrophe upon his own house."
He folded the paper neatly.
"It appears," he said, smiling faintly, "that it is time for my *old acquaintances in the American South* to rediscover certain… revolutionary sentiments."
Victoria studied him, half-amused, half-uneasy.
"Arthur," she said, "what exactly do you intend to do?"
He leaned closer, his tone light, almost playful — but his eyes were merciless.
"My love," he replied, "I intend to teach Washington what happens when one issues ultimatums to an empire that prefers civil wars to negotiations."
Outside, London slept peacefully.
Across the ocean, history had already begun to fracture.