Plymouth Harbour, late March of 1839.
For centuries, this harbour had been the proud cradle of the Royal Navy. From its waters had sailed the vessels that carried British influence across the world and returned bearing victory, wealth, and the weight of empire. But on this brisk spring morning, Plymouth stood ready to witness a departure unmatched in its long history.
Crowds packed the quays, the rooftops, and the rising hills. Banners snapped in the wind, colours of the realm bright against the pale sky. A temporary platform had been erected along the docks, occupied by ministers, members of Parliament, and distinguished figures of the royal household—each present to honour the fleet the newspapers had already begun calling the nation's chosen sword.
Beyond the harbour walls, more than forty warships waited at anchor in dignified silence. At their head, drawing every gaze, loomed the iron-black silhouette of the HMS Queen's Vengeance—a towering engine of steel and steam.
Around her, the newest three-deck "Britannia-class" ships floated with stately grace. Their carved timbers and billowing sails seemed almost classical beside the ironclad colossus at their centre: a meeting of eras, the venerable knight and the armoured modern warrior standing side by side.
At the stroke of ten, the blare of brass announced the arrival of the royal carriage. A ripple of movement passed through the crowds.
Queen Victoria had come to the harbour in person.
She wore not ceremonial finery but a dark navy dress, elegant and deliberately understated, suited to the gravity of the day. Her expression was composed, yet her eyes—clear blue, still youthful—showed the faintest shadows of unrest.
In her arms she carried a small bundle swaddled in soft wool: Viky, her daughter.
The sight of Queen and child standing against the sea wind stirred every soldier, every sailor, every civilian. The entire harbour felt the weight of history settling upon its shoulders.
Awaiting them at the quay stood Arthur Lionheart, Prince Consort of the United Kingdom.
He wore a sharply tailored naval officer's uniform, dark blue and perfectly fitted to his frame. The ivory-hilted sabre given to him by the Duke of Wellington rested at his side—less an ornament than a symbol of burden and duty.
Arthur stepped forward and bowed with crisp military formality.
"Your Majesty."
"Arthur."
Her voice wavered almost imperceptibly. After a moment, she lifted Viky and placed the child gently in his arms.
"Look, my love," she murmured to the infant, "Father is here. Say farewell to him."
Arthur held Viky awkwardly at first, unaccustomed to her warm, fragile weight. She gazed up at him—her blue eyes a perfect blend of his and Victoria's, bright and searching. One tiny hand reached out and seized the brass button on his uniform with astonishing determination.
His composure faltered. Something deep in him softened, then melted entirely. Bending down, he pressed a kiss to Viky's forehead.
"I'll return to you, my little one," he whispered.
He handed her back to Victoria. Then, in full view of ministers, sailors, and common folk, he drew his wife into his arms—no formality, but the true, reluctant farewell of a husband bound for distant waters.
"Look after yourself," he murmured against her hair. "Look after Viky. Don't let Parliament grind you down. And if any of those grey old men try to bully you while I'm gone—just wait until I return. I'll deal with them one by one."
A shaky laugh escaped her, followed by tears.
"And you," she whispered, gripping him as if the world might swallow him at any moment, "promise me you will be safe. I care nothing for triumph or conquest. I only want you home—alive."
He cupped her face, thumb brushing away her tears.
"My love, do you forget how fast Queen's Vengeance is? She bows to no wind. She will carry me to the Orient and back before the seasons can turn."
He kissed her brow gently.
"When Viky can say 'Papa' clearly, I shall return. With honour, yes—but more importantly, with my life. For my Queen is waiting at home."
Then he kissed her—deeply, unashamedly, a vow made before all present.
And at that moment, something wondrous happened.
Little Viky, nestled against Victoria's shoulder, lifted her hand toward her father's retreating figure and—her voice soft yet startlingly clear—uttered:
"Pa… pa…"
One broken syllable. Imperfect, but unmistakable.
The harbour seemed to fall utterly silent.
Victoria's tears returned—this time tears of radiant joy. Arthur froze mid-step, turning as though struck, and met his daughter's reaching hand and his wife's trembling smile.
His heart, hardened in preparation for war, broke open completely.
He knew now, more clearly than ever, why he fought.
There was no more room for hesitation.
He straightened his shoulders, turned toward the waiting gangway, and strode aboard the Queen's Vengeance.
Rear-Admiral Yewell and the assembled officers saluted sharply. Arthur climbed to the forward bridge, the sea wind clawing at his coat, and raised his arm.
"Set sail!"
The command rang across the deck like a bell of destiny.
Signal flags unfurled. Steam roared through the engines. Slowly at first, then with gathering certainty, the great fleet began to move. The iron hull of Queen's Vengeance cut through the water in a clean white wake, and the Britannia-class ships followed as loyal sentinels of an empire poised on the brink of a new chapter.
Arthur stood firm upon the bridge, watching as England's familiar coastline drifted away. On the quay, he could still make out the small shape of Victoria holding Viky, both figures trembling in the wind.
He forced himself to turn.
Ahead stretched the broad, unknown horizon: the political storms of the Orient, the weight of empire, the cold mathematics of war.
The fleet pressed forward—black silhouettes dwindling to shadows… then to faint lines against the grey-blue… then to nothing but memory in the meeting of sea and sky.
The Orient awaited.