The frontier between the United States and Mexico stretched along the long, winding breath of the Rio Grande—an exhausted land that had endured two relentless years of war. Smoke clung to the valley like an unwanted veil; the once-green banks had surrendered to ash. Villages lay as empty shells, farms as blackened wounds. Vultures, the only creatures who prospered, moved with patient, morbid grace across their grisly banquets.
Two republics—one northern, one southern—had struck each other until both trembled on the edge of ruin. It was a duel neither could abandon, yet neither could win. From afar, Arthur Lionheart, architect of industries and whisperer of empires, had invested in both combatants with the same calm detachment one might reserve for a game of high strategy. His interest was not in their victory, but in the shape of the world that would rise when the smoke finally cleared.
General Zachary Taylor, soon to be President of the United States, surveyed the battered city of Matamoros from horseback. Through the cool brass of his telescope, he saw walls chewed ragged by artillery fire, houses that had given up the fight long ago. His soldiers, armed with British breech-loaders, had won every engagement—but each triumph brought him no closer to a true end. Mexico's French-made Napoléon cannons resisted every assault on their cities. It was a grisly dance, a contest of who could bleed longer without falling.
Meanwhile, in Mexico City, Santa Anna presided over a nation whose treasury had collapsed into a hollow echo. The cannons he had bought so dearly could defend his cities, yes—but not his economy, nor his pride.
Both nations were spent.
Both needed an escape.
And such an escape had been crafted in London with the elegance and ruthlessness one expected of the British Empire.
London
One month earlier, Queen Victoria had addressed Parliament with solemn clarity. Her words—composed in the clipped, crystalline tone that made ministers straighten in their seats—condemned the "barbaric and unnecessary bloodshed" staining the American continent.
Britain, she declared, could no longer stand idle while chaos reigned so near a "cherished neighbor."
A symbolic vote followed, dignified in ritual if not in substance.
Thus a small, immaculate peace-mediation squadron, three Daring-class steam frigates gleaming with polished brass and imperial certainty, sailed from Plymouth. British crowds cheered them as champions of peace, unaware—or uncaring—that they carried not merely humanitarian supplies but also the latest creations of Arthur Lionheart's formidable workshops.
President Sam Houston of Texas received the British envoy as though greeting Providence itself. The envoy, Mr. Hanson, chief accountant to Arthur Lionheart and a man whose spectacles glinted with perpetual calculation, wasted no time on pleasantries.
"Mr. President," he began, "Her Majesty believes this conflict has reached its conclusion."
"Indeed, indeed," Houston agreed, without hesitation.
Hanson presented a document of crisp parchment and immaculate handwriting.
"Mexico shall recognize Texas as fully independent," he explained, "and the Rio Grande shall be its lawful boundary."
Houston's breath caught. The Republic's dream—its very justification—lay before him.
"But," Hanson continued, in a tone so courteous it almost obscured its severity, "Texas shall not seek annexation by the United States for twenty years. And, for the sake of international harmony, the British Empire shall reserve final interpretative authority over Texan foreign policy."
Houston's face stiffened. Independence, it seemed, came with a gilded chain.
"Mr. President," Hanson murmured, "you owe your survival to our rifles, your victories to our cannons, and your treasury to our loans."
Then came the sweetener—delivered with Arthur Lionheart's unmistakable smile.
"The terms of your five-million-dollar loan shall be extended by two decades. And Britain shall bestow upon you a navy—three Royal Navy frigates—to ensure the safety of your shores."
A navy. Money. Survival. Prestige.
And sovereignty? Sovereignty did not put food in a man's mouth, nor ships in his harbor.
Houston signed.
Days later, Hanson stood before Santa Anna with another agreement—this one even more generous to the eye.
"General," he said, "recognize Texan independence, and the British Empire will persuade the United States and Texas to pay your nation a Peace and Development Fund of twenty million dollars."
Santa Anna, weary from the strain of war and politics, stared as though witnessing a miracle.
"And," Hanson added, "our industrial concern—Future Industries—will guide Mexico into modernity. Railways. Mines. Steam power. Prosperity."
The general, unaware that these blessings were loans disguised as gifts, and that the fund's true source was American pockets, felt salvation within reach.
He, too, signed.
And thus the war dissolved…
A conflict that, in another world, might have reshaped North America instead concluded like an elaborate theatre piece performed for an audience of one.
The United States gained nothing, acquiring debt instead of glory.
Mexico lost Texas but kept its remaining provinces and earned the illusion of triumph.
Texas became independent—yet bound, subtly and firmly, to the British Crown.
Only one victor emerged.
Buckingham Palace
In the lamplight of the palace study, Arthur Lionheart stood before a great atlas of the Americas. The map bore markers—war, trade, influence—each placed by his deliberate hand.
With calm satisfaction, he lifted the flame-shaped seal that symbolized conflict and removed it from the Texan frontier. In its place, he pressed a small, perfect Union Jack, its colors bright against the parchment.