A few weeks had passed since the cellar. A few weeks since the choice had been forced upon him. A few weeks since Eleanor had been taken from his side and kept behind in Germany as a hostage, and since he himself had been made to kneel before that strange little prince and swear his fealty.
To Germany.
To its victory.
And to the cause they had laid before him like some madman's dream dressed in the language of destiny.
Irish independence.
Not the kind sung about in taverns or muttered over pints by bitter men with nothing to lose, but something sharper, darker, and far more dangerous. He had sworn to help tear Ireland loose from British rule and raise in its place a new power, one bound not by love or gratitude, but by loyalty—unyielding loyalty, undying fealty—to Germany.
And now, only a few weeks after that night in the cellar, Captain Jack Ashcroft—once master of the Black Pearl, now reduced simply to Jack—found himself standing upon the coast of Ireland.
Eleanor's homeland.
The land of her family.
The land where, under any sane turn of fate, he might once have hoped to arrive as a suitor, a future husband, a respectable man come to ask for a blessing.
Instead he had come in the belly of a German submarine.
The U-boat had surfaced off the western coast under cover of darkness, black metal rising from black water like something unnatural and half-born from the deep. From it they had lowered small inflatable boats, silent shapes upon the moonless sea, and in those boats Jack and the others had been sent toward shore.
They had come carrying rifles wrapped against the salt air, ammunition packed deep into heavy bags, explosives sealed in oilskin, and enough German money to buy silence, shelter, and eventually allegiance. Some of the men with him were former members of his own crew. Others were chosen for harder reasons—men bought, cornered, or shaped into obedience one way or another. Whatever road had brought them here, they had all stepped off those boats onto Irish sand for the same purpose.
To begin a new order.
To gather men.
To spread anger.
To arm it.
To turn it.
And, if Germany had its way, to set Ireland ablaze from within.
Jack stood for a moment with the sea wind against his face and the weight of a rifle and supplies dragging at his shoulders, and the absurdity of it all nearly made him laugh. Had anyone told him even two months ago that he would stand here like this—boots in Irish sand, German weapons on his back, a handful of followers at his rear, and a mission to make himself into some future ruler of a free Ireland under German favor—he would have called the man mad.
And yet here he was.
It was ridiculous.
It was absurd.
It felt, at moments, less like life than like some cruel game arranged by hands far above his own.
The boy had made it sound almost that simple.
Cause trouble. Gather men. Complete the tasks given to him. Strike at Britain where it hurt. The more havoc he created, the more support he would receive. More money. More weapons. More men. More chances. And if he succeeded—if he endured, if he obeyed, if he proved useful enough—then when the war was over and Ireland stood apart from Britain, Eleanor would be returned to him.
Then perhaps he could hold her again.
Perhaps he could marry her properly.
Perhaps, at the end of all this madness, he could become a man worthy of standing before her family.
Perhaps.
That word was all he had left.
So Jack adjusted the weight on his shoulders, looked once toward the dark inland beyond the shore, and began to walk. Behind him his men followed in silence, boots sinking into damp earth as they left the beach behind and moved toward an uncertain future.
And elsewhere upon the British Isles, other mark's of war were spreading.
Despite the second month of war having begun, with no major victories having been won for the Entente powers, the public mood in Britain remained fierce, patriotic, and outwardly confident, but the men responsible for actually conducting the war were beginning to understand that something had gone very badly wrong.
The streets still swelled with enthusiasm. Recruiting lines stretched long in city after city. Newspapers thundered with outrage and triumph, painting the Germans as Huns—barbaric, cruel, almost subhuman creatures who burned homes, butchered men, violated women, bayoneted babies, and trampled civilization beneath iron boots. The people wanted victory. They expected it. They believed, as Britons had been taught to believe, that the Empire would endure, that the navy would rule the seas, and that in the end Britain would emerge not merely safe, but vindicated.
But enthusiasm was not the same thing as success.
And success, at present, was in rather short supply.
At Buckingham Palace, the new king had received the Prime Minister in private, and the interview had not been a pleasant one. King George V was not a man given to wild displays of emotion, nor did he care to appear rattled before ministers, but he was deeply troubled all the same. For all the brave language in the press and all the patriotic cheering in the streets, British ships were being sunk, British soldiers were being driven backward alongside the French, and the Germans—those same Germans so often dismissed in peacetime as rigid, humorless Prussians—had instead revealed themselves to be alarmingly efficient at modern war.
Most troubling of all, they seemed prepared for it in ways no one in London had properly understood.
By the time the Prime Minister returned to Downing Street, his expression had grown notably grimmer. He summoned the cabinet without delay, and by evening the room was full: ministers, senior men, grave faces, the air thick with tobacco smoke and quiet unease.
Asquith stood near the head of the table, one hand resting against its polished surface.
"Gentlemen," he said, his voice calm, though not especially warm, "His Majesty is greatly concerned by the present course of the war."
That was putting it mildly, and every man in the room knew it.
"He is not alone in that concern," Asquith continued. "Nor, I think, am I."
No one interrupted.
"The public remains spirited, which is fortunate. Recruitment continues. The newspapers are doing their part. But public spirit alone will not halt a German advance in France, nor will it keep our merchantmen afloat in the Atlantic. We are now at the beginning of the second month of this war, and the truth of the matter is that things have not developed in our favor."
He let that settle for a moment.
"On the Continent, the Germans have pushed with alarming speed and force. The French are under severe pressure. Our own Expeditionary Force has fought well, but it is too small to shape events by itself. In the east, the Russians have suffered very serious reverses. At sea, merchant shipping remains exposed to German attack to a degree which I find unacceptable. Even in the Colonies, especially German Cameroon, there has hardly been any progress in our efforts to root out the Germans there."
His gaze moved slowly from face to face.
"So I will ask plainly. What is to be done?"
There was a brief silence before Churchill spoke, his tone more measured than theatrical for once, though still carrying the restless energy that seemed forever coiled inside him.
"The Germans have the advantage of preparation," he said. "That, above all, must be understood. They did not stumble into this war. They entered it ready. Their technology, their infrastructure, their planning, their matériel—everything suggests a degree of foresight far beyond what many had credited them with."
He paused, then added, "We, by contrast, have entered under conditions less than ideal. Our strength has long lain at sea, not in the rapid deployment of a continental army. The French have been caught mid-transition in matters of reform, and the Russians, for all their immense manpower, remain burdened by weaknesses in command, supply, and coordination. The Germans are profiting from that disparity."
One of the ministers shifted in his chair. "Indeed, the Russians have lost a monstrous number of men to a far smaller force. It is not an encouraging spectacle."
"No," said Haldane, folding his hands before him, "but neither is it a decisive one. Russia has suffered grievous blows before and remained in the field. It is the peculiar strength of that empire that it may lose on a scale which would cripple another power and yet continue to draw men from the earth as though from a bottomless pit."
A faint, humorless murmur passed around the table.
"Their losses are severe," Haldane went on, "but they are not yet fatal. The Russian army is vast, and still growing. The further the Germans push eastward, the longer and thinner their front becomes. Territory is not free. Every mile gained must be held, supplied, defended. The Germans cannot stretch forever. In time, their advance must slow."
"Perhaps," another man said, "but slowing them is not the same thing as defeating them."
That drew a heavier silence.
Because it was true.
At length, Grey spoke, his voice mild, careful, diplomatic even now. "Our problem is not simply that Germany has advanced. It is that the pace and character of that advance have unsettled every expectation with which this war began. We had thought in terms of pressure, maneuver, perhaps a hard opening campaign. Instead we have been presented with something faster, harsher, and more modern than was generally anticipated."
"Quite," Churchill muttered.
Grey continued. "The French are raising and reorganizing forces around Paris. Men are being gathered from the Paris district and beyond. The city is not undefended, nor is the government resigned to losing it. We should not speak as though the fall of Paris were already written."
"No," Asquith said, "but neither may we speak as though it were impossible."
That, too, hung in the air.
If Paris fell, the military consequences would be grave enough. The political consequences might be worse.
Haldane inclined his head. "The French Sixth Army is forming to defend the capital. Additional troops are being assembled from the Parisian region. Morale there remains strong. Paris is not some abandoned prize to be gathered up by the first man bold enough to ride through its gates."
"One hopes not," Asquith said quietly.
Churchill, who had thus far kept himself in check with admirable effort, leaned forward at last and said, in a tone that caused several heads to lift before the words had even finished leaving his mouth, "There is another matter."
Everyone at the table already knew what it was.
"The sea."
That single word altered the mood of the room more thoroughly than any speech about Paris or Russia had managed.
Asquith gave a slow nod. "Yes. Let us speak of it plainly."
Churchill folded one hand over the other upon the table, though there was nothing relaxed in him. "German attacks upon Entente shipping are no longer an irritation to be endured while we concern ourselves with the armies. They are becoming a matter of first importance. Britain is not Russia. We cannot simply lose distance and comfort ourselves with depth. We are an island empire. Our life moves across water. Food, coal, materials, credit, trade, confidence itself—all of it arrives by sea, or depends upon the belief that it can."
He let that settle.
"If that belief begins to falter, then far more than merchant tonnage is at stake."
One of the older ministers frowned. "Surely we are not yet at the point of saying that British command of the sea is in question."
"No," Churchill said, "but British invulnerability at sea most certainly is."
That answer did nothing to ease the room.
Open reports lay scattered before them: sinkings, raiding actions, delayed cargoes, growing insurance premiums, complaints from merchants, murmurs from financiers, and the increasingly grim arithmetic of war expenditure.
The Chancellor, spectacles low on his nose, tapped one of the papers with a finger. "Speaking of which, the expense of this war is becoming intolerable. We are consuming ammunition at a rate that no sane peacetime estimate would have accepted. From what I hear, our expeditionary force has in the past few weeks used more ammunition, than what our present industrial arrangements can comfortably produce in a month."
"In plainer terms," another muttered, "we are burning money and ammunition faster than we can produce either."
"Just so," said the Chancellor. "Which means production must be expanded. Arms, shells, rifles, machinery, transport, all of it. And expansion of that sort requires capital—vast capital."
"As does the army," Asquith said quietly. "More men may always be sent. More formations raised. More guns ordered. More factories built or expanded. In theory there is no end to what may be attempted."
"In theory," Grey said.
Asquith's expression hardened slightly. "The point remains. The army situation, grave though it is, is not beyond remedy. Just like the situation at sea. The German's cannot face us openly on the sea. Men can be raised for the army. Industry can be enlarged. If the Germans have produced technical marvels under that infernal Prince Oskar, I see no reason in heaven or on earth why British industry should not equal them in time—or surpass them."
Several murmured assent at that. That, at least, was the sort of sentence British statesmen liked hearing said aloud.
Churchill inclined his head a fraction. "Yes. In time. Given money, organization, engineers, time, and clarity. If we can build better machines, we shall. If we cannot do so at once, then we must study what the Germans have done and imitate what is useful until we produce something superior. Pride is an admirable quality in a nation; it is less useful in procurement."
A faint, grim flicker of amusement passed around the table.
Grey said, "And until then?"
"Until then," Churchill replied, "we must endure the inferiority where it exists, close the gap where we can, and prevent the enemy from turning temporary advantage into strategic decision."
"As on the seas," Asquith said.
"Precisely."
Churchill sat back only slightly. "For if we are to pay for the war, we must first preserve the flow of trade. Loans are well and good. Credit is well and good. But a nation cannot finance its struggle forever on speeches and signatures alone. Our own economic life must continue. Goods must move. Merchants must trade. Cargo must arrive. The Empire must appear what it has always appeared to be—secure, immense, and master of its own arteries."
Now the room was listening in full.
"Prestige," said Grey softly.
"Yes," Churchill said, turning toward him. "Prestige. Men speak of it as though it were decoration. It is not decoration. It is power in visible form. The Empire stands not merely because of soldiers and ships, but because millions believe it stands. The moment that belief weakens, every restless element within it begins to calculate."
That drew silence.
Because every man in the room understood the truth of it at once.
Churchill continued, more quietly now. "If Britain cannot keep her own sea lanes open, then Britain begins to look less like the natural ruler of a world system and more like a very rich island under strain. That impression alone is dangerous."
"Dangerous where?" one of the ministers asked, though he already knew.
"Everywhere," Churchill replied. "But in some places more immediately than others."
No one spoke for a moment.
Then Grey said, with diplomatic restraint, "The Irish question has not ceased to exist merely because Europe is at war."
No one contradicted him.
Home Rule had been postponed, not resolved. Suspended, not settled.
Asquith's mouth thinned. "Quite."
Another minister, choosing his words carefully, said, "There are many Irishmen now serving loyally, or preparing to do so, under the belief that such service will strengthen the case for self-government later."
"Yes," Churchill said. "And while those men leave, who remains behind?"
That question landed heavily.
He answered it himself.
"Not, by and large, the most loyal portion."
No one objected, though one or two shifted uncomfortably.
"There are in Ireland," Churchill went on, "many who do not seek self-government within the Empire, but separation from it. Complete separation. They are not eager to join our colours. They are eager for something else entirely. For now, they are quiet. But quietness is not loyalty. It may merely be waiting."
Grey folded his hands. "And if our prestige suffers further—if Britain appears weakened, distracted, vulnerable—such people may persuade themselves that history has opened a door for them."
"Exactly," said Churchill. "They need not be numerous at first. Such movements never begin by being numerous. They require discontent, symbols, money, and the impression that authority is slipping. Give them a trigger—a martyr, an arms shipment, a foreign whisper, a government embarrassment—and quiet can become noise very quickly indeed."
The cabinet room had grown still enough that the scrape of a chair leg seemed indecently loud.
"So," Asquith said at last, "we return to the same point. The sea lanes are not merely an economic matter. They are an imperial matter."
"They are the matter," Churchill replied.
"And if we fail to secure them?"
Churchill did not soften his answer. "Then we invite every opportunist, separatist, smuggler, financier, and enemy government in the world to test the strength of Britain at once."
That sentence lingered.
At length Asquith straightened and said, with that deliberate calm men use when they refuse panic by force of habit, "Then there must be a remedy. There must be one."
"There is no alternative," Grey said quietly.
Asquith turned fully toward Churchill now. "A month has passed. We have lost merchantmen, destroyers, battlecruisers, and with every successful German raid the impression deepens that we have been caught unready in the one sphere where unpreparedness was supposed to be impossible."
His voice remained controlled, but there was steel in it now.
"We may repair the army in time. We may enlarge the factories. We may raise more men. We may learn to match or copy every machine those damned Germans put into the field. All of that is difficult, but possible."
He paused.
"But none of it will matter nearly so much if Britain ceases to command belief in her own waters."
Then he fixed Churchill with a direct look.
"So tell us, First Lord—what, precisely, do you intend to do about it?"
Churchill did not answer at once. Instead he turned slightly toward the naval men present.
"Admiral Jellicoe. Admiral Beatty. The Prime Minister is quite right to press the matter. The Cabinet is running short on patience, and the country sooner or later will do the same. What is the Admiralty's present method, and what more do you propose?"
Jellicoe, grave as ever, answered first. "At present, our most practical measure has been concentration. Merchant traffic is being gathered into larger convoys where possible and escorted by strong covering forces. In the mid-Atlantic, where ships may be assembled before the final run home, this has yielded promising results. Convoys under the protection of capital ships have, thus far, proven unattractive targets."
"A costly form of unattractiveness," Churchill said.
"Yes," Jellicoe admitted. "It requires heavy commitment. Two or three capital ships to secure a convoy in proper fashion, depending on its size and perceived risk."
"And in providing such escort," Asquith said, "do we not weaken ourselves elsewhere?"
"We do," Jellicoe said plainly. "That is the difficulty."
Churchill nodded. "Precisely. If our battle squadrons are forever tied to convoy work, what then are we to do if the German High Seas Fleet chooses that very moment to stir?"
Jellicoe answered carefully. "Under present circumstances, we must watch for signs of concentration or movement and regroup accordingly. It is not ideal."
"No," Churchill said, "it is not."
Beatty, who had thus far worn the expression of a man waiting for slower minds to finish arranging the furniture before he kicked the door in, finally spoke.
"There is another way."
The room turned to him.
Beatty leaned forward, confidence radiating from him with almost indecent ease. "If the Germans insist upon commerce raiding, then let us give them commerce worth raiding."
Churchill's eyes narrowed. "Go on."
"We send a large transport convoy from Canada," Beatty said. "A rich one. Obvious enough to tempt, respectable enough not to seem theatrical. We provide it with escort, naturally, but not with so much as to warn the enemy away. And nearby—kept at supporting distance, not obvious distance—we position a striking force of our best available ships."
Grey watched him closely. "In short, a baited convoy."
"If you like," Beatty said. "Though I should prefer to call it an opportunity."
"And the Germans," Asquith said, "are expected to oblige us by attacking exactly where we wish them to?"
Beatty's mouth twitched faintly. "The Germans are not fools, Prime Minister. But neither are they saints. Present them with sufficient prey and sooner or later they will go for it. If they strike, we fall upon them. If they do not strike, then the convoy reaches Britain intact with its cargo, which is no failure from our point of view."
Churchill looked at him for a few seconds, turning the thing over.
"A crude plan," he said at last.
Beatty did not flinch. "Sometimes crude plans are the kind the enemy least expects one to attempt boldly."
Jellicoe added, more cautiously, "The principle is sound enough, provided the disposition is carefully handled. If executed well, it may allow us to damage or even destroy a substantial part of their raiding force."
"Or expose a very substantial part of ours," murmured one minister.
"Yes," Beatty said. "War does occasionally contain risk."
That earned him a chilly glance, though not an unfair one.
Churchill tapped the table once with his fingers. "What strength?"
Beatty answered at once, clearly having rehearsed the matter in his mind a dozen times. "The convoy escort would consist of four King George V-class battleships. The supporting striking force would include three Invincible-class battlecruisers, three Indefatigable-class battlecruisers, the two remaining Lion-class battlecruisers, Tiger, and four Iron Duke-class battleships."
That produced a murmur.
"Assembled in one operation?" Asquith asked.
"If we mean to make the trap convincing, yes," Beatty replied.
Churchill looked at him sharply. "You propose, then, to gather a considerable share of the finest capital ships in the Royal Navy and trust that the Germans will present themselves obligingly beneath the hammer."
"I propose," Beatty said, "to use superior force decisively against an enemy who has grown bold because we have thus far permitted him to choose the terms of harassment."
Jellicoe, more restrained, said, "If the Germans take the bait and if our timing holds, the result could be very serious for them indeed."
Churchill gave a low hum of thought. It was a gambler's plan, a hunter's plan, and a very British one in its own way—dangerous, elegant, faintly arrogant, and not entirely unsound.
At length he said, "Very well. It is imperfect."
Beatty almost smiled.
"All plans are."
"Yes," Churchill said, "but some are imperfect in useful directions."
That brought the faintest shifting of mood in the room.
Churchill looked to Jellicoe. "Preparations?"
"Already under way," Jellicoe said. "What remains is authorization."
Churchill turned back toward Asquith. "You have asked for action. There it is. We protect the convoys we must protect. We continue concentration where necessary. And with this, we attempt not merely to endure the German raids, but to punish them."
Asquith studied him for a moment. "And you are confident?"
Churchill's answer came without hesitation.
"No."
That surprised several of them.
Then he went on.
"But I am resolved. And in war, resolve is often the more useful quality."
He rose slightly from his chair.
"I will authorize the operation."
Jellicoe inclined his head. Beatty looked almost pleased.
Churchill's expression hardened.
"But understand me clearly, gentlemen. We are past the hour for clever excuses. If we are to gamble with the prestige of the Royal Navy, then we shall do so only in order to restore it with interest."
He looked from one admiral to the other.
"I expect results."