President Tyler's so-called *ultimatum* caused scarcely a ripple in London's political circles.
Most found it faintly ridiculous.
A republic that had recently been humiliated by Mexican cannon fire, a nation still incapable of resolving its own Texan question without British mediation, now dared to threaten war against the Empire upon which the sun never set?
It was like a child who had just learned to walk, puffing out his chest before a fully armored heavyweight champion and shouting, *"Look at me again and I'll make you cry!"*
The spectacle was almost charming.
At the Cabinet meeting, even Lord Palmerston—the habitual hawk—could not summon the energy to demand the dispatch of a fleet. He merely remarked, with thinly veiled contempt and the air of a man correcting a fool:
> "It seems we must once again remind Washington that their White House was burned by us in 1814."
And yet, against the current of unanimous scorn, **Prince Consort Arthur Lionheart** spoke.
His proposal—measured, courteous, almost gentle—startled the room.
> "Gentlemen," he said, his expression one of impeccable sincerity,
> "we must endeavor to *understand* and *respect* President Tyler's position. The Monroe Doctrine is, after all, a cornerstone of American political identity. As a civilized and peace-loving Empire, it would hardly do for us to interfere in the internal affairs of another nation by crude force."
A chill passed through the chamber.
Every minister present looked at him as though silently asking:
*Your Royal Highness—what calamity are you engineering now?*
Arthur Lionheart ignored them and continued, his voice warm, benevolent, almost tender.
> "I propose that we respond to President Tyler's concerns with civility and grace.
> Let us extend to him a new initiative of peace."
> "We may *temporarily* slow the construction of the Panama Canal.
> We may even *consider* inviting the United States to dispatch a modest observation mission—purely to supervise the project."
> "As for Texas, we shall reaffirm—publicly and unequivocally—that Britain will never support any Texan military provocation against the United States."
> "In short, gentlemen, let us show the world the tolerance, magnanimity, and boundless devotion to peace that define the British Empire."
The words were eloquent. Convincing. Almost moving.
Had the men in that room not known Arthur Lionheart so intimately—had they not witnessed his talent for bloodless destruction—they might have believed him.
Lord Melbourne, the Prime Minister, looked at his brilliant son-in-law and sighed inwardly.
*So… the knife is already drawn.*
And indeed, while the Foreign Office was leisurely preparing this gracious "peace initiative" for delivery to Washington by ordinary diplomatic channels—
Another letter had already crossed the Atlantic.
Written in Arthur Lionheart's own hand.
Encrypted at the highest level.
Carried by the fastest private courier vessel maintained by the Royal Promotion Association.
Its destination was Charleston, South Carolina—the provisional capital of the southern confederation.
It was addressed to **John C. Calhoun**.
When Calhoun—the great ideologue of states' rights and slavery—read the letter, he nearly rose from his chair in agitation.
Its contents were brutally simple.
---
> *My most trusted friends,*
>
> *The moment has arrived.*
>
> *The mad tyrant in Washington has allowed false nationalism to blind him. He has openly threatened war against our great and peace-loving British Empire.*
>
> *In doing so, he has betrayed our gentleman's understanding regarding the peaceful settlement of the Texas question. He now seeks to employ federal violence to annihilate your free, noble, and divinely sanctioned way of life.*
>
> *Therefore, I—Arthur Lionheart—speaking in the name of Her Majesty Queen Victoria—make this solemn promise:*
>
> *If you possess the courage to say **no** to tyranny,*
> *If you dare to raise the banner of independence and defend your homeland,*
>
> *Then from the very moment you declare independence, the Royal Navy shall recognize the Confederate States of America as a sovereign and legitimate nation.*
>
> *Our most powerful ironclad fleet will enter the Chesapeake Bay to guarantee your freedom of navigation and maritime security.*
>
> *Friends—freedom is never begged for. It is taken.*
>
> *The British Empire shall be your strongest shield.*
---
It was a letter of pure poison—sweet, intoxicating, and fatal.
For men who had long dreamt of secession, the promise of Royal Navy protection erased the last shadow of hesitation.
With Britain behind them, what was there to fear?
"Independence! Immediate independence!"
"We will no longer endure Yankee oppression!"
"For our cotton! For our liberty! For our sacred and inviolable property!"
And so, while President Tyler still waited anxiously in the White House for Britain's courteous reply—
The thunderbolt struck.
Led by South Carolina, six slaveholding states—Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and Florida—jointly convened a **Convention of Independence** in Charleston.
There, with unanimous resolve, they ratified the **Confederate Declaration of Independence**.
They proclaimed the secession of the southern states from the United States of America and the founding of a new, sovereign nation—
The **Confederate States of America**—dedicated to the preservation of states' rights and traditional ways of life.
The declaration was transmitted to Washington at once.
When President Tyler received the news, his vision darkened.
Blood surged into his mouth.
His own ultimatum had devoured him whole.
He had sought to intimidate Britain into compromise over Panama.
Britain had simply stepped around him—and armed the rebellious son already sharpening his knives within the household.
As Washington dissolved into fury and chaos—
In London, *The Times* published an editorial in its largest possible format, personally reviewed by Prince Consort Arthur Lionheart.
Its prose overflowed with sorrow, regret, and dignified grief.
The headline read:
**"The Tragedy of Division: We Mourn for Our American Brothers."**
And that evening, as Arthur returned to Buckingham Palace, Queen Victoria glanced at the paper, then at him.
"You are dreadful," she said softly, a smile betraying her.
Arthur bowed, kissed her gloved hand, and replied lightly:
"Only in service of peace, my love."
The slept soundly that night.