Chapter 39: Goodbye, Yingguo's

The champagne bottle smashed hard against the bow.

The sound of shattering glass was crisp and loud.

"God save the Queen! God save the Royal Navy!"

"God save the Queen! God save the Royal Navy!" Fifty thousand voices answered in unison, the roar nearly lifting the roof off the harbor.

The dock gates opened, and seawater surged in. The massive hull of HMS *Dreadnought* began to move slowly, sliding down the slipway toward the sea. The spray it kicked up glittered in the sunlight like countless diamonds scattered about.

On the reviewing stand, Fisher watched the scene, and a genuine smile finally appeared on his face—not the smile of political performance, but the proud smile of a naval officer watching a warship he had designed launch.

"Well done, John." The First Lord of the Admiralty, Selborne, patted him on the shoulder. "A bit late, but at least we made it in time."

"Made it in time?" Fisher shook his head. "No, Charles, we've only just begun. There are still ten more to build, and countless technical problems to solve. And..."

He looked toward the foreign dignitaries' section, where the German naval attaché, Colonel von Stern, was studying the details of the *Dreadnought* through his binoculars, his face expressionless.

"And the Germans won't just sit and wait for us." Fisher lowered his voice. "I've received intelligence that Kaiser Wilhelm has already approved an order for a second batch of four *Westfalen*-class ships. Not from German shipyards, but from... that mysterious place."

Selborne's face changed color: "Are you sure?"

"MI5 is verifying it, but the likelihood is high." Fisher's gaze was sharp. "So today's ceremony is both a celebration and a warning—a warning to the Germans, a warning to everyone: Britain is not out of the game yet."

He paused, then added another sentence:

"And a warning to ourselves: we have to run faster, or we really will be left behind."

In the foreign dignitaries' section, at the position of the French naval delegation.

Major General Charles Dubois lowered his binoculars, his face completely blank. Beside him, the naval engineer Louis Moreau quickly jotted down observed details in a notebook.

"The funnel layout indicates steam turbines; speed should be no less than 21 knots. Probably on par with the Germans." Moreau paused, his voice even lower. "But General, that doesn't change one fact: the Germans have six ships in active service, and we have none. The British have one, and they're building ten more. We're still at zero."

Dubois did not respond. He raised his binoculars again, this time not looking at the *Dreadnought*, but at the British officials on the reviewing stand.

He saw Edward VII's proud smile, saw Fisher's resolute expression, saw Selborne's smug satisfaction.

He also saw the scene of British officials politely shaking hands and conversing with the German attaché—superficially friendly, but with hidden barbs beneath the surface.

"Moreau," Dubois lowered his binoculars, "if you were the French Minister of Marine, what would you do now?"

Moreau gave a bitter smile: "I would get down on my knees and pray for a miracle. Or..."

"Or what?"

"Or go find the only place that might provide that miracle." Moreau's voice was barely audible. "If even one ten-thousandth of the intelligence we've received is true."

Dubois fell silent. He recalled the instructions from the Minister of Marine, Thomson, before leaving Paris: "Charles, the future of the French Navy is in your hands." He recalled Prime Minister Clemenceau's handwritten directive: "At all costs."

At all costs.

The phrase echoed in his mind.

"Make preparations," Dubois said suddenly. "After the ceremony, we will go see the First Lord of the Admiralty, Earl Selborne."

"You want to try once more?"

"One last time." Dubois straightened his uniform. "If the British can give a clear promise, even a false one, we might still be able to wait. If not..."

He didn't finish, but Moreau understood.

If not, they would have to take the most dangerous path.

The reception after the ceremony was held at the Portsmouth Naval Officers' Club. Beneath the crystal chandeliers, officers and dignitaries in formal attire raised their glasses and chatted, the surface all peace and harmony.

Dubois finally spotted Earl Selborne in the crowd. The British First Lord was chatting and laughing with several MPs, a glass of champagne in his hand.

"My Lord." Dubois walked over and nodded politely.

"Ah, General Dubois!" Selborne greeted him warmly. "Thank you for your delegation traveling so far to attend the ceremony. So, did the *Dreadnought* meet with your approval?"

"Very impressive." Dubois maintained diplomatic language. "The Royal Navy's shipbuilding capability is truly world-class."

"Thank you for the compliment." Selborne was clearly pleased. "This is just the beginning. There are ten more under construction, all to be commissioned by 1908. By then, the Royal Navy will have re-established absolute superiority."

Dubois caught the subtext: the British shipbuilding plan was proceeding smoothly; they didn't need French orders to achieve their goals.

"My Lord," he decided to be more direct, "regarding the procurement request my country previously submitted, I wonder if there has been any new progress? If possible, the French Republic is willing to pay a premium and also provide compensation in other areas."

Selborne's smile faded slightly. He took a sip of champagne, thinking over his words.

"General, I fully understand your country's needs." He spoke slowly. "But as you can see, our own shipbuilding schedule is extremely tight; all our yards are operating at full capacity. The Admiralty's assessment is that, at least until 1909, we will have no spare capacity to take on foreign orders."

"1909..." Dubois repeated the date. "What about technology transfer? If your country could provide the design drawings for the *Dreadnought*, we could build them ourselves, without occupying your shipyard resources."

Selborne shook his head, this time more firmly: "I'm sorry, General. The design of the *Dreadnought* involves core secrets of the Royal Navy and cannot be transferred abroad. It's a matter of principle."

Silence.

Dubois stared at Selborne for a few seconds, then suddenly smiled: "I understand. Thank you for your candor, my Lord."

He raised his glass in a toast, then turned and left.

Moreau caught up and asked in a low voice: "How did it go?"

"Just as expected." Dubois's voice was calm, but his hand gripping the glass was tight. "The British won't help us, and they won't allow us to help ourselves. They want the French Navy to lag behind forever, so that on the European continent, we must rely on Britain's naval protection."

"Then..."

"Notify the delegation. We return to the country tomorrow." Dubois said.

"You've decided?"

"I've decided." Dubois drained his glass in one gulp. "Since the British have closed every door, we'll go find that one window—even if we have to crawl through a mountain of knives and a sea of fire."

They walked out of the club, where the night sea breeze of Portsmouth was biting cold.

In the direction of the harbor, the *Dreadnought* was already moored in deep water, its lights blazing like a floating steel castle. The British celebrations were still going on, laughter and chatter carried on the wind.

Dubois stood in the cold wind, taking one last look at that battleship.

Goodbye, *Dreadnought*.

Goodbye, Yingguo's "friendship."

France must find its own way to survive.

No matter where that road leads.