The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 163 The Final Peace Proposal

August 3, 1940, 8 p.m., London, 18 Downing Street, the underground bunker of the wartime cabinet.

Twenty-four hours have passed since the bloody and calculating bankruptcy liquidation dinner at Chequers.

Arthur's ultimatum to U.S. envoy Harry Hopkins to deliver the destroyer within 48 hours has already burned halfway through.

But Washington, across the Atlantic, remained silent. No Morse code characters were transmitted back via the undersea cables, and MI6 received no reports of the fifty destroyers setting sail.

This transoceanic seller, who controlled a vast industrial capacity, seemed to adopt a tough and arrogant stance, refusing to deliver goods, in this transaction that concerned the fate of the nation.

But Arthur was absolutely certain that Hopkins had already presented his proposal, word for word, in the form of a report to the wheelchair-bound leader of the great power in the Oval Office of the White House.

In the stifling basement, the air circulation system emitted a monotonous and weary hum, while the heavy blast doors completely shut out the gloomy London sky and the ever-present possibility of a piercing air raid siren.

In stark contrast to the suffocating stillness of North America, the European continent, separated only by a sea, was bustling with activity at this moment.

In this confined space, sealed tightly by a heavy blast door, a military-grade Marconi radio, placed in the center of a long oak table, flickered with the cold glow of its vacuum tubes. This expensive toy was unemotionally capturing the invisible radio waves crossing the English Channel, forcefully and without reservation pouring the real roar of the European continent into the ears of the highest decision-makers of the British Empire.

That was an ultimatum from the Führer of the Third Reich, which Berlin Radio was broadcasting simultaneously to the world.

Just yesterday, German bombers crossed the English Channel, dropping millions of leaflets entitled "A Last Appeal to Reason" urging surrender across the cities and countryside of the British Isles like snowflakes.

At that moment, amidst a slight static noise from the radio speaker, Goebbels, the Minister of Public Education and Propaganda of the Third Reich, was reading the text aloud for Little Beard in his highly inflammatory and hysterical voice.

"—At this moment, the Führer felt a responsibility, driven by his conscience, to once again issue a rational appeal to Britain. We see no reason whatsoever for this war to continue! The Greater German Empire is not pleading as a defeated party, but rather displaying final mercy as a victor. If those warmongers in London continue to be obstinate, the steely fury of Germany will wipe that island off the map!"

The Nazi war machine, which had just crushed the French Third Republic with its armored formations in six weeks, was now throwing one last arrogant peace bait toward that lonely island across the water.

Winston Churchill sat in the head seat, his once relaxed face now flushed red with anger and humiliation. He slammed his half-smoked Cuban cigar into the brass ashtray, sparks flying.

As the undisputed leader of the British Empire's pro-war faction, Churchill possessed the pride accumulated over centuries of imperial expansion. Faced with Berlin's condescending and condescending attitude, his first reaction was to immediately retaliate with the fiercest artillery fire and the strongest rhetoric.

"Inform the House of Commons to connect the BBC!" Churchill roared, leaping from his chair. His voice echoed through the basement. "I'm going to give a speech right now! To tell that lowly Bohemian corporal in Berlin, to tell the whole world, that the British Empire will never surrender! We will fight on the beaches, we will fight on the landings, we will fight in the fields and in the streets, we will fight in the mountains! Even if most of this island is destroyed, our fleet stationed overseas will never yield!"

These were lines he had prepared long ago.

The Prime Minister's chest heaved as he reached out his thick arm and grabbed the red, secure telephone on the table that connected directly to the BBC studios. He wanted to, within minutes, transform the British Empire's will to fight to the last drop of blood into an armor-piercing projectile fired at Berlin.

However, just as Churchill's fingers were about to touch the telephone receiver...

A hand suddenly reached out and pressed down hard on the telephone's spring.

Churchill turned his head angrily and met a pair of deep, cold, and emotionless eyes.

It's Arthur Sterling.

With an arrogant attitude that seemed to overstep the highest administrative authority of the country, he forcefully extinguished the Prime Minister's anger.

"Take your hands off, Arthur!" Churchill growled. "I must respond to that little mustache; it is my duty as Prime Minister!"

"I am preventing you from making the most fatal and foolish political mistake in the entire strategic game, Your Excellency the Prime Minister." Arthur's voice was calm and steady, without any emotional fluctuation. Instead of letting go, he simply pulled the telephone cord out of the socket and casually tossed it onto the table.

Upon witnessing this scene, several senior staff members of the wartime cabinet gasped, then quickly looked away, pretending nothing had happened.

Ignoring the shocked looks around him, Arthur turned to face Churchill's bloodshot old eyes and delivered a harsh reality: "Have you forgotten the time? Half of the forty-eight-hour ultimatum I gave Harry Hopkins has passed. Only twenty-four hours remain. And until now, Washington hasn't uttered a single word."

Arthur's words made Churchill's brows furrow sharply, and his anger was replaced by a hint of doubt.

Arthur braced his hands on the table, forcefully drawing Churchill's attention away from the European continent. He knew better than anyone that Churchill needed calm: "Your Excellency, please use your reason and think carefully. If you were to rush to the microphone right now and roar to the world that you would fight the Germans to the death, even retreating to Canada, without ever compromising, who do you think would be the happiest person?"

Arthur pointed westward, across the Atlantic: "That's Franklin Roosevelt, and those Wall Street vampires on Capitol Hill. Once they hear your impassioned declaration of never surrendering, they'll immediately breathe a sigh of relief and put their hearts back in their stomachs. Because your speech is tantamount to revealing to them once again that the British Empire will fight to the death no matter what, and will serve as a physical shield for the Americas free of charge."

"And you must understand, Your Excellency the Prime Minister. This is not the same as the private telegram you exchanged with Roosevelt via the confidential line last time. Once you step into the microphone and say these words, it will be tantamount to publicly swearing to make the Empire bleed to its last drop in front of the whole world."

Seeing Churchill gradually calm down, Arthur released Churchill's hand: "Since the human shield has sworn to shed its last drop of blood, why should Washington still pay? Once the Americans' sense of security is re-established by your passionate speech, we will never get those fifty destroyers, or the massive industrial aid bill in the future. Your momentary pleasure will completely sever the most critical logistical supply line of the British Empire."

A deathly silence fell over the basement.

Churchill slumped back into his chair, dejected. As a seasoned politician who had navigated the political arena for half a century, how could he not see through this simple underlying logic? It was just that he had been angered by the arrogant leaflet from the bearded man, which had briefly caused him to lose the composure expected of a politician.

"So—" Churchill pulled out another cigar, but didn't light it, merely holding it to his nose and inhaling the bitter aroma of the tobacco. "Faced with Berlin's offer of surrender, must we remain silent?"

"Not only must we remain silent." Arthur straightened his cuffs, a glint of malice flashing in his eyes. "We must also make this silence a Damocles' sword hanging over Washington's head. Great power rivalry is a death tango on the edge of an abyss; whoever blinks first loses all their chips."

"They haven't replied to us yet, so let's just wait and see who gets impatient first."

Washington, D.C., the White House, the Oval Office.

In contrast to the oppressive atmosphere of London, shrouded in the shadow of air raid sirens, Washington, D.C., in the height of summer is enveloped in the humid heat of the Potomac River.

Inside the Oval Office, the air conditioning hummed softly. Harry Hopkins, like a skeleton just risen from its grave, slumped weakly in a soft armchair. His not-yet-fully-healed stomach ulcer still throbbed, but the overnight transatlantic flight and the horrifying intelligence left him no time to dwell on his physical torment.

"—Mr. Roosevelt, that's the situation. That madman's deduction has no logical flaws whatsoever." Hopkins, panting, reported in a trembling voice everything that had happened at the Chequers Pavilion dinner the day before.

"If the British really can't hold on any longer, they will definitely not go into exile in Canada as we have been advocating in Parliament."

The Sterling family and the British heavy industrial oligarchs would directly manipulate the cabinet into negotiating peace with Germany. In exchange for survival, the entire Royal Navy would be handed over to the Nazis. A few months later, a "super fleet" drawing on the combined capacity of shipyards across Europe would appear off the coast of Boston and New York.

After finishing his speech, Hopkins leaned back in his chair, almost exhausted, awaiting the president's order to urgently deliver the destroyer.

However, Franklin Roosevelt, sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, did not display the panic and rage Hopkins had anticipated.

This political giant who led the United States out of the Great Depression is now sitting comfortably in a wheelchair. His legs, which have atrophied due to polio, are covered with a thick blanket, but his upper body remains upright and full of strength.

Roosevelt put a specially made long cigarette holder into his mouth, struck a match, and slowly took a puff.

Amidst the swirling smoke, Roosevelt's eyes, seemingly able to pierce through all political fog, calmly gazed at the massive reflection of the Washington Monument outside the window.

"Harry," Roosevelt finally spoke, his voice deep and steady, carrying an air of calm control, "You've been with me for many years. Haven't you noticed something amiss with this report you brought back?"

Hopkins froze, his withered lips parting slightly: "Mr. President, you mean—"

Roosevelt turned his wheelchair to face his most trusted envoy.

"I'm thinking about the core interests," Roosevelt said, tapping the "Report on the Assessment of the Non-Performing Assets of the British Empire" on the table with his fingers holding a long cigarette holder. "The British description of the European fleet bombarding Manhattan is indeed terrifying enough to make those idiots on Capitol Hill wet their pants. But, Harry, let's step outside that deliberately created atmosphere of oppression and examine it purely from the underlying logic of capital and power."

Roosevelt narrowed his eyes slightly: "Do you really think that Winston Churchill, that proud old lion who sees the British Empire's hegemony as his life, and those British nobles who consider the Royal Navy their own property, would willingly and so readily bow their heads in humiliation and hand over absolute control of the fleet to Little Mustache? You know, without the fleet, Britain is no longer an empire, but merely an isolated island at the mercy of others. Are they really willing to completely relinquish three hundred years of maritime dominance?"

This question was like a bucket of ice-cold water poured over Hopkins' head.

Hopkins suddenly shivered.

Only at this moment, freed from the confined environment of Chequers and from Arthur Sterling's almost hypnotic brainwashing of heavy industrial data, did his Wall Street actuary's rationality finally regain its place in his intellect.

He quickly replayed every detail of the dinner.

The young man's precise movements as he cut the steak, his emotionless tone, and his undisguised nonchalance towards death and surrender.

"My God—" Hopkins covered his forehead in frustration, a cold sweat breaking out on his back.

He suddenly realized that he seemed to have been completely fooled by that bastard named Arthur.

"He exploited our fear of Nazi expansion, brutally stripping you of your ability to analyze things rationally at the negotiating table. It was a meticulously crafted strategic deception!" Roosevelt said.

Hopkins felt a surge of intense anger and humiliation. The special envoy of the President of the United States of America had been made a fool of by a mere twenty-something-year-old.

“Mr. President, now that we’ve seen through their cards, it means the British aren’t as tough as they appear. They’re still hoping for our handouts!” Hopkins’s eyes turned fierce, and he quickly offered his suggestion as if to regain his composure. “Why don’t we just ignore that arrogant ultimatum? Twenty-four hours have passed, and only half the time is left before his deadline. We should refuse, or at least indefinitely delay, the British demands. Let’s see how they continue their charade when the time is up.”

"I want to see if they really dare to side with the Germans!"

Roosevelt exhaled a long plume of smoke, which quickly dissipated in the cold air from the air conditioner.

The emperor in his wheelchair nodded slightly. He certainly knew the importance of the British bulletproof vest to the United States, but probing the other party's absolute bottom line before finalizing the purchase price was an essential lesson for exploiters, and also a skill.

"Let those people in Congress keep bickering," Roosevelt concluded, pressing the call button on his desk. "We'll do nothing, we'll respond nothing. We'll just wait quietly for the remaining twenty-four hours to run out. Let's see what a terrible performance that young Mr. Sterling and Prime Minister Churchill in London will put on next."

London, 10 Downing Street, the underground bunker of the wartime cabinet.

The brass clock on the wall made a monotonous ticking sound.

Time was slipping away, like grains of sand slipping through our fingers, each one rubbing against the nerve endings of everyone present.

There were only eight hours left until the forty-eight-hour deadline Arthur gave to the U.S. envoy.

The atmosphere inside the underground bunker was extremely oppressive. The transoceanic telegraph machine remained hopelessly silent; no characters from Washington were printed on the tape.

Churchill paced restlessly back and forth in the cramped room, his leather shoes clattering heavily on the floor. He had already gone through three cigars, but hadn't smoked them; they were simply crumpled beyond recognition by his thick, calloused fingers.

The worst thing that the former prime minister feared most has finally happened.

The Americans weren't completely terrified by that geopolitical analysis. Roosevelt was Roosevelt; that old fox in his wheelchair seemed to have seen through the British tricks.

Washington chose to defy fate and remain aloof. They were determined to watch the British Empire bleed to its last drop in the meat grinder.

"Arthur, your psychological warfare has failed." Churchill stopped and turned to look at the young man sitting in the corner, who had remained absolutely silent throughout. His voice was hoarse and weary. "The White House has seen through our cards. If the 48-hour deadline passes and the Americans remain unmoved, we will become a complete laughingstock. Not only will we fail to obtain the destroyer, but we will also lose all initiative in future negotiations."

Several cabinet ministers also cast doubtful and desperate glances their way.

In this bloodless battle for survival, the British Empire seems to have run out of cards to play.

However, Arthur remained firmly seated in the wooden chair. He slowly raised his head, and in his deep, icy eyes, there was not a trace of panic or defeat.

Suddenly, a chilling, insane yet seemingly rational smile appeared on his lips.

Arthur stood up, slowly adjusted the buttons of his suit, glanced around at the top decision-makers in the basement, and uttered a statement that instantly stunned the entire wartime cabinet: "Since the politicians in Washington want to watch a show, then we'll push this show to its absolute climax. We'll utilize all our diplomatic channels, both overt and covert; I believe the Empire has plenty."

Arthur stared intently into Churchill's eyes: "We're going to talk to the Germans."

"boom!"

These words were like a high-explosive grenade detonating directly in the cramped basement. All the cabinet ministers gasped, some even dropping their teacups in shock.

"Are you insane?!" Anthony Eden, the newly appointed Foreign Secretary who had just ousted Chamberlain and his appeasement-minded old fogies from the cabinet, sprang from his chair, slamming his hands on the oak table. "Make peace with the Nazis? At this critical juncture? We've finally managed to purge the weak voices from the government! What will the Royal Air Force pilots, who are currently battling the Germans in the skies, think if this treacherous news gets out? The morale of the entire British Empire will collapse in an instant!"

Churchill was also stunned, his hand holding the cigar frozen in mid-air.

But after a brief moment of shock, the gears of political maneuvering, intrigue, and geopolitical calculation began to mesh wildly in the mind of this veteran politician who had survived two world wars. A few seconds later, Churchill's cloudy eyes suddenly fixed intently on Arthur, his gaze filled with extreme shock and sudden enlightenment.

He instantly understood the breathtaking and ruthless strategic calculation behind Arthur's risky move.

This is not a real surrender to the mustache!

This is an extremely grand and extremely dangerous "live-action drama" that uses the survival of the entire country as a bargaining chip, specifically performed for the audience on the other side of the ocean!

"Arthur—what are you going to do—" Churchill's voice trembled slightly as he sought confirmation from Arthur of his thoughts.

"A double blackmail, Your Excellency the Prime Minister."

Arthur placed his hands on the table, leaning forward like a beast ready to tear its prey's throat: "Since Roosevelt thinks we're bluffing and that we absolutely can't bear to hand over the fleet, then we'll crush his pathetic rationality with our actions. Not only will we not refuse Little Mustache's broadcasts urging us to surrender, we'll actively meet him."

Arthur's speech quickened: "Through the embassies of neutral Sweden and Switzerland, a secret diplomatic memorandum was sent to the German Foreign Ministry."

"The wording must be carefully chosen, ambiguous, and leave ample room for discussion on peace; we must make Berlin feel that we are extremely weak and shaken by the recent fighting."

"Once this smokescreen is launched onto the world stage, it will have two very direct effects." Arthur held up two fingers.

"First, stabilize Berlin. Little Mustache is a delusional madman. Once he believes we are willing to negotiate, he will definitely order a postponement of Reichsmarschall Göring's upcoming large-scale indiscriminate bombing of London. This will buy us invaluable time to rebuild our homeland air defense network and allow our fighter squadrons to rest and recuperate."

"Secondly, and most importantly," Arthur's gaze swept across the Atlantic, a chilling intent in his eyes, "I intend to use my intelligence network to seemingly inadvertently leak this top-secret peace talks to the wealthy tycoons of the East Coast and the bankers of Wall Street. I want to personally detonate a bomb in the heart of American capital."

Berlin, Wilhelmstrasse, Reich Chancellery.

Designed by chief architect Albert Speer, the Imperial Chancellery exudes the suffocating grandeur and oppressive atmosphere of the Third Reich. The massive marble columns and ubiquitous swastikas serve as constant reminders to visitors that this is the absolute center of power in Europe.

When the secret memorandum, delivered urgently through top-secret channels from the British Embassy in Sweden, was respectfully placed on the bearded man's large mahogany desk by Foreign Minister Ribbentrop, a brief silence fell over the entire high command.

The bearded man carefully read through the obscure diplomatic language in the memo. At first, a look of surprise flashed across his face, but just seconds later, that surprise transformed into uncontrollable, manic ecstasy.

"Bang!"

The man with the small mustache slammed his hand on the table and stood up abruptly. His signature tuft of mustache trembled slightly with excitement.

"Did you see that! I knew it! I knew those Anglo-Saxon shopkeepers would eventually bow their proud heads before steel and cannons!" The little mustache waved the thin piece of paper as if holding a scepter of world domination, hysterically venting his joy of victory to the generals in the office.

In his cognitive logic and racial prejudice, the British had already suffered a devastating defeat at Dunkirk, with the expeditionary force abandoning all its heavy equipment and fleeing back to the mainland in panic—a fatal blow. His current display of power with thousands of bombers was enough to make these "calculating and self-preserving" island troublemakers face reality.

"Your Excellency, this might be a British delaying tactic," Keitel, the newly promoted Field Marshal and Chief of the Supreme Command, cautiously warned.

"Tricks? In the face of absolute power, any trick is a laughable struggle!" The mustache arrogantly interrupted Keitel. His mind was completely occupied by the enormous temptation of taking over the British Empire without bloodshed. This was the situation he most wanted to see, so that he could go ahead and deal with the Soviet Union in the east.

"Pass down the order!" the bearded man swiftly commanded. "Immediately notify Göring to suspend Operation Eagle Strike (the massive aerial bombardment of Britain). Since the British have shown sincerity in negotiations, to demonstrate the magnanimity of the Greater German Empire, we should give them time to consider a dignified surrender."

Then, the bearded man turned to look at Ribbentrop, his eyes turning greedy.

"Ribbentrop, immediately organize the elite of the Foreign Office to draft a formal peace agreement." The bearded man paced back and forth in his spacious office. "We cannot treat the British like the French, humiliating them by sending them to a dilapidated train in the Compiègne Forest. That would be detrimental to the stability of the new world order. You can generously preserve the framework of the British Empire's overseas colonies, allowing them to maintain the facade of imperial dignity."

The bearded man stopped, his true intentions revealed: "However! At the very core of this treaty must be added, with absolute certainty and no room for negotiation, my long-planned ultimate demand as an absolute guarantee of peace. The British Empire must proceed step by step..."

"A planned transfer of the Royal Navy's main fleet's warships to the German Navy for control!"

This dictator had begun to fantasize that when the Nazi swastika flew over the masts of British battleships, the whole world would grovel at his feet.

Washington.

While the bearded man was dreaming of taking over the Royal Navy in the Chancellery in Berlin, an unprecedented political earthquake was sweeping across the heart of the United States' capital.

Top-secret intelligence about the secret contacts between London and Berlin was leaked like a burst dam to the powerful elite circles on the East Coast of the United States, manipulated by a vast and secretive transnational capital network.

This time, President Roosevelt, sitting in a wheelchair, was still able to remain calm thanks to his strong political resolve, but the huge, greedy, and extremely insecure capitalist interest group in the United States was in complete turmoil!

Those senators who preach isolationism on Capitol Hill, those banking tycoons who manipulate global financial trends from the skyscrapers of Wall Street and Manhattan, and those aristocrats who are used to living a life of extravagance and comfort in their villas on Long Island on the East Coast.

As they sipped their morning coffee and looked at the bold black text on the internal intelligence briefing—"London hints at possible peace talks, British and German representatives may make contact"—a real, deep-seated fear of national subjugation instantly gripped their hearts.

The nightmare that Arthur Sterling had described at Chequers a few days earlier—the "European Combined Fleet" with dozens of battleships—now seemed to them as if it had already sailed out of the thick fog of the Atlantic, cruelly pointing its dark 15-inch guns at their seaside villas and the doors of their vaults.

They are among the richest people in the world, and they absolutely do not want to be involved in war, much less bear the horrific cost of turning the Americas into a battlefield.

As panic escalated, the Sterling family's long-standing financial networks in the Americas began to unleash their devastating power. American heavy industrial oligarchs, already deeply entangled with British interests or dependent on the Sterling Group in their supply chains, spearheaded a wave of revolts.

There are only 30 minutes left until the 48-hour deadline expires.

The doors to the Oval Office in the White House were roughly pushed open by several high-ranking senators and spokespeople representing top financial groups such as Rockefeller and Morgan.

"Mr. President! We must stop this foolish probing immediately!" A veteran senator from the East Coast slammed a thick petition with joint signatures onto Roosevelt's desk, his forehead covered in cold sweat. "The British are indeed in contact with the Nazis! Intelligence has confirmed that Berlin has ordered a halt to the air raids! They are discussing the specific details of the fleet transfer!"

Hopkins stood behind Roosevelt, his face as pale as a sheet.

In the face of capital panic, everything is incredibly fragile.

"Calm down, gentlemen. This is just a tactic by that old fox Winston to put pressure on us." Roosevelt turned his wheelchair, trying to soothe the distraught capitalist tycoons with a calm voice. "The British Empire cannot—"

"We don't care if he's putting pressure on us! We can't afford even a one in ten thousand chance of misjudging the situation!" A tycoon representing a major shipyard and steel company forcefully interrupted the US president, his tone carrying an undisguised threat.

"Mr. Roosevelt, please understand the situation. If the federal government, for some pitiful political calculation and so-called geopolitical bottom-line test, causes the British to desperately side with the Nazis, thereby leading the Combined Fleet, possessing absolute destructive power, to the coastline of the Americas, then we taxpayers will completely disregard the existence of federal law!"

The tycoon, his hands gripping the desk, his eyes gleaming with a wolfish ferocity, declared: "We will fund our own purchases—he'll buy heavy trucks from Detroit, armored steel from Pittsburgh, and even assemble a private, armed fleet of ocean-going vessels—to directly donate and supply the British Empire! We will use the means of capital to forcibly maintain that physical breakwater that holds back the Nazis! As for your government, it will be swept into the dustbin of history in the next election!"

It is caught in a double whammy of internal capital infighting and external geopolitical crisis stemming from the impending merger of European fleets.

Franklin Roosevelt's rock-solid political resolve was finally crushed by this torrent of capital that was capable of destroying any administration.

The tough-minded American president slowly closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He knew that in this transoceanic abyss tango, the young man in London named Arthur Sterling had won all the chips with an almost suicidal frenzy.

"Harry," Roosevelt opened his eyes, a barely perceptible weakness in his voice, "Go and connect to the secure line at 10 Downing Street. Tell them that fifty destroyers are ready to weigh anchor and be handed over in Boston Harbor tomorrow morning. And—"

Notify Congress to prepare for the commencement of hearings on the Lend-Lease Act.

Ten minutes until the forty-eight-hour deadline, London, 10 Downing Street, the underground bunker of the wartime cabinet.

The brass clock on the wall made a clear "click" sound, the minute hand about to reach the final mark that would determine the fate of the empire.

The air in the basement seemed to solidify, and Churchill's back was completely soaked with cold sweat. Just when everyone was almost sinking into the abyss of despair...

"Ring ring ring ring—"

The telephone on the table, representing the highest level of transoceanic communication, suddenly rang at a shrill, frantic frequency in the center of the bunker.

Churchill lunged at the table as if electrocuted, grabbing the receiver. Upon hearing the American accent, tinged with helplessness and resignation, the 66-year-old prime minister's eyes instantly welled up with tears, like a child's.

In the shadows of the corner of the blast door.

Arthur sat quietly in the wooden chair. He didn't listen to the details of the phone call, because the outcome was already predetermined in that cruel matrix of capital calculations.

This behind-the-scenes swordsman of the British Empire elegantly pulled a silver pocket watch from his breast pocket and glanced at the time.

With a soft "click," the pocket watch closed.

A victorious smile appeared on Arthur's lips.

The rogue diplomacy of the British Empire.

Big win.

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