The men dispersed slowly that evening, their voices hushed as though they were leaving a cathedral. The converter loomed over the camp like some half-forged idol, its brick skin faintly steaming from the day's test fires. In their hearts, fear and curiosity wrestled. They had built furnaces before, but never a beast like this.
When dawn broke, Shropshire's mist clung to the valley, dampening the ground and chilling every breath. Yet already the camp was alive. Furnace men stoked the blast furnace, feeding it coal until its belly roared. Blacksmiths checked the tuyeres Phillip had designed, ensuring each pipe sat snugly, ready to carry air. The carpenters tested the scaffolding ropes and pulleys, muttering prayers under their breath.
Phillip rose from his tent, cravat hastily tied, boots muddied from the previous day's work. He carried no noble airs now—only determination. Sebas stood at his shoulder, silent as ever, his silver hair glinting faintly in the morning light.
"Is everything ready?" Phillip asked.
Sebas inclined his head. "The furnace men say the pig iron will be tapped within the hour. The scaffolding is firm. The men are nervous."
Phillip allowed himself a small smile. "So am I."
By midmorning, the camp gathered around the scaffolding. The blast furnace belched fire and smoke, the molten stream of pig iron glowing like the heart of the sun as it flowed into ladles. The heat seared the air, forcing men to shield their faces with cloths. When the first ladle was hoisted by pulley, its contents shimmering orange and white, even the hardiest blacksmiths flinched.
"Steady!" Phillip shouted, climbing the scaffolding with the others. "Pour into the converter's mouth. Slowly now!"
The great ladle swung, chains creaking, and tipped. A torrent of molten iron cascaded into the pear-shaped vessel, hissing as it struck the hot lining. Sparks burst skyward, a fountain of light that made men cry out and stumble back. The converter's belly filled, the glow of molten metal pulsing through gaps in the brickwork.
Phillip's heart thundered in his chest. This was it—the moment theory would meet fire. He grabbed hold of the lever connected to the tuyeres, his gloves slick with sweat.
"Bellows ready?" he called.
"Aye, my lord!" came the reply from below, where men manned the great hand-pumped bellows, their muscles taut with anticipation.
"Then blow."
The tuyeres hissed to life. Air surged into the molten mass with a sound like a storm trapped underground. For a heartbeat, nothing happened—only the glow of liquid iron sloshing inside the vessel. Then came the roar.
The converter erupted, sparks bursting from its mouth in a dazzling storm. The iron boiled as the carbon within ignited, flames shooting upward in a geyser of orange and white. The entire vessel seemed alive, trembling under the fury within.
Men stumbled back, some cursing, some crossing themselves. A laborer fell to his knees, convinced the vessel would explode.
"Hold steady!" Phillip shouted from the platform, his violet eyes fixed on the inferno below. His voice cut through the panic. "This is what I promised! The fire is burning the weakness out!"
For ten minutes, the roar did not relent. Sparks rained down like meteors, landing on scaffolding, sizzling on damp earth. The men on the bellows fought to keep pace, sweat streaming down their backs as they pumped air into the raging storm.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the fury changed. The flame shifted color, from bright orange to a pale, dazzling white. Phillip's pulse quickened. He knew the signs—the impurities were nearly gone, the carbon almost burned away.
"Keep blowing!" he ordered. "We are close!"
The white flame danced higher, a slender lance against the morning sky. The roar softened, the storm calming as the last of the carbon vanished. Finally, Phillip raised his hand.
"Stop the blast!"
The bellows stilled. The converter groaned, settling into silence. The glow inside dimmed, leaving only the steady shimmer of molten steel waiting at the bottom.
No one moved. All eyes turned to Phillip. He drew a breath, his chest tight with anticipation.
"Prepare to tap."
Chains creaked again as the trunnions were turned. Slowly, the pear-shaped vessel tilted forward, its molten contents spilling from a spout into waiting molds lined with sand. The stream flowed smooth, like liquid silver tinged with gold. Not brittle iron. Not cracked castings. This was something else entirely.
Steel.
When the molds filled, Phillip signaled to tilt the vessel back. The men crowded close, staring in disbelief at the glowing ingots cooling before their eyes. The older smith who had doubted before reached out with a poker, tapping the edge of one mold. The sound rang sharp, clear—stronger than iron.
"By God…" the man whispered. "It worked."
The silence broke into a roar of its own. Men shouted, clapped each other on the back, some even laughed nervously as though afraid it might all vanish if they blinked. The blacksmiths stared with wide eyes, already imagining the tools they could forge. The furnace men shook their heads, muttering that they had never seen such a thing.
Sebas stepped up beside Phillip, his face calm but his eyes gleaming faintly with pride. "Congratulations, Young Master."
Phillip exhaled, the weight of the moment settling on him. Five thousand pounds invested. Weeks of labor. Doubt, fear, risk. And here, before him, lay the proof—ingots of steel, stronger than any bar wrought in England's forges.
He let his hand rest on one of the molds, the heat still radiating faintly through the poker.
"This is only the first. We will make not one batch, but dozens. Hundreds. Until this yard is stacked with ingots high enough to shame the hills around us. Today, we proved it can be done. Tomorrow, we do it again."
A ripple went through the men—part awe, part disbelief. The older smith squinted at the glowing bars, scratching his soot-streaked beard. "But, my lord… what's the use of so much steel? Iron we know—nails, horseshoes, cannon shot, rails for wagons. But this—" he tapped the ingot again, the sharp note ringing out, "—this is new. Stronger, yes, but who will buy it?"
Another smith chimed in. "Aye. A bar of steel makes a fine blade, but blades alone won't fill all these molds. What else can it do?"
Phillip looked at the semicircle of soot-blackened faces watching him. They weren't sneering now, nor doubtful. They were curious. Hungry. If he wanted them to follow, to believe in the endless fire of this converter, he needed to give them a vision worth sweating for.
He stepped onto a crate, so his voice carried above the clamor. Behind him, the converter still smoked faintly, its brick skin scarred but triumphant. He gestured toward the ingots laid in sand.
"You ask what steel is for? I'll tell you—it is for everything."
The men shifted, some folding arms, others leaning closer.
"With iron, you can make a plough," Phillip said, his voice rising. "But with steel, you can make a plough that never bends, that cuts earth like a hot knife through butter. With iron, you can make a nail. With steel, you can build ships whose hulls won't split at sea. With iron, you can forge a musket barrel. With steel, you can make a cannon that fires twice as far, and rails strong enough to carry whole trains of wagons."
One of the furnace men frowned. "Trains? Wagons ride on roads, not rails."
Oops, he may have slipped a word that doesn't exist yet. He was thinking of locomotives. But surely, there is already an equivalent train here used extensively in mines. Mine carts!
"You're right. Wagons ride roads. But you've seen the pits in Wales and the collieries here in Shropshire. You know the mine carts that run on wooden rails?"
The furnace man's eyes narrowed. "Aye. Rattle like the devil's teeth, they do. Wood splits under the weight if the load's too heavy."
"Exactly," Phillip said, seizing the opening. "Wood rails crack. They rot. They waste strength. But imagine those rails forged from steel. Stronger than oak, stronger than iron. Carts carrying coal, ore, stone—all gliding smooth, never breaking, never slowing. Not just in mines. Across fields. Between towns. From Shropshire to London itself."
A murmur spread through the men. They all knew the cursed wooden tracks in the mines, the way carts toppled, rails snapped, wagons derailed. The thought of steel rails stretching for miles planted something in their minds: a picture of endless wagons rolling with ease.
Phillip pressed on, his voice gaining force. "That is only one use. Steel can mend ploughs that farmers break every spring. It can line cannon so they don't burst and kill the men who fire them. It can build bridges that don't shudder under the weight of carts. Think of it—not one village, not one foundry, but a kingdom bound together with steel."
He added. "Of course there are different kinds and types of steels. Not all are the same. Some are hard—too hard for ploughs, but perfect for blades that must never dull. Some are softer, springier, ideal for carriage springs or tools that must bend without breaking. What we've made here today is only the beginning. With control, with practice, we can tailor the fire itself to shape the metal as we choose."
The blacksmiths leaned forward, murmuring amongst themselves. One rubbed the back of his neck and asked, "So you're saying, my lord… we can choose what sort of iron it becomes?"
Phillip nodded firmly. "Exactly. Where before you had to work with what the furnace gave you, now you can demand what you want. Think of a sword that holds an edge for years, a plough that never snaps in the field, or even—" he paused, catching the men's eyes, "—bridges that do not collapse under the weight of wagons. Steel gives us choice. And choice, gentlemen, is power."
The words hung in the smoky air. For these men, used to laboring at the mercy of fickle iron, the promise of control struck deeper than Phillip expected. They exchanged looks, not just of curiosity but of pride. Pride that they might shape something beyond their fathers' dreams.
One of the furnace men scratched his beard, still skeptical. "But who will buy all this? Farmers might want stronger ploughs, aye, but bridges, rails, ships—those be things of kings and parliaments."
Phillip stepped down from the crate, boots thudding on the packed dirt. He looked each man in the eye as he spoke. "Then we sell to kings. To parliaments. To generals who want cannons that never burst, to shipbuilders who want hulls that don't splinter in the Channel, to landlords who want their wagons rolling smooth from pit to port. Don't think small. Steel will touch every corner of this kingdom—and we will be the ones to provide it."
Sebas, silent at his shoulder, inclined his head slightly, as if to say well spoken.
The men murmured again, but this time it wasn't doubt—it was hunger. Hunger for wages that wouldn't dry up, for work that meant more than patching old furnaces, for the pride of being first.
Phillip spread his hands over the still-smoking ingots. "This is not just metal. It is our future. And tomorrow, we begin again."
Weeks passed, and the valley of Shropshire no longer smelled only of coal and damp earth—it smelled of progress. The converter roared nearly every other day, belching sparks into the sky as if proclaiming its triumph to the world. The yard was filling quickly, stacks of cooling ingots rising like squat golden pillars. What had once been a muddy clearing was transforming into an organized works yard, with timber sheds for storage, rails for wagons, and smoke that never seemed to lift from the camp.
Phillip spent every waking hour moving between drawings, molds, and meetings with his men. The blacksmiths, once skeptical, now boasted that they worked steel, not iron. The furnace men grumbled less, their backs straighter as they tended the fires of an invention no one else in the kingdom possessed. Even the laborers carried themselves differently—wages in their pockets and pride in their eyes.
And word had spread.
One morning in late April, the sound of hooves echoed down the track leading to the yard. Sebas, ever watchful, stepped forward as three carriages approached, flanked by a pair of riders in livery. The men on horseback wore the colors of a Midlands landowner, and the lead carriage bore a crest Phillip did not recognize. The camp paused in its work, hammers stilling, as the visitors drew near.
From the carriage descended a broad-shouldered man in his fifties, his coat tailored but dusty from the road. He was followed by a younger companion, leaner, his boots polished, his manner sharper. The older man scanned the yard, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the stacked ingots.
"Lord Phillip Wellington?" he asked, his voice a gruff baritone.
Phillip stepped forward, wiping soot from his hands onto a rag. "That is I."
The man gave a curt nod. "Thomas Arkwright. I own the mills along the Severn. My son, Edward."
The younger man bowed slightly, though his gaze was already fixed on the steel. "Word has reached us that you've found a way to make steel in bulk. I came to see if rumor was true."
Phillip gestured toward the ingots. "Not rumor. Fact. Each batch made here is stronger than anything you've bought from Sheffield or imported from the Continent." He motioned for one of the blacksmiths, who stepped forward with a bar forged from the first ingots. "Strike it."
The smith swung his hammer. The bar rang like a bell, unbent and unbroken. Another blow, harder this time, and still the steel held true.
Arkwright's brows rose. His son leaned forward, fascinated. "If this is as strong as it seems, we could replace every spindle in the mills. Iron teeth break within a month. With steel—" He stopped himself, but Phillip had already caught the hunger in his eyes.
"You see the use," Phillip said smoothly. "Your mills will run faster, with fewer repairs. Steel gears, steel spindles, steel shafts. Not just cloth in greater quantity, but profit greater than your rivals."
Arkwright stroked his chin. "And your price?"
"We sell by the ton," Phillip answered and their eyes widened instantly.
"Tons?!"
"Yes, we can produce it cheap after all."