With the draft of the naval reform complete, I placed the document carefully inside a newly crafted wardrobe, one I had commissioned just days ago. The plan was bold, transformative, and utterly disruptive—but perhaps, I realized, too disruptive to present immediately.
While my intention was to propose it directly to my father, Sultan Mustafa III, I hesitated. Resistance would not only come from the Grand Vizier or the Divan but, more critically, from the Kapudan Pasha and his naval bureaucracy. Reforming the navy meant tearing down centuries-old practices and structures. It would threaten the entrenched lifestyles and privileges of those who had long benefited from the status quo. Such a radical shift would not be embraced lightly—it would be seen as a declaration of war against their way of life.
The timing, I decided, was not yet right. For this reform to succeed, I would need not only the approval of my father but also the support of key influential figures. Above all, I needed brilliant minds—individuals capable of envisioning and executing a new age of maritime power for the empire.
It is painfully clear, however, that such individuals are scarce within our realm. While Europe is witnessing an explosion of innovation—figures like Antoine Lavoisier, James Watt, and others revolutionizing science, industry, and technology—our empire lags behind.
Why? The answer lies in the lack of initiative to question, to experiment, and to invent. Conservatism has entrenched itself too deeply into the heart of the empire, suppressing knowledge and innovation. It is not enough to introduce reforms; we must first create an environment where intellectual curiosity and ingenuity can thrive once more. Only then can we hope to rival the innovations of the Europeans.
For now, I will hold the draft, keeping it safe until the time is right. My mission is clear: to gather the necessary allies and plant the seeds of change.
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The next day, after finishing my session with Sa'id Hoja, I decided to visit the Istanbul shipyard located just south of Topkapi Palace. According to my studies (or "historical research"), Istanbul's shipyard is renowned as the second largest naval production hub of the empire, with the leading facilities being in Izmir province under the administration of Governor Mehmed Esad Pasha.
As I gathered my notes and adjusted my attire, an odalık appeared at the door and announced, "My Shehzade, Aydın has arrived."
"Ah, about time. Let him in," I replied, gesturing toward the door.
Aydın burst in almost immediately, his expression a mix of annoyance and determination.
"My Shehzade! Why didn't you inform me that you were going to the shipyard?" he exclaimed.
I couldn't help but smile slyly. "Well, I was planning to tell you about it… eventually." My tone was lighthearted, trying to ease his frustration.
Aydın crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "Eventually? My Shehzade, this concerns naval reforms. How am I supposed to assist you if I'm left out of such an important visit?"
"I understand, Aydın. I didn't mean to exclude you," I replied, my expression softening. "Your insights are valuable, but this visit is more of an observational tour. Trust me, there will be plenty for us to discuss and analyze after today."
Aydın and I mounted our horses and set off swiftly for the shipyard. While I appreciated its utility, I couldn't help but miss the convenience of cars or motorcycles—though such inventions were centuries away. As a crown shehzade, I could have taken the royal carriage, but given the urgency of our visit, I chose to avoid the hassle.
The journey offered a breathtaking view of the Ottoman countryside, a reminder of the beauty within the empire's heartlands.
We arrived at the outskirts of Istanbul Shipyard, a sprawling complex just south of Topkapı Palace. The sight took my breath away. The architecture, so distinct with its Arabic and Turkish influences, felt almost alive, like it carried the weight of the empire's history. Domes crowned the buildings on either side, their golden caps gleaming in the sunlight, while the warm, bright brick walls seemed to hum with energy.
The docks extended into the Bosphorus Sea, where half-finished hulls floated, tethered to piers crowded with workers and tools. It was a scene of both order and chaos, an intricate dance of tradition and function that symbolized the empire's maritime legacy.
"You have been a Naval scribe, but have you ever worked here?, Aydin effendim?" I asked.
"Yeah but not for a long time, I was a scribe for the Naval Dockmaster by the name of Tevfik Silahdar during that time, but he died, and was replaced with the current, not sure if the current one knew me or not though. But still during my job as a scribe, I had to be on his side, when he was discussing the assembling, with the artisans, and most business daily activities. Sometimes, he shows me around, teaching me the knowledge of seafaring because of his as an Ottoman admiral during his young days. Now that you mentioned it, the memory relives."
"So he's an Ottoman admiral, now I see why he became the Naval dockmaster. Have you been involved in most of the assemblies?"
"Yes, from the early processes to the finished ones. Still it amazes me"
"Barbarossa's legacy, no doubt," I remarked, referencing the legendary admiral. "But we must go further. Tell me, Aydın, have you ever heard of ships made entirely of metal?"
Aydın chuckled. "My shehzade, if a ship were made of metal, it would sink. Everyone knows that."
I smiled knowingly. "That would be true if the metal were shaped like a solid ball. But with precise engineering and a specific design, metal ships could float just as well as wooden ones—if not better. Imagine ships that don't rely on wood at all, ones that won't rot or burn. And remember the alternative propulsion methods I mentioned before? Steam engines, not sails, will drive our future fleet."
Aydın's eyes widened. "Metal ships powered without sails... It sounds impossible."
"It's only impossible until someone does it," I said with conviction. "And in time, we will."
As I watched Aydın, I turned back to the shipyard, letting the sights and sounds sink in. The clang of hammers striking wood, the rhythmic chanting of the craftsmen, and the faint cries of gulls over the shimmering Bosphorus—it all painted a picture of tradition, deeply rooted but static. It was both awe-inspiring and frustrating.
Ironclads, monitors, dreadnoughts... ships of the future, built not from timber but from steel, powered not by sails but by engines. These ideas were centuries ahead of what we stood upon now, yet they felt close enough to touch if we dared to reach for them.
I thought of the British Empire, whose Royal Navy was already making strides in naval warfare. Their mastery of the seas came not just from their ships but from their unyielding desire to innovate, to adapt. It was this drive that allowed them to lead, and it was this spirit that the Ottoman Empire lacked. We clung to the glory of the past, to the memory of Barbarossa and his fleet, without realizing that the world had moved on.
But how could I convince others? The Kapudan Pasha would surely balk at the idea of replacing wood with metal. He and others like him saw reform as a threat to their power and way of life. They would argue that ships made of steel would sink, that engines would fail, that tradition was enough to sustain us. Their resistance was rooted not in reason but in fear—fear of change, fear of losing control.
And yet, I could not let that fear dictate the future of the empire. Naval warfare would evolve, whether we embraced it or not. Submarines, destroyers, and battleships would come, and the empire had to be ready. If we waited too long, we would be left behind, vulnerable to the ambitions of others who had no qualms about leaving the past behind.
The task ahead was daunting. I needed allies—engineers, visionaries, and leaders who shared my belief in progress. I needed to plant the seeds of innovation, not just in the navy but throughout the empire. Perhaps the greatest challenge would not be building the ships but building the will to see them as a necessity.
For now, the shipyard stood as a symbol of both our potential and our limits. But I vowed that one day, it would become the birthplace of something far greater than anything the empire had seen before.
"Aydin, do you notice there's still one of them hiding from us?" I asked, my eyes fixed on the forest's edge.
"Eh... where? Where?" Aydin began to glance around nervously.
Without waiting, I pulled a small knife from my caftan and threw it toward a shadow in the thicket.
"Yikes!?!?! YOU ALMOST HIT ME!" A young girl stepped out from behind the bushes, clutching the folds of her lavish entari, its silk fabric adorned with intricate gold threadwork and shimmering jewels. Her veil, draped loosely over her shoulders, fluttered slightly as she moved.
My heart sank and my jaw dropped simultaneously. "Şah?! What are you doing here?!"
Aydin's eyes widened in disbelief. "Şah Sultan?! Why would you be sneaking around here?"
Şah Sultan gave a sly smile, adjusting her bejewelled ferace. "I could ask you the same, gentlemen. You looked suspicious, rushing off like that, so I decided to follow. Turns out, I was right to be curious."
Şah Sultan tilted her head and smirked, her mischievous expression betraying no hint of remorse.
I sighed, rubbing my temple. "Şah, what are you doing here? This isn't a game."
"Well," she said, brushing off imaginary dust from her embroidered sleeve, "I saw you and Aydin rushing off, looking all serious. My curiosity got the better of me." She grinned cheekily. "Oops, it seems the cat got out of the bag."
Aydin muttered under his breath, "More like the cat got her tongue. What will Hünkar Mustafa think if he hears of this?"
Şah stuck her tongue out playfully at him. "Relax, Aydin. I'm not here to cause trouble... much."
*Kapudan Pasha is a title of Ottoman High Admiral and considered to be the highest rank in Ottoman Admiralty. Usually the're special administration for them, but I will explain it in the explanation sect, or new chapter.