A Work in Progress
There are those who would say that all fates are fixed. There are those who would say that every man has a choice. There are those who would say that Time will never end. And there are those who would say that it already is...
The Battle of Trafalgar. Possibly the single most boring subject in existance - or at least, it was when Mr. Coaltin was the teacher. The man had a gift for putting students to sleep. Who knew that Nelson's greatest victory could be so...dull?
Viserys leaned back in his seat and tried not to roll his eyes; Coaltin was currently rambling about the line of attack or something else equally thrilling. He tuned out the continued drone and stared out the window. There was a cloud drifting above the tree in the courtyard that looked like something, but he couldn't quite identify what. The longer he stared, the less identifiable it became, stretching and fading until it was nothing more than a random blur of smoke
billowed out and away from the starboard side as the last of the cannons fired; his ears rang from the deep-throated thunder. He didn't bother to wipe away the sweat that glistened on his forehead as he ran forward to catch hold of a flapping sheet. The dense gunpowder fog that roiled around the Victory obscured his vision, and he couldn't make out exactly which ships surrounded them; he was fairly certain that the two on their port and starboard quarters were HMS Neptune and Temeraire respectively, but as far as the three vessels they were plowing towards were concerned he couldn't hazard a guess. It didn't matter. They were Spanish ships, and French, and that meant that by the end of the day they had to be sunk or taken. The Lord Admiral Nelson had prophesized that he would take twenty prizes before the battle was over; given the all-or-nothing rushes the other British captains were making, it wouldn't have surprised him at all had the prediction come true. Already the enemy line was faltering.
"Helm's a-lee," someone shouted. The man at the wheel complied; there was no time, here in the midst of battle, to wait for each officer to relay the order. "Two points away from the wind, and we'll cut their line right between those two bloody bastards."
If the deck had been busy before, now it was a stirred anthill. Seamen, squeakers, and even landsmen scuttled about, loosing this line and hauling on that one; the Victory's nose swung north ever so slightly. The distance closed. Two ship's lengths; one; half a length, and now a quarter - another shout, another flurry of hands and arms and orders, and the British vessel sailed smoothly around past the Frenchie's stern and slowed. Cannon-fire rippled along the port side; the starboard broadside caught another Frenchie to the south across the bow. All thoughts were swept away as the other ship returned fire; through a rent in the ever-present smoke he could just make out the name Bucentaure. He cursed loudly as a splinter of the railing slashed across his upper arm, but ignored it.
Seconds dragged on into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into ages, and yet only fifteen minutes had slipped by when he heard a tiny exclamation from somewhere near the wheel. He spun just in time to see a tiny man with one empty sleeve fall to the deck, limp and ashen-faced. Instantly there was another crewmember at his side, lifting the frail form and carrying him through the hatch; Lord Horatio Nelson's hand lifted long enough to place
" - a handkerchief over his own face, so that his crew wouldn't see him being borne down to the sickbay. Three hours later, at four thirty, he died. In the end, he only took eighteen of the twenty ships he had bargained for, but between the damage the British fleet inflicted and the storms that rose the next day well more than half of the Combined Fleet was destroyed."
Viserys blinked. The myriad of shots and orders and screams were gone, and the sudden near-silence assaulted his ears. That's what I get for having an over-active imagination, he told himself wryly. I can even feel that cut on my arm, for crying out loud.
The brown-haired boy sitting next to him frowned and leaned over slightly. "Hey, Viserys, you all right?" he asked.
"Er, yes, I am," he stammered, jumping slightly.
"You're pale. And I think your arm is bleeding."
Gingerly, Viserys poked a hand under his sleeve and rubbed his shoulder; he winced, and his fingers came away bloody. He shuddered.
Random Quote of the Day:
Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.
- Napoleon Buonaparte
