Alasdair
“Alasdair, wake up.” Ella’s voice is smooth and sultry, her hand warm as it glides across my abdomen. “I need you,” she says, her lips kissing a trail from my chest to my neck, ending with a gentle bite on the lobe of my ear. “I need you to fuck me, Alasdair.” Her whisper is hot, her tongue wet as it teases me. My cock is painfully hard. I need to be inside her.
“Ella…” The gravel of my voice echoes in my head.
Her leg comes over my hip so she can straddle me, her long hair soft like silk sweeping across my skin. My hands grab onto her hips and guide her to my throbbing shaft. She moans as the head breaches her entrance…
I jolt out of my heavenly slumber to the sound of the sails snapping as they catch the shifting wind. “Bloody hell,” I say aloud while I try to calm the pounding of my heart. That dream was more realistic than any I can recall, and my poor cock isn’t accepting the fact that it was just a dream.
It doesn’t take long to relieve it of its tension, but my longing for Ella becomes greater still. Perhaps longing isn’t the right word; it seems too gentle, too tender. This is more like a ravenous hunger that leaves a gnawing pain in my gut while my mind tries to accept the terrible reality that satiation will not come any time soon.
I drudge through my routine of ablutions before heading to the quarter deck to check with the lieutenant and confirm that we are on schedule. I slept for most of the morning after a late night of navigation planning and ship’s log entries, as well as routine checks with the lieutenants overseeing the various decks and gunner stations. If the French fleet is in Aboukir Bay on the coast of Alexandria as we expect them to be, the battle will ensue without delay. The French will not be expecting such aggression upon arrival, especially so close to dusk, putting them at an immediate disadvantage. Nelson has been combing the Mediterranean for months, looking for Admiral Brueys’s fleet; once he finds them, he will not hesitate to engage, hopefully bringing us to victory that much sooner.
The horizon is clear with minimal haze, ideal conditions for a battle at sea. I look around and see the rest of the fleet in full sail, moving at the same steady clip. It is an impressive sight: thirteen ships of the line, massive hulls lined with gun ports, every sail filled with wind, the ocean thrown aside in a splash of white water as the bow carves its surface. Napoleon’s admirals will be rather displeased when they see our fleet coming up the coast. Surely, they are expecting some show of force, considering Bonaparte is trying to block our largest trade route. It is hard to fathom they can be that naive, yet in the past several battles, they have proven to be just that.
“Lieutenant Fernsby,” I greet on approach.
“Captain Stewart.” He nods. “We are moving ahead of schedule. Aboukir Bay should be in our sights in little more than two hours.”
“Excellent news. I’m glad I didn’t sleep through it,” I jest, wishing I could go back to sleep and finish the dream that was sadly interrupted. Tension creeps up from my gut and lands in my chest as I think about Ella. This is the side of love I’m finding difficult to deal with—the desperate longing to have her in my arms again, to hear her voice, to see her smile.I will be home soon, my love.
I take my leave to do one last inspection. After checking on the upper decks, I quickly descend the steps to the first gun deck. It is important that I make these rounds before battle, not only to encourage my crew as they face an imminent battle, but I may not see many of these men after today.
“Listen up, gentlemen!” I shout through the echoing chamber and watch as everyone stops their duties to stand at attention. “Once the French are in our sights, battle will ensue immediately. Admiral Nelson will give us the signal, and our job is to sink as many French ships as possible in the shortest amount of time.” The echo of my steps is intentionally loud as I walk slowly down the line. “Remember, should we take prisoners aboard this ship, we will treat them with respect. These men are doing their duty just as you are. Soldiers don’t start wars—kings, queens, and conquerors do.” I stop to look into the eyes of the men before me. I wait a moment longer to let the silence grow heavy before proceeding down the center of the deck lined with men and battle-ready cannons. “God forbid if any of ye parish during this fight. Should that be yer fate, I will personally ensure that yer family receives enough compensation that they will not have to turn to the streets to survive.” I’ve done it before, and I will do it again. My men fight harder and with more faith knowing I will not let them down. “We’ve been here before, we’ve fought together before, we always find victory. And why is that, gentlemen?” I shout the question louder than the previous statement.
In unison, they all answer, “Because victory is the only option!”
“That is correct. When victory is the only option, ye do not lose.”
I turn back for the stairs, my pace quickening. Once there, I make one last announcement.
“On behalf of King George III and the blessed country of Great Britain, I thank ye for yer service. I appreciate ye being a part of this crew, and I trust ye to help keep theOrionabove water. Godspeed.” I offer a salute and head to the next deck.
Fernsby was right. Two hours later, after skirting the Egyptian coast, we arrive at Aboukir Bay, where Napoleon’s fleet is anchored off its shoals. I take out my telescope and count thirteen ships with the flagshipL’Orientguarding the center. It’s an impressive vessel, much larger than Nelson’sVanguard, but I notice the ships flanking it are not nearly close enough to properly protect such an important asset. I know Nelson sees this as well, and as soon as I turn the scope toward his mast, I see his signal—enemy, in sight.
As if God had given his approval, the wind picks up from behind us, pushing theVanguarddirectly at the enemy fleet in swift and dramatic fashion, no doubt sending terror throughout the thirteen French ships. Admiral Nelson’s charge is a clear message that an attack is underway, leaving Brueys’s men with little time to prepare.
The rest of our fleet follows theVanguardas we begin to take our positions to surround the anchored fleet.GoliathandZealousare the first in battle as they each race separately between two enemy ships, firing perfectly aimed cannons directly through their center from stern to bow and vice versa. It is the most vulnerable shot a battleship can take, and in this initial move, our fleet has already severely damaged four ships.
Horatio positionsVanguardon the seaward side, and I command Fernsby to round their first position and bring us to the landward side.
“Bring us close, Fernsby! I want to finish the ship Captain Foley just hit!”
Fernsby deftly maneuversOrionwithin close enough range to keep us out of the shoals and to completely disable the ship with chain shot.
“Destroy the masts!” I yell to the closest lieutenant, who then sends the message down through the gun decks.
In that one pass, we finish whatGoliathstarted; the ship is destroyed. I hear men screaming as smoke billows and flames crackle, and I pray for their souls and that many will escape.
“Stay away from the shoals, Lieutenant! They want us grounded!” I yell as the setting sun darkens the waters, and we approach another target. “Lieutenant! Take out that frigate!”
My command is drowned out by the thunder of cannon fire, both ours and theirs. I hear the splintering of wood and feel the floor jolt beneath my feet as we take a significant hit. Regardless, my crew has peppered the frigate with twenty-five-pound shot, destroying its hull. Within minutes, the ship is sunk. One more down.
Further down, I can see thatL’Orienthas taken a battering from one of our ships of the line,Bellerophon, but the French flagship is now retaliating with full force, and Captain Darby has very little space to maneuver away.
“Bloody Christ! Someone must get over there to help Darby!” I yell to anyone that can hear.
The skies are darkening now, and the thick smoke that fills the air glows with the light of fire. Orange and red mixed with black, moving like a surging mass that swells, then rolls into itself like a serpent monster from the furthest depths of the sea. Every breath makes my throat choke on the stench of gunpowder, burning wood, and death. There is never a moment that isn’t littered with the sound of cannon fire and musket shots. It goes on and on, an endless tempo, but there is a rhythm, the steady beat of victory and defeat, that is both devastating and encouraging—the sound of war.