1588 - Of Armadas and Tomatoes
The ship heaved and tossed on the stormy seas, and England laughed in pure exhilaration as he sprang down onto the deck. It had worked. The fireships had caused the anchored Spanish fleet to scatter in panic, breaking formation and allowing the nimble English ships to dart in among them in near-suicidal attempts to bring them down. Yes, they were still horribly outnumbered, but his soldiers were confident on their home water. Now all he had to do was find that idiot Spain and send him back home with his singed beard between his legs, mixed metaphors notwithstanding.
"Spain! Where are you, you sun-baked, yellow-bellied coward?"
"Spain isn't here right now."
The voice from behind him was rough, Italian, and sounded really, really angry. England froze. Was this one of the fabled grandchildren of the Roman Empire, brought here by the Duke of Parma in aid of King Philip of Spain? He could almost feel the short, Roman sword pressing against his back.
There was only one thing for it. With the loudest yell he could manage, he whirled around, thrusting his sword straight to where the speaker's neck would be.
He met thin air.
"You missed, bastarrrrdo."
The last word had that classic Italian trill on the "r", and came from about the level of his knees. England looked down.
"Who the hell are you?"
"I'm Romano. Italy Romano."
Oh sweet green hills, it really was one of the Italy brothers. So where was the other one? And why on earth was he so small? Surely Roman Empire's grandsons would be a little more grown up than this.
"Are you just going to stand there, bastardo?"
England ignored him. "Where's Spain?"
"On his ship. Where do you think?"
And... and why did he have that ridiculous hat on? He looked like a little girl. England put his head on one side. He made quite a sweet little girl, actually. Maybe that was why he was on the ship and not with the Duke's men in France, where a certain blue-clad nation would be all too happy to run off with him.
There was a cough behind him, and he turned back to see the commander of the boarding party standing there. "We've secured the ship, sir. No-one left on board except this one – they all jumped. What do you want us to do with... with..." He seemed to flounder for the correct pronoun as he gesticulated at Romano, and settled for "This?"
England looked down at the tiny Italian, who was giving him a most impressive scowl. Clearly he did not appreciate being referred to as "this".
"Throw him overboard," he said blandly. "If he can't swim, he'll learn. And let's take..." He looked up at the bridge to find the name. "Let's take Lo Pomodoro home. I'm sure she'll be a fine addition to my fleet."
"As you wish, sir."
England clambered up to the helm and ran his hand across the red wood. The ship really was beautiful, all made of red cedar and pine. Even the sails were dyed a deep crimson. It would match his coat perfectly. Those enormous Spanish galleons were foundering in his roaring English seas, though this little, sprightly one seemed to have avoided the wallowing gait of her companions. She seemed to be of a different build, almost like one of his own galleys but with a soft elegance to her that let her skip over the waves and capture every scrap of wind. This girl would absolutely fly with the right hand to guide her. He allowed himself a congratulatory smile. Yes, she would make a very fine prize indeed... and there was no need to report it officially. Then he could keep her for his own private use.
The splash was so small he almost didn't hear it, but he certainly heard what came next.
"SPAAAAAAIN!" Romano yelled over the wind and waves. "Come and rescue me, you bastard!"
What a foul-mouthed little creature. England was glad that he had never been so mouthy.
From the deck of the Spanish flagship, England heard a very Spanish voice. "Romanoooo! I'm cooomiiinng!"
A distant figure dived from the fo'c'sle and started swimming frantically towards the little white bundle that was doing a very impressive doggy-paddle. "Take your time why don't you, bastardo!"
England hid a smile. This was working out perfectly. He'd known when he'd had the little one tossed over the side that he couldn't really be hurt by a short dip in the salt – nations, even tiny half-nations, were far harder to kill than that – but it might wash his mouth out, at least.
"Sir?" It was the commander again. "The other ships are signalling, sir. We've sunk their flagship. All the crew were just watching the water, sir."
England shook his head in amusement. Such lack of professionalism – and there he had been thinking that Spain's army was to be feared, trembled before. All it took was a couple of nations swimming in the English Channel and the men were totally distracted.
He looked back down at the water. Oh yes. Spain had reached the little grandson of Roman Empire by now, and was being repeatedly hit over the head with a large red object, which finally exploded on contact with the Spaniard's hair, rather messily.
England rubbed his head. If colonies usually behaved like that, he was never having any. Ever.
A/N – Veeee~?
This came from a very weird discussion with my brother, and escalated. So there is a possibility of historical inaccuracies, as well as explaining why this isn't quite my usual style.
I mean, who would have thought that the English love-affair with the colour red could come from an Italian ship called "The Tomato"...