Chapter 1: We Rule the Waves

The creak of the wood, the steady rise and fall of the floor and the smell of salt and human remains littered the entire Deck of the HMS London. The ship had been intended for delivery in 1828, but due to the sinking of Admiral Nelson's Fleet 5 years prior, her priority had been moved up. A first-rate ship of the line she would have been a 98-gun ship but was reclassified to a 104.

Not that it mattered really. With under 300 sailors on her and next to no marines there was no way she could fire off half her guns if the Russians returned.

The year was 1829, the Napoleonic Wars had ended with the supposed death of Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte in 1815. Whilst the Coalition and her allies rejoiced, much land and cost had been invested into the mainland militaries of Europe. The Spanish Navy to the south had been captured by the Russians, along with most of their nation. It had been a strange move that was deemed to have been both tactically unfeasible and yet so unfeasible that they were now the overlords of the once proud peninsular.

Pushing up through Gibraltar in 1814 with a two-bit navy, they had moved up with their armies and strangled Madrid before she could possibly respond. It seemed insane, Pasty white Slavic peoples, interacting with Iberians… yet it was amazingly true.

Prussia, with her technological brilliance had snagged most of the French north cost, Russia the south, and whilst Austria had been poised to snatch Paris and the rich wine regions beyond… their investment in their military had left them bankrupt and embroiled into an immediate civil war by 1816.

Since that year, the civilized world seemed to have gone mad. Britain had taken all the trading routes and placed embargos and high trade tariffs on any other merchant who dared try and take their routes. Russia was expanding everywhere. From the failing Ottoman Empire to the warring states in Greece and the few remaining free Germanic states. So far Prussia and Russia didn't dare to attack one another, but there was tension clearly.

The French were defeated. Years of Revolution and war had depleted their nation, and no longer was there a will to resist. The Pope and the Italian Kingdoms, once under the yoke of France were now liberated, and inside their own coalition of Italia.

Across the world, from America to the East Indies the world watched the years tick by. The Uneasy cold war between Russia and Prussia. The never ending, greedy trade practices and callousness of the British and their fine navy, the Italians and their denouncement of all major nations and their land grabbing sinful ways, so departed from the alliances they'd made over a decade ago.

In 1825 the world watched as Russia, in conjunction with Prussia, to the surprise of all… launched a major offensive against the British and their island. The first pronged attack was to snuff out their allies.

The Invasion of Portugal had been brutal and swift. Queen Isabella had been evacuated by Lord Nelson's personal ship and ruled her colonies in exile from London. The African coastal nations had been taken, Russia snatching up and wrecking the coastal trade, for all but the new Coalition.

It was clear the deal was Russia to the South, and Prussia to the North, Britain… her dockyards, mines and people would go to the filthy Germanic people. This wouldn't do for the King's good ol' boys. Ship Shape and Bristol Fashion, 3 task forces set out.

Task Force North attacked the Russian shipping lines and Prussian North Ports, Task Force South, to Gibraltar, the rock heavily reinforced thankfully with 10 years preparation. Finally, Home Fleer, to circle the British Island, and wait… for the attack that had already been launched.

The Prussian Ironclad Task force, small in nature but fast had landed a small army of 15,000 men in Scotia. It seemed the attack would come in 2 stages. The Prussian Vanguard of Elite Regiments, followed by the Russian Main Army, arriving by much clunkier shipping in a few weeks.

The fighting around Newcastle and the borders had been brutal, and many had believed the island would fall… until Lord Nelson, his Home Fleet against the combined Russian and Prussian fleet, had held off the advance until the other Task Forces could arrive. At the cost of his life, the Home Fleet, and much of Britain's other Naval resources, the island had been saved.

Years ticked by once more, an intense naval race starting. All navies had been weakened by the attack of 1825. They had come again… massive 168 gunships, 6-7 deck gun-ships, light and agile steam ships… The battles had been intense over the past few months… but it was clear now.

Britain was losing. Sir John Jervis was holding the line but he was getting old, almost 100 years old now the elderly Admiral seemed to be holding on for the love of King and country. The British Fleet, led by his ship, the HMS London was in retreat to Plymouth, to defend with the Sothern Fleet the Channel, and her ports that would allow the enemy to ship thousands of men and supplies a week!

There was no singing, there was no talking. The Sailors ranged from old sea dogs, thinking themselves retired to live out small cargo shipments in London Central, and young men, not knowing the way of the sea or of war.

The army waited for their job to begin. Britain was ready for a fight. Rationing had begun in earnest years prior. Defences along the cost, along the towns and fortresses had been erected and every man, woman and child readied for occupation.

It might not be enough for the colossal aggressors of the mainland, but they would never surrender. The sound of the guns came again. The sound of sharps long rifles. Of the mini-balls and of the other new innovations of the past 10 years. The sailors stood to attention as the elderly Admiral was helped up and out to the poop deck.

Thick smoke filled the air, debris stained the water with bodies, blood and fabrics from crushed sails. In the distance the Prussian main fleet with Russian support measured up. Damaged, but larger.

"I could never u-understand it…" Jervis sighed, letting go of his young assistants' hand as he paced the deck. "The events leading up to now… it's insane really. I never thought I'd see the day…" he chewed his jowls, several young sailors watching him, waiting for his inspiration.
"Gentleman… it's been an honour," pulling a small naval pistol from his belt, he pushed it to his temple and blew his brain out the back of his head, showering a rigging monkey with blood and brains.

The most senior sailor in the navy had taken the easy way out, the sailors speechless as they watched the Prussian fleet begin to advance.