« on: July 25, 2020, 10:57:51 AM »
The ground shakes. I don't know if it's the lightning or the siege weapons anymore from inside my tent. They expect me to rest with the prospect of a possible battle, but no matter how I try I just can't keep my eyes shut. But the thunder wouldn't make it so hard to write if it weren't for my own hands. They won't stop shaking. I'm trying to stay confident for the others, to keep their spirits up- but it's a lie. This deep pit in my stomach is screaming at me to run, to hide. To throw down my weapons and try to sneak out. But it's easier this time. I remember the last time. The last time my hands shook. Amidst the storm and the whistling of Falkovnian artillery at Ameranthe, I'm thrown back in time by two years.
The Battle of Point Sable.
The natural storms balk in comparison to the thundering of war that day. The vibrating boom of cannon fire sending ships to their doom as I stand on the fo'c'sle of my father's Galleon. Hands steady and firm on the wooden handle of my cast-iron swivel cannon, the breechloader mercifully easy and fast to load and fire. The crew later tell me of their pride in seeing me send whistling lead shot into the upper decks of the enemy ships; I suppose they expected me to cower below, to lean on my noble status to avoid the fighting. But if they'd seen me the previous night, their presumptions wouldn't have been unreasonable. It was far worse than now, my memory of it still crystal clear to keep my shame fresh.
Just the night before, my hands clutched the frame of an open gun port as I tried to still the shaking, yet I could do nothing to stop from vomiting out into the waters below. Wracked with fear, anxiety, my panicked mind wished me to beg my father for a retreat, for an escape. Put me on a row boat, let me sail to shore for safety and wait out the battle. Steal one, even, avoid the shame of asking and just sneak away and make for home. Those late night hours felt the longest of my life, spent upending my sore stomach that had long run out of contents for the sea aside sickly bile, or pacing with stricken, pallid skin and trying to hold back the mounting panic in my mind. The quivering of my craven hands.
I can even remember being confused. I had always been confident, always spouted my patriotism and boasted of my readiness for battle! Yet here it came and I felt a coward. Quivering below deck at the thought of coming warfare, pleading with myself for a reprieve from what came. To this day, I curse myself for the many shameful thoughts in my mind that I won't write here. One can be forgiven for thinking that I'm no soldier, at the time I truly wasn't- just a noble sailor accustomed to a life of 'adventure and travel'. Which only meant drinking and laying with foreign women. Boast as I did of my sword training, I'd never used it. Boast as I did of my readiness to fight, I never had.
Yet, when the time of battle actually came, these thoughts all vanished. I'd made it to the morning without action and when the sudden crack of artillery sounded, I had surprised everyone, myself most of all with how quickly I took to the forecastle. When I heard the cannonfire, my thoughts of death and consequence had all but gone- the only thing I could think of was my crew. My father. How their lives would be affected if we lost- how they would die. These thoughts steadily grew to think of everyone- my cousins, my uncle, the nobles, the common people. Farmers, tanners, smiths, artists, tailors, soldiers, politicians, all alike could find themselves dead. Yet there I was, ready to flee? No, I had told myself. For at least a day, I fought for everything I believed in. Be it through some divine intervention, I had managed to steel my uneasy hands and take up the cannon.
I can't speak to my efficacy, we were never close enough for me to really see the results of my own barrages, but I fought. Even the rip of cannonball through our own deck didn't falter me. I shot and I shot until our fleet was forced to flee. 'We lost?' I asked myself. I don't remember how long the battle took place, but it felt fast. Too fast. As if my memory of the morning is as fogged as the Baie. The heavy fog that had obscured the damage, yet our mangled fleet seemed to have at least somewhat survived. They had failed to sink the Blackwhistle, even if my father's beloved ship would never truly recover from this day. I remember my father taking my face in his hands and lavishing me with praise that I can't recall to this day, I only remember the pride I saw glinting in his eyes. Happy at my display in battle. It was bittersweet for me, the guilt of the previous night soon coming back to weigh heavily on my conscious.
I am not so boastful as I once was, for I remember that night well. It tempers my ego and reminds me that I am but a man in the face of larger forces at work. Forces of life and death, bowing to the whims of rich men and their politics. But of it all, I knew one thing for certain, I would NEVER be taken by such thoughts again. I will fight and, if need be, I will die.
Vive la Republique
Dominique Travere
(Bit of a mistake with my family lore before, sadly. Since been corrected.)
« Last Edit: July 25, 2020, 09:49:16 PM by Wrath »
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