Rank and Respectability

- Chapter 21 -

Wind attacked the sails of the Victory and her sister-ships as they pushed towards the line of ships on the horizon. Nelson's plan had been well communicated and even now the English fleet was drawing into two columns with the intention of spearing through the enemy's line; it was unconventional, but it would work. It must work. Sweat beaded on Routley's forehead, the chill and nausea of nerves coursed through him and every other soldier as the hours passed and the impending battle drew nearer. Nelson's signal flew: 'England expects that every man will do his duty.' All was quiet. Villeneuve's ships loomed closer, nearly upon them. Orders began to bark from every corner and men rushed to obey, Routley readied himself portside as they drew alongside the first of the French warships.

A volley of explosions shook the ship from bow to stern with the first order for cannon fire, and in the same moment the boom of rifle shot rang in every ear. The metallic click of hundreds of rifles loading in rhythm was followed by another great boom, and screams. Brandon Routley breathed hard as he loaded and shot, loaded and shot, adrenaline blurring together his actions and numbing the sounds of dying men, gunfire, and snapping wood. Splinters and shrapnel flew ripped through the air, tearing at his clothes and skin, saltwater spray burning his eyes and causing hundreds of tiny cuts on his face and hands to scream. The Victory collided with another vessel and men flooded aboard, screaming in French and brandishing swords. Fear and adrenaline snapped into a sort of wild madness as the instinct for survival took over as Routley unsheathed his own and defended himself screaming, hacking at throats and removing limbs on all sides.

Wood screamed and the ship that had attached itself to them shuddered and leaned away. Cannons fired and the side of the French warship lit and blew outward; flaming boards, bodies, and debris crashed into the side of the Victory and skidded across the deck. A barrel, blazing in an inferno, hurled towards Routley too fast for him to dodge. Lights burst in his brain and all went black.

Pain seared over entire left side of his body. Water splashed against him as it rushed towards starboard with the tipping of the ship, first granting relief, then stinging excruciatingly. Voices yelled for aid, Admiral Nelson had been shot! Through the buzz and fog he could see the Admiral being taken below deck. Someone grabbed his shoulders, the world shimmered and spun and faded again.

His eyes opened once more. He glanced around groggily, found himself laying on a mat below deck, groans of wounded men rising all around him. "It is over Sir." He looked for the voice, the young officer who he'd saved from the gauntlet speaking to Admiral Nelson who lay on the opposite side of the room. "We've won by a great score."

"Thank God I have done my duty. Kiss me Hardy."

Hardy kissed his friend's forehead as Reverend Scott the Chaplain sat by, clutching his bible in shaking hands. Routley's neck and arm flared in excruciating pain and with a groan he looked stiffly to see what caused it. Bloody red and pasty white, bubbling flesh peeked through the fabric of his shirt; sticking, and ripping painfully when he tried to move. The stink of burnt and melted skin overwhelmed him and he lost consciousness once more.

The next time he woke he was staring up at the ceiling of a medical institution and being swaddled in bandages by a harried nurse.

~~~

News of the glorious battle of Trafalgar spread across England like wildfire. Admiral Nelson was considered the greatest of heroes and the entire country mourned and honored his passing. For those who knew Mr Brandon Routley, there was great cause for worry, for nearly a month passed and he was proclaimed missing in action.
The fearful anticipation was too much for Mrs Bianca Routley, who's delicate constitution suffered little stress before causing her fits of nerves. Anxiety lent a good fifteen years to the woman's fifty. Upon being told her son was not accounted for among the living (nor the dead), she promptly assumed the worst and begat an attack of the heart.