#battle of navarino bay bitches

[flyingsassysaddles]

The Battle of Navarino Bay

“The Greek Revolution needs a miracle,” an old woman sighed, picking out her vegetables and putting them in a bag, her shawl coming loose and fluttering in the wind. She turned back to the Greek man who had helped her pick up her stuff before she dragged him over to the marketplace, because after all, she had said, you're such a nice strong man, and I can’t carry these home myself! The Greek didn’t mind though, and helped pick up her bought food and bring her to her home.

“The Ottomans have made such big steps! We’re holding onto the skin of our teeth here! Nikos, bless his heart, says I shouldn’t worry about it, that the revolution will be back on its feet in no time, but I still do. I’ve been around a long time, and this the biggest revolution I’VE seen,” she rambled, guiding the man to the steps of her house, before finally stopping. The man almost dropped dead in exhaustion. Apparently, the old woman hadn’t been exaggerating when she said she lived on the far side of the sea town.

“I am so sorry! I dragged you all the way up here and I don’t even know your name!” the old woman realized, taking his hands and patting them with a severe grandmother look on her face.

The Greek man was at a loss, shuffling and looking at the ground. “Er, that’s okay ma'am, just trying to be a good person.”

“Nonsense! Tell me your name. I must know who to thank for helping me! ”

“My name is Heracles, ma’am.”

“Heracles. Oh, I know a man who has a nephew named Heracles! What’s your last name good boy?”

Again the man was at a lost, stuttering and looking at the ground, and the food, before saying the first thing that came into his head.

“Um, Karpusi.”

“Karpusi? Your last name is Watermelon?”

Heracles looked up from the watermelon that had inspired this brilliant idea and came up with a foolproof plan on why he was named after a fruit.

“Er, my father was a watermelon farmer.” The old woman tutted and gave a sympathetic look, patting his hands once more.

“You poor boy. You must have been bullied so much when you were a child. Though once I knew a man called Alexios Psari. Imagine that! Your last name being Fish! Thank you so much Mr. Watermelon, I’ll make sure to pray for you on Sunday,” she chirped, before patting Heracles on the cheek and preparing to go up the stone stairs to her house above the bakery.

“It was no problem, ma’am. Have a nice day!” The man shouted back at the rapidly retreating woman, going down the hill and to the sea, after a couple of tight turns of course. Pylos really was a beautiful city, even if it was sparsely populated, thought the Greek, passing the tavern he was staying at and following the road, up another hill, to the sea.

Unfortunately, Heracles wasn’t here to sightsee, as was made clear when instead of going straight towards the narrow and rocky beach the sea town boasted, he went to the shipyard, where he had a full view of the mighty galleons and mile high ships that floated blissfully on the other side of the bay. There were so many of them sitting in the water that it almost looked like the ocean had given up and let trees grow on its soil once more. The flags of the ships fluttered and strained in the sea breeze, turning the leaves of the sea forest into an orchard of red, white, and blue. The three flags of the bay looked similar, with the same main colors, but after that, the difference between the 3 national fleets stopped there.

The British ships in Navarino Bay glowed brilliantly, outdoing the other 2 in sheer size and number. Though Heracles knew that they weren’t the true best that Britain could conjure, the gloating ships were pretty close. After all, the more to intimidate the Ottomans into doing what they wanted.

The French ships were much less impressive by international standards, but to the humble Greek people of Pylos, they were still in a league of their own. However, if you squinted past the glare of the well-oiled masts and bows, you could see the faint bruises of wars already lost and an almost shameful way in which they carried themselves, wincing away from the gloating British ships. Heracles had heard of the Napoleon Wars of course, and he knew the French were desperate to prove that they were still relevant by butting into international affairs.

The Russian ships were muttering about the glamour and fashion the other ships were boasting, rocking their own hulls in the water with simple compliance, not bothering with the wasteful banter the other fleets filled the bay with. They were simple machines, they sighed, made to do what the ropes pulled them to do or fly where the wind commanded them to go. They were still amazing, the ships smiled, but why waste something on glamour?

A lump gathered in Heracles's throat as he gazed at the smiling Russian ships that were simply happy to be in warm waters. He had asked his Orthodox brother for help when the revolution first started, only to be refused once more. “Aren’t we the same?” Greece had argued, “are we not of the same religion, brother, are we not simply Christians trying to fight off our enemies? Was I not the one who gave you the gift of Christianity? Was I not the one who gave you the foundations for your language? Was I not the author of the poems and the philosophies you know so well? I know you helped Serbia, I know you will help Bulgaria, for you are both Slavs of the same blood, but am I not the one who taught you what that meant? If I am the one who did this, if I am the one who gave you the religion you now hold onto so dearly, if I am the one who taught you to write and to learn and to read and to believe that there was more to life than what we see, why won’t you help me brother? Why won’t you send the ships and the soldiers and the weapons I need to be free? Why won’t you help me escape a heretic’s grasp and be among my own people as a true nation once more? If I helped you with what you desperately, unknowingly needed in the past, why won’t you help me with what I need today, orthodox brother?”

“I cannot,”  the Russian had responded. “Because I cannot afford to send my soldiers, my ships, or my weapons. I cannot afford to send you money that I desperately need here at home.  I cannot show support to a rebellion against an empire I need for trade. I cannot supply a revolution that might be doomed to fail. I cannot waste my resources. I’m sorry Heracles, but I cannot help you.”

Clearly, though, the Russian could afford to send ships to batter the Ottoman Empire rather than helping a rebellion that might be Heracles's last. The Greek could sense the gut feeling in his bones, and the deepest recess of his mind. It was the same gut feeling that crept into his bones as Constantinople burned around him, and he prayed in the Hagia Sophia with the claws of dread hanging from the tears in his heart. It was the same feeling that dripped from his bloody body as the Ottoman Empire killed him once and for all, thrusting his sword into the Greek’s burning heart, and leaving him dead on the mosaic floor of the sacred church. And it was the final thought in his disappearing mind as he faded from existence, only to be the very first remnant he received after his reincarnation, after he was born as a child once more and with no memory. It was the first thing he remembered from his Byzantine days, the first thing he hated the Ottoman for, the first thing he screamed at the man when his killer asked him why he hated him so viciously. It was the feeling of death. Not the quick, sudden death a rabbit screams when its neck is snapped, or the desperate clawed death that dragged you down farther into the water as you tried to fly away. It was the stalking, aging, steady death that followed every creature, only showing itself when the being had fought off all other challengers, creeping onto the victim when it was worn and old, and didn’t have the strength to fight back. It was the type of death that showed its face rarely to the beings of the living world, only to the ones that boasted a long life, smiling and dragging them down into the darkness of death so slowly that the victim never even noticed what death was doing to them.

This was the emotion that sank into Heracles now, along with the dread that often followed. He knew this emotion, the gut feeling, and he knew, in the darkest corners of his cavernous mind, that this death would claim him if he didn’t succeed in his fight, in his endless struggle to escape the vacuum of the Ottoman Empire. He would die, this time with no hope of survival or rebirth if he failed.

This is why he had begged Russia to help him, crossed the ocean to America to receive a few measly ships, appealed to his other sucked in captives of the vacuum who might disappear as well. Regardless of what the Ottoman might think, he didn’t want to die. He had escaped that death before, but he knew, the same way he knew that his heart would beat and his lungs would breathe, that he would not escape again.

CRACK! A gunshot shattered the air, and Heracles snapped out of his inner thoughts to see a boat between the Ottoman’s and the European fleets hosting a dead man and a group of startled diplomats. Now that's odd.

 ---

Britain gaped as the newly dead man bled over his shoes, eyes rolled back and body limp. France became a white sheet of shock, and the Russian man besides them dropped his always present smile in favor of a light frown at the sight of the inconveniently dead translator. The gun smoke still curled in the air from the blank-faced Egyptian man, who looked coldly at the corpse and spoke a few words in Greek.

“I think we are done here.”  The party of diplomats stared in confusion before Russia remembered that his fellow nations couldn’t understand Greek.

“He said: ‘I think we are done here,’” Russia explained in French, mostly to see the Englishman irritated at having to translate it to English for the rest of his crew. The Egyptian looked Ivan Braginsky with raised eyebrows, still addressing him in the tongue of the land they were in.

“You speak Greek?”

“Da. That means yes,” Russia hurried.

“Huh. Even the barbarians are learning your language Heracles. Told you they haven’t forgotten,” Gupta muttered in Ancient Greek this time before being interrupted by a chuckling Russia.

“I wouldn’t call myself a barbarian.”

“Oi! What the bloody hell are you two talking about?” the British Empire commanded, eyes rapidly switching from one startled man to another.

“Nothing of your concern, Arthur,” Ivan responded, nearly rolling his eyes. “Now Gupta, you must understand that this,” he pointed to the dead man between them, “Is not acceptable behavior.”

“Perhaps. But it is an answer,” Gupta replied, speaking in French to the frustration of the British Empire.

“And what might that be?”

“That the Ottoman Empire sees your terms as unfit.”

“Why doesn't he come out and tell us then,” muttered France, before being jabbed in the rib by Arthur.

“The Ottoman Empire has refused our terms?” Russia docked his head to the side and then pointed at the forest of ships behind him. “Do you think you are in a position to refuse?”

“It is an answer.”

“Alright,” the British man interrupted, in English this time. “This is going nowhere. How about we discuss these proceeding again tomorrow, with a new, er, translator. Thank you so much for that by the way.”

“I no like your terms. I shoot. Is simple,” Gupta waved, getting onto his own boat with his crew and preparing to go out to sea.

“So you DO know English!”

“Of course. You think me a barbarian?” The Ottoman delegation was soon gone, leaving behind a very angry England, a confused France, and a chuckling Russia.

“I think that meeting went well,” Russia remarked.

“You THINK?! There’s a DEAD translator on this boat and we haven’t made any progress at all! God I can’t wait to leave this blasted land. There’s a cruise in India with my name on it after this,” Arthur grumbled, walking away to go to his own ship.

“Isn’t putting your name on things the only things you do as a great power?”

“OH! Angleterre, he got you good!”

“Leave me alone DAMN IT!”

__

Arthur Kirkland scowled at the map before him, looking around the world on a sheet of paper and ticking off things that needed to be done, places that needed to be explored, etc, etc. God his job as an empire never ended, he muttered internally, as he crossed out tiny places around the map, pen hovering over North America before crossing out the large territory in the north. The ship rocked from east to west, groaning and complaining over the burden of the ship and muttering curses that it could never stop rocking. Arthur almost threw the map onto the ground in frustration, when he looked at the small, million island territory of Greece.

He remembered Rome teaching him of the place that he now rocked in, the million islands, the heaven blue skies. One might have thought he was in love with the place, though it was a pity that he never met the mother of such a land. Really, the only reason he was in this blasted bay was to pressure that STUPID Ottoman to stop being distracted by what must be the millionth rebellion against him and start being more cooperative with trading! It wasn't that hard! Just do whatever he wanted, and everything would work itself out. Not everyone could be reasonable though, as was shown by the day’s diplomatic meeting, where the translator was shot in the head by that silent puppet of the masked man.

That was one other thing ruined by this revolution, the fact that instead of a calm, agreeable Heracles being on the other side of the negotiating table, they had to deal with that judging mute! He remembered back in the day that Heracles was the only man you could talk to if you wanted direct access to that smug Turk, and then the poor Greek had to sit there and translate everything he said. He once asked why Heracles did this, and Heracles said, and he quoted, “Because that smug Turk bastard doesn't like learning new languages and thinks that he's so much better than all of you that he refuses to learn your language and instead using his territories like parrots to stroke his ego.” He always liked that man.

Pity that he would have to remain a territory though. The British couldn't afford to help such a failing rebellion, especially if it destroyed the balance of power in Europe. One of the Great Powers would get control over the country if it ever succeeded, and Arthur really did not want to see another one of those BLASTED smug smiles from Russia. And France, well, the Napoleon Wars proved he could be fierce when challenged.

The only way he would ever help this rebellion, he chuckled to himself, is if the Ottomans declared war. But what are the odds that something that stupid would happen?

BOOM! The ship shuddered, and muffled screaming could be heard above deck. Arthur knew that sound. He knew it from decades at sea, from the long months he spent alone on the blue waves, from the times he would storm into a golden ship and pillage the wealth for his own. That sound was the sound of cannon fire.

Arthur flew up the stairs and onto the deck, only to find the crew in a state of total confusion. Mutters and panicked cries sat behind him as Arthur looked for the source of the cannon. Surely it couldn't be the Russians, with their humble ships that were now whispering in the bay, or the French, with the bruised galleons sitting innocently on their left. No, it had to be someone else.

There. The Ottomans. A single wisp of smoke curled from a metal stump in the distance and the crew could be found in disarray on the other side. Arthur couldn’t believe it. The Ottomans had fired on British ships.

“Sir!” A young sailor said, snapping to attention, “The Ottomans has fired upon our fleet. What is your response?”

His response? He looked around the bay to the audience of ships waiting for the battle. He looked at the thousands upon thousands of cannons and weapons they had brought to intimidate the Ottomans. He looked at the French and the Russian who waited in shocked silence to see what the mighty British Empire would do when attacked by a foreign power. Finally, he looked at the Ottoman fleet, with a single ship still sighing out a deadly smoke. The world balanced on a pin as the British empire decided whether to shoot back or let the attack on his own ships slide.

“Sir?”

“Rain down hell.”

____

The tavern walls shuddered, startling a tired man and dragging him back into the realm of the living.

“W-what-” Heracles muttered before the world rumbled once again, and the patrons below him whispered muffled cries. He raced to put on his clothes and his left shoe that never really seemed to stay on, and a few seconds later he burst out of the small tavern he was staying at to then have the sight of a mob of people greet him as they stared and muttered in shock.

Then someone said, “It’s coming from the beach!” and the people of Pylos swarmed towards the sea, tripping and trampling each other to see the source of the rumbling earthquake. Heracles ran in the front of the pack, the first one to greet the glorious sight of the bay that was golden with fire.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” breathed a woman next to him, and Heracles couldn’t agree more. The bay was on fire. What seemed like hundreds of ships burned in the dark bay, as the Great Powers shot their rifles at the sinking ships and annihilate the fleet that screamed in the water. It wasn’t a battle. It was a massacre. The ships roared in fury, drawing their bows and shaking the earth with their thunder. The ships gutted the Ottoman fleet in righteous fury, making the cavernous bay, one of the deepest in the world, house the souls of the screaming condemned. The European fleets received a few chinks in their armor, a Russian ship here, a French ship there, but no amount of cuts or bruises would stop the onslaught as the execution continued. More and more ships fell, leaving a gaping hole where they once glowed bright, and Heracles felt something tug onto the edges of his mind, the same tug he felt so long ago as the world burned around him. It was the tug of destiny changing the fates of thousands, of millions, of all of his people, with a simple action. The world was changing. His fate was changing. As the Great Powers went to war against the Ottomans, slaughtering their men, drowning their ships, the hope grinned on the Greek for the first time in months, the first time since he dragged himself to the sea town to see the international exchange, waiting for something, anything, to happen as he sat in the tavern, waiting and waiting for the tug of fate. Heracles, no, Greece, felt the hope blossom and grow as he watched the war unfold before his eyes, now with three more nations on his side.

The Greek Revolution had its miracle.