We Sail For Celestia

Seagulls chirping, squawking. The familiar refrain of any seaside city, one that echoed across the continents, no matter which ocean one was beside. It seemed to be universal, that shrill cry. Together with the tang of salt in the nostrils, it was the surest indicator that one was nearing the edge of the land and the beginning of the water.

It was also extremely annoying.

The ceiling of the room was dusty, faded wooden beams in the dim half-light that filtered in through the shutters. If it weren't for the lack of the familiar swaying motion, it could almost be a compartment aboard ship, or at least aboard one of the old sail-training vessels, preserved relics from the days of wooden ships and iron ponies. An officers' cabin, a real cabin for Captains and Admirals, the kind he would never see the inside of except when summoned for punishment.

The Earl of Greenwood was his name. That was right, The Earl of Greenwood. Or was it...?

Far from the sting of salt, all he could taste was last night's alcohol, whatever the hell he had been drinking. All he knew was there had been plenty of it, and plenty of songs, and plenty of wenches, and...

Wenches. Yes, there was a wench right there next to him, in fact.

Greenwood slowly sat up, and only then did he remember. Greenwood was his name, alright, but he was no Earl. That had been a lie, a ruse to seduce the mares, the fine ladies of Baltimare. Of course, when that had failed, he had ended up in a dockside brothel like all the rest of them. He was Greenwood, yes, but he was Junior Lieutenant Greenwood, Royal Equestrian Navy, assigned to the destroyer ENS Defiant. Now it was all flooding back. All except for the identity of the naked mare he was in bed with, anyway.

Greenwood determined that it did not really matter, and managed to slowly drag himself to his feet. Only then did he begin to wonder where his uniform had gone, for it became apparent that he too was also naked. A few moments' frantic searching ensued before he located his clothing at the foot of the bed. He rifled through everything to make sure it was all there, for to show up aboard the Defiant improperly dressed would earn him a reprimand for certain, and...

Shit.

What time was it? He fumbled in the pocket of his jacket for his watch. Eight-oh-five, presumably in the morning. If it wasn't morning, it would be dark by now. Greenwood managed to relax slightly. He was not meant to be back on board until ten. He found her chamber pot and drained his aching bladder into it, half filling it with whatever mixture of alcohol he had consumed the night before. He dressed quietly, hoping to sneak away without waking the whore, for he was uncertain if he had already paid her, and if he hadn't, why wait? The proprietor of this fine establishment would spend days searching high and low for an Earl who did not exist. The Defiant was to sail this very afternoon, and he would not be back in Baltimare for- who knew how long? Perhaps never, if the seas claimed him and Celestia called him home.

There was a mirror in the corner of the room, and he spied himself in it as he dressed. Handsome? Some would say so, for certain. His coat was green, as his name suggested, a lustrous, verdant shade. His dark brown mane and tail? Chestnut perfection. Deep blue eyes? Enchanting. Unexplained substance dripping from his mouth...what...what was that? Blood?

He peered closer and frowned, shattering the illusion. No burnished specimen was he, but a rather bedraggled wreck, like a shallow drafted coaster that had run into heavy weather and ignominiously gone aground. His mane was sprouting off at all angles like the shattered husk of a coconut palm. Not such a pretty sight after all. Not after a night's drinking, at least. He found a comb on the whore's dresser and ran it through his mane, glancing over at her. She was pretty enough, a unicorn, white and pink. He hoped he had chosen wisely, for a voyage across the sea while suffering from the clap was not something to be relished, even with a course of antibiotics from the ship's infirmary. Truth be told he didn't remember choosing at all, but she must be high class to fall asleep with a client instead of kicking him out in favour of the next stallion once the deed was done- unfortunately, that meant she must be expensive, too.

A Junior Lieutenant's salary could not pay for too many rendezvous with whores of any grade, much to Greenwood's chagrin, for his predilection for cheap thrills left him with little money for anything more serious. Those taking Celestia's Bit to fight on the water were, for the most part, not paid particularly well, but at least he got an officer's allowance to pay for his own uniform. He even had enough to purchase his own fine pistol and sword instead of the standard naval issue versions, though not too much to spare for anything else. That was alright for Greenwood, for he had no wife or child to support. Having just seen his twenty-third summer, many might say that he was too old to be a Junior Lieutenant, for they started them young in the Royal Equestrian Navy. But that didn't bother Greenwood either.

The reason for his apparent late blooming was simple- he had only joined the Navy a year earlier, as a lowly Midship-Pony, the lowest commissioned rank and usually reserved for those who were still mere colts and fillies in truth. A Midship-Pony could be aged anywhere between fifteen and eighteen, but in theory a hundred-year old coot with hair growing from his ears would be of the same rank if he joined up as an officer. That was where you started, fresh out of naval training collage at Colthead. As far as officers went, the lowest of the low; but even the most grizzled seapony would have to call you sir or ma'am. It was common enough for those barely into their teens to be addressed as such by sailors who had been in the service for several decades.

The reason Greenwood had been late to the party was that he had been in the Army, not the Navy, for several years. That in itself was unusual, for there were not too many who made the transition from one service to another. There was also a good deal of animosity between the two, especially after it had been decreed that the Navy should train and equip their own force of marines for boarding operations, shore raids and landing parties, instead of carrying soldiers for those purposes. Greenwood had been a Lieutenant of Foot, to use the official term for a junior officer of the infantry, for nearly three years, slogging across the land and fighting off bandits, Griffons and the occasional dragon incursion here, there and everywhere. Early on he had decided that a life of living in mud was not for him; but by the terms of his commission, he had to serve at least two full years as an officer before being eligible for discharge. He had been all ready to turn in his commission at the end of the second year, but, as his luck would naturally have it, a great campaign had been launched to retake the overseas territory of Mare-Isle from the luckless locals, who had dared to attempt secession from Equestria, and his unit had been one of those sent. With no option but to fight until victory was won, Greenwood had been forced to endure another nine months of service, slogging not through mud this time, but through the sand and flies of the Mare-Isle Desert that sprawled across much of the territory.

Haunted by the aridity, the unremitting heat, the lack of water and shade, Greenwood had become more convinced than ever that the Army was not for him. The sailors and officers of the transport ship which had taken his company across the sea, however, seemed to be living another life entirely, one of jolly shanties, plentiful rations, and good company. He had always been fascinated by the sea, but his father, Green Leaf, a former Colonel of the infantry, had pressured him to a more terrestrial command. After the Mare-Isle campaign was over and the territory reclaimed for the Sun and Moon, Greenwood had submitted his request. His discharge had been accepted, allowing him to join the Navy instead; it was a move which angered his father, but pleased his uncle, Green Haze, who was the current and longest-serving Commodore of the Manehattan Squadron, the strongest of the Navy's coastal defence units, assigned to protect the approaches to the city of Manehattan, which housed the largest naval base anywhere in Equestria.

Having previous experience commanding other ponies let Greenwood skip some of the more basic training for junior officers, but he still needed an endorsement, either from his lineage, a contemporary, or some other "pony of note." Most officers in the Navy were either of noble birth, the sons and daughters of current or former officers, or the children of professionals, such as doctors, lawyers, or merchants. That was not technically a requirement, but the practicalities of needing somepony to endorse your application meant that they were the ones by far the most likely to meet that specific criterion for acceptance into the officer training college at Colthead. Though the means of war had evolved, certain aspects of military life had not changed for hundreds of years, a fact of which the Navy was, in some ways, rather unjustifiably proud.

His uncle had been more than happy to act as Greenwood's endorsement, and a recommendation from a Commodore of such long and distinguished service was proof enough for the Admiralty. After the necessary introductory training, Greenwood had been enrolled as a Midship-Pony on the ENS Chrysanthemum, a corvette assigned to his uncle's Squadron. After a year, he had been promoted, in part thanks to his good grasp of seaponyship and in part thanks to his already considerable experience of telling other ponies what to do. Junior Lieutenant was his rank, and the Defiant was his ship.

Well, not his ship. Captain Oakheart's ship, for the old bastard was still very much in command. Greenwood had transferred over six months ago, as the destroyer had found itself lacking one officer after one particularly drab and wet day when the previous incumbent had managed to drink himself into a stupor and use his service pistol for an entirely unapproved action of taking his own life, which technically made him eligible for sixty-four lashes for negligent discharge of a weapon and unapproved use of a firearm aboard ship. Oakheart had not been overly keen on having a former Army brat aboard his vessel, but was in no position to fight the transfer. As Captain of a mere destroyer, he had to accept whatever he could get; the best and brightest were usually sent to the capital ships of the line instead, the heavy cruisers and battleships, those great behemoths of the seas that could outfight anything else on the water.

Greenwood adjusted his uniform, a smart dark blue frock coat with gold brocade on the right shoulder to indicate his rank of Junior Lieutenant, a white waistcoat and undershirt, similar white breeches, a black belt with gold buckle, black boots, and a scabbard to hold his sword. Greenwood completed the ensemble- a bicorn hat, dark blue with gold trim, planted squarely upon his head. Now he was ready. Dress uniform, still with the old style head covering. For combat he would dress in something far more practical, but appearance, when in port at least, was still everything.

"Going somewhere, sailor boy?"

Greenwood looked around. The whore had awoken, much to his consternation, for he could remember neither her name nor her price. "Oh...uh...yes. Yes, I have to..." He decided to get poetic. "The sea calls me."

She snorted and shook her head. "Right. The sea, or perhaps you just like the weight of those bits in your purse a little too much to part with them? Come along. Eighty." She sat up, her breasts bared, holding out her hand.

"Did I not already pay you for your services, my fair lady?" Greenwood asked hopefully.

"You wish..." she teased. "Eighty bits."

"Very well..." Greenwood sighed, rummaging for his coin purse and handing over four shiny gold twenty-bit pieces. "Your payment, as requested..."

"Thank you kindly, good sir." She smiled sweetly. "May Celestia bless and keep you. Do you sail today?"

"I can't divulge such information..." Greenwood shook his head. "You could be a spy for all I know."

"A spy?" she chuckled. "Who for? Besides, for all you know, you might have already told me all your ship's secrets last night."

"My ship has no secrets," Greenwood wagged a finger at her. At least, none that I know about.

"Well, either way, come back safely and I'll give you a discount next time," the whore replied. "Just ask for me by name."

"I see...thank you. The, uh...the name was...?" Greenwood felt himself blushing.

"Rosehip," she replied, rolling her eyes. "You really were pissed out of your mind last night, hm? I hope you didn't get up to anything...improper. Apart from visiting a brothel, of course."

Not that I can recall...

"Yes, well...thank you, Rosehip. I must be going now..." Greenwood glanced at his watch again before replacing it in his waistcoat. "Goodbye. I may well call on you when we return to port." He headed for the door, adopted a suitably officerly manner, and left the room, closing the door behind him and making his way down the creaky hall and staircase. The brothel's bar was quiet and dark, with the smell of stale, spilled alcohol heavy in the air. Greenwood felt slightly nauseous just from the smell, and left the building, blinking in the sunlight.

The brothel fronted onto a small street, narrow, with leaning walls looming above him. it was a typical dockside alleyway, to be found in any coastal town- straw on the cobbled stones, an empty flower-barrow here, a fat old drunkard lolling listlessly against a doorway there. Above everything was the smell of the sea, the salty tang in the nostrils so familiar to every sailor.

Greenwood set course for the quay, following his nose toward where the smell of the sea was strongest. On the way he ducked into an inn for a hot bowl of porridge and some salted kippers, something to fill his belly and absorb whatever obscene quantity of rum and ale he had consumed the night before. Only then did he resume and complete his journey, turning a corner and coming face to face with the dockside.

Baltimare harbour was a great, sweeping curve of land which had been converted into a maze of piers, jetties and quays, all protected from the elements by a mighty headland, the Dragon Point, named for its resemblance to a drake's spiny back and tail thanks to its undulating terrain. The city nestled into the landscape, smoke curling into the air from a thousand chimneys in the slight morning haze. There were several merchantponies, fat and slow cargo vessels, tied up and being loaded. Farther down the dock lay the military piers, where the Defiant was waiting. Out in the roads, the great naval parking lot in the outer bay, sat several gunmetal-grey capital ships, too big to easily be navigated through the harbour and too long to tie up to most of the piers. They were the heavy hitters of the Equatorial Fleet, the small naval formation that was responsible for the southern region of the Great Western Sea which separated the continent of Equestria from the now-pacified Dragon Lands, formerly a foe but now an ally, and the sun-scorched Mare Isle, the would-be independent territory that had been reclaimed by Equestria from its upstart breakaway government.

Greenwood made his way down to the destroyer, flashing his identity card and A gang of seaponies, sailors of the navy and the lowest ranks aboard ship, were loading up sacks of flour and crates of machine parts onto the Defiant, ready for departure. They were singing a local shanty as they worked, a favourite of crews from this part of the land, referencing a legendary corsair and her luckless crew.

They said we'd sail the seas, for Zebrican gold!
We'd face their guns and show no fear!
Now I'm a broken colt on a Baltimare pier,
The last of Starbuck's Privateers!

The Defiant was, in stark contrast to the freighters, a handsome vessel. A long, slender ship, the Defiant had the typical sleek lines of most Equestrian destroyers, from the pointed prow to the pair of swept-back funnels and the boxy, though curved, superstructure. There was a step-down amidships where the rear half of the vessel had much less freeboard than the forward half, thanks to the big, sweeping prow designed to cut straight through the water. Some though had been given by the designers to aerodynamics as well as hydrodynamics, for a great slab-faced vessel with a huge cross-section would find a heavy wind setting her back and robbing her of a few vital knots of speed, no matter how powerful her engines, to say nothing of the concomitant waste of fuel. Being shapely above as well as below the waterline was thus as important in the Defiant's line of work as it was in the whore's- what was her name? He had half forgotten already.

Speaking of lines of work, Defiant came well equipped for a ship of its relatively small size. Destroyers had a single main purpose in life- to close with an enemy battle line and fire torpedoes from flank-mounted tubes. The Defiant had six such tubes, three on the port side, three on the starboard. Each torpedo was twenty-one inches in diameter and twenty feet in length, and contained seven hundred pounds of high explosive that could rip through the hulls of any vessel afloat, including battleships, the current kings of the seas. There were also four four-inch guns in turrets, two forward and two aft, for engaging smaller targets or bombarding an enemy on the land, as well as half a dozen machine guns for close defence and striking enemy patrol boats or sea mines. Two rapid-firing guns in high-angle mounts were fitted atop the superstructure for defence against enemy air-infantry and airships. At the rear of the ship were two racks of depth charges, metal canisters filled with explosives and designed for use against hostile submarines. All in all, the Defiant was quite the vessel, a proud ship with a good six years' service under her belt, sailing for the Princess in patrol actions against the breakaway Mare-Isle Republic, the Griffons, and the iniquitous pirates of the southern archipelago that even modern weaponry and tactics seemed unable to entirely dislodge from their limpet-like hold over the island chain. Over the years they had proved to be as tenacious as a dose of the clap- something Greenwood hoped to have avoided, though he hoped he had at least put his weapon to good use, even if he had no memory of it.

Another surprise was waiting to greet him near the Defiant's gangway, though a more pleasant one than a hefty price tag for a night he couldn't remember. His brother, Greenshield, clad in the dull khaki of his infantry regiment's battle fatigues, stood waiting with a duffel bag over one shoulder and a broad grin on his youthful face.

"Did you forget what an officer looks like, Sergeant?" Greenwood asked with a stern expression as he approached, before breaking into a matching smile and embracing his younger sibling. "Shield! What the hell are you doing here?" he laughed. "I thought you were shipping out tonight?"

"We are," Greenshield replied, nodding, his jet black mane, cropped short and slicked back with oil in the style of many members of the infantry, shifting gently with the motion of his head. Like his older brother, Shield's coat was a rich green, though his eyes, by contrast with the bright blue of Greenwood, were of a pale shade of amber. The pair of gold stars upon a red background upon his lapels marked him out as a Senior Sergeant, despite his youthful, handsome looks. While the Army did not take them quite as young as the Navy, the twenty-year old Greenshield had already served for two years, from the day he had finished school and snubbed the Naval College. Perplexingly for his father and uncle alike, he had also snubbed the War College, where land officers were trained, and instead had joined up as an enlisted pony, citing the example of two of his fellow school-pupils, as well as the camaraderie among the mud-sloggers he had read about in the one-bit novels, as well as stories from his older brother when Greenwood had been home on leave and speaking fondly of the ponies under his command.

"They're still sending you to Northwick, are they?" Greenwood asked. The distant, frigid territory was the home of the descendants of the hardy mares and stallions who had claimed the peninsula for Equestria hundreds of years in the distant past, and it was home to a major garrison on the border with the subjugated satellite state of Yakyakistan, from whose territory the province of Northwick had been carved. Halfway down the peninsula lay the port of Harmony Bay, home to the Northern Fleet and also the destination of the Defiant and her crew.

"As far as I know," Greenshield nodded. "We're to board the trains at sunset. I suppose by tomorrow we'll be in the arse end of nowhere, rattling through the countryside, looking at Celestia-knows what."

"Not much to see, is there?" Greenwood grinned. The rail line from Baltimare to Northwick's capital, the inaptly-named Fair Valley, was not a renowned tourist route, being comprised mostly of unending farmland until the terrain began to become painfully barren as they reached the northern climes and the temperature began to drop, even in summer.

"Guess we'll find out," Greenshield replied. "What about you? Do you know where you're going yet?"

"I can tell you but I'd have to kill you," Greenwood patted his brother on the shoulder. "But if you get posted to Harmony Bay, I'll buy you a beer. At least I assume there's somewhere to buy beer there. I gather it's a pretty inhospitable place."

"Of course there'll be somewhere to buy beer," Greenshield smirked. "Everypony knows that the Navy doesn't operate anywhere it can't get a drink."

"Don't let Captain Oakheart hear you say that, he'll hang you from the yardarm," Greenwood answered. "You practically have to force his hand to get the rum and vodka issued to the seaponies every day. Anyway, it was good to see you. I really should get aboard..." He checked his watch.

"Yeah, where were you anyway? I was standing here like a lemon for half an hour. The only idiot in khaki anywhere on this Sun-forsaken dock," Shield laughed.

"Oh...just...an important affair, nothing important," Greenwood contradicted himself within his own answer, which raised an eyebrow from his brother.

"I see...and her name was...?"

Greenwood rolled his eyes. "Why do you assume it was anything of that sort?" A small smirk began to form at the corner of the younger brother's mouth, and he relented quickly. "Fine, I can't remember, ok? Something Heart...Rose something...something like that."

"Rose? Ah..." Greenshield winced. "I'd set course for your ship's doctor and get a course of antibiotics first thing aboard, in that case...you know...not the cleanest of ladies..." The Lieutenant's look of alarm caused Shield to burst into laughter and give him a playful nudge. "You know I'm messing with you. I'm sure she was fine! Anyway..." He gave Wood another hug. "I'll see you up north, maybe. Stay safe out there."

"You too, brother," Greenwood replied. The brotherly hug was replaced by a smart salute from the Senior Sergeant, and the Lieutenant returned it in kind before turning on his heel and marching up the gangway, returning another salute from the bosun at the top, and several more from passing crewponies as they prepared the destroyer for sea. Before entering the superstructure he turned and raised a hand in farewell to his younger brother. Greenshield raised his high in return, and the two siblings parted, one to the train yard, the other to the open ocean and whatever lay beyond.