Why Is Bro Showing Up Here...?
December 2, 1778, the Mediterranean Sea. The pirate scourge born from the pan-European economic depression had now spiraled beyond control. The Caribbean buccaneers of the Age of Sail lived with romance in their hearts—tales like William Kidd's treasure—but the pirates of this era carried only desperation. They weren't dashing sea dogs brimming with adventure; they were construction laborers, farmers, skilled artisans, or ruined nobles. Seasick as hell, with no respect for their captain, they were just thieves banded together to survive. In a way, it made them the truest pirates of all.
Right in the middle of the Mediterranean, on a ship bound for Naples, the crew was no different. The sailors moved awkwardly, toppling over at the slightest swell. Their clothes were a mismatched ragtag mess—pirates through and through.
"Ugh!"
And amid them stood a single officer in a navy blue coat.
"Haha, Captain. A seaman done in by seasickness."
The pirate ship captain—now styling himself as such—took a swig of water from his first mate and replied, "The Mediterranean's waves are far kinder than the brutal ones in the Dover Strait. Ugh. Can't shake this nausea."
"If they're kinder, shouldn't the seasickness be milder?"
"Lucky you, immune to it. Trust me, it's better when it's violent—rocks you hard, but the ballast keeps her steady. Only those who've endured it know."
"I'm built sturdy, so I wouldn't know... My sympathies, though."
The captain and first mate gazed out at the calm sea, trading idle chatter.
"Part of me wants to chuck the ballast overboard."
"Toss it?"
"Splendid idea. Let the sharks taste Great Britain's iron. You can fill the empty spot—best manpower decision I'd ever make."
"Hahaha. Some joke."
As the captain and first mate's banter wound down, a seagull swooped in from nowhere and perched on the captain's shoulder.
-Kreeuk, kreeuk!
The captain gently transferred the bird to his forearm and gave orders to his first mate. "Looks like we're already there. Lower the pirate flag and run up the British ensign."
"Lower the pirate flag!"
"Lower the pirate flag!"
The first mate relayed the captain's command to the crew, who echoed it in ragged unison.
"Pirate flag lowered!"
"Raise the British ensign!"
"Raise the British ensign!"
They were clumsy, but quick on the uptake. Once the Union Jack fluttered aloft, the captain peered through his spyglass in the direction the gull had come.
A port appeared, tiny in the distance.
"Destination dead ahead! Helmsman! Starboard twenty degrees!"
"Starboard twenty degrees!"
*
December 2, 1778, Kingdom of Naples. The harbor.
A merchantman flying the British flag attempted to dock at Naples harbor. She was oddly well-armed for a trader, yet undergunned for a warship—a sixth-rate frigate.
Neapolitans clustered around, gawking at the British merchant ship.
"This feels like being zoo animals," the captain muttered, sensing an inexplicable unease from the locals' stares.
"Merchant arrivals always draw a crowd. But these looks... they're off."
His first mate felt it too.
"Did someone spot us striking the pirate flag?"
"Maybe. No matter. I've got our excuse ready. In times like these, what merchant sails without a black flag handy?"
"True, but..."
"Speaking of, where's that quarantine officer? Two hours now? This is a diplomatic insult."
The captain scanned the harbor through his glass, but nothing seemed amiss. Which was the problem—no quarantine boat, no customs men.
"Think we've been made?"
"Possible. Easy for us to cover tracks at sea, but the consulate has eyes everywhere."
"Hope it doesn't crimp our record. Ah, here comes the quarantine man at last."
Naples harbor didn't send their officer until the ship had waited over three hours off the pier.
"Apologies. A bit of a disturbance. We'll quarantine quick and clear you in."
The tardy official, sweating in the winter chill from frantic oars, began his inspection.
"Hey, we look like easy marks?"
"Stand down. I'm the captain here." He blocked his eager first mate and grilled the man. "Quarantine officer, what the devil happened?"
"Money matters. Can't say more."
"Then fetch your superior—"
"Quarantine complete!"
The officer cut him off, waving the yellow flag.
"Enjoy your business. Captain Nelson."
*
Once cleared, the merchantman's captain—Nelson—headed straight for the British consulate. The ship's cover cargo was ivory and slaves for sale, but Nelson's real task was collecting "merchandise" from the consulate.
He arrived at the British consulate in Naples.
"Who the hell are you? Chi si'?"
An angry mob was looting the place—pitchforks, sickles, torches, hauling off supplies.
Nelson sensed danger.
"Back from trading. What's going on? So’ turnato d’o commercio, che succede?"
"Ah, no wonder you don't know. Where you been?"
"Africa."
Nelson improvised in the Neapolitan he'd picked up.
"Africa? Must've taken half a year. Here, pull up a chair."
The man dragged chairs from the consulate wreckage.
"Name's Mario. Common as dirt, tons of us. Yours?"
"Horatio. First off, I'm no Neapolitan."
Mario tensed at the disclaimer, then relaxed.
"Merchants got flags for days. Where you from, then?"
Nelson glanced at the ruined consulate.
"Ireland."
"Ireland! The Brits must've screwed you plenty!"
Mario pressed ten francs into Nelson's hand.
"Half my cut. Horatio, lad. Plenty of Irish here, fed up with British exploitation—army, merchants especially. You lot work like demons."
Nelson let the flattery slide, eyeing the devastation. The consulate was gutted; in one corner, British consul Sir William Hamilton sat bound.
"Mario, what happened here?"
"Whoops, got carried away. Right, Horatio—you need the rundown. When'd you sail from Naples?"
"Bought olives right after Sicily's wheat harvest and shoved off... summer sometime."
"Clueless on the whole mess, eh? This'll take a bit."
Nelson spun a plausible yarn. It doubled as his public trading scam: seed money from Med trades, then a big score in Africa. Dodged big merchants' interference for massive profits.
Pure fabrication, of course. His ship's real provenance? The British East India Company, not India or Africa.
"So damn convoluted..."
Mario hemmed and hawed, then summed it up his way.
"Eh, nothing special. Brits pulled some British bullshit and got what's coming."
"What does that even—"
Nelson was lost.
"Timing's perfect. Heaven's punishing Britain, blessing the rest."
Mario fiddled with his share, clapped Nelson's shoulder.
"Shift's up. I'm out. Night watch takes over. Horatio, lad—earn big, spend bigger."
He vanished before Nelson could reply.
Nelson approached the now-slackly guarded consulate ruins.
"Sir Hamilton. Remember me? Lieutenant Nelson—Captain now, last month."
He removed the gag.
"Ugh. Nelson. Congrats on the promotion. But that's not the issue. Operation's blown. Admiral's dead, all the cargo for Britain seized. The whole Italian peninsula's worth—gone."
"Can't your connections fix it?"
"If they could, I wouldn't be here. Even the Neapolitan king says hands off. Kingdom's basically in popular revolt."
Nelson freed the ropes.
"Escape first. No cargo? Best to just get you out, sir."
"Thanks, Captain Nelson. I'll repay this."
"Take my coat."
They melted into the crowd and slipped from the wreckage. The next watch caused a stir on return, but by then Hamilton was aboard Nelson's ship.
*
Mediterranean Sea, off Naples. They'd bolted so fast the sun had long set. To shake pursuit, Nelson pushed night sailing and grilled Hamilton on details.
"Sir Hamilton, what the hell happened?"
"Told you—popular revolution in Naples. All the gold seized. Great Britain's physical currency recovery operation failed."
Hamilton's words left Nelson reeling. Head pounding—seasickness or headache?—he slumped right there.