The Black Sea.The Russian naval port of Odessa.
At the end of the eighteenth century, the Russian Empire had poured its efforts into developing this region wrested from the Ottoman Empire.
Its open access to the Black Sea made it ideal for exporting agricultural goods, while also providing fertile ground for the growth of commerce and industry.
After the Industrial Revolution, as Europe's demand for imported grain steadily increased, Odessa's importance only grew. Grain harvested from the rich black soil of Ukraine—some of the most fertile land in Europe—could be transported here with ease.
In truth, this was one of the reasons Britain could not afford to be overly aggressive toward Russia. As its reliance on imported grain rose, Britain had little desire to completely sever ties with a power that was practically mass-producing wheat.
But once war began, such strategic hubs inevitably became prime targets.
Boom!
The Anglo-French fleet began its bombardment at dawn, yet the Russian defenders did not flinch.
For the allies, capturing Odessa was not optional—it was essential to securing control of the Black Sea. The Russians, for their part, had prepared coastal batteries and defensive positions in anticipation of such an assault.
"Return fire! Return fire!"
"The Pallasvet has been sunk!"
"Enemy vessels approaching from port side!"
"What is our fleet doing?!"
Admiral Pavel Nakhimov clenched his teeth as Russian ships were torn apart in real time.
They were fighting alongside coastal batteries—so why were they being pushed back?
The answer was painfully obvious. The enemy's naval guns had far greater range.
Improvised artillery hastily mounted onto their ships could not hope to match the British fleet. Even the new explosive shells that had proven devastating against the Ottomans were largely ineffective now. The Ottomans had relied on wooden ships; Britain fielded ironclads. At anything but close range, Russian firepower barely scratched them.
"Was crushing the Ottomans too thoroughly our undoing…?"
Russia had always prioritized its army over its navy, but its overwhelming victories against the Ottomans had inflated confidence beyond reason.
In hindsight, it was absurd to think they could defeat Britain at sea.
"Admiral! Our defensive line has been breached!"
"We've lost sixteen ships already!"
"Withdraw."
"Sir? But—"
"Abandon the port. Fall back to Sevastopol and consolidate defenses."
The gap in naval power was undeniable. With Britain in the war, command of the sea had never truly been within reach. Reality had simply caught up with them.
"Send word to Saint Petersburg. Odessa can no longer function as a port. Other ports are equally indefensible. We will make our stand at Sevastopol."
"And Kerch?"
"Abandoned."
Nakhimov's voice hardened.
"Do you still think we can fight them at sea after seeing this?"
Silence answered him.
"Victories over the Ottomans made fools of us. I warned them—Britain is not the Ottomans!"
Another explosion thundered. A Russian ship vanished beneath the waves.
The admiral turned away.
"Enough. All ships, withdraw. Odessa is lost."
There was no point clinging to a port that could no longer function. Pouring men and resources into a doomed position would only hasten defeat.
"This war isn't just here," he continued grimly. "We have Azov, the Caucasus—multiple fronts to worry about. If we cling to every minor position, we'll lose everything. Pull back. Inform the capital."
A shell slammed into the water beside his flagship, sending a towering column skyward. The vessel rocked violently.
They would be annihilated if they stayed.
"Retreat! Full retreat!"
"Abandon the harbor!"
Nakhimov closed his eyes as the battered fleet struggled to disengage.
A grim realization crept up his spine.
Russia could not take the offensive.
Some fools argued that fleets could not march on land—but losing the Black Sea was far more than that. It meant losing mobility, supply, and initiative.
Perhaps, like Napoleon, they could rely on their army to crush enemies on land.
But France alone had already mobilized over two hundred thousand troops. And unlike Russia, the allies would be supported by the sea.
All calculations led to the same conclusion.
Defense.
If they held Sevastopol, they might avoid outright defeat. If they locked down the Azov Sea and the Caucasus, perhaps the enemy would exhaust themselves.
Then, maybe, Russia could negotiate from a position of strength.
But the allies had already moved faster than expected.
"Admiral! Urgent report from Sevastopol—enemy forces have landed in Crimea!"
"…What?"
So soon?
He had anticipated a landing—but not this quickly.
War, after all, was never predictable.
Without another word, Nakhimov turned his back on the burning city of Odessa and ordered the army toward Crimea.
While the Royal Navy was turning Russian ships into scrap in Odessa, another operation was already underway.
At Kalamita Bay in Crimea, the allied landing began.
Originally, the plan had been to secure Odessa first and launch the invasion months later. But thanks to earlier preparations in Gallipoli—and a push to accelerate the timeline—the operation moved ahead far sooner.
After all, Odessa's fall had been inevitable.
The Russians had not expected a landing at all. Their forces were scattered, uncertain whether to reinforce Odessa or hold other positions.
In effect, this was a perfect strike against an empty house.
A high-risk maneuver—but when it worked, nothing was more decisive.
Still, the Russians did not sit idle. Once they grasped the situation, they dispatched roughly twenty thousand troops to intercept the landing force. French units engaged them immediately.
The Russians held the high ground, but the technological gap proved decisive.
Britain had begun deploying the Enfield rifled musket. France was fielding the Minié ball, dramatically increasing effective range.
Russia, meanwhile, still relied largely on smoothbore muskets.
When forces of similar size clashed, the outcome was inevitable.
Yet allied casualties were higher than expected—not because of enemy strength, but because of their own shortcomings.
The army's command structure was a mess. Officers bought their commissions, incompetence was widespread, and outdated tactics still dominated.
Napoleon's legacy loomed large. Everyone studied his methods, but few understood that the battlefield had changed.
Firearms were deadlier. Artillery reached farther. To fight as before was to invite slaughter.
And that reality was now unfolding in blood.
"Our forces, alongside the French, have driven the enemy back at the Alma River."
"That's good news. Then why the expression?"
"Our casualties are heavier than anticipated. The Russians suffered near annihilation—but…"
"And the French?"
"They took even heavier losses."
"And the Russians worse still?"
"Yes. Of the twenty thousand sent to intercept us, few remain combat-effective."
"…Did they fail to deploy properly?"
At that, Marshal FitzRoy's expression stiffened.
"You cannot seriously believe our army would neglect such basics."
"I meant no offense."
The matter was brushed aside, but the unease lingered.
For now, they chose to believe it had simply been a brutal battle.
But one issue could not be ignored.
"The medical corps we agreed to establish," he continued, tapping the report, "why is it still not operational?"
FitzRoy exhaled.
"Approval was given, but with the landing operation and mounting casualties, priorities shifted."
Of course they had.
Even with the successes of figures like Florence Nightingale and John Snow, reform was always the first thing to be delayed when urgency struck.
But for him, this was an opportunity.
A chance to extend influence—not through battle, but through necessity.
He spread the documents across the table and spoke quietly.
"Marshal… let's have a word."