Researching Naval Terms
Jenni Ward : 9th April 2025
Jenni Ward : 9th April 2025
It’s been a while since I updated this section (apparently last December — whoops!). But I’ve been buried in the kind of fascinating rabbit holes that make historical fiction both rewarding and slightly obsessive.
This time, the subject was naval warfare — specifically, a manoeuver I stumbled across while researching the Crimean War.
The novel I’m drafting is set in 1853, and while most of it unfolds in Australia, one of the main characters comes from a family with a proud line of British military service.
In one scene, my character is speaking with his mother about the long shadow cast by his father’s military career. I wanted a phrase — something distinctly naval — that could echo in his words. Not just generic “honor” or “duty,” but a term that carried the weight of imagery behind it.
As a very visual person, I love when a single word or phrase can spark an entire scene. That’s how I landed on the concept of a ship being raked.
I’ll give credit where it’s due: I found an excellent explanation at Nelson’s Navy. While reading about how the French ship Redoutable sank in 1805, I discovered the tactic of raking fire.
In simple terms, raking is when one ship maneuvers across the bow or stern of an enemy vessel, allowing it to fire a devastating broadside down the entire length of the ship. Because cannonballs would travel the full length, smashing through decks and bulkheads, the damage was catastrophic. It’s one of the most destructive positions in naval combat — and one most captains feared.
The site had diagrams, stills, and even a gif that made the maneuver click in my head. Suddenly, the word “raked” wasn’t just jargon — it became a vivid image of vulnerability and destruction.
In my novel, I’m not writing a sea battle. But I am writing about people living in a time when those battles shaped families, communities, and identities. For my character, using a term like “raked” in a heated conversation with his mother gives his emotions an anchor in the military world he grew up in.
It also adds subtext: his relationship with his father was, in many ways, like a ship under raking fire — battered, exposed, and impossible to withstand forever.
This is one of the joys of research. A single phrase can open a new way of writing a scene, deepening it with historical texture while also resonating emotionally.
This novel isn’t finished yet, but it connects to a wider tapestry I’ve been building. The heroine of this book will later reappear in my 1880s story about a Japanese woman living in rural Australia. By then, she’s older, wiser, and carrying the weight of her past.
That second book leans more heavily into romance, but the threads are linked. Even when stories stand alone, I love weaving in recurring characters, letting readers see them evolve across decades.
So even though this 1853 novel doesn’t follow a traditional romance arc (spoiler: the leading man dies overseas), it still sets the stage for later stories of love, resilience, and community.
This is why I adore writing historical fiction. One day you’re reading about seamstress tools. The next you’re knee-deep in naval tactics from the Napoleonic Wars. And while not every detail will end up on the page, the ones that do give the story texture — those little moments that make a reader pause and feel the history breathing underneath.