The time: Morning.
The location: Liverpool Wharfs.
The place: The HMS Elysium, a British Warship currently taking on troops and supplies bound across the Atlantic.
The persons: Captain Noah Doyle, Lieutenant Solomon Culver, Midshipman Ezra Frood, and Lt. Roger Harburne, British Marines.
The rain had subsided just enough to permit a pale wash of sun to strike across the deck of HMS Elysium, glinting along the damp ropes and shining brass fittings. Sailors bustled about in measured rhythm—voices sharp, boots thudding against the wet planks—while the ship’s officers stood at their posts, eyes on their duties and their captain.
Captain Noah Doyle stood near the quarterdeck rail, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze steady upon the lines of red-coated Marines assembling amidships. They formed in trim ranks, muskets gleaming beneath the thin sunlight, the air thick with the scent of tar and sea salt.
A crisp voice broke through the hum of the deck.
“Lieutenant Roger Harburne, reporting aboard for duty, sir.”
The Marine officer advanced with precise, almost theatrical poise. His uniform—scarlet and silver lace polished to perfection—contrasted with the workmanlike navy blue around him. Every movement betrayed discipline, but also calculation: the deliberate gait of a man who knew he was being measured.
Captain Doyle turned slightly, his gray eyes appraising the younger officer before offering a polite, restrained nod.
“Welcome aboard the Elysium, Lieutenant,” Doyle said evenly. “I trust your embarkation was uneventful?”
“Quite, Captain,” Harburne replied, his tone clipped yet confident. “My men are in fine order, and eager for the task ahead. You’ll find them a capable lot.”
“I’ve no doubt,” Doyle replied, though a faint dryness touched the words. “The Crown seems intent on sending her best to the farthest reaches of its empire.”
Harburne’s mouth twitched into a half-smile—more acknowledgment than warmth. “We serve where we’re ordered, sir. Though I confess, I should prefer the deck of a ship under fire to a garrison post on some colonial backwater.”
Doyle’s brow arched faintly. “Fort Hemmerly may not see the glory of the fields of victory on the continent, Lieutenant, but it is no less a post of the Queen’s service. I trust your zeal will remain undiminished, even if the cannons stay silent.”
There was no malice in Doyle’s tone, only quiet authority. Yet beneath it lingered the faint edge of rebuke—the reminder of hierarchy, of who commanded whom. Harburne inclined his head, his expression smooth, though his eyes flickered with a restrained spark.
“Of course, Captain,” he said, voice steady. “You’ll find my zeal constant—regardless of the theatre.”
For a moment, silence hung between them, filled by the creak of the ship’s rigging and the slap of the waves. Around them, sailors passed briskly, their movements a living rhythm of discipline and labor. Two officers—Lieutenant Culver and Midshipman Frood—watched discreetly from the forecastle, exchanging a quiet glance between them that spoke volumes.
Doyle broke the pause with a simple gesture toward the ship’s stern. “You’ll find your quarters prepared. We sail for Dublin before dusk.”
Harburne saluted crisply, then turned to depart, his boots sounding sharp against the boards. As he descended toward the main deck, Doyle’s gaze followed him—a flicker of thought behind the captain’s calm demeanor.
“Cocksure fellow,” Culver slipped up beside Doyle, and muttered under his breath beside him.
Doyle didn’t answer immediately. He merely watched the Marine’s retreating figure, then replied, almost absently, “Aye. But capable, I think. We’ll see soon enough which quality proves the stronger.”
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