Aboard HMS Elysium
Captain’s Quarters – Sixth Night at Sea
Captain’s Quarters – Sixth Night at Sea
The ship’s lanterns swayed faintly, casting amber light across polished oak, brass sextants, and neatly rolled charts. The scent of salt air drifted in every time a gust pressed its way through the seams of the stern windows. Dinner was simple but respectable — Elysium still had supplies to spare. Before each man sat a tin plate of salted cod baked with shipboard herbs, boiled potatoes, onions sautéed in pork drippings, and a heel of dark bread softened with watered wine. A pewter decanter sat between them, trembling slightly with every swell.
Captain Noah Doyle, broad-shouldered, graying at the temples, rested both hands calmly beside his plate, though his eyes were sharp and unsettled — the eyes of a man whose mind never quite left the deck.
To his right sat Lieutenant Roger Harburne, commander of the Marine detachment: straight-backed, sun-darkened, disciplined to the sinew. His uniform coat was immaculate despite the sea air, though his brow showed the thought he did not outwardly voice.
Across from Harburne, Lieutenant Solomon Culver lounged with the seriousness of a man who pretended to be less bothered than he was. A clever navigator and gentleman, he tapped lightly on the table whenever thought overtook him.
At the far end, silent until addressed, Midshipman Ezra Frood, youthful, earnest, hungry for approval and knowledge in equal measure, kept his fork poised, unsure whether to eat or absorb every word.
The Conversation
“Six days down,” Culver murmured between slow bites, “and if the winds keep their temper, perhaps eighteen more. If not—” He lifted his brows. “We shall see St. Albion when God remembers us.”
Captain Doyle allowed a faint, humorless smile.
“We have had worse starts, Lieutenant. And better.”
“Sir, will the winds truly force us another three weeks? I had hoped—”
“Sir, will the winds truly force us another three weeks? I had hoped—”
“Hope is welcome, Mr. Frood. It just doesn’t fill a sail.”
Midshipman Frood straightened as Doyle cut gently across him.
A soft chuckle circled the table — even Harburne’s mouth twitched before turning grave again.
At length, Doyle shifted his gaze to Harburne.
“And your Marines, Lieutenant — how fare they?”
Harburne’s jaw clenched before he spoke.
“They fare as well as any men can, Captain. They are competent, loyal, and determined. But competent determination is not a substitute for numbers.”
“How many are there of them? From what I have heard tell, Marines usually come in groups of 20 or more."
Culver set down his fork.
“Eighteen marines, not including myself, two artillery crews of battery-men, and five regular army soldiers for the garrison.” Harburne said quietly.
A heavy silence followed.
“God’s wounds…” Culver whispered.
“Official orders permitted no more,” Harburne continued. “Governor Whitehall’s request, Admiralty approval. Peaceful relations, he claims, require soft edges, not the appearance of an invading battalion. Plus the two field pieces have been there at the fort for some time in the storehouse under cover since there was no crews for them, and the additional regulars to fill out the fort garrison."
Captain Doyle exhaled slowly.
“Yes. Whitehall’s truce.”
No one spoke for a moment — only the gentle groan of the ship’s timbers against the Atlantic.
Frood ventured, hesitantly, “Sir… is St. Albion truly so precarious?”
Culver looked to Doyle, who answered with controlled candor.
“Port Dominion stands because every man there understands he cannot afford otherwise. Governor Whitehall’s diplomacy has held back the teeth of Spanish, French, and Dutch alike — but teeth do not vanish because they have agreed, temporarily, not to bite.”
Harburne added, voice quiet but edged, “And a wolf does not become a lapdog because it has eaten.”
Culver raised his cup.
“To polite wolves.”
Doyle did not drink. “We are sailing into a colony where powder is scarce, tempers are currency, and rumor is ammunition. We are not reinforcements — we are reassurance.”
He paused — his voice lowered.
“And reassurance must sometimes pretend to be strength.”
Frood swallowed, staring at his plate.
After several moments, Doyle leaned back, expression calmer, almost philosophical. “We shall arrive with dignity, discipline, and clarity. And God willing, before anyone decides to test the fragility of Governor Whitehall’s diplomacy.”
“And should they test it…” Harburne said, eyes steady, “Eighteen Marines will answer, Captain.”
Doyle nodded, resolute — and troubled.
“Then, Lieutenant… let us pray eighteen shall be enough.”
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