Matters of Honour (Patreon)

And now for something completely different; a fic I've been ruminating for another fandom. Lets see if you can guess which!

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It was almost like sailing through a cloud.

Midshipman Arthur Grantham shivered as he stood forward, at the bow of the big warship, and gazed through his spyglass into the grey morass before him. The sea was choppy, and the ship bounced and bobbed as it carried on through the gloom. It was hardly the image of the sunny Caribbean sea.

Grantham was no stranger to fog. This was his third posting, and despite being a mere boy of nineteen, he had plenty of experience under his belt. Yet he could not help but feel a strange, ominous feeling in the wind. It had been building for some time, since he’d first been shipped to the station in Jamaica; he couldn’t divine what it was, only that it could mean no good.

There was a storm coming - he could feel it in his bones.

“Mr. Grantham.”

Grantham lowered his spyglass as the old ship’s master strode up beside him.

“Mr. Lennox.”

“Foul sailin’ weather, Mr. Grantham,” the weathered old Scotsman said warily. “Brought down from a storm off the Carolinas, I’d wager.”

“I’ve ordered the men to take precautions, Mr. Lennox.”

Lennox shook his head.

“Aye, but there’s no preparin’ for a hurricane, lad,” he replied. “All ye can do is batten down the hatches and hang on.”

He tucked his hands behind his back as Grantham lifted his spyglass once more.

“The weather’s nearly as foul as the Commodore’s mood,” Lennox observed.

“Pardon?”

Lennox chuckled.

“Have ye not taken heed of the date, lad?” he asked.

“It’s… Tuesday, I believe,” replied Grantham.

“It’s a weddin’ day,” said Lennox, smirking, “back in Port Royale.”

Grantham lowered his spyglass again.

“That’s today?” he asked.

“Aye, Mr. Grantham,” replied Lennox. “It is. Imagine being in the captain’s shoes - at sea for weeks, not a prize to his name since Tripoli, and the love o’ his life’s getting married to another man.”

“I’d say I’d be feeling fairly turbulent too,” nodded Grantham.

“Hear it from me, lad,” said Lennox ruefully. “No shoal nor wind be as treacherous as a woman.”

Grantham snorted and raised his spyglass once more.

“I’m sure it’s not quite so… Mr. Lennox, do you see that?”

He pointed into the fog. The grizzled old master frowned, taking out his spyglass.

In the swirling fog, he could just about make out the bow of another ship - smaller than theirs, but with visible gun ports on each side. He couldn’t quite make out any colours, but Grantham knew that these were treacherous waters.

“Could be one of ours,” mused Lennox.

“I’d rather apologise to the Commodore than the Lord,” replied Grantham.

“Good lad.”

Grantham lowered his spyglass and cried out.

“Beat to quarters!”