His Majesty’s Ship [i] Lyme[/i], of 28 guns, heaved heavily in the Atlantic seas. She was barely turned into the waves and her topgallants had just come off at a hasty order; it would be no surprise to a discerning observer that the vessel had been caught unawares by a sudden squall. It was a surprise to all on board, for nobody had expected such a storm a mere day out of Deptford. On deck, the vessel was in a near state of panic as the crew scrambled to secure the small frigate against the storm. There were several top men scrambling to secure a sail that had come loose in the howling wind; a midshipman and two hands at a forward carronade to further secure it from the ship’s heavy rolls; two seamen were hastily bringing the commander’s folding reading chair below decks. 

Tate Merritt-Lynwood observed all of this with a watchful eye, taking down the mannerisms of the captain, the speed and finesse of the officers and crew, and the handling of the old vessel, which creaked and groaned under the stress of the swelling sea. Tate had originally not intended to scrutinize the captain’s treatment of the situation; she hardly wanted to stay on deck as a torrential downpour soaked her coat and good shirt, but to retire below after being requested to observe a now canceled exercise would look bad on her part. She hardly wished to be remembered as the Officer of the navy that was afraid to her get her boots wet. She had resolved to only go below when the captain, out of courtesy, would insist for his very important passenger to take shelter from the rain. 

That moment never came, for the gale had stepped up in its ferocity. The frigate’s captain once again barked out a new set of orders, thoroughly distracted enough to forget that he’d invited his senior on deck. This activity –the storm, the ship, everything—struck Tate as something strange. She could not remember a time where a storm such as this struck with such fury, not on this part of the English coast. Something had happened to change the normal pattern of weather here –Did those crackpot environmental theories actually have merit? – and Tate was fully aware it was not a force to be trifled with. She knew for certain their present course was taking the [i]Lyme[/i] further and further out to sea and from the safe anchorage of a nearby harbor, where she knew that help would come should the vessel come afoul of the weather. She’d rather have a few days delay in getting to their destination than an eternity’s delay at the bottom of the sea, no matter how good this ship’s captain might be with dealing with a storm.

A large wave crested over the ship as the frigate plowed forward into the storm. “Captain Coolridge.” Tate had found the commander forward of the ship, overseeing the repair of a tangled tackle. 

“Continuing on our present course is an unnecessary risk. With such an unusual storm brewing, it would be more sensible to make for safe anchorage than to brave this storm.”

The captain’s momentary surprise at seeing Tate quickly turned to hesitation. Tate was an entire rank his senior, despite being several years younger. Even though she was only a passenger and technically had no jurisdiction over the actions aboard the vessel, both of them knew full well that her words still held weight on board the ship; the words Mr. Coolridge could say to Tate could potentially have consequences that could affect the entire course of his career should scrutiny of his actions go up the chain of command. 

Mr. Coolridge finally relented with an exasperated sigh, agreeing with a curt “very well,” before turning to his crew to shout another order. “Prepare to wear ship! Ms. Lynwood, if it would be more comfortable, you could take use of my cabin for the time being.”

Tate stifled a snicker. The captain had finally offered for her to go back below, but it was no longer out of politeness, but a thinly veiled attempt to get her out of the way. It didn’t matter to her any way; since they were returning to anchor to ride out the storm, there was little to worry about regarding the captain's actions. Satisfied, she turned on her heel to go below. Perhaps she could finish that novel she had picked up earlier in the week…

“Sail ho!”