The Prize

Captain Thomas Martin put down his cup of tea with a delicacy that belied his size. The drink was not only a testament to the captain’s eccentricity, in a service where most captains took either wine or coffee, it was a show of his wealth; his success as a seaman. A mirthless smile played on his lips as he looked at his subordinate. “You are certain?”

Lieutenant Leary raised an eyebrow at the perceived insult, but like any other junior officer would, he refrained from commenting on it, “aye, Captain, masthead reports that there is no sign of the sail.”

Thomas swore roundly; using language that would have any of his sailors at the grating if they even whispered it in the presence of an officer. “I’ll come up.”

“Aye, aye sir,” he said, hastening back to the quarterdeck, wondering what his captain thought his presence would achieve.

“Two sail to starboard,” the mast head called down as if in reply to the first lieutenant’s thoughts.

“Get aloft mister Beattie, see what you make of them,” he ordered the midshipman as the captain climbed up the companionway to the quarterdeck.

“It’s the Medusa,” the midshipman’s high pitched voice called down, naming the ship they had been chasing for over a hundred miles, “and a large frigate, flying French colours,” he added after a pause…most likely waiting for the lookout to tell him.

“Bring us about, three points to larboard, mister Shannon,” Captain Martin ordered. He regretted the loss of the prize, but even he knew better than to take on a such odds.

“They’re making more sail, sir,” the lookout called.

“Take her as close to the wind as she’ll let you, mister Shannon,” Thomas ordered with a wry smile, “so the hunter has become the prey,” he muttered softly.

(Word Count 300)