It was a bitterly cold autumn morning; the sun was low in the sky, and the veil of a morning fog wrapped a calm sea as the ornately carved figurehead of a first-rate ship of the line glided gracefully over the waves, like a ghostly siren, wandering the ocean.
With her sails unfurled, Britannia, the 100-gun first-rate, gathered pace as her canvas swelled with the salty eastern breeze, as though the Almighty himself willed it.
A brass bell rang out with eight chimes, eight bells or eight o’clock. A young Midshipman, barely a boy in age, turned the hourglass to track the next interval. His long navy-blue frock attracted a sprinkle of frost as the fog kissed its woollen thread and solidified with the cold.

“Good morning, Mister Hobbs, anything to report?” A sprightly gentleman approached the officer of the watch atop the quarter deck, tipping the brow of his bicorn hat.
“Calm night, I’m pleased to report, sir,” Hobbs saluted. He wore the uniform of a lieutenant in his majesty’s navy, though the quality of his thread was somewhat cheaper than his counterpart. He had not enjoyed the pay of a lieutenant for but a month on this voyage, passing his examination a short time prior.
“Very good, frightfully chilly today, wouldn’t you say?” The gentleman wrapped himself in his coat and rubbed his hands for warmth. His breath was condensing with every word.
“Indeed, sir, pray that this fog lifts before noon, lest we have to sail Old Ironsides into Gibraltar by line glass and chart.”
“Oh, come now, Mister Hobbs.” The gentleman smiled, “Surely even a fresh fourth leftenant such as yourself could find Gibraltar on a day like this.”

Hobbs hesitated before nodding; his examination for Lieutenant may have tested his knowledge of seamanship, but putting it into practice was another matter.
“Naturally, sir, but I doubt I could hope to best the skills of such an experienced first leftenant such as yourself, sir.”

Before the gentleman could respond to the early morning banter, a blaring voice called down from above. A lookout, atop the main mast, dangled from the rigging with one hand, his other cupping his mouth to extend the reach of his voice, “Sail! Sail ho!”

The officers shielded their eyes from the overcast glare as they turned their eyes to the horizon. “Where away?” the first lieutenant called.

“Three points, off the larboard quarter!” the lookout responded. The first lieutenant presented his eye-glass to the horizon, just off the port stern, when a shape caught his eye. It was a very good spot by the lookout, though his elevation above the fog may have aided his sight. “I’ve got her; she looks to be flying French colours… a frigate if I’m not mistaken, twenty-six guns I’d imagine.”

Hobbs swallowed, “Should we beat to quarters, sir?”

“No, no, she’d be a fool to take us on, even if we weren’t so close to the strait. No, as soon as she gets a good look at us, she’ll surely turn about.” Said the first lieutenant with some confidence. “Run up our colours, Mister Hobbs.”

With a salute, Hobbs relayed the command. The white ensign ascended the gaff, flapping gracefully in the breeze.

“There, that should put the fear of god in them when they come to realise—“

“Sir! A second sail!” the lookout cried.

The first lieutenant lifted his eye-glass once again; sure enough, there was a second vessel hiding behind the first. “My god, there are two of them. Coming up fast.” He lowered the brass telescope and collapsed it. “Clear for action, beat to quarters I say!”

As the officers repeated the order to prepare the ship, the Marine guard rolled out a long, unbroken beat. The ship’s hands scrambled from their tasks, squaring the ship for battle. Tables were folded away, hammocks stowed and dividing walls removed to make way for cannon, shot and powder.

Disturbed from his breakfast by the overture to combat, the Captain washed his mouthful of oatmeal with his tea, and stormed towards the door. He collected his gold-trimmed bicorn from the table at the last second; after all, a Captain was an example to his men. It just would not do to walk out on deck improperly dressed.

Emerging into the brisk air, the Captain immediately ascended the steps onto the Quarterdeck, standing tall and proud, “Report if you please, leftenant Hardings.”

“Captain Armitage, sir, two French frigates three points off the larboard quarter; they’re coming up fast and are cleared for action.” The first lieutenant replied, offering his eye-glass.

Armitage accepted the telescope from his second in command and brought it to his eye, confirming the sighting for his own eyes, “Well, well,” he muttered. “Damned bold of ol’ boney, and only a dozen miles from Gibraltar no less.” Confident of his ship and his abilities, Edward turned to his first lieutenant, opened his mouth but was stunned when his eyes caught a flash off the bow. It took him a moment to register, but a flash in this fog could only mean cannon fire. “All hands, down!” he screamed, gripping his appointments as he dove to the deck.

Before he even felt the impact, the whistle of iron spheres cutting through air, sail and mast rang in his ears. Razor-sharp splinters scattered in all directions, slicing down every man unfortunate to stand in the path of destruction. They had just taken a full broadside from a third ship, and the sulfurous smell of burnt powder meant they were nearly point -blank.

Screams of agony filled the air, as seamen, gunners and powder boys fell wounded, some mortally. The sound was ear-splitting; Edward needed to concentrate as the phantom ship slipped back into the fog, “SIIIILLENNCE!!” he howled, just for a moment catching sight of a Spanish ensign flying in the mist.

“Bridge to Captain.”

Edward rolled his eyes as the illusion of the narrative he had chosen shattered around him. “Computer, freeze program.” His first hour of Holodeck time in weeks, and there had to be an interruption. “Yes, what is it?”

“Sir, there’s a priority transmission for you from Captain De-Sortis; he says it’s urgent.”

“Very well, put it through down here.” Edward negotiated the frozen chaos of his program, a few stray splinters, smoke and debris held suspended in the air; men all over the deck lay motionless, stopped in a moment of time. “Computer, Arch.”

The ship’s mizzen mast faded to nothing, replaced by the cream panelled console that no place on the 18th century vessel. He reached the display and accepted the call.

“Sir Edward…” The man on the screen paused with a slight moment of confusion, “Am I interrupting some sort of fancy dress party?”

Edward cringed internally upon hearing his title. His pride for his heritage notwithstanding, it wasn’t something he cared for more than the rank he had earned. He dusted off his coat, his attention drawn to its sorry state following the Spanish broadside. “Oh, just enjoying a chapter or two of a holo-novel.”

Vince nodded, finding the attire of the esteemed captain slightly amusing. “Looks…interesting. Anyway, sorry to interrupt your personal time, Captain. But we have a situation…”