Bethany sat beneath a parasol in the fore of the steam launch Rodya. Two of her father’s men worked the boat, stoking its small fire and manning the tiller. Mr. Esterhouse sat just behind her, atop a heavily laden trunk, consulting a naval chart.

The launch rounded a point and entered a narrow bay.

Esterhouse shouted to be heard over the steam engine just behind him: “I had this place dredged so I might keep her finishing secret from the rest of the yacht club. She was built in Bray, of course, but fitted out here in a floating dry-dock. Her engines are too large by half for her rated class, would have been a scandal had she raced, but that matters little now. Look up, girl, damn you.”

Bethany looked up and was momentarily blinded by the sun. When her vision returned she was greeted by the sight of a schooner rigged steam-yacht with a rakish black hull and two masts set far apart to allow a funnel to rise from amidships. It was about fifty arshins long, and, Bethany had to admit, a thing of absolute grace.

“What do you call her, or is that a matter for the Navy now?” Bethany wondered.

“I named her Fletch and Fletch she shall stay, I assure you.”

The launch came alongside the yacht and was pulled tight with boat hooks, a rope ladder was then lowered down.

Esterhouse clambered out first then peered down at his daughter. “Shall you climb or should I have them rig a hoist?”

Bethany climbed. Arriving on deck she found her father consulting with a short old man who wore a white beard and a blue uniform.

“Mr. Granger, this is my daughter Bethany. Bethany, this is Mr. Granger, sailing master.”

Granger kissed Bethany’s hand with his cracked lips. “’Tis a joy to meet you, miss.”

“And I you, sir. If I might ask, as a master sailor, what rank is it you hold?”

Esterhouse grimaced, Granger grinned. “An easy mistake if one trusts the plain language, but that is a rare thing on ships. Dearie, Sailing Master is my rank. I am responsible for the navigation of the ship, and in this case, given that you are a lady captain and not a career officer, I shall also oversee the crew and whatever military matters we are caused to undertake.”

“What military matters are we undertaking, sir?”

“Not known, not yet. We are expecting a packet from the observatory with our regulated chronometers and sealed orders. Even then, provided they are not so exigent, our first business will be to get this yearling’s canvas spread and fires fed. I’ll not take her against the enemy before I ensure she is as weatherly and nimble as she looks. That said, I saw her on the blocks at Bray and her hull is quite the stroke, she should acquit herself well.”

“Shall we muster the crew?” Esterhouse suggested.

“We should, aye. Boyle, muster the lads for our owner and good captain!”

Boyle, the bosun, whistled all hands. After a moment, forty men were assembled on deck. Two were officers, five were marines, and the rest were sailors. The composition of the latter ranged from the smart yachtsmen who would have worked Fletch in peacetime to scruffy old men and gangly boys. Most wore relatively clean linen trousers, blue and white striped shirts as dictated by tradition, and neat straw boating hats which bore a blue band of ribbon onto which the ship’s name was embroidered in yellow thread. Roughly a quarter, though, were streaked with coal dust and wore battered overalls. Bethany did not need to be told that these men were stokers/

“This is Mr. Badrine, chief engineer...” Granger stated and a blue uniformed officer among the assemblage bowed. “...and this is Captain Farley, of the Marines.” Farley saluted.

Mr. Esterhouse scanned the line of men and instructed: “Take good care of my ship, gents.” This brought about a quickly stifled laugh from among them.

The sailors knew enough not to gawk at her with their officers present, but Bethany felt them each steal glances. She could not be troubled to blame them, and had suffered worse than mere looks as a girl when the cruisers used Bray as a liberty port. She wondered, though, if they knew she was to be their nominal captain, and suspected not. Bethany feared that revelation, far better to be an object of their curiosity rather than their rage.

The bosun piped their dismissal and assembled a small party to transfer the trunk from the launch. Bethany was shown to her cabin, a part of the yacht’s scant superstructure near the funnel, and, she was assured, the best accommodation aboard.

The observatory packet came at dawn the following day, a white hulled sloop flying a vast Naval ensign. Two officers and a clockmaker came aboard and conferred with Granger. After an interval, the clockmaker and Granger found Bethany, lying awake but with closed eyes on the small bed in her cabin.

“Dearie, you’ll need to sign for the chronometers. I have assured they are in order, but, strictly speaking you must sign.” Granger instructed.

“You may of course inspect them before you sign.” The clockmaker added.

“You say they are fine?” Bethany asked of Granger.

“Very fine.” He nodded.

Bethany rose and opened the curtains that covered her cabin window. This lit the small writing desk enough for her to see what she was meant to sign. The clockmaker passed her a pen.

When this was done, he withdrew, leaving Granger and Bethany alone. “You should dress. We have our orders. I have just had the fires lit and we are fully provisioned.” He counseled.

“What are the orders?”

“We will open them together soon, with the men.”

When Bethany emerged from her cabin later in the morning a fine breeze was up. Black smoke rose from Fletch’s funnel and rolled out to sea. Granger stood on the small, open bridge that was positioned in front of the funnel. Bethany ascended a brass ladder and joined him.

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“A fine day.” She observed.

“Provided it holds, yes. Are you ready for the orders?”

“Surely.” Bethany replied.

The crew proceeded directly from their breakfast to a position of attention before the bridge, taking up most of Fletch’s forecastle.

Granger extracted a wax-sealed envelope from his uniform coat and opened it. “Gentlemen, sailors, marines. I have this morning been presented with our orders.” This provoked a small cheer - it was not uncommon, this early in a war, for ships like Fletch to languish on stand-by for quite a while.

“I will read them as they are written, so that each man may know his mission.” He went on, unfolding the letter. “To Bethany Esterhouse, Captain of S/Y Fletch, care of Fenimore Granger, Sailing Master, the same.” The crew murmured and Bethany winced. Granger went on. “You are hereby instructed to complete your sea trials within two days of the receipt of this document, then proceed north to rendezvous with the troopship Dunstable and escort her to the island of Kjell, then to participate in the landings to retake the coaling station there which was so treacherously appropriated by the Bexarians.”

The crew slackened, their hopes for a open cruise of plunder and exotic ports dwindling. “Thereafter, you may proceed at your judgment to intercept any merchantman flying the flag of Bexar or her allies, put her crew off in boats, take her cargo for a prize, and burn or scuttle the ship itself. You will persist in this until your stores are depleted, then proceed to the nearest friendly port for re-provisioning and new orders. You shall do your utmost to sweep the sea clean of Bexar’s commerce and so deprive of the means to perpetuate their unjust expansion into our lands and seas. Any man who should disobey and undermine these orders does so at the peril of summary death. Given in the name of the Assembly by Vice Admiral Peter Locke, aboard the battleship Howl. Good hunting. Godspeed.”

The crew, who had been only barely contained since the word ‘intercept’ had reached their ears, now broke into roaring cheers and exaltation. “Death to Bexar! Up the Fletch! For God and the prize!”

Granger took it in with calm satisfaction. “It doesn’t matter how long that escort takes or how bad the food is, we’ve their loyalty through anything now that there are prizes in the offing.” He whispered to Bethany.

After giving the crew a few more moments of ecstasy, he shouted. “Mr. Boyle prepare to make sail!”

Boyle played his whistle. “Right, lads! Let’s put the wind to her!” He commanded.

Fletch was a thoroughly modern ship, and so not a single man went into the rigging, rather they worked ropes on the deck that ran through blocks and up the masts. Fore and main topsails unfurled first, followed by the fore and mainsails. They caught the breeze in good order and after inspecting the sails for tears or kinks, Granger gave another order. “Weigh anchor!”

Granger, Badrine, and Bethany lunched on Fletch’s fantail as she proceeded north under sail. This early in the voyage, the food was fresh and plentiful. What remained of a roast beef, cold but very good, sat at the center of the table. Badrine and Granger had opened the store of beer, and all three also partook of tea.

“How is she steaming, Mr. Badrine?” Granger asked, helping himself to a bread roll.

“Very well sir, I am able to rest half my stokers and still keep the pressure at the ready. Though you’ve not called for the screw yet, we’ve run the engine a little and it is superb order.”

Bethany leaned in. “What sort of engine is it, Mr. Badrine, sir?”

“A quadruple expansion, built up north. It is of the type standard for Navy specification corvettes, and I must say it barely fits down there. Your father, pardon my saying so, is the quite the daredevil for fitting it to this ship.”

“Will she take the power?” Granger inquired.

“Certainly, certainly. I inspected the mounting points myself. Good steel. The hull itself steel as well, though not as a high a grade.”

Bethany stirred her tea. “Does it contain any Moldavite?”

“It should, aye, just bit in the keel, for good fortune.”

“Such an overwrought tradition, especially given how expensive it is.” Granger sneered.

“Perhaps, but if it were taken away, and a ship was lost, the lack of it would be blamed, no matter the cause.” Bethany observed.

“True, and I suppose it is proper to preserve the old ways as much as we can, soon enough there will be little our fathers would recognize about this profession. I read in the Bulletin that even now fully half of all ships are propelled only by means of steam, no provision at all for sails, and with all due respect to Mr. Badrine, that is a sad number.”

“And in fifty years our sons will weep for the going out of steam.” Badrine added.

Bethany blinked. “So soon? After sails were the custom since time immemorial.”

“Certainly. The real innovation is the screw. Now that we know - and indeed it has been proven by both practical trials and high mathematics - that the screw is the ideal means of propulsion the top minds will be working at better ways to turn it.”

Granger pushed away his plate. “On that subject, I am planning to begin the trials soon, do you consider your department ready?”

“Yes, very much ready.” Badrine assented.

Granger began to stand but halted. “Miss Esterhouse, I should like to go and prepare for the trials, but as the captain you must rise first or dismiss us.”

Bethany nearly laughed. “You are dismissed, Mr. Granger, and you as well Mr. Badrine, should you like to go.”

“I will have to if Mr. Granger is intent on the trials.”

Both men rose, as he left Granger bid the steward, who had been waiting nearby throughout the meal, to clear away the table.

On his way to the bridge he next called out: “Mr. Boyle make the ship ready for fast running and get both watches on deck, we may well need to hike the ship.”

Granger ascended to the bridge and stood behind the helmsman. Extending his spyglass, he sighted the lighthouse at Bray head. It was some versts distant, but they would be abeam it soon enough. When he lowered the glass he saw the second watch coming blearily on deck.

“Boyle are you ready?”

“Aye, sir!”

“Very good. We will be taking a beam reach, the course is no matter.”

Boyle and helmsman set about complying with this order.

When the ship settled into the reach, its most efficient point of sail, Granger extracted a silver, chronograph watch from his coat and approached the engine room speaking tube.

“Mr. Badrine, ahead full, if you please.”

“Full ahead, sir, aye!” Badrine responded.

Bethany had joined Granger on the bridge, as it felt like the place where she was least likely to inconvenience the sailors running about on deck. Fletch was beginning to heel with the wind, now quite strong as Granger had hoped, and her rail drew nearer the sea on the leeward side. Accordingly, a mass of sailors moved towindward, counterbalancing the lean.

Bethany felt a shudder as the screw began to move. Beneath her Badrine carefully spun the wheel that opened Fletch’s throttle valve, trying to bring the machine to speed as fast as he could without cavitating.

“Stoke her right up, you dogs, this is for the books!” He was heard to shout through the skylight that vented the engine room.

“Boyle, let fly the colors, I’d like them to know just who is laying down this run.”

The Esterhouse ensign, a golden heron (the south, the sea) with wings spread atop a white spinning wheel (their fortune in cotton) on a blue field, ran up the mizzen. Bethany had once joked that, in the name of accuracy, a tobacco leaf ought to be added.

Fletch passed the lighthouse and Granger started his chronograph.

“What now?!” Bethany asked, shouting to be heard over the wind and howling exhaust from the funnel just behind.

“When we pass the ruins at Point Mercy I will stop the watch. Until then, enjoy this, it is a rare thing to run like this. Actually...” Granger regarded the helm and concluded it did not warrant his immediate attention. “Follow me if you would.”

The Sailing Master descended from the bridge and led Bethany forward to Fletch’s bow. He pointed to a section of rope netting hung between the bowsprit and the bow, forming a right triangle. “Whenever we’re running like this the midshipmen and boys would lie, or stand, if they were steady enough, there. I remember doing it myself.”

“And?” Bethany wondered.

“And you should try it. God knows I would were I not so old.”

“Are you trying to get me killed, Mr. Granger?”

“You can swim, can’t you?”

Bethany nodded.

“Go on then.”

With a nervous smile, Bethany stepped over the railing and into the net. Keeping one hand on the bowsprit and the other on top of her head to restrain the vast straw sun hat she wore, Bethany looked down to see only ocean below her.

Growing more confident, she looked about her. Behind lay Fletch’s long, slender wake, to her right the coast, and to her left a decrepit sidewheel packet. As Fletch handily overtook her the packet whistled long in salute. A pair of students in a sailing dingy nearer inshore waved.

Bethany, grinning, laughed and waved back. This freed her hat and sent it flying up along Fletch’s deck. A young sailor ran, leapt up, and caught it.

Granger stood behind her at the bow rail, his spyglass again extended and drawn on Point Mercy. Within two minutes they were abeam it. With a flourish, Granger stopped his chronograph.

“You’ll want to get out of there now.” He suggested.

Bethany climbed out of the net as Granger strode to the small map room beneath the bridge, there he set about a calculation, emerging a moment later with a slip of paper in hand.

“25 knots, gentlemen!” He shouted to the sailors still clustered along Fletch’s windward gunnel.

While the sailors applauded this, Granger relayed the same information down the speaking tube to Badrine. This done he summoned Boyle.

“Mr. Boyle, stand by for new instructions.”

“Aye, sir.”

The yacht held its high speed for a few minutes more, then Granger shouted: “Crash stop!” to the bosun.

“Crash stop, aye!” He acknowledged, then turned to his men: “Spill all sails!” As he did so Granger bellowed “Emergency stop! Full astern!” down the engine room speaking tube.

Bethany was nearly bowled over by running sailors and was on the ladder to the bridge when the entire ship shuddered violently as the screw quickly stopped and was reversed. She slipped from the ladder and by the time she had stood and ascended to the bridge, Fletch was nearly at rest.

The deck was quiet save for the overwhelming hiss of waste steam being vented up the funnel. The boilers had only just been producing their peak output and, with the screw now stopped, it had to go somewhere.

“What was that?” Bethany demanded, shaken.

“A crash stop drill. We must know how the ship behaves when taken from high speed to a standstill. How long and how far she requires. Not knowing is a fine way to end up on the rocks.” Granger explained.

Bethany calmed. “Did she perform well?”

“Very well, that screw is almost better as a brake. Now...” Granger turned the bosun: “Send the other watch back below, you have all done very well...” and to the helm... “steer north again along the coast.”

Fletch’s sails caught wind again and she began to move.