They had been sailing only two days when they were overtaken by a storm, much to Miles's regret. He had attempted to gauge the speed and direction of the dangerous clouds on the horizon, but had been unable to avoid them. He had truly never been a master of judging weather, a detail he considered his greatest weakness as a captain. Though they were just able to remain on the very edge of the storm, it still caused great havoc to them.

As the winds increased, Miles ordered every item onboard secured if at all feasible, both on the deck and in the hold. He tasked Gideon Howlett, his skilled sailing master, with the duty of not allowing them to be overcome if it could be avoided. It was a difficulty in dangerous seas and growing winds. Even with reduced sail, Miles feared they would lose the damaged foremast as the winds buffeted against them, as they had not yet been able to fully repair the damage done by the Tory privateers. Towering waves crashed over the rail and washed across the deck, slipping below at a rate the crew could barely fight though the pumps were constantly manned. Miles himself did his duty at the pumps, encouraging the crew despite truly being concerned that the battle-damaged ship would meet its demise in such a storm.

During the worst of it, when Miles was taking his turn at the pumps, Howlett rushed below and called for him. Without needing an order, the next member of the crew waiting to take their turn stepped up, John the rifleman. Miles gave over his place at the pumps and went to Howlett.

"One of the guns broke loose," the sailing master told him. "It's on the forecastle. I'm concerned for the mast."

A great, lumbering cannon broken loose from its ropes was a danger to lives and the ship itself. On its wheeled carriage it would acquire more speed and become a greater danger as the ship rode the towering waves of the storm. Miles had seen men killed on his father's privateer, the Golden Laurel, when a cannon had broken loose in far less dangerous conditions. He quickly followed Howlett to the deck.

Wind and rain pelted them. It was only the afternoon, but the sky was deep gray, though lightening ahead as if they were nearing the final edge of the storm at last. As the bow rose up with another wave, Miles barely saw, through the lashing rain, the gun slide several feet down the deck.

"It will either destroy the foremast or break other guns loose if we can't stop it," Miles told Howlett. He needed to yell to make himself heard over the wind.

"How do you intend we stop it?" Howlett questioned.

Miles watched the gun slide closer to the rail as the ship completed its pass over the wave. He could hear the groaning of the masts and the ship under the various forces of the wind and sea. What he hoped to do would be a great risk if it did not go to plan, yet he weighed the risk against that posed by the gun and all other methods of arresting it.

"We're going to send it off through the rail," Miles replied.

"Put a hole through the rail?" Howlett demanded.

"I won't risk more lives trying to stop it any other way. We'll try to send it back through its own place. I'll take the helm if you'll assist."

Howlett looked to be reluctant still, but nodded. "Of course, Captain."

Miles knew it wouldn't be a task as easy as he had made it sound to Howlett. The ship would need to withstand the additional force of his manipulation of the rudder, and to take the waves without going over. He stepped to the helm and Peterson, who had been manning it, stepped aside the moment Miles had the helm in hand.

He turned the bow toward the storm itself, willing the Scot to withstand the battle with nature. The gun rolled back against the rail with the next wave, then rolled backward as the wave passed. Miles adjusted the angle more, praying to all mankind's gods of the sea that his hands would hold the rain-slick wood of the wheel. The gun moved against the rail with more speed, and the ship rolled dangerously. Miles caught sight of the helmsman, Peterson, crossing himself out of the corner of his eye, clinging to the ship with his other hand. Howlett, though willing to do what Miles directed, was muttering something as he held the helm with Miles. Knowing him, it was likely not a prayer, but a string of curses.

The next wave was larger. Miles heard creaking and groaning when the gun made violent contact with the rail, though it may have come from elsewhere on the ship. For a moment Miles wasn't certain the Scot would right itself from the roll and he clung to the wheel, feet slipping.

When the ship finally did recover from the roll, there was no time to prepare for the next wave. Fighting to remain on his feet, Miles spun in the wheel the opposite direction as the gun rolled forward, willing the rudder to hold strong. He was certain he heard the wood of the rail splinter this time.

"Once more, I think," Miles called to Howlett, resetting the wheel.

They performed the same movement with the next wave. Much to Miles's relief, the gun finally struck with enough force to break through the rail and dive into the rolling sea. 

Miles and Howlett fought the violent roll of the ship and brought the bow back to face the oncoming waves. The storm was still a danger, but the likelihood of the Scot rolling over or being disabled by its own guns had been greatly reduced.

"I'll send up the next helmsman," Miles told Howlett. "After I check the other guns."

Howlett nodded. "Excellent sailing, Captain."

Miles clapped him on the back with a nod. "And you."

Miles checked every gun on the deck to ensure they were all fastened tightly and not in danger of coming loose. It was a challenging task to complete while waves and spray were pelting him. The deck was slick and pitched wildly with the high waves. At one point he barely maintained his grip on the slick ropes when he feet were swept out from under him. Finally, when he was certain the other guns would pose no immediate danger, he returned below to send relief for the helmsman and disclose the avoided danger to his lieutenants. Certainly the crew below had taken unpleasant notice of the change in the roll of the ship for a time and wondered what had transpired while Miles was above. 

By dusk the storm had decreased considerably, and as the sky grew black the stars began to appear from the clouds. By midnight the sea was most quiet in comparison to how it had been only hours before. Once the crew had succeeded in pumping away the storm water and the amount of water in the lowest regions of the ship was at a much more normal level, Miles allowed the crew to rest and slow the pumps. He learned they were taking on water faster than was usual for the ship, but with regular pumping it wasn't a terrible concern. 

It was still a great relief to be allowed to make a neutral Dutch port without further mishap. Miles was unable to locate the contact of Levi Finley's who had been listed in the book he had provided Miles. The man had, unfortunately, died the month before. Miles would have preferred to sell the cargo they had taken from the Tory privateers to pay for the cost of repairs. However, he quickly learned that the Dutch were amused by his possession of a British ship of war and gave him somewhat better prices than he had expected to repair the Scot. He had enough in the reserves he kept onboard to pay for the materials and much of the crew still had money to spend from their previous prizes.

Miles made certain the crew was kept mostly busy on the repairs while giving them opportunities to entertain themselves in town while in small groups. As always, he sent them on their way with the reminder that any roguish behavior would leave them stranded where they were when the Scot set sail.

He assisted in the repairs himself, as well, for a few hours each day, to speed along the process with the work of one more person. There was a sense that, while the Dutch were holding themselves neutral in this war and waiting to see what the outcome might be, they were concerned by both the war itself and the particular detail of there being an American privateer in the body of a British frigate in one of their ports, even while that detail brought them amusement. 

Asher confirmed this when he returned from a visit on land to secure more supplies.

"We should leave the moment it is safe to do so," he suggested to Miles. "I feel that, if a British fleet were to appear outside the harbor, we might eventually be ordered to leave to avoid conflict with them. We haven't been asked to leave, but perhaps we should not wait to be asked."

Miles sighed and tapped his quill on the journal spread open on his desk. "I am wary of wearing down our welcome here. Jean Louis has most of the holes and leaks repaired. The moment the mast is secured, we will be on our way."

Asher nodded. "Perhaps that's for the best. I've gotten the sense the Dutch don't want to offend a possible new trade partner in the United States, but they also don't wish to anger the British into attacking them, either."

Miles thought that was likely close to the truth of it.

In the end, it was the fastest he had seen one of his ships repaired and returned to the sea after so much damage had been done. With a new foremast, yards of new canvas and rope, a repaired rail, and several patches along the hull, the Scot was more water sound than it had been upon arriving, when Miles had still been certain the foremast would topple at any moment and take the other masts with it.

They slipped from the Dutch port at dawn, and Miles was certain all those on shore were thankful to see their stern.