Miles hated fog. It was more dangerous than a storm, in his mind. A storm could violently crush a ship, but a heavy fog could hide dangers that could perhaps otherwise be avoided. Such dangers as rocks, shoals, and islands otherwise unknown and unseen.

And entire fleets of enemy vessels.

As the fog began to burn away, Miles became aware of the sounds of other ships very close by. Dangerously close by. He ordered the crew to be as quiet as entirely possible, unsure if they were near to friend or foe.

The fog cleared enough to show a ship a short distance away carrying a flag of the British Royal Navy. Another ship was so close it must surely have been some miracle that kept them from colliding as the Scot began to pass in the opposite direction. For just a moment Miles thought perhaps they would slip past the ships, despite the Scot's American flag, but that hope was quickly dashed when an alarm went up from behind them.

"The Spar!"

The call echoed around them, accompanied by the sounds of drums and guns being prepared. Miles looked to Clark, who was with him on the quarterdeck. Through all their battles on the Scot and all their troubles with whales on the Abigail Cobb before, he had never seen his first lieutenant look frightened. There was a clear hint of fear in his eyes at that moment.

They had successfully fled the British navy many times since they had taken the Scot to sea, always knowing the treatment they would receive if caught, but this was the most dangerous position they had yet been in.

"Open every sail!" Miles commanded. His only hope was that perhaps the British ships were too close to risk firing at a ship between them. It would take them too long to turn and give chase without colliding with each other, and if the Scot could gain enough distance it may prove the advantage.

His hopes were not to be realized.

Despite the close quarters, cannons thundered around him. The masts shook as chain and ball shot ripped through the sails and the rigging. He heard some of his crew scream before they fell from the rigging and onto the deck.

"Muskets!" Miles ordered.

The British ships were already opening fire on them, and, though there were already marksmen in the Scot's tops, there was little they could do. They were all woefully unprepared for battle. The Scot and the fleet had surely closed on each other in the night, with the fog to assist in the surprise.

The masts shook again as more cannon fire targeted them. It was impossible to set all the sails needed to escape the British fleet. The fog was rapidly giving way to smoke. Another ship fired on them from near their bow, also targeting the rigging. It seemed they wished to capture the Scot and the crew alive, not sink the ship and drag them, half dead, from the water.

He saw Asher among the crew on the deck. He turned to Miles with a resigned expression. They were being pinned by far too many ships and guns to run to safety or fight their way to freedom. There was only one option that might save the crew, though it certainly would not save either himself or Asher.

"Haul down the flag." 

The British boarded the ship with weapons drawn as if expecting the surrender to be a ruse of some kind. Miles noted the uniform of the man who approached the quarterdeck first. An admiral. 

Miles said nothing, but offered the man his sword.

The admiral sneered at him. "I won't touch that. Drop it."

Miles let the sword drop. It clattered to the deck between them. The admiral kicked it away and it skidded to the edge of the quarterdeck.

"I've half a mind to hang all of you right here on this very ship," the admiral declared. "Damned rebel pirates."

The echo of James's warning flashed to Miles's mind. "You can't believe a letter of marque from a rebellious colony will be considered legal. You will be no better than a pirate."

The words had meant nothing to him when confronted by Tory privateersmen, but when facing the wrath of the Royal Navy it meant very much more.

"Unfortunately for you, I'm unable to be that merciful. I believe the Admiralty and the King himself might consider watching you hang very satisfying, Captain Dunn," he spat the name as if it were a curse. "Which of you is Sands?" he then demanded.

Miles willed Asher not to identify himself, not to turn himself over to the navy he had deserted so definitively. The admiral's need to carry Miles to England surely wouldn't apply to Asher. Surely the bounty on him did not specify he be living by the time his head arrived in England. There was no telling what he might be subjected to.

"I am."

Miles drew a deep breath at the sound of Asher's voice. A terrible dread settled in his stomach.

"Step forward," the admiral commanded.

Asher obeyed, stopping beside Miles and not looking at him. The admiral turned to one of his lieutenants, who nodded.

"I recognize him."

The admiral made a gesture and so many muskets and pistols were suddenly aimed at the crew that Miles believed there was a ball for nearly all of them.

The admiral pulled a pistol and Miles felt his heart lurch with fear for Asher. Asher stood tall, unmoved by the danger. Instead of shooting him, however, the admiral struck Asher across the face with the handle of his pistol. Asher staggered. There was movement from the crew behind Miles, but as the guns around them were cocked the movement ceased. Asher stood straight again. His breathing was sharper, but he made no further show of pain.

"It will also be a joy to watch you hang," the admiral declared. "It's a pity you can only be hanged once and not for each of the Articles of War you so blatantly acted against, as a warning to the rest of the navy." He placed his pistol back in his belt and nodded to his lieutenant. "Search and secure them."

After they were searched and their hands tied, they were left to sit on the quarterdeck for three hours while the officers determined what would be done with them and the ship was searched. During the search the British had discovered Jane and Liza's identities, something they were greatly amused by and that Miles found concerning. He didn't suppose the British sailors would respect them during the journey.

Thayer was not allowed to see to the wounded, and Miles watched with horror as Downing and Graves died in front of him, two more added to the ten others laying on the deck. Their captors merely pretended not to hear Miles asking that they be allowed to care for the wounded. Asher had been fortunate that his jaw hadn't been broken by the admiral's pistol, as well.

At last, three lieutenants and a number of sailors and marines took charge of the ship and got them under way. From what Miles could see seated on the quarterdeck, the nearest ships in the fleet were falling away.

"We've been told to safely transport the lot of you to London," one of the lieutenants told them, the same man who had identified Asher. He wore an expression of loathing so strong Miles was immediately concerned. "But I know several of your men are deserters from His Majesty's Navy. We've been permitted to give you each a punishment you sorely deserve."

Miles could feel the crew grow tense around him. Someone hissed a curse. Miles ignored them. He was wary of the mistreatment they had already endured. "You said we were to be transported safely to London. Two of my crew have already died since we became your prisoners."

The lieutenant smiled, and it was not a pleasant expression. "Oh, they will live to hang in England, as you all will, but first a reminder of where their loyalty should lie. Starting with him," he added, pointing at Asher. "This ship was your responsibility to command. You chose to desert and take the ship with you. Did you suppose such treason would go unanswered?"

Asher gazed steadily at him. "I had hoped you would be too preoccupied losing a war."

The officer hauled Asher to his feet. He took what at first appeared to be a bundle of rope from another sailor. "Are you familiar with the cat, lieutenant? You certainly will be before this is finished. I would like you to name the members of your crew who were once in the Royal Navy. The more you refuse, the more strikes you will receive. Or they may speak up themselves to prevent you from enduring their punishment for them."

"They won't speak," Asher replied, his voice as commanding as it was during battle. "They know I would endure all their beatings for them. It is my duty as their officer, not yours."

The British officer laughed. "What a fool."

Instead of removing Asher's bindings, they cut off his shirt, then tied his bound hands to the main mast. Miles took note of the fifteen marines standing over himself and the crew. The captors were greatly outnumbered, but were trained marines armed with muskets and pistols. Miles knew they stood little chance of effectively retaking the ship, not without weapons and with their hands bound – and not without alerting the fleet that was still near enough to hear the shooting and return.

Asher flinched when the first strike landed, but made no sound. In fact, no one on board the ship made a sound until Asher had endured ten lashes. Then the British lieutenant stopped and asked Asher to name another deserter to take his place.

"No," Asher replied, his voice still as strong as it had been before the beating had begun.

"Then, by all means, let's continue."

For several more minutes there was no sound but the lapping of the waves against the hull, the creaking of the rigging, the occasional flap of a sail, and the rhythmic slap of the whip with its knots and tails against the flesh of Asher's back. Every few lashes his breath would catch, but he never cried out or spoke anyone's name.

When he stopped again, the British officer demanded an answer from the crew. "Will no one spare him from this? Do none of you have a care for your loyal lieutenant?"

"They will not speak," Asher answered for them. This time, his voice was quieter, filled with pain.

The officer continued to gaze at the crew, then turned his attention to Miles. "Won't his captain ease his suffering?"

Miles met the man's gaze and refused to speak. He wanted Asher's suffering to end, but Asher was showing himself determined to protect the rest of the crew from the abuse he was receiving. He would do as Asher desired and remain silent. It was his duty to protect his crew.

"Very well," the officer replied.

Asher was soon sagging against the mast, no longer attempting to hold himself on his feet. Blood dripped from his back to the deck, already dirty from the battle. Miles had stopped counting the number of lashes. The very first had been too many.

"If no one will speak I suppose we will need to continue this tomorrow," the officer declared. "I'm in need of a fresh cat. Perhaps we will need to move lower to find unblemished flesh."

They cut Asher down and he slumped to the deck, still silent. Miles wondered if he had fainted. If he hadn't been able to see Asher's ragged breathing he would have thought him dead.

"Take them below," the officer ordered.

Miles and the crew were forced into the hold of the ship at the point of the British marines' muskets, then into the room they had set aside for the Scot's infrequent prisoners. 

Miles was certain they would need to plot an escape to return the ship to their control before Asher was beaten to the point of death. The man was far too loyal to surrender to the British demands. It was the Royal Navy's own misfortune that his loyalty to them had been worn away.

Once they were all inside the room and the door was locked behind them, Miles discovered Asher had not been herded along with them. He wondered if they planned to torture him more, or simply wished to keep him apart from them for some other reason. He was, however, thankful to realize Liza and Jane were with them and had not been stolen away by their captors.

Packed into the small room with the crew, he didn't need to speak very loudly to be heard by all of them. "We must carefully decide our plan of action. We outnumber them. I'm certain none of you wish to witness a repeat of what was done to Lieutenant Sands. Soon we should be safely away from the fleet and able to act without their noticing the distress of this ship."

"I want to act now," Clark hissed. "Though I know it's not wise and we won't be able to escape this room to do it."

"Not with my locks on the door," Jean Louis agreed.

"When they bring us up again?" Humphrey suggested.

"They'll want us all to watch it," McDowell added. "It may be our only time to act."

Miles nodded grimly. "It will need to be then. We'll need to move swiftly to disarm them."

"Rushing from the room may be our best option," Davis suggested.

"We'll need to try," Miles agreed.