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August 16, 1906. Chaleur Bay, Canada.

As the gently undulating surf lapped against the hull beneath his feet, Captain Charles Kingsmill stifled a deep yawn. Over 36 years of service had hardened him against early mornings but even so, a day starting at 4 am tends to drag on and on. At her helm, he had sailed Dominion up through the Restigouche River and anchored off Dalhousie around 10am, attending to various duties throughout the day. With the sun now hanging low in the sky, Kingsmill squinted his eyes slightly to make out the orange silhouetted view of steamers and pleasure craft, scuttling about in preparation for the oncoming dusk. Maneuvering from the upper superstructure to the chart room, Kingsmill found his navigating officer standing over the chart table.

Lieutenant Basil Noake's familiar face looked up at him, “Good evening Captain, preparing the charts now.”

“I would prefer we get underway with due haste Lieutenant." Kingsmill stated as he strolled around the opposite side of the table, "I take it you are aware of how rare this clear weather is along the St. Lawrence?”

“Quite.” He answered, “With the inflow and the tide coming into the bay tonight, it would be advisable to proceed at a fairly high speed to both make fair time and successfully cut the tide.”

“Agreed.” Kingsmill said, running a finger around his mustache, “Say we plot a course at 15 knots, using the Belledune Light, Souris Point light and Paspebiac Light for markers. What is our estimated time of clearing the bay?”

Lieutenant Noake hunched over somewhat as he worked his slides across the charts, muttering to himself for a few choice moments, “Plotted roughly 3 miles southwest of Souris Point, we should arrive in the area off the point at approximately 9 pm. At such a point, we should be clear of most potential obstacles and ready to proceed to Quebec City.”

“Excellent, finalize the course and I will return shortly.” Kingsmill straightened his cap and walked back out on deck. As he stepped foot on the bridge, the officer of the watch turned to face him.

“Weigh anchor Lieutenant, bring us around and inform the engine room I want 72 revolutions. Course is to follow. Once the course is relayed, I want 90 revolutions.”

With a curt “Aye sir”, Lieutenant Clarkson went about his duty. While the ship sprung to life, Kingsmill remained on the bridge, intermittently watching the bridge chronometer slowly tick along. After some time had passed and with the steady vibration of her massive engines beneath him, Kingsmill returned to the chart room.

“Sir, the current course consists of S.59 E. deviation 0, for a position 3 miles S.31 W. of Souris Point Light. I have checked the course using the cross bearings of Heron Island and Carlton Light to clear Heron Shoal, no deviation from the course being observed. Weather is keeping clear at this moment, is this satisfactory Captain?”

Kingsmill took a moment to examine the course in his head, he was no navigational genius however, experience allowed one to reliably pick out mistakes quite easily. Everything seemed correct and the Lieutenant had shown excellent navigational skills in the past.

“Very good Lieutenant, please relay the course to Lieutenant Clarkson and take your place on the bridge.” With a bustling bridge and the ship seemingly making good time, Kingsmill made his way towards the somewhat empty section of the upper bridge, stopping on the way to inspect the impeccably spotless uniform of a passing midshipmen. With the steady humming beneath his feet and a spectacular display of stars from above, the Captain took in relative silence. To think, his long career had finally brought him back to his homeland, captaining the vessel named after his Dominion since her commissioning, it was truly a fitting time. As time ebbed away, the Captain checked his pocket watch. Reading 7:40 pm, he descended the bridge to make final checks before attending his increasingly appealing dinner.

Lieutenant Clarkson was present on the main bridge, alternating his view sporadically from the ships compass to her current heading. Satisfied with the officers attentiveness, Kingsmill headed below. The prospect of relaxing even slightly was every bit as appealing as it sounded, especially as his bones creaked, lowering him into his chair. The steward served a meal of freshly cooked trout, roast beef, potatoes and brussel sprouts. As always, the perks of being a Captain shined through, especially in range of fresh port-side food stocks. Although he was interrupted periodically by the attentive midshipman of the watch reporting on heading updates, the meal was excellent and their course seemed steady. Much was made to enjoy it to the fullest possible extent, however by the end it was clear that the time to return to the bridge was rapidly approaching.

Beginning to reach for his overcoat, the Captain felt an unmistakable change in the ship itself, one that brought his heart into his throat. The sudden jar followed by a lurch to port signified not only a course change but an aggressive one, hard over, likely full rudder with engines in reverse. Scrambling to his feet and bolting up out of the cabin, the silver wear bouncing along the cabin floor punctuated his exit. Halfway up the aft bridge with cap still in hand, a trio of shudders echoed through the entire ship, threatening to throw the Captain to his feet. Time slowed to a crawl as he forced his way upwards, every step punctuating the long career rapidly flashing before his eyes.

Kingsmill called out “Status report!” almost as soon as he crested the opening to the bridge, coming face to face with Lieutenant Clarkson.

“Captain.” Clarkson stammered, “It appears we have put been put aground. Lieutenant Noake and his assistant have set out in boats to attain soundings. Watertight doors were closed almost immediately however, we are waiting on a damage report.”

Kingsmill swallowed hard, “Thank you Lieutenant, keep me posted.”

The mind of the Captain was racing back and forth, he knew the dreaded Board on Enquiry would get involved and would want their pound of flesh for a brand-new ship being grounded. Would this be the end of his career? All of the years of hard work, left to rot on a goddamn rock? No, he could not give into these thoughts, he had to act.

“Damage report is in sir, the grounding caused extensive damage to the double bottom, some of the stokehold plates are buckled and pushed upwards. Engineering reports slight gradual flooding within the double bottom however, it is completely manageable. Engineering spaces are otherwise fully workable.”

Letting out an inaudible sigh of relief, the Captain launched into action, “Let out the boats present on the booms to remove some weight, I want as much as the ships company mustered to the bow as possible, inform them to bring any easily transported belongings. Organize this personally, I will stay on the bridge.”

“Sir, if I may?” The Lieutenant queried before the Captain nodded him along, “May I muster the Marine Band sir? I can spin the mustering as a surprise dance competition on the fore end of the deck. It should help alleviate some of the worry.”

Kingsmill cracked a slight smile, “Excellent idea Lieutenant, see to it at once!”

Soon the band was set up forward of the ship, the crew began to funnel out on deck. Arranged in a loose congregation around the bow as directed, rumor did spread about the true point of the exercise, however that did little to tamper the spirit of the enlisted men as the band started their instruments. One of the traits that likely played into their grounding turned around to be a god send as between repeated reversing, shifting weight forward and the coming tide, Dominion was slowly eased off the shallow seabed at roughly 11 pm that night.

Luckily, the area were the ship grounded came back as being almost completely a soft bottom of gravel, sand and seashells, largely doing minor damage over a large area. It had been a stressful night for Kingsmill and the crew. As Dominion was safely anchored within a local inlet, Captain Kingsmill watched from the upper bridge as the crew below trounced back and forth across the deck, the raring composition of the band punctuating their joyful celebration. A wave of guilt took hold over the old salt, for those precious few seconds, he had thought of nothing besides his own career being at stake. As he watched these young men from above though, he remembered why he was a Captain. His responsibility was to this ship and its crew, all nearly 800 of these men. If the Admiralty wanted his head, so be it…..but these…….men…..his men would be spared a silver platter.

As the festivities began to die out, Kingsmill left the bridge. He would deal with this in the morning, there was many things that he could be described as but a young man was not one of them.