Boat Rantage

General Idea: A fit of bad storms, good prizes, and bloody battles empties a ship-of-the-line of most of her officers, and the chain-of-command passes down to an inexperienced midshipman. The combined expertise of the crew is enough to allow the ship to limp towards home, but the sudden appearance of a French privateer strains the young officer's ability to the breaking point.

His hands tensed on the railing, fingers digging into the age-worn wood with enough force to leave imprints. The mizzen, so carefully tended, so lovingly repaired, went by the board in that first brutal onslaught. The foremast fell in the second, and the mizzen took a ball through its center somewhere in between-times. It was heart-breaking. But with all but three of her guns run over the side the week past, and the remaining three already glowing red-hot in the muzzle, there was nothing to do but sit it out.
At the seventh broadside, it was all over. She had been fatally hulled more times than should have been possible, and finally, at long last, she was ready to call it a defeat.

[...since I'm not sure where I'm going with this, I'm gonna leave it here for now until something resembling a plot comes to mind.]