contentwithoutcommand | First Tackle : written

First Tackle : written

[David has had... three days. He's taken three days living with his sister to sort out where he is and what's going on. Which, as far as he can tell, is all very vague.

Of course, a woman like Faith can't be expected to have any sort of reckoning of points of longitude and latitude, and he doesn't have the tools required yet to shoot the sun to take his own calculations. He is most certainly not in England or the West Indies, though. Of that much, he can be certain.

The Journal is his biggest contemplation. He's watched it, these last few days. He doesn't understand most of it, but he has seen how it can used to address letters and even speeches to the general population. How the latter works, he doesn't know. Really, how it works in general is a mystery, but he understands the written form best.

There's no telling who will read what he writes as he finally takes up a pen, so he's careful with his wording. Around him are about twenty sheets on which he's practiced before committing himself to this.]

The fourth of May.

[No location, he doesn't grasp that well enough yet to make that distinction.]

To whom it may concern:

[There may be an admiral or commodore or post-captain in this strange place, but he can't be sure, so a more general heading will have to do.]

I arrived here on the first of May. After making a basic of study of the area, I proceeded to the north where I found a village. It is the only one according to local information. I established a residence and read what is provided by way of documentation. I have since collected my possessions that have arrived: my uniform, my pocketwatch, and my telescope.

My ship is lost, my crew unaccounted for, and the fleet far out of range of communication. I write this dispatch in the hope that it might be received by someone in a position to answer it.

I am, most respectfully, your servant,

D Long, commander of His Majesty's Sloop Hornet, R. N.

[The strangest dispatch he has ever written, David thinks, but it will do. It might also give him some indication if there are any brother officers here, if any of his crew or squadron have suffered the same fate.]

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I look forward to it.

[And, true to his word, by four o'clock David Long is coming into Good Spirits. He'd hardly been able to ask Faith where he could get a drink, but...

An English sailor can always find liquor. Even an officer. And this place seemed like a respective enough spot.

Navy blue, Rifle green. Easy enough match to spot. Immediately upon entering the building, David removes the bicorn hat he has, tucking it under his arm.]

[ sharpe's already there. he's staked a claim on a booth. there he sits with a glass and a bottle of brandy -- his uniform jacket all a-mussed because he'd long ago sold off his silver buttons to sokka for a sword commission.

but when he notices the navy blue, he lifts a bare few fingers in beckoning the man over. ]

[Long sees the man easily enough and approaches. He touches his forehead with two fingers in salute then offers his hand.]

Major Sharpe. A pleasure to properly meet you.

[He can't help but look at not only the man but the table. Brandy. Welcome sight. And the man... a common look for a soldier, but not a bad one at all. Good looking, at least. Which makes him good company for an evening.]

[ ...he's been out of the system too bloody long. it takes him a moment to stand and return the salute -- casual though it was to begin with. but he gladly puts his hand in long's hand, giving it a firm grasp and and eager shake. ]

Aye. It's better to be off of those damn books. [ a broad yorkshire accent. ] Brandy, Commander? I can have another glass brought over.

[ he's already looking to the server. ]

I'm not fond of them myself. [The Navy commander takes his seat. His own London-bred accent isn't quite as vibrant as his sister's. He's had years at sea for it to fade and merge with others.]

Brandy, though, I'll never say no to. Too hard to come by. [He grins.] Decent supply of it here?

[ and yet, sharpe manages to pick out the london-notes here and there. although he sounds like a yorkshireman, he grew up in london. it's hard to escape some of those sounds.

but of brandy: ] Of it and of most any other drink you might hanker for.

[ he takes a seat, trusting the server to bring a glass by at the next convenient moment. ]

Thank God. [He laughs a little.]

No good brandy to be found with the war unless you want to deal with smugglers.

Speak for yourself, sailor. [ a long drink. ] We scavenge better brandy than this off the battlefield. There's a benefit to harrying Napoleon's baggage trains.

None on the sea, then. Not unless you catch a good merchant ship or a well-stocked French Navy ship. Most of those just have wine. [He says it with a wide smile.]

Wish I had a few friends in the Army, then, to keep my ship supplied with spirits. I know several captains, actually, who'd pay a pretty price for even cheap stuff.

I'd say that my lads would make an enterprisin' break for it, only I doubt they're capable of carrying bottles they don't intend to empty themselves. The bloody stuff would never make it to port.

[David laughs.]

I've got my men in the Caribbean right now. Good God, keeping them away from port liquor is a nightmare. Worse than in England or the Mediterranean.

How's that, then? The Caribbean?

[ the empty glass arrives; sharpe pours the man a measure. ]

[David, like a proper sailor, takes the first drink and drains the glass. He flashes a smile then.]

Damned hot. But plenty of enemies and shipping. [Battles with frigates and prizes both. Which meant professional merit and prize money.] Far cry from England weather.

[ in contrast, sharpe nurses his. ]

...Much of the fever? [ for that's all he ever heard of the west indies. ]

I've seen one outbreak of it. Not my ship, but... It's bad when it comes.

[He shakes his head, filling his glass again.]

It's better, actually, when the ship's at sea. The further away from port and the longer you're away, the less damage men can do to themselves and others. Less illness, less liquor, better crew.

Aye. It's the same on a special march -- the ones what bring us far from the main camp. I like them marching orders best.

[ of course he would! as a major, he has precious time left for proper soldiering any longer. taking men out on unique missions is just about the only time he manages to command men without higher officers interfering. ]

[David nods his assent, taking a sip of his brandy. One question plagues his mind. Something others have informed him of during the day, but he cannot be sure what he thinks of the idea. How much he believes.

But from someone with familiar manners, someone who will understand the importance.]

It's been suggested that no one will know I was gone. Do you put faith in that? If it isn't true... I should prefer to brace myself for the court martial when I return.

[ his chuckle is try. ]

I confess, I've not known anyone too personally who has been and gone. Not while I too have been here, at least. But it's a well-known fact of the place: we're plucked from a moment, and we'll once again return to the same.

I'll pray to God they're right then. [He manages a smile, even if the idea of a court martial is still something to worry the back of his mind.]

Have you been here long, Major?

Over a year. If they ain't right and we are missing...? Eh. The army already thinks I'm dead, I'm afraid to say.

[Long lets out a soft, appreciative breath.]

A year. Dead or captured certainly. [Or deserted. But that's not a politic thing to say. Too easy to give offence, to think it's an accusation rather than one of many possibilities of the worst that could be thought. And he most certainly does not want to offend.] Lord help us if they're not right.

[ in truth, sharp had meant it literally. at the time he was sucked into luceti? he and his sergeant had already faked their deaths and had -- perhaps foolishly -- re-enlisted under fake names. if he never goes home now, he'll forever be known as the trumped up major who died in a ditch in st. giles...

but he's more than happy to let long believe he meant otherwise. ] In the meantime, it's a bloody chore just to keep busy in these parts. Best not to let yourself get too worked up about home, when it'll only drive you to dark places.

Not much to do? [Something like a prisoner of war, then. Officer status, considering everything. Parole given -- or assumed -- to allow them to wander about, given good rooms and food. But not free and not active.]

Damn. [He chuckles a bit, flashing a smile.] Must be some way to make a bit of fun here. [Granted, all fun gets just as dull after awhile; the idleness of the Peace didn't suit him well. But he can at least try to enjoy himself for a bit while he's here.] Liquor aplenty, obviously. [And, according to his sister, without a price to pay for it.] What other vices are there to indulge?

Not outside of their rare battles, at least. Or their wretched experimentation. But there is a bit of sport to be had. [ ... ] I hunt, when I can.

[ as for other vices? well. not for him to say. he's been a bloody monk these past thirteen months. ]

Any gaming to speak of? [He won't ask about women. Too vulgar to put that out. A hand might say it, and he could benefit from the information. Not that he has much care himself of whether there are women to be had, but it tempers how things could be approached.

Still, he can work on coming to that point and expanding upon it later. In due time. No cause to rush.]

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