Lt David Long (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
contentwithoutcommand) wrote2013-05-04 10:07 am
contentwithoutcommand) wrote2013-05-04 10:07 am
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.]
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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One of them...? Long, the lass isn't alive. Back home. Or so her sister says. In that regard, I suspect this place is a Godsend.
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[It sounds too incredible to be true, but what cause would Sharpe have to lie to him about something like that?]
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[He's not really eager for that to happen. Just in case.]
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Is there any rhyme or reason to it? How people come here?
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