No rum, no streamers. Not even a firecracker. Just waves and waves and behind them, more waves trying to get past all the other waves. Drummond was sick of it. He was beginning to wonder if he shouldn't have simply let the troopers catch him and put him in goal. Some New Year this was turning out to be. Some of the troops and crew had started a feeble sing-song but it was too cold and they broke up after a few rounds of "Auld Lang Syne" to resume playing cards, trying to sleep in their ridiculous hammocks or just sitting together, huddled, speaking in low murmurs and staring out of the portholes while thinking of home.
The Omrah was approaching the Western tip of Spain according to the crew and Drummond had elected himself as an unofficial ship's lookout. He was quite keen to see something other than water since he'd been deprived of such amusements for longer than he cared to recollect. The ship had put out from Capetown a week or so ago. Was it a week? Drummond had lost track of time in the general malaise of being at sea and had assigned himself a routine of "duties" to prevent himself from going mad. First thing in the morning he took some exercise with the troops on board, they were fairly good natured about allowing him to join in and nobody paid any attention to him as he did jumping jacks, push ups and ran the length of the deck several times before breakfast. After breakfast he helped clear up and, by the time that was done, it was almost time to begin preparing lunch. Breakfast was porridge, or gruel as Drummond called it. He hated the stuff. 'Lunch' was an optimistic word for the flesh of some horrible origin that the cooks scraped out of the many tins in the galley and heated to lukewarm temperature before serving it on hard tack. Dinner was more of the same, to be eaten with a cup of tea and a lime, or, if one was particularly fortunate, an orange.
In between meals Drummond kept watch.
The sun grew weaker as they sailed further north and Drummond shivered, it was unnatural being this cold in January, something ought to be done about it. A fluttering of wings startled him, some kind of sea bird had alit upon the railing and was cocking its head, eyeing Drummond knowingly.
"Well now, what news Mister Gull?" Drummond asked of it.
The gull pecked at something on the railing briefly before letting fly with a stream of excrement and flying off with a harsh cry.
"I suppose that about sums it up." Drummond nodded, watching the gull lazily glide away east. If only he had wings, he'd be shot of this damned tub before you could say "Jack Sprat" and that's a fact.
Last edited by Ace_Pilto; 01/01/1912:47 PM.
Let's pretend I got the BWOC badge to embed here.
Wenn ihr sieg im deine Kampf selbst gegen, wirst schwer wie stahl sein.