Diary Excerpt from Captain Canute Glasikis, June 12, 1855 | loci.theduereturn.com



Diary Excerpt from Captain Canute Glasikis, June 12, 1855

Error message

  • Notice: Undefined index: field_related_artifacts in cck_blocks_block_view() (line 97 of /home/93967.cloudwaysapps.com/jauqmmtgea/public_html/modules/cck_blocks/cck_blocks.module).
  • Notice: Undefined index: field_artifacts_metadata in cck_blocks_block_view() (line 97 of /home/93967.cloudwaysapps.com/jauqmmtgea/public_html/modules/cck_blocks/cck_blocks.module).
  • Notice: Undefined index: field_artifact_related in cck_blocks_block_view() (line 97 of /home/93967.cloudwaysapps.com/jauqmmtgea/public_html/modules/cck_blocks/cck_blocks.module).

June 12, 1855

The Crimean Peninsula? That makes little sense. Were I poor Anteas, I’d say it made less sense than a polar bear in an ant farm, but I’m not, and I have to say I find his manner of talking to be, in a word, odd. But here we are, and, as I guessed earlier, bang in the middle of a damn war. Cadmus confirmed it and I must say that I’m impressed with the boy. I know Jeremiath was royally irked by my choice of scout party lead. Blah blah blah, Preston, blah blah blah, too young, and so on &c. But the boy knows his stuff he does. He came through a mutiny at 12, and seemed to be just fine for those boring years in the Magnetic Sea. Hell, he’ll probably be captain someday if he keeps it up. Point being, he was a better choice than Preston and I don’t think Preston minded one bit taking orders from someone half his age. There’s another good one, Preston is, though he’s never been the brightest star in the field.

Big digression there. Trying to say that the scouting party figured out where we are: the Crimean Peninsula. And if the chronometers can be trusted (don’t see why not, machines don’t lie, heh) it is the summer of 1855. And if the archives can be trusted well . . . why this is war, nor are we out of it. All of which makes our situation tentative. I don’t blame the crew for being restless. Also hungover. Nothing to do but drink for three odd years, and now things to do are just pouring from the sky and there doesn’t seem to be a lot of ability to deal with much.


And again, fuck.

Right. We need to do something - sitting in the middle of a war is likely to get us blown up. OK then.

Postulate: We cannot leave the ship. (Some would argue we could, but this has been a home for a hundred years and we will not abandon it.)
Postulate: The ship cannot leave us. (Duh.)
Therefore, we and the ship must leave together and, if we are not in a place where the ship can do the majority of the leaving, then it is up to us.
And, again therefore, we are going to haul the damn thing to the ocean.

That strikes me as a touch mad, and I wonder if I’m catching whatever Anteas has. No matter. It’s somewhat realistic and the crew needs something to do. Though they’re not going to be enough by themselves - thirteen people (lucky or not?), only ten of them able bodied, are not up to the task of hauling a 75 foot ship over forty miles of land (Cadmus tells me there’s a port city about that far away, going by the name of Svestapol - seems like as good a destination as any). Someone’s going to have to do some recruiting. There seem to be enough people about - wars breed deserters and all. Language is going to be a problem. Talk to the chaplain. She’s got a gift for tongues. I figure if we can get a few dozen more people to help out, set the old DR up on some rollers, we can be moving in a few weeks. Then say a few months to get down to the Black Sea and we can be out of this hell.

Note. Talk to chaplain about sphere. I think it should be sufficient to opening a passage, but she knows more about it than I do.

Note. Learn Russian, whatever that is. Can’t run everything through translators.

Note. Schedule some time to go through St. James’ berth.

Note. Damn me do I need a drink.