Ol'gaffer
08-04-2004, 10:29 PM
Wrote this a while back, I found it again and polished it up a bit. If people like it, I might write more.
Prologue
When in may, long ago. When the normal life within civilization held no more interest to me, I found myself often dreaming of high mountain tops, deep and lush forests with streams that traveled through them from the roots of the mountains to the wide open sea. With little to call home, I gathered my things, which were few at that time, and decided to explore the unexplored.
I left my home town of Surrey, a small town in the more northern parts of England, at a late night in June. The sparrows nested and chirped their melody of the night as I strolled out of the town into the open country road. The sky was clear, without a shred of cloud to be seen for miles, and I followed the big dipper, not caring where following it would lead. My worries were few, and mainly consisted of bandits and animals, I cared not for food as I had the required skills to hunt and fish. What little time I had spent with my family in my youth, I had learned as much as I could from my late father, talents that I knew would one day be required.
I knew the local environment well, having trotted in the forests many a time in my youth, and could easily find my way through the forests and hills toward the larger plains far to the south. While not knowing exactly where to go, and for how long. I found my path taking me as far south as London, I decided to find a traders vessel to take me away from my homeland.
While my travel down south was uneventful, with nothing more occurring than a case of sore feet, I arrived in late July to the bustling port town of London. For a person from such a small town as mine, London was a sight which I stared at in awe for a long time. The town was full of life, merchants from distant lands sold items I had never seen before, taverns where full of life, as people marched in, and mainly, were dragged out. Women wore the latest of fashions, which drew the attention of the sailors, having spent long times at sea, very well.
I found my way from through the alleys and crowded streets, to the open harbor, where numerous ships had been docked. Massive galleons with as many masts as four to a ship, swayed to and fro in the calm harbor waters. Crew members unloaded cargo and carried new on board, all under the dutiful eyes of the captains. One ship especially took my eye. A galleon as well, this one sported a beautiful woman in it’s front hull, “The White Squall” it’s plaque read.
I seeked out the captain of the ship, he was a tall man, of great stature and build. With short brown beard and hair, his left eye covered with a patch and a smoke that never seemed to go out. His voice was growling and as low as if it was spoken through a barrel. His walk was steady, with a slight limp in his right leg, which oddly did not affect his formidable posture at all.
The captain of the White Squall, a man called Carlton Hawkings, was my first real encounter of men at my voyages, which had only just begun. He allowed me to board his ship, they were to break port for Europe the next morning, “when the winds are right” he said. He showed me to my cabin, a privilege, he let me understand, which is rarely handed to normal landlubbers like myself. That night, I opened my journals to begin a record of my journeys, and what journeys they were to be.
The next morning, the cold, but gentle morning wind blew east. The anchor was hoisted and the sails raised, as the White Squall slowly at first, then picking up it’s speed, led us out of the London harbour, and out to the great open sea.
Commenting and critizism is most welcome.
Prologue
When in may, long ago. When the normal life within civilization held no more interest to me, I found myself often dreaming of high mountain tops, deep and lush forests with streams that traveled through them from the roots of the mountains to the wide open sea. With little to call home, I gathered my things, which were few at that time, and decided to explore the unexplored.
I left my home town of Surrey, a small town in the more northern parts of England, at a late night in June. The sparrows nested and chirped their melody of the night as I strolled out of the town into the open country road. The sky was clear, without a shred of cloud to be seen for miles, and I followed the big dipper, not caring where following it would lead. My worries were few, and mainly consisted of bandits and animals, I cared not for food as I had the required skills to hunt and fish. What little time I had spent with my family in my youth, I had learned as much as I could from my late father, talents that I knew would one day be required.
I knew the local environment well, having trotted in the forests many a time in my youth, and could easily find my way through the forests and hills toward the larger plains far to the south. While not knowing exactly where to go, and for how long. I found my path taking me as far south as London, I decided to find a traders vessel to take me away from my homeland.
While my travel down south was uneventful, with nothing more occurring than a case of sore feet, I arrived in late July to the bustling port town of London. For a person from such a small town as mine, London was a sight which I stared at in awe for a long time. The town was full of life, merchants from distant lands sold items I had never seen before, taverns where full of life, as people marched in, and mainly, were dragged out. Women wore the latest of fashions, which drew the attention of the sailors, having spent long times at sea, very well.
I found my way from through the alleys and crowded streets, to the open harbor, where numerous ships had been docked. Massive galleons with as many masts as four to a ship, swayed to and fro in the calm harbor waters. Crew members unloaded cargo and carried new on board, all under the dutiful eyes of the captains. One ship especially took my eye. A galleon as well, this one sported a beautiful woman in it’s front hull, “The White Squall” it’s plaque read.
I seeked out the captain of the ship, he was a tall man, of great stature and build. With short brown beard and hair, his left eye covered with a patch and a smoke that never seemed to go out. His voice was growling and as low as if it was spoken through a barrel. His walk was steady, with a slight limp in his right leg, which oddly did not affect his formidable posture at all.
The captain of the White Squall, a man called Carlton Hawkings, was my first real encounter of men at my voyages, which had only just begun. He allowed me to board his ship, they were to break port for Europe the next morning, “when the winds are right” he said. He showed me to my cabin, a privilege, he let me understand, which is rarely handed to normal landlubbers like myself. That night, I opened my journals to begin a record of my journeys, and what journeys they were to be.
The next morning, the cold, but gentle morning wind blew east. The anchor was hoisted and the sails raised, as the White Squall slowly at first, then picking up it’s speed, led us out of the London harbour, and out to the great open sea.
Commenting and critizism is most welcome.