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July 12th, 1876
There is some comfort in the emptiness of the sea. No past. No future. And then at once I am confronted by a hard truth in present circumstances. I have been hired to suppress the rebellion of yet another tribal leader. Apparently, this is the only job for which I am suited. I am beset by the ironies of my life.
Algren paused in his writing to pour himself another glass of whiskey. To run his hands over the rawhide, elaborately beaded bag in which he kept his journal, to move on to the chest that contained his uniform, and to fall inside his own head again as he pulled on his jacket.
Fire. Screaming. The sound of hooves beating against the ground and children and women falling and--
Abruptly, he pulled off the jacket. Slowly and deliberately made his way back to his whiskey. Poured himself another glass.
The rest of the night was lost in the haze of alcohol and his attempts to drown away his memories.
And that was why, when Captain Nathan Algren woke up on the beach with a lifeboat turned upside-down beside him and a suitcase filled with only the essentials- his military blues, the bag containing his journal, and a half-empty flask of whiskey- he didn't have the foggiest idea how he had arrived there. Only that, somewhere through the course of the night, apparently he'd managed to find himself a different job. On an island. Which was nowhere near the ship he'd been sailing on.
The ironies of his life, indeed.
[The journal entry is taken right out of The Last Samurai, the drunken rowboat thing is my brain telling me to switch to decaf. And now Algren is on Fandom Island! Hoorah! Open if anyone has any reason to be wandering the beach at Stupid-O'Clock AM.]
There is some comfort in the emptiness of the sea. No past. No future. And then at once I am confronted by a hard truth in present circumstances. I have been hired to suppress the rebellion of yet another tribal leader. Apparently, this is the only job for which I am suited. I am beset by the ironies of my life.
Algren paused in his writing to pour himself another glass of whiskey. To run his hands over the rawhide, elaborately beaded bag in which he kept his journal, to move on to the chest that contained his uniform, and to fall inside his own head again as he pulled on his jacket.
Fire. Screaming. The sound of hooves beating against the ground and children and women falling and--
Abruptly, he pulled off the jacket. Slowly and deliberately made his way back to his whiskey. Poured himself another glass.
The rest of the night was lost in the haze of alcohol and his attempts to drown away his memories.
And that was why, when Captain Nathan Algren woke up on the beach with a lifeboat turned upside-down beside him and a suitcase filled with only the essentials- his military blues, the bag containing his journal, and a half-empty flask of whiskey- he didn't have the foggiest idea how he had arrived there. Only that, somewhere through the course of the night, apparently he'd managed to find himself a different job. On an island. Which was nowhere near the ship he'd been sailing on.
The ironies of his life, indeed.
[The journal entry is taken right out of The Last Samurai, the drunken rowboat thing is my brain telling me to switch to decaf. And now Algren is on Fandom Island! Hoorah! Open if anyone has any reason to be wandering the beach at Stupid-O'Clock AM.]
