The Wistful Voyage
The rain on the deck of the HMS *Indomitable* did not wash things clean, as the poets of the Old Country claimed it should, but rather it ground the grime of the Atlantic into the seams of your uniform, a cold, relentless friction that sat heavy on your shoulders like a second skin of wet wool. You stood at the rail, the brass cold against your palm, watching the waves break against the hull...
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