Voyage 1 Commander FitzRoy stood on deck, the butt of a cigarette clenched between his teeth. He looked out, surveying Plymouth. They would be leaving soon, and it would be at least two years before they returned again. The city mightn't look the same when he came back to it. The industrial revolution had swept its was across the country, across most of the civilised world - but it had not reached where they were going. He took the remains of the cigarette out of his mouth and threw it into the sea, before turning to the man who was waiting at attention behind him. "Is everything ready for departure, lieutenant?" he asked sharply. Lieutenant Sulivan answered, "All of our men are aboard, sir. They're loading the last of the coal as we speak." He hesitated. "What is it, Sulivan?" "There's no sign of the geologist yet. He must be running late." FitzRoy glanced up at the sun. It was mid-morning, and he hoped to leave by four that afternoon, preferably sooner. The cold November wind was picking up and the further south they got before it got any worse, the better. "He was recommended to me by Captain Beaufort himself as reliable and a good man. He'll be here." He turned away from the Lieutenant, who recognised the dismissal for what it was. He saluted sharply before hurrying off to oversee the remainder of the cargo being loaded. FitzRoy stared down at the bustle of Plymouth Sound, and soon spotted a man with dark brown hair hurrying towards his ship. He watched the man climb the gangplank, and went to meet him. "Commander FitzRoy," he said, offering his hand. "You're Beaufort's man? The geologist?" He noted that the scientist was slightly shorter than him, and a few years younger than his twenty-six. Intelligent blue eyes shone out of a serious face. "Yessir," said the man. "Please, call me Charles."