Gunnary officer James F. Howard had made himself busy in keeling beside the deck gun of the ship in which he was serving and checking the thing over. He was one of those few fortunate...or unfortunate given your point of view, souls to have been allowed to join the crew of Captain Zeeman, and his seemingly nameless vessel. The gunner had little opinion of Zeeman as of yet, though he was confident that the chap was at least competent. James himself was becked in the slightly worn navy blue uniform and finery befitting a somewhat mild ranking officer of the current London naval forces, his cantaloupe-coloured facial hair impeccably well groomed and neat.

While in reality his hands were busy toiling away and checking various components of the naval gun, his mind has since revolted at such reality as this and had shown not the darkened docks of the city, but instead a bright and well preserved docks with the sighing of rejected zailors being instead the well-dressed masses cheering for the sailors of the navy. "They clearly don't make these guns as they used to do" he muttered in a barely audiable mumble as he checked over the steel and iron construction of a gun. "With any luck we're stocked up on ammunition..." He followed in a somewhat optimistic voice. 

Raising himself from the rather small calibre armaments of the nameless vessel, James proceeded to generally get accustomed to the surroundings of the ship. He was not used to such a diminutive vessel and the lack of space (and large calibre naval cannons) had proved to be quite disorientating to the old zailors senses. 

Casting his gaze across the vessel, he saw the current captain engaging in conversation with what appeared to be some manner bandage-clad figure. "Remarkably strange things they are, those people." He commented, though in a voice keeping it's volume well in control as to avoid incitng the tomb colonist. With a slight sigh, James proceeded back to his station, to await instruction.