Blackbeard's Journal

The long lost journal of Blackbeard the Pirate washed up on shore on a deserted island, where a stranded sailor just happened to find it. Instead of trying to find a way to signal a passing ship or find food and water to survive, he instead got deep into reading the journal. Poor sap. Well, let's read it then:


June 2^nd, 1717

 

Arrgh! What spicy rum, be that! Castilian-distilled, if I be right. The murky air inside the hull be damp enough (and pungent) to knock a man right of his senses!  Ho, sirrah, that rum’s gotta’ kick! ...  In my second year, I am, as a pirate on the high seas. Pirate captin’, tha’ is. Aye, what a fright I give to all seafarers when they merely mention ma’ name: Blackbeard the Pirate! Ha! Those half-wit loons... if only they knew my real name: Edward Teach. Gah! The very mention of it twirls ma’ entrails. Seems ma’ mother wanted a college professor, not a pirate! Aye… but that isn’t enough to smear my reputation on the high seas; my reputation for pillagin’, lootin’, and raidin’ any town, city, or ship that dare stand up against ma’ flag!  And his Majestey King George III o’ England ( oh, that gluttonous loon for a monarch), truly thinks that I can be caught! Ha! The follies that fools fancy these days… truly makes me wonder who commits greater piracy: us seadogs or those wig-headed sloths for politicians back in Britain?   Makes me also think about… ooh the rum’s kick be on again!

September 5^th 1717

 

Another good day of adventurin’ and pillagin’ for me. By Mary, this week I looted four galleons and 6 brigandines! We had em’ cornered at an alcove near the shore… somewhere near North Carolina, methinks. They be practically fleein’ from us when they saw me flag; ha! Shudda’ heard their cries when they saw it. The loot were practically whelping for my warm, greedy touch, they were! Oh the look of those cowerin’ navy officers and sailors! That’d teach em’ to not mess with Blackbeard’s armada!

November 8^th 1717:

Aye… ten ports looted, and twenty villages sacked. Ah yes; tis’ good that me and me crew have been plunderin’ so much loot these past few months; but something seems to be amiss. Was it the sheer sense of excitement I would get in ma’ belly when I saw unprotected treasure fleets yonder? Or was it the pleasure I got from senselessly maimin’ the captives and refusin’ to ransom em’ back for anything less than their bodies’ weight? I dunno, but somethin’ seems to be lackin’ in this… in this adventurous thrill of mine. Maybe I’ll find out what it is once I get me some o’ that good ole’ castillian- rum!

December 18^th 1717

Another plunder; just a passing dingy boat, but still… tis’ a plunder I suppose, if you had nothing good to loot for in weeks…

 

January 2^nd , 1718:

A monstrous storm betide us from outta’ nowhere… all hell seemed to break loose… the ship’s damaged in several places, and we lost three of our men. The ship seems to be off-course, and I got no ideas on where are right now. And to think I could’a sensed a storm from miles away by now. I really need ta’ get off this rum.

January 7^th, 1718:

.. Been out at sea for God knows how long; nothin’ to eat, nothin’ to drink. Haven’t seen many ships pass by either. Josamme thinks we’re off-coast Puerto Rico; Billy Gibbs thinks we’re a mile away from Brazil.  I dunno who to trust right about now, for all the rum stores are startin’ to deplete; and no rum, means… Oh, God a tiny sliver of land would do a lot’a good for me now! Argh!

January 9h, 1718:

… Tired..Hungry…thirsty… No sightin’s of land, or any ships on this barren stretch of sea. I’m startin’ to think this all be some sorta’ punishment from the all mighty. What could I’ve done wrong in me life? Plunderin a few ships? Massacrin’ a few villages? Tis’ all but means to a stable end, after all. But now.. but now I’m startin’ to think that we’ll never find our way out this oceanic wilderness if we don’t repent for our actions.. somehow… but exactly when that chance would come, I know not.

January 11^th: 1718

 Just when I thought I started to lose all hope (and all me sanity with it), I spotted a small injured pelican lying on a single rock protruding from the waters. It’s wing was a mangled mess, and blood bathed its frizzled white coat. Yet, it was still alive. God knows why I decided to do this next, but I steered the ship towards the rock, to the crew’s confusion, and laid anchor near it so I could perch out from the deck and step onto the rock. The crew watched me perplexed as I stepped onto the rock and marched towards the dying bird. I kneeled beside it, and took a real close look at it: the poor thing’s tongue was rollin’ out, and it’s one eye seemed ta’ be bruised! What I did next, perplexes me to this day. I cradled the poor thing in my arms; cradled it as would a parent to child. I gingerly carried it back to the plankboard of me ship, where I was met with appalled looks from the crew, and mouths agape. I yelled, “ This bird is to be nursed back to full health! If it dies upon my ship, and I see that none of ye took an effort in curing it, I’ll behead ye all for mutiny!” My order was met with crazed looks from the crew; but knowing me for what I was, they wordlessly obeyed. And so, we set sail once again; I praying daily that we sight land soon, and an additional prayer this time: that the sea-gull regain its health, and be able to fly again once more. Arrgh, how an injured bird can help us find land is beyond me, but better to do at least one good deed before having to meet my infernal end… whenever that is. Judging by the current state of things, I hope that’ll be soon; but for now, the bird is my only concern. Now… where be that pesky bottle a’ rum?