Posts
Pete Pete staggers to the hammock. Another trying day with ungrateful tars and scallywags. Two small sloops bound from Jamaica and all the rum you could swally was all she wrote. Rum punched one and all they blather on about not enough coin jingling the trouser as the pillage turned glum. He remembers the days in old Main Brook. A welcome sight after weeks at sea and the hearty and hale at Fred's Lounge, a place before it's time. Plunder a plenty back then but the scarce times came fast as kings and queens fell and no privateer knew who to trust. At anchor in Spirity Cove, h...