Captain's log, Three of September, Seventeen-Twelve.
The last smoking pile of what once was a ship, it seems, was more precisely a scout ship - as was the previous one. We had losses with both of them, but they were but testing us. Ahead of us larger vessels await. I write this as I see them appearing towards us, and shout to my men to read the cannons. No longer shall we venture into their ships. No, enough of that. We shall test the waters before diving, and plundering after sinking.
My room fills with the smell of brimstone as the drumming of the guns begin. No fire rips apart my men, but the same can't be said of my enemies. The first ship in the line is naught but scattered drifting wood, flaming planks and sinking cloth. It seems, however, that the valuable cargo can still be salvaged from the wreckage. I shan't write no more, I have a battle to win, riches to acquire and a badge to earn.
Captain's log, Two of September, Seventeen-Twelve.
The sulfurous smoke must have caught the attention of the Royal fleet, as we saw white sails cutting the fog as the first sunbeams fought to do the same. Our small ship remained out of their view long enough for us to be able to board the vessel unchallenged. A feeling of vengeance led us to engage them, but extra caution was used on the looting. Most unfortunate, looting on the tips of our toes was not how you avoid these demonic traps. We can't afford to cry anymore, even we more of our mates we killed today. We must make them by with the same coin. We shall bring them the same smell and heat.
Captain's log, First of September, Seventeen-Twelve.
On this day we had a mêlée with a Royal Ship.
We boarded it at once as soon as it came near. Fought the sailors and took control of the vessel.
What followed, however, was most unexpected; for when the crew was busy looting the ship, it went up in blazes with a loud roar. It saddens me much to say that we lost many fine men this morning, not slashed by the enemies sword, no - for our crew have skins of iron - but ripped apart by gunpowder.
Whence came the fiery thunder? Hell itself?, you may ask. Maybe it did, but most likely those yellow-bellied, fancy-talking Northern Loyalists booby-trapped their own ships to attack us.
Our rum taste watery and salty today for tears couldn't be held. The loss of our mates certainly was a tragedy.
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