Tuesday June 21, 1719
'Twas at six bells this morning when Danny O'Shea, the red-haired Irishmen who used to run with Captain Morgan, first let out the call, "Land Ho!" He pointed to about three clicks north of west. And there makin' itself known was the coast of what I took to be Oak Island, a spot of land off the southern coast of Nova Scotia. The isle appeared quite suddenly for she had been hiding herself in a late clearing fog.
Ay, this got all the lads quite excited and if were not for the appearance of the good Capt'n, I fear a riot might have gathered its muster. But old Soggy Bottoms got the lads back to work by putting the fear of God in 'em, or at least the fear that they would be confined to ship when we anchored.
We'd first be looking for fresh water to replenish our barrels, that we have aplenty now that most of the grog and rum have already been consumed. Then the Capt'n would usually send a hunting party out with Two Tooth Angus MacRae in the lead. A fresh kill of venison would certainly make this a hearty landing. As for me, I'd be assigned to keep watch o'er the ship. Makin' sure that some unprincipled pirate ship might sneak and try to snatch a new ship the easy way. I'd also have to keep an eye on Sir Percival so as to insure that he not eat the d*mn parrot. I'm still trying to forgive that scrawny, loudmouth bird for leaving his remainders on my best britches.
We dropped anchor at about 5 bells in the afternoon. The lads unloaded barrels and provisions for the night. Then upon rowing ashore in our two dinghies, they would ready five fires along the beach.
I stayed back and prayed, drank a bottle of the good doctor's rum, and hunkered down on deck for a night free of fifty-five snoring rowdies. And add to that, to be free of the stench of three week's worth of sweat.
Pray for the cat. The cat mistook my toe for a wayward mouse.