| In The Year of Our Lord, August Sixteenth, Two Thousand and Four: Weather known only by the likes of Magellan and Christie has whipped our stern to the point where men cry. We have been at sea for months now, fighting the ropes with loose teeth and leaking innards. My business parter and I have split ranks, their ship disappeared days ago with fond farewells. I can only hope that they have not befallen the same volley of tortures we have sufficed through. The deck has fallen into disrepair, many of the planks have baked and rotted out, the faces of the men show the same story in their lines and dips. It is clear to me now that the Cape of Good Hope has defeated us. My supplies short, I have decided to abandon ship. All I can hope for now is to beat the riptide and make it back to shore. With Dignity The Third Duke of Whstingdale In The Year of Our Lord, May twenty-the-fifth, Two Thousand and Four: It seems fate has turned her hand to strike me in her course. Port Marshall offered my sinful imbibing a terribly long teather. I'm afraid the exceses of I and my crew, coupled with such dismal climates (both that of man and of the tumultuous heavens) has led me to miss my mark. No matter, our wise governance has sent word for my retreat. It seems an accord has been reached with portugal; bringing my contract with King M'staffa to it's last skin by royal seal and order. The journey home is mere months, though I fear the taste of salt and citrus will linger in my throat for untold scores to come. I look forward to the sounds of the chapel harpsichord and the musings over rosewater and sandlewood that await my homecoming holiday. With due sincerity and utmost respect, The Third Duke of Whistingdale In The Year of Our Lord, March Sixth, Two Thousand and Four: After so many sick nights and odorous mornings we have reached the rich black terra of Port Marshall. Despite the firmness below my feet I have fallen into a sort of general melancholia through which no tonics or wage women can break. I do my best to keep focused on the task at hand, keeping such self-internment to a nagging whisper. As Higgins says: "the belle's smile can as easily rot the teeth as stir the soul." Darkest Africa awaits me, and I am anxious to cut my teeth. The Third Duke of Whistingdale In The Year of Our Lord, February Seventeenth, Two thousand and Four: The Ivory Coast is choked with sharp spines of coral, our delay comes at a most unfortuitous time. Captain Higgins has assured me that we will reach Porta San Marshall by the coming sabbath, but my optimism has long since been purged into the light grey waters after many nights of seasickness and salted pork rations. The crew does well enough, their jocularity and translucent grins do more to bevvy my soul than the Captain's official reassurance. My mind is set at the task ahead, my heart, awashed in thoughts of home. Your's very truly, The Third Duke of Whistingdale In The Year of Our Lord, February Sixteenth, Two thousand and Four: I have been commisioned by King M'staffa of the Nigerian Tribal Union to discourage the emphatically illegal brand of slave trading that is occuring with the visiting Portugese Wharfmen.I must concede, however: the mirrors and parfume' carried by their porters are too popular with the dignitaries to cut them off completely. I will labor long with my council before this problem is fully excavated. regards and best wishes in the coming week, The Third Duke of Whistingdale |
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