Peep This Diary

All hope with Jack Shepherd is Lost

I have been remiss in mentioning that I have made the acquaintance of a Young Lady. This is not due to any reticence on my part, but more from a fear of what Jack would do upon discovery. Based on recent actions, he is most likely to call her a “snuffling whore” and deposit her into the Midden

Of the Young Lady (whose name I shan’t mention, we shall simply call her B) her qualities are too numerous to list here. However, she has shown a keen interest in finance, and while could be seen as most unbecoming of a Lady, her insights on how best to invest my wealth have been invaluable.

More importantly,B represents my best chance on gaining entrance into Society. She has several Contacts of great Import who could only serve to further my career of which she says I am wasting in the acquaintance of Mssrs. Shepherd and Thrasher.

Tomorrow we are to go hawking. I have never been myself, but have heard Jack deride it as an activity for “men who can only find pleasure in life by galloping about the countryside without a thought in their heads.” I am sure I shall enjoy it immensely. 

Posted by Sean on April 5, 1678

Recap

Things achieved this week

1. Mucked out Buchephalus’ stable.
2. Finished six pints at the Griffin.
3. Avoided fencing “practice.”
4. Hired five new girls at the Crimson. Three redheads!
5. Learned the proper use of the word “discourse.” It turns out not to be dirty.

Things NOT achieved this week

1. Posting more regularly.
2. Finally beating Jack at cards.
3. Avoiding one of Patrick’s interminable lectures.
4. Breaking in one of the three redheads. (You would think they would have checked their morals at the door!)
5. Went to church.

The week has been more or less successful, though I would be inclined to go with less.

Posted by Sean on April 5, 1678

Point, Jack Shepherd

I dread Fridays more than most. Fridays are reserved for fencing lessons, and as mentioned before, they usually end with me flat on my arse, subjected to a stream of obscenities from Jack. Today, however, was better than most, for instead of my participation, Patrick and set up an exhibition match between Jack and the good Capt. Araoz.

Now, I had some misgivings about this enterprise, as Jack’s opinions about Dago’s are well known to all who cares to hear about them. Spain purportedly has something to do with the death of his wife; one might conclude that his hatred of Papists like me is stirred by his irrational feelings toward King Philip and his brethren.

Say what you might about Jack, but he is a mighty keen fencer, while Capt. Araoz is no slouch himself. At the first cross it was blades whirling, and Jack drew cloth. Things took a turn for the strange when it became evident that this was no mere contest, and more of a matter of pride. Jack and Araoz departed their line, and from there was all matter of jumping on tables and slicing off the tips of candles. The effect was quite stunning, as you could see the two shadows looming behind them in their own duel of death, both locked arm and arm, Jack perspiring madly, with the Capt. maintaining his stance and letting forth little grunts of effort.

Did I mention that Jack was perspiring? Well, he might be a fair fencer, but the years of drink and women began to take its toll after the third pass. You could see Jack mentally calculating how to extricate himself from a losing proposition, which he did in most spectacular fashion. With one last gasp of effort, he locked himself in a clinch with the Capt., and proceeded to knee him sharply in the groin and then strike Araoz across the temple with the pommel of his blade. The Capt. fell like a stoned donkey, and Jack quickly moved to the bar to have a drink.

“And that gentlemen, he proclaimed, is how you fence.”

Posted by Sean on March 21, 1678

From the Depths

London is a hornet's nest with news that Spain has discovered El Dorado. Every blackguard and tomfool has taken to a ship with hopes of plundering riches. They obviously have forgotten the likelihood of being eaten by a Kraken. I am no such fool.

Posted by Sean on March 19, 1678

Bounders all

Spent much of the day in a thicket.

Displeased.

Posted by Sean on March 18, 1678

One point to Jack

Fencing lessons with Jack today. I am quite the pincushion. Attempted to soothe my ego and wounds with bacon and quince. Not a delightful concoction.

Remain tired.

Posted by Sean on March 17, 1678

Strawberries and Plans

Patrick and I took my skiff out on the Thames today and partook of a leisurely lunch of strawberries and jam whilst discussing what is to be done about Jack. His rages have become more pronounced as of late and it has cost us money, time, and women with prodigious busts. Patrick has an idea of what he is about, and a plan in which to remedy the matter. I strongly doubt that Patrick’s method of treatment will prove successful, but remain hopeful that Patrick will surprise. I am not diverted.

Posted by Sean on March 16, 1678

Of necklines and waistlines

There was a chance tonight to retire with a flame haired wench with a prodigious bust. No small thanks to Jack, and several ill-placed comments about Monmouth, I find myself once again alone.

Posted by Sean on March 15, 1678

Disappearance

Three words to describe where I have been these past few months for only three words should suffice. The more prying of my readers will want to know lurid details, but as it is I shall not kiss and tell.

Thus, here are the three words which explain my absence:

Dusky Arab Beauties.

Posted by Sean on March 15, 1678

Good Christian Deals, at Good Christian Prices

Jack and I are afraid that business will soon decrease at the Unicorn as the oncoming of Christmas leads many men to believe that they are more virtuous than they truly are. Men known to visit our establishment and not leave for a fortnight have now taken to crossing themselves and casting aspersions upon the character of upstanding individuals such as Jack and me.

This decrease in earning lead to a drunken night of “idea mongering” in which Jack and I laid out various schemes to increase business. We are quite proud of our efforts, and hope that they are met with a positive attitude from the “ladies” at our owner/employee meeting this morning.

Idea I – All Ankle Spectacular! – Some gentlemen just like a nice ankle. For the price of a few coppers we will send all of the ladies out with their ankles proudly bare. A curtain shall be lowered so that the gentlemen will be able to enjoy nothing but ankle, which in itself is a treat.

Idea II – The Hen-Pecked Husband – Jack's idea, and an ingenious one at that. The ladies of the Unicorn do not even have to conduct normal “business” but must simply berate their patron and in general act like a harpy. A great bottom line and in turn we conserve resources. I think this idea spawned from personal experience.

Idea III – The Bucephalus Special – My idea, which I am quite proud of. Simply take some hay from the stable, remove all the furniture in a room, and rename the girl in question “Daisy.” This has historically proven to very popular among Noblemen, and with any luck we may gain the business of the King himself!

Posted by Sean on November 22, 1677

When I'm down to my Business shoes...

I realize that my last post may have left some readers cold. Odyllia, thankfully, has not gone to the great bawdy house down below, but instead escaped her ordeal after only a minor singeing. Surprisingly, despite the loss of all her hair, she remains a top earner at the Unicorn, which demonstrates that you can never predict certain gentleman’s tastes.

The last few days have been an eye opener for a naïve businessman such as myself. I thought that after decade’s worth of adventures at “houses of ill-repute,” the running of my own establishment would prove more or less simple. As it turns out, there are several cardinal rules that one know in order to successful in this “business.”

Rule # 1 – The Time from “Deal” to “Transaction” takes entirely too long 

- With everyone wearing multiple layers at all times, never mind stockings and bloomers, a transaction can take upwards of an hour, which hurts the bottom line. Thus, when gentlemen enter the Unicorn, they must remove their coat and collar. The “ladies” have been encouraged to wear slightly less to begin with, which equals more money for everyone.

Rule # 2 – Gentlemen prefer their “Ladies” to have all their appendages and for those appendages to be fully functioning.

- Alright, Jack was right. But I still miss Bertha.

Rule # 3 – You can never have enough Silk.

- Fairly self-explanatory. However, this has proven a boon to Jack’s failed shipping business and we have sent Captain Araoz packing to the Orient to bring us back the brightest and most fashionable cuts he can find. His payment is a 50% discount at the Unicorn, where we can be seen to be taking a notable loss.

Posted by Sean on November 20, 1677

There is a special place in Hell...

For Cheaters.

On the 4th hole Jack indiscreetly kicked his ball from underneath an oak tree back onto the green. EJT was apoplectic, and chased Jack about the landscape screaming “no mulligans!”

Today’s shenanigans, like most others, were par for the course.

Posted by Sean on November 19, 1677

Burn Baby Burn!

It has been far too long since I have committed words to a page. And perhaps, the less I say, the better it for everyone, since the events of the past two weeks have dire ones indeed. These dreary winter months are truly agony for a right thinking Catholic, between having stones thrown at me on All Souls Day, and the atrocity that is the 5th of November, I have found myself chased down the street by club wielding, false thinking Church of England louts no on more than one occasion.

I thought that having had their fill of “Papist Bashing,” I could safely show my face at the Unicorn without having a flagon tossed with great alacrity at my cranium. Thankfully, in this I was correct, and soon found myself enjoying the softer comforts of that establishment on more or less a regular basis. After all, I do own it.

However, my relationship with the Unicorn was to soon bear bitter fruit. Odyllia has been in quite the state since Patrick has gone mute, so much so that one begins to wonder if their relationship was not strictly “business,” but whether the poor girl had begun to have thoughts above her station. Now Odyllia is a top earner, and her caterwauling over Patrick’s decrepit mind meant less money in my pocket. If I was a cruel man (like Jack), I would have long ago sent the spoilt tart packing. But, being a Good Christian, I took pity on her, and led her accompany me to the Griffin one evening in hopes of straightening the poor dear out.

Unfortunately for the both of us, the anti-Catholic fervor which had passed through the streets of London had found a place to fester in the Griffin. Four rounds into the night, several lads took it into their heads that if I as “a dirty Pope loving Irish dog,” then Odyllia must be a “witch.” I am unsure as to how this connection was made, but being in a state of inebriation, I could not quite convince them otherwise. Odyllia was wearing black - to mourn Patrick’s state - she constantly mumbled to herself - and her eyes did have a hint of madness to them. Thus, while I was quite insulted by their slandering of the Holy Father, I could not refute that Odyllia might indeed be a witch.

What followed, however, was completely uncalled for.

Posted by Sean on November 17, 1677

Lord of the Dance

If you want to wake up feeling like a King, I suggest that you spend a night at the Crimson Unicorn. Their beds are soft, their girls are willing, and you might leave with a bit of your purse intact.

If you fancy a smack in the head with a walking stick, I would suggest coming to spend the night at Jack’s domicile. I awoke this morning once again to him beating me about the head and shoulders and railing about the latest injustice inflicted upon his person.

The topic of the day was how I had failed to take full advantage of my wealth and that if I “damn well want to be a gentleman, I better start acting like one.”

My failings in this department evidently centered on my inability to dance. Having placed first in the county fair at Cork no less than three times in my past I was quick to object, but Jack would have none of it. “If you want to look like a backwoods Irishman that is your own business, but to stay in my house you will have to learn how to act around your betters.” I cautiously reminded Jack that I was now in fact far richer than he, and that I resided in his house not on his sufferance, but so that he could “keep and eye on my frightful expenditures.”

What proceeded was the most agonizing three hours I have spent in quite a while. Jack forced me to take quarter turns with George until the poor fellow had to beg out due to both bruised shins and feet. Every misstep was met with a filthy oath from Jack as the self proclaimed “Master of Dance” claimed he had never had so poor a pupil. I was saved in the end by poor Patrick who wandered in the room at the most inopportune moment. Jack, in an attempt to demonstrate a particular of the Minuet, had found someone whose talent for rhythm was less blessed than mine, and I slunk out of the room to bathe my broken feet.

Posted by Sean on October 3, 1677

Counting and recounting

I will not speak of the “party.”

It was a dubious affair.  And no one spoke of Krakens.

Instead, I will note that exactly a year has passed since I have started keeping this journal.

In that time I have:

1. Become far richer than Jack.
2. Been thrown in gaol on three separate occasions.
3. Hit on the head six times.
4. Threatened Pat no less than thirteen.
5. Been drunk with Buchephalus every fortnight.

It has been quite a good year.

Posted by Sean on September 30, 1677

On Baked Goods

The last week was spent in nervous expectation of Patrick regaining full cognizance of his surroundings. The “hero” is now the toast of London, and not a day has passed without a servant or footman pounding on the door and extending an invitation to a banquet or dinner. These invitations are not, in turn, extended to either Jack or me. Some even have the temerity to address their notes “Patrick Thrasher ONLY” which has Jack in a state of fits.

Now I would be content to let Patrick deal with his fame and catch up on my sleep, but at present he is incapable of receiving any visitors. In fact, the only word that he has said since his accident is “muffin.” Now “muffin” might be some sort of endearment for Odyllia. Or it might be a request for breakfast. What “muffin” is not, is a suitable response to the Duke of Glouchester’s request for your presence at his ball.  This is a shame, since the Duke's daughter is reputed to sport the best pair of “muffins” in all of England.

Posted by Sean on September 30, 1677

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to.

It appeared that my 29th year was to begin much in the same way as the proceeding 28, which is to say, not well. Jack had filled my birthday morning with preparations for the arrival of EJT that evening.  While sharpening the knives I noticed that Jack had prepared a list for the day’s tasks which consisted of the following:

1. Loosen the floorboards in the Study.
2. Place my Musket under the desk.
3. Starve the dogs.
4. Loosen stone block above entrance.
5. Fox traps in corners!!!
6. Bake Sean a cake.

The cake, alas, was not forthcoming. Instead, we labored with murderous intent, transforming Jack’s comfortable domicile into a Chamber of Horrors. No particular was left unnoticed and I expect Buchephalus himself was expected to wield a knife at the appointed hour.

At the stroke of eight there was a knock on the door and EJT was allowed entrance to the house. We stood thirty feet away, but upon noticing that he brandished no weapon, endeavored to steer him clear of the traps and into the study. What followed was a conversation so awkward, that it made the terror of the previous fortnight all the more ridiculous.

EJT – Godless Sinner Shepherd, may I bother you for a spot of tea?
Jack – Certainly.
EJT – I must say that for a pair of filthy Papist Scum, you keep a remarkably nice house.
Jack- Well, business has been good to us lately.
EJT – The business of killing my brother and making a mockery of his funeral?
Sean – Actually, we took a loss on that

The conversation was to continue in this vein for quite a bit of time. Tea turned to wine and we soon found ourselves slumped around Jack’s desk, swapping Patrick stories. Just as Jack had reached the climax of the especially delightful anecdote about Patrick and a donkey, EJT drew his pistols and leveled them at our heads. Jack dropped to his knees to beg forgiveness and it looked like I was once again in the position of having to save his miserable life.

EJT – Gentleman, your time is up.

And my 29th year would have begun not at the Crimson Unicorn but ended in a bloody heap on the study floor but for a large crash at the front door followed by some of the most Unchristian epithets I have heard spoken. The noise and screams proceeded to get louder and louder until finally the study door was thrown open by Patrick himself, the worse for wear after contriving to set off every trap we had set. Patrick took two steps into the room, fixed us all with a steady gaze, and then shouted “Happy Birthday Sean” and promptly passed out.

Posted by Sean on September 15, 1677

We come not to Praise Patrick Thrasher, but to bury Him

The day started with such promise.

Dawn broke bright and clear and Jack and I set in to a mammoth pre-funereal breakfast. The bacon was crisp, and for once Jack showed remarkable restraint in partaking of only two mugs of Posset.

From there, things took a turn for the bleak.

My Ape came down with the pox. His handler, some noxious little Spaniard, indicated that he could not be expected to either caper or gambol, but was only capable of shuffling about morosely. Worse still, the creature refused to wear the hat I had designed for this specific occasion.

Other matters, of which I had labored on the majority of the week, likewise turned to Ash. Instead of a choir, Jack and I had to content ourselves with a group that only sang madrigals. When I asked them to sing “Alasdair MacColla” they gave me a look like I had horns sprouting from my head. The final straw was that the butterflies, to be released when Patrick’s coffin was lowered into the ground, had all died overnight in their box. The leeches were a difficulty in their own right; they resulted in Jack’s maid paying an morning visit to the Physick.

Furthermore, Patrick’s OTHER friends are asses. I speak not of the Royal Society members, who pawed at the possessions in Patrick’s coffin with Unchristian Envy, but of people I had never met before in my life. Scullys and Maxwells and other such dubious “friends” of Patrick came not to pay witness, but instead to hoot and catcall as if they were attending the theatre.

I must also confess that I also made a strategic error in inviting Odyllia and the ladies of the Unicorn. Odyllia’s eulogy, which I can not bear to repeat, was a thing of tragedy. Suffice to say, she repeatedly referred to Patrick as ‘Philip.’

Jack's method of crisis management was to aggressively drink himself into a stupor. Placed firmly at the threshold of the church, he roundly denounced each guest in turn. It almost came to blows with the Maxwell boy after Jack accused him of being a "lob-headed Welshman." By the time we reached Patrick's gravesite, he looked quite green, and was grabbing hold of his nearest neighbors to pull himself upright.

Just as things had reached their calamitous end, a raggedy figure came trundling down the hill towards the gravesite. He moved at a deliberate pace, arriving only when the motley congregation had let out their final ragged “Amen.” At that moment, his visage became clear.

Posted by Sean on August 10, 1677

Going Down With the Ship

There is much to do and very little time. I have spent the week rushing about and purchasing items that I have deemed INTEGRAL to a proper burial of dear Patrick. I think that, wherever he may be, he would be exceedingly pleased to know that I have at last acquired an ape for the reception after the service, which will gambol and cavort while diverting our guest’s minds from Patrick’s fate. I have also managed to hire a troupe of actors to reenact the possible scene of Patrick’s heroic demise, and have been informed that it will not only involve a wooden boat constructed for the occasion, but also a HIGHLY realistic Kraken.

                      I await the reenactment with anticipation.

I think I have done my best towards Patrick. Jack, on the other hand, has yet to pull his weight. I rousted him this evening from his study so that we might recite our eulogies to one another, and share a few final laughs and stories about our beloved friend. Drunkenly, he recited a speech that had obviously been prepared only a few moments before and its contents left much to be desired.

(Clearing throat)
I dislike all men, but I disliked Patrick a bit less than most. Since his demise, which took both my fortune and future with him, I have done little but think what my life might have been like if we had never met. Firstly, I would be three hundred and eleven pounds richer.

(Baleful gaze)
I might also not have this persistent rash on my left buttock.

Nonetheless, I shall miss him. When not flailing about and spluttering, Patrick could be quite eloquent. He was also useful for diverting unattractive maidens.

(Long Pause)

And Cribbage, he was a decent partner at that too.

(At this point the words came rushing out)
God Speed Patrick Thrasher. Know that, when I reach Heaven, I expect to be paid in full.

Having finished, Jack abruptly turned from me and slammed the door of his study. The only sound that could be heard was his fumbling with the lock.

Posted by Sean on August 9, 1677

Breaking and Entering

It is with a heavy heart that I begin the preparations for Patrick’s funeral. Jack has warmed to the idea, if only at the thought of spending my money. The problem, as oft the case of what to do with men who meet their demise at sea, is what to substitute in lieu of a body. I decided that the best course of action was to open the door to Patrick’s long shuttered room, and fill the coffin procured from Mr. Morland’s with the choicest of Patrick’s possessions.

I was, however, unprepared for the site that greeted me upon entering his domicile. In fact, words quite escape me.

Faced with such a cornucopia of choices, I selected the following items to substitute for Patrick’s lanky frame:

1 Large Turtle Shell
3 Small Beetles with Very Large jaws
6 carefully labeled jars of what appear to be leeches (my Latin has never been strong)
1 statue of a tiny man who has been carved with Inappropriate proportions
1 microscope given to Patrick by some foreigner named Leeuwenhoek

I truly hope that Patrick appreciates my efforts as I help him towards his Eternal Reward. I only regret that there was nary a stuffed monkey to be found.

Posted by Sean on August 6, 1677

Dead Men Can Unfortunately Tell No Tales

I stumbled home this evening from the Griffin only to be confronted by an irate and slightly bilious Jack.

“Sean, another day has passed and I have been “tagged” again, which it is keeping me from my buttered rum.”

“Sir, I have no idea to what you are referring.”

“I need facts you drunken Irish buffoon! Either about your miserable life or a witty remark about poor dead Patrick. Make some up or give me the truth but be damn quick about it or it will be the end of both of us!”

Jack’s deranged ramblings normally have little impact on my day to day affairs. But considering the import of August the Second to the man, I thought it best to do his bidding. I reproduce below eight facts about Patrick, Jack, and I that may be unknown to you my gentle readers.

Three Facts about (poor dead) Patrick:

1) Patrick was left handed. For this, his mother attempted to have him burned as a warlock. It also confuses men in a fight.
2) Patrick’s room has been locked since his departure. Jack and I have not set foot in the place, for fear of encountering some terrible Creature.
3) Since Patrick’s untimely demise, I have seen the fair Odyllia with no less than eight men at the Crimson Unicorn.

Three Facts about Jack :

4) Jack once threw a clod of mud at Samuel Pepys. He then hid behind the barrowmaker’s shop.
5) Jack is of the opinion that he is quite the wit. However, all who know him refer to him as the “most boring man in London.”
6) Jack once took to sporting an eye patch after a woman remarked that he would look “quite dashing.”

Two Facts about Me :

7) I have never lost a boxing match when I have been sober.
8) I hate liars and thieves. Unless I am doing the lying or the thieving.

Posted by Sean on August 2, 1677

No news is Good News

There has been no word of EJT over the last few days. I took Jack’s altered letter to Lloyd’s last Friday, and despite some initial skepticism, they agreed to investigate the matter. I assume that EJT must have caught wind of it and has run like a whippet to Dover. The 10th of August, which had begun to take on the Spectre of Dread, will now no doubt be quite enjoyable.

Posted by Sean on August 2, 1677

Day of Dread

Jack spent the entire weekend scribbling in his study. Normally, I would consider such an event an ill omen, as he normally emerges clutching a freshly quilled anti-catholic screed, or another plan to have me gaoled.

However, I was unconcerned with this weekend’s events as I am privy to the root cause of Jack’s hermetical activities. Today marks the anniversary of his second wife’s death, an event which, according to poor deceased Patrick’s recollections, turned Jack into the miserable sot he is today.

The story of how the Second Lady Shepherd perished remains quite unclear. Patrick insisted that her end came in the slave hold of a Spanish Galleon while business associates mutter rumors about being driven mad and drowning herself in the Thames. I prefer to believe the most romantic version of the story in which Jack had picked his Lady a fresh bouquet of posies, only for a an unobserved hornet to emerge from them and sting her to death.

The truth, as usual, most likely lies in the middle.

Posted by Sean on August 2, 1677

Lessons without Carols

Things that have been learned in the past week before a less than triumphal return:

1) It takes more than a week to return from Chatham to London if one is inclined to make a scientific study of all the bawdy houses between the two points. I can now say from experience that the women of Tewksbury are especially accommodating, while those that reside in Salisbury suffer badly from the Scabies, and water down their ale.

2) Jack is a thief. Worse still, according to Lloyds, a very stupid thief. As much as I am inclined to snap his scrawny neck, it is far more prudent to “get mine back” at a later date, When I do, it shall be an especially loathsome and drawn out punishment. For now, I shall content myself to sleeping with his scullery maid.

3) I am not alone in being hunted. Jack has also received a message from the exceedingly tedious EJT. Furthermore, the nasty little piece of work was not content to send just one.

Papist Dog –

You and your Dwarven friend have only a short time left before Judgement. On the 10th of August you may expect Retribution in its purest and Most Virulent form. The Ocean shall be your grave, and that grave shall be a wet one.

Yours in Hatred and Intense Dissatisfaction,

EJT

Posted by Sean on July 25, 1677

The Dutch are coming, yet have not come

I haven’t returned home in what seems like a fortnight. Instead, following the events of what I like to call the ‘2nd Medway,’ I mounted Ajax and tore north until I found a remote, yet well provisioned bawdy house. I am certain that the Dutch are well on their way to London, burning and pillaging as is their wont.

Strangely, I have had no news of further incursions, but I am certain that is due to messengers being caught and executed. More confusing still, the daily post is operational, with no mention of the rapacious Dutch. Indeed, during my stay at the Lion's Nightcap, I have received two letters, each more worrisome than the last.

The first:

Hon. Sean Fagan –

It has come to our attention that the balance of your ledger has been dramatically threatened due to the events of July 4th. The explosions that took place upon that day have been flagged by our office as ‘suspicious’ and it is of the utmost importance that you contact us regarding the events of that day.

                                                                                                                       Lloyd Insurance
                                                                                                                       Tower Street
                                                                                                                       London

This news was enough to throw me into hysterics, but it was soon followed by an even more sinister missive.

Villain!
I knowest what thou has done. Expect a just Christian Retribution for your actions. He Will be recovered, with or without your willing endeavors.

                                                                                                                        Your Deadliest Enemy.

                                                                                                                                EJT

I now stare at a life without silk cuffs and the possibility of another knock on the head. It is past time to return to London.

Posted by Sean on July 8, 1677

Samuel Pepys and his pack of lies

Samuel Pepys is an overfed, rapacious brigand who enjoys spreading pernicious lies.

But perhaps I should retrace my thoughts, as they have become less than cogent.

Samuel Pepys is an ill-informed git.

And in this last sentence the story can be told. Having no word of Patrick, and fearing the worst, Jack and I proceeded to what any reasonable man would do in confronted with the possible loss of a dear friend.

We decided to cut our losses.

It is of the utmost importance, to both mine and Jack’s fortunes that the India venture be of the greatest success. Thus, we journeyed to Chatham to inspect some of Jack’s woebegone rum runners in the hopes of securing another crew and captain. It was of course on the day of inspection that the Dutch decided to launch their improbably effective sortie. Blame for the disaster has been placed in many quarters, but for my money it lies squarely on the shoulders of Prince Rupert of the Rhine. The man is obviously a pederast.

Prince Rupert has managed to lose every battle he has been in. He also possesses tiny piglike eyes.

Not only did the Dutch attack, but the tulip lovers decided that simply ransacking the Royal Navy wasn’t enough, they needed to burn ships in order to count it as “thorough job.” Confronted with the pyre of our fortunes at sea, and a mob scene on land, I made the desperate attempt to rally Jack and a few wayward sailors to beat the invaders off the few ships that remained. Jack, ever the hero, succinct reply was to “bugger that” and he dashed off into town, with a speed that can be considered quite amazing considering his gout.

Pepys, to whom this post owes its ire had this to say about a similar assault: “I did hear many Englishmen aboard the Dutch ships speaking to one another in English, and that they did cry and say: We did heretofore fight for tickets; now we fight for dollars! And did ask how such and such a one did, and would commend themselves to them: which is a sad consideration" Not only does Pepsy prose lack precision, but he is horribly misinformed. The only Englishman that I saw scampering off in Chatham that day was Jack, and I hardly think him representative of the breed.

Posted by Sean on July 4, 1677

Update

Current Mood: Anxious
Listening to: ‘Rise up! Rise up! The Pope!’ by S. Fagan

I neglected to mention in my previous post that we have yet to hear from Patrick. Following our release, Jack and I were welcomed home with a letter dated to the day of our incarceration that was filled with such a degree of invective that Jack blushed and threw it to the ground. I have no great grasp of ships and their workings but I hope to receive a letter shortly that summarizes the expedition thus far.

Posted by Sean on June 14 1677

At a loss

The Absence of Patrick has made the fellowship between Jack and I….trying…to say the least. Like proper gentlemen, we still get on after a few (say six to seven) drinks but I was surprised to find that Patrick was a salve on a relationship that at the best of times can be described as fractious. A few examples of how Patrick kept the peace between his more volatile friends. A. Jack and I once hired a woman with no arms to work at the Crimson Unicorn. We let Patrick know that we had purchased him a “special treat” and sent him on his way. To his credit, he said the experience was quite interesting from a “scientific perspective.” B. He also remained in good spirits after Jack and I broke into his specimen room and filled his bathwater with the leeches he had so tenderly raised. C. Best of all is the time that all three of us took a daytrip to the local menagerie to see the exotic creatures brought from overseas. Now Apes seem to have a natural aversion to Patrick, much like the relationship between dogs and cats. Jack and undid the lock to the cage of one of the larger brutes, and then invited Patrick to take a closer look and perhaps explain what was remarkable about the beast. Truly, for the next few moments, when the beast had Patrick clasped between its paws, brought Jack and I pleasure that I fear we will be bereft of for the totality of the summer.

Posted by Sean on September 30, 1676

The King of London's Vermin

I made two very solemn promises to myself a little over a year ago.

1) I would never set foot upon a boat again.
2) I would avoid the gaol.

Unfortunately, I was only able to hold to one of these promises.

As with most events that lay beyond my power of influence, the blame lies solely with Jack. Resolute in his attempt to break the first of my vows, Jack took me to the Griffin shortly before our departure. Despite deep protestations that it would not do to appear drunk and dissolute the next morning, Jack proceeded in pouring a liberal amount of ale down his gullet and proceeded to make two statements.

1) That the sailors aboard our ship could use a bit of that “papish organization” by which I understood him to be calling the Holy Father a stern and cruel taskmaster.
2) That we might set ourselves up as Kings of India, as the savages had not ever seen an individual of Jack’s brilliance and breeding.

The problem with these two statements is that Jack mentioned the “Pope” and quickly followed by breathing the word “King.” Some fellows next to us immediately made the drunken connection of one word to the other and by the next morning I found myself sleeping amongst the largest and most resolute of London’s rats. 

Posted by Sean on June 13, 1677

Spacious Greenery

Several hours have passed and I have managed to escape London. Hopefully, I will not find the Unicorn burnt to the ground upon my return. I wrote before of sentimentality (or bile as most know it) and wished to conclude my thoughts as I now find myself in more agreeable circumstance, situated as I am in a country tavern (the Saracen’s Head) with a pipe in one hand and an ale in the other.

Englishmen may be a boorish and uncouth race of men, but if they share one thing in common with the Irish, it is their love of the countryside. While my country has no rival in its splendor, it can be said that English have made have done their utmost to preserve their own negligible beauty.

If London will have faded from memory in 500 years time (which I believe it will) what will be remembered of England and its past grandeur will be its countryside which by any intelligent reckoning shall remain unchanged. What should and will change will be people’s access to this beauty, as one cannot ramble more than five feet into a field without someone chasing you off the grounds, pike in hand. By the King’s blessing, his grounds will someday be open for all to enjoy and hunt and make merry as they will. A man will be able to look upon at Great Houses and enter a Wondrous Church without fear for his head…

But perhaps I am too much in my cups. I know these things cannot happen – once again the bile has its grip upon my being.

Posted by Sean on April 27, 1677

Wandering the Dark Streets of London

I awoke this morning having with my humors in a most depressing state. Mostly consisting of black bile, I found myself longing for a trip away from the city, to environs that would help me find a proper balance.

Sentimentality, the most grievous result of bile, had me turn Ajax towards the countryside. Years ago, one could escape the city at a fast gallop in a matter of minutes. Now, I find London sprawling before me, endless and unyielding. Since the Fire, buildings have sprouted up at every angle, with no rhyme nor reason, the exception being Wren’s plan to subjugate all Catholics in the City with the building of his monstrous Cathedral.

It has been whispered that there were better plans for London. More refined company has spoken of wide avenues and graceful laid out in an orderly and agreeable fashion. They speak enviously of Paris, whose beauty surpasses all other cities of the civilized world.  If London is to be remembered in 500 years, it would do well to learn the lessons of its cousin. Every step one takes in that city is a reminder of its past and present magnificence, and that reminder brings with it a calming balm to its citizenry who sleep contentedly in the knowledge that their ideas and dreams are reflected around them.

London, however, remains what it is. While my erstwhile friends might refer to me as a uncouth Irishman who knowledge of cities and their workings could be written on the head of pin, I think if they were to be true to themselves they would admit that their City was little more than a pompous ruffian playing dress up – worse yet – one who is willfully ignoring the chance to better himself.

Posted by Sean on April 27, 1677

Annoyance

Patrick has taken to calling the Crimson Unicorn the “Uni.”

As in “Sean, let us proceedeth hence to the Uni.”

Or, “Sean, what fair maidens might greet me tonight at the Uni?”

I despise this.

Posted by Sean on April 22, 1677

Silence and other thoughts

It seems the days pass much faster than they ought. It took nearly two days to discover Patrick behind the bookshelf, mewling like a broken kitten. The heathen, having his choice of literature to keep him company, forsook the Holy Book and instead was found perusing a stack of racy pamphlets that Jack had picked up from the docks.

Of the “debacle” I should not say much more than I find these customs both impudent and ridiculous. Having bled my country til nothing was left but her bones, these officials seem intent on assaulting their own citizenry.

I find myself in a malaise. Wealth has not brought with it contentment, and I find myself spending more time poring over papers and receipts than visiting the bawdy house. I begin to understand Jack’s nature more by the day.

Posted by Sean on April 22, 1677

We're Going to Need A Bigger Boat

If any man were to tell me that I was to spend my first few days of being wealthy crawling about the dirty pubs of Shelmerston in search of a boat and its requisite captain I would have called him a fool and sent him on his way.

Yet, I found myself once again embroiled again in the intrigues of others as Patrick insisted there was not a moment to lose and that “fortune rides upon the tide.”

This statement sounds much more impressive when the cock crows at the Crimson Unicorn, and after one has drunk the requisite amount of ale.

So anxious was Patrick to embark that he hurled himself out the doors of the bawdy house and started staggering in the general direction of north. Thankfully, I managed to persuade Patrick that our first purchase should be mounts, lest he planned to make the trip by foot. So we set off this morning, I on the back of my new mount Ajax (for Buchephalus is too noble for such tasks) and Patrick on the back of his dapple grey mare Marigold and a pleasant trip it would have been too if not for Patrick’s insistent complaints to “make haste” and “bear forward.”

Haste making proved itself more or less a minor point when we began to interview our prospective candidates. By late afternoon we had had our choice of three lechers and one man painfully afflicted with the gout. It was then that Patrick produced for me our final prospect, a derelict Spaniard who had obviously washed up during the last war. His ears had both been badly mangled by musket shot and his rakish demeanor would make Jack blush in shame. Patrick, however, was insistent that this “was Our Man” and so I know find myself the employer of one Gustavo Araoz and his good (hah!) ship the Mariposa.

When I return to London I plan to put this all behind me by anointing myself in Silk. Let Patrick explain the situation to Jack, as from what I understand he hates Spaniards as they were somehow involved with the unfortunate end of his second wife.

Posted by Sean on February 27, 1677

Midas' Touch

There is a creature in Ireland that I was taught to fear more than any other, and to cross its path was to encounter a mortal dread greater than if one had spat on the Pope himself. That creature is the Banshee and its inhuman wail could be heard many a night when I was just a wee bairn, snug and safe in my bed with my five brothers knowing that another man had passed on.

Such was the sound Jack made when he learned that it was I who was to sell the papers to the Dutchman.

If only Jack were as lovely

Luckily, I was in civilized company or I expect that Jack would have thrown himself bodily across the table and wrapped his fingers around my throat. Nevertheless, after his initial outburst he regained his composure and spent most of the meeting glowering at me with hate in his eyes.

Surprisingly, Patrick was in attendance as well, hoping to attract visitors for his mission to the Orient. I felt bad for the man as I had entered the room during the apex of his speech during which he was loudly denouncing the rumor of “fearsome monkeys” bringing his last venture to disaster.

When all attention had turned to me, I soon learned that I was in trouble. The Dutchman, or Hans Broekman as he preferred to be called, was a fierce negotiator and as discussions progressed I had the sinking feeling that I was about to be fleeced.  In fear for my fortune that was rapidly disappearing before my eyes I called a quick break to get some air and escape the black-toothed Broekman.

I then proceeded to do something that I hope I never have to do again in my life. I asked Jack for help.

Jack was no fool and quickly took the lead in negotiation. I had to part with twenty percent of my earnings to him and make a strict promise that he be allowed to handle any future investments with my windfall. It was a hard bargain, but one much better than what the insufferable Dutchman proposed.

The long and short of it is that I am now a disgustingly wealthy man. And while Jack may have some say in my future endeavors, there is nothing he can say to my taking Patrick to the Crimson Unicorn tonight and celebrating until daylight tomorrow morning.

Posted by Sean on February 22, 1677

Love's Labours (Found)

It has not started out as the most illustrious of days. Normally, the totality of my ambition involves raiding Jack’s larder and possibly sneaking off with Beth to the linen closet. Today I woke up and not only was the cupboard bare, but Beth was nowhere to be found.

Now I am not a man who puts much stock in the theory that a woman is needed to refine a man’s baser nature. Jack has had two wives and he is still a miserable old sot who is better fit to spend his days counting his coppers than wooing a maiden.

But I found myself with this strange pain in my stomach whenever I thought of Beth, and rather than ascribe it to any sort of affection, I decided it must come from lack of bacon.

I set out to the Griffin for my midday meal only to be shocked by a truly appalling sight. It seems that everyone in the entire town of London had decided to couple, and I could nary walk five feet without bouncing into a giggling couple or some young gentleman clearing the path of beggars for his lady. I caught a right cudgel in the head from one of these louts.  The pain in my stomach got worse.

The obvious solution was not bacon, but a trip to the Crimson Unicorn. Upon arriving I was not shocked to find both Patrick and Jack deep in conversation over a presentation by one of Patrick’s witch doctor friends. It appeared that not only were all the women of the Crimson Unicorn formally occupied, but that I would have to spend my night drinking in a brothel with two of the greatest cynics in all London.

I confess the pain has become unbearable.

Posted by Sean on February 14, 1677

Revelation

In preparation for my meeting with the “Dutchman” I have done a fair amount of research into the particulars of their race in order to gain some advantage. An informal survey of the opinions of several tavern goers has lead to some startling conclusions as listed below.

The Dutch are Deceitful

During our time at war with these nefarious people, the Dutch have consistently claimed victory even after English forces have thoroughly thrashed them. In the 4 Days Battle of last summer, English forces suffered losses at two times the rate of their Dutch counterparts. However, the Dutch retreated first which meant England won. There are simple rules to follow in warfare, if you back up, you have lost. One can’t claim victory by jumping about and stating that one killed more people.

The Dutch are Grasping

The Nutmeg Islands are an English possession. We were there first, therefore it is ours. That the Dutch have come and usurped our territory demonstrates that their need to expand will never be sated. It is doubtful that they even know what to do with nutmeg.

The Dutch are Stupid

They have built their empire on land that continually floods. Such lack of foresight only underscores how stupid the Dutch truly are.

Hopefully, this knowledge will come in useful this week.

Posted by Sean on February 13, 1677

Sigh

It has taken a while, but I have finally found someone to fence my papers for me. I have been put in contact with the “Dutchman” who should be able to give me fair trade on these papers, which should be considerable if one can take into account the number of attempts upon my life.

Jack, in his persistent fear of his mother-in-law's wrath, has gone as far as to ask me to sleep in the stables. Now normally this would bother me in the slightest, as Buchephalus has quite proven to be quite accommodating in the past, but I do draw the line at being evicted on the simple grounds of being “a ruddy papist.”

Of Patrick, neither Jack nor I have seen hide or hair. It is to my understanding that Jack squashed his colonial ambitions and Patrick went skulking into the night. Now, on top of having to sleep in the stable, I have to listen to Jack complain about monkeys or tea and sometimes tea and monkeys. It tends to blend together. But the meeting with the Dutchman takes place next week and I am convinced that with it concluded I will receive my just reward and Bucephalus and I can take our business elsewhere.

Posted by Sean on February 1, 1677

Good Christ!

I have the papers! Well, I think I have the papers...I can't make out a word of this foreign nonsense. I shall consult Clonfert immediatley.

Posted by Sean on January 8, 1677

Patrick's Ill Tidings

It is indeed a suspicious occasion when Patrick offers to buy the ale. It is even more suspicious when he forgoes sipping upon Madeira so that he can “drink ale with his mate.” Mate of mine he may be, but I trusted his actions no farther than I could toss his spindly body.

After a few pints the story finally came out. It turns out that my many close calls with the bony finger of death were not from any curse or wrath of God, but instead were the result of Patrick’s own cowardly action. I had half a mind to beat him with my barstool but a leopard cannot change his spots as the sailors say and it would be silly of me to expect bravery from a man whose length is greater than his breadth.

It turns out that my mystery assailant was Nigel Clonfert, a nasty bit of work that plied his trade at the Griffin selling what had “fallen off the backs of wagons.”  Men such as Clonfert need dealing with quickly, lest they think they have you at their mercy. Thus named, I approached Clonfert at the Griffin and after a brief conference which transpired with the point of my dirk at his back I learned what all the fuss had been about.

To wit: When Patrick attempted to sell him papers, Patrick had none. Patrick then blabbed that I was meeting Mr. Gray. Mr. Gray did not have the papers, so by means of subtraction I must be in possession of them.

I explained to Clonfert that his notions were both ridiculous and insulting. I would not be living in Jack Shepherd’s closet if such a treasure was in my possession. Moreover, would I not have come to Clonfert himself to help me sell such an item? Clonfert soon came round to my way of thinking and being an obliging sort offered to buy me a round. I confess that one round became many and the morning found Clonfert and I arm in arm toasting the dawn.

Posted by Sean on January 8, 1677

New Year's Resolutions

It has been many a week since I have last written. After many assault upon my person I have grown loathe to venture out into the wide world of London. However, a New Year brings with it new hope that I will survive it without further physical or mental wounds. Jack has hired a new maid who has done much to balm my fevered brow. Furthermore, New Year’s itself was quite delightful as Patrick presented his momentous occurrences of the past year. Both pressured me into creating my own list, but I demurred as it is not part of my character to demonstrate such showmanship. Instead, I have come up with several resolutions for the New Year which I hope that all may follow in the hopes of preserving both health and wealth.

Resolution 1 – Take up Smoking

This is a new activity that has taken London by storm. All young gentleman of worth have taken to smoking the weed from the Colonies and it is my hope that I too will be lighting my pipe with this most fragrant form of diversion.

Resolution 2 – Avoid Strenuous Activity

A gentleman never exerts himself and I have had enough physical activity to last me ten years.

Resolution 3 – Eat More Meat

As my diet consists of mainly black bread and the vegetables from Jack’s garden I desperately need to incorporate more meat into my diet. I have already started the New Year right by helping myself to a third serving of bacon at Jack’s table.

Resolution 4 – More Trips to the Crimson Unicorn

If only to see the look upon Patrick’s face which is much akin to a child opening his Christmas cracker.

Resolution 5 – Beat Samuel Pepys about the head and shoulders

I have heard mention that Pepys has made several pointed remarks about our activities. I have never met the man, but Jack assures me that he is of the most repulsive character as he frequently discusses his bowel movements. Such talk is clearly unchristian and I am resolute in having a private discussion with Pepys about what is proper and what is not.

My best to all is this New Year and many thanks for both your time and attention. I hope this greeting finds you in both good health and free of the juju.

Posted by Sean on January 2, 1677

An ill wind blows

I have never felt so vexed and weary. I believe that an ill omen has fallen upon as but for the Grace of God I should have been dead three times over. But perhaps to merely state that I am cursed is not enough and it would be better to give example to illustrate my current state.

Friday Morning on the way to the Griffin – A large chunk of masonry landed not inches from my person. Large enough to fell a man, I was lucky to have stopped and admired the new acquisitions at the Crimson Unicorn, who had just recently shipped in from Wales.

Friday Evening on the way back from the Griffin – Four large barrels went tumbling across my path, nearly smashing me flat. I looked about for the barrel maker to give him a good thrashing, but there was not a soul near the shop.

Saturday Morning on the way to the Griffin – A wild pack of dogs chased me nearly a mile to the door of the pub. At least I thought they were wild but at least two of the brutes appeared to have collars. I could not check closely as my efforts were dedicated towards flight.

Saturday Evening on the way back from the Griffin – A shadowy figure followed me to the little one’s property. Even after several direction changes the figure continued its pursuit and I again found myself again running nearly a mile until I felt safe within the confines of the little one’s house.

Sunday I spent upon the grounds. I fear I shall not set foot outside until the curse is lifted. It was also the Sabbath.

Now of course my initial suspicions lead me straight to Pat. He is wont to use his JuJu to his own gains, and is not averse to tricking the little one with simple feats of magic. However, he was in such high spirits after his visit to the Crimson Unicorn that I doubt he would bear any ill will towards my person. I have resolved to consult him about this curse and employ any methods he may see fit for removing it. I know I have sunk low to be conspiring with a master of the dark arts, but no amount of prayer has thus far proved worthwhile.

Posted by Sean on November 13, 1676

A four-legged tipple

Let it not be said that I am not a charitable man, nor am I want to look askance when charity is given unto me. The Good Lord has provided me with the little one, whose food and lodging I take great advantage of while also providing me with a Great Project in the form of the ugly one.

Despite all his dark magicks, Patrick, as the ugly one is called can conjure no witchcraft when it comes to women. Despite being able to ensorcerele the little one, I have seem him make a great fool of himself around the fairer sex, flapping his arms like a bird and gasping at them in a most ungentlemanly fashion. To escape his attentions they haven even taken to depositing their dinner upon his head, which is amusing to many a bystander excepting those in his company.

Patrick sought me out the other day in an obvious attempt to escape the confines of the mansion. The little one has taken to his study as of late to count his coppers, which has slowed down the rate of my pilfering to unacceptable levels. Instead, I have found myself whiling away my days by getting copiously drunk in the company of the little one’s horse, Bucephalas, who holds his ale admirably well. It amuses me greatly to watch the little one attempt to mount his horse, only to have it crumple beneath him to the accompaniment of his screams and curses.

Patrick danced around the issue for a bit but it soon became apparent that he would like to frequent one of the many brothels that the little one and I knew of in the city. I felt sorry for the man, as it was likely that any prostitute worth her salt would have his throat slit and his purse cut within moments of any business transaction being completed. Being a good Christian, I offered to ferry him to his destination as it had been a few days since my last visit. Patrick, in his gratitude, offered to take me to his Physick as he unnecessarily cautioned me to the ramifications of consorting with whores.  I agreed, in part because my tooth hurt, and also because I wanted to see what another magician looked like.

It turned out that other magicians are just as strange as Patrick, though perhaps not as threadbare or pedantic. Instead of looking at my tooth, the Physick insisted upon measuring my head and asking me questions about my lineage. Most insultingly, he inquired as to whether my family had ever had relations with the remnants of the Armada. Fit to be tied, I stormed out of the office only to come upon Patrick, who once again had managed to have a meal tossed at his person. I grabbed him by the shoulder and resolutely pushed him through the door of the Crimson Unicorn where perhaps a little consorting might better his mood.

Posted by Sean on November 9, 1676

Bounder, pay up!

It is common etiquette while conducting business in a pub for the seller to match the buyer drink for drink. Every man in Christendom knows this fact and it is not an uncommon event to find a man in his cups slumped over a table signing his name to this document or that. After all, the Royal Navy has to be preserved some way. Instead, I found myself four cups in with the odious Mr. Gray swishing his first glass of port (port!) around his teeth and making tut-tut noises in my direction. I attempted to remain calm and give the full weight of my attention to his interminable jabber.

The little one had pledged me to arrive at the Griffin, meet with the aforementioned Mr. Gray, and make such a spectacle of myself that Gray would refuse to sell me whatever it was the little one wanted all to his own person. I was told to be “exceedingly Irish” and talk in a ridiculous brogue and exclaim such nonsense as “faith and begorrah” and “as the Virgin as my witness.” Needless to say, the little one’s grasp on what a real Irishman was left something to be desired. I was all set to proceed with my own plan, which was to obtain the documents through simple intellectual discourse, but Mr. Gray took his time in getting to his point. Instead, I had to hear about profit this and earning that and how many ships it would take to bring back 600 monkeys from the Indies. It was so dreary that I resorted to stabbing myself in the leg with my knife to stay awake and downing another pint every time Gray mentioned “low interest.”

I must remark that what happened next I am not proud of in the slightest. We came to the end the meeting and Gray seemed more and more discomfited by the moment. It seems that he expected to for me to pay for my own drink as he had only had the one. Well, the very idea is shocking. Over business, the seller always purchases the buyer’s drinks. At the whorehouse, drinks are on the house as they know you’ll be paying for other services later on. I was so shocked at that man’s usury that I rose from my seat and clubbed him about the head. He fell like a sack of flour. Luckily for me, his purse came undone upon his fall and being a wise man, I helped myself to his coppers and some scraps of paper contained therein. His bent coppers were just enough to pay for my drinks at the Griffin, and another drink down at the Laughing Moor. I left Gray groaning on the floor, it would be up to the constabulary to determine how he would have to pay for his glass of port.

The papers I kept on my person. They look fairly useless (I have posted one above), but as the little one is parsimonious in giving out tinder for the fire in my room, I might sleep warmly for the first time in a month.

Posted by Sean on November 4, 1676

Of the JuJu and the Tiny soul

The tiny one summoned us to dinner. I thought it was to be an unremarkable affair, but events soon took a turn for the worse. A meager repast was laid out for us, as far as I could tell I would have to take my sustenance from the bountiful amount of wine that had been laid out before us. Now I am no fool, as it was obvious to me that the tiny one expected to have me in my cups and then agree to his foolish scheme. Obviously, he has not learned the lesson that you cannot out drink a man from the Isle of Eire no matter how much alcohol you surreptitiously pour behind your back.

    I was about to take my leave of him when I noticed that the ugly one was muttering and rubbing his thrice accursed bone. It was at this moment that the tiny one took to moaning and thrashing about on the ground. I can sense witchcraft and I know a warlock when I see one, and the ugly one meets all standard descriptions. Despite my dislike for the tiny one I had to take into consideration the fact that he had fed me for nigh on a month and it was in my best interests to keep that situation up to snuff. After all, I rather not have to bed down near a warlock. Ignoring the tiny one’s piteous mewling I told the ugly one to quit forthwith with the juju lest I remove the bone from his neck and place it in parts he rather not have objects lodging. He came out of his magical stupor long enough to give me a nasty look (I pray God it was not the evil eye) and ran out of the room, no doubt to make amends with his Dark Gods on his failure to produce another Christian soul.

    This seemed to perk the tiny one up to no end, so much so that he lavished me with praise and attempted to embrace me as a brother. I know he is no God Fearing man, but I gently kept him at arms length and told him that it might behoove him to attend the Sabbath that week as some dark spirit could still be lurking near him. The depressing part of all of this is that in my efforts to escape his praise I agreed to his plan. A stupid Irishman he needs and a stupid Irishman I am not, but I should have finished my collection of his worldly goods in enough time to escape out the kitchen without notice.

I pray he does not set the dogs on me.

Posted by Sean on October 26, 1676

Pretty silver things

I have been remiss in noting my travails. However, I have good reason for my sloth. Well, actually two reasons, which could be best described as the tiny one and the ugly one.

It has been quite a number of days since I have come to the house of the tiny one. At first, I thought I might receive some gainful employment cleaning the privies and much the stables. Unfortunately, this was not to be the case. Instead, the tiny one proposed a plan to relieve a man of his worldly riches. Now how this plan would be to my benefit, he did not elaborate. He merely stated that the job necessitated my unique skills and that it would be for the best if I was to follow along in the endeavor.

Several days passed and I had not given my answer. The tiny one grows more and more perturbed by the hour. At first I thought it was because I was helping myself to his victuals which are supplied in paucity. I normally have to cuff the butler a few times to bring me another round of rashers. But I think the tiny one is more annoyed that I am not held in his thrall like the ugly one. He has taken to muttering such words as dirty papist and filthy Mick when I pass, which much aggrieves me. Of course, being tiny, he is not wont to confront me directly, but instead hops up and down, spittle flying and demands that I obey his requests.

Of the ugly one there is not much to say except that I would not trust him near animal nor small child. He consistently clutches a bone that he received in some twisted pagan ritual in the East Indies. I would go as far as to say that he worships some dark god, but am afraid to confront him lest he put the juju on me. If things don’t improve quickly I will have to take my leave. That would be unfortunate as I have only managed to collect half the tiny one’s silver dining set. There is a soup tureen I have my heart set on.

Posted by Sean on October 22, 1676

Eggs and Bacon

I awoke this morning in the grandest room I have ever had the pleasure to lay in. Now, I’m a simple man and I’m most used to sleeping in the stables. After all, animals can’t rob you blind when you’re in your cups and you can’t see more then a candle’s flame ahead.

Anyways, the room, as I mentioned was grand. Covered from top to bottom in ivory and all matter of fine trappings and my bed covers were made of material that I hope they bury me in. There was a bowl for washing my face (still covered in my life’s blood) and I nice receptacle to relieve the pressures of the previous night.

Of course, despite being surrounded by all this finery, I still get an exact account of my bearings. The last thing I remembered from last night was the behemoth and his companions buffeting me about the head and shoulders. (I do hope Maureen did not witness my disgrace, I might have to hang myself.) As I was still wearing my clothes and my wounds had gone unattended, I had obviously not been rescued by a local doctor looking to shake me a few shillings for his services. I though the best possible recourse was to find the nearest window and take my chances with a mad dash away from the situation I now found myself in.

Then I smelt bacon. Now many things might make a man run, but bacon is not one of them. I followed my nose from down one winding corridor after another till I was presented with the sight of piles of rashers and eggs all heaped on a large wooden table. Being a sensible man I tucked in and made sure to pour myself a large mug of coffee, a beverage with which I only had an infrequent acquaintance.

It was about this time that a very ominous gentleman, dressed to the nines entered the kitchen. “I see sir, that you are enjoying the fruits of my labors.” I being a polite man and a christian thanked him for his help the previous evening and for taking me in as his guest.

“Guest, the great beast scoffed, my boy I have plans to employ you.”

I kindly informed him that I had a job and that though his kindness was appreciated, I had no need of his charity.

“But my lad, I have great plans for you. I think that with my brain and your redoubtable might that we can achieve great things.”

He then relayed to me a plan which deserves its own missive. Suffice to say, he was a madman, but a madman who stood to become very rich if all parties to be involved did their parts properly. It was to involve him, myself, and a friend of longtime acquaintance who entered to break fast at not only a most unreasonable hour (it was at least 3 hours after the cock crowed) but smelled of oils and had all manner of trinkets dangling from his person.

Needless to say, I was not impressed.

Posted by Sean on October 15, 1676             

A milling over drinks

I really hate being hit. Have I mentioned this before dear readers? The feeling of fist against jaw. Sinewy conflict. None of this I find enjoyable.

But perhaps I should explain. It, shudder to think, wasn’t any fault of my own. Afterall, that brigand was making advances on Maureen, who while hardened by her time at the Griffin, was not ready for the behavior of such a degenerate lout. Now, some will that that I, Sean Fagan, started the unseemly row. However, after a few rounds of ale, gentleman will be liable to say anything. This brigand had been casting untoward eyes upon Maureen all evening and I could not let that stand. I kindly asked the gentleman to stop pestering Maureen, which resulted in him making several unflattering comments about my profession and followed with several remarks as to his plans for Maureen.

I, being an honorable man, and a gentleman by nature, gave him a rap upon the nose. The great beast then set upon me with the aid of at least three of his companions, all holding very articles of furniture. Thankfully, several law abiding citizens managed to pull the brutes off me before any permanent harm could be done. Needless to say dear readers, I was a sight. Those of a more delicate constitution might fall prey to an episode if they had to look upon my grim visage, coveredin my own humors.

I fully intended to send the ruffians on their way with a few more sharp clouts, but my noble frame was unable to continue after such an assault. I attempted to explain my situation to the local constabulary, who had arrived in record time to seize the culprits responsible for the ruckus. Through some misunderstanding, they placed the blame squarely upon my own burly shoulders and threatened to make my life exceedingly difficult for the foreseeable future.

Praise be that two gentlemen who had the misfortune of watching the conflict had taken a shine to my prowess in the art of pugilism and after a quick exchange of words (and I might add quite a few shillings) I was released into their protection. The larger of the two men suggested that I stay at his residence for the evening as he had a proposition that would balm the wounds of the evening. With great trepidation, and a last look at Maureen, I flung myself into the man’s coach, and set off into the bleak London night.

Posted by Sean on October 14, 1676