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Registration date : 2007-09-10
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|Subject: The Lost Commodore Mon Mar 24, 2008 10:00 am|| |
Bishop Aidan sits quietly at his favorite corner table, ask Willem to fix him his favorite libation and opens the missive that just arrived. The messenger said it had come a long way from the interior of the mainland and that the journey had been long a hazardous.
He opens the letter and begins reading...
March 5th, 1720
The Right Reverend Bishop Aidan McDermott,
Father Aidan, I pen this missive from high in the Sierra Madre Mountains, closer to the Pacific coast than the Burning Sea. We are currently a very long way due west of Márida on the Yucatan peninsula and only about 45 miles due east of the Spanish stronghold of Guadalajara. We have just set up camp close by a native village known by the local inhabitants as Axixic (or as more modern sojourners are wont to spell it, Ajijic). It sits approximately 5,000 feet above sea level on the shores of a great lake called Chipala by the native Mayan Indians. They seem a peaceful people who have been entirely pacified by the Spanish.
As ye know I agreed to provide military support to a group of prospectors looking for gold. I did so with the expectation of an equal share of the proceeds but alas, we have yet found little save harassment for our efforts on every side. Hope springs eternal as the saying goes and we are told there be gold aplenty to be found in the mountains to the north. We plan on prospecting this area for a week or more before heading to Guadalajara for provisions back to the Carab.
I can honestly tell ye good Father this venture has been on the edge of disaster since its inception. We have lost a third of our party to skirmishes and another third to dreadful diseases, the causes of which I can only imagine. I myself suffer recurring bouts of fever and chills from some unknown ague. It is only by the grace of our Savior Jesus Christos that I survive thus far.
If all goes well, I shall be back to the Albatross sharing a drink and telling me stories by late March/early April. I covet your prayers good Father for my journey back to the Highland Confederacy will be hazardous. Keep a weather eye out for me.
Good Father, I ask ye to present my affections and respects in my behalf to Captains D’Alembert and Bontecou as well as all the officers and members of our confederacy. I belong on the deck of a ship and not dragging me feet through sands of some forsaken high desert.
Finally, dear Bishop Aidan, pray for my safe journey,
Your humble supplicant,
Captain Jack McBain
The Highland Confederacy
As Aidan finishes reading and sets the letter down, a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
"It seems our lost sheep has been busy, but I would expect no less of ol' Jack. Though I have no doubt his sword arm will keep him safe enough, I pray St. Brendan bring our favored son back to us whole..."