Archive for the 'Treasure' Category

Return of the Sea Battle

Avast!

A month ’tis a long time to be abroad upon the waves but shore hoves into view just in time to hear news to give an old buccaneer great heart. And it is a welcome lift, for a heavy gloom has fallen upon the crew and upon their Captain most of all.

Our long voyage was intended to secure a goodly portion of our treasure stash by digging up and then reburying the many, many stout teak chests within which they had been hid.

As any Pirate knows, a treasure chest, well buried with a map on cured goat’s skin is key to the safe keeping of hard-earned booty and plunder. So it was with cries of rage and  misery that we found the whole archipelago of palm fronded islands upon which we had buried our chests had sunk without trace- erased by the rising tide. Curse you Lubbers, and your warming of the Waves!

So it is with pleasure that we return to find that another tide has turned. Tis many’s the year since Ireland has seen a good Sea Battle. Foul weather and fell fortune kept many’s the would-be sea invader from Ireland’s shores.

Protected by the Lubber’s greatest weapon against Piracy, the Royal Navy, sea dogs have had ne’re a part to play in the history of the nation.

Until now, Ireland has fought its battles between various splinters of Lubberism. But from today the Briney Deep is a battle ground again. Lubberist Mining companies and fisherfolk (natural allies of the Pirate classes) have stood fast against each other until one blinked.

Tho tis clear that this is only one battle of a war which may become the catalyst for a fuller Pirate/Lubber revolution. History can only go one way.

Yo Ho Ho!

Who Dares to Speak of ’68?

Captain Morgan
Yarr!

In dark days such as this for the cause of Piracy and when the inevitable end of history in an all-Pirate society seems far away it is important to remember the great events of ’68. For a heady few months it seemed as though all the world was turning pirate- as though the end of history might come not with a whisper, but with a shouted sea-shanty of triumph!

For our younger readers, for whom those days are just tales told in hushed tones by their elders, it may be hard to believe how significant the events of 1668 seemed at the time.

Henry Morgan, one of the most famous priveteers of his day had set sail in command of a ship under the banner of an old sea salt by the name of Edward Mansfield. The were bound for the Carribean islands, then in the hands of the Spanish.

When the Spanish, a cruel and Popish race, had Manfield killed it was Henry Morgan who was chosen by the bucaneers as the new admiral. So successful was he in this post that he was sent by the Governor of Jamaica (an island then, as now, appreciative of the enterprise of Free Traders and makers of finest Pirate Rum) to take the town of Portobello on the coast of Panama.

Panama is a moist, unseemly country mostly known for the fine collection of malarial-based deaths which it offers. Nonetheless the ill-named town of Portobello was home to a fleet of ships scheming an attack on Jamaica. In the fateful year of 1668 Capt. Morgan sailed into Portobello and sacked the town.

Oh, glorious day that could see such sights in’t! Children left orphaned, woman huddled in the streets while their Landlubber menfolk were put to the sword. The streets ran wet with blood and rum as Captain Morgan and his Pirate fleet showed Panama and the world what a true Pirate victory over Landlubbers will look like.

Those who might argue that the great and self-evident benefits of a Pirate society could be achieved without the slaughter-housing of the innocent need only look at the events of ’68 to be shown up as the desultory incrementalists that they are.

Captain Morgan had no such doubts.
By ’71 his powers had grown further, and he fell upon Panama city itself, killing every soul within and making off with a hundred thousand-pound of booty (presumably in serried rows of stout teak chests).

Alas, this is where we Pirates who look to the inspiration of the events of ’68 and after must learn the lesson that the Landlubber powers will always seek to stab a true Pirate Captain in the back and push him off the end of a thin plank into Davy Jones’ Locker. The English, who had first paid for Captain Morgan to help them rid Jamacia of its dangerous Popish neighbors, became squeamish at the total victories he had won. It seems there were some Treaties which forbade the gutting and burning of innocent women and children.

The Captain escaped, as he argued that as a Pirate he knew naught of such Landlubber rules as this and returned to Jamaica, eventually becoming its Governor and ruling as a kind of Pirate King.

Despite this, he was never the same for his ordeal of being clapped in irons and shipped to the Court of the Landlubber English (a race which is well known for their droning tones and hatred of peg legs).

So the dreams of ’68 live on only in the hearts of Pirates today. But I think you’ll agree that they have much to teach us, or not teach us depending on how we read them. Certainly I wouldn’t dream of coming down either way, preferring long, rambling and ultimately pointless retreadings of fact.

Avast!

The Lady and the Pirate

Yearr, Shipmates!

I tell ‘ee now a tale which cuts to the my very core. I trust you will treat a Salty Dog’s old heart gently as I spill, like the guts of a Navy Midshipman sliced open in a duel, the tale of the love I found and lost.

This tale be many a moon back, when my beard was pure red and my blade was shining clean. The crow’s nest had spied a schooner on the horizon and we had given chase under full sail. We soon caught them and put the crew to the sword. When we rolled our last body overboard, we found a cabin locked fo’ward. Blasting it open with my musket, I found a lady, dressed all in finery, with a thick worsted travelling cloak ‘pon her standing in the middle of the floor.

Well, we soon had her back aboards ship. We knew that with quality the likes of her, whoever she may be, we would make a fine haul of dubloons when ransomed.

Though she ne’re spoke a word, we learned from papers she carried that she was a messenger for a great Landlubber Lord. He’d sent her about his business, hiding behind her skirts. We put into port in Normandy, and sent word to his representative in the town (he had one in every harbour, making much of his gold in breeding the birds landlubbers use to send each other messages, instead of flying flags like good pirates) that we had his Lady.

A bird came back within the day. She held too many of his secrets for him to risk that his great rival, the Baron of Bein, might try to out-bid him for our ransom.

A pirate crew needs to know its Captain will bring it many’s the Piece of Eight. Also, though it pains me to say so, the crewmen I set to guard our treasure before she was swapped for the fine gold threatened to mutiny if they were forced to listen to her voice for more than an hour. For, though she said naught of consequence, saving her secrets, she could prattle on unaided for as long as she drew breath. But I cared not, being both smitten by her mysteries and also above decks, out of earshot of her noise.

So I sent her away, and we buried the Spanish Gold we got in return upon a Sun-drenched isle in a goodly chest of Teak.

Arrh, but it do bring a tear to me eye. Though my beard now be gray, and my cutlass will ne’er be so sharp again, I still make sure, when away from the scornful gaze of my rum-sodden scurvy crew, to seek out a copy of the Times o’ London to read her words. The many secrets she carried have ensured that she was owed much by the Landlubber Lords and Ladies. She sits now, ennobled as Lady Meath, Holder of the Order of Blue Cashmere, pronouncing upon the doin’s and transpirin’s of the Landlubbers.

And a Hoary Old Sea Dog sails upon the waves, a buccaneer with only one secret in his crusty heart.

Yo! Ho! Ho!

Pirates v Landlubbers; An analysis of class in Ireland

Arr, Me Hearties,

If I tell ‘ee that most chroniclers hold that the Republic be a landlubber economy, you will laugh the joyless, sardonic laugh of the true sea dog. They writes in the ledgers of their counting houses that the citizens is all landlubbers with a pirate rump that exists on the margins. But even with a patch over one eye, true pirates can see better than the landlubbers with their two good ‘uns that the past fifteen years have resulted in a mere pseudo expansion of the landlubber classes.

Aye, the landlubbers claim to ‘ave more treasure. But, mark it well shipmates, they would rather spend their dubloons and pieces of eight on fabergé eggs and the infernal pottery of Josiah Wedgewood than bury it on a sun-kissed Caribbean islet in a good teak chest, 15 paces from the skeleton of a dead shipmate, or fritter it away on rum and wenches in a Barbary tavern. And they calls this “the good times”!? Worst of all, armchair pirates and the landlubbing acolytes of Johnny Depp and the New Piracy have internalised this false analysis. They pander to the delusions of the ‘new landlubbers’ but forget that, in essence, nothing has changed.

Analysis, y\'arr.

Breaking down the population by occupation, we see the following:

PIRATES:

Sea-Dogs – 1,000,000

Ships Cooks – 25,000

Parrots – 1,500,000

Cabin Boys – 10,000

Plank-makers – 80,000

Captains – 10,000

People with Beards – 700,000

Wenches – 1,500,000

Tavern-owners – 20,000

Ships-surgeons – 1,990

Buccaneers – 150,000

Privateers – 65,000

Shanty-singers – 250

Chandlers – 3,000

TOTAL – Way more than the Landlubbers

LANDLUBBERS:

Footmen – 1,450

Innkeepers – 500

Highwaymen – 27

Judges – 136

Horses – 10,000

David McWilliams – 1

The Spanish – 5,000

Farmers – 6,000

Schoolboys – 3,900

Ladies – 357

Potters – 200

TOTAL – Way less than the Pirates.

The analysis of the Irish Pirate Review shows that by any objective yardarm, most of these so-called ‘new landlubbers’ are actually engaged in traditional pirate occupations or in occupations which, though new, align their interests firmly with those of piracy, buccaneering and privateering off the Spanish Main.

While there be talk – y’arr, treacherous talk – of landlubber aspirations, of farming, of sending good lads to school instead of pressing them as cabin boys, ‘tis but a façade of change. P’tooh. True sea dogs know that the tyrant landlubbers will never give up their hold on Spanish gold even as they dupe armchair pirates, Johnny Depp and the so-called ‘new landlubbers’ into slavish obeisance to their land-bound ways.

These so-called ‘new landlubbers’ must ask themselves if, for all their new fangled a-doings and transpirings, they have seen even a single dubloon of Spanish gold! Nay, nay and, thrice, nay! There is only one path to the Spanish Gold and it is through the unabashed embrace of salty piracy.

Our analysis shows that the greater part of this island population is pirates whether they know it or not and whether they like it or not. Soon, we shall be all at sea, and at sea the landlubbers must be made to walk the plank. The ‘new’ landlubbers must choose. Is it to be the plank or women, rum and Spanish Gold on the Barbary Main?!

Shiver me timbers!

Arr Har, world!

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Arrh! The Photo above be available for us to be using though Creative Commons by missy_1074 from Flickr. We thankee!
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