<strong>CAPTAIN ALBERT GRIFFITHS, ON THE QUARTERDECK OF THE COURTESAN</strong><br/><br/><em>Captain's Log, 3 September 1782</em><br/><br/><div class="floatleft">(http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_VBYdIkvh-fE/SdFJb-p7x6I/AAAAAAAAA9c/JNHUTHEdneM/s400/seanbean_sharpe.jpg)</div>We were almost two weeks out of Libertatia, on Île St. Marie, off northern Madagascar. The winds had been favourable, and we'd reached one of my favoured hunting grounds, some 20 miles off the shore of Africa, around 28 degrees south. There was a brisk west-southwest breeze carrying us along down the swift and treacherous Agulhas current, which washed down the rocky coast and conveniently slowed down shipping coming our way. We could take our pick of prizes. It was early afternoon, and the sea was slowly getting choppier, a sure sign that ships further south were getting battered and softened up for us by the weather. The lookouts spotted a few widely spaced ships to our south, and I sized them one by one through my spyglass.<br/><br/>Jitters had finally stopped pestering me about the large Indiaman in the distance, which looked suspiciously like a 32 gun troop transport to me. He was keen eyed, but extremely neurotic. I'd had to restrain the urge to board someone until I was satisfied the lumbering craft was far enough out of the way. Once its mainmast was over the horizon, I looked southward and leeward to one merchantman we'd been keeping an eye on for two hours now from a safe distance upwind.<br/><br/>Her sails looked ragged, no doubt from the heavy weather she'd passed through, and she was trudging slowly north against the current towards the Madagascar Channel. Tacking to beat into the wind, she was making little headway, and she was riding low in the water. Even the greener deckhands would be able to tell she was heavily loaded and begging to be boarded. The English merchant ensign she was flying meant there would probably be more blood than usual.<br/><br/><strong>"All hands to your stations!"</strong>I called out through my speaking trumpet, leaning over the quarterdeck railing to watch the crew.<strong>"Helmsmen, turn one point a'larboard. Mr Cervantes! That 400 ton merchantman we've been watching, larboard broad reach, looking shabby. Set course to cross her bows and engage."</strong>I handed the Don navigator my spyglass and pointed out the target.<strong>"Gunner Kelly! Load the broadsides with grapeshot and make ready to rake her bow. We don't want her dismasted, boyo. Marksmen, up the foremast. Let's give those Englishmen a pasting, ladies!"</strong><br/><br/>As we closed the distance, I ran up the Portuguese flag as long as we were out of gunshot range, to put them off guard. The Ports and Brits generally got on with each other, and even though the target must have been carrying eight guns at the most, one couldn't be too careful. We had our own version of the Jolly Roger ready to hoist: a white cannon blowing the skull off a headless skeleton, spewing blood from its neck, on a black background. It was good to have a few, including the generic skull and crossbones or cutlasses. A famous pirate is well on his way to being a dead one.<br/><br/>Then, I stuck my head below and called down to the gun deck, and sent Fara and Blackbird  to dole out an extra noggin of rum to everyone. It always got them in a mood to capture some more. Naturally, I sent the girls on their way with a slap on the arse.