William Brand

Most kind, Captain. As for my nomination, I believe that I chose Redd Oktober before and I see no reason to change my nomination. His signature is simple, humorous, and to the point.

July 31, 1704 - In the jungles of Martinique He was gone and she celebrated his absence in tears. The night had been a long one, for in the wake of his self surgery, Tawny had cried, laughed, moaned, rambled, shouted and sung a variety of half mad songs. He had slept a little, but this had been the worst of it, for in dreaming he would speak aloud in a voice at times that threatened to push her soul to the precipice. His nightmares became her nightmares and he would cry aloud, "Don't hurt me!", and it frightened her, though she did not understand it. This mantra of terror woke him so often that he would yell at the darkness awhile before going to sleep again, and then only to mumble half dreamt phrases. Adding to this unpleasantness, Tawny would twitch. His whole body would jerk at once and she would cry out in half choked gasps. Still, his dreaming had not been the worst part of the night, for quite unexpectedly, in the middle of a dream he had jumped up. He paced awhile then and sang to himself. The singing had evolved into loud protestations regarding pigs and angels. Then all at once, Tawny had stopped to look at her. One moment he had been singing, and the next he was still as a ghost. He stood looking at her as though he had never noticed her at all. He did this with such a genuine look of surprise that she almost screamed, realizing that his realization of her might mean terrible things. She wasn't wrong. He had walked up to her then with a smile so endearing that she had fixed her eyes shut as tightly as she could. Then he had touched her cheek and caressed her hair, and it was awful. Snakes and earthworms would have been more welcome, but she had borne the touch. It had last only minutes, but they were the vast seconds of eternal damnation. Now he was gone and the sun was high overhead. He had been gone since rediscovering her in the dark. He had left with a look of elation and he almost skipped as he went away. She had been left alone the remainder of the night, and had awoken to sunlight and the noise of the jungle. The morning had been a long one, with insects and thirst for company. She sat huddled against the tree to which she was bound and prayed to gods both ancient and unknown for deliverance. She knew not the gods of her people, having left the Yorubans too young to know their teachings, and the god of the French was a stranger to her, though her name implied otherwise. She tried not to think of this, for her name was a gaul of bitterness to her. It was a mockery to her plight. Poison in a word. Adebanke. God is taking care of her. "Tuez-moi...un dieu." she whispered in the frailest voice she possessed, hoping in despair for salvation. "Qu'est-ce garçon ?" Tawny answered from the trees as he returned with a bucket sloshing with water. "Il parle français..." she thought terrified, ignoring his misuse of gender. Her heart ached with dismay. He had never spoken French once since her abduction, and this had been a blessing. She did not want to understand his ramblings. She did not want to be familiar with his declarations. His English had been a removed thing and this had been her sole comfort. Now he smiled and she could see that he would speak to her in a language too familiar. "Tuez-moi...un dieu." Adebanke said again, but only in the corner of her remaining self.

To make matters simple, could we agree on a white boat with red and gold trim?

Eating a grilled cheese sandwich made of two parts sourdough bread and one part pepperjack cheese.

Rusty has significant experience in rowing, so the question of surf might be best directed his way.

Last night was evil. Tossed like a salad.

Miss Ransom, I remove my hat to you. Allow me to offer you a drink.

The 1720 Mercury Careening Camp will definitely be in the trees outside the fort and you can string up a hammock. I will ask Harry to specify about the volunteer forms.

Well, well. That'll do fine.

...and in local news...pirates were seen in the vacinity of Southernmost Point earlier today burying what appeared to be stolen goods. Locals reported that a band of the scurvy knaves arrived armed with pistols and shovels... ...and so forth. And yes, the rum bottle was a bad idea for the kiddies. I'm a pirate. What can I say?

I was conservative. I only ordered 130. And yes...my new outfit will be using almost all of those.

"Aye." William says, not looking up at first. He dips the quill and scratches an additional line before setting it aside again to stretch and rub the heel of his hand against one eye. "And we've not found a fiddler." William stands up and goes to the great pottery urn which serves as a coffer and fetches out a bag of mixed coins. He tosses this to Jenny. "Fetch me a fiddler, Miss Ashcombe. Promise him or her food, praise and my continued gratitude."

It's funny that you should say that, because a few of us have been talking about a night raid or some very 'public' thing involving the boats. Your idea has great merit and I find it hilarious, and more than the silly humor of it, it has advertising potential. Someone watching us bury it is bound to go and dig it up if we just leave it there, so we fill it with maps to Fort Taylor and a bottle of rum that says, "If found, please return to Patrick Hand at the Pirate Festival in Fort Zachary Taylor.

"You will keep your tongue and my council!" he said, and neither his tone nor his movement were slow or deliberate this time. Jenny had a moment to wonder how much of his self control was a wall or simply a veneer painted over too much power for this one man. "I have taken you under my wing and you will do what I say." He loomed over Jenny and she was reminded that he was a large man, capable by his size of doing harm if he had a mind to. His face was ruddier than normal and he squinted, making his eyes look piggish. "Do not tempt my patience." he whispered overly loud, so that patience came out in a hiss and it did not sound like patience at all. He turned to leave for good then and he was almost beyond the doorway of the kitchen when Jenny spoke. She hadn't meant to speak, it just bubbled up from the bricked up and muddy well of her own self determination. She had not known until this moment that she had any true will of her own, but then her lips parted. "Patience is a virtue." she said quietly, but loud enough for him to hear it, then before she could stop herself or fathom why she said it, she added, "I wonder...that you should have any." He turned towards her slowly, but this time his movement was motivated entirely by shock. He went to speak and failed, not once, but twice. "How...you...how dare you." His face was awash with several emotions at once and the veneer that was Martin Garaud cracked. He crossed the room in two strides. His hand went up, not in with the usual subtleness in degradation, but with all the force his broad hand possessed. Jenny stepped back only a little as he came and she never new how she managed it then, but instead of hiding her face, she raised her chin ever so slightly and took the blow as it came. One moment she was standing with more defiance then she would have thought possible for her position, gender, age or any other characteristic weighed against her uncle, and the next moment she was sprawled upon the kitchen floor she had stooped to wash a thousand times. The left side of her face stung from the attack, but her heart felt an odd elation. She also noticed, laying across the well worn bricks of the kitchen as she was, that a solitary coin of silver lay under the cook stove. She had never noticed it there, and like her new found defiance, it lay beyond her uncle's accounting. "You will never speak to me in this manner ever again." he said in a dark and low voice before he strode the kitchen. It was the first absolute truth he had ever spoken.

Martin Garaud shook his head at Jenny. This was oh so common of him, treating her like a child that didn't understand his wise ways of the world. "We will talk about this again very soon, but I have pressing business." he went to leave, then turned to her again. "Stay away from the chattle. They shall be locked in when they are not at work and I do not want you near them. One of them has killed a good man up North of here and I will not let you put yourself in harm's way. Do you understand?"

A sound rustled in Martin Garaud. It was a husky thing, uneven like a condition of the lungs. Most people would have mistakenly called it a chuckle, but it had no life to it at all. It was one moment there and the next gone and Jenny did not mind the going of it. "How will you survive when I am gone...?" he asked, mockingly sympathetic. 'FREE!' she thought, but said nothing. This was one of her uncle's usual tacks. He would often remind her that she would wake up one day to a world without him and be utterly lost to take care of herself. This was a lie on so many levels, for she served herself and many, but Jenny could never make him see her worth, abilities or daily accomplishments any more than she could make him shed 'chattle' from his vocabulary or soul. "I but suspected you of long travels to town, silly girl...but now that I know the truth of these suspicions, you will confine yourself to the plantation."

Polite and historical. We need to poach some cattle and pigs for your camp.

Jenny's uncle was standing in the kitchen when she burst into the room with a rush of skirts. She had just enough time to place a loose strand of hair behind one ear and straighten up before he turned around. He did this with such deliberate slowness, that she braced herself for something awful. He was always deliberate when he was in a poor mood, which unfortunately for her and others, happened more often these days than not. "The pantry seems fully stocked to me." He began, and not knowing where he was going with this, she agreed at once, nodding. "And yet..." he continued, followed by a protracted pause. 'Here it comes', she thought. Her uncle's 'and yets' were more notorious and unpleasant than his deliberate acts of slowness, though he said his 'and yets' with the practiced art of a man digging a very deep grave. Careful. Scraping. Final. "...you are found in town often these days and for prolonged periods of time." He punctuated the sentence with a very distinct, full-stop placing a hardened 't' on the word time. "Frankly, I am surprised to find you here at all, as I'm certain you are to find me, though both of us live under this roof...together." There was no mistaking the spite in his voice and Jenny went to speak, but he raised his hand. He did this not from the elbow, but from the wrist, like a pompous caesar. His arm hung at his side, but his finger tips came up ever so slightly. The gesture was so utterly diminutive and patronizing, that a backhanded slap in the face would have been more endearing, but she bore it with the removed servitude she was accustomed to. "What were you doing with the Chattel?" That word. That horrible word. Not laborers. Not workers. Not even slaves, but chattel. It was akin to verbal evisceration.

I will take them both. Send me a total for the two onion bottles and the shipping by private message, if you please.

Welcome aboard.

Baconfest Soy. If you were willing to gather a whole smathering of vegetarians to celebrate it, we'd list it along with the others.

Strangely enough, Baconfest seems to be a natural step in the evolution of the species. I have found that people celebrate Baconfests all over. I have yet to find one older than our own, but there are a few that are held yearly. Examples... Baconville, New York has been holding an annual Baconfest since 2003. The band "Unexplained Bacon" played at a venue called Baconfest. Porkopheliacs Anonymous held two Baconfests, one in 2000 and another in 2001. They have a very funny website at baconfest.org. The Triangle Wine Enthusiasts held a Baconfest in June of this year. It is a part of us to spontaneously gather to eat Bacon. Oh yes.

My wife and your brother should get together. She often speaks of her youth and bacon sandwiches with nothing but pig and bread.

giddy. Baconfest rolls forth...

On Saturday, October 13th we shall be celebrating the 15th Annual Baconfest since its inception. Baconfest was first begun as the brainchild of Ty Coleman who was forced to listen to me and my friend Jonas as we expounded on the beauty and divinity of all things Bacon. We Wetlanders, a medieval reenactment club, mutually agreed that we would have a Baconfest that year and every year thereafter. The small culinary festival has been running now these 15 years and we have consumed considerable quantities of the salty stuff, braving clogged arteries and a shortened life span to celebrate the fruit of the Pig. Over the years the Wetlanders of Baconfest have often wondered if Baconfest would become more than it was, spreading across the globe to the far reaches of the Earth. Our dreams, bacon laden as they've been, were finally realized when our own Silkie McDonough contacted me to ask if we would mind if she held a simultaneous Baconfest in her own neck of the woods. To put it mildly...we were delighted. And so, Baconfest East was born. It will be held on the same night as Baconfest, but in the area of New Jersey. Pirates and Baconmongers alike will be gathering at Silkie's house to participate in a joint Baconfest with us. My friend Steev, a Baconeater these past ten years, will be joining Silkie's party on the east coast. To add to this, my friend Jonas is beginning a Baconfest North in Homer Alaska, also to be held on October 13th. Three Baconfests! Imagine it. We've been giddy. We've laughed at the very mention of Bacon for several months now. Then, this very night, False Ransom suggested that there might be some Baconeaters who cannot attend these larger festivities, and suggested that we should make the Baconfest larger still by asking all of you to join in by eating bacon on the night of the 13th wherever you may be worldwide. A marvelous suggestion and worthy of merit. So the invitation is open. Join us, one and all. Cook up a little something and throw in a touch of bacon, or if you prefer, cook up a lot of bacon and throw nothing else in at all. Gather in groups or gather alone in the knowledge that Bacon-eating revelers are feasting on pork bellies the world over. Put on your favorite renfair getups, or slip into something piratey and join is on the 13th as we celebrate 15 years of Bacon. Anyone wishing to know more about hosting their own local Baconfest, including the many sorted and interesting traditions that make it a true Baconfest, may contact me with inquiries. Edit: The various incarnations of Baconfest for this year... Baconfest - Logan, Utah Baconfest East - Collingswood, New Jersey Baconfest North - Homer, Alaska Baconfest Moscow - Moscow, Russia White Trash Baconfest - Lowry City, Mo. Baconfest North-Midwest - Milwaukee, Wisconsin Baconfest Minnesota - Minnesota Baconfest Buffalo - Buffalo, New York Baconfest Chicago - Chicago, Illinois Baconfest Idaho - Preston, Idaho