2 November 2024
Saturday. Last night at the old Northbridge berth. The galleon has been tied up on Lake Street longer than I care to count, a short stroll from my shanty, and tonight the last prisoners walked down her gangplank.
Walked. Not swam, not crawled, not begged. Walked, carrying my treasure, chatting about where to have dinner.
I will miss Northbridge. The prisoners there were noisy and cheerful and had usually just eaten. My ship carries on under Hay Street Mall and in Sydney, so nobody need go without a chance to be captured by me. The shanty stays on Lake Street, and Scarface says he will keep an eye on it. He keeps an eye on everything. It is his best quality, after the face.
I took down my wanted posters and counted them. All present. Then I counted the escaped prisoners in the ledger. That took longer. I stopped at a number I did not care for.
Duchess pecked the gangplank on her way off, for luck. Hers, not mine.
— Captain Calico Jack, Terror of the Seas (all of them)
