Brittany's New World
Or Gaelic Pirates off the Spainish Main
Book 1, Chapter 1
The Story of Captain Jones
1586, New Armor, Carribean
They say everyman has a destiny. I'm not sure if this is true. So many toil back home in Europe, where the King's men make sure ever tax is paid and every bushel of wheat has their stamp on it. But here, we are free. In the wilderness of Kebec, and here in the open waters of the New World, we are free. Free to profit, whether it be by trade or by more decietful means. Brittany has weathered many a storm, including the 100 Years War and French ambitions with Her Majesty Queen Anne. Some how, our survival, let alone our success, was not predicted by many.
It is in the dramatic upheval of the religious war back home, that I came here looking for work as a merchant. New Armor became a haven for Catholics leaving a Reformist Brittany. They didn't mistreat us, but we knew that we were not very high on King Pierre's list of favourites. When I arrived in my new home, it was a little slice of Nantes, right here in the New World. Spain had cleared the island of natives, and Brettons came under the command of Captain De Niles, searching for this new world. Trade was Brittany's hope, not the riches of Mexico or the Inca, the spice of India or the slaves of Africa. Simple to trade, and the main trading material was furs, but not just any furs, Kebecian fur from the northern wilderness. That is why sercurity was so lax down here, the Crown was worried about furs, not surgar nor rum.
When I arrived, I went looking for work, but trade was suffering under Spainish monopolies in the Carribean. I either had to become a Spanish citizen, or find a new career. Spain had once been a great ally of Brittany, especially following her split with England, where my family originally hailed. But today competition for land in this place has caused a rivalry between our two nations. I decline Spanish citizenship, and begin looking for new work.
The streets of New Armor look much like home, small buildings smashed up against each other. The local militia only numbers about 300, no where near enough to stop the Spanish, should they decide to take the island. But hundreds of people arrive every month looking for a new life. So if there is one job that will never close, it is sailing. Taking people back a forth from Europe to this little paridise. That is what I'll do, I though all those years ago. I got a job as a sailor with the Bretton West Indies Company. I was first assigned to the Fortuna a small merchant vessile that brought sugar and rum from the island back to the mainland, then wheat and building materials from the mainland to the small island. The only other time I had sailed was getting here, and I was not fond of the idea, but work is work.
I climbed aboard, the captain was watching us all. He walked over and patted me on the back.
"How many times have you sailed before?" he asked.
"Once before." He nodded.
"So you have no idear what you are doing?"
"Yes." He nodded again.
"Well... you'll know soon enough." I signed my name on the ship's register and went down into the bowels of the ship. A very befitting name. I was hustled to my hammock, and was told that my job would be whatever it needed to be. Then I was handed a large square of cloth and told to stich the holes close...
"The Spanish aim is not very good, they shoot high so don't worry. Just fix this sail and we will be good."
It is in this manner that the Pirating Career of Timmothy Jones began, sewing a torn sail back together.