Ahoy there laddies

Battling high seas down here below the Equator at the moment, on our way to Brazil but blown off course to St Helena where Napoleon will eventually die in exile and go to heaven or worse. Anywhere les franglais are like frogs really, they are always bleating and gulping at a fresh sea air that does not exist. The reality is very different, life is a constant battle out here on the waves, and the waves are permanent. Approaching St Helena. No sight whatsoever at the French end of things of some Tristan de Cunha, or even of our quarry the SS Hadden sur Rochelle which is a beefy 26 gunner and nimble on its feet like a ballerina from the Paris Rage-aux-Follies, but there ye go laddies, it is not every day we see action on the great unchartered seas to the south and the old jungles of Antarctica. Watch it lads, there be sea-monsters and all kinds of Leviathans and nessies down here. Ah sure, run up the mainsail, the beaches of Patagonia are covered with rotting dinosaurs like the old plesiosaurus me hearties. We hear things at night and we reads our sea-charts and our maps laddies, printed by an Italian called Vico. Good lads on board here, all press-ganged lads from the estates around Greenwich, and why the dickens not, lads who would otherwise have ended up in the riots or in the doldrums of unemployment. A bit of national service with the Royal Navy me hearties is no bad waste of the captain's rum. Better than handing over 40bn of the people's gold bullion to the French.