PROLOGUE:
I am a writer of stories.
I have waited a long time to write this one down, even though it happened almost twenty years ago. I am an old woman now. Now a days I sit in my garden, like I am now writing and writing and trying to get down every moment before it escapes my withering mind.
In the fall of 1732, I was the captain of the guard at Fort Palmera. I'm sure you have heard of it. Or maybe you havn't. I think it was destoryed in a hurricane some time ago. At that time it was unheard of a woman to be working, let alone working in a Fort that also was the largest penitentiary in the western Caribbean.
I worked on the Last Mile. Death Row. Davy's Jones Pickin'. Whatever you may want to call it. My father had died in a freak accident, and I had taken his place, much to the dislike of almost everybody at the fort. It took me nearly five years of hard work to gain their respect, and once I did, I was never second guessed.
Many have heard stories of Jack Sparrow, but not many have witnessed one as I have. Jack Sparrow is neither a hero nor a modest man and some may say he doesn't deserve to go into legend. This story is of Captain Jack Sparrow, the fall of thunderstorms. It reveals things of a sinister nature, the things that happened during the fall of 1732 were in no doubt some of the worst things I have ever come to witness.
This is not a happy story. This is a dead man's tale.
But I am a writer of stories, and this one needs to be told.
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