Dear Diary Journal,

Our Good King has kindly pointed out to me that, by sending off the truculent group, I have depleted nearly everyone of importance in Port Royal. We are, in his words, defenseless without a leader of the Royal Navy (Commodore Norrington) and weaponless without one of the largest and finest producers of swords and firepower (Will the blacksmith). Gone is the refined dignity of a self-assured woman (Elizabeth), and the Good King has accused us of being bereft of humor and lollygagging now that Jack, Barbossa, and Gillette have left.

I leisurely assured him that I was here. Then he did a strange thing. He started to laugh. The chuckling faded off into a cough, and he apologized, explaining that he has a quite troublesome case of emphysema. The poor Good King. God save his health.

Therefore, after strenuous contemplation, I have taken it upon my own shoulders to cure his emphysema. Now granted, I am no doctor. (Otherwise, I would be able to diagnose what that conspicuous growth is in the middle of Commodore Norrington's face. How I digress.) In a benevolent attempt to save our Good King, I have decided to re-appoint people to these important positions that the bickering group has left vacant.

First, I designated Lieutenant Groves as interim Commodore of the British Royal Navy. His qualifications are a mystery to me, and I've heard him speak but once. (Prior to that rare vocal occasional, I had assumed he was a mute.) But he spoke with such regal poise, not at all insecure in the fact that our Navy had botched another relatively simple procedure of capturing a pirate. I believe Lieutenant Grove uttered profoundly, "That has got to be the best pirate I've ever seen."

Jolly good show. As I mentioned before, I know as much about his qualifications as I do about the terrain of Mars, but I've never been to Mars and am not particularly keen on such wild ideas. I don't quite know how that relates, but if the last sentence is read backwards, it sounds quite compelling. At any rate, Lieutenant Groves has a rather convincing wig, and what more can an effective Commodore need?

My second issue concerned that of the blacksmith. While Port Royal has a flurry of metal artisans, my sole employment of Brown's particular business has isolated many other blacksmiths in town who feel slightly hostile to my favoritism. I believe throwing a few horseshoes through my porch window that one day made their point. It certainly left an impression on me.

I would not be pondering whom to turn to for weaponry production if Will's employer, Mr. Brown, was off the bottle and in the right state of mind. However, that is not the case. After losing his best worker and furry companion (the donkey and Will, respectively), he has lapsed into a depression, and I fear for his metal health. Yes, metal, not mental. I have not seen him neglect bashing iron for quite some time. He spends his pitiful hours plopped on that wooden chair in the middle of the hay-strewn blacksmith shop, drinking Captain Jack (the beer, not the pirate—let us not picture the latter) and steadily worrying about how stale the donkey feed has become.How I worry.

So I have set out to find him a companion to replace the two he temporarily lost. I have heard of a renowned blacksmith myself…her name escapes me at the moment (it is such a funny myriad of letters). I have specifically sent for her by ways of the most effective communication device known to man: The ISO pages in the Classified Section.

The article, with abbreviations explained afterwards, reads as follows:

RJG seeking 40-50-yr. BS woman.

Must like metal and occasional,

life-threatening attacks on Pt. Royal.

RJG likes wigs BYPNI.

RJG: Round, jolly governor

BS: Blacksmith

BYPNI: But you're probably not interested

This may be the most effective step I've ever taken as Governor. I am giddy with the thought. Furthermore, I anticipate that this blacksmithing woman can double as the self-assured female the Good King says is missing now that Elizabeth is gone.

The only remaining roles that need to be filled are the "humor and lollygagging" positions of the two pirates and Norrington's ex-Siamese twin, Gillette. How shall I replace those three? No ideas have come to me yet, and I have been increasingly preoccupied with replacing the carpeting and wallpaper downstairs, which said three men have dutifully destroyed. Their substitutes must have wit like none seen before. They will need a charismatic imbecile persona. They will need panache. And preferably, better hygiene than the originals.

How will I find such striking characteristics in Port Royal? I feel myself growing weary with this troublesome situation. Yet waver I shall not—for the Good King's health, I shall rise victorious over this adversity!

Just as soon as I re-dye my wig. I've found that pink truly is becoming. Perhaps Ex-Lieutenant Commodore Groves can instate a wig color-coordinating system for the Navy. I must take it up with the fine man this evening at dinner.