The 21st Day of September. The Year of Our Lord 1803.
My sudden declaration that we ought, sans permitting another moment to pass, construct a raft, was not immediately met with the awing wonderment that the deviser of such a scheme might expect.
“A raft?” Repeated Young Frank with youthful incredulity. “What accursed madness is this?”
Despite Frank’s objections and continued cries of “Folly, t’is accursed lunacy, for no raft could survive such a perilous stretch of such deuced strong tides!” It was not too long until the crew were wholly persuaded and we had begun to construct a vessel large enough for the elegantly elaborate arch and all of our company (who would form our wedding party). As the crew sought the finest trees for the hull, from beyond the golden sands, I too made my way towards the tree line. However t’was not sea fairing timbers that I sought but fruits and other such delights. For no marriage can be considered respectable if one’s wedding party is not extended the courtesy of a wedding breakfast (such a want of sweetmeats occurs only in Cheapside, I am certain). Continue reading