The seas have been calm for fifteen long days now. The sails hang slack with nary a hint of a breeze to stir the canvas. Sargasso, which floats around us and seems to spread in every direction as far as the eye can see, nestles against the hull and an odd sucking sound can be heard in those rare moments when the ship moves. Curious stuff when first we beheld it but time breeds a weary contempt for the novelty of the thing. And the sun is relentless. Lord, how I've grown to loathe it. It saps the very strength out of you. The humidity is thick, cloying and the linen sticks to my sweat-drenched body like a lover. Only at night after I've retired can I rid myself of these tiresome clothes. I lie in the dark like a beached whale, my very breath an abomination in an airless cabin. At least he knows better than to bother me. Our last disagreement accomplished that. An uneasy truce exists between us, husband and wife in name only. The fool is wary of me now.

With nothing to do, the men are restless. In precious shade on deck and below decks, they play at dice and cards, fights breaking out between the disgruntled with monotonous regularity. Nat Curry, the 1st mate, doles out the rum carefully weighing the need to soften the men's tempers with the awareness that too much and the purpose is defeated. They can turn on each other and us with frightening speed. Understandable under these conditions but no easier to deal with. This becalmed state frustrates us all. The men's whispers grow ever more insistent, an undercurrent of dissatisfaction souring their tone. I know they are unhappy with the state of things but there is a limit to what I can do at this point. The ship is still under the nominal leadership of Bonny, drunken sot that he is. I have long lost what little respect I had for him - he's a vicious drunk and a sloppy captain when he's a mind to it. Despite the need to conserve the stock, I've been adding a few grains of the poppy to his rum and though he complains of the taste it hasn't stopped him from swilling the juice. It keeps him pliable. And I need him so if we are to avoid what befell the Rose. Mutiny is a nasty business. But running a ship as a woman has taken every drop of cunning and resource I have, both mental and physical. The strain is showing though I do my best to present a collected and strong exterior to the crew. They are waiting for me to make a wrong move but I won't give them the satisfaction. Besides the sense of power is exhilarating. To a woman who has never been in a position to do anything but comply with others her long life, it's heady stuff. I'll never relinquish it freely now that much is certain though who's to know what the future holds or what the balance of power will be. An uncertain future beckons but the possibilities of what it may hold takes my breath away.

I'm most fortunate in the two men who've acknowledged me as unofficial captain...Nat and the ship's doctor, Ogilvie. They listen, offering sound advice and I can trust them to issue the necessary orders to keep the ship functioning effectively. Nat watches me when he thinks my attention is elsewhere. I know what he's thinking - his behaviour is as transparent as he is pleasing to look at. I encourage him shamelessly but never in plain view of Bonny or the crew. Nat excites me in a way Bonny never did. His quiet demeanour is not to be taken for granted either as the crew know only too well. His dark eyes tell a different and contradictory tale. These long months have bred an easy familiarity between us. He comes to my cabin now to discuss the ship's business and none think it odd. That he stays, ship concerns paving the way for more personal ones is no one's business but our own. My way is unclear as yet where my marriage to the sot is concerned. With any luck, some misfortune will take the matter out of my hands and that will be the end of it. Think me callous? Well, perhaps I am...

Bonny's a contemptible man. I'd thought he had strength when I consented to marry him in what seems to be a lifetime ago but I know otherwise now. Though, to be true, marriage was really a convenient ruse to leave the employ of the old witch in Falmouth. And the thought of leaving England and heading for the West Indies was an enciting one to be sure. I've long known that England was too small for me, too pastel. Too few options for a woman - wife, whore or subservient housemaid. Hardly a spectrum of choices to titillate an ambitious and passionate soul. I opted for the wife to avoid the whore though I did entertain the notion however briefly. Working women have a freedom a wife can never have though, to be true, there are drawbacks. Aren't there always?

Faint on the horizon, the ship to port is caught as are we. Its proximity seems to mock us and, when they aren't gambling, the men take delight in hatching outlandish stories as to the ship's origin and purpose. We know it's not a privateer as it flies the British flag though that's not always a guarantee of safety. I look at these men and wonder just how deep their loyalty goes. I wouldn't want to put it to the test.

'Eight bells and all's well' sounds the call of the watch and I realise it's midnight. Time for sleeping if sleep there be.