Coming To America

5 August, 1620

Today is a day that will forever change history and, most certainly, it will forever change my life. Our Great England will be dearly missed, let it be clear that we are all loyal Englishmen who would fight to any day to the death for Our Grand Homeland but, what does one do when his own people are destined to hell? How can one group of properly guided souls appropriate an entire Nation's sins reprimanded by God himself? The devil is a serpent that has wickedly damned the spirit of my countrymen. Be it recorded that this is no rebellion against England and Her authorities, but rather a declaration of independence from her dreadful and inevitable hell-bound destination. It shall not be easy to cross the Atlantic Desert and if it be the will of God for the Speedwell and her sister Mayflower to wander for 40 years, harshly beaten by the oceanic sand storms, before reaching the Promised Land then so be it, it will be done willingly in the name of the Lord. A new colony will be established, a safe house for all the souls of our rightly guided brothers. Goodbye England, may God be with you.

6 September, 1620

Speedwell has taken a beating. Two she has been brought back to England with the intention of reparation with no йclat and those authorized to decide, I not included, have arranged for the two groups to merge, and to sell our dysfunctional Speedwell. Twenty devout lambs of God will be left behind in England as a result of insufficient accommodations, 102 will be stuffed in the 'tween deck like sardines, and I will no longer be governor. On a good note, however, we will be free and on a mission in the name of God. There will be no tragically misguided authoritarian abomination ridiculing me for refusing to kneel for communion.

"Kneel, you base! Have you no shame?"

"May God help you overcome your idiocy", I replied in complete calm.

It is motivation such as this that propels me across the Atlantic, my wife and son deserve better.

10 October, 1620

The voyage has been long and interminable, the weather is retched, and the passengers are the worst.

"Scoot over! Get off my pallet!"

The screech is awful. Why today I heard someone use the Father's name in vain out of frustration and, to make matters worse, his mother ignored the peccadillo in argument that he was "stressed". This is simply intolerable. On top of all, I heard Captain Jones talking matters over with the crew, and they have reason to believe that the weather has pulled us off track, this is damned. The day we arrive I will surely kiss the earth, the only earth that I will have seen in an incalculably long time.

11 November, 1620

God bless!