By jigger and crud, how right I was about the bog-eyed traitor Kraken!
Height of the storm, suddenly three bells ring and his crew attacks!
We fight back, oh yes, and how we fought!
My boys were lions, did His Majesty proud, but those cut-throat tars were quite a handful, I can't deny.
My duty lay with the cargo, of course, and I was there before you could say 'High Jimmy Knacker', but so too was Kraken, with some sort of cleaver in his hand.
But it seems The Dagger of Poseidon is what the whole damn scrap was about, the greedy blackguard.
Freddie Fortesque wasn't going to let him get it, no, no, no, at least not the way he wanted it.
But in the tussle, by jingo, he did get it - he got it right in the belly.
Now a dagger - statue or no statue, gold or not gold - to the belly, isn't good news for a chap, and so down went Kraken, swiping his cleaver about, his bulging eye never leaving the Dagger of Poseidon, jammed in his bread basket.
'The curse' he whispered 'the curse.'
Not the greatest of last words, I was thinking, when I looked up and realised it was time for my own...
'Oh, arse!', as I recall.
You see, I was looking up and seeing my own body charging about without a blooming head!
Kraken's cleaver had swiped it off, damn nuisance.
Worse still, in the melee, down goes HMS Victoria - glug, glug, glug. Davy Jones' Locker, what?
Turns out, though, that wasn't the end for us. Hoorah for the haunting life!
And of course, us British ghosts don't give up a tussle, oh no, and neither did Kraken's motley lads, and so the fight rages on.
But Kraken just slinks there in the corner, slime covered, watchful... attracting the urchins.