Rumor of Pirate Killian McBlarney

As the rumor goes, Killian McBlarny was a born pirate. He was the son of a known African Pirate, Captain Kroomwell. Kroomwell was a giant man with giant greed. He commanded a sailing vessel between 1770 and 1780, where he plundered sailing vessels around the horn of Africa. His greed kept the vessel at sea longer and his crew working harder, but the benefits were considerable. Kroomwell was known for his ruthless execution of prisoners, and his resale of captured vessels and arms to anyone. A number of pirates were supplied by his methods.

In 1780 it is rumored that he took an Irish woman as a concubine, and sired a son. Fleeing her pirate capture she took young Killian McBlarney and raised him in her native Ireland. Killian inherited his fathers temperament and nature, as at 16 he signed on as pirate crew.

Many accounts of his life indicate that he assassinated his captain and assumed control, but more likely is that he simply stole enough treasure to purchase and crew his own vessel. In either event, Killian’s first recorded act of piracy was against a merchant vessel of Britain in 1897. In this act, he executed all of the crew and discharged their bodies to the sea.

Killian was soon forced away from European waters to the West Indies [Caribbean]. Apparently, without motive other than greed, Killian attacked and plundered 11 merchant vessels. It is popularly reported that anyone captured in these raids was set free, thus breaking the cycle of murder that his father faithfully upheld. In 1800, Napoleon signed a letter of marquee with Killian. He was charged with the destruction of British shipping and the capture of any cargo bound for British ports.

From 1800 to 1804, Killian raided, plundered, and pirated in the name of France. He was so successful that the British Navy dispatched 10 ships of the line to hunt down and destroy him. This was a very significant move, as the impending war with France would require all the ships the British could muster. Killian was so embolden by the hunt that he is reported to have snuck aboard one of the vessels and scuttled it.

As reward for services to the French Empire was a huge land grant within the Louisiana territory. No record exists as to the nature of the land grant, nor is there any record that Killian ever received compensation for his activities, but local rumors about his vast treasures and activities near New Orleans are stuff of [albeit bar room] legend.

The small town of Thibodaux Louisiana claims that the famous pirate founded the town. Several tourist traps offer Killian McBlarney souvenirs and memorabilia. Modern historians have little factual testimony as to the accuracy of this claim, but the residents still proclaim it as truthful history.

True scholarly work on Killian and his piracy has little on the later portions of his career, as lands of the Louisiana Purchase were transferred to the Americans actions against piracy increased. Killian’s last known act of piracy was off the coast of Key West where Captain Killian attacked a British merchant ship [1805]. He plundered the cargo and left the crew marooned on a tropical island. Many other acts of piracy were attributed to Killian after 1805, but none has been substantiated.

The rumor of the famed pirate runs rampant within Thibodaux. Most commonly, it is told to attract tourists, but it is a frequent bar rail legend. In both cases, the telling is the real purpose. If the town gets people to visit, they gain the needed tourist income that local New Orleans seems to hoard. Anyone who is town and not living under a rock [and it would have to be a pretty big rock] have heard of the Killian stories. Most know the drunken exaggerations that come with the telling and pay them little mind. Some pay closer attention.

Dreams Again

The dreams had abated for nearly 4 weeks, and not without noted relief to your psyche. But last night the dream of the solder returned.

The woods were thick and obscured the field before you. The drooping branches and dense foliage prevents you from seeing anything more than 100 feet away. Add to that the dimming sunlight of the rapidly approaching evening and the visibility continues to drop. You know that a mist will soon begin to rise. The muggy heavy air, just after sun down will form swirling mists and banks of fog. When that happens you know you will not be able to see anything past 15 feet, but yet you have to press on.

What is waiting for you in these dark woods? Where is it? Is their danger? All these questions blend to a chaotic pronouncement of fear.

The walk seems indefinite, but somehow with each step much more foreboding. The thin gossamer stands of moonlight filtering through the canopy cast a bizarre pattern of dots upon the forest floor. Where the light strikes water the tendrils of illumination dance and play upon the ground. This image is nearly serene until the mists begin to rise.

The fog slips between trees and gives form to the light beams. The mists play flowing by and through the forest gives these moonbeams near substance and perverse form. They diffuse the light almost like a natural lantern, slowly pulsing as the breeze pushes the fogs around the trees. It is then you see them, three figures among the trees. Each fills you with a sense of doom.

The first is a grotesquely tall and thin man. He is wearing a dark suit and broad brimmed hat. His skin is pale and his eyes are powerful points of amber light. In his left hand, he is carrying a leather attaché case and in his right hand, a wooden yardstick. He simply stands among the trees silently mouthing words to some imperceptible lecture. The second figure is that of a giant tin solder. This gigantic child toy is roughly painted in the colors of the British army. The metal man is armed with a musket and wears a large bedroll on its back. The third figure is a naked girl. She is light skinned and delicate in both form and feature. Her long flowing brown hair seems to flow and dance beyond what can be explained by the mild breeze. She stands upon the forest floor, but looks as if she could simply float away. With cat-like grace she dances within the forest.

Your musket is readied and aimed downrange before you even think about the possibility of firing. Looking along the sights you could easily dispatch any one of the figures…With no need for careful aim you fire your weapon into the overgrown toy. The shot strikes the metal body with a dull metallic thud and creates a shower of atomized paint that resembles a cloud of blood. The metal figure is undisturbed. Only the small black blemish of your shot serves are testament to your actions. The darkness of the forest begins to press in around you. Whatever is out there has found you. Your soul is claimed…

The woods were thick and obscured the field before you. The drooping branches and dense foliage prevents you from seeing anything more than 100 feet away. Add to that the dimming sunlight of the rapidly approaching evening and the visibility continues to drop. You know that a mist will soon begin to rise. The muggy heavy air, just after sun down will form swirling mists and banks of fog. When that happens you know you will not be able to see anything past 15 feet, but yet you have to press on.

What is waiting for you in these dark woods? Where is it? Is their danger? All these questions blend together to a chaotic pronouncement of fear.

The walk seems indefinite, but somehow with each step much more foreboding. The thin gossamer stands of moonlight filtering through the canopy cast a bizarre pattern of dots upon the forest floor. Where the light strikes water the tendrils of illumination dance and play upon the ground. This image is nearly serene until the mists begin to rise.

The fog slips between trees and gives form to the light beams. The mists play flowing by and through the forest gives these moonbeams near substance and perverse form. They diffuse the light almost like a natural lantern, slowly pulsing as the breeze pushes the fogs around the trees. It is then you see them, three figures among the trees. Each fills you with a sense of doom.

The first is a grotesquely tall and thin man. He is wearing a dark suit and broad brimmed hat. His skin is pale and his eyes are powerful points of amber light. In his left hand, he is carrying a leather attaché case and in his right hand, a wooden yardstick. He simply stands among the trees silently mouthing words to some imperceptible lecture. The second figure is that of a giant tin solder. This gigantic child toy is roughly painted in the colors of the British army. The metal man is armed with a musket and wears a large bedroll on its back. The third figure is a naked girl. She is light skinned and delicate in both form and feature. Her long flowing brown hair seems to flow and dance beyond what can be explained by the mild breeze. She stands upon the forest floor, but looks as if she could simply float away. With cat-like grace she dances within the forest.

Your musket is readied and aimed downrange before you even think about the possibility of firing. Looking along the sights you could easily dispatch any one of the figures…With careful aim you discharge you rifle at the naked girl. Her rapid and random movements confound the shot and she dances behind a tree just as the mini-ball flees downrange. You are sure to have missed, were it not for a perfect deflection from an old oak. The speeding metal struck the dancing girl and crumpled her fragile body…

The woods were thick and obscured the field before you. The drooping branches and dense foliage prevents you from seeing anything more than 100 feet away. Add to that the dimming sunlight of the rapidly approaching evening and the visibility continues to drop. You know that a mist will soon begin to rise. The muggy heavy air, just after sun down will form swirling mists and banks of fog. When that happens you know you will not be able to see anything past 15 feet, but yet you have to press on.

What is waiting for you in these dark woods? Where is it? Is their danger? All these questions blend together to a chaotic pronouncement of fear.

The walk seems indefinite, but somehow with each step much more foreboding. The thin gossamer stands of moonlight filtering through the canopy cast a bizarre pattern of dots upon the forest floor. Where the light strikes water the tendrils of illumination dance and play upon the ground. This image is nearly serene until the mists begin to rise.

The fog slips between trees and gives form to the light beams. The mists play flowing by and through the forest gives these moonbeams near substance and perverse form. They diffuse the light almost like a natural lantern, slowly pulsing as the breeze pushes the fogs around the trees. It is then you see them, three figures among the trees. Each fills you with a sense of doom.

The first is a grotesquely tall and thin man. He is wearing a dark suit and broad brimmed hat. His skin is pale and his eyes are powerful points of amber light. In his left hand, he is carrying a leather attaché case and in his right hand, a wooden yardstick. He simply stands among the trees silently mouthing words to some imperceptible lecture. The second figure is that of a giant tin solder. This gigantic child toy is roughly painted in the colors of the British army. The metal man is armed with a musket and wears a large bedroll on its back. The third figure is a naked girl. She is light skinned and delicate in both form and feature. Her long flowing brown hair seems to flow and dance beyond what can be explained by the mild breeze. She stands upon the forest floor, but looks as if she could simply float away. With cat-like grace she dances within the forest.

Your musket is readied and aimed downrange before you even think about the possibility of firing. Looking along the sights you could easily dispatch any one of the figures…Placing the iron sights directly in-line with the head of the tall man in the suit, you fire. The bullet races to the gangly man and strikes him fully in the mouth. The shot tears into his flesh and pulps his face, but somehow he is not harmed. He simply keeps on presenting his lecture, adding the lack of a mouth to the noiseless speech…

You wake in fear, cold and dire beads of sweat flowing down your body.