Arrival at Last

I fear that you will have to continue to forgive me for my tardiness, my loyal supporters. The scoundrel who took us through the so-called "Kessel Run" was less reputable than I thought. His smuggling ship was a rusty bucket of bolts that snailed across the Atlantic over the course of a week. I was forced to establish my domicile in a rancid cargo container, where I had to do horrible, deprived, unspeakable things in order to survive. I shall spare the women, children, and beardless lads with weak constitutions the details of my trip, for it includes horrors too great to put to print. Needless to say, our young ward Harold did not survive the trip. Now that our linguistic expert is somewhere 500 miles off of the cost of the bahamas, our fledgling group of ne'er-do-wells is in dire straights, my friends. We have been forced to join forces with the scruffy smuggler Jonathan who took us here. He is running from agents of the East India Company, and was more than happy to join forces with us. We must trust him out of necessity, in spite of his responsibility for poor young Harold's death.