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I was born in 1591 in England, in the town of York. I was not a noble, but not poor either, middle class. I was twelve when James I rose to the throne, and in 1605 I heard of the gunpowder plot. I was loyal to the crown, so decided to join the English Navy. I sailed in it for many years until 1630, when we were sunk by pirates off the coast of Gibraltar. The rest of the crew drowned - I washed up near Gibraltar. That's when I knew I was unable to perish.
Struggling up the the coast I found the shell of the ship. It was wrecked, but the goods were still somewhat intact. I sold the surviving items in Gibraltar and used the money for a passage back to England.
I lived the next decade on a somewhat profitable farming buisness near modern day Milton Keynes, until Cromwell's band of traitors declared war on King Charles. I joined the Calivers, fighting at Edgehill. I continued to fight for my king until captured by the Roundheads in 1649. I was then shot in the face by a drunken solider who did not wish to take prisoners.
I hid out for the next eleven years in the wilderness of the Lakes District before returning to civilization in 1660. I had been walking down a dirt road when I found a wreck carriage carrying five hundred pounds and a dead merchant. I used this money and lived richly under Charles II's reign. In 1680, however, I began to realize I was getting suspiciously old and left for the New World, feigning death of old age.
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