We climbed past pools of steaming water and sulphurous mud, stumbling constantly, unable to look away from the seething colours before us. Rodgers began to utter a prayer but was hushed by John Judge, who commanded us to listen, and in doing so confirmed what I had already noticed: that there were whisperings coming from the globe; voices, which as we drew closer gained clarity, becoming fragments of conversations, orders, pleas, and shouts. I clearly heard:
“. . . advancing west. Their forces stretch from . . .”
“. . . will do as I bloody well say, Private, or so help me I’ll put him before a firing squad. Now get down there and tell him to . . .”
“. . . isn’t seaworthy and is beyond repair, sir. The long and short of it is that the Britannia is wrecked. If we make a last stand, it has to be here. You have to tell General Aitken there’s no way out of . . .”
“. . . German units to the south and west of us. Unless he can do what he says, we’ll not live beyond . . .”
“. . . I’m hit! Mother of God! I’m . . .”
“. . . and what is left worth fighting for? Surrender, I say. It’s the . . .”
“. . . can’t trust him to . . .”
“. . . Get down! Get down! He’s dead, damn it! Sweet Jesus, they aren’t human! We have to . . .”
And more. These odd, panicked, desperate echoes became, unmistakably, the yammering of men caught in warfare and making a last stand against superior forces. I’m not certain how, but I was taken by the notion that their one hope had betrayed and abandoned them, and that whoever or whatever that last hope had been, it was here, now, on the island, and was the awful presence we’d all sensed.
We were but a few steps from the globe when the illumination suddenly increased until it blazed like the sun. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground and Rodgers was shaking the wits back into me. I sat up, looked around, and saw only rocks and pools and the sloping sides of the crater. The mirage was gone.
“Let’s get out of this accursed hellhole,” John Judge said. “I beg of ye, Cap’n Taylor, let us get back to our people.”
I’d no hesitation in agreeing, and we climbed out of the crater as fast as was possible and immediately started down the path toward Santa Cecilia. Minutes later, the rain fell, and we were sent slithering wildly down the track amid mud and water. Lord knows how we survived that slide.
Night fell before we’d completed the descent but we hastened on by starlight, convinced that we were being pursued, though by what we couldn’t guess. Never have I felt such stark terror!
Sunday. 9th day of October 1859
3.00 p.m.
We didn’t realise it at the time, but there were no drums last night. We reached the village at dawn and, being fatigued beyond endurance, immediately took to our huts and, at last, slept.
Midnight
Again, no drums. Why does this cause me such dread?
Monday. 10th day of October 1859.
9.00 a.m.
A cannon heard from the Royal Charter! It can mean only one thing! Let everything that has breath praise the Lord! Praise the Lord! For He, in His infinite mercy, has given us fire! We can flee this detestable place!
Noon
The crew and passengers trekked from Santa Cecilia to Santa Isabel and from there boarded the ship. We had to carry John Judge. He is in such a deep sleep that he won’t wake.
We’ll be away from here!
“My hat!” Swinburne exclaimed. He untangled his legs, stood, and moved to the bar. “They spent more than a month on that island. Wasn’t the ship reported missing?”
“They were sailing from Melbourne,” Burton said. “With a voyage of that length, a month’s delay isn’t so unusual.”
Swinburne claimed fresh bottles of ale and brought them back to the table.
“What on earth was it?” he asked. “The globe of light? The aurora? It’s astonishing!”
“Born from the wreck of the SS Britannia,” Burton murmured.
Swinburne regarded him curiously. “What? What? What?”
“I’ll explain later. Here, I’ll pour the drinks, you continue with the log.”
The poet’s green eyes fixed on Burton for a few seconds then he gave a grunt, looked down at the book, and resumed.
Monday. 10th day of October 1859.
7.00 p.m.
I will bless the Lord at all times; His praise shall continually be in my mouth. Fernando Po is receding behind us! Admittedly, the going is slow. The steam engine was designed to augment the sails, not replace them, but at least it drives us from hell and gives us hope.
Tuesday. 11th day of October 1859.
3.00 p.m.
Crawling along. Currently at 1°34′N, 3°23′E.
Wednesday. 12th day of October 1859.
9.00 a.m.
Passenger Colin McPhiel found dead this morning. No ascertainable cause. Have ordered corpse preserved in lime for Christian burial in God’s good earth. Crew and passengers now convinced the ship is blighted. I argue against superstition, but in the name of the Almighty, I feel it myself.
3.00 p.m.
The lassitude that immobilised us on the island is still with us. Many men, women, and children affected, in various degrees, some practically comatose.
Thursday. 13th day of October 1859.
9.00 a.m.
Seaman Henry Evans and Second Steward Thomas Cormick both died in the night. Again, no reason apparent. Placed in lime.
Noon
2°38′N, 13°8′E.
9.00 p.m.
Passenger Benjamin Eckert has committed suicide by hanging. Used the last of the lime to preserve his corpse. What doom weighs so heavily upon this vessel?
Friday. 14th day of October 1859.
7.00 a.m.
Joseph Rodgers mad with terror. Insists he saw passenger Colin McPhiel walking the deck in the early hours of this morning. I have sent him (Rodgers), Seaman William McArthur, and Quartermaster Thomas Griffith to the hold to check on the corpse.
7.30 a.m.
They report the body is present but has been disturbed; lime scattered around the casket.
8.00 p.m.
Have put Seamen Edward Wilson, William Buxton, and Mark Mayhew on a rotating watch over the hold.
At 8°55′N, 20°39′E. Making for Cape Verde to resupply.
Saturday. 15th day of October 1859.
3.30 a.m.
Shaken from my bed at 2.30 a.m. by Cowie and Rodgers. Utter chaos in the hold. Buxton and Mayhew both dead. No marks on them, but by God, the look of horror on their faces! Edward Wilson a gibbering lunatic. Struck out wildly at all who approached him. Had to call upon John Judge to restrain the man. Corpse of Colin McPhiel stretched out on the deck, powdered with lime, a dagger embedded hilt-deep in its heart.
I’m at a loss. I’ve ordered the bodies of Buxton, Mayhew, McPhiel, Evans, Cormick, and Eckert cast overboard. Wilson bound and locked in cabin.
Noon
Finally, the wind has got up, but our evil luck continues, for it’s driving us westward. Currently at 9°24′N, 24°18′W.
11.00 p.m.
11°21′N, 28°57′W. We’ll not make Cape Verde this day.
Sunday. 16th day of October 1859.
10.00 a.m.
Passengers Mrs. C. Hodge, George Gunn, Franklin Donoughue, and Seaman Terrance O’Farrell, all dead. No indications of disease other than the severe lethargy from which they’d all suffered. By Christ, am I commanding a plague ship? Bodies thrown overboard. No energy or will for ceremony.