1.00 p.m.
Joseph Rodgers bearded me in my cabin and ranted for half an hour. He said: “Satan is sucking the souls right out of us, Captain Taylor. We’ll all be dead afore this ship touches another shore.”
Monday. 17th day of October 1859.
7.00 a.m.
Ten taken. Passengers: Mrs. J. B. Russell, Miss D. Glazer, P. N. Robinson, T. T. Bowden, T. Willmoth, and A. Mullard. Crewmen: Second Officer A. Cowie, Rigger G. A. Turner, Fourth Officer J. Croome, Seaman W. Draper.
3.00 p.m.
A strong southerly wind has driven us to 19°28′N, 30°14′W.
5.00 p.m.
There was a medium among our passengers, known to all as Mademoiselle Tabitha, though the manifest lists her as Miss Doris Jones. I didn’t see her on the island. Apparently she spent our days there curled up in a corner of a hut and spoke to no one. Since we departed, a similar story: locked in her cabin, opening the door only to receive food from a friend among her fellow passengers. An hour ago, I was told she wanted to see me. Went down and found her seemingly in a trance.
She said, “He is reaching out, Captain. Speaking through the mouth of a woman like me.”
I asked, “Who is?”
She said, “Our additional passenger. He who hides. He who feeds. He who endures to the end.”
I asked, “We have a stowaway?”
To this, she giggled like a madwoman and said, in an oddly deep voice, “Let us say au revoir before I embarrass myself any further. I have the royal charter. I’m on my way. We shall meet soon. Say goodbye to the countess.”
She reached out as if grasping something in the air and made a twisting motion, before then clutching at her chest and collapsing to the floor, stone dead. I have no explanation.
8.30 p.m.
I have had the ship searched from bow to stern. No stowaway detected.
Tuesday. 18th day of October 1859.
5.00 a.m.
Twelve more gone. I shan’t list them here but will add the date of their demise against their names on the passenger and crew manifests.
Rodgers informed me that he witnessed John Judge “creeping” around the ship during the night. I approached Judge half an hour ago. He explained that he’s started to keep a nightly watch. The man is not crew, but his intimidating size is such that I am glad of his vigil.
Noon
Developing storm. We are driven NNW.
Saturday. 22nd day of October 1859.
Time unknown. Daylight.
Impossible to maintain this log. Mass panic aboard. Fighting. Suicides. The death toll increases every night. Seaman Gregory Parsons attempted to lead a mutiny. Joseph Rodgers forced to shoot him dead.
We are in the stranglehold of an increasingly violent maelstrom. Compass spinning. Timepieces have stopped. Sky black with cloud. Unable to establish position.
Monday. 24th day of October 1859.
Time unknown.
Storm so intense I don’t know if it’s night or day.
Death. Nothing but death. Passengers refusing to leave their cabins.
Time unknown.
Rodgers has become convinced that John Judge is responsible for the evils that beset this vessel. He’s going after him with a pistol. I am powerless.
Time unknown.
Not enough crew remaining to man the ship. I have to get it to port. I have to—else we’re all dead.
Note.
This writ by Joseph Rodgers at Capt. Taylor’s command.
The Capt. pegs us as in the Irish Sea. He is bound to the wheel so as not to be washed overboard and is set on steering us to any port we can find. I am to wrap this logbook in sealskin and return it to him, so it might be on him if we are wrecked.
Beware of John Judge. Satan took him on the island and he has preyed on us this voyage through. He walks by night and steals a man’s soul from him and leaves the body dead but not dead. I saw Colin McPhiel rise and hunt for souls to replace what was took from him.
The Royal Charter is damned. Capt. Taylor is damned. I am damned. We are all damned. But I’ll not go without a fight. I have me pistol loaded and as God is me witness I’ll search this ship from bow to stern till I find Judge and send him back to hell with a bullet.
Lord have Mercy on my soul.
“As for a future life, every man must judge for himself between conflicting vague probabilities.”
—CHARLES DARWIN
“That’s the end of it,” Swinburne said. “Phew! What terror! I shall have nightmares!”
Trounce exclaimed, “I’d lay good money on it being Joseph Rodgers who made it ashore and John Judge who followed and killed him.”
“La Bête est venue,” Eliphas Levi whispered.
“The Beast has come?” Swinburne repeated. “What do you mean by that?”
Burton, Trounce, and Levi glanced at each other.
The poet banged his fist on the arm of his chair. “Out with it!” he commanded. “Explain what this is all about! You—” he jabbed his finger at Burton, “—are the man with a scar on his face. Abdu El Yezdi said my travails would begin when you appeared.” Swinburne lifted the logbook and waved it over his head. “If this Royal Charter tragedy and your interest in the Arabian are connected, then I demand to know how!”
Burton was silent for a few seconds then nodded. “Very well, but I must ask something of you first.”
“What?”
“I believe the Arabian mesmerised you, and I want to do the same. Maybe I can unearth whatever he caused you to forget.”
“You mean he removed something from my memory?”
“More likely he inserted something but made it inaccessible to your recollection. I’d like to know what.”
“And if I allow this, you’ll tell me the full story?”
“Yes.”
“Then do it. At once.”
Burton knew that under normal circumstances it would be impossible to put Swinburne into a trance. The poet had an excess of electric vitality. It caused him to be in constant twitchy motion and was at the root of his overexcitable personality. However, he was exhausted after his taxing swim and Burton had purposely asked him to read from the logbook to further tire him. Swinburne was drained—just as he must have been after ascending Culver Cliff—as was evinced by the relative idleness of his limbs.
Burton addressed Trounce and Levi. “Be absolutely still and quiet please, gentlemen.”
He drew his chair over so it faced the poet’s and leaned forward. “Algy, keep your eyes on mine. Relax. Mimic my breathing. Imagine your first breath goes into your right lung. Inhale slowly. Exhale slowly. The next breath goes into your left lung. Slowly in. Slowly out. The next into the middle of your chest. In. Out. Repeat that sequence.”
As Swinburne’s respiration adopted the Sufi rhythm, he became entirely motionless but for a slight rocking. Burton murmured further instructions, guiding the young man into a cycle of four breaths, each directed into a different part of the body.
The poet’s mind was gradually subdued by the developing complexity of the exercise. His pupils grew wider and his face slack. Burton, satisfied that he’d gained dominance, said, “Go back to Culver Cliff, Algernon. You have just made your climb and are lying on the downs at the top. A man named Abdu El Yezdi has met you there.”
“Yes,” Swinburne whispered. “The fat, snaggle-toothed old Arabian.”
“He’s spoken to you about courage and told you to look out for a man with a scar on his face.”