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March 14
It has been two days since The Persephone set sail from the colonies. I enquired upon boarding how long the Captain of this vessel anticipated the journey to the mother country should take; he attempted to demonstrate to me the workings of several of the ship's gadgets, delicate machines with sickle-shapes of polished brass and spheres with some sort of measure on them, but I could make neither head nor tail of the things; nor how he used them to make his guess: 6 weeks, I'm told, weather permitting, guided by these contraptions. God willing, the journey will be easy.
*
March 20
I have been prevented from keeping this journal for several days due to an unexpected bout of sea-sickness. Despite the fact that I have been constrained to my cabin (due to my own wounded pride rather than captain's orders - I had supposed myself to be a seasoned sea-man, but have quite been shown up by the deckhands), I have found the movement of nib on page grates rather too much with the movement of the ship on the water and thus have been abed for most of my time aboard, excepting my daily toilet.
I have been consigned, however, a cabin toward the fore of the ship, which at first I resented a little for the view, but have come accustomed to the movement of the prow -- or should I say, the movement of the water and the blurred grey horizon against the stillness of the prow -- through my porthole; which was at first quite unnerving but has become somewhat of a comfort for me: Even in this strange environment, that strikes me with its alien-ness anew each time I venture into it, I stand firm amongst the instability of nature around me.
*
March 22
I am writing this on the tenth morning since The Persephone left port. Over the past week I have dined with the captain frequently, several occasions in which he has commented on what seems to by my 'luck' on this journey -- the wind has been high, driving us forward at faster speeds than even he (with his insightful gadgets) predicted. (I agree with him on the 'luck' front only partly; I must blame the fast movement of the ship for my previous nausea.) The captain has also commented on the unusual lack of vermin aboard -- something which I noticed myself, but perhaps with more relish than he: he seems to take it as an ill omen whereas I am merely glad to be sleeping in my bunk alone!
I would not even be recording this information but for the fact that I stepped out on deck this morning to a rather uncomfortable stand off between the mates and the rest of the crew. Many of the ship's hands have admitted to having evil dreams over the past few nights; something not uncommon for perhaps one or two, but they have been discomforted by the fact that quite a large number of them have been experiencing some form of night-terror. The crew seem to think it might have something to do with the drinking water; which I cannot accede to myself, as I have been drinking from the same barrels as much as my ration allows and have never slept more soundly on any sea-journey I can recall. Perhaps what has killed off the vermin (some foodstuff in the cargo, perchance?) has been affecting the minds of the crew who have been consuming it also? I shall mention my theory to the captain if he brings it up at our next meal.
*
March 23
The discomfort between bos'n and deck crew is even more pronounced this morning. I have kept mainly to my own cabin, as not to fuel more discontent amongst the men; I suspect they may resent my lack of complaint as far as peace of mind goes, although the captain reassured their water contamination fears yestereve. Now the passengers, bos'n and crew all take their drink from the same barrel precisely.
*
March 24
Tensions on The Persephone still run high. Some of the crewmen have taken ill; with symptoms of faintness and physical tremors. The nervousness in the men seeks target -- I have been venturing out of my cabin more often in a bid to prove to them that I am not plotting some vile plan behind their backs, but rather (if you'll pardon the pun) in the same boat as them, although my good health still keeps up. The captain, even, is looking worse for wear; though I wager that's more from lack of proper sleep and anxiety than some mysterious illness. We have dined together less and less, and understandably so -- he has taken to sleeping where the deckhands' hang their hammocks, to assuage their fears or, I suspect, to attempt to pinpoint the source of these most unnatural occurrences.
*
March 26
One of the crewmen is dead. The ship is in an uproar. From what I can garner, he was found this morning in his hammock with no fatal wounds upon him. The other men heard nothing. They refuse to give him 'burial', instead demanding explanation from the captain, who has confined me to my cabin, admittedly for my own safety. I fear mutiny.
*
March 31
It has been sixteen days since The Persephone has been in sight of land; we have lost six crewmen. None of them with a mark on their body to suggest a fatal blow; only close inspection reveals the suggestion of small punctures at the throat or the side of the neck. At the crew's insistence, the captain allowed a thorough search of the hold (and indeed, the entire ship) for any sign of vermin -- the men perhaps suspecting the plague. Some of them have even taken to wearing kerchiefs over their faces in an attempt to avoid 'infection'. Others suspect it is something we carry; some contagious and lethal cargo, but the captain refuses to dispose of it so recklessly, as some of the crewmen have been demanding. We are under four weeks away from the mother country, weather permitting. God willing, we will make it to her alive.
*
April 6
There are no longer enough binding sheets -- rag off-cuts or otherwise -- to permit 'proper' burial. This morning at dawn the few of us remaining -- less than ten -- watched the naked body of the first mate slide swiftly off the board and sink, blue-white and almost unrecognisable through the wavering of the water, until it disappeared amidst the murky grey mists below. When we were but a day from land, with the horizon still uneven in black and green, he had pointed out to me grey shapes slicing up through the spray as we leaned toward the bow; dolphins, large fish-like creatures with snub brows and long noses, and chirruping calls like crude birds, which I had heard of in my travels but thought only to be seaman's myth.
I wonder what myth his body is sinking into now, what supernatural creature awaits him in the depths; siren, selkie, or kraken.
I wonder what awaits us aboard this vessel.
*
April 8
The remaining souls aboard -- The captain, myself, second mate and three crewmen -- all dine together in the ship's mess hall, now. The crewmen and bos'n have taken to sleeping on deck, regardless of the weather, rather than sleep where so many of their crewmates have been found, cold and white, as the sun rises. I, however, keep to my cabin of a night. I dine with the others then retire to my own quarters as the sun sets, and emerge once the mighty golden disc glowers above the horizon in the morn.
*
April 9
A scuffle broke out last night between the bos'n and the remaining crewmen, one of which were regrettably slain. The sight of blood, vivid and red, was both shocking and sobering after so many days of pale, woundless corpses. Five of us now remain aboard. The two crewmen are more subdued now, but also more sullen; they seem to think this silent, invisible threat is sourced in the ship's cargo hold and wish to throw all we carry overboard. The captain, of course, refuses outright. I have been keeping to my cabin, on pretence of sea-sickness. We no longer suspect each other.
*
April 14
This morning we buried the body of the second mate, who had been feverish and weak for nigh on three days. No longer are the deaths quick, it seems: one of the remaining deckhands has taken ill, now, and can barely rise from his hammock. He bears small, slightly inflamed puncture marks on the inside of his wrist. Oh, for a physician aboard to explain these blatant fatalities!
Even my own cabin, it seems, is no protection from this relentless, inexplicable threat: I have begun to dream, though whether the white, ghoul-face that haunts my sleeping mind is merely a fear-stoked apparition of so many of the deceased men we have sent off, or whether it is something more sinister, I cannot tell. I dare not speculate. I sleep now with my nose and mouth covered; most probably a futile gesture (as it so obviously did not help the crewmen), good for nothing but allowing me a fraction more peace of mind. We are two weeks from home.
*
April 20
This morning myself and the last remaining crewman gave a burial to the Captain of The Persephone. I know nothing of sailing beyond the bare minimum, and the deckhand is listless, despairing, and would be unwilling to man the ship and all her sails and booms, even if he could do so alone. I fear for my life more than ever. He has sealed himself in the captain's cabins already, and I keep to mine also. I have composed a letter to my loved ones; what few of them remain on this earth, and composed a last will and testament should, God willing, this ship be found, manned by nothing but ghosts, unless she first dashes herself upon the rocks in grief. I have given up hope myself of another ship coming across us and aiding us; I fear we have drifted too far off course to make it home in time even if we had enough crew; all the captain's intricate devices are useless without his knowledge and interpretation. I pray only for the eventual finding of this journal, the closest there is to truth of what has occurred here, and the deliverance of my own soul...
*
April 23
The crewman has taken ill. I feel a kind of sickening gratitude that it is he first and not I, that I am allowed one last dignity; to face my end alone and know it for what it is. I hear him raving from within the departed captain's cabin, immediately above mine, and the door bangs loudly as the ship pitches and rolls against the movement of the water, as if trying to throw us off. I dream of ghouls and cadavers; a white face with red lips and blue eyes, wearing the clothes of the dead. The smell of salt always rushes back to assail my senses as I wake, as if dispelling the scent of something warmer, thicker.
I have decided to inspect the hold myself. If this journal is indeed recovered one day, I would rather be remembered for more than cowering like an animal, awaiting my own death with nothing more than regretful resignation. My peace of mind lies more in the need for truth rather than survival.
*
April 25
On the evening of the 23rd of April, as the sun set, I lit one of the ship's storm lanterns and descended into the hold. As the captain had said, I saw no vermin nor anything to suggest their presence. The space in the cargo hold was dominated mostly by large crates stacked high, but also a few smaller, more personal items, including my own luggage, amidst other tightly-bound chests. Some of them had been broken open already -- no doubt by crewmen, weeks earlier, after the first deaths occurred. I sifted through them carefully but found nothing of suspicious origin: clothing, books, a few innocuous keepsakes from the colonies, brought back by many a visitor. The larger crates yielded even less -- spices and cloths easily recognisable and obviously not at all sinister, although I did carefully inspect each one that I could access, searching for a hidden culprit or explanation, perhaps.
In a far corner of the hold I discovered coffins; not quite unexpected as I knew the rich noblemen of the colonies could afford to send their family's (and their own) remains back for burial in home soil. There were four of them, the wood fairly rough-hewn but sturdy; the bodies would be transferred to more ornate caskets once within their own estates. Each was sealed quite tightly against the threat of deterioration from the air, though from my own experience I knew that after six weeks, no matter how well the box was sealed, there would be some decay.
Each of the coffins were initialled, as to identify it to whomever would be awaiting its delivery on the far shore. One, however (with the boldly embossed initials V.M.), also sported deep gouges within its wooden lid, as if someone (or something, though I hadn't dared think that as I was down there; my hands already trembling in anxiety) had attempted to get into the coffin from the outside. I would like to think it was one of the crewmen, attempting to open the crude casket in order to ascertain its contents were harmless, but the gouges were set apart and shaped as if done by human hand, human fingers, but with a strength beyond that of a man. I do not doubt that none of the men on board the ship created those marks, and as I stood there I was overcome with such a sense of dread that my heart leapt within my breast and pounded urgently, as if seeking to escape the cage of my body.
What followed next I cannot be sure of, as I cannot assure the reader (if there is indeed, God willing, an eventual reader of this journal) that I was in a sound state of mind. I was overcome with terror and yet also a sense of calm; something was moving in the hold from above where the large crates were stacked atop one another. I am ashamed to say I ran, then; my instinctual reaction took over my faculties and I fled the hold, barely able to clamber up the ladder and onto the deck, so much were my limbs seized with a sudden quaking.
I did not sleep that night, and heard nothing as a sat in my cabin but the creaking and moaning of the ship's timbers, and the now-hoarse wailing of the ill crewman in the cabin above. Some time before dawn the cries ceased. This may be my last entry. God save my soul.