Show Me the Sky - Nicholas Hogg [42]
The capt., grinning as I told him of the miraculously returned books, did not seem to care that a culprit had not been discovered, just that he had been spared of shame before the reverends and their wives. When I ventured that the ‘borrower’ must have been one of them, the capt. winked, patted my shoulder and said, ‘Fear God not Mr Babbage, for He knows well the weakness of a man without a wife.’
Then he walked away, my judge, jury, and jailer, certain he had found his fornicator of pages!
I spent the day musing on this brief but dramatic episode, wondering how the books had been so conveniently returned, and whether the Rev. Thomas had prior knowledge of the search.
9 February 1835
The more I consider the Rev. Thomas, the more I understand what a fine messenger of God he is. And, ashamedly, as these acknowledgements of his better character increase, so does my guilt at assassinating his person in these very pages. His direct manner is a most effective tool of conversation, revealing the heart of subjects rather than dancing around them.
As we will part company in New Holland, when he takes his position with the convict church in Port Jackson, and I continue on with the Rev. Stevens to Fiji, I shall pray to the Lord above that we may have the time to become better acquainted.
10 February 1835
Now it is I who has laid a trap! Once the books had made their fantastic return to where they had vanished, I was in no doubt that the Rev. Thomas had sabotaged the lock himself. But how had he known I was to search his quarters that very evening?
Between the words of this journal I have had the same sensation as stepping on to a jungle path near enemy villages. Though the leaves and trees are still, eyes watch my every move from the hidden dark – just as those of the Rev. Thomas have raced across these very pages. I have long suspected his changing moods – temperamental as the sea herself – to be connected to my very words, and this afternoon, after the false accolades of his person had been put to paper, I returned my journal to its usual place on the shelf. But this time, before taking my reverie above deck, I wet a strand of hair and pasted it across the closed pages. Whilst pretending to snooze on a sack of wheat, I opened my eyes wide enough to watch Rev. Thomas slip below, no doubt pausing at the hatch to look left and right for a witness, much in the manner of a fox raiding a burrow.
Following dinner, and the most gracious and cordial reception from the Rev. Thomas, no doubt his mood lightened on reading what a fine gentleman I had now declared him, I returned to my cabin to find the journal unmoved – but the hair gone!
And I can write this in confidence now, sure that the eyes of the Rev. Thomas will not read my words, because the key for the chest in which this journal is stored hangs about my neck!
11 February 1835
Though the Rev. Thomas did not express outward disappointment that my jottings were now unavailable, I did discern a focus of inquisition during our exchange this morning. Our conversation was that of a mighty, slow moving river, its surface of glass betraying the swirling eddies beneath.
It is strange indeed that this journal, which I began as though a task set by a schoolmaster, should form such an attachment to my being that I recoiled with feelings of invasion when realising my private words had become public.
Have I become more Englander than Islander? Judging the inner world more important than the outer?
12 February 1835
I fear the unusual sea conditions are causing the capt. much concern. Though we have but a murmur of wind, the sea billows beneath our bows like a silken curtain. Not a wave even ripples, and this effect of riding aquatic dunes is quite unnerving.
The capt., not about to distress his passengers with prophecies of doom, will not be drawn to speculate on the approaching weather.
Alas, it is apparent to us all, that we are