Show Me the Sky - Nicholas Hogg [9]
This was a kingdom my mind could not have entertained prior to stepping down from the gangplank of the Fortune ten long years ago. Alas it has receded into cloud and sky, again a world only to be conjured by my inner eye.
Once more do I realise that I might never see her again.
4 October 1834
Amid the rising swell, the cold brace of the Atlantic and its northerly winds, the reverends and their families have been much quietened by seasickness, finding the open deck and its shifting topography only conducive to discharging the contents of their stomachs over the sides.
This morning the wife of Rev. Stevens, worst affected by the motion of the Caroline – even somewhat queasy bobbing along the Thames Estuary – appeared most suddenly from the hatch, running hither and thither and shrieking about the deck in a most delirious whirl, threatening to whomever may hear that she would cast herself into the waves if the Lord ignore her prayers for a calmer sea. Several sailors and myself restrained Mrs Stevens – quite forcefully keeping her person until the arrival of her husband and the capt. She was ushered below by the somewhat embarrassed Rev. Stevens, and it was only after a drop of rum and the administering of some sleeping medicine that brought her peace of mind.
On witnessing such a commotion, a complete dejection of self just from the rolling waves, I was moved to utter a small prayer of thanks to the Lord for sparing me of seasickness.
6 October 1834
This being the sabbath, all on-board, save the most necessary sailors, listened to a service delivered by the Rev. Jefferson. Many of the rougher deckhands, no doubt as far from the Saviour as the people of my untutored lands, seemed to barely tolerate the sermon, whispering snide words and flashing grins like mischievous schoolboys.
It is this rejection of the Lord, by those verily born into His midst, which suffers me much consternation for the missionaries and their gallant efforts to convert my heathen brothers – us who have known only the toy gods and false idols born from our darkened minds.
7 October 1834
The squally seas have subsided, and with a light yet favourable wind, the Caroline cuts the waves with fair progress.
The missionaries are men of schedule and order, and a working rhythm to the days has already been established, along with a voyage committee formed by the following:
Rev. Lilywhite – should be considered director, though Captain Drinkwater will supersede authority on maritime matters.
Rev. Jefferson – vice-president, with natural ascension to president if some misfortune were to occur to Rev. Lilywhite.
Rev. Stevens – to take charge of the library, with myself as his assistant.
Rev. Thomas – responsible for the stewardship of the missionaries’ provisions, ensuring the equal distribution of articles – mostly tea, sugar, butter and cheese – and their quantities.
How the thought of this stodgy sustenance makes one long for the succulent papaya! So swollen with juice it falls from laden boughs on the gentlest breeze. English fayre may derive from many more pots and pans, but a pudding of suet or ladle of gruel does not enliven the palate as does a bowl of turtle soup, the gleaming oyster slipping the tongue, a coconut creamed, or an orange that glows like the setting sun.
God may have spoken to the white men first, but surely he came home and sat at the table of Fiji for his dinner!
12 October 1834
I am a week without an entry in my journal, as each morning of the past five days has been spent with the Rev. Stevens in the small but well-stocked library, nestled between the galley and the quartermaster’s stores. First we unpacked the boxes of books loaded at Blackwall, before arranging them upon the shelves – minus several bawdy tales belonging to the captain, quite flushing the cheeks of Rev. Stevens upon closer inspection – and logging their contents, title, and author.
In