David Mitchell - Cloud Atlas

“Guilty thoughts disturbing your rest, Mr. Ewing?” spoke a succubus at my shoulder & I dropped my pipe. It was Boerhaave. I assured the Hollander that while my conscience was quite untroubled I doubted he could claim as much. Boerhaave spat overboard, smiling. Had fangs & horns sprouted I should have felt no surprise. He slung Rafael over his shoulder, slapped the sleeping ‘prentice’s buttocks & carried his somnolent burden to the after-hatch, to keep him out of harm’s way, I trust.

Boxing Day

—

Yesterdays entry sentences me to a prison of remorse for the rest of my days. How perversely it reads, how flippant I was! Oh, I am sick to write these words. Rafael has hanged himself. Hanged, by means of a noose slung over the mainmast lower yardarm. He ascended his gallows between the end of his watch & first bell. Fate decreed I should be amongst his discoverers. I was leaning over the bulwark, for the Worm causes bouts of nausea as it is expelled. In the blue half-light I heard a cry & saw Mr. Roderick gazing heavenward. Confusion twisted his face; succeeded by disbelief; folding in grief. His lips formed a word, yet no word issued. He pointed to that he could not name.

There swung a body, a gray form brushing the canvas. Noise erupted from all quarters, but who was shouting what to whom I cannot recall. Rafael, hanged, steady as a plumb lead as the Prophetess pitched & rolled. That amiable boy, lifeless as a sheep on a butcher’s hook! Autua had scrambled aloft, but all he could do was lower the boy down gently. I heard Guernsey mutter, “Should never o’ sailed on Friday, Friday’s the Jonah.”

———

My mind burns with the question, Why? None will discuss it, but Henry, who is as horrified as myself, told me that, secretly, Bentnail had intimated to him that the unnatural crimes of Sodom were visited upon the boy by Boerhaave & his “garter snakes.” Not just on Christmas night, but every night for many weeks.

My duty is to follow this dark river to its source & impose justice on the miscreants but, Lord, I can scarce sit up to feed myself! Henry says I cannot flagellate myself whene’er innocence falls prey to savagery, but how can I let this be? Rafael was Jackson’s age. I feel such impotence, I cannot bear it.

Friday, 27th December

—

Whilst Henry was called away to attend an injury, I hauled myself to Cpt. Molyneux’s cabin to speak my mind. He was displeazed at being visited, but I would not quit his quarters until my charge was stated, to wit, Boerhaave’s pack had tormented Rafael with nightly bestiality until the boy, seeing no possibility of reprieve or relief, took his life. Finally, the captain asked, “You do, of course, have evidence for this crime? A suicide letter? Signed testimonials?” Every man aboard knew I spoke the truth! The captain could not be insensible of Boerhaave’s brutality! I demanded an inquiry into the first mate’s part in Rafael’s self-slaughter.

“Demand all you wish, Mr. Quillcock!” Cpt. Molyneux shouted. “ I decide who sails Prophetess , who maintains discipline, who trains the ‘prentices, not a d——d pen pusher, not his d——d ravings & by God’s Blood not any d——d ‘inquiry’! Get out, sir, & blast you!”

I did so & immediately collided with Boerhaave. I asked him if he was going to lock me up in his cabin with his garter snakes, then hope I ‘d hang myself before dawn? He showed his fangs and in a voice laden with venom and hatred, issued this warning: “The stink of decay is on you, Quillcock, no man of mine would touch you lest he contract it. You’ll die soon of your ‘low fever.’ ”

Notaries of the United States, I had the wit to warn him, do not vanish as conveniently as colonial cabin boys. I believe he entertained the notion of strangling me. But I am too sickly to be afraid of a Dutch sodomite.

Later

—

Doubt besieges my conscience & complicity is its charge. Did I give Rafael the permission he sought to commit self-slaughter? Had I divined his misery when last he spoke to me, interpreted his intention & replied, “No, Rafael, the Lord cannot forgive a planned suicide, for repentance cannot be true if it occurs before the crime,” the boy may yet be drawing breath. Henry insists I could not have known, but for once his words ring hollow to my ears. Oh, did I send that poor Innocent to Hell?

Saturday, 28th December

—

A magic-lantern show in my mind has the boy taking the rope, ascending the mast, knotting his noose, steadying himself, addressing his Maker, launching himself into vacancy. As he rushed through the black, did he feel serenity or dread? The snap of his neck.

Had I but known! I could have helped the child jump ship, deflect his destiny as the Channings did mine, or help him understand that no state of tyranny reigns forever.

The Prophetess has every inch of canvas aloft & is “sailing like a witch” (not for any benefit of mine, but because the cargo is rotting) & makes over 3º of latitude daily. I am terribly sick now & confined to my coffin. I suppose Boerhaave believes I am hiding from him. He is deceived, for the righteous vengeance I wish to visit upon his head is one of the few flames unextinguished by this dreadful torpor. Henry beseeches me write my journal to occupy my brain, but my pen grows unwieldy & heavy. We make Honolulu in three days. My loyal doctor promises to accompany me ashore, spare no expense to obtain powerful paregorics & remain at my bedside until my recovery is compleat, even if the Prophetess must leave for California without us. God bless this best of men. I can write no more today.

Sunday, 29th December

—

I fare most ill.

Monday, 30th December

—

The Worm is recrudescent. Its poison sacs have burst. I am racked with pain & bedsores & a dreadful thirst. Oahu is still two or three days to the north. Death is hours away. I cannot drink & do not recall when I ate last. I made Henry promise to deliver this journal to Bedford’s in Honolulu. From there it will reach my bereaved family. He swears I shall deliver it on my own two feet, but my hopes are blasted. Henry has done his valiant best, but my parasite is too virulent & I must entrust my soul to its Maker.

Jackson, when you are a grown man do not permit your profession to sunder you from loved ones. During my months away from home, I thought of you & your mother with constant fondness & should it come to pass […] *

Sunday, 12th January

—

The temptation to begin at the perfidious end is strong, but this diarist shall remain true to chronology. On New Year’s Day, my head pains were rolling so thunderously I was taking Goose’s medicine every hour. I could not stand against the ship’s roll, so I stayed abed in my coffin, vomiting into a sack though my guts were vacant & shivering with an icy, scalding fever. My Ailment could no longer be concealed from the crew & my coffin was placed under quarantine. Goose had told Cpt. Molyneux that my Parasite was contagious, thereby appearing the very paragon of selfless courage. (The complicity of Cpt. Molyneux & Boerhaave in the subsequent malfeasance cannot be proven or disproven. Boerhaave wished evil on me, but I am forced to admit it unlikely he was party to the crime described below.)

I recall surfacing from feverish shallows. Goose was an inch away. His voice sank to a loving whisper. “Dearest Ewing, your Worm is in its death throes & expelling every last drop of its poison! You must drink this purgative to expel its calcified remains. It will send you to sleep, but when you awake, the Worm that has so tormented you shall be out! The end of your suffering is at hand. Open your mouth, one last time, handsomely does it, dearest of fellows … here, ’tis bitter & foul a flavor, it’s the myrrh, but down with it, for Tilda & Jackson …”