January 29th, 1776
I resumed my usual hammock last night. I am embarrassed by my health.
Slant’s anxiety is awful to observe.
“Is it . . . by breath?” he asks, jaw working.
I own that such is not known; but that indeed, the scholars of the College believed the disease was caused by the inhalation of truculent animalcula.
Pomp asked I explain myself; which I did, but it was no comfort to Slant. He looked up and down the deck at the folded and stricken bodies; and he said, “When does a body know he has it?”
I answered miserably that the disease hath a period of quiescence before it blooms.
“You mean it might . . . already be in me?”
“I am sure you are uninfected,” said I.
“How long it take?” asked Slant. “To . . . show?”
“Two weeks,” said I. “With us, it waited two weeks.”
He shook his head and covered his eyes with the heels of his hands. Pomp begged him to rally, for there was no cause yet for uneasiness; but Slant merely whispered, “I may be dead already.”
I look with Slant’s eyes down the length of this dark hold, and I see men involved in speech and exhalation. Any word releasing breath might be the sentence of death; any word inhaled, be it “is,” or “sweet,” or “the.” I see soldiers conversing in the gloom. Their every phrase is embroidered upon a flag, as in satirical sketches; but the letters cannot be read, for they are not of our alphabet, but of the speech of the dying; and we fear to know who next shall con its lessons.