February 3rd, 1776
Suffering a head-ache and a poor stomach; we are all besieged by petty illnesses, trapped as we are upon this ship.
For nigh on two weeks, our clothes have seen neither water nor soap, and they are now considerably enstyed by the muck of the deck and the contagions of the air. Thus, ’twas with general acclamation that we greeted the arrival of two women to collect our laundry this day. Though I harbored a desire that I might see Dr. Trefusis as a result of this necessary visit, and spend an hour indulging in book and debate, he was not permitted to accompany the washerwomen; my disappointment being most agreeably mollified, however, by the appearance of Miss Nsia.
Private Draper’s child, who hath for several days been quartered with us upon the Crepuscule, would not remove his shirt for washing. I was down upon my haunches, speaking what reason I could to him — Master Thomas, I pray you remove that shirt and put on this — a debate wherein I argued that he did not want, did he, to be a mere frigate for mites and chiggers — and he replied that ’twas his best shirt and he weren’t giving it; he didn’t mind no mites; they was his mites; and so my coaxing turned to pleading; and his complaining turned to obduracy — at which juncture Miss Nsia and Pro Bono appeared at my side, and I was confounded in silence, abruptly sensible of how my head-ache dulled my wits.
“He won’t yield up the shirt?” said Pro Bono.
I shook my head, and half rose to deliver a bow to Miss Nsia, but could not fully rise nor fully sit; and so gave over and squatted as I had been.
“He is,” said I, “on most days, a charming child.”
“’Cepting he probably brought the mites on board with his mama,” said Pro Bono. “That’s what I heard.” He said to the boy in play, “It’s lucky you’re so prodigious sweet-faced. Otherwise we’d all feed you to them sharks for introducing fleas.”
“Where’s the sharks?” asked the boy.
Pro Bono pointed aft, toward the sailors; Master Tom swung his head in delight and horror to observe the most dangerous of fishes; at which Miss Nsia swooped down, seized upon the child, and commenced tickling his sides, whispering, “A fingery bite! Them sharks has a fingery bite!”— to which the boy squealed and laughed — she growling, “They got wiggly teeth and loves that meat under the arms! ‘This boy eats fine! Most well-tasting child I eats for three weeks!’”
“It’s owing to he’s garnished with lice,” said Pro Bono. “They makes a fine amuse-bouche for the king of the sea.”
My heart swelled at the sight of Miss Nsia’s considerable powers brought to bear on this giggling child; and it was with delight that I watched this tender and familiar scene, in which natural compassion was so leavened with sportiveness. But no sooner had I entertained visions of this delightful charm being brought to bear upon me, than I realized that Pro Bono and Miss Nsia, now struggling the child out of his shirt as he writhed like a fish, were grouped like parents; whereas I sat apart, my head aching, my adoration unmatched by any powers of persuasion or address.
Tom Draper was changed into a wide, long shirt that trailed upon the ground. His other, stained, was in the bundle of laundry to be washed, and he, delighted with the game, was running through arched legs to find his father.
Bono noted my sadness; he watched my eyes upon her.
Together, the three of us collected the shirts and breeches from such as were afflicted with sickness, all lying together in the stern. They were slow to move and shivered in the cold before we wrapped them again in blankets. Miss Nsia turned with nice discretion as Bono and I lifted off their smocks.
When she bade us farewell and retired, I entreated her to forgive me my lack of animation, adding that, between illness and fear of illness, I was not in much countenance to speak fluidly; but that the restorative powers of her presence had rallied me.
“Private Nothing,” she said, “you makes a pretty little speech right there.”
When she had gone and we were alone, Bono adopted a tone of utmost seriousness, and said to me, “I withdraw all claim upon her, Prince O.”
With some misery, I prayed that he should do no such thing, for in her looks and speech her admiration for my companion was clear.
Bono shook his head. “I would truly like to see you dew-eyed in love,” he said. “’Cepting you’d be lyrical. All hollyhocks and wee folk skipping in the barley and ain’t it like what Plossitossitus says about the return of spring.” He put his hand upon my shoulder and rose. “In earnest, I withdraw my claim,” he said.
Said I, “It is not for us to decide.”
He thought upon this. “A true word.”
“She hath made her determination.”
“You don’t know that, surely.”
“Her eyes speak of her favor.”
He argued not, but brooded; he was as sensible as I of the marks of her regard. I should perhaps have found gratifying a little more polite resistance to my observation, but he offered no feint; he denied not her favor and accepted his lot with alacrity. Had I not been beset upon by other anxieties, I would have been more galled by the speed with which he laid aside his professions of equality in the contest; but being consumed with exhaustion at our ministrations, I merely observed in defeat and humiliation his assumption of the bays.
He looked fore, toward her retreating form, and said, “She is monstrous fine.”
I nodded, my head beating with its ache. “Private Williams,” said I, “there are more sicknesses than the smallpox, and we endanger ourselves by resting in the vapors.”
“Aye,” he said. “I don’t cut so excellent a figure when I’m vomiting. I bend from the waist, and it interrupts the line of beauty.”
Thus we removed ourselves as best we could from the ring of contagion.