Thomas’s meals became fewer and fewer as the days passed on the H.M.S. Regina. Locked in the brig after inciting a drunken brawl, his meals had been regular, but the past few days had shown them to become increasingly sporadic.
Monday had been the last time he was served all three meals. Tuesday and Wednesday only agreed to two, breakfast omitted both days, and Thursday, he was given only supper, which comprised of a few torn slices of bread that the weevils beat him to and a sickeningly rare leg of oddly-colored mutton that Thomas’s best judgment willed him to dispose of.
The crack beneath the door was high enough for little more than a plate to slide through, and they had mercifully filled the brig with enough rum to sustain him for the remainder of the voyage. Thomas was smarter than to drink it in any way besides extremely sparingly, as that was his only drink for a week or so.
Throughout the week, Thomas heard a number of splashes on the side of the ship each day. Though he wondered what they could be, he hadn’t the means to investigate, and decided to wait until the end of the journey to ask.
Friday seemed as though the crew had forgotten about him entirely, as he neither heard them talking outside the brig, nor got any meals that day.
He decided to drink more than he had previously rationed, for the rum was the only sustenance he had liberty to. That day, after his supper hadn’t come, he began to yell from the space under the door, attempting to remind the others of his presence. He did so for an hour, much longer than he would have if surprisingly strong rum weren’t his only sustenance that day. For the hour his calls were unrequited, and he decided that, since they would be back in England in a day or so, he’d just go without solid food.
Thomas’s plan to stay put had been foiled when he woke up on Saturday. Shakily, he rose from a cairn of empty bottles on the floor. If his hangover hadn’t gotten the best of him and his ability to walk, he would have discovered sooner that the Regina wasn’t moving.
The hatch was his only indication of his ship’s stagnancy. “Hey!” Thomas yelled again. His comparative sobriety allowed him a few minutes’ yelling before giving up. The door was his only way out; there was no way his rum-bloated body could fit through the hatch now.
Kicking the door down bore no fruit. Neither did simply trying the lock. Nor did clawing at it feverishly with a broken bottle of rum. Thomas sat by the door, inspecting the lock. Starving to death before figuring out what was happening outside of his small cell was an impossibility in his mind.
Of course, there were no tools in the brig, just for the purpose of thwarting attempts similar to Thomas’s. His unsteady hands had no capacity for loosening the doornails, and from their inspection he doubted that even a steady hand could, either.
Thomas felt in his pockets for anything he could possibly use in getting the God damned door to budge. He found matches, but lighting the door on fire with the assistance of his liquor would most likely immolate the rest of the ship as well.
The only metal device he had was his belt buckle. Fire was out of the question for the door, but the rum was surrounded by glass. The idea snowballed. Dropping a lit match into a bottle of rum, a respectable flame shot from the liquid. He put his belt buckle over the flame for several minutes, until it began to glow somewhat. He brought the blistering object to the door, and right above the lock, he burnt a shallow hole in the wood, until the thing cooled off too much to burn any more door. He heated the buckle again, this time making the burn to some extent deeper. It was almost enough for him to fit the tip of his finger in, but there was much more to burn. The rum’s flame died after only about ten minutes.
He had two matches left, and one went into another bottle of rum. Another round of door singeing found a good divide between the lock and the door. His fingers would never be able to fit in the tiny hole, and he lit his match, threw it into some more rum, and attempted to make it wide enough.
It only made it wide enough for the belt buckle. Throwing the finger idea away, Thomas decided to jam the buckle into the hole above the lock, and then whip it back towards him as hard as he could. After several tries and strikes on his body by the errant tool, it loosened the lock, and he ripped the rest off with his blistered hands, finally and easily tearing apart the mechanism within the door that had trapped him those many days. The door swung open.
Thomas made his way immediately to the galley, not having had anything solid in his gut for much too long. All that he could find were two jars of dried meat labeled “Mutton jerky” that had fallen behind a counter. Unscrewing one of the jars, he relocated all of its contents into his mouth, and kept the other jar for later consumption. After a few moments, the hunger that had been chewing at him for days gave way to the dire situation he was in.
Thomas ascended to the deck. The ship stood still, and there lay boundless ocean on all of its sides. He walked towards the front of the ship. There, he discovered the only crewmember on the ship since he’d escaped. It was Nathaniel, the second mate, and he was in no condition to talk. His fetor nearly forced Thomas to a swoon. The only noble thing Thomas could think to do was to merely drop Nathaniel into the sea. Thomas’s fear grew to dangerous heights in his complete and hideous bafflement as to the cause of the ship’s abandonment.
The wind picked up to some extent, and the ship drifted meaninglessly. Thomas reentered the ship. The only way he could find out what happened, he decided, was to read the captain’s log.
The captain, of course, was gone, and the door hung ajar. Entering the room, Thomas found several empty brandy bottles. The log was on his desk, and Thomas opened to a few days before he was imprisoned.
The log read:
4 May 1717,
We returned to the Regina from the island, bringing back twenty-six jars of dried mutton, eighteen crates of coca leaves, and four hogsheads of the natives’ rum. For consumption on the trip back, we are bringing half that, along with the loaves of bread, blood pudding, and raw mutton that’d turned over a week ago. In return, the lack-witted islanders accepted nine corroded rifles, only a fraction’s worth of what they gave us. A few of them recognized our trick, but their mistrust was drowned out by the less perceptive among them. I predict we’ll return to England by the end of the month.
5 May 1717,
Trappe and Waite have contracted some type of fever, most probably from the inhabitants we had been trading with. The doctor told me that he’d never seen a fever like it before, and that he didn’t hold much hope for the lives of the two men. At supper, Thomas Poole instigated a scuffle after having drunk naught but rum. The men threw him in the brig, with several bottles of the stuff to sustain him. I thought at first that it was a mistake, giving the drunk more drink, but we have no other potable on the ship, ergo we had no choice.
6 May 1717,
Waite died early this morning, and we performed a burial at sea. Trappe’s condition is unchanged, but Doctor Geoffrey and first mate Reeve have contracted the fever. Sweating, dizziness, unbearable mental and physical agony, and in later stages, tremors and convulsions, are among the symptoms. Before he became ill, the Doctor hypothesized that the fever was the symptom of a coca exposure, but this was proven false when Kingston checked the cargo, finding that all eighteen crates were inconsequentially untouched.
7 May 1717,
Trappe, Reeve, and the doctor have all expired, and the remaining healthy men dropped them into the sea. I fear this fever is becoming a true threat. Second mate Douglas advised that we quarantine all of the sick, so we are keeping them from the healthy as best we can in this cramped vessel.
Reflecting on what he had so far read, Thomas unscrewed the jar, and had another few pieces of mutton jerky. It was evident, he decided, that this fever had killed them all. He also figured that if it was airborne, he was safe, as the disease, unable to find any more to prey on, had expired along side its victims. He admitted to himself that it may be wishful thinking, but in his present situation, fantasy was infinitely more favorable than reality. He continued to read.
8 May 1717,
It terrifies me to print that I suspect that I’ve contracted the dreaded fever. Sweating and wooziness pervade me, and I feel I may never see land again. Three more have succumbed; I’m unable to recall their names. If my arithmetic is correct, there are ten sick and thirteen healthy men still on board.
Thomas was a mite insulted. He counted the amount dead and living, and came to thirty. The problem was, there were thirty-one men on board the Regina. At least, he reasoned, it explained the meal discontinuation. The next entry displayed a number of the symptoms all too clearly.
8 may 117
I fin it inceasngly hard to rite six more men are daed very few stil helty meciful crist take me
10 May 1717,
Captain Clay has yielded to the fever. The current printer is second mate Nathaniel Douglas. I am now in charge, though of what is decreasing odiously. Besides me, there are six healthy men and eight sick men. Including the captain, only two men died today.
Having finished the last strip of jerky, Thomas pondered for a moment where he could get more food. He figured that once he finished reading the log, he would take control of the ship and try to make it back to England before starvation could grip him too tightly. He continued reading.
11 May 1717
I’ve found out something grave. Suarez, our translator, died today. On his deathbed, he begged for me to listen to his final confession. Against reason, my pity for him took control, and I agreed to listen. He told me that the islanders had, in retaliation for our unjust trade, given us not dried mutton, but human lean from their prisoners who had been fed their prisoners who had been fed their prisoners. Such compounded cannibalism, he told me, had diseased the captives, and the disease was the very one that had been killing our crew. I was no longer afraid of contracting the fever from Suarez, as I had, only this day, eaten the first jar of mutton jerky since we left the island. I am the last healthy man on board the ship, not for long now, I know, and I’m afraid I’ll be left alone here, being the last living man on the ship after the rest are dead. It won’t soon matter, though; my fate is sealed, that is, if Suarez is not playing a hateful jest.
Thomas dropped the log. He decided not to try to get back to England. Calmly, he picked up the captain’s pistol and put it to his head.