Your Humble
Servant
20
September 1862
Made
our last scheduled stop at F___ for fuel and to pick up forwarded
telegrams. Chatsworth cables
condemnation of our gamble. Sir Carr
begs our care for his daughter Jude.
21
September 1862
I
believe geographers label this landscape as tundra. The land we fly over is as open and empty of life as I can
imagine the moon. Occasional herds of
some type of cattle (we are too high to discern species) run from our
shadow. We speed easterly.
Miss
Jude had another fit last eventide and it was all Fogg could do to restrain her
hand from taking her own life. Rebecca
sleeps with her in Fogg's bedchamber to prevent mishaps. The rest of us sling hammocks in the salon,
taking turns at the helm so as to fly day and night, so urgent is our need to
reach Tchersky. The pipes barely keep
up with the night's chill.
22
September 1862
The
weather has turned bad. We had a near
collision with an early blizzard, escaping with only a snapped cable that
Passepartout easily repaired. The
tossing about frightened all of us, Miss Jude particularly, who cowered in the
bed, moaning. Her return to lucidity
has suffered another setback I'm afraid.
25
September 1862
This
morning we alighted to take on water on the eastern shore of the D___, one of
the largest rivers in Siberia. From a
steep bank, Passepartout shouted, "Look, look!" He stood next to huge bones, protruding from the frozen loam at
crazy angles, each longer than I am tall and too enormous for even an elephant. "Common here," Fogg said. "In places you
find huge piles of them mixed with ivory tusks. Some type of early pachyderm, I believe."
I
begin to think there is no part of our planet this man has not seen.
While
Passepartout and I loaded water and attended to some less pleasant tasks of
sanitation, Fogg strode the bank, carrying a double-barreled shotgun and on the
ready for Siberia's famous wolves and bears.
Fogg
no longer affects his dandified hipshot stance. He springs about lightly on the balls of his feet as if
momentarily expecting fisticuffs from any corner. I believe of us all, he most keenly feels Miss Jude's mania to
retrieve her sickly baby brother. Guilt
will cry out to guilt and Miss Jude has no Rebecca to hold hers in check.
26
September 1862
Elsewhere
in my journals I have already several times described my traveling companions
but today I learned something so surprising that re-visitation may be in order.
Jean
Passepartout's face exemplifies the physiognomist's assertion one's character
is written on the countenance for every man to read. His is a pleasant one, lips a trifle protruding, his complexion
rubicund, with shiny brown eyes, all on the type of good round head that
bespeaks the best of men for friendship. I consider him my friend, nay, the best of friends and have trusted him
many times with my life.
So
you may consider my astonishment at the following conversation.
Passepartout
who had the helm in the later hours of last evening had just arisen. We two were together in the galley preparing
a light meal, while Fogg now at the helm conversed with Rebecca and an
unresponsive Miss Jude.
"Oh,
no!" Passepartout exclaimed behind
me. "No, no, no!" Alarmed lest he was hurt, I cried, "What is
it? Did you burn yourself?" and grabbed
a sprig of aloe vera from among the potted herbs in the galley porthole. However, Passepartout was unharmed. He stood in the galleyway pointing at Fogg's
oblivious back.
"My
master, he has given up the style. He
does not cut the dash. Oh, it is so
sad!" Indeed Fogg this morning wore a
homespun shirt over trousers cut from coarse blue jean cloth. I would not have suspected him even to own
such garments.
Passepartout
turned to me, real tears in his eyes. "Such a delectable, gorgeous man! What must be his thoughts of my skills! His clothing so wrenched!"
"I'm
certain he loves you, Passepartout," I said and was about to add, 'as we all
do.' But Passepartout interrupted
me. "Love? No, no. He not love me, never will I nose his lips. Miss Rebecca locks his hearts aways. They beatify together, yes? I can but envy her his love."
I
fear my mouth hung open in astonishment. Passepartout's devotion to the female sex cannot be questioned. Many times have I observed Jean's shameless
flirtations with the housemaids at Shillingworth Magna. Last year he and I (oh my, should I write
this down?) spied on the ladies' steam bath at Herrington Place in London and
exchanged the most ribald observations about the various shapes in which God
created women.
I
believe I answered something, I know not what. Passepartout seems to see nothing amiss. The man's honesty confounds my prejudices.