27 September 1862
Fogg shot an elk to
replenish our larder. Passepartout
accompanied him on the expedition and when they returned to relocate the Aurora
and retrieve the meat, Jean's worship of Fogg shone through his eyes. I've seen that look before, but wonder now
that I've never really understood it. Later, the jolly little fellow re-enacted the hunt in every detail for
we three who'd been left behind. Miss
Jude livened to his clowning and when Fogg entered the room, Miss Jude brightened
even more. My hope for her recovery
blooms.
30 September 1862, early
morning
On such a long journey
aboard a small craft, privacy can be hard to achieve. Due to its intimate nature, I hesitate to record what last night
I witnessed, but firmly believe in later years this will assist my resolve to
create a Fogg biography by revealing the man's gentler side. So often does his icy English reserve spark
my more passionate Gallic nature, I lose sight of the man's humanity. But heaven help me if Phileas ever sees
these lines! I must keep this journal
under lock and key.
It becomes increasingly
evident that guarding Miss Jude's restless nights robs Rebecca of too many
hours of rest. Bruises surround those
lovely green eyes and her toilette is not quite up to her usual standards of
coiffure and raiment. Late last night,
after several bouts of Miss Jude's murmuring and moaning heard clearly
throughout the Aurora, Fogg ventured to pull the curtain to the ladies' bedchamber. My hammock hung just so to observe while
Passepartout at the helm was oblivious, which was probably fortunate for that
good man's spirit. I could see Fogg
bend over Rebecca's tousled red curls and whisper something in her ear. His gesture toward the salon suggested
re-location and an offer to superintend the restless Miss Jude's night terrors.
Rebecca acquiesced, although
reluctantly I'm sure, and was soon curled up on a padded bench not an arm's
length from my hammock, instantly asleep. Perhaps I should mention, lest I forget in my later years, that a
sleeping hammock is a tricky object in which to repose and not at all the thing
for a lady, even one so athletic as Miss Rebecca, to attempt in a female
sleeping garment.
In Miss Rebecca's drowsiness
she may not have felt the cabin's chill. At any rate she failed to provide herself with a coverlet so I slipped
out of my hammock to fetch one of Fogg's fine down quilts from the storage
closet outside the sleeping compartment. Thus through the open chamber curtain I was an unintentional
eavesdropper on the next.
Apparently Rebecca's
departure aroused Miss Jude for her eyes were open and she conversed in low
tones with Fogg, his severe dark head bent close to her shining silver blonde
to catch faint words. I too could hear some
of what she said, for at times the Aurora reverberates like the tin can she
is. "You are dead," I heard the girl
say. "I saw you die. There was blood! So much blood, everywhere. All over you. I tried to stop it
but more came out. More and more."
Fogg made soft, comforting
sounds as if to child, for indeed a child Miss Jude seems. She is such a tiny thing, short enough to
walk under my outstretched arm, and innocent even for a delicately reared
female just out of the schoolroom. "Steady. Steady. I am unharmed. Shhh . . ." I heard Fogg whisper.
I have several times
observed that Mr. Fogg has an especial tenderness for the emotionally
destitute, his biting sarcasm being reserved for those who can well withstand
its teeth. However, nothing would
satisfy Miss Jude other than she see with her own eyes that Fogg had suffered
no wound so he stripped off his shirt and sat next to her on the bed clad only
in trousers. I must say for a man who
favors cognac and a fine table, Fogg keeps himself a superior physical specimen. After Miss Jude's shaking hands touched
every inch of his muscular torso and found no injury, her tears began to flow,
and her head bent to Fogg's chest whilst her arms tightly clasped about him. As often happens, after a few minutes the
tears led to drowsiness although Miss Jude's grasp, from what I could see, did
not slacken a bit. Rather than wake the
woman, I presume, Fogg lifted his legs from the deck and stretched out beside
her on top of the coverlet, all the while issuing gentle, soothing sounds, "So,
so, so."
At this point I thought it
best to retreat, and taking the almost forgotten quilt into the salon I spread
it over Miss Rebecca as gently as I could. Apparently not gently enough, for she without opening her eyes asked,
"How do they fare, Jules? Is Jude
asleep?"
To which I responded, "Yes,
I think at last she has achieved some quietude, Miss Rebecca," and dared to
give the breath of a kiss to one of her precious red curls. After which I quickly hopped back into my
hammock as I was chilled myself and had next turn at the helm, which, I can
tell you, came all too soon.
30 September 1862, evening
This morning Miss Jude's
whole aspect enjoyed a tremendous turn about. The dementia and tears that have so frequently clouded her blue eyes have
gone. Indeed it as though she is a
different being. Miss Rebecca
re-introduced her to myself and Passepartout as though we have not been her
bosum companions for these three weeks or more and she treated us as newly met
acquaintances. Of the men, Fogg alone
seemed known, however, her first reaction to his presence was a blush so deep
as make one fear for her health.
Fogg, showing a delicacy of
sensibility, took over the helm from Passepartout's willing hands and suggested
that the rest of us inveigle that worthy to prepare a morning meal in the salon
to which we immediately retired.
Ever the comedian seeking to
cheer those around him, Passepartout observed to us, "Miss Jude, she whole new
men, no? It is good to see her so
regurgitated." And carrying on this
line of banter, he prepared a hot and filling meal of tinned milk, porridge and
pickled meats.
After re-charging our
energies with this and several pots of steaming hot Darjeeling, we rejoined
Fogg on the observation deck, and Rebecca persuaded Miss Jude to relate her
version of the events that led us to our high-speed transit of Russia's
Siberian territories. I transcribed it
as best I could and write down here in Miss Jude's own words the tale of her
baby brother's abduction.
"Sir Jonathan," by which
Miss Jude means Rebecca's superior in the Secret Service, Sir Jonathan
Chatsworth, "told me due to some ugly letters sent to my father, who as you may
know is the prime minister of New Beltrain, William and I were be protected
around the clock. He said England
values the friendship of New Beltrain and would be greatly distressed if Sir
Carr's children were to be any way harmed, but I suppose they value our large
stores of gold ore far more," Miss Jude said and smiled knowingly. Miss Jude may not be as innocent as I first
thought.
"Sir Jonathan said he could
assign an agent to watch over us." Here
Fogg let go a hmmph-ing sort of sound, indicating I suppose his disapproval of
Chatsworth assigning one person to maintain around-the-clock protection. Indeed, I believe Fogg became involved when
Rebecca requested his help as relief.
"Miss Rebecca was wonderful
assistance! Not only did I feel we were
safe from the most violent elements of London, she changed William's diapers
when the nanny cashed in after the first kidnapping attempt. Not that I blame Marianne. William's sickness makes him a trying
baby. Constant tears and coughing. And losing our mother so young." Miss Jude
paused for a moment to re-gather her spirits. Tragedy heaped upon tragedy has this brave girl suffered.
"I met Miss Rebecca's
cousin, Mr. Fogg, after that first attempt." Miss Jude's silver blonde head
dipped and a slow blush crept up her pale throat. It was becoming evident that Miss Jude has been much taken with
Fogg's manly vigor. "He . . . he
assisted Miss Rebecca in investigating the events, but they were unable to
capture the two brigands we saw."
Miss Rebecca added here,
"Imperial Russian operatives was our best guess but they went in deep cover
before we could acquire them."
"At any rate," Miss Jude
continued, "from then on either Mr. or Miss Fogg was with us all the while. But
I blame only myself for William's abduction. My father charged me with his health and care. After losing Mama, I don't think he could bear to lose William
too," so saying Miss Jude's tears and sobs threatened to return full force.
"That is so unfair!" I
said. "You're just a child
yourself. Your father can't expect you
to take on such a burden." But this
only made Miss Jude cry the more. At
this point, Rebecca gathered Miss Jude to her bosom and indicated to
Passepartout that he should relieve Fogg at the helm. Phileas sat the bench next to Miss Jude and stroked her shoulders
with a gentle hand.
"Miss Jude, you said that I
was dead. Why did you say that?" he
asked her trembling back.
This inquiry from her Ideal
brought the girl back to her narrative and she turned and answered after some
sniffling. "Both you and Miss Rebecca
were with us when the second and successful attempt was made. We were all in the nursery at the New
Beltrain embassy, I had just rocked William to sleep and put him in his
crib. You and Miss Rebecca were at the
table with those horrible long pistols ready to hand. I think you were playing whist.
"I thought an earthquake had
struck. The room rumbled and
shook. Then a horrible bright light
blinded me and a shiny metallic Creature stepped right out of it." Miss Jude started to tremble again. "Before you could move, Mr. Fogg, he shot
you right here," she laid her hand over Fogg's heart. "There was just one shot
but Miss Rebecca fell as well. You lay
on the floor together, and I tried in vain to stop your bleeding. When at last I looked up the Creature
stepped through the wall with William in his arms. I remember nothing after that."
Rebecca held Miss Jude's
head and made her teary, blue eyes meet her green ones, "We were not shot. We are not dead. You know that now, don't you?"
To which Miss Jude replied,
"Yes, Mr. Fogg, he, last night, I mean, yes, I know." This time Miss Jude's
blush threatened to burn the Aurora to cinders. I wish I could describe the quick look that passed between
Rebecca and Fogg, but no man-made language can capture Miss Rebecca's unspoken
question or Fogg's denial.
Fogg went on, "There was no
blood shed, Miss Jude. The Creature's
weapon must confuse the mind. We were
only rendered unconscious." Fogg leaned
forward. "Did you see the Creature
leave the ransom letter?" The silver
head shook a repudiation. Fogg
continued, "And so we still chase a possible Chimera, but Tchersky the letter
said and Tchersky will remain our goal."
Miss Jude wandered about the
Aurora for the rest of the day as if she had not spent the last weeks within
its confines. Her complexion clears
rapidly.