I
have lost track of the date. Possibly 7
October 1862. It's early evening.
Forgive
me my journal for these days of neglect. Much has happened. Some days ago
we made an unexpected and disastrous arrival at our destination, and so
desperate was our condition that one of our party nearly formed a permanent
acquaintance with Hades. Fogg that was,
and it took two days and a night for him to fully revive and speak. During this time Rebecca kept him a near
constant vigil, saying only, "You know how irritable Phileas is if he can't
find what he wants." Indeed, upon
re-awakening, his cousin's name was the first word to escape Fogg's lips. I believe Passepartout suffered even more
anxiety than Rebecca and I during that dreadful time, since his own injuries
kept Jean mostly abed. Miss Jude now
shakes periodically with delayed fear. I hope she does not relapse into her former madness. Our captors while not vicious do not treat the
child with any great kindness.
A
woman named Talbott, who seems to be a physician, assures us Fogg has suffered
no permanent harm from his brush with the hereafter. I can scarcely believe it after witnessing that death. My own fingers tested his carotid artery for
the pulse of life and found nothing.
We
are now the prisoners of an organization called the "BeamMeUp
Corporation." Its name surrounds us
everywhere, on our plates, the walls, on the paper on which I write, even on
these borrowed clothes! This
corporation seem in some ways as diabolical as the League of Darkness, and in
others kindness itself – witness the restoration of life to Fogg. None of them are forthcoming with answers to
any of our questions, and Fogg adjures us to keep our counsel so little
information flows either way. He still
lies abed and his cousin Rebecca is much subdued and hollow-eyed. Her red hair hangs limply and undressed, not
even braided. It expresses well her
disarray. Our captors soon disarmed us
on our arrival and our every step is now plagued with guards. Rebecca does not protest and that is much
unlike her. Fogg is yet too weak to
take up firmly the yoke of command. We
are all in disorder. These kidnappers
have the upper hand and look like to keep it.
But
I get ahead of myself. I had best
return to the morning of our disastrous arrival here at the Tchersky.
After
finishing my last entry (alas, written in my own journal which is yet to be
recovered!), I slung my hammock for the night. Fogg and Passepartout were to do turn and turn-about service at the helm
and talked quietly of mundane things in the observation room. I remember that no aroma of brandy wafted
and being grateful for it. The Misses
Fogg and Carr were abed already, Rebecca apparently postponing her
reconciliation 'til morning. I tell you
where we all located so you understand what follows.
Passepartout
tells me that in the earliest hours of the morning, in that hour some call false
dawn, he saw a trembling distortion racing towards us across the open waters of
Lake M_____. But he apprehends it only
in retrospect and curses his idiocy in tones reminiscent of Fogg at his most
vituperative. The engineers here tell
me what they call a "transformation shock wave" hit the Aurora and have played
for me on a zoetrope device the image of that same wave traveling across a
snowy landscape. The wave looked like
no thing on earth, at ground level tossing snow and spray into the air but scarcely
visible at any great height.
At
any rate, from what I can deduce when their "wave" hit the Aurora starboard, it
entangled the small ballonet on that side in the gondola's supporting
cables. I awoke in terror with my
hammock swinging crazily after slamming the overhead. Below me the deck tilted 30 degrees or more to port. Every piece of furniture in the salon not
bolted down, that is to say, all the antique Chippendale chairs and other
decorative oddments lay either heaped on the port bulkhead or slid precariously
along the table, traveling in that direction. The palest light of dawn illuminated a scene to credit Bosch.
Fogg
himself climbed through the access to the observation cabin. I could see behind him shattered windows and
the fouled cables of the starboard bag but no Passepartout. "Are you hurt?" Fogg shouted at me over the
Aurora's agonized groans and the rushing wind. At my negative headshake, he continued, "Help Passepartout. He's cut. I'm going to check on the ladies." Thus saying he traveled past me, controlling his movement hand over hand
along the table. Perhaps I should
mention that the Aurora's original unknown designers apparently decreed all her
heaviest furnishings, including the salon table, were to be bolted down. I could hear the deck protest the
un-accustomed load reversal but hold it did.
Inelegantly
I decanted myself from my hammock, grateful that due to considerations of
propriety and warmth, I had taken to sleeping in my clothes and shoes. I too used the table for a brace and though
it meant a side trip, went to fetch the medicine chest from the galley before
attempting to reach the observation room and assist Passepartout. Fortunately, the galley suffered only minor
disorder since all Aurora's cabinets were fitted with Passepartout's ingenious
self-locking catches and I quickly put my hands on our well-stocked apothecary.
Returning
through the salon I met Fogg, Rebecca and Miss Jude. The ladies were pulling on clothes and shoes pell-mell while Fogg
strapped his prize American Bowie knife to his trim waist.
Fogg told me, "Give the kit to
Rebecca and go make sure the boiler hasn't started a fire!" and that I moved to
do straightway. I found our small
boiler out. Undoubtedly our crazy angle
had folded the ballonet over the exhaust and smothered combustion. I spent several precious minutes closing
valves and testing fittings. As there
was nothing more to be done until we righted, I hurried back toward the helm,
walking duck-like down the companionway, my left foot on the port wall, my
right on the tilted deck. Then I once
again clambered across the salon, my hand on the thrice-blessed bolted table
until I reached the observation room door, noting in passing that the starboard
exterior hatch hung open.
It
looks that I am to be interrupted. Two
men are attempting to move Fogg from his bed to a wheeled chair, an endeavor in
which he cooperates not at all. I must
abandon my writing and mediate or outright hostilities will erupt at any
moment.
8
October 1862? Or thereabouts.
Not
only Fogg, but all of us were assembled last night. The Misses Jude and Rebecca even taken from their slumber. They joined us dressed in the same soft grey
pantaloons, knitted shirts and rubber-soled shoes we men have been given for
our wear. Miss Jude was rigid with
embarrassment from her queer attire.
What
followed then was an interminable quizzing by a group of men and women. They were introduced to us as scientists and
engineers, although one wonders what there is of science in kidnapping. They were much excited and their questions
rained fast and hard. They seemed
unsure of our purpose here. One of
their number asked where we "got that honey of a dirigible" and another asked
if we were "making a move-ee" because "our period costumes were
fantastic." Still another, and more
suspicious one, demanded "who sent you?"
Fogg
collected himself enough to command us with his eyes and none of us
answered. We told only our names. Even that seemed to create an uproar amongst
them and suggests they may know the British Secret Service and its agents.
I
think it was hardest on Miss Jude. Although she did her best to keep from weeping, she cringed when queries
were directed at her. Finally, I leapt
up and protested our treatment as all of us shook from exhaustion, and our
captors shamefacedly returned us to our dormitories for the night.