The Snark Has Been A Hospital For Months, And I Confess That We Are
Getting Used To It.
At Meringe Lagoon, where we careened and
cleaned the Snark's copper, there were times when only one man of us
was able to go into the water, while the three white men on the
plantation ashore were all down with fever.
At the moment of
writing this we are lost at sea somewhere northeast of Ysabel and
trying vainly to find Lord Howe Island, which is an atoll that
cannot be sighted unless one is on top of it. The chronometer has
gone wrong. The sun does not shine anyway, nor can I get a star
observation at night, and we have had nothing but squalls and rain
for days and days. The cook is gone. Nakata, who has been trying
to be both cook and cabin boy, is down on his back with fever.
Martin is just up from fever, and going down again. Charmian, whose
fever has become periodical, is looking up in her date book to find
when the next attack will be. Henry has begun to eat quinine in an
expectant mood. And, since my attacks hit me with the suddenness of
bludgeon-blows I do not know from moment to moment when I shall be
brought down. By a mistake we gave our last flour away to some
white men who did not have any flour. We don't know when we'll make
land. Our Solomon sores are worse than ever, and more numerous.
The corrosive sublimate was accidentally left ashore at Penduffryn;
the peroxide of hydrogen is exhausted; and I am experimenting with
boracic acid, lysol, and antiphlogystine.
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