Leander

Slight mention of violence and death

“Then they took Jonah and threw him overboard, and the raging sea grew calm.”

- Jonah 1:15

02.07.1839

If anyone finds this document, whether that be when I am dead or alive, my name is Sean Campell. I am 21 years of age and I am, as of the second of July 1839, stranded onboard vessel Leander somewhere along the Atlantic Ocean.

Our ship, carrying twelve crew members total, was destined for the United States of America. We were informed the day before the departure of The Leander that the journey was estimated to take between twenty and one and twenty and nine days – we were expected to arrive no later than the ninth of this month, provided that the weather was agreeable. To our horror, our captain, who goes by the name of Arthur, informed us just two nights ago that a storm was approaching, and we were to prepare for the worst. Indeed, from the Port Side one couldn’t mistake that the clouds were black and raging, as if Zeus had imposed his army upon us, and to make matters worse, they were approaching rapidly by the hour. It was quickly decided that the ship had to be manoeuvred around the storm. Henry, William and Julian worked overtime on the deck, bending towards their project like soldiers. I remarked that their hands were burned red within an hour. Our captain looked on from the bridge, shouting orders. It wasn’t long before panic overtook reason as the storm grew closer. The wind began nipping at our ears and noses.

The sea came for us next; we were ambushed on all sides. She was unforgiving to the highest degree. She rapt at our hull, shaking us until even the wind felt tame. By the first of this month, merely twenty hours from as I write, we were swept off course. By midnight we were freezing – even now in my cabin I struggle to feel my hands and feet – and exhausted beyond comprehension.

Our main worry is food – Julian has warned us all that the rations will not last longer than fourteen days. There is nowhere to escape to. I can only pray that a miracle will be brought upon us, and we are promptly rescued before tragedy strikes.

09.07.1839

Our food stock is lowering at a rapid pace. The storm has undoubtedly worsened, sweeping us further off course. Captain Arthur lost track of our position on the map days ago.

The storm persists. The entire ship as well as our crew reek of desperation. There are further worries that the Leander will become so damaged that it sinks; already cracks are beginning to form in the surface of the upper deck and the ceiling of my cabin. Just three nights ago did Arthur attempt to fish from the ocean’s wretched waters, and shortly after informed us that every single fishing rod onboard had been bent and broken beyond repair. It has now become apparent that the crew are frustrated with his advances; so much so that many have begun ignoring him entirely.

We are already beginning to grow thin, especially in our faces. It is peculiar to watch a whole ship deteriorate before my very own eyes. It is poor Julian who is the worst; he is the youngest of us all, with the smallest build and stature. Before long I am certain that he will resemble a skeleton with skin tightly stretched around the bone. Henry and William (those are the two whom I am most concerned with) talk of killing a “crewmember who no one would likely miss” if we are unable to find any other ways to nourish ourselves before long. This frightens me more than I can put into writing.

We are all struggling to work from the cold that makes our muscles ache. But curiously, when we all venture into our cabins, shivering from the cold, we struggle to sleep. When this was mentioned to Arthur by Julian (oh, how I pity that young man) he was simply belittled, as if he had mentioned that he’d seen a ghost onboard. It seems that the Captain is the only one among us who sleeps soundly at night, despite the ocean’s unforgiving damage she inflicts upon our ship.

25.07.1839

Our food ran out days ago.

It is nearing midnight. Mere hours ago (although it seems like a lifetime ago to me now) was I awoken to shouting above my head – audible even above the howling wind and fierce waves. I ran up to the deck with great struggle, for the storm was at its peak, to discover Henry shouting at Arthur, saying that since we ran ourselves into the storm, the ship had been poorly managed. And I fear that he was right – by the tenth, when Henry (alongside the rest of us) realised that we were rotting away, being eaten by our own hunger, he began putting himself before the crew. I distinctly recall Henry shouting (so loudly, may I add, that his voice began to sound hoarse and raspy) that a captain was supposed to go down with his ship. It was clear to us all by that point that Arthur had intended to do no such thing.

What happened next occurred within seconds. Henry drew his sword, casting a glancing look at William, and they moved swiftly, as if in sync, towards the captain. One sword (I believe to be William’s, but I cannot exactly recall now as I write) was pointed directly at the captain’s throat. It was Henry who began dragging him towards the ledge at the stern of the Leander. He tried to fight them, pushing and shoving at them with all his force. I now can recall Julian’s shouts for them both to stop, but he himself didn’t dare move. None of us did. One thing we all could agree on was that Captain Arthur only cared for himself. Our journey had become a game of survival of the fittest, but no one was fit anymore. Arthur struggled against the deck’s tilting ground and the men’s tight grip, losing his footing within seconds. I could see his mouth moving, his eyes moving frantically between us all, but his cries were drowned out by the wind’s song and the ocean’s rage. A moment later he disappeared over the edge into the ocean’s mouth, his legs and arms flailing as he sank into the depths.

The ship’s tilt softened; within minutes I felt more grounded. Everyone else felt it, too. Silent words were exchanged in our glances at each other. I stood for a long time at the Stern, imagining the captain’s lifeless vessel being welcomed into the ocean's arms and carried into the black horizon.

28.07.1839

I feel as if I am in purgatory. The sea is calm now. The absence of Arthur’s orders silently haunt us. The wind has stopped entirely, and the heavens have opened up for the raging sun to burn us. My cabin has begun to smell strongly of rotting wood. The Leander is left with an empty wheel, drifting further into the unknown rather than away from it. Henry keeps telling us that we have done what we must. God is unhappy with us, and this is our punishment – I am certain of it. The calm is worse than the storm.

S.Campell