January 7th, 1776
This day, unwanted idleness. The smoke hath cleared from the ruins of the city; we can perceive small people to be touring the empty lots and shells. It is desolate.
I cannot abide this inaction; surveying the shore, I take each destructive role I might: I wish at once to be soldier and commander; in my fancy, I invade by land and sea; I calculate the angle of artillery and adjust the quoin to fire; I fire musket-volleys; I wish to prove myself against our enemy, to feel them run before us. I vow we shall tear through these scoundrels — and we shall see true liberty unleashed, as hounds strain first, and rush their prey, and then, sated, curl before the fire in utmost docility, twitching and smiling at their dreams.
Jocko is gone from this world. We received word this day that he hath died of his wound. No one wishes to speak of it.
In the midst of a long silence, Will asked our mess whether, if we win, the slaves down in the Sugar Isles going be freed. No one ventured a reply. He pursued this dolorous inquiry, asking how one might again find someone shipped off down there. When there was no further response, he laughed without mirth and said that it was a funny name, the Sugar Isles, because it sound so sweet.
Again, we none of us could find heart sufficient to answer him.
Little else has transpired. Many on the ship are poorly. They run fevers, and I like not the look of it. The Crepuscule’s crew protesting the proximity of the sick, we have dragged the pallets of the afflicted fore. Our Company lie between the fevered and the crew.
We all fear the distemper.