The Beothuk Expedition by Derek Yetman

would apply to the souls of the Red Indians?” I offered.
    â€œPrecisely!” the chaplain beamed.
    Lines from a poem of Alexander Pope came to my mind: Lo, the poor Indian! Whose untutored mind sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind. It occurred to me that under Reverend Stow’s plan of populating the new heaven, the owners of these coveted souls would first of all have to be dead.
    â€œHave you read The Journal of Dreams , Mister Squibb?” he asked.
    â€œI have not,” I confessed. “Who is the author?”
    Reverend Stow shook his stubbled head and clucked in mild rebuke. “My dear sir! Why, Emanuel Swedenborg, of course.”
    â€œAh, yes,” I said, feeling confidence return, “the mathematical philosopher and inventor.”
    My companion nodded so vigorously I feared he would do himself an injury. “Yes, yes!” he squealed, “and visionary theologian as well.”
    I searched the meager store of my memory for something more about Swedenborg. I knew that he was one of a multitude of intellectuals and lunatics who were seeking a reliable means of determining longitude at sea. His method required exact lunar tables, which depended upon the accuracy of John Harrison’s marine chronometer. Of course, Harrison’s invention had yet to be accepted by the Board of Longitude, which meant that Swedenborg’s tables were questionable as well. Swedenborg, I recalled, was also said to commune with angels and had written treatises on his dreams of heaven and hell.
    My mind drifted back to this marine chronometer, which was a subject of much discussion in the Navy. While we continued with our method of dead reckoning, which was little more than estimation, Harrison had brought his time-measuring instrument through four designs and many trials at sea. Each of these had been more successful than the last and the most recent test was to take place on Mr. Cook’s expedition. But in spite of his success, Harrison was still considered “a mere mechanic” by Nevil Maskelyne, the Astronomer Royal.
    We came to a fork in the path and I suggested that we retrace our steps. As we did so, the chaplain expanded upon his mission to populate this new heaven with the souls of heathen Indians. He went on at length and I soon found his logic too convoluted to follow. When we came to where Greening was waiting with the jolly boat, I bade him good day with some relief. As we rowed away he stood on the strand and waved us off with his handkerchief, an oddly incongruent figure on the rocky landwash.
    Back on board the Dove the first sight to greet me was Froggat, sitting on a keg and drinking from the scuttlebutt. I was speechless for a moment but soon recovered my voice. “Friday! By all that is real, I hadn’t expected to see you up! Why, not an hour ago you were lying as still as death.”
    In my joy I caught him by the hand and pumped it with more vigour than was prudent, for he quickly pulled away and reached for more water. “How are you feeling, my friend?” I asked. “Is there anything you want? Food or—”
    I was cut short by the sudden look of anger he turned upon me. It pierced me to the heart, and although I was taken aback I reasoned that he was still in the throes of his illness. In an attempt to disarm the moment, I said, “Perhaps sleep is what you have need of, my friend. Though you must not become an Abraham de Movrie.”
    I laughed but the hostile stare did not waver. “De Movrie?” I prompted. “Surely you remember that we studied his theorems. He was the trigonometry master who slept longer and longer each day until, on the day that he slept twenty-four hours, he never awoke again.” I laughed again, hoping the memory would revive him.
    Even as I watched, his eyes lost their fire as quickly as it had appeared. They seemed to glaze and turn flat, becoming devoid of all thought or emotion. It was clear