Day 703.

Still no rain. No war parties yet either but the drums may be heard all night. In this danger and privation I’m uncertain of my companions. They seemed friendly enough at first but now they keep to themselves and chatter in their inane native tongue. Even the monkey stays to herself in the corner of the cave with her own thoughts. The only woman on the island is strangely sad about it. All seem affectionate enough of her. Oh, the secret councels of a woman’s unknowable heart!
While spirits have risen in the last day, I suspect the worst for us. Or even worse than that. What would that look like? What’s worser than worstest? In this isolation the mind plays games. I would ask the others what’s worstest-y but they’re busy with some clay contrivance at the hearth in which to prepare our next community meal. It will be a hardy celebration for the vessel is large and the fire is raging. A reliefe and a happy occasion for all. They seem invigorated in some way and I’m pleased that they’ve found a kind of purpose in this forsaken place.
God help me if I’d been here alone all this time. These brave and noble men of the forest will be my salvation.
In honor of the feast everyone will bathe and groom. My man is preparing my shave, now. When I am back in England what a story I will tell.

Thomas Salmons, H.M.S. Feelyhorn. Lost March, 1783.