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Brian stopped reading.
“Oh my God,” said Coco’s mother reverently.
“Keep going,” said Phil.
The next few entries were ruined by stains. It picked up, Brian noted, nearly a week later.
Sunday, 20 November 1808
Why do they not see us? We thought, of course, that our stay on the island would be brief. We should be in easy view of any number of fishing vessels. Indeed, we have seen a few at a distance, by day. But though we have cut trees and burned them like madmen from the beach in our fury, it avails us nothing. Tommy has been marvelous, encouraging the crew. But it cannot last.
Tuesday, 22 November 1808
The slow horror of this island is creeping up on us all, and I have trouble keeping up the spirits of the men. All around lie signs of rude, makeshift habitations. We have made one ourselves: a rough cabin, to house us out of the wet. There are bones in the forest, a grave or two, carvings on trees. We cannot help but feel that we are not the first to live here. Live here? How is that possible? Even without boats, one may merely walk across the lake four months out of the year.
And yet.
And yet.
We are afraid.
Saturday, 3 December 1808
Full moon tonight, the nineteenth day of our marooning. Marooned in Lake Champlain, has that ever happeneçd before? Of course, we’ve the boats, but the men are afraid to brave the monster’s waters in an open boat, when the Goblin herself could not prevail.
Sunday, 4 December 1808
Yesterday, Michael Flanagan, sailor, lost while attempting to cast a fishing line just offshore. The monstrous snake reared up out of the water and snatched him. Only six of us left. I have forbidden fishing, for the time being, but it cannot last, for we are hungry . . .
“Oh my God,” said Coco’s mom again. “A record—documentary proof—of a lake monster in Lake Champlain. Champ. It existed.”
“Exists,” Coco corrected her mother. She, with greater experience of strange occurrences, seemed preoccupied by a different aspect of the story of Captain Wm. Sheehan and the crew of the Goblin.
Brian was too. His eyes met hers.
“He says they couldn’t get off,” she said low, just to Brian, in a tone of someone confirming what she’d already suspected.
Brian just nodded.
“We have to get off somehow. Can we build a boat?” Coco asked him.
“No,” he said. “Not even a raft. We don’t have any tools. We’d have to . . .” His voice failed him. He rallied and went on. “Um, wait until the lake freezes. If it freezes; it doesn’t freeze every year anymore. Climate change. And if it did freeze, it would be in January at the earliest. Months from now.”
“But do you think it’s the same snake?” asked Phil, pointing at the log. “The same one that sank the Goblin?” His freckled face was smudged and pale. “A two-hundred-year-old snake?”
“Surely not,” said Coco’s mom.
Brian wasn’t so sure himself.
“It might reproduce,” said Coco. “You did catch a little snake. Maybe it has eggs.”
“There would need to be two of them, then,” said Phil, looking fascinated.
Brian thought that one giant snake was plenty. He turned a page in the log.
Wednesday, 4 January 1809
Mutiny. Half the men wish to launch the lifeboats afresh. Half go in mortal fear of the serpent. I have counseled patience, since it will not be too many weeks—or even days—before the lake has frozen solid. But it is true we are cold and hungry here, all the more maddening, since Burlington is a half day distant, under easy sail.
