14 Oct 1590
We shall arrive in London soon. Ordinarily I would rejoice at seeing my home again, but under the circumstances I find it impossible to feel anything but dread. My father’s indifference will undoubtedly have turned to hate by now, and my mother– Although she could never hate her son, I can feel her disappointment from here. It rolls over the ocean like Coalbrookdale’s fog, oil soaked and filthy. It seeps through the ship’s hull to harass me in my sleep.
The swabbies will be weeks scrubbing it off the decks when I am gone.
Felicia, at least, will be pleased at my return, though distraught at the outcome. She would help me, no doubt, if I asked — and if I could bear to have my sister see me in chains.
For now, the crew has left my arms and legs free, trusting my imprisonment to the sturdy oak door of my cabin and the good steel lock I had installed in Calais. Ironic that the same lock I had expected to keep me safe within now prevents me from going out.
Never trust a crew that’s not your own.
Still, although England draws near, we’ve a few days yet before we make land. With naught else to occupy my time, I’ve determined to record the events that led me to this end in my journal. Once we reach shore, I’m unlikely to have enough time to tell the tale before my head sees the inside of a hangman’s noose.
Really like the tone of this. But what did he do?
Thanks! His crime would be revealed later, if I continued this & turned it into a full story. Right now, it’s really just a fragment.