Today I was in a complimentary strain and inclined to be a little more jocose than is common. I summoned Mr Rogers in order than I might learn more about this obeah. I wished also to have a decent companion in the absence of Mr Brown, and one with whom I might converse without having to endure the enervating yawn and drawl of the negro accent. We lunched on a light but festive board whose chief delight were fruits of every description, including the succulent pine-apple, the watery melon, the sweet-smelling guava, and the luscious jelly coconut. For those of us who are inclined to take on more flesh than is considered graceful, it proved something of a trial, though pleasantly so. Soon after our conclusion the board was cleared, though a little light wine sparkled in the crystal chalice. I suggested that we two retire to the piazza, where I sported an umbrella to prevent the sun from scorching my head. I drew Mr Rogers's attention to the distant idling skiffs of the fishermen dancing upon the buoyant blue waters, the dark boatmen mastering the finny race in silence, but Mr Rogers seemed entirely uninterested in my observations. Really, there is little I can relate of our conversation, for Mr Rogers is truly a most reticent and private man. The longer he lingered, the more he gave me confirmation of Mr McDonald's deceit, when he attempted to persuade me that Mr Rogers had secret designs upon my person. I doubt very much if Mr Rogers has ever had such designs, secret or otherwise, upon any woman in his life. I am tempted to describe him as a fish out of water, but this would not be altogether accurate, for it would be difficult to imagine waters in which Mr Rogers might comfortably swim. I enquired after a small monument for Isabella, and he replied casually that he would investigate. Perhaps, he suggested, a plaque in the cemetery, but he declared in a fashion slightly less indifferent that now my health was restored, and my stay extended, I must make an effort to come and visit his church of St George's in the heart of Baytown. Such monuments as the one I was suggesting for Isabella, he said, were usually paid for by public subscription, for the populace would know the person concerned, but in the case of my beloved Isabella, Mr Rogers was at pains to instruct me that the expense would be mine alone.
As for information about obeah, he was hardly helpful, seemingly knowing less than I had already discovered. To his mind it was simply a dark African mystery, and mere was little more to say on the matter. It appeared to be the devil's work, in direct opposition to the heavenly goals towards which Mr Rogers had set his face. These were divinely inspired reformation and holy absolution for the planters, overseers, book-keepers and merchants, all of whom he saw as tainted creatures in this tropical paradise abundant in Edenic temptations. I stifled yawn after yawn as I endured this most tedious of afternoons. On the question of slavery (I was thinking now of my pamphlet and lecture tour) Mr Rogers was predictably dull. After all, I wished to go beyond the commonplace memoirs of previous travellers, who, finding nought worthy of record but the most bizarre features of this tropical life, settle complacently to offer their dumb and helpless audience little more than flimsy defences of the system. My purpose being more ambitious, the pious opinions of Mr Rogers proved inconsequential to me.
It was, he claimed, the job of the white man to look after the children in his care, and the white man would do so in a better manner if he were closer to God. It was not the job of the Church to interfere in politics or economics. As to the education of slaves in matters spiritual, there were some missionaries who had attempted such a course, but Mr Rogers was nervous that this might encourage over-bold negro conduct, even insurrection. These spiritually educated negroes would suddenly require themselves to be addressed as Paul, and John, even Jesus, and view themselves as equal with the white man in the eyes of the Lord. My companion of the cloth went further, and insisted that nothing but the inflexible maintenance of the moral and spiritual superiority of the whites could possibly keep in subjection the physical superiority of the blacks. He insisted that should the negroes become as well-informed as the whites, and should thoughts be implanted, the like of which have never before visited their wool-thatched brains, then the combined forces of the militia and the navy would not be able to keep in check rebellion against their natural condition of servitude. Clearly Mr Rogers was a man who would have been happier in an earlier and less enlightened century, for according to him heathenism and devilry seemed destined to sit more firmly upon their black shoulders than the sins of Eden upon the shoulders of white men, and herein lay the true length of his submission.
When Mr Rogers again visited the subject of obeah, this time in fuller detail, he once more informed me that this practice was nothing less than a primitive belief in witchcraft which operated upon the negroes to produce death. He claimed that there was not a single West Indian estate where one or more professors of this obeah do not practise their heathen craft, but he maintained that it is very difficult for the white man to identify these devilish emissaries. However, our churchman soon grew weary of this obeah and returned again to his now familiar sermon. He saved his greatest ire for those injudicious missionary preachers who admitted a few black slaves to sit by night under their roofs and receive the Methodist gospel. From a small beginning this society appears to be spreading far and wide, boasting a vast increase of converts to its Ebeneezer Chapel. According to Mr Rogers, these Methodists admit every variety of shade from the ruddy son of the fair fields of England, to the jettiest offspring of Africa's black jungles. And so Mr Rogers continued with his homily until I longed for the company of Stella, with or without her chessmen.
My mind began to drift to heavier matters, for on this same day a letter had arrived from England, the first I have received since my sojourn began. Clearly, Father had written in some haste, assuming that I would soon be preparing for my return. The nature of his anxiety concerns Mr Wilson, from whom it appears he has received a letter in which Mr Wilson claims that mutiny has occurred and he has been forcibly ousted and banished to a neighbouring island. What Father would like me to acquire is a statement of explanation from Mr Brown, whose continued position at the head of the plantation does not appear to grate unduly on Father's sensibilities. It seems that he simply desires to give audience to Mr Brown's version of events before deciding on a course of action. There was little else in the short communiqué, aside from his wishing me a safe and speedy return to England. No news of England. None of Mr Thomas Lockwood. None of himself, although one might imagine there to be little of interest to Father beyond his new gambling debts. As to my oft-delivered plea that he make the effort to come and visit his own estate, Father studiously avoids any mention of this in his letter, presumably feeling that my presence here has absolved him of this responsibility. I doubt if he has revised his opinions on this subject, but I will raise these questions anew with him when we meet on common soil, and try to allay his old fears that he would never survive the climate and would ultimately expire in tropical America. By this time he will, of course, have received my letters, all of which make passing reference, among other topics, to his continued and wilful absenteeism.