Mr. Freestone,

We managed to procure a telegraph man here, one who’s willing to look the other way if we have to send any unusual messages. I believe he’s familiar with your father in some way, and that’s earned us his compliance; the poor boy keeps giving him that Look, like he’s seen a ghost. Can’t send you a telegram directly, lest the operators in Springfield or St. Louis raise an alarm about our discussion topics. But we have a man Hicks in New York who can transcribe our messages and send them to you by post. It’s a hassle but that’s the price of secrecy.

We’ve reached Rhodes and made contact with the Behemoth, your father leading us to a hidden mountain in the middle of the island. Fearsome fellow; you’ll see from the illustrations when we next meet in person. His skin’s raw at the manacles, and the rest of him isn’t much better. The bronze overlay had gone sickly green and cracked open, exposing dried and withered flesh beneath. The wound in his side just stopped healing at some point; you can see straight past the scar tissue through to his organs. And his face, oh, his face. Bloodshot eyes you could swim in! That black-stained gaping maw, that heaving laborious wheeze! In my profession, you can tell when someone’s deteriorating out of sickness, age or despair. It’s a sad sight to see all three.

Your father was able to transplant specimen #17 into the Behemoth’s abdomen, replacing part of his long-abused liver. We’ve been monitoring the vitals over the past few days while the crew defends us from the giant’s proportionally-sized parasites. The ship’s cook has been experimenting with making stew out of mites and crabmeat; I’ve never been so thankful that insects and crustaceans aren’t kosher. As for the Behemoth, his cognitive function is already improving, along with circulation and mood. We won’t be staying long enough to see the roc, but your father’s confident that he’ll be able to fend them off with his newfound health, along with the venom sacs he’s starting to grow. I lack the necessary expertise here but they certainly look deadly.

As agreed upon, he told us what he knew, mostly in the following fields of study:

• Pyrotechnics (if we ever have to repel boarders, the drudges will have a field day)
• Disease propagation (I’ll procure you with a copy of my notes as soon as possible)
• Sorcerous obfuscation (probably the most useful information, given our objective).

He was less helpful whe it came to the chronological quandaries we’re trying to untangle. He recalls a mix of events from the three verifiable yet conflicting records we have available, and none of them line up with him being chained to that rock for over twenty thousand years. He’s also unable to clarify the topological oddity that hides his gargantuan form from the rest of the island. He assumed that the Ottomans and the Knights Hospitaller were simply too superstitious to approach him.

The expedition is at a standstill for now until we find more leads. We’ll be leaving one of the assistants on Rhodes to monitor the Behemoth’s condition and wire us if he remembers anything else. The rest of us will be heading to a bigger port in Sicily to resupply and give the crew proper shore leave. Our best hope now is to inform the candidates in Ireland and Norway about the success with the Behemoth and see if that convinces one of them to give us an invitation. Your father made some tweak to the steam engine after conferring with the Behemoth, so travelling should be quicker, assuming nothing blows up.

Your father is worrying me, I’ll admit. If he’s not spending days down in the hold with the specimen, he’s getting sloshed with the crew. He spent the whole night drinking and playing guitar after we transplanted Specimen #17. I think he might miss you. Or your mother. Possibly both. I’ll try and sit down with him now that the expedition’s at a standstill. Under all his guile and intelligence, he does still have feelings, as frustrating as it is for you or me to acknowledge that sometimes. Per standard, I asked if he had anything he wanted to tell you. His message is ‘Angels can’t see the worst of criminals, for their audacity hides them’. You understand why I’m worried; even by his standards that’s needlessly cryptic.

According to Hicks, you haven’t sent any letters as of late, but the Mayor sent a letter claiming he’s helping you out, so I can only hope you’re busy helping people instead of lying dead in a ditch. At the very least, any suspicion on his part lies on me rather than you. Do shoot us a letter when you have the time, not just so we can ascertain your well-being, but so we can see how things are progressing on your end. Our part of this scheme is the more grandiose, but yours is just as important. After all, it’s best to account for everything when one plans to steal from God.