The Fifth Treatise of a Scurvy Cur, 1747

An introduction to the collection as presented by The British Library, 3 January, 2026.

Captain Judah Lind’s diary entries have been an object of some historical interest since their composition in 1747. They tell the story of a minor yet highly consequential moment of discord in British naval history, and the enduring mystery which followed thereafter.

For over two-hundred and fifty years, the same question has occupied the imagination and official enquiry: what was the fate of Fabian Calloway? Following this voyage of HMS Rival, this mysterious figure disappeared without trace, though his legacy changed the course of history worldwide.

With the discovery of further papers belonging to Captain Judah Lind, we believe we at last have an answer to this question. The British Library is pleased to present his extant diary entries alongside a newly discovered letter to his brother. We leave it to Captain Lind and Mr. Calloway to tell their story, in their own words.

March 7, 1747, diary of Captain Judah Lind

To be selected as the preferred candidate to captain HMS Rival was an honour I had not anticipated. After the unfortunate business of 1744 - rather losing my bearings as I did near the Bay of Biscay - I could only seize this opportunity to restore my good name. It may be the final opportunity before I am permitted to cast anchor on this seafaring life altogether, and settle into a retirement of material comforts which the Navy affords its great and good. If I can secure that distinction, my mission shall be fulfilled.

I am allotted a crew who, I fear, will require the discipline of the whip before they are fit for purpose. Two-hundred men of rather ragged disposition. Some begin the journey already fatigued by service and rather whinging: a temper that, on a journey of this length, shall be corrected either by firm governance or by death. I do not wish for the latter, but it is an occupational hazard for a sailor. For the weakest to perish shall only be a boon to our rations.

First Lieutenant Matthew Gladsome and Purser Archibald Fitzroy are upstanding fellows, with whom I look forward to whiling away many agreeable hours in the Captain’s Quarters. They strike me as men who could do with a decisive thrashing in backgammon. There is, however, one irregularity in the ship's staff complement, in the presence of one Supernumerary Officer Fabian Calloway.

This position is unfamiliar to me, but I am assured by the Admiralty that it is legitimate, and that Mr. Calloway must remain in a senior, though advisory, capacity. I am informed by them that he is a seaman of remarkable achievement and great experience which rather complements my own. I suspect they refer with indelicacy to my somewhat diminutive experience in these waters, and perchance my imperfect navigation record. I remain unconvinced that his oversight is necessary, but shall comply.

The man himself appears to be an insubstantial coxcomb. His hair and beard are thick and well-maintained with a liberality of oil I find unnecessary. I have great suspicion of their deep chestnut hue, though he is a man approaching my own age. When I first occasioned him on the ship, he delighted in informing me - making a pretence of helpful discretion - that my own uniform was besmirched with a stain.

By way of introduction he thought it fit to mention that he had authored no less than four treatises on the sea-paths we were to traverse, and invited me to seek his counsel at a regular meeting. I declined. I considered asking him if he might help by locating a left-handed rope, or requesting from the Chaplain a holy sail. I instead assigned him a deliberately trivial task, to consider means of improving efficiency in the wider body of men, and to inform me of those wastrels given to excessive consumption. I duly assigned him to report back to Archibald Fitzroy as Purser, who I hope shall have short shrift with his counsel, and dismiss them as too expensive.

I hoped that would conclude the matter.

April 13, 1747, diary of Captain Judah Lind

I have been unable to subdue the interferences of that irritating gnat, Fabian Calloway.

Though I believed I had at first successfully diverted his attentions to Fitzroy, it has become evident that he has been more successful in his endeavours than I had hoped. As distasteful as I find it to record this fact, it appears that he is well-liked by both the ingenuous crew, and my Purser, in whom I had rather more faith. I have never met a Purser who opened up the store with anything less than a regretful abhorrence on his face, but Fitzroy has well-nigh handed him the keys.

It came to my attention that an unsanctioned and entirely frivolous bit of mummery was due to be staged in the dining hall last week. No such entertainment had been accounted for at the start of this voyage, yet it appears that Calloway garnered some cheaply purchased popularity from vulgar buffoonery, which in Fitzroy's penitent words “consequently and unintentionally inspired a larger endeavour”.

You may enquire as to why I object to a modest diversion for men on so long and arduous a passage. Let it be known that provision for leisure was made. The crew may participate in board games and light repair work, all carefully accounted for. Calloway, the tantalising Eve, has led Fitzroy astray from the permissible. The play was contemptible, featuring Calloway in a leading role as a cruel and inflexible ship's captain. He preened and pranced in the manner of a ludicrous bearded harlot, appearing to seek gratification in others’ misfortune. I have seen more of his thigh than I care to mention. The hall was raucous and though it begrudges me to acknowledge that the bawdy posturing of a trifler is never unamusing, it was insolence of the highest order; my fingers twitched upon my pistol.

I could no longer trust Fitzroy in this matter. Against my wishes, I resolved to deal with Calloway directly.

I invited him to dine in my quarters. He was most impressed by the rat ragout I asked the cook to prepare, although naturally I told him it was chicken. Whilst it is quite to my taste, I know well enough to keep this quiet.

I told him, without circumlocution, that I had very nearly shot him. He denied that his performance was in any way a masquerade of my mannerisms, and offered an apology delivered with every appearance of sincerity. He added, with studied casualness, that the Admiralty would be likely to notice should he fail to survive the voyage. I understood his meaning plainly, and hoped he would understand mine.

‘But you are not the captain of this ship,’ I reminded him. ‘And in certain circumstances - such as an attempted mutiny - there is but one course of action open to a captain.’

‘I had wondered,’ he said, regarding me over his rat ragout, ‘to whom the Admiralty would next turn, after I declined the captaincy, having not the appetite to lead again. Captain Lind, I hold you in the highest esteem. But I must confess I had rather hoped it would be someone who held as their North Star the harmony and well-being of his men.’

That he was the Admiralty’s preferred candidate was, of course, a lie, but one in the moment I could not disprove.

He went on to express grave concern that a number of the men were beginning to sicken with signs of the scurvy. He urged me to consult his fourth treatise, which “comprehensively addresses this matter”. I reassured him that I was fully apprised of this state of affairs, and was asking the ship's surgeon to apply appropriate remedies for their restoration. It appeared he had already taken it upon himself to confer with The Rival’s medical staff and did not approve of my direction, at which point I brought the conversation to a close. I informed him that any further unsanctioned diversions would be treated as insubordination and that henceforth he should report to me directly, and not Fitzroy. I could see that he wanted to disagree with me most vehemently, but he held his tongue, only shaking my hand with an excess of vigour and thanking me for the audience.

I soaked up ragout with a morsel of rat and prayed for the tenacity to quell Calloway until the voyage's end.

May 24, 1747, diary of Captain Judah Lind

Mercifully, we have had no more burlesque upon HMS Rival since my previous entry, with the crew confining themselves to expressly permitted pastimes.

Relief has been of limited availability, however, as despite the efforts of the Surgeon and his assistants, the crew continue to sicken with a variety of ailments, most notably scurvy. I myself appear unafflicted. From the outset I sense that this crew were of a more indolent nature than typical seamen, and it seems my expectation that the weakest would succumb proves well-founded. With each passing day, a greater cohort becomes enfeebled.

Yet even I must admit that our current predicament is beyond the usual sloughing off of the most infirm. Our present condition approaches rather more perilous territory. Even so, His Majesty’s Royal Navy is seldom willing to officially acknowledge sickness. A man must be insensible and long past usefulness before he is considered to be sick. This is a situation I must resolve before we make landfall, else I will have another misfortune on my hands - precisely what this voyage was intended to annul.

We have attempted the preferred curatives of malt and sauerkraut, both of which I had the prudence to ensure should be brought upon the vessel in sufficient quantity before embarkation. Cabbage has been fermented by the barrel, however, it has had no appreciable benefit. In pursuit of other solutions, we have since tried this most ailing group on cider, then elixir of vitriol. With these having no effect we attempted vinegar, and even wholly undrinkable seawater. Lastly, my Surgeon concocted a frankly emetic purgative mixture from garlic, mustardseed, horseradish, balsam of Peru and gum myrrh - administered thrice daily.

None are revived, and the sickest have already begun departing this life.

To my increasing vexation, Calloway’s strong feelings on this matter persist. I have limited our meetings as far as propriety allows, his former enthusiasms of navigation, discipline, and fellow-feeling aboard the ship, have fallen away. He uses this time to focus on this subject alone, as though it is something not fully within my purview.

In particular, he seems obsessed by a solution advanced in his fourth treatise, about which he will not desist in speaking: the consumption of fresh fruit, chiefly lemons and oranges. Being rather expensive and perishable, I did not include them in our provisions, not expecting to be subject to such a prolonged and relentless campaign kindled by another man's superstition.

He presses his case with an emotional fervour, dwelling, with what I fear it some relish, upon the current state of the men: their putrefying purple gums extruding from their mouth, swelling so great they cannot hold their teeth. Their skin, purple-spotted and spongy to the touch, old wounds reopening, bones re-breaking. Their minds alive but bodies incapable. Yet lemons, as prone to putrefaction as the afflicted, surely cannot provide an antidote.

The greater his preoccupation, the more my heart hardens in opposition, to the extent that any fellow heard to make mention of citrus fruits aboard HMS Rival shall be put to hard labour. In any case, to make an unscheduled stop is unthinkable. If Calloway’s experience is as extensive as he claims, he ought to know this already.

June 16, 1747, diary of Captain Judah Lind

Since my last update, things are quite changed.

The ship set a wasteful course for The Canary Islands and I, Judah Lind - anointed Captain of this vessel - have been subjected to heinous and unnatural cruelty at the hands of the traitorous imposter, Mr. Fabian Calloway, whom I shall never call Captain.

Command was wrested from me by criminal means. Once we dock in England, I shall ensure that all who are responsible will be brought before a court martial and punished accordingly. Gladsome, Fitzroy, and the rest - all have betrayed me.

I myself am held in confinement in a berth adjoining the sick bay, where I was at first forced to exist in near communion with men so unwell they were near enough fallen to pieces - day by day I endured the torment of their cadaverous breath. Despite providing food and writing materials, Calloway evidently wished that I, too, should enter the ranks of the dying.

Calloway persists in compelling me to grant him audience. He comes to the berth and demands to know whether I do not observe the improvement amongst the men? Do I not see how the sick bay stands almost empty?

I tell him that I observe their licentious merriment and understand full well that he has done a deal with one no less malign than Satan himself, that he has interfered with the natural course of things, and I will have no part in his infernal fanaticism.

The day on which he and I might be reconciled shall never arrive. We are set at discord forevermore. My hour of vindication will come, when I shall disprove his unfounded methods with the zeal of all my heart and conscience.

June 6, 1753, a letter from Captain Judah Lind to his brother, Nathan Lind

Dear Nathan,

For many years you have borne the weight of my reputation - more so than I ever realised may be so.

We are advanced in age, and although I never intended to set these matters down, the temper of my intent has itself resolved to natural forces in the past six years, in ways I did not anticipate. I therefore convey these words to you alone and ask that you share them with none except God.

You know the public account well: that I repressed a good and honest able seaman named Fabian Calloway, who later effected a miraculous intervention by curing the ailing crew’s scurvy with citrus fruits. This account is false - and not merely by its misappropriation of a near-truth. It is a lie.

Maintaining dignity in my station for many years was of greater importance to me than candour, and I did not tell you of my exhortations of the Royal Navy to publish my four treatises on the treatment of scurvy - to no avail. The fourth of these outlined with confidence the recommendation to treat the disease with the juice of the citrus fruit, and in particular the lemon.

I struggled to find ears that listened without the judgement of superstition, the impediment of disinterest or the denial of the obdurate. My only receptive audiences were fellow seafaring scholars, who displayed great enthusiasm for the intellectual exercise, but little for action.

I resolved, therefore, that if I were to secure the attention of those who mattered, I must employ a degree of invention.

Mr. Fabian Calloway was my invention, and our conflict entirely fabricated.

During the 1747 voyage of HMS Rival, my crew did indeed fall prey to scurvy, as I had anticipated. I was prepared. I elected to administer specific treatments to specific invalids, and I beg you to understand - the results admitted no ambiguity. The only seamen to improve - and I must impress upon you, the only ones - were those treated with fruit. With a plentiful supply on board, I directed our surgeon’s assistants to issue a daily ration to any man taken ill.

What I describe is not a story that readily excites the imagination, nor one that fixes itself in the memory of the public. It is the truth; but a truth unheard, unheeded - how can man say that is different from falsehood?

My closest compatriots, Gladsome and Fitzroy among them, were experienced seamen who had seen first hand the gruesome bodily decay of those riven by scurvy. We all recalled, with vivid horror, tales of George Anson’s circumnavigation of the globe, in which 1300 souls were lost. They consented to my scheme to set a narrative in which I cast myself as villain - God willing not irreparably so - against an innocent Supernumerary Officer. We believed interest - and that’s the thing! - would be drawn to the lesson if carried by conflict, and Calloway’s disappearance would only preserve it.

Following the British Navy’s institution of Calloway’s Rule and citrus rations allocated to all sailors daily on voyages, I believed I had triumphed. My reputation was already impaired; I could not plausibly appear the hero. What further harm might there be in casting myself as villain? Men may judge me in this life, yet ignominy should not follow me into the next.

I puzzle myself to think, though, whether the cost paid is the one I so carefully calculated at the time.

The methodical truth, alas, lies far more distant to the recall, than the rigid captain and his jocular adversary, trading threats over a dinner of rats. But discord is a cheap route to the eyes and ears of men, and in marshalling it, I have forsaken the truth. Many lives, I trust, will be saved, but once again I appear to have misjudged my course, for the satisfaction I once felt has steadily diminished.

Perhaps Fabian Calloway has presently lived long enough in mankind’s imagination that even the discovery of these words would fail to assure people that my antagonist was a contrivance. Perhaps it might sow further suspicion I was his dispatcher.

One who has relinquished control of the truth should no longer seek to steer it.

I may be presumptuous in asking for forgiveness, but dear Nathan, I ask that you find it in your heart.

Yours most affectionately, Judah