“There are few books that I treasure more,” I replied with some warmth. “So many times have I read those words, you might think me a modern Alexander.”
“I see,” said he, his brows knitted. “You are a difficult one, Doctor. Perhaps if I understood your preferences better? What are the last two books you have read?” Once he heard my reply, his face lit up like a street lantern. “Aha! I think I have just the thing for you. Are you familiar with Poe?”
“Edgar Allen, the American? I did read one of his works once. It was a curious tale about buried pirate treasure.”
“Yes,” said Lomax, nodding enthusiastically. “The Gold Bug! The cipher of Captain Kidd! Brilliant!”
I nodded, smiling at the memory. “It’s a clever story to be certain, though I must admit being taken aback by the incomprehensible American slang.”
“Indeed. Then perhaps his stories set in Paris would be a better choice. I have a trio of works here that I am certain you will enjoy. The first is called The Murders in the Rue Morgue.”
“That sounds rather gruesome. I do not know if I would enjoy it,” I replied.
“Ah,” he exclaimed. “It is not as violent as the title might lead you to believe. It is actually a very clever tale about an inspector named Dupin who uses a method of analysis, which he terms ‘ratiocination,’ to solve an impossible crime.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I will admit, that does sound intriguing.”
“Oh yes,” replied Lomax, with the evident glee of a true bibliophile about to share a special treat. “I am certain that you will enjoy it! And when you are done, if you liked Dupin, I would highly recommend the works of Monsieur Emile Gaboriau about his investigator Lecoq. At least in fiction, the French seem to produce the best detectives.” He handed over the slim volume.
I thanked Lomax for his gift and retired to my bunk, where I promptly found myself flipping rapidly through the brilliant tales of Mr. Poe. Whenever the light grew too poor or my eyes protested the strain of reading, I would set my book down and seek out my new friend Lomax for some rounds of écarté, backgammon, and draughts. The strained finances that we both found ourselves in prevented any significant wagering, but we still managed to keep the games interesting and formed a bond of union over our common pursuits.
With such diversions, I found that the dull trip passed faster, and I was surprised when one morning I heard a pounding upon the door of my cabin. “Land ho, Doctor!” yelled Master Billy. “We are circling the island and expect to dock within the hour.”
Excited to finally see my destination, I quickly performed my ablutions and pulled on my uniform and boots. Grabbing my field-glass and Penang lawyer, I hobbled out onto the deck as fast as my leg would let me and surveyed the majestic scene before. We were approaching what appeared to be the very tip of the island, which was entirely occupied by a massive fortification of pale grey walls that dropped straight down into the sea. The walls were punctuated by two massive projecting bastions topped with massive guns. Within the walls, an enormous two-story Georgian-style white house, with a large verandah with red painted iron railings running around both levels, stood out from all of the smaller buildings. But while the fortifications were impressive, the more thrilling feature of the panorama was the flurry of activity in the harbor. Massive ships of the line bobbed with stately grace upon the waves, their cannon-ports shuttered. There were dozens in my field of view, many of whom were turned such that I could not make out their names, but I clearly noted the HMS Northampton, a Nelson-class armored cruiser, the HMS Warrior, an armor-plated, iron-hulled warship, the HMS Irresistible, an 80-gun screw-propelled second rate, the HMS Scorpion, an ironclad turret ship, the HMS Vixen, an armored composite gunboat, and the majestic four-masted iron frigate HMS Achilles. Dashing between these dreadnoughts, smaller single-masted cutters ferried troops, supplies, and munitions from the shore to the waiting ships. These lighter ships moved so quickly that I could hardly turn my glass on them before they were gone from my field of view. The only ones whose names I spotted were the Alicia, the Elizabeth, and the Karnak. At least one ship appeared to be an old convict ship adapted for use as a troop transport, and I was suddenly very glad that I was fortunate enough to have sailed on the relatively new and comfortable Malabar.
As I took in this tableau, the Malabar grew ever closer to its berth. Eventually she began to round a breakwater, clearly intending to draw up directly upon the docks. I finally tore myself from the scene and hobbled back to my cabin in order to finish packing up my valise for my looming disembarkation. At last I could look forward to a peaceful recuperation of my shattered health in a salubrious climate, free of rocking waves, both literal and figurative.
§
CHAPTER III
THE ISLE OF DEVILS
It soon became clear that my alighting from the Malabar was not imminent. I had forgotten that the gangplank of a ship can only accommodate so many men, and not all twelve hundred troops aboard could depart at once. The Navy had, of course, foreseen this complication and the day prior had issued every man a color-coded card that would determine the order in which they should queue up on the deck. Unfortunately, the indigo-hued card that Master Billy had handed me meant that I would be in the last group to leave the ship. I therefore spent the time trying to take stock of my new environs.
The Malabar had come to rest in what I determined was the southern of two artificial basins, separated from the open seas by concrete breakwaters. In the northern basin, a sixteen-gun iron screw floating battery was docked. Her prow was pointed at me, so that I could not make out her name, though I later ascertained that it was known the HMS Terror, a formidable appellation for such a trifling vessel. Beyond it was a small slip, where a sloop was being loaded with goods that originated from a series of low white-roofed buildings that clearly served as a victualing yard. Iron-hooped barrels were being rolled about with great energy and the cries of the men in action made apparent the great strength of our Empire. Further past the yard was the land-facing portion of the colossal fortification ramparts, certainly no more vulnerable to attack from this route. Directly opposite where the Malabar had docked lay a massive two-story grey building with a white roof that was broken by two soaring towers that easily approached a hundred feet in height. I was at first greatly puzzled by the need for two clock-towers so close to each other, until I realized that only the southern tower kept the time, while the northern tower possessed but a single arm that appeared to mark the high tide. I thought this was a clever feature to aid the local sailors in their quest to avoid any treacherous reefs.
Eventually, my reverie was broken by a signal that it was time for me to finally join the queue. I purposefully held back so as to not inconvenience those that moved faster than I, with my wounded leg. I finally reached the bottom of the gangplank, where I was surprised to note a young marine holding a piece of paper with my name plainly written upon it. I indicated to him that I was the man he was looking for and he broke into a relieved smile.
“I am happy to finally see you, Doctor,” the marine said. “I was concerned that something amiss had occurred.”
“No, I am just moving slowly these days, I am afraid,” I replied with as much good cheer as I could muster. “But you have me at a disadvantage…”
“Ah, I am so sorry, Doctor! Midshipman Philip Brewis, Royal Marine Light Infantry, at your service,” said he, saluting. He was a moderately tall, stalwart man dressed in the standard Marine blue uniform. He had trim brown hair, and wore regulation side whiskers on his reddened cheeks. His blue eyes were keen with the energy of youth, and I figured him to be no more than his twentieth year.
“Welcome to Ireland Island, home of the North American and West Indies Station, Vice Admiral Sir F. Leopold McClintock commanding,” he continued cordially. “Of course, it is better known as the Royal Naval Dockyard, or the Gibraltar of the West. It is the mightiest fortress of the Empire, even more so than Halifax, in Nova Scotia.”
“Tha
nk you,” I replied. “How has your short stint on Bermuda been, Midshipman?” I asked him.
“Six months…” he began, and then stopped in puzzled astonishment. “Wait! How did you know that I’ve not been here long, Doctor?”
“First, the skin of your face is still red, which suggests that you have not had the necessary time to turn the deep brown color that most of us eventually obtain when stationed in the tropics. Furthermore, I had heard that the inhabitants of the colonial islands, especially the older ones like Bermuda, have acquired their own peculiar dialect, and yet you speak like a native to the west of England. Bristol, perhaps?”
The man’s face beamed. “Exactly! Ah, Doctor, you cannot know how much I would love to walk the streets of Bristol again. There is a pub on King Street, the Llandoger Trow, with the sweetest barmaid you will ever lay eyes upon. If I can only find my way back home, I plan to make her my wife.”
“Well, I wish you and your maid the greatest of happiness, Midshipman. But perhaps you would care to tell me why you are holding that sign with my name upon it?”
“Ah, my apologies again, Doctor! Your brother sent me.”
“Henry?”
“Yes, the captain received your letter warning him of your arrival, and he has arranged for you to recuperate in a local hotel, rather than the base hospital like the other men.”
“I am not certain that that is necessary,” I stammered, but he interrupted me before I could complete the thought.
“It has all been arranged, Doctor. I will take him to you now, and he can explain further.” Eyeing my walking stick, he inquired whether I could stand a short walk. When I indicated that I could, he took my valise and off we went down the quay to the south.
As we walked, I gave free reign to my natural curiosity and asked him about our surroundings. “Tell me about that imposing structure upon the hill, Mr. Brewis.”
“Ah, that’s the Commissioner’s House, Doctor. It’s the largest residence in Bermuda. They say that it has over ten thousand square feet, and that its frame is made from case-iron forged in England and shipped here over fifty years ago. The façade is the local limestone, of course.”
“And what is this monstrosity that I see before me?” I asked, for we had by now cleared the stern of the Malabar and were approaching a truly massive metal structure that appeared to be almost four hundred feet long, and well over a hundred feet in both width and height. It was shaped like a giant ‘U’ with narrow bridges connecting the two uppermost sides at both ends. Nestled inside it, like a Chinese puzzle-box, was a partially constructed frigate which, while large on its own merits, was dwarfed by the surrounding structure.
“Ah, the pride and joy of the Dockyard!” said Brewis, warmly. “This is the largest floating dock in the world, Doctor. You see, once the rebellious colonies of the Americas broke from Great Britain, the Admiralty determined that we needed a new base to service the ships that ply our remaining lands in the Western Atlantic and the Caribbean. That way they would not be required to go all the way back to England to fit up for repairs. But the docks would need to be very big in order to accommodate the great ships of the line and when the Royal Navy originally began construction here on Ireland Island, they discovered that the local Bermuda limestone was far too porous. Thus, Colonel Clarke suggested that, rather than abandoning this strategic location, ingenuity should be put to work. They therefore approved construction of the floating dock upon the Thames.”
“This was built upon the Thames?” said I, incredulously. “It’s so enormous! How could they have possibly brought it here?”
“I agree that it is hard to imagine, Doctor. It weighs over eight thousand tons, and it is almost four thousand miles from here to England. And yet, there is little that the greatest navy in the world cannot accomplish,” the man said with evident pride. “It was towed by the HMS Northumberland and the HMS Agincourt, assisted by the HMS Warrior and HMS Black Prince, while the HMS Terrible guided the stern. After thirty-five days of towing, it finally reached its new home here in 1869.”
“An amazing tale, Mr. Brewis…” I began to comment before I was suddenly bumped into by a man approaching from the other direction. Fortunately I took the blow upon my healthy right shoulder, and thus was not much inconvenienced.
The man promptly apologized. “I am greatly sorry, sir. I did not see you. I was consumed with anger.” His voice was thin, and his breathing was painfully asthmatic.
I took a moment to gaze upon my accidental assailant. He was a pale, sad-faced, but refined-looking man approaching fifty in years, his black hair streaked with grey, and a remarkably smooth skin. He wore a parson’s gown and a broad-brimmed hat that clearly designed to protect him from the sun. “It is no trouble,” I replied with reserve.
He looked at me and shook his head. “It will be if you plan to remain on this accursed island for long. I have been unhappily submerged here and very badly treated.”
“What is the matter now, Dr. Penny?” Brewis interjected, clearly familiar with the querulous man.
“Oh, Brewis,” he sighed. “My tribulations are unceasing. I shall have to close down the library. Can you believe that a man would borrow a volume and then not return it before they left the island for good? That is a sin if you ask me, and he will surely suffer for it. I had hoped for the best, but I clearly must expect the worst in people.” With that grim pronouncement, the strange man ambled off.
“Don’t mind old Penny, Doctor. He’s not quite right, if you catch my drift,” he tapped the side of his head for emphasis.
“Ah yes, I have read of such maladies in a monograph published in the British Medical Journal.”
“If you say so, Doctor,” replied Brewis, non-committedly.
By this time, we had cleared the end of the Floating Dock and passed up a short ramp that led through a set of gates in the outer wall that surrounded the entire Dockyard. We then crossed over a short bridge and down to a rough pier where a small sloop was tied up with two men aboard. Upon our approach, one of the men, dressed in the standard red coat and midnight blue trousers of a British Army soldier, his head capped by a regulation busby, stood up and faced us. His face erupted in a broad smile, and with a start I realized that it was my brother Henry, upon whom I had not laid eyes since he had joined the Army eight years earlier.
“Hamish!” he exclaimed. “I should never have known you under that moustache!”
But I recognized him in a heart-beat, despite the years that had passed. Only two years my senior, Henry and I both strongly resembled our father, for whom he was named. Like myself, he was of a middle-height, though his strong-build and robust shoulders contrasted with my current haggard thinness. He had a square jaw, dark face, and thick neck, with sandy brown hair that receded slightly from the lateral sides of his forehead, and which was tousled in a slightly untidy fashion. His moustache was thicker than my modest one, though they both tapered slightly towards the ends. Only in his eyes did he differ greatly from me, as he had the dark green of our father, while I the light blue of our mother.
“Welcome to the Isle of Devils, brother!” he continued.
“Devils?” I said incredulously. “This happy place?”
“Well, not all have felt as you do. When the Spanish Captain Juan de Bermudez first alighted here in 1505, his sailors refused to go ashore because of the horrible cries that they heard emanating from the trees, cries that they believed could only be coming from devils.”
I frowned. “But what were they, Henry?”
My brother laughed. “Birds, Ham, birds. There is a local bird, called the Cahow, which makes an unearthly nighttime screech. On a return trip, Bermudez landed only long enough to sow the island with a dozen hogs in order to provide food for any mariners who unluckily found themselves shipwrecked upon the isles.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Boars?” I inquired.
“Now, now, brother. I know from your letters that you have coursed many creatures in many countries, but you are h
ere to rest and recuperate from your wounds and illness. There will be no drawing the cover for you here!”
I nodded deflatedly. “You are right, of course.”
“Of course, we are fortunate that the Spanish have always been such cowards, for their loss is the Crown’s gain. It’s a fine land.”
“And what of you, brother?” I enquired. “I have not, of recent, been in a place to receive your letters.”
“I have been given command of the stout Fort St. Catherine, on the far opposite end of the island,” he replied with a tone of modesty, though I could tell that he was secretly proud of such a responsibility.
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