The Isle of Devils

by Craig Janacek

  As if reading my thoughts, Boyle spoke from ahead of me. “I am afraid that there is no electricity upon the island, sir. Even piping for gas lamps is rare over here in old St. George’s. You will need to confine yourself to a whale oil lamp, I am afraid.” As the corridor twisted and turned to the point where I was becoming a bit uncertain what direction I was facing, Boyle spoke again. “Mr. Foster, bless his soul, wanted to maximize the space for guest rooms when he converted Major Walker’s offices to guest rooms. Originally, there were but four large rooms upstairs, and the walls were too critical to the support of the frame to knock down. So Mr. Foster added some new dividing walls and cleverly built this twisting passage to link all of the rooms. There are now eight guest rooms on this floor, plus one below, and room for two more to sleep in the gables.”

  Finally we arrived at what appeared to be the last door, save one, of the corridor. “Here we go, sir.” He fetched a key from his pocket and turned it in the lock. Swinging the door open, he revealed a cozy, well-furnished room. It was shaped like an ‘L’ and had a low ceiling, but sunlight filtered in from windows on both the north and west walls. Another door must have once connected this room with an adjoining room, but access was completely blocked by a tall dark cedar chest of drawers. There was also a cedar dressing table with a Japanese vase holding a dainty arrangement of hibiscus flowers. A small wickerwork chair tucked under the open west window, from which came the salty scent of the balmy fall air. A great white counter-paned four-poster bed dominated the entry part of the room, and an iron soaking tub completed the furnishings. A square of Wilton carpet covered the wooden floors, while two oil lamps stood on the bedside table.

  Boyle surveyed the room for a moment, and then edged past the bed to put my valise down by the chest of drawers. “Aye, it’s a bit of a daft design, if you ask me, as there is not such space to get around the bed, but Mr. Foster was working within the constraints of the walls, you see.” He rapped his knuckles on one of the walls, as if to prove his point.

  “Do not concern yourself, Mr. Boyle. It is a fine room indeed.”

  The man grimaced. “Unlike the new fancy hotel in Hamilton, there is also no private water-closet, I’m afraid. But we passed one down the hall, which is plainly marked.”

  I shook my head. “Mr. Boyle, I have just returned from campaign in Afghanistan. I assure you that this room seems like Buckingham Palace itself compared to what I have become accustomed.”

  He smiled broadly and nodded. “Very good, sir, I understand. Will you be coming down for supper, sir?”

  I considered this question for a moment. “I am certain that Mrs. Foster is an excellent cook, but after having spent the last month with over a thousand of her Majesty’s finest men aboard a ship that was not overly large, I believe that I am in need of some solitude and rest. Would it be a terrible bother to include some cold cuts of meat and some bread with that second glass, Mr. Boyle?”

  “No bother at all, sir. No bother at all.” And with that, he let himself out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  For a moment, I stood there, gazing at nothing, but luxuriating in the room’s privacy and lack of noise. After a month aboard the Malabar, I was still surprised to note that the floor was not swaying gently under my feet. I sipped my whisky and soda, and contemplated stretching out upon the bed. My aching shoulder and leg called out for a rest. But the military training in me finally won out, and I rejected that alluring plan in favor of unpacking my valise, knowing that if I had lain down, my eyes would not have seen the light of this day again. I set my drink down upon the bed-stand and threw my valise upon the bed. First, I placed upon the desk my travel-worn and battered tin dispatch-box, my name painted upon the lid, though I suspected that I would receive few letters during my sojourn on this remote island. I reflected that even if Ms. Devere had wanted to write to me, there was little way for her to ascertain my location. Shaking off these melancholy musings, I took out my shaving kit and tooth-brush and set them near the wash basin. Looking at myself in the mirror, I barely recognized the man staring back at me. Little wonder that both Jackson and my brother had difficulties recognizing me! My face was dark and haggard. But underneath the thinness, a hint of my past strong-build was still evident in my square jaw and thick neck. I silently stroked my moustache and contemplated shaving it off. I had first grown it when I joined up at Netley, but now that I was done with the Army, perhaps I should relieve myself of this final vestige? And yet, I knew from the ache in my shoulder that my time with the army would never truly leave me, and I admitted that the moustache looked proper on my face. I resolved to leave it for now.

  A knock on the door proved to be the reliable Boyle with another glass and a modest slaver holding the promised cold cuts with some rough bread. I took them from him and thanked him profusely. Snacking upon the morsels, I finished my unpacking and inspection of the room that was to be my home for the next few weeks while my wounds finished healing. The windows looked down onto the kitchen garden and out across a street, though traffic was rare and the noise little and tolerable. Diagonally across from my windows, a set of steep stairs led up to an apparently ancient church. I decided to explore it tomorrow during my tour of the town. All in all, I was not so fastidious to doubt that I could put in a pleasant month here.

  Returning to the valise, I lifted out my spare sets of clothing so as to put them away. In so doing, I exposed my five-shot Adams Model Mark III .450 army service revolver and a few cartridges. I contemplated it for a moment, before I finally left it in the otherwise empty valise. I knew that I would have no need for it on this calm isle. Here I would find a simple life and peaceful, healthy routine. Between the sea-air and the sunshine, this respite would do me well. I lifted the almost empty case up on top of the chest of drawers in order to get it out of the way. I noted that it was about the hour when a man gives him first yawn and glances at the clock, so I stretched out my six-foot frame upon the bed, its linen above reproach. It was only then that I noticed that the canopy was made up of an enormous flag consisting of a field of red crossed by two blue lines, each of the four arms dotted with three white stars and a thirteenth in the very center. I could not be absolutely certain, but it appeared to be flag of the now defunct Southern Confederacy. As I closed my eyes, I recalled the suspicious look in Mrs. Foster’s eyes and a vague feeling of uneasiness began to steal over me. I wondered what kind of madhouse Henry had gotten me mixed up in?

  §

  CHAPTER V

  ST. GEORGE’S

  The next thing I knew, sunlight was streaming through the panes of the north window. It was the most refreshing sleep I had experienced in many months, and I felt much revitalized. Before I was wounded, I had a military regularity to my waking habits, and generally rose at half-past seven. However, since the shaking of my nerves, I have become extremely lazy and have gotten up at all sorts of ungodly hours. Today was no exception. The clock on the cedar bedside table showed me that it was a quarter-past nine. Although the pangs of my stomach directed me to immediately repair downstairs for sustenance, my military neatness would not allow me to appear without first having fully shaved, moustache excluded, and dressed. I took up my shaving kit and razor, and by the light filtering in through the windows I made a valiant effort to smarten the slovenly whiskers that had broken loose upon my cheeks.

  Once I was done, I donned my reserve uniform and tucked my handkerchief into my sleeve. I took up my walking stick and made my way through the twisting, crackling corridor back down to the dining room. I was gratified to find that I was not the only late riser that morn. I noted the pair of mismatched gentleman from the previous afternoon, though they were not sitting together now. Also, perhaps not surprisingly given the lack of other accommodations in St. George’s, Senhor Cordeiro, the traveler in wines, was seated at a table with another man who I did not recognize. The latter had a swarthy face, with large, dark, languorous eyes. He maintained a formidable dark, carefully-waxed moustache, which s
haded a thin-lipped mouth. Something immediately suggested to me that he was of Italian extraction, and in age, I should have put him a little over thirty, though it was often hard to tell with these Latins. He wore no coat, but his white shirt cuffs were stiff, his chartreuse cravat was impeccably tied, and his grey Harris tweed trousers had crisp lines, the whole effect conferring on him a rather jaunty appearance.

  Mr. Boyle noted my descent from the stairs and immediately greeted me.

  “Good morning, Doctor. Care to break your fast?” he inquired, as me motioned me to an empty table.

  “I would indeed,” I replied heartily.

  “Some café noir to start, I assume?”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  As he brought over the cup, I took a moment to study my companions in the dining room. In addition to the four men I already noted, there were five more guests at various stages of their repast. Two men sat together at a small table. Like the others currently stopping at this peculiar little hotel, this pair was quite distinctive. Both appeared to be in their early thirties. The first was a rather short, stout man, with a powerful frame. Olive skin and coal-black hair proclaimed his Southern origin, and I decided that he likely hailed from Greece. His face was strong, yet deeply lined in the areas where it was visible, as a large bristling black beard covered much of it. His crinkled hands were half-closed in a way that is distinctive of sailors, and I felt that my diagnosis of his occupation was confirmed after observing his clothing, which appeared to be a rude sailor outfit. A navy pea jacket, clearly of advanced age and wear, lay open over a red-and-black check shirt, while a coarse pistachio-colored scarf was loosely wound around his neck. His legs were covered in dungaree trousers, and heavy boots completed the ensemble. His dark eyes sparkled as he conversed animatedly with his companion. This proved to be a small, wiry man, also with a swarthy complexion that suggested a Mediterranean origin, albeit different than the first gentleman. His hair and eyes were dark, and he was heavily-mustached. Viridian-framed glasses rested on a long curved nose, like the beak of an eagle. He was well but quietly dressed in a dark-gray suit, though the respectable picture was oddly marred by a checkered shepherd’s muffler.

  At a nearby table an older man sat alone, his appearance proclaiming that he had no wish for the company of his fellow man. He had a sallow face, scored with deep lines, and yellow-shot bilious eyes, like someone who had spent too long in the tropics. His scanty black hair was receding from his high forehead, and his little pointed beard was thickly shot with grey. He was haggard and thin, with bowed shoulders. His nose was thin and projecting, and he wore grey-tinted glasses to protect what I imagined were weak brown eyes from the sun. I placed his age as nearer to sixty than fifty, though honestly it was nigh impossible to tell for certain. He was clad in a suit of grey flannel, and wore a Panama hat, while a cane rested against his table.

  But this sinister-appearing man was certainly not the most remarkable creature in the room, for that honor belonged to a woman. Although her age would be rather over forty than under it, she was still tall and queenly, but with a mask-like, pale, aquiline face. Her entire figure was emaciated, but appeared to radiate an inner fire. She had lustrous raven-black hair, and small dark Spanish eyes. She wore a dress of midnight black, made from an excellent silk and decorated with ostrich feathers. She seemed like a grand lady from another era, when Don Quixote still roamed the plains of La Mancha. When she saw me looking in her direction, she reached up behind her head and dropped a thick black veil over her face.

  All in all, I thought to myself, the Globe Hotel was the abode of a fascinating mélange of characters. I would never have thought to find on this small island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean such an assortment of people from around the world. Perhaps Mrs. Foster’s establishment was truly worthy of its name. But my observations and ruminations were cut short by the return of Mr. Boyle with my coffee. As he set it down, he smiled at me. “Are you a sporting man, Doctor?” he asked.

  “I certainly like to think so,” I answered. “Why do you ask?”

  The man smiled. “I’ll give you a sporting choice then. I can have the kitchen fix you up a good English breakfast of fresh rashers and eggs.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “And my other option?”

  “Well, if you are feeling adventurous, you can have a true Bermudian meal.”

  “But I do not get to learn the ingredients beforehand?”

  “Tut, tut! Where is the adventure in that, Doctor?” he said, smilingly.

  I nodded my head vigorously. “All right man, let me have the Bermudian meal.”

  Boyle beamed. “You will not regret it, sir. In the meantime, would you care to partake of the newspaper while you drink your coffee?”

  “Absolutely,” I replied. “I am great devotee of reading the paper and digesting the news of the day while simultaneously satiating my hunger.”

  “I’m afraid that I cannot offer you a London paper, such as The Times or The Daily Telegraph, but I hope that our poor Royal Gazette will sustain you. It doesn’t hold a candle, I’m afraid, but it serves us well enough.” He handed me a folded paper.

  “It will do nicely, I am certain,” I said, as I took it from him. “I have had nothing current for many a long month since I shipped out from Netley.”

  “Anything else, Doctor?” he asked, solicitously.

  “Yes, in fact, I do have a question for you. Last night, as I was falling asleep, I could swear that I heard the most unusual whistling song. I was wondering what strange bird made that noise? Was it the Cahow?”

  Boyle chuckled loudly. “That was no bird. That was the infamous tree frog.”

  I raised my eyebrows in skepticism. “I cannot believe that the bell-like singing I heard was a frog.”

  “Not just a single frog, Doctor. A mighty chorus of tiny frogs, each the size of your thumbnail. No one is certain where they came from, only that they appeared but a few years ago. One theory is that they came from one of the islands in the Lesser Antilles, riding on some imported orchids. Many people think they are a bloody nuisance, making it hard to sleep, though I myself have gotten used to them.”

  “It is a world of infinite variety in which we live,” a new voice said over my shoulder, its timbre weak, as if the man suffered from a terrible case of quinsy.

  “Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra,” I said automatically, as I turned. I was surprised to find sitting behind me the man who I had witnessed in Cape Town boarding the Malabar at the last moment.

  He stuck out his hand. “George Warburton, at your service.”

  I shook his hand and introduced myself.

  “I am a naturalist by training,” he continued, a slight whispering quality to his voice, “and I could not help but overhear your discussion of the elusive Eleutherodactylus johnstonei. It is always heard at night, but almost never seen. Quite a treat indeed!”

  “Is that why you have come to the island, Mr. Warburton?”

  “Well, he laughed, “not just for the tree frogs, of course. After I completed my studies at Cambridge, I obtained a post as a teacher at the Cloister School, near Chesterfield. It is one of the best and most select preparatory schools in England, but I soon found myself growing frustrated and impatient trying to impart any wisdom to the scions of the wealthiest men in England, who cared nothing for my teaching of natural history and even less for my attempts at discipline. I found myself daydreaming of an escape from that daily toil, and setting forth on a grand expedition. Unfortunately, there were no expeditions to be joined at the moment, and while I have a modest income of my own as a bequest from my dear mother, it was certainly far short of what would be required in order to outfit a full expedition as the patron. So, I am on an expedition of one! I have decided to follow in the footsteps of the great HMS Challenger expedition that completed but four years ago. While they were focused on probing the depths of the world’s oceans, I have turned my attention to the wondrous flora and fauna that exists upon the islands th
at they visited. It will be a fit complement to their achievements once I have finished. The Challenger docked in Bermuda in 1873, and so here I am.”

  “That’s quite a story, Mr. Warburton,” I replied weakly. “So you are an entomologist?”

  “Much more than that, I think!” he laughed softly. “I don’t limit myself to one kingdom or phylum, but hope to study all aspects of the varied world.”

  My medical curiosity was piqued by his fashion of speech. “Are you suffering from tonsillitis, I wonder?”

  “Hah! Not presently, Doctor, but I had the quinsy as a child and it left me with this weak throat. But I am perfectly hale now, I assure you. No need for your services!”

  “I am happy to hear that,” I began, but my train of thought was derailed by the appearance of my morning meal.

  Warburton laughed at my evident discomfiture at trying to choose between continuing the conversation, and turning to face my plate. “Don’t let me detain you, Doctor, I’m sure we will have more time for conversation later.” He turned back to his newspaper, and I was free to devour the food in front of me.