I turned from Mrs. Foster to discover that the Herculean man had descended from the stairs and was entering the dining room. He smiled at me, and held out his hand. “Bruce Sims, at your service.”
After my reply, he continued. “I am sorry that I did not greet you sooner. It seems like I was occupied at every opportunity that we encountered each other.”
“Think nothing of it, Mr. Sims. You were saying about Shakespeare…?” I prompted him.
“Ah yes,” he replied. “Well, as you may know, Shakespeare based his great play The Tempest upon the wreck of the Sea Venture in 1609, as detailed in William Strachey’s report. As such, this is the actual island of the sorcerer Prospero and the devil Caliban. In fact, there is a great cave over near Castle Harbor that is named after Prospero. Steps lead down to a deep saltwater lake that fills much of the cave, with magnificent stalactites hanging down overhead. In reality, it was likely discovered by Sir George Somers when he was first exploring the isles, but it pleases the imagination to think of the great sorcerer still dwelling there.”
I smiled at this fanciful tale from the leonine giant before me. “I have heard of the Sea Venture wreck before, but I also understand that Mr. Strachey’s report was not published until long after Shakespeare had died. I have read that it was the wreck of the Edward Bonaventure upon these reefs in 1593 that was the actual source for the story.”
Sims frowned. “I was unaware of those details, Doctor.” He then brightened. “But it does not diminish the Shakespeare connection to the isles.”
“I concur. Though I have heard Mr. Emerson doubts whether the merchant of Stratford could truly have written the plays ascribed to him.”
“What?!?” the man appeared truly astonished.
The rest of the evening was agreeably passed in a great debate with my new acquaintance Mr. Sims. He was a very interesting man. He knew hardly any books, and so was unfamiliar with the questionable attributes of the First Folio and its authorship, but he had travelled far and had seen much of the world, which he could describe in meticulous detail. His especial passion was for the theater, and was most proud of his accomplishment of having seen a performance of every single one of Shakespeare’s thirty-seven plays. He even took in a rare staging of The Two Noble Kinsmen in Narbonne just for good measure. During this process he had evidently become intimately acquainted with more than one actress in the process, though as a gentleman, he refused to identify them by name. Nonetheless, I feel as if I held my line well. Even the unusual dinner that was eventually served to us could not shake my satisfaction with the day. Rather than a traditional English dinner, I found myself eating a buffet of foods that appeared to have recently been a fathom or more under the ocean. It started with chowder made from an unidentified fish, which in a pleasant surprise was flavored with a sauce made from sherry peppers and rum. Following this was a shark hash and a mussel pie. Washing this hearty meal down was an excellent bottle of Montrachet, which appeared to be fresh off the boat from Marseilles.
After dinner I parted from my new friend, and took a brief stroll back out into the quiet square to enjoy a pipe prior to retiring. How sweet and wholesome the town looked in the fading light. The sun was beginning to sink behind the western hills, where it turned the wispy clouds a riot of scarlet and purple. The gently lapping waters of the harbor in front of me were tinged with a luminous quicksilver where they caught the evening light. The glories of the still seascape in the slanting rays of twilight were more than sufficient to compose a fitting end to a lovely day. I was sunk in the deepest thoughts. If all of my subsequent days on this isle could be so tranquil, I feared I might never leave.
§
CHAPTER VI
THE HEART OF THE ISLAND
My first act upon awakening the next morning was to open the shades of my room. It was an ideal early fall day, with a light blue sky flecked with little fleecy white clouds drifting across from the west. The sun was shining very brightly, and I knew that we were to have more magnificent weather which would surely work wonders on restoring a man’s depleted energy. After repeating the ablutions of the previous morn, I donned my one civilian suit and repaired downstairs for another repast and time spent perusing the Royal Gazette. As usual, I had awoken late, and as I descended the creaking cedar stairs, from the noise emanating from the dining room, I perceived that it was near-fully occupied. However, in the entry room at the bottom of the stairs, Mrs. Foster was speaking softly but earnestly with two individuals apparently new to the clientele of the hotel.
“Mrs. Foster,” a man’s voice was saying, with something of a French accent, “I am most displeased. Lucy and I are supposed to have our own rooms.” As I moved downwards, the man’s features came into view. In age I judged him to be in his early thirties, with a clean-shaven, smart, keen face. There was perhaps something sensitive or weak about his mouth, though it may have been a trick of my imagination, as he seemed an alert fellow. In height he was middle-sized, with firm, though not overly broad shoulders. A thin black cord held golden pince-nez to be used for his grey eyes, which matched his dark hair. His dress was somber and quiet, a black frock-coat, dark trousers, and a touch of color about his olive-colored neck tie.
“Monsieur Dubois, I am well aware of the plan. I assure you that this alteration was not my design, but was foisted upon us…” Mrs. Foster broke off as she saw me descending the stairs. She appeared much flustered.
“And how do you propose to fix this situation…” the man continued, until his companion put her delicate hand upon his arm and stilled his angry voice. I am not much for hyperbole, but I think I will not be amiss in claiming that this individual was one of the loveliest young women that I have ever seen in my life. She was very young, not much into her majority, but possessed of a remarkable poise that hinted at a refined and sensitive nature. I have a quick eye for color, and she was awash in it. A wealth of fiery red hair sat above a bright, quick face, lightly freckled like a plover’s egg, with the exquisite dainty pink bloom of the French rose. She had brilliant green eyes and an exquisite mouth with a delicately rounded chin. The rich coils of her luxuriant hair were held back by a pale blue ribbon, and her ears were adorned with small round gold earrings. She wore a sage-colored gown made of some sort of mousseline de soie, a thin silk-like material similar to muslin, with a touch of fluffy forest green chiffon at her neck and wrists, and her feet were clad in white satin shoes. All in all, she was a striking looking woman, tall and graceful, with a slim flame-like perfect figure and she took my breath away.
When she spoke, her voice was melodic and pleasing. “Hector, do not fret. All will be well. We will simply have to share a room.”
Both Mrs. Foster and Hector seemed taken aback by this idea, but any further discussion on the matter was lost to me, as I politely nodded and made my way past them into the dining room. Mrs. Foster greeted me distractedly as I went by.
Ready to take my breakfast, I shook off my distraction at the site of the beautiful Madame Dubois, and I sat at a table with the two men with whom I was familiar, Mr. Sims and Senhor Cordeiro. The third man at the table with us was Mr. Sims’ conversant from the evening I had checked into the hotel, who proved to be a fellow physician by the name of Leos Nemcek. Due to his unusual name and slight trace of an accent, I knew that he must trace his ancestors to somewhere on the Continent, and with cautious inquiries, I discovered that he hailed from Prague. Despite the fact that I was very newly acquainted with my table-mates, our conversation was broad-ranging and stimulating that morning. One highlight was a fantastic description by Dr. Nemcek of the exploits of a certain Tycho Brahe, an astronomer at the court of Rudolph II in Prague. To this day I wonder if he fabricated the stories of the golden nose and the moose. From there, we turned to a discussion of the importance of the Copernican System and the great Renaissance polymath who created it in the face of all established teachings. Only by observation alone can progress be made! Eventually, however, all of the scrambled eggs and ham ha
d been dispatched, and the men separately took their leave from the table. I sat there alone for a moment and contemplated my agenda for the day. The proximity of the hotel to the ocean had given me an idea.
Mr. Boyle approached my table and inquired whether there was anything else I required. He seemed like a knowledgeable man, so I put my question to him.
“I was deliberating trying to engage a boat captain to take me out upon the water. As long as he has a spare rod, reel, and spoon-bait, I could occupy myself for many hours trying to catch some jack.”
But Boyle dashed my hopes with a grim shake of his head. “I think not, Doctor. The fishermen tell me that they feel a squall coming on, and they aim to bring in all they can today before their boats need be drawn ashore for a few days. They won’t want to be burdened by a stranger, no matter how skilled or well-intentioned.”
“A squall?” said I, the disbelief plain in my voice. I glanced out the window to confirm my prior estimation of the day. “That seems unlikely.”
But Boyle only shook his head. “Not today, that is for certain, but I’ve learned not to question some of the old dogs that ply these waters. They say there was a red sky this morning.”
“Well then,” said I dejectedly, “what sights would you recommend I endeavor to take in today, Mr. Boyle?”
“What did you do yesterday?” he inquired politely.
After I explained my previous ramblings, he pursed his lips and thought for a moment. Finally he said, “I think the new church under construction is quite a sight, Doctor. You could also hire a four-wheeler to take you around the island.”
“No, thank you, Mr. Boyle. The intention of my respite on Bermuda is to regain my strength, which I shall never do if I am carted around by a horse. I will walk.”
“As you will, Doctor. Then the church is the thing, though it is situated up the hill towards Fort St. Catherine, and will be quite a hike.”
“Ah, yes. I recall the church now. I saw it briefly as I rode in with Mr. Robinson the other day. It is not quite finished, correct?”
“That’s the one. We began building it six years ago in order to replace old St. Peter’s Church across the way there,” he waved towards the window. “I expect that it will be finished very soon. And it will be magnificent.”
“So be it.” I declared, and pushed my chair back from the table. Taking up my hat and Penang lawyer, I strode out the side door into the street named after the Duke of York. I followed it towards the east, and turned onto the street that I recalled led up and over the hill back to Fort St. Catherine. As I began my climb, I passed a small alley where I heard the distinctive clanging of a printing press at work. Across from this was a good-sized park, with towering palm trees shading a beautiful stretch of lawn. The garden was enclosed by an aging wall constructed of what I had come to recognize as the local grey limestone, held together by a rough mortar. As I walked along the narrow, cobbled road, inhaling the fresh morning air, and rejoicing in the music of the birds and the soft rustle of the breeze through the leaves of the trees, I congratulated myself on my choice of outing.
Pressing on, I eventually began to spy the central tower of the unfinished church in the distance. Even though the morning was not far along, I paused for a moment to remove my hat and wipe the sweat from my brow with my handkerchief. Suddenly, I realized that my leg was aching ferociously, and I was beginning to regret my bold words at the breakfast table. Clearly I was not as far along in the recuperative process as I had optimistically hoped. For a moment I feared that my health was irretrievably ruined. Then I shook off that morbid thought, and realized that I simply had prematurely exerted myself before my condition could return to its natural vigor. Until then, I needed to set less lofty goals. I determined to return to the shade of the recently-passed garden and take refuge there for a moment in order to rest.
I retraced my steps all the way back to Duke of York Street in an endeavor to locate the entrance to the garden, and found the downwards slope to be much more conducive to my poor leg. I finally found a gate by which I could access the area and soon found myself on a small landing that overlooked the lawn proper, where several benches lined a meandering gravel path. An old pedestalled sundial sat in the middle of the path near a previously unrecognized second entrance to the garden. The whole effect was so soothing and restful that it was welcome to my somewhat exhausted body. In that deeply peaceful atmosphere, I could hopefully forget the face of the exquisite Madame Dubois, which kept intruding into my brain. The landing was unprotected from the sun, and so I descended the short flight of stairs into the garden itself. Before I could make my way over to one of the shady benches, a peculiar sight tucked against the south wall caught my notice. I have always been naturally curious, even at the expense of my own well-being. My brother once called me foolhardy, and I suppose that this overly-harsh term was not completely undeserving. Certainly, the promise of adventure has always held a fascination for me.
The object of my attention proved to be a plain sarcophagus, whitewashed on the sides with a featureless grey slab of stone on top. Grey painted bricks formed an archway and wall above it, and partly protected the tomb from the elements, though its stone was already weather-stained and lichen-blotched. Set into those bricks was a white marble slab that explained why such an object was found outside of a church or graveyard.
I must admit that I was moved by this saga of a great hero. I reverentially laid my hand upon the stone slab and silently pondered what stirrings of the soul led a man to rise to the heights of human triumphs, so that his name would never be forgotten to the annals of history.
“‘The proper study of Mankind is Man,’” a woman’s voice suddenly pierced my reverie. I turned about suddenly, only to discover the stunning woman that I had encountered only just this morning in the hotel’s entryway and whose face had never left my mind’s eye. She had put on a thin mantle and a bonnet, which protected her fair face from the full glare of the sun, but had the unfortunate effect of partially obscuring her lustrous red hair. She had also donned elbow-length white gloves, and carried a trim little hand-bag of crocodile skin and silver.
“I beg your pardon?” I finally stammered.
“Pope,” she said simply. “Alexander Pope?” she elaborated slightly, raising her eyebrows, after witnessing what I can only imagine was a completely blank look upon my face.
“Yes. I am familiar with his works,” I finally replied. “But I am at a loss as to what Pope has to do with anything?”
“You were contemplating the final resting place of Somers’ heart. Since he died over two hundred years ago, even if you happened to be directly related to Sir George, you cannot possibly have been specifically grieving his passing. Thus I assumed that you were engaged in a more profound introspection of the nature of man, and Pope seemed germane. Only by studying the exploits of the great men – and women, mind you – can we ourselves be elevated to perform a momentous deed,” she concluded, smiling broadly.
“I believe that you may have just read my mind. I stand flabbergasted.”
“It was nothing. You have a very expressive face. I am Lucy, by the way.” She held out her hand in a very manly fashion. From this action and her distinctive accent, I could only assume that she was an American, which was surprising, since her husband was clearly French.
“A pleasure to meet you, Madame Dubois,” I said and introduced myself in turn.
A wary expression entered her dazzling green eyes. “Do I know you, sir?”
I laughed. “No, I simply heard Mrs. Foster call your husband by that name as I descended the stairs this morning.”
“Ah,” the wariness disappeared, “you are very observant.”
“No more so than yourself. As you said, ‘the proper study…’” I let the sentence trail off.
“Touché,” she nodded her head. “So tell me, sir, do the deeds of Sir George inspire you?”
“How can they not?” I replied. “Of course, Somers is but one of many bra
ve men upon whom the bedrock of the British Empire was laid. Even today, great men walk amongst us. Take General Gordon for example.”
“Chinese Gordon?”
I frowned. “I’m not certain that he cares for that sobriquet. It is true that he made his military reputation in China as the head of the Ever Victorious Army, a band of Chinese soldiers led by European officers, who put down the much larger forces of the Taiping Rebellion. But I think he is more to be admired for his work in the Sudan suppressing the slave trade.”
“I will grant you that,” she conceded.
“And you, Madame Dubois? You said that women were also capable of great deeds. Which woman inspires you?”
“I am partial to Boudica,” she said.
I raised my eyebrows at this statement.
“You disapprove, sir?” she said.
“Not at all,” I shook my head. “It is simply that I was not expecting such a violent example. I had simply presumed you would reference someone more gentle; Florence Nightingale, for example.”
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