All the Dead Are Here

by Pete Bevan

  So it was that I was despatched on the morning of June 12th with a small, nay, tiny allowance from The Times to join, by arrangement, the HMS Endeavour on a voyage to the Caribbean. I would be set off at the port of Montserrat to find my own way to the even smaller Island of St John's, where, according to his letter, Dr Baker resided. A missive had been despatched on an earlier ship to inform the governor of Montserrat of my arrival and beg him provide me with the means to complete Mr Simpson’s task.

  Arriving by coach at Plymouth docks I was stunned by the sheer level of activity, of the humanity that swarmed around that great ship. After the French had made the first Ironclad in 1862 the might of British Industry had swung fully into motion in the creation of equal or better ships so as to counter the French in their ambitions. The HMS Endeavour was part of a growing fleet of metal monstrosities that now keep the sea-lanes around the globe free of vicious piracy and those vile French.

  The docks themselves writhed like a sea of humanity that stank of molten steel and that slightly rotten, brackish air associated with all ports. Workers busied around like ants carrying ironworks and wood from carts and narrowboats to the place of fitment on the large ships in dock. The air was thick with steam and smoke from the variety of engines and machineries used to construct and bend the heavy steel used in the manufacture of Her Majesty’s fleet.

  The carriage could take me no further due to the morass of activity in front but the coachman kindly agreed to carry my travelling trunk to the Endeavour for a small fee. I regret to say that I was not one to travel light and feel I had the better of the deal as I paid the sweating, red-faced coachman his dues. I stood in awe at the huge steel monolith that was the Ironclad before me and for no reason I could fathom, I was compelled to run in panic from the scene, the letter heavy in my pocket as, in my mind, the ship took on the appearance of a monstrous gravestone. At the time I had never seen such a construction, surely it must have been as large as St Paul’s Cathedral. I stood in the shadow of the ship, its huge, black hull looming like a wall in front of me and there, barely in view above that, the masts and elongated funnel that spewed steam high up towards the Lord himself. I mused that perhaps that God must be in awe of such achievements of The Empire. Blasphemous, perhaps, but I was a younger man and prone to such flights of fancy. As I gazed I saw the huge rotating blades at the rear of the ship, taller than several men stood atop each other and wondered, as I gaped, what possible machinery could have constructed such items. If truth be known, I was a man more of the arts than a scientist or engineer; such things were unfathomable to me.

  “She’s a beauty isn’t she?” asked someone close by, making me start.

  “Quite wonderful,” I replied as I composed myself and turned to see a man about my age, but beardless, dressed in full Admiralty Regalia.

  “You must be the reporter,” said the Gentleman.

  “And I presume, you, sir, are the Captain of this vessel?”

  “You are correct, sir, Captain William Burrington at your service.”

  “Phineas Smith,” I said, “reporter for The Times, at yours, sir.”

  We shook hands. He was altogether not what I imagined of a naval Captain, in fact he seemed quite personable.

  “I do hope you are not writing about Her Majesty’s Navy during your voyage?” he smiled.

  “If I do Sir, it will only be complimentary, this is quite a wonder,” said I, glossing over the way my skin crawled and perspired at the thought of the journey ahead.

  “Let’s see if you say that after several weeks aboard her,” he chuckled. I smiled politely, slightly bemused by the comment. “I will have a boy come and collect your baggage, you are welcome to join me on the bridge if you like, Mr Smith, for you are our only passenger on this voyage, and the tide turns within the hour.” I thanked him for his hospitality and climbed the long gangplank to the deck of the Ironclad.

  The voyage was uneventful except for the constant rumbling of the massive engine and even after all these years I swear my hearing was never the same after that journey. Below decks, bouts of fearful panic overcame me whenever I considered the journey's end. Yet my rational mind could find no cause for this fear and I set it aside as traveller's nerves. I found myself bored and wishing I had brought more books. Indeed, if it hadn’t been for the company of Captain Burrington and his deck of cards, I may have flung myself to the mercy of the sea.

  The Captain and I spent many a pleasant hour in discussion and we quickly discovered that we had a like mind in nearly all matters both political, (Disraeli was a cad of the highest order), religious (God save the Queen) and in matters of the heart. (Our ‘dance’ cards were closely matched in terms of ‘conquests’, if you take my meaning.) Truth be told, we formed a fine friendship and both commented on a desire to remain friends after this voyage. He had a house in London where he chose to reside when not at sea, and by pure chance we both had knowledge of an ale house of fine repute where we both had occasion to drink, but on separate times.

  After several weeks, and a distinct change in the weather for the better, we arrived in the Caribbean. The HMS Endeavour, it turned out, was merely there to show the might of the Empire to our colonial cousins and the colonial cousins of our enemies, who inhabited the surrounding islands along the Caribbean. This meant that the ship would be returning to England in two weeks. I hoped that my business on St John’s would be concluded within that time, and so the good Captain offered to return to Montserrat or indeed St John’s if no transport could be found, to pick me up for the return journey. I was happy at this thought for a number of reasons: firstly, I enjoyed his company immensely and secondly, the romance of travelling perhaps outweighed the practicality of it; I longed to return to England with its fine ale houses and busty women. I would also perhaps be rid of the sweaty dreams and irrational panics, for there is nothing more lonely to an English Gentleman than a ship full of sailors, unless, of course, one is a sodomite. I am happy to say that a succession of beautifully pleased women would testify that I am not.

  I bade my farewells to the good Captain and was taken by steam launch to the port of Montserrat. From a distance it looked a beautiful place, the sea a shining, graduated, green and blue; golden sandy beaches and luscious green palms. In the misty distance rose the mountainous volcano from which the island itself had been formed. The port town itself was a rambling site of white wooden housing, truly colonial in appearance. As we approached, I could clearly see a busy market and the juxtaposition of the Negro natives and the white colonials, those brave souls who left Queen and Country for this gorgeous but Godforsaken land.

  I spent an uneventful evening with the Governor, a most frightful bore, demanding news of London society and talk of people of whom I had never heard nor met. The only light relief from his tedium was the vista of his beautiful wife, a vision if I may say so. Unfortunately, she was smitten with the fellow and barely cast a glance in my direction. Consequently, I made my excuses and went to bed, feigning some form of sickness caused by so many weeks at sea. The only curious event was when I questioned the Governor about the Island of St John's and the good Dr Baker. He would not linger on the subject and gave the shortest, curtest answer available to him. Tired and a little drunk at this point, I did not press him on it.

  The following morning the weather had not changed and I purchased myself a wide brimmed hat, fashioned from leaves, to protect myself from the bright sunshine. I was transported through the town to a waiting sail ship to take me the ten nautical miles to St John's. The hat looked faintly ridiculous I feel, but needs must when the Devil drives, and I thought the protection would outweigh my mild embarrassment. Besides, I was in a rum mood, as a night in a real bed on land had lifted my spirits somewhat.

  At the far end of the beach there was a small sloop, a swarthy Negro standing by it. They were both as scruffy as each other, the man dressed in little more than rags, in contrast to some of the other well tended fishing boats and sloops in the bay. I was no
t best pleased by this turn of events and asked the coach driver why I must use this boat. Curtly I was told that this was the only boat that would go to St John’s and looking back I feel it was the tone in the driver's voice that began the feelings of foreboding that came to dominate the remainder of the journey. The boat itself needed a lick of paint, to say the least, and the sails where a patchwork of differing cloths, stitched together at random.

  The coach driver loaded my items onto the boat and I approached the ‘Captain’ of the ‘ship’ with my hand out to shake his. Well, the fellow just looked me in the eye and spat on the floor before turning and climbing aboard. I was shocked but before I made an issue of it I reminded myself that foreigners had different customs and perhaps I had misinterpreted his gesture. However, I am ashamed to say that it crossed my mind that if was a result of the repeal of slavery perhaps it had not been the right thing to do. As I have stated previously, I was a younger man then and prone to such idiotic fancies.

  The journey took some considerable hours so I read a little and played solitaire to pass the time. Eventually, I saw a small island in the distance, no more perhaps than a mile in diameter. As we approached I could pick out a series of huts dotted amongst the trees that made the verdant paradise of the island look scruffy. The owners seemingly cared little for civic pride.

  As we approached, the settlement looked sparsely populated. Several old men and women sat in groups and I was unsettled by the rotting carcass of a cow that seemed to have been dumped not far from the village. As I gazed, I thought I saw figures in the trees behind moving away. I tried to use my book to shield my eyes and thought, just for a second, that one of the figures moved with a deportment different to the others but then they had gone. At this point I distinctly remember having butterflies in my stomach and the urge to jump overboard and swim for my life was nigh overwhelming. Perchance it was the heat and lack of sustenance for the voyage but I remember feeling nothing but foreboding as we landed the sloop on the beach.

  The captain jumped from the ship and bade me follow him. I considered asking him to take my trunk, however pride meant that I merely hefted it onto the beach and proceeded to drag it behind me. I made slow progress up the beach but rather than offer to help he merely stopped every few feet and waited. This was quite intolerable and I muttered so under my breath. It occurred to me then that the Negroes of this island looked different to those of Montserrat. Their skin was darker they themselves seemed skinnier and wiry perhaps. From photographs I had seen, I surmised that they could be African in origin. With a great show of effort I dragged my trunk through the village lest the locals felt compelled to help me, but none did. Eventually, I came upon a large wooden hut some way along a small track outside the main settlement. It was of Western construction and I deduced that this was the house of Dr Baker. My erstwhile Captain wandered off without a word and, being an Englishman, I felt obliged to thank him. However, the combination of his surliness and rudeness meant that, to my shame, I merely poked my tongue out at him when he turned his back. When in Rome and all that.

  I dropped the trunk and removed my sodden kerchief from my trousers, discovering it was possibly wetter than the perspiration of my face. Exasperated, I left my baggage where it lay and proceeded inside. The shack, if you could grace it with such a title, was dark inside and the floorboards creaked as I entered. A musky, chemical smell, was omnipresent in the room, despite being open to the elements by means of shuttered windows. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, for the shack was deep within the palm trees of the island, I saw that it was simply furnished with two dining chairs.

  “Ah. Mr Smith, is it?” his eyes cleared as he drew the logical conclusion.

  “And you must be Dr Baker,” I said with all the heartiness I could muster.

  “I am. I am. I am,” he said, wiping his hands on his trousers and stepping forward to shake mine vigorously. I distinctly remember how slick he felt, like freshly caught Trout or such like. His eyes were dark with lack of sleep and he seemed restless, the tone of his voice monotone and dour, yet filled with gusto.

  “Pray sir, was your journey a pleasant one?” he asked enthusiastically, still shaking my hand.

  Distracted by his slickness, I replied, “Well no, not really.”

  “Oh.” He stopped shaking my hand.

  Regaining my composure I answered, “Actually, some water would cure all my ails.”

  “Of course, of course.” He darted out of the room.

  I flopped onto one of the chairs as he returned, bearing a pitcher of water. I drank long and deeply as he sat opposite, just staring at me.

  “The fact you have arrived today fills me with joy, Mr Smith,” he said. I looked quizzically at him whilst drawing more water from the pitcher. “Yes. Yes. For this very evening I come to the zenith of my experimentation.”

  “It was not clear from your letter what the nature of your studies are,” said I.

  “Ah well. I am a chemist by training and an anthropologist by chance. I did not want to enter into too much detail for fear my letter might be intercepted by my rivals.” I struggled to see that this little man would have any rivals but I let this point pass. “I suggest that we eat and then perhaps I can show you what it is that I have been doing with my time here.”

  I smiled, though my heart was dreaming of nice ale and perhaps some roasted venison.

  Baker left the shack for several minutes while he fetched a meal from the villagers and I took this time to take in my luggage. I changed clothes and for reasons I still do not understand to this day, tucked my loaded service revolver into the inside of my jacket. I could not shake a feeling of horror that seeped into my soul, in the same way London fog soaks through the sturdiest woollen clothing even when the evening was warm and pleasant.

  It was then that I noticed that the portrait of the couple on the wall showed Dr Baker and, I surmised, his wife. She was a fine beauty, taller than Baker perhaps, with blond hair and piercing blue eyes. I realised then that this small shack had indeed at one time showed the touch of a lady: the placement of the furniture, the antimacassars, the china oddities on a shelf; the touch of a woman of taste trying to make the best of a poor lot. Yet, the grubby shack had not been cleaned in some considerable time. As I pondered this, Baker returned with a wooden platter of fish and vegetables and we dined whilst he caught up on news of the Empire. The vegetables were nothing to speak of but I must admit I enjoyed the fish; it was moist and succulent, with a fresh flavour and must have been grilled over an open fire. I don’t know why I remember this so clearly; even now many years later in London I can still taste it. Memory is a strange thing. With a full stomach I plucked up the courage to ask about his wife.

  “I’m afraid she died of a fever a few weeks after coming to the Island,” was all he would say on the matter before hurriedly changing the subject and looking away.

  Over a glass of Rum I asked Baker to expand on the reason for my visit.

  “Well,” he said, “several years ago, my wife and I were travelling around Africa, it was our Honeymoon if truth be told, and I found myself stricken with the most dreadful sickness. I could not eat nor keep my stomach contents. Our guide, concerned for my welfare, recommended I consult a local ‘Bokor’, or sorcerer for a cure. Good Christian teaching warned me against this but I must confess that the pains in my stomach were such that I acquiesced and saw the man. After a ritual of some length and complexity I was handed a small bag of powder to consume with water over the following few days. This I did and to my amazement, the following day I ate a hearty meal and felt fully recovered. In awe of this powder, I completed a chemical analysis of it and found the most amazing interplay of chemicals and compounds I had ever seen. In order to learn more about the origin of this remarkable chemistry, I stayed in Africa for several months until I learned that the most accomplished Bokor in Voodou, the religion of the area, actually lived here on this island.”

  “So this remarkable discovery is a cure for il
lness of the digestive system?” I enquired.

  “No, no. Not at all. I was interested in the chemistry of the cures, not the mumbo jumbo they associate with Voodou,” he sighed. “Tell me, have you ever considered what will happen to the Empire now that we have to rely on European workers and not slaves?”