The Isle of Devils (13 page)

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.

§

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 had 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.