The Isle of Devils (16 page)

He raised his hands in mock defense. “Of course, Doctor, of course.” His expression suddenly changed. “Ah, in the excitement, I almost forgot to tell you. A messenger came over the hill to let you know that your brother has secured a few hours of leave, and intends to pay you a visit this evening.”

I smiled broadly at this welcome news, and even more at the peculiar plate of food he set before me, whose outlandish appearance helped drive all distracting thoughts from my brain. It was an oblong roll consisting of charred bread, presumably wrapped around some inner filling. Mr. Boyle finally explained that it was filled with a stewed lamb and was known as a
roti
. He had learned the trick of it from a visiting trader from the island of Grenada in the southern Caribbean. I soon found that it possessed an excellent flavor and subsequently devoured my luncheon with a ravenous gusto. This was all washed down with an admirable
Beaune
, which proved to have hailed from the
Clos des
Ursules
vineyard some dozen years prior. However, my morning exertions had proved to be too much for my weakened constitution, and after lunch I was too tired to even begin to contemplate returning to the afternoon heat outside. Instead, I repaired to the soothing cool of my room and stretched out upon the bed, endeavoring to get a couple of hours’ rest. At first it seemed a useless attempt. My mind had been much excited by all that had occurred. Every time that I closed my eyelids, I saw before me a vision of a woman’s freckled face capped with lustrous red hair. I felt as if her green eyes penetrated to my soul. I would not be boasting if I claimed an experience of women which extends over many nations and three separate continents. And yet, none have left me as confused as the fascinating Madame Lucy Dubois.

§

I awoke from my rest feeling exceptionally relaxed. For a moment, I could not feel any pain coming from either my shoulder or ankle and I luxuriated in that glorious sensation. Then I moved, and the reality of my wounds came crashing down upon me. Glancing at the clock, I realized that I had nodded off for several hours and that Henry would likely be calling soon for supper. I changed back into one of my service uniforms, setting my seawater-stained suit out for a cleaning. I then made my walk back downstairs, barely noticing the creaking step, through the fortuitously-deserted dining room and into the billiard room. In order to glean additional funds when the number of overnight travelers was low, Mrs. Foster opened the ground floor of her establishment as a sort of restaurant and gentleman’s club. As a woman herself, she was not neglectful of the gentler sex, and a ladies’ parlor also opened off the dining room, though I had not yet attempted to penetrate that lair. Instead, I hobbled up to the bar in the billiard room, where I found Mr. Boyle polishing glasses.

“What can I do you for, Doctor?” he inquired, solicitously.

“No sign of my brother yet?”

“No sir, though I reckon he’ll be by soon. Care for a drink while you wait?”

I nodded. “I think that would be just fine.”

“Another whisky and soda?”

“Do you have anything more unique to the island? Constable Dunkley was telling me about something called ‘
Bibbey
,’ I believe.”

Boyle looked aghast. “This is a reputable establishment, Doctor!
Bibbey
is a swill served from the back of someone’s carriage house.” Then the man got a curious shine in his eyes. “Ah, but if you want something unique, I may have just the thing for you.” He reached under the bar and brought out a small white bottle, and then grabbed a small stemmed glass with his other hand. Twisting off the cap, he poured a small amount of a clear liqueur into the glass. Sliding it over to me, he said, “Give that a try, Doctor.”

I picked it up and sipped a small amount of the strange smelling drink. A hint of bitter oranges washed down my throat. “What is it?”

“It’s called curaçao. It’s made in the Dutch Antilles, and I have a sailing man that brings me a few bottles from time to time.”

I tried another sip, and decided that I liked it. “Well, it is certainly exotic.” But I was spared any further thought on the subject by the arrival of my brother through the side door of the hotel.

“Ham!” he called out.

I rose to greet him, and was surprised to find that he was not alone. He was accompanied by both another army officer, as well as a white-and-tan bull-pup. The man was tall, with a spare frame and a middle-height. He appeared about my age, placing him a few years behind Henry, which fit with the lieutenant bars on his uniform, which I recognized as having the same facings as Henry’s 99th Regiment. His blond hair was rather unruly, though this effect was tempered by his rubicund clean-shaven face, and he possessed curiously penetrating light blue eyes. He had a large smile on his face as he held out his hand. “William Thurston at your service, sir! It’s a great pleasure to finally meet you, Doctor. Captain Henry has told me a great deal about your exploits and I am most eager to hear more of them for myself.”

“I’m afraid there’s not much to tell…” I began, before Henry interrupted.

“Now, don’t be modest, brother. I did receive your letters after all. I expect a full report over drinks.”

“All right,” I laughed, “I will be properly boastful, I promise. But first tell me who this little guy is?” asked I, bending down to rub the bull-pup’s head.

“Hah! I thought you might like him, Ham. He’s our new regimental mascot after we had to recently put down the old bull terrier for uncontrollably freezing onto the ankles of strangers. But you must guess this guy’s name.”

I frowned. “How could I possibly guess the name of a dog, Henry? The possibilities must be nearly infinite.” 

“Not nearly so bad as that! I assure you that the name was not chosen at random.”

I continued to frown. “If not at random, then you must have used some physical feature of the pup to guide your choice,” I reasoned slowly.

“Spot on!” Thurston laughed.

I stared at the lop-eared pup, and he in turn obediently gazed back at me. He had a funny patch upon the top of his head that gave him an appearance of baldness, and this was further accentuated by tufts of white hair was stuck out by his ears. He also had a humorous tendency to lift one shaggy eyebrow higher than the other, which suggested that he was questioning you. Unbidden a name arose in my head, but I rejected it as being far too absurd. Henry, however, must have seen my expression change and motioned for me to speak.

“Well,” I stammered, “I had a thought…”

“Out with it!” my brother commanded.

“I suppose he does look a bit like Gladstone…”

Both my brother and Thurston broke out into a gale of laughter at this pronouncement. Thurston proceeded to reach into his pocket and pull out a shilling, which he good-naturedly handed over to Henry. “You were right, sir!” he said, continuing to laugh. “First guess.”

I was mildly shocked. “Henry, please do not tell me that you named your dog after the Prime Minister of England.”

Continuing to laugh, Henry responded. “In all fairness, Ham, he wasn’t the Prime Minister at the time. Disraeli was.”

I shook my head at his inappropriate mirth. “And the bet?”

“Thurston did not believe me when I said that you would guess it in one try. But I had great faith in your powers of observation.”

“One shilling is hardly great faith,” said I, dryly.

He smiled. “One can never be too careful, brother.”

With that sage pronouncement, we settled down at one of the dining room tables for dinner. Mrs. Foster appeared from the kitchen holding plates containing a type of fish. Setting them down in front of us, Henry exclaimed, “Rockfish maw! You have exceeded all my expectations, Mrs. Foster.”

B
ut
the proprietress seemed immune to Henry’s charms. “I’m glad you approve, Captain,” she said briskly before vanishing again into the kitchen.

Henry did not seem to notice, so intent was he upon the plate in front of him. “We don’t get food like this at the fort mess, eh, Thurston?” Sensing my unfamiliarly, he explained. “Rockfish is a type of grouper native to these waters. The stomach is stuffed with a dressing of forcemeat and simmered slowly upon the stove. Properly prepared, it can be a wonder.”

I soon found that Henry was right with his praise. Our meal was a merry one. Once I had consumed enough of the fish, I realized that poor Gladstone had not partaken, and I filched a lump of sugar from the tea service to seal our alliance. He gave me a shrill whine of excitement, proving that he was a good-natured pup, and I smiled affectionately at him. “Perhaps he will prove to be as brave as Bobbie of the 66th
Foot.”

“Who is that, Doctor?” Thurston asked.

“Ah, the regimental dog of the brigade I was attached to at Maiwand. She was present at the final stand of the Eleven, and escaped wounded to
Candahar
. The few survivors of the regiment were returned to England, where Bobbie was presented a campaign medal by the Queen herself.”

“That’s a great story, Ham,” my brother said. “Now that you’ve done so well with the dog, tell me whom Thurston looks like.”

I studied him for a moment, and then I knew whom Henry was thinking of. “Mr. Hilton Soames, our old instructor at Winchester!”

“Exactly!” my brother laughed. “You really are sharp today. Thurston does look exactly like a younger version of old Soames, though of course, the lieutenant here has a much less nervous and excitable temperament.”

“I would hope so!” I said fervently.

“Whatever happened to good old Soames?” Henry asked me.

I sh
rugged. “Last I heard
he had moved up in the world from a boy’s public school. He became a tutor and lecturer at the College of St. Luke’s, Oxford. But what about you, lieutenant?” said I, changing the topic. “Where are you from?”

Thurston shrugged modestly. “There’s not too much to tell. I am from Horsham in Sussex originally. My family has a small estate there, near where Percy Bysshe Shelley was born. My elder brother was due to inherit, so after finishing my schooling I decided to join up. I trained at Woolwich Arsenal, and was then attached to the 99th, in order to replace losses suffered in South Africa. As a reward for their service, the 99th was stationed here in Bermuda, but I’m afraid that it’s rather dull for me,
since
I’ve
never
had the opportunity to
see any action.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Lieutenant. It may come true,” I cautioned him. “A battle may seem like a glamorous thing until you actually see your friends’ bloody entrails spilled on the dusty ground, hear their last shrieking cries of pain, or feel the bite of hot lead entering your body.”

My brother cut off my tale of horror. “Come now, Ham, don’t scare the lad. If you do not wish speak of Maiwand, at least regale us with an anecdote of adventure. Surely something interesting must have occurred as you traipsed across the Indian subcontinent?”

I nodded and smiled at the image that immediately entered my mind. “Well, there was one night worthy of a recounting. After I arrived in India, I discovered that my corps had proceeded without me. With a group of fellow officers in the same situation, we followed in their footsteps through the mountain passes. I was often of the habit of staying up later than my companions, so that after most of the lights of our camp had been extinguished, I could enjoy the incredible views of the stars in the thin mountain air. On one of those nights, I lay awake in my tent, my mind racing with thoughts that I wanted to set down upon paper, but could not seem to bring to order. By this time it was the dead of night, and the camp was utterly quiet. Imagine my surprise when the flap of my tent was slowly pulled back. My first thought was that some native must have slipped past the watchful eyes of the pickets in order to avail himself of some easy-to-carry loot. By that notion was quickly disabused when I plainly heard the sound of a low growl emanating from my intruder. In a flash, I reached out for my double-barreled musket, which I always kept immediately next to my roll. I lifted it and fired as quickly as possible, so as to avoid becoming the meal for some great beast. Obviously, the blast awoke the entire camp, who rushed to my tent to find out the meaning of the uproar. As lamps were lit and the excitement died down, a survey of the ground in front of my tent was undertaken. To my chagrin, there was no animal sprawled out there, and at first I was accused of startling at shadows, like a neophyte subaltern on his first campaign. Although the commotion of the milling soldiers had obliterated most tracks, finally a paw-print was located, which served to exonerate me from such charges. However, one older man, who was widely
known as a great hunter, proclaimed that the reason why my musket failed to take down the beast was not in fact due to my poor aim. Or rather, it was because I aimed far too high for the beast in question. My shot likely ‘would have taken down a full-grown tiger,’ he declared, ‘but not the little cub that had left that tiny print!’”