The Isle of Devils (19 page)

“Which portends?”

“A hurricane!”

I was dumbfounded. “Are you serious, Mr. Boyle? Is it not too late for hurricane season?”

“Well, you are correct, Doctor, that most hurricanes occur from August to October. But in some years we have seen them as early as the first of June, and as late as the end of November. This autumn has been a very stormy one, and there has been a long succession of northerly gales.”

“If that is the case, then how do ships know when to sail?”

“Then don’t always. Just last year the steamer
Lartington
went down on the reefs northwest of Dockyard. An unfortunate accident, though all survived.”

“Aren’t they all unfortunate accidents?” I inquired.

“Well, nowadays, that is probably the case, thanks to the lighthouse on Gibbs Hill, which has really curtailed the activities of the wreckers.”

“Wreckers?”

“Aye,” he nodded, cleverly. “You see, Doctor, in days past, some of the inhabitants of our more remote parishes, such as
Sandys
and Southampton, used to engage in a rather illicit trade. They would wait until the night of a strong storm, and then descend to a point along the coast where the offshore reefs were thickest. A mule would be driven back-and-forth along the beach with a lantern tied around its neck. The up-and-down motion of the light resembled that of a wave-tossed vessel and would lead unsuspecting mariners to think that they were further from shore than the actual situation. The following morn, the gang of wreckers would head out in their small boats to the reef-caught vessel and strip it clean of all its valuables.”

“That is terrible!” I protested.

“Aye, though as I said, it’s a bit of a historical curiosity at this point, most of the wreckers having gone legitimate, as the lighthouse on Gibbs Hill gave the lie to their deception.”

Just then, a particularly strong gust of wind rattled the windows. I turned to look outside, where the day continued to be wild and tempestuous, with the wind screaming past the hotel and the rain starting to fall. A single cab was splashing its way down Duke of York Street, but the town otherwise seemed deserted. I was heartily glad of the fire blazing behind the grill, as it brought a measure of comfort to the room which contrasted strongly with the weather outdoors. 

When I turned back, Boyle had wandered off, but his place had been taken by Mrs. Foster. She looked at me sagaciously. “It’s not much of a day for venturing outside. Perhaps you should rest yourself in one of my easy chairs in the billiards room, Doctor? The hotel has a nice selection of books that you might be interested in. We can put a pillow beneath your leg…”

After another glance at the darkening sky, the wind whistling shrilly down the long street, her words seemed wise. I had no mackintosh, and did not wish to become soaked. Furthermore, I had experienced plenty of adventure on my jaunt around town the day prior. I therefore gave in to my inherent languor and curled up in the recesses of the billiard-room’s velvet-lined armchair, but not until after selecting another novel from her small collection.

On the
Malabar
, as well as during my recuperation in the base hospital, I had abundant time to read, but my sociable nature often led me to seek out either good conversation or games of chance with my fellow soldiers. Here in the Globe Hotel, with Henry rather unlikely to visit today, I was surrounded by strangers from every land, none of whom were soldiers, and my inclination for conversation was limited. Therefore, I delved deeply into the pages of my new novel,
The Mystery of Edwin Drood,
by the late Mr. Charles Dickens, which was more than sufficient to absorb all of my attention for the next several hours.

Although I was vaguely aware of hearing the rain pattering against the windows, the next thing that I was clearly conscious of was Mrs. Foster delivering a pot of tea in a Derby china set. “What happened to the luncheon?” I inquired.

“You missed it, Doctor,” she explained. “I tried to catch your attention, but you were too engrossed in your book. It is now already four o’clock. If you go any longer, it will be time for high tea!”

I shook my head in amazement. “No wonder I feel so ravenous!”

“Well, only some sandwiches for you now. I’ll be fixing up some amberjack for supper, which you will not want to miss.”

As she excused herself, I finally rose from my armchair. Although the rest had likely performed long-term wonders for my wounds, the period of immobility stiffened my ankle, and it was with a pronounced limp that I walked over to the window to look through the blurred panes onto the deserted street. Outside the wind howled, and the rain beat fiercely against the shutters. Given the lack of street lamps on the island, with every building shuttered tight, nothing illuminated the muddy road. Even clad in the thickest of overcoats, galoshes, and every other aid that mankind has invented to fight the weather, only a madman would dare brave the elements on this night. Certainly, I have lived through my fair share of mighty storms, some so powerful that it seemed as if great London itself was but one of the molehills that dot the fields before their awesome power. But here, perched on a small island, mere yards from the sea itself, I was most conscious of the huge elemental forces that comprised the iron grip of Nature.

I returned to my novel, but my concentration had been broken, and I was now constantly distracted by the ever-strengthening howls of the wind, which began to provoke eerie noises from the fireplace. Eventually, one by one my fellow travelers all descended to the bar in the billiard room, and I was forced to set aside Mr. Dickens so as to not appear rude. Although I was very eager to discover the identity of Drood’s murderer, as fate would have it, many months would pass before I found the time to return to that novel. My eyes were immediately drawn to Lucy Dubois, who was enveloped in a black-sequined dinner-dress. Seldom have I seen so graceful a figure, so womanly a presence, and so beautiful a face. I tried to turn away, but I was acutely aware that whenever I, more than once, glanced in her direction found that she was looking at me with a great intensity.

“I think that weather like this calls for a drink,” exclaimed Mr. Warburton, as he sidled up to the bar. “Where is Mr. Boyle?”

Mrs. Foster was not present, but we heard her voice emanate from the rear corridor. “He’s gone home to ensure that his own house is properly boarded up.”

I looked over at my previous vantage point, only to find that Mr. Boyle must have sealed all of the Globe’s windows before he left. Until this storm spent its fury, we were essentially trapped in the hotel.

“Do you mind if I pour a few drinks then, Mrs. Foster?” Mr. Sims called out.

“Go right ahead,” we heard her reply.

Sims thus took a place behind the bar and began to pour some gin and tonics.

Monsieur Dubois stopped Sims from making one for him. “Not for me, Bruce. I once had a terrible reaction to a gin and tonic. I broke out with these terrible purple spots all over my body.”

“Ah, cocktail purpura,” exclaimed Dr. Nemcek. “Wouldn’t you agree, Doctor,” said he, turning to me.

“Absolutely,” I concurred with his diagnosis.

“And what is that, Doctor?” asked Madame Dubois.

I forced myself not to stammer as I looked into her entrancing eyes. “You see, one of the great scourges of the British Empire is the pestilential malaria we find in India and so many other tropical areas. The medicinal quinine is an effective preventative so we began to add it to carbonated water. But the resulting tonic is rather bitter, and thus our soldiers began to add gin to make it more palatable. But rare people have an idiosyncratic reaction to the quinine, which causes great bruises, or purpura, to break out upon their skin. It’s rather harmless, but not very attractive, and sufferers are counseled to avoid tonic water in the future.”

“In that case, I recommend some rum, Hector,” said Mr. Sims, pulling out a bottle. “This stuff appears locally made.”

“Yes,” said Senhor Cordeiro, the traveler in wines. “That, mate, is the famous Bermuda Black Seal rum. It is a particularly dark, full-bodied elixir which was originally found only in barrels, but enough people asked for smaller quantities that the makers decided to start bottling it. However, since new glass bottles are scarce on the island, they decided to salvage discarded champagne bottles from the officer’s mess. After filling them with rum, the bottles are sealed with a black wax, hence the name.”

“And for those of us that do not drink alcohol?” interjected the Spanish lady, whose name I had still not caught. Her tone was imperious, though I thought I detected a hint of nerves.

Dr. Nemcek spoke up. “In that case, I recommend a simple mixture of hot water and a lemon. It does wonders to warm the spirits on a night like this. I will ask Mrs. Foster to prepare you some.”

The lady inclined her head gratefully as the Doctor slipped from the room. Monsieur Dumas also declined to drink and sat silently in one of the corners. After everyone else was settled with a drink, the conversation died down. With the lack of voices, the violent sounds of the storm were magnified as the wind screamed and rattled against the windows.

“Lucy, would you favor us with a song?” Signore Aicardi suddenly asked. 

She initially demurred, but others joined in with their encouragements, and eventually her husband was dispatched to their room upstairs. He returned with a violin case, which Lucy opened and gently lifted the violin to her shoulder, pausing for a moment to think. She began by playing some low, dreamy melodious air, and for a moment it was as if the storm had vanished and I was floating peacefully upon a soft sea of sound. Eventually, she looked up and addressed the hushed crowd. “How about a
Song without Words
?” she asked, rhetorically. Bending her chin to the rest, she raised the bow to the strings. As the tender notes began to permeate my brain, I recognized the work of Mendelssohn. Although I knew it had been written for the piano, she managed to transform it into a piece for the violin. I marveled at the talent that it took to accomplish this feat. As a rule, I had little enthusiasm for German music, for I found it too introspective. I generally prefer the grand music being made by the English composer Sullivan, or a good Scotch air. But this music was like a treat for the gods, a perfect blend of sweetness, delicacy, and harmony. As I sat there, enthralled by the beauty of both her playing and her face, a tumult of emotions struggled in my breast. I could scarcely credit the sentiments that I possessed for a married woman. While she played, she generally kept her eyes closed, but once she opened them and they thrillingly fixed upon me. For a moment, I thought that perhaps she sensed – and possibly shared – my feelings. But of course, an impassable barrier separated us.

The next several hours were a general blur. I vaguely recall that she played a moving rendition of what I later learned was Offenbach’s new
Bacarolle,
and this was followed by some long-drawn, wailing notes that composed one of the most haunting of tunes I have ever heard. I
never learned the name, nor have ever heard it again, but its sounds have never left my brain. I know that eventually supper was served, a brace of a local bird that tasted exactly like grouse, and washed down with a fine Château Lafite. Outside the storm continued to rage, with rain splashing and pattering against the boarded windows. Although I made light conversation with my companions, and learned the names of those few I had previously not met, my thoughts constantly turned to Lucy. More than once our eyes met across the room, and it was never hers that broke off that distant contact. I wish I knew what to make of her. At one point in time, I had considered the fair sex to be one of my areas of expertise, but I now knew that supposition to be a grand delusion.

Eventually Mrs. Foster had cleared the tables, and once again a lull settled upon the conversation. The great shrieking of the wind forced us to raise our minds for an instant from the routine of life, and to recognize the presence of those terrible raw forces which shriek at mankind through the bars of his civilization, like untamed beasts in a cage. These thoughts eventually drove most of the guests to retire to their rooms, including, to my relief, Monsieur and Madame Dubois. I would no longer be forced to gaze upon her comely face. But having spent most of the day in the arm-chair, I was little tired, and knew that the great noise of the storm would prevent me from falling asleep. I dreaded the idea of being alone in my room with only my thoughts of Lucy to torment me though the long night. Thus I resolved to remain downstairs for as long as possible. Fortunately, three of my companions also showed no inclination to retire, and Senhor Cordeiro suggested a game of whist. I readily agreed, as did Mr. Sims. After a few moments hesitation, as if he suspected a trap at every turn, even in something as innocuous as a card game, the normally-taciturn Monsieur Dumas acquiesced to be the final member of the
partie carrée
.