The Isle of Devils (2 page)

Opening the box proved to be much harder than anticipated, as the lid had literally been welded shut via the decades of accumulated rust. It was finally determined that the best course of action was to remove the dispatch box to the care of the Bermuda Historical Society on Queen Street in Hamilton. There, careful deliberation was held regarding the safest method by which to remove the aforementioned rust. Standard commercial rust removers were out of the question, of course, as they rely upon either phosphoric or oxalic acid, neither of which was deemed healthy for the papers presumed to be contained within the box. Eventually, the restorers determined that careful applications of white vinegar would be the least harmful method, and several meticulous weeks later, they succeeded in unsealing the box.

To their great disappointment, it was immediately obvious that the contents were heavily damaged by the pervasive damp found on that sub-tropical isle. Nevertheless, the manuscript entombed therein clearly dated from before the turn of the twentieth century, as it was written on one hundred forty-two pages of a decaying but formerly rich royal cream lined foolscap paper sans watermark, with text appearing on only one side in a fading purple-black iron gall ink set down by a broad-pointed quill pen. What then followed was months of painstaking conservation efforts whereby each page was separated from its neighbor with exquisite care. Following this, radiographic analysis aided in determining which words belonged to which sheet, as the ink had completely bled the words into the adjoining pages. This task was further complicated by the fact that the quality of the handwriting varied from sheet to sheet, with some as clear as if the author was printing, while others where the writing was so agitated that it was almost unreadable. The cause of this disrupted writing became more obvious when it was revealed by the author that the majority of the manuscript was written while at sea, with alternating periods of calm and stormy weather, by a man who, at the time, must not have contemplated that it was ever going to be of much practical importance. Eventually, however, these dedicated preservationists were able to read the words set down over one hundred and thirty years ago. And when they realized the monumental significance of their find, they immediately contacted me (due to my past publication history and connections to the island) to be the executor and literary agent for the release of this important episode in history. 

I will admit that a palpable thrill ran through my bones when I first received the excited phone call describing their find. But when it became clear who the purported author of this tale was, it became of the utmost importance to verify its authenticity, as the last several decades have literally been littered with purported ‘re-discoveries’ of supposedly ‘lost’ writings of a man who would be universally hailed as one of the greatest authors of the Victorian Age. Carbon-dating of the paper was of relatively limited use, since the process is still fraught with an uncertainty of approximately plus/minus forty years for samples such as this. While helpful at ruling out a truly modern forgery, it would not debunk one from before 1920, by which time several examples had already sprung into existence. Similarly, the antique iron gall ink had begun its process of corroding the paper, but that characteristic damage could be faked by various clever methods. The provenance of the dispatch box was unassailable, though to a modern scholar, it seemed to be an almost criminal-level neglect that would lead to the abandoning of a manuscript of this extraordinary import in a damp fortress store-room. And yet the author of the manuscript himself would explain this neglect to us, when he later reported that the box’s owner, Captain Henry, was “a man of untidy habits – very untidy and careless... who threw away his chances.”

Not wanting to make this same mistake with our singular chance, we therefore felt that the most reliable method of authentication was to compare the handwriting of the Bermuda Manuscript (as we began to call it) with those known manuscripts of unquestioned attribution scattered about the globe. Although fifty-six works originally existed, over twenty have been sadly lost to the ravages of time. Most of the remaining thirty-odd treasures are in the hands of exceedingly private collectors with little interest in opening their doors to a scholar of little renown. Fortunately, at least eight are still in the public domain and freely viewable
in situ
to researchers with sufficient introduction and a carefully controlled appointment. We began with those manuscripts residing in the United States, including the ones at the Houghton Library of Harvard University, the Berg Collection of the New York Public Library, Haverford College in Pennsylvania, and the Lilly Library at Indiana University. The experts at all four institutions were unanimous in their opinion that we were in possession of a genuine work, which raised our level of excitement to an ecstatic pitch. And yet, we tried to temper this emotion by recognizing that more work needed to be done in both the United Kingdom as well as the Continent. We decided to save the toughest authorities for last, and so first traveled to the Bibliotheca Boderiana in Geneva. They were at first skeptical but eventually agreed with the judgment of the American scholars.
Even the dons at the British Library were convinced of the veracity of our find, as were the specialists at the Portsmouth City Museum. Only the expert at the National Library of Scotland disagreed and labeled the Bermuda Manuscript a ‘clever forgery.’ While we obviously would have been happier if we had managed to obtain an undivided degree of support, we felt that in the whole, the burden of proof was on our side. We would release this remarkable tale to the world and await its verdict. 

I therefore set before you the earliest known words of one of the greatest authors, not only of the Victorian Era, but perhaps of all of Western Civilization. Although it may at times pale in comparison to the singular vibrancy of some of his later works, when he was composing at the height of his powers, we nevertheless believe it to be an instructive insight into the previously opaque background of one of history’s most famous men. For this American edition, I have taken the daring liberty of changing the author’s words from his British spelling (‘
colour
’, ‘
sombre
’, etc.) to one more pleasing to our colonial eyes.

§

It is with a muddled mind that I take up my pen to write these words in which I shall record the singular
experience
I had upon our colonial island of Bermuda. So peculiar was this adventure in its origins, and so dramatic in its details, that I feel that it is worthy of being set down upon paper, even if your eyes are the only ones to ever read it. It will come as no surprise to you that I have long been in the habit of maintaining a diary. Given the far-ranging life that I have led in my short eight and twenty years, I find that scribing my reminiscences assists me to recollect those small details that perhaps grow obscured over the passage of time by those more vivid scenes which are indelibly graven upon my memory. Certainly, however, there is little risk that the extraordinary events I am about to describe will ever be forgotten.

My friends have on occasion accused me of indulging a bad habit of telling stories with the wrong end foremost, and thus I will endeavor to recite what unfolded in due sequence, rather than plunging headways into the matter. I do not wish to waste your time, but I fear that my tale may need a brief preamble. As you are well aware, the twenty-seventh of July, 1880
,
was a dark time for the British Empire. I saw my own comrades hacked to pieces at Maiwand by the murderous Ghazis. Our defeat during that battle dampened morale significantly, though
Ayub
Khan lost vast numbers of men in order to gain his small advantage. Many of our men were shut up in Kandahar, until General Frederick Roberts, V.C., made his famous three hundred and fourteen-mile march from Kabul in August, leading to a decisive victory for the Queen’s forces. 

As for my personal situation, the whole campaign was nothing but a series of misfortunes and disasters. As I futilely huddled over the fallen bodies of my comrades, I too was stuck down by a Jezail bullet. This entered my left shoulder, shattering the bone and grazing the subclavian artery. If not for the brave actions of my orderly Murray, I likely would not have ever made it out of there alive. As it was, I managed to acquire yet another piece of ten-rupee lead, this time in my right ankle, during the chaotic retreat across the British lines. Eventually, as part of a great train of other suffering soldiers, my pack-horse led me through a series of deep defiles to the base hospital in Peshawar.

The base hospital was no idyllic sanctuary, however. The wounded were doing quite badly, many dying of lock-jaw, the most horrible death that I know. Fortunately, my surgeon was extremely competent, and fully versed in the
Listerian
method of antisepsis. With the aid of a hypodermic of morphia and some tightly wrapped carbolized bandages, I was soon on my way to a speedy recovery. However, a small fragment of one of those Jezail bullets was not able to be fully extracted and remains with me today as a permanent souvenir of that terrible day. Despite my own shattered state, I tried my best to bring some measure of comfort to the other men, however false it may be, for I knew that many of those in the beds surrounding me would eventually die. With every sigh of my companions’ last breaths, I felt a great pain deep within myself.

The grimness might have eventually overwhelmed me, if not for a flower of beauty that floated in the halls in stark contrast to the Sikh orderlies and stout English matrons. It hardly took a quick eye for color to spot the vision of loveliness that was Violet Devere. In her guise as a nurse, she visited me daily to foment my wounds with a poultice of native medicinal herbs made from the
moringa
tree. As her smooth hands pressed upon my shoulder and ankle, I will not pretend that my eyes often left her face. Her age was but a year or two over twenty. She was small and dainty, almost ethereal in her figure, but with luxuriant locks of chestnut-tinted hair neatly tied into a long braid. Her deep blue eyes held a hint of timidity, despite the great horrors that they witnessed every day in that hospital, and she had a soothing voice that emanated from her perfectly-shaped mouth. She wore a plain but pretty cerulean frock covered with a white apron in order to protect it from blood and other unpleasantries.

As my strength rallied and her visits passed each day, the struggle within my breast grew ever fiercer. I was well aware that Army regulations expressly forbade any form of intimate liaisons between its officers and those brave women who volunteered their time at the base hospitals. Nor was there any sign from her that she returned any of my interest as she briskly went about her business. I was simply another patient to her. Finally, however, my self-restraint abandoned me, not only due to her remarkable beauty, but also from my natural curiosity over her strange presence in exotic Peshawar. One day she spent additional time working upon my shoulder, where I had foolishly strained the wound while reaching for a novel, inducing a crimson patch to soak through the white linen compress. After days of responding to her in the most cold and distant tones that I could muster, so as not to betray my true emotions, I suddenly asked her if she would take me out onto the hospital’s verandah in order to bask in the late afternoon sun.

She looked startled by the suggestion. “I think, sir, that you could manage it by yourself,” she replied eventually.

I shrugged my unwounded shoulder sadly. “I have tried to walk about the wards, but met with little success. I believe that my injured leg still requires more nursing before it is ready for such a journey.”

Her brows furrowed in thought. “Then I will ask one of the orderlies to push you out there in one of the wheeled-chairs.” She began to rise to in order to carry out this plan.

I impetuously reached out a hand and laid it gently upon her dainty white wrist. Something about my recent brush with death made me feel like I needed to live my life more boldly. “Ah, but I would greatly prefer if you would escort me yourself.”

She looked down at my hand and considered this. “I do not believe that this would be a wise idea, sir. I will call an orderly.”

I unhappily watched her rise and walk away. Later, as I sat in my chair upon the verandah, I gloomily pondered my situation as the sun settled over the arid valley. I remained in place for many hours, brusquely waving away orderlies who attempted to fetch me back to my bed. The night was clear and fine above me. The stars shone cold and bright, while a half-moon bathed the whole scene in a soft, uncertain light. This sterile vision seemed to be a foretelling of my future, which appeared rudderless and forlorn. Despite these dark thoughts, however, when I later returned to my bed I thought that the fresh air had done me some good, and I felt stronger for having made the excursion.