The Isle of Devils (5 page)

Despite the re-victualing that took place at each isle, after we departed Ascension Island the choice of fare upon the ship grew rapidly worse as we made the long uninterrupted haul from the Old World to the New. The tins of preserved peaches held up fine, but I noted that every day the ship’s cook added a progressively greater amount of curry to the mutton, and I began to wonder if we were destined for an outbreak of some deadly flux. Fortunately, by some agent of providence, my fears proved to be in vain.

There were various cabin boys assigned to cover particular areas of the ship, and I became acquainted with one of them, whose missions brought him often within my walking grounds. Although I am certain that he must have possessed a surname, the only appellation I ever caught was a simple Billy. He was a bright lad of four and ten years, whose perpetually smudged face blended with his grey eyes and curly black hair. He would spend the day helping the cook in the galley and carrying the curried mutton to the forecastle, running messages throughout the ship, and scrambling up the rigging whenever a line had become caught. He was a harum-scarum, reckless lad, and some of the feats of acrobatics that he performed high up amongst the sails and spars were simply astonishing. If he owed shoes, I was unaware of it, for I only ever observed his blackened naked feet. Although I could never perceive anything else that was officially out of place with Master Billy’s modest uniform, he still somehow managed to affect an air of ragged slouching nonchalance. Only when he was surrounded by his peers, did he make an effort to draw up to his full height, which just barely cleared the others and thereby gave him a sort of unofficial superiority amongst that clan of scarecrows.

One day I asked him how he found himself at sea. “My father thought I was too high-spirited, the doctor prescribed a year at sea, and here I am,” replied he, simply.

But he was a fount of information regarding the workings of the ship, as well as its route. As we drew closer to our destination, I began to notice an unpleasant odor drifting off the ocean. I made my way over to the bulwark in order to discover the source of this strange scent, only to find that we were sailing through an enormous patch of a strange brown weed-like substance drifting upon the surface of the waves, which were otherwise a distinctive deep blue color.

“Whatever could that be?” I pondered aloud to myself.

At that very moment Master Billy was scurrying by, and he stopped to answer my rhetorical question. “It’s
sargassum
, Doctor.”

I frowned at this strange word, and he read my expression clearly, so he elaborated. “It’s a type of seaweed. It congregates in this area of the ocean. It is why we call this the Sargasso Sea, the only ‘sea’ without a shore in the whole wide world.”

I pondered over this information. “I’ve heard of this area. Is it not dangerous? I’ve read tales of ships being trapped here…”

Billy laughed delightedly. “Myths, Doctor, myths! It’s true that we can have sudden periods without winds in these latitudes, and perhaps before the days of our engines, when sails alone drove our ships, some may have been becalmed here. But the
sargassum
itself is no match for a ship like the
Malabar
, sir.”

“Ah, yes,” I flushed with discomfiture that the boy should be so much more knowledgeable than me, a ungenerous reaction since he was in his element, and I out of mine. “I suppose that I have been reading too much Coleridge. ‘Water, water everywhere,’ and all that,” said I, forcing a laugh.

But Billy shook his head again. “Coleridge is not to be trusted, Doctor. The man was an inveterate opium addict. That stuff will drown your life in false dreams.”

I started in surprise over these sagacious words from this youthful lad. But in the varied ports of call of this ship, he had likely seen even more of the world than I could lay claim to, and sailors were notorious for their vices. I was glad to see that he had already learned a lesson that had made a slave of many older, but certainly not wiser, men.

Despite Master Billy’s warnings about the inherently untrue nature of some literature, I have always been an omnivorous reader, and that long, monotonous voyage was the perfect situation for me to devour several volumes. I first turned my attention to the recent sea story of the American writer William Clark Russell, entitled
The Wreck of the Grosvenor
. Although that wonderful tale of adventure and heroism held fast my attention, from the standpoint of a medical man, I determined that the excitement of reading this dangerous nautical adventure while at sea was a poor restorative for my shaken health. Fortunately, our captain and chief mate in no way resembled the brutes of the tale. I then picked up Mr. Collins’ yellow-backed novel
The Moonstone
. I found it to be highly entertaining, despite the preposterous nature of the convoluted plot. 

After I quickly exhausted my meager library, I was forced to inquire whether any of my companions aboard were in possession of a spare novel. Once again, my young friend Billy proved his usefulness. He had already taken the pulse of the ship, and through his machinations, I was soon introduced to a short and stout, almost burley man by the name of Major
Walter Lomax, formerly of the Eighth
Foot. Sadly, like
me
, he had recently been invalided out of the British Army. Although my shoulder continued to ache terribly from time to time, I counted myself most fortunate when contrasted with my new acquaintance, whose entire lower right leg had been amputated, and replaced by a wooden stump. Despite this grim wound, good humor seemed to always play round his mobile, smiling lips, which peered out from under bushy brown side whiskers and a moustache. He was rather closer to forty than thirty, and this showed in his shock of uncontrolled brown hair that was already a little bald in the center. His eyes were an arresting shade of deep blue, and bespoke of an intense inward life, so alert and responsive they were to every question put to him. His face was brown and weather-beaten, the complexion of a man that had lived many years on campaign, yet still attractive in the strong lines of his brow. He continued to wear his scarlet red coat, with only his black trousers modified to accommodate his injury. I quickly discovered that he had been the assistant to the Regimental Adjutant in charge of all of its organization and administration.

“It is a pleasure to meet a fellow bibliophile, Doctor,” said he with a pleasant mellow voice, once he divined the objectives of my mission. “Not all share our passion.”

“Indeed,” agreed I, heartily. “It is not clear how I became such a bookworm, as my father was not a great reader.”

“Well, there we differ,” he laughed. “My father is the head-librarian at the London Library in St. James’s Square. He sent me off to Cambridge, where I continued to study good books in all departments of knowledge. I admit that there I developed an unhealthy hobby of collecting all sorts of obscure volumes.”

“And yet you joined the Army?” I enquired.

“I take it you do not hold to the supposition that a love of knowledge and a love for England are mutually exclusive?”

“Of course not!”

“‘But dearly was that conquest bought,’ as the words go. I had hoped to rise to become the Regimental Adjutant, but that dream has now been cut short, as the case may be.” He gestured to his missing limb.

I was a bit taken aback by his grim humor, but pressed on. “And now?”

“I have written to my father, and hold every hope that he can find me a position as a sub-librarian under him. Certainly, after the monsoons and jungles of India, I am greatly longing to see the bright green fields and the hedges of England.”

“I share your feelings,” I replied. “I myself yearn for the glades of the New Forest or the shingle of
Southsea
.”

“Well until then,” said he, shaking off his reverie, “I suspect that my trunk contains at least one book that you have not read, and in which you can engross yourself as we await our eventual embarkation upon the jetties of Portsmouth. So what type of literature are you looking for? Perhaps the essays of Thomas Carlyle collected as
Heroes and Hero Worship
?”

I smiled. “‘In books lies the soul of the whole Past Time; the articulate audible voice of the Past, when the body and material substance of it has altogether vanished like a dream,’” I quoted. “No, thank you, I have already studied him at university. I was hoping for something perhaps a tad more exciting.”

“‘What we become depends on what we read after all of the professors have finished with us. The greatest university of all is a collection of books,’” he quoted back to me. “Ah, I have it then. When faced with a dilemma, there is nothing like Pope’s Homer!
I have a black-letter
edition right here.
And it is perfect for our current destination. I have heard that navigating between the treacherous reefs of Bermuda is like sailing between Scylla and Charybdis.”

“There are few books that I treasure more,” I replied with some warmth. “So many times have I read those words, you might think me a modern Alexander.”

“I see,” said he, his brows knitted. “You are a difficult one, Doctor. Perhaps if I understood your preferences better? What are the last two books you have read?” Once he heard my reply, his face lit up like a street lantern. “Aha! I think I have just the thing for you. Are you familiar with Poe?”

“Edgar Allen, the American? I did read one of his works once. It was a curious tale about buried pirate treasure.”

“Yes,” said Lomax, nodding enthusiastically. “
The Gold Bug
! The cipher of Captain Kidd! Brilliant!”

I nodded, smiling at the memory. “It’s a clever story to be certain, though I must admit being taken aback by the incomprehensible American slang.”

“Indeed. Then perhaps his stories set in Paris would be a better choice. I have a trio of works here that I am certain you will enjoy. The first is called
The Murders in the Rue Morgue
.”

“That sounds rather gruesome. I do not know if I would enjoy it,” I replied.

“Ah,” he exclaimed. “It is not as violent as the title might lead you to believe. It is actually a very clever tale about an inspector named Dupin who uses a method of analysis, which he terms ‘ratiocination,’ to solve an impossible crime.”

I raised my eyebrows. “I will admit, that does sound intriguing.”

“Oh yes,” replied Lomax, with the evident glee of a true bibliophile about to share a special treat. “I am certain that you will enjoy it! And when you are done, if you liked Dupin, I would highly recommend the works of Monsieur Emile Gaboriau about his investigator
Lecoq
. At least in fiction, the French seem to produce the best detectives.” He handed over the slim volume.

I thanked Lomax for his gift and retired to my bunk, where I promptly found myself flipping rapidly through the brilliant tales of Mr. Poe. Whenever the light grew too poor or my eyes protested the strain of reading, I would set my book down and seek out my new friend Lomax
for some rounds of
écarté
, backgammon, and draughts. The strained finances that we both found ourselves in prevented any significant wagering, but we still managed to keep the games interesting and formed a bond of union over our common pursuits.

With such diversions, I found that the dull trip passed faster, and I was surprised when one morning I heard a pounding upon the door of my cabin. “Land ho, Doctor!” yelled Master Billy. “We are circling the island and expect to dock within the hour.”

Excited to finally see my destination, I quickly performed my ablutions and pulled on my uniform and boots. Grabbing my field-glass and Penang lawyer, I hobbled out onto the deck as fast as my leg would let me and surveyed the majestic scene before. We were approaching what appeared to be the very tip of the island, which was entirely occupied by a massive fortification of pale grey walls that dropped straight down into the sea. The walls were punctuated by two massive projecting bastions topped with massive guns. Within the walls, an enormous two-story Georgian-style white house, with a large verandah with red painted iron railings running around both levels, stood out from all of the smaller buildings. But while the fortifications were impressive, the more thrilling feature of the panorama was the flurry of activity in the harbor. Massive ships of the line bobbed with stately grace upon the waves, their cannon-ports shuttered. There were dozens in my field of view, many of whom were turned such that I could not make out their names, but I clearly noted the HMS
Northampton
, a Nelson-class armored cruiser, the HMS
Warrior
, an armor-plated, iron-hulled warship, the HMS
Irresistible
, an 80-gun screw-propelled second rate, the HMS
Scorpion
, an ironclad turret ship, the HMS
Vixen
, an armored composite gunboat, and the majestic four-masted iron frigate HMS
Achilles
. Dashing between these dreadnoughts, smaller single-masted cutters ferried troops, supplies, and munitions from the shore to the waiting ships. These lighter ships moved so quickly that I could hardly turn my glass on them before they were gone from my field of view. The only ones whose names I spotted were the
Alicia,
the
Elizabeth,
and the
Karnak
. At least one ship appeared to be an old convict ship adapted for use as a troop transport, and I was suddenly very glad that I was fortunate enough to have sailed on the relatively new and comfortable
Malabar
.