The Bosphorus, 16 March 1854
This evening, after weeks of preparation, I boarded the Kamsamah, bound for the Isle of Batrony, the Limbo of the ancients. It was not without trepidation that I prepared to leave Constantinople. I carried the trepidation on board, enclosed in a sturdy wooden trunk, labelled trómos in Greek. We are to sail at first light tomorrow morning on this rickety zebeck, with a sullen crew, who until yesterday supposed they were setting sail for Sinope - thence to Stavropol.
I was delighted that my new-found friend Jingly Jones accepted my invitation to see me off. She not only kissed my nose, but she hired a juggler to distract me while she did so. She threatens to take juggling lessons to relieve her boredom, while she awaits her husband’s return from the Baltic.
The marvellous woman presented me with a gift: a long narrow object, wrapped in green tissue-paper in a long cardboard box. I could not fathom what it might be.
"Shall I open it now?" I asked.
"No!" she laughed. "Not here on the wharf! It is a top secret military device, only for British eyes!"
I do hope I see her again, if she is still in Constantinople when I return in a few months - and perhaps even in England - though that is a country I rarely visit now.
As I write, in my squalid cabin, I discover I am sharing it with a family of curious cockroaches. They are waving their feelers in anticipation to see a pink skin. The ship rolls horribly, even in a quite calm sea. Luckily, I am not too bad a sailor. It is only my little illness that worries me. I desperately hope I shall not suffer any attacks on board.
In the privacy of my cabin, I unwrapped my gift from Jingly. It was an umbrella, a black umbrella, utterly English. I was delighted. I studied its label. "Marmaduke Wiggs and Sons. By appointment to the Royal Navy." My very own Naval Umbrella! Already I felt like an officer. I marched back and forth in my tiny cabin, bearing it at an angle, as I have seen soldiers on parade do with guns. After twirling it a few times, I carefully packed it away, feeling like a true Englishman again. On Batrony it may be useful in warding off naval rain.
While I was packing away the umbrella, Damitry entered my cabin, without knocking - an annoying habit of his.
"What is in the box that the General’s wife gave you?" he asked. (He is very impressed that I know a General’s wife.)
"My instrument for swatting bandits," I said idly.
"What is it called?"
"Actually, it is an - " - I stopped, forgetting the Greek for umbrella. "Little cloud to prevent rain," I paraphrased. Damitry looked puzzled, so I continued. "Dusky-skinned fellows, I find, usually mistake it for a new type of gun."
"A new type of gun," he echoed. "Very interesting indeed!"
17 March 1854
This afternoon Kit Mut Gar was unruly, having consumed much arrack – very much indeed. He spoke openly of sailing directly to Stavropol, of setting me down there instead of Kitoozh. "There are interesting things to paint at Stavropol," he suggested. "An enormous variety of nips."
I reminded him of the pocketful of gold bezants I had paid him; he affected not to hear me.
Damitry took me aside. "Demonstrate your weapon," he insisted. "Fear is the only thing these villains respect."
"Nobody would be afraid of my weapon," I said, knowing that Damitry himself was very interested in its nature. I had hinted to him of its marvellous powers. How could I admit to him it was only an umbrella - especially when I did not know the Greek for umbrella? I told him that, among various other functions it prevented rain. He was much intrigued.
Finally I took Damitry down to my cabin and showed him my shiny new weapon. He was most puzzled. "Where do the bullets go in and out?" he asked.
"It does not require bullets," I assured him.
I took it up on deck for a demonstration, and glanced at the sky, in case there were rain-clouds. Above our heads, some annoying seagulls circled. I seized the umbrella by the crook, and slid my other hand under the prongs, preparatory to raising the umbrella, in case those seagulls should drop something unpleasant onto me.
An unwise bird chose that moment to utter a most irritating squawk. Without thinking, I aimed the point of the umbrella at that seagull, unfurling my weapon slightly to insert my hand inside the mysterious works. Taking sight between two prongs of the umbrella, I clicked the catch with my thumb.
"Bang!" I said politely.
The stricken gull, uttering a disbelieving squawk, began to tumble out of the sky, wing over wing, tail over beak, till it splashed into the waves a few score yards to our starboard.
"You killed it!" said Damitry, amazed.
"But of course," I answered, casually refolding the umbrella. "No seabird can withstand the fearsome sight of an umbrella being unfurled."
Captain Kit Mut Gar, noticing us with the strange black object, came bustling down the deck. He was most impressed. "No noise! No flash! Yet the bird is dead." He wanted to examine the "gun." I suspect he was impressed by its poaching potential. "Where do the bullets go in? How do they leave, as there is no hole? And what is the function of the black cloth?"
"No!" exclaimed Damitry, snatching the weapon away. "This is a top-secret British design. Simply be pleased that the British are Turkey’s allies. The function of the cloth is to make the gun silent, in order that our enemies don’t know when they are being killed."
"My God!" Damitry whispered to me later. "I must confess, Mr Lear, I did not believe the umbrella to be such a powerful weapon."
Is he joking? I wondered.
He continued: "But please tell me, just to satisfy my own curiosity, where the bullets are inserted."
"I’m sorry," I told him. "None but the British may know."
Last night, while I tried to sleep in the rough seas, a shadowy figure came into my cabin, and began rustling around my things on the floor.
"Who is it?" I shouted. "Stop it at once, or I’ll shoot!"
Kit Mut Gar turned around, the picture of injured innocence. "I was only checking that your possessions were safe," he simpered.
I assured him that they were very safe indeed.
THE WINDS OF BATRONY
The first thing that the student must understand about the Isle of Batrony is that its uniqueness is brought about by its winds. Of all the islands off the north coast of Asia, Batrony is perhaps the only one with such unceasing winds. There are two winds: the spring wind, and the autumn wind.
The spring wind blows, in all five directions, from March to September: a strong, gusty wind, that never stops.
The autumn wind blows, in all five directions, from September to March: a powerful, howling wind, that never stops.
Between the two winds, most years, there is perhaps a day of near-calm. By timing his arrival for the March equinox, E.L. hoped to disembark during the calm period.
A singular fact about the winds of Batrony is that they always blow towards the island. Wherever one stands on the coast, the wind is always from the sea. Generally, its force is least at dawn and sunset.
Because the winds always blow to Batrony, and sailing ships cannot travel against them, the island over the years has collected a small fleet of foreign ships, unable to leave: some Russian, some Turkish, some Greek, some Persian, and some of other nations.
On the calm days between the spring and autumn winds, the sailing ships try to leave. But the weather is fickle: a late March morning might begin near-calm, but by afternoon the ships are usually wrecked on our rocky shores.
For this reason, Batronian merchants display little interest in buying the cargoes from the ships. The marooned crews - if they survive - tend to become angry, and to cause havoc in the ports. To prevent this, they are generally locked up on arrival: most find it more pleasant to die in the dungeons than to drown.
19 March 1854
After three days and nights on the wild Black Sea, I have played six games of pinochle with Kit Mut Gar, and have lost five of these. I owe him 12 bezants. He is pressing me to pay, but I tell him with a laugh that I shall win it all back by tomorrow, when we are due to arrive. The winds are strong, and we are making excellent time. It is well that I am a good sailor, though, for this little craft pitches around like a nutshell, as well as rolling like a cabbage and leaking like a sieve. Fortunately I am free from my little malady – as often, while I am travelling
20 March
Today the waves have died down, and the wind has fallen to a breath. With all sail set, we inch towards Batrony under a watery blue sky. My first sight of the isle was a white mountain, seeming to rise direct from the sea: the fabled Mount Oggodoggo. As we came closer, I made out the hazy outline of land to the right of the mountain, but nothing else nearly as high.
The captain called me, to advise him where Kitoozh might be. All I knew was that it was somewhere on the southern shore, not too far east of Mount Oggodoggo. I called Damitry. He did not know, either. He had never been to Kitoozh, he now averred (though he had described it to me in some detail, only a few days ago). The three of us stood at the rail, examining the outline of the land gradually appearing before us.
At last, Damitry remembered an old folk song, which I have turned into English, following the same rhythm:
Two giant noses from Qyp
ran down to Kitoozh on a trip.
On the cabbage-shaped hill
by the harbour they still
point their cavernous nostrils to Qyp.They call this dance the lymborick; it is accompanied by much tossing of fish and other reluctant creatures. It is native to the area where Damitry comes from, the Bay of Gurtle. I find the rhythm quite catchy. Perhaps I shall try writing some of these lymboricks in English. Such things amuse me, even if nobody else would ever be interested in such foolish poetry.
"There it is!" exclaimed Kit Mut Gar, peering through his rusty telescope. I took a glance, and agreed. To the east of Mount Oggodoggo I saw a cabbage-shaped hill, surmounted by two giant reddish rocks, very much in the shape of noses. To the right of the cabbage was a small gap in the hills: evidently the harbour mouth.