In a five-storey, palatial townhouse on Albemarle Street, just off Piccadilly, John Murray, London’s most prestigious publisher, rises late, the summertime sounds of London finally cutting short his slumbers. Some damn fool is shouting his wares at the top of his voice. Murray has to concentrate for the words to become distinct – he has never woken easily and it always takes him a while to come to full consciousness. After a few seconds it becomes apparent that the costermonger has roused the master of the house over some beets and pears that are available to purchase. Murray groans and reaches over to the other side of the bed. His wife is already gone and he is glad of it. They squabble almost constantly and he tries to avoid her whenever he can – the damn woman is as bad as his mother. She will, like many upper-class ladies, leave town at the end of the month to visit friends in the country, and Murray (unlike many upper-class gentlemen) will remain in the capital, shot of her for a few, satisfying weeks. It is a cheering thought.
He makes use of the chamber pot and stows it back under the bed. Then, rather than calling for his valet, he washes in a desultory fashion, pulling on his wig haphazardly, preoccupied over whether he might have chocolate this morning with his rolls, or coffee. Still debating this, he takes the stairs down at a sharpish trot to the sunny, yellow drawing room on the first floor. He never will get used to the portrait of Lord Byron over the mantel, though, of course, to remove it would cause a scandal were further scandal required. It has been a good ten years since Murray’s father famously burned Byron’s memoirs to safeguard public morality, and hardly a week passes even now that he is not asked by some starry-eyed matron or other if the old codger had, by chance, ever mentioned to his son the nature of the manuscript’s contents. Murray considers the matter both foolish and tiresome. He is a serious man of science and his interests do not stretch to poetry – unless perhaps it is German poetry – or indeed to much in the way of scandal. Byron’s musings on sherbet and sodomy might have funded Murray’s education, but now, as he has been known to dryly remark, it is time to put aside such childish things. At least in conversation – for Byron’s full canon still graces the great publisher’s list and sells at least several hundred copies every year. In addition, each week Murray receives by post a number of attempts at Byronic genius, all of which, on principle, he consigns to the fire.
Coffee,
Murray decides.
The enticing smell of fresh bread is floating upstairs from the kitchens in the basement and he can almost taste the melting butter and lemon conserve already. A glass of rhenish, some ham perhaps and he will be set.
There is a pile of correspondence on his desk and, as it is Friday, he might have passed it by for it is his habit to ride on a Friday morning, but there is one packet that catches his eye. Neither the handwriting nor the paper is extraordinary but in the small, nondescript, black wax seal there are embedded some grains of sand. Murray breaks open the packet with a satisfying click and inside lies a manuscript bound in worn card, accompanied by a covering letter dated several weeks before and written in a neat hand.
Dear Sir,
I wish to offer for your consideration an account of my recent exploration and adventures on the island of Socotra where I have been humbly employed as an officer of the Indian Navy during the current survey of the Red Sea by the ship Palinurus. I hope you might wish to publish my unworthy writings and find them of some small interest.
Yours, etc.,
James Raymond Wellsted (Lieutenant)
Murray crosses the room and spins the leather globe until he finds the Red Sea. Then he peers short-sightedly to try to identify the islands nearby. He has never heard of this Socotra place but with the help of a magnifying glass he quickly plants a firm finger over the speck of the island, which is far smaller than his nail. It is perched to the east of Abyssinia and to the south of Oman.
I must ask George about this,
he thinks.
Murray will be dining that evening with the President of the Royal Geographical Society and his beautiful wife, Louisa. The manuscript might make for some interesting dinner conversation over the roast fowl and jellied beets. His wife will not like it, for her interests do not run to anything the least bit sensible, but Murray, like most of London, is eager for news of the Empire’s burgeoning territories – the more exotic, the better – and a keen sense for a bestseller is in his blood. If it is written well, an explorer’s memoir is generally a sure-fire success. So many people these days are either venturing abroad themselves, or have relations in the far reaches, that there is something of a vogue for travel writing and Murray’s view is that he will be publishing more and more of the stuff. After all, it is worthy, educational and occasionally exciting (all of which he approves far more than any damned fiction). There is a market, he fancies, for some kind of guidance for those embarking on life overseas. He must make a note of that, he thinks, and scrambles around for a clean sheet of paper. In any case, the prospect of dinner tonight is especially entertaining and, he is certain, there may even be pear pudding, for that costermonger had been right outside. Cook surely will have availed the household of fresh pears if it is possible, will she not – first of the season this early in July?
Socotra, eh? Sounds fascinating.
Murray hopes George will be able to tell him if the island is Arabian or African, for a start. An interesting conundrum given its position on the map between the two territories.
Murray rings the bell and the butler appears almost instantly.
‘Bring me breakfast here, would you?’ he asks as he sinks into the high-backed, wooden chair at his desk and pulls a plush, yellow, velvet pillow into the crook of his back. The long windows behind him let in a flood of light – perfect for reading. Many of England’s greatest publishing success stories have started their journey at this desk, in this light.
‘Coffee, I think. And tell Jack I won’t need Belle saddled just yet.’
And with the tiniest speck of sand loosing itself from Wellsted’s missive and falling onto the wide, dark boards that span the floor, John Murray begins to read.
It is almost midday when Jessop and Jones spot the tents. Nothing moves out on the burning sands, even the scorpions have buried themselves. The first they know that there is any life at all is the eddy of dust that floats into the air as the men come out, tiny specks on the horizon standing at the fringe of the lush oasis, to watch the foreigners and their party arrive from well over a mile away. While Jones’ attention is immediately taken up by the Arabian horses tethered in a makeshift corral, Jessop considers the place itself extraordinary. Despite the heat and the difficulty of the journey, the doctor is glad to be here. As the senior officer, he took the decision simply to keep going because, with the instincts of a true traveller, this time when the men said they were close to reaching the destination he believed them.
Now, he is ushered into the emir’s tent and makes his
salaams
as he has been shown in Bombay, in preparation for just this kind of occasion – an introduction to someone of some small power who might be of use on His Majesty’s business. Jessop gives the emir the payment that has been agreed and then entreats the ruler to allow him to help the children of the camp. The doctor can see the young ones are suffering from an eye infection. Thin and angular as baby storks, they tarry at the tent flaps, blinking through their swollen eyelids, batting off the flies, their feet bare and their arms like sticks. Fresh burn marks pock their little legs – the Omanis treat pain with pain and burn flesh to purify from disease; it is the best they can do.
‘I am a doctor,’ he explains. ‘Let me try my white man’s medicine. I will do my best.’
‘Bitsalam yadak,’
the emir replies graciously, which Jessop takes to mean, ‘May God keep your hands safe.’ A good sign, surely.
In another tent, Jessop inspects the eleven children who seem even more like fragile, strange, featherless birds now they are grouped together. When he asks questions, the women tending them shy away, but one of the men becomes a go-between, attempting the translation. In the main this is achieved by the means of hand movements as much as the Englishman’s sparse Arabic vocabulary, which is hindered further by his accent. The upshot is, Jessop concludes, that the infection has been spread by the kohl used on the youngsters’ eyelids. Kohl is widely believed to be medicinal in Arabia and is used to keep the eyes moist, but often people do not wash it between applications. When one of children got a windblown infection, it spread rapidly to the others. Now one or two are even sporting pustules ripe with suppurating mucus.
‘Bring me water, please,’ he asks his translator, who eyes him with suspicion, but returns quickly with a flask nonetheless.
Calmly, Jessop takes each child in turn and washes away the black powder with precious water. The children squeal for they are used to cleaning themselves only with sand – water is far too scarce to be used for bathing. As the drops slide down their faces, they lap them up with their tongues, unwilling to allow even a teaspoonful to go to waste. Once the infection has been cleaned, the doctor breaks out the contents of his leather bag. This is one of the reasons he joined the service – Jessop likes to help and, big of heart and strong of stomach, he shows no horror or revulsion at whatever he is presented with. He mixes a solution of vinegar and applies it to each child in turn as an eyewash. It stings. The younger children make a fuss, the older ones succumb in silence.
‘That should help,’ he says. ‘We will look at it again tomorrow.
Salaam
,’ he says, bowing as he takes his leave.
Jones has stationed himself by the corral and has been trying to strike up a conversation with the horsemen. The refinement of the breed is most appealing. The finely chiselled bone and the concave profile, the comparatively high level croup and high-carried tail make the Arabians an enticing prospect. They are wonderful, majestic beasts and no mistake and the lieutenant has to admit he is moved when he sees two of the robe-swathed men from the encampment saddling up. They cut a queer kind of dash that stirs excitement in the whole group, and while the doctor faffs about with the barefoot children, everyone else comes out to watch the men set off. Where they are riding to is a mystery – perhaps they are only taking the animals for their daily exercise. The horses are worth a fortune; Jones isn’t sure yet where the best of the money is to be made, but he can almost smell that there is money in it somewhere – be it shipping home pure breeds or using an Arab stallion to cover a mare of another breed – there is something for which he knows the fashionable and wealthy around St James’s will pay through the nose. Some already are. Napoleon rode an Arabian, of course, but that is no matter for the King himself now has one – a present that arrived last year from the Sultan of Muscat and Oman. To Jones this is as good as receiving direct royal approval for his project. It is the sheer quality of the animals that will attract society and he knows if he can get a shipment or two back to Blighty, he’ll make his fortune. No smart family wants to be without the latest breed to take the royal fancy.
Jones pulls out his notebook, his mouth almost watering at the thought of the stud fees and what he might achieve when in receipt of them, given the faded glory of his family’s London house. He clears his throat and, with a sense of history, or at least publicity, puts pen to paper, for he will need notes to validate the authenticity of the animals and his experiences in selecting them.
The emir seems glad of our company and has invited us to feast with him. It is no cooler but the water here is very plentiful if slightly sour in taste. Coming in from the desert my camel drank for a full ten minutes. Brave beast, she has served me well and kept us supplied in milk the last days of our journey. There are seventy or eighty people in the encampment – the emir, his family, retainers and slaves. All are respectful and courteous. I envy these men little other than their horses – the horses are beautiful, though, and very fine.
By contrast, it is immediately apparent that the
Bedu
are less impressed by the infidels. Some of them have seen white men before – those who have taken caravans to the coast where if you linger long in any seaport between here and India you are sure to catch sight of a
Nazarene
– strange-looking creatures. Their blue eyes remind the
Bedu
of the sky, seen through the empty eye sockets of a bleached, white skull. They are haughty too, like living phantoms, zombies greedy for the lifeblood of Arabia. When the white men speak they always ask questions and the
Bedu
know what that means.
‘You do not have horses in England?’ Jones is challenged bluntly when he enquires about the breeding habits of the animals, where they can be bought and for how much. The
Bedu
are close to their livestock – camels, horses or goats – and at least as protective of such property as they are of their wives. Animals are their only measure of wealth and the truth is that they are unlikely to sell any of their horses unless they have to. Itinerant tribesmen rely on their livestock not only for food and transport but to find water – a good camel can save your life in the desert, and water is the only treasure that matters out on the hot, dry sands. Gold and precious jewels cannot save your life like a decent steed. The horse, of course, has the advantage of speed and intelligence over the camel – and they are necessary for successfully raiding other encampments or carrying important news.
There is a legend in this tribe that as a child, perhaps thirteen years old, the emir was caught out on the sands with only his horse for company. He survived two days without water and did not succumb to panic (a legendary feat in itself). Then when it could go no further, he used his sabre to slaughter his horse and drank its blood to survive. He made it back to his father’s camp on foot the following afternoon with the animal’s blood still crusted on his clothes and around his mouth. He had sucked the carcass dry. It is a tale acknowledged as so extraordinary and heroic that still the people of this tribe tell it to their children and will do so for several years after the emir dies. More importantly, the emir’s enemies tell the same tale to the children of their own camps – as a warning. The tough young man has grown up into a fierce opponent and he is respected and feared across the entire region.
The emir’s men are as hard-nosed as their master
, Jones thinks. They continue to bat his questions back to him, revealing nothing in the process. When Jessop strolls out of the family tent he comes to stand by the lieutenant.
‘Nice animals,’ he says, with a nod. ‘I’m glad we arrived today. Several of those children might certainly have gone blind, or died even. If the infection gets into the blood it will poison them. I hope I have been able to avert that.’
Jones is not listening. ‘Thing is with these Arabs,’ he says nonchalantly, ‘they are great traders. They are trying to make me feel like a fool in the hope of gaining a better price.’