http://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/436224 If you’ve got the time, there’s a peculiar story I’d like to share. First, I’d like you to picture a tall ship straight out of the 18th century. Jack Aubrey’s HMS Surprise in fact, if the Aubreyad is an anthology with which you’re familiar. Now, imagine that ship on the high seas, sailing towards some distant battle. The wind swaying the gargantuan body from side to side but the sailors remaining strong and unfazed. They’re men of the Royal Navy; they’ve done this before. Now, take that mental image and throw it out completely because, while my story is about a ship, it is wholly different and unquestionably less interesting.
See, the first thing I recall is being hit by a scent not entirely unfamiliar but still curiously novel. In fact, it wasn’t unlike that of a sandy beach, with seaweed tangling up the shoreline and seashells strewn about as if deposited by hasty messengers. It entrenched itself deep within my nostrils, a salty, aquatic scent. After pondering over that for no more than a few seconds, I opened my eyes, fully prepared for whatever it was that the dream world had conjured up for me. However, I quickly found that I was not prepared for what I did observe. A little over a dozen men, clad in what could only be described as gentlemanly clothing milled about the room.
The room itself seemed to be…shaking, rocking back and forth. An oil lamp on one side cast the small space in an eerie, yet comfortable glow. The walls and the floor were constructed out of wooden planks and were partially covered by various objects: a rug, maps, flags, curtains, a clock. The three windows at the far end of the room did little to bring in more light, as the sky’s ominously gray tint foreshadowed heavy rains. It wasn’t until I noticed the intersecting ropes through the window that I was able to piece together the fact that I was on a ship. More precisely, I was in a large cabin of a frigate.
The men gathered on the opposite end of the room, seemingly oblivious to my presence. They were all middle-aged and well-dressed, with long coats, waistcoats, trousers, and polished shoes. Though my knowledge was limited, if I had to assign the fashion to a time period, I would have said that the men had stepped right out of the 19th century. A few were sitting around a table, pens and paper in hand, while the rest stood around. All of the men were staring intently at a desk on the right side of the room. Squinting my eyes, I made out a device situated on the center of the desk. It was a small metallic structure sitting on a wooden base. A cable ran, from what appeared to be a brass lever with a knob on top of it, to the floor where it coiled concentrically. Although I suppose I had no way of being certain, I assumed it was a Morse telegraph. If that is what it was, the men must have been waiting rather anxiously for a telegram to come across the line.
Just as I had finally begun to make sense of the scene around me, I found everything slowly turning black at the edges. The darkness spread faster than I was able to track it, quickly enveloping everything that I had come to be acquainted with in the past five or so minutes. The light that followed came even faster than the darkness did, blinding me for a few seconds as everything around me became brightly illuminated. When my senses returned to me, I found myself on a wooden bench, staring fixatedly straight ahead. With a jolt, I realized that a painting was hanging on the wall. It wasn’t just any painting, either. It was the scene I had supposedly just dreamed up…the one with the men and the ship and the telegraph and the salty air. Shakily, I got up to inspect the plaque that hung on the painting’s side. “Awaiting the Reply”, it read. By Robert Charles Dudley. Circa 1866.
