When his steam packet pulled out of London harbor, Patrick had watched the sun sink against the Tower Bridge. Now he watched as that same sun rose, pink and warm over the port of Chittagong.
He stood on the deck, feet braced apart, hands gripping the worn wooden railing. Many times over the course of the voyage he’d convinced himself he was crazy. No man in his right mind would throw away twenty-seven years of wealth and privilege to chase a girl he hardly knew half way around the world.
Yes, many times he thought himself crazy for doing it, but this was not one of those times.
Patrick’s steamer wound its way through the harbor, slipping between the small wooden fishing boats and tea merchants’ ships that clogged the busy port. With a blast of its whistle, the little steamship tucked itself into a vacant wharf and lowered its ropes to the dockhands waiting below.
Bending to pick up his leather bags, Patrick waited for the gangway to be pushed up to the deck. Once connected, he jogged down the ramp, weaving his way between the other passengers as they disembarked. He stepped onto dry land for the first time in weeks, still feeling it sway under his feet, and with a deep breath, called out to the nearest brown-skinned native within earshot.
“Can you direct me to a hotel?”
The Indian man nodded. “If you would follow me, Sahib.”
Patrick stayed a few steps behind him, still taking in the sights and sounds of the busy harbor. It was filthy. It reeked of mud, rotting fish, and manure—not to mention the stench of so many unwashed bodies crowded into one place. Really, it was no different from any English harbor.
Bare-chested Indians scrubbed themselves and their cattle in the thick brown water. Others loaded and unloaded fishing boats, hauling heavy nets across the docks. Amid them, women washed clothes, keeping an eye on their children who splashed nearby.
“Is the Sahib from London?” the guide asked, pushing aside two fishmongers thrusting handfuls of smoked hilsa in Patrick’s face.
“Yes.”
He stopped at the edge of a busy roadway and held up his hand. A young man pedaling a brightly colored rickshaw pulled up beside him. “Then I think he should stay at the Empress Victoria.” The man bowed. “This boy will take you there.”
The Empress Victoria was a small, clean hotel. His guide had been wise to recommend it because Patrick would have never been able to find it on his own. It seemed the type of place one would have to know about, perhaps have even been to before—exactly the sort of establishment frequented by archaeologists, missionaries, and other travelers of distant lands.
Well-dressed Englishmen and women milled about the lobby, drinking tea and speaking in low, hushed voices. The only Indians were employees, serving breakfast with white gloves to their patrons, or carrying luggage up and down the carpeted stairs.
“Pardon me,” he said, tapping his finger on the brass bell at the desk.
The clerk, a well-dressed Indian, turned in his direction. “Yes, Sahib?”
“I would like to know if you’ve ever heard of the Talbot-Martins.”
He nodded. “Yes, Sahib, I have.”
“Do you know where I could find them?”
The desk clerk shook his head. “No, Sahib.”
“Hmm,” Patrick said, frowning. He leaned toward the man. “Is it a matter of money?”
“No, Sahib,” the desk clerk said. “If I knew, I would tell you. But, I do not know. However, I do know that they stayed here for three weeks in preparation for a very long journey. ”
Patrick almost fell over. “They were here? In this very hotel? Damned rotten luck!” he cried, pounding his fist on the counter. “I cannot believe I came halfway around the world and missed them.”
“All is not lost, Sahib,” the man said. “They only left yesterday afternoon. If you hurry, you might be able to catch them up.”
“They left yesterday? My God!” Patrick stopped short of grabbing the man by his shirtfront. “How do I find them?”
“I would try the train depot, Sahib.” He pointed out the door with a long, brown finger. “Only a few streets over.”
Patrick didn’t even thank him. He ran out the front door of the hotel, pushing his way through the crush of people, animals, and motorcars until he found himself outside the Chittagong railway station.
The large, red brick building stood at the end of a busy, tree-lined street. White people and Indians alike came and went through its doors. Fancy automobiles and ox-carts shared the same road, picking up and dropping off passengers in front of the depot.
Patrick stepped inside the station, taken aback by the strong odor permeating the space. Dozens of Indian beggars held alms bowls in withered hands. At least the lucky ones had hands—some had no limbs at all, dragging themselves between the feet of white men with nothing more than rotting stumps.