The Sulfuro Bhangarh Manuscripts

By Thomas Curtis

In 1809 on a malign and gloomy Indian Ocean the slave galleon Sulfuro is inexplicably destroyed by fire.
60 years later, the British trading vessel Bhangarh disappears without trace in the same location.
Only one crewmember from each tragedy survives to warn the world of the terrifying events that transpired. But their depositions are lost upon an apathetic public and soon fade into the mists of history. It is only in 1936 when Nazi Germany takes an interest in the Sulfuro Bhangarh manuscripts, that occult anthropologist Richard Marsh decides to investigate. By piecing together the disparate threads of the story he begins to unearth evidence of a dark and ancient conspiracy whose ultimate aim is nothing less than the end of civilisation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Curtis
• Release date: Sep 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465918437

Thomas Curtis

The genesis of 'The Sulfuro Bhangarh Manuscripts' occurred during a night-time flight over the Mediterranean in September 2007. Looking from the cabin window I saw a tiny, shimmering atoll lost amid the vast emptiness of ocean and fancied that whatever joy or misery was occurring there was completely self contained; unbeholden to the outside world; set apart from the tenets of civilisation. Obviously in our digital age this was more reverie than truth but it has not always been so. And as we all know, even today there are dark corners of the world where reason holds no sway. I have always felt a great affection for island tales, from the adventures of Jim Hawkins and the psychosis of Dr Moreau to the primal regression of Jack Merridew, and this is my homage to the genre. The magnificent isolation that a land apart affords the writer is an opportunity like no other; a chance to create a self contained world where ones protagonist is forced to face what we all fear the most - ourselves.Contact: [e-mail]

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THE SULFURO BHANGARH MANUSCRIPTS

by

THOMAS CURTIS

The Sulfuro Bhangarh Manuscripts

Published by Thomas Curtis at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Thomas Curtis

http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/ThomasCurtis

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CONTENTS

Prologue: Prof Richard Marsh (1936)

One: Times of London (1809)

Two: Dr Volkert Guttmundson (1809)

Three: Captain Augustus Feldner (1877)

Four: Sarah Elizabeth Morelle (1877)

Five: Lloyds of London (1877)

Six: Señor Diego Escarabajo (1877)

Seven: Sarah Elizabeth Morelle (1878)

Eight: Gregor Kirillov (1878)

Nine: Sarah Elizabeth Morelle (1878)

Ten: Manuel Alvarado (1878)

Eleven: Sarah Elizabeth Morelle (1878)

Twelve: New York Times (1921)

Epilogue: Prof Richard Marsh (1936)

Authors Afterword

PROLOGUE

Professor Richard Marsh (1936)

The documents contained herein were collated by me between 1920 and 1935 and form what I call the Sulfuro Bhangarh Manuscripts. They primarily concern a Portuguese slaver (the Sulfuro) and a British carrier (the Bhangarh) which were involved in puzzlingly similar maritime disasters, occurring sixty-eight years apart during the last century. I have not edited the individual documents in any way other than to splice them into chronological order.

This collection has never been made public in its entirety before now, principally due to my own ignorance of its import; but also because of a lack of interest among the archaeological and anthropological communities. Following the collapse of the original White City expedition, which famously discovered several of these documents, I came to consider the matter nothing more than a personal hobby, an academic diversion to be pondered and catalogued, and then consigned to a dusty shelf. However, recent stratigraphic excavations of the primary site by a foreign power have forced me to reassess my interpretation of the matter. I was personally approached by the government concerned, which is infamous for its obsession with the occult and its utilisation in warfare. I politely declined their overtures and set about reinvestigating the matter.

My research is ongoing but as a starting point, I release the original documents upon an apathetic public. No introduction could properly convey what they contain and so I will let them speak for themselves, adding only such notes as may be necessary for historical clarity.

Richard Marsh PhD

Faculty of Anthropology

University of Chicago

October 1936.

ONE

A news article carried by the Times of London (27.09.1809)

Horror at Sea

(by Sutter Colfax)

We stop the press to recount the singular destruction by fire of Portuguese cargo ship the Sulfuro. At the time of posting, only one survivor has been recovered, the fortunate individual being the ship’s physician, Dr Volkert Guttmundson. We are indebted for the information herein to two sources: the Norwegian doctor for his statement given to the authorities in the Maldives and also the unidentified captain of the whaling ship, Sacre Coeur, for his erudite report.

The three hundred tonne Sulfuro, under the experienced command of one Nicolas De Villgaignon, departed on the 13th of September last from the East African city of Zanzibar. This aging galleon carried a full compliment of seventeen crew and a cargo of two hundred slaves as well as a quantity of wine and olive oil. Eleven days later on the 23rd of September, and being far removed from her intended course for Salvador Da Bahia in the colonies, the ship was totally destroyed by fire in approximately 5° south latitude and 71° east longitude under the following circumstances.

Dr Guttmundson reports that a crewmember was below deck drawing off spirits when a candle he was using accidentally fell onto a quantity of spilled oil, which immediately ignited. The fire spread with such rapidity that all efforts at extinguishing it were unavailing and the ship’s fabrication soon became a mass of flames. The sole survivor of the disaster further states that the crew’s exertions to save the ship could not have been greater. The scene as described by him was one of hellish devastation, the calamity unfolding with such rapidity that those below could not attempt to save a single article except such goods as were on their person. In traversing the short distance from their bunks to the deck many of the crew had their clothes burned off and were literally in a state of nudity upon reaching the upper areas of the vessel. From here they were driven to bowsprit and bulwark before dropping, in desperation, into the sea. Meanwhile several of the crewmen on deck, including Dr Guttmundson, engaged themselves in a futile attempt to arrest the fire’s advance. This endeavour proving impossible, they abandoned hope and made for the ships only longboat. Most were terribly injured by then but they set about launching the craft as best they could.

A French whaler, the Sacre Coeur, was within sight about five miles to windward and, upon observing the Sulfuro’s condition, immediately bore down. When close-to she lowered all her boats and the crew put every application to the task. To their surprise however only one survivor was to be found in the water. When Guttmundson was taken aboard he was feverish and could relate no information as to the fate of the other members of his party.

In his later statement, the doctor asserts that the cutter was launched amid such blind panic that upon hitting the waves below he was thrown clear of the vessel and remembered nothing else until coming-to aboard the Sacre Coeur. It was noted by the rescue party that the Sulfuro's longboat had indeed been launched but was nowhere to be seen and its whereabouts remain a mystery, the occupants presumably lost at sea. The whaler’s captain most gravely reports that the screaming of the slaves, who along with the rest of the cargo had been abandoned, was chilling to attend. It appears there was no time to unlock their shackles once the fire had started and the fishermen spent a baleful night listening to the caterwauling of the savages and watching the conflagration consume the ship.

At first light, the captain of the Sacre Coeur himself ascended the crow’s nest and scanned the horizon for any sign of survivors. Seeing none, he decided to steer for the nearest port of Addu in the Maldives [Editors note: The closest settlement would actually have been the large coconut plantation on Île Du Coin in the Peros Banhos atoll. Either the French captain was unaware of this or he considered it unsuitable for his vessel. R.M.] so that Dr Guttmundson could receive medical attention, they themselves having no physician onboard. They left the Sulfuro a smouldering hulk already taking on water. At Addu, the captain filed a report to the harbour master and commended the survivor to his care before continuing upon his own expedition, in the indefatigable nature of such men of the sea. The doctor’s account ascribes the Sulfuro’s errant position to faulty instruments and a heavy fog, a weather condition rarely seen in the region.

This is as much intelligence as is known regarding the melancholy fate of the Sulfuro. To satisfy those who may have concerns such names of the missing crew as it has been possible to source at this point are here subjoined. It is unknown at this juncture if any are citizens of the Empire. May God have mercy upon the souls of the deceased.

Nicolas De Villgaignon, captain. Manuel Alvarado, first mate. Cathal LeFanu, second mate. William Laud, engineer. Luis Lobo, steward. Kwane Tawiah, cook. Eduardo Afonso, boatswain. Adolf Behring, Benjamin Brigs, Gregor Kirillov, Duarte Braga, Guilhermina Seixas, Kristjan Bjornsson, all seamen.

TWO

A letter from Dr Volkert Guttmundson to his wife (21.12.1809) [translated from the Norwegian]

[Editors note: This document was presented by the Bishop of Nidaros to Trondheim City Museum following its discovery in a chancel attic during renovation works sometime around 1900. I first became aware of it during a visit to the Royal Frederick University, Oslo in 1917. It is translated from the Norwegian by Rector Johan Lilebakken. R.M.]

Matilda Guttmundson,

C/o Sigurdsson Parish,

Trondheim.

I hardly know where to begin. I was so badly disfigured in the fire that, until recently, to write was beyond me. The act is still painfully slow but because the physical ache is nothing compared to the sorrow I feel at your continued absence I will write. I love you more than ever now; please be assured of that. My corporeal discomfort is further moderated by another less tangible trauma; one of the mind which I scarcely dare elucidate. Let me simply say that of late I am reduced to a pitiable wretch who is startled by the merest echo or the least unannounced vagary. And yet there is cause indeed for my diminution to such an order. But there are other matters to be related before I can properly gain the courage to tell of this.

I understand Matilda that you have received word from the staff here regarding my current location the Maldives, my ill-health and the misadventures that have befallen me. I had consequently expected some news of you by now. I realise, of course, that communication with such a distant outpost is a slow and labourious affair and subscribe any tardiness to this. Having not until now been well enough to write myself I can only apologise; although the medics attending me are good hearted and industrious men they are unfamiliar with the finer skills of the profession and my rehabilitation has thus been a measured one; but enough of this. I will now promptly endeavour to recount all that has occurred since last I wrote, that blithe time before any of this horror had manifested itself.

It all began with the strange port of Zanzibar, where portion and gyre had assorted to set me down. This place where I abruptly found myself was a well of larceny, vice and privation. From all over the Earth traders appeared in the city. Out of Europe and India they would come, sometimes overflowing with bravado, more often fastidious and calculating. On my first day there, I walked the narrow streets of the quarter known as Stone Town amid the ubiquitous aroma of cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon and pepper until the unnerving sight of a captured leopard prowling in its cage on the market square stopped me in mid-stride. Thus was my first experience of Zanzibar! Such savagery is beyond your cultured comprehension. Yet this Stone Town is also an area of beauty that you would understand: Winding laneways and circular towers, ornately carved wooden doors and raised hidden terraces where the Arabs sit sipping tea amid their armies of acolytes. For centuries these lustful nomads have used the monsoon winds to navigate the Indian Ocean and settle in the sheltered harbours of the island. It is a gateway to the numerous towns of the East African coast and the riches they enjoy. Many of these Persians have intermarried with the local Hadimu and Tumbatu peoples, a fact which gives the indigenous population its striking appearance. Portugal has now lost its position of ascendancy in the city but her traders have retained their lascivious presence, especially in the business of slaving.

As I am sure you will guess, my anthropological side was fascinated by all I found and I revelled in these new experiences. That is until the day when, as I wandered the ancient quarter, I found the place known locally as Sununu Square. Once each month this unremarkable looking street becomes the largest slave market in all of East Africa. Naturally, I was aware of the practice but nothing could have prepared me for the depravities I witnessed there.

The degraded wretches being sold were most pitiful. Slaves as young as ten were beaten and whipped for the slightest offence. One boy I saw was made to stand all day supporting a massive iron weight atop his head, blood transuding from his scalp, legs shaking in pain, at his truculent master’s whim. Traders prodded and poked, opened mouths and checked for disease, the mute frightened