ON THE SUMMER OF '83

It was in the Summer of 1883 that I signed on to study with the American scientist Ignatius Donnelly. He had chartered a vessel out of Karachi, which I boarded after completing my work in establishing the University of the Punjab. We were to reach Cape Horn in Early October.

I began my studies with Mr. Donnelly, a stout man with the face of a fat woman. He was a learned man and a politician (for which I must make note that the two are not commonly associated - Ha!), though it was his work on the lost civilization Atlantis that had grasped my keen eye for adventure and led me to become his pupil.

I use that word 'pupil' very loosely, however, as Mr. Donnelly (an IRISH American, might I add) regularly took to the bottle in excess. This made it difficult -nay- IMPOSSIBLE to understand his lectures on the fabled continent. I failed to mention that he was coordinated enough (in the least) to hold regular lectures. Always sauced, sometimes even in the nude.

How I came to know so many naturists is beyond my knowledge*.

Not long after the voyage began, the ship journeyed in the Sundra Straits of the West Indies. One of the most harrowing experiences of my entire life.

It was the seventeenth day of August when we came near an island that had been experiencing an interesting volcanic pattern as of late. Donnelly supposed that he could perhaps learn more on the demise of Atlantis by observing these occurrences - or at least that's what I gather he was planning. As I've stated before, he was a slovenly drunk. When the captain refused to make port on the island (or so I believe - the captain, too, was an awful drunk), Donnelly stole a lifeboat and made for Krakatoa island.

Fearing that my tutelage had come to an abrupt end before even reaching the halfway point to our destination, I pleaded with the captain. But he did nothing but fall asleep next to a bulkhead and belch and flatulate a lot.

Despicable.

I retired to my cabin below deck to write mother that I would soon be returning home, noting the time (shortly after ten o'clock am) when the loudest sound I had ever heard forced me to jump across the room - the sound AND the fact that the ship had been lurched nearly a furlong in distance. The subsequent explosions were no less grand. Looking back, the entire island shuddered and looked as though it would crumble before my eyes. I ventured to top deck to find that the captain and half the crew had been killed instantly by the thunderous clap and for Donnelly I feared the worst.

I commandeered the vessel and made full steam for South America.

After finally returning to civilization after the Guerra del Pacífico, it was in the next year that I learned that Ignatius Donnelly was in fact STILL ALIVE. He had been blown into the future by the eruption and effectively lost his Congressional campaign when he landed on and subsequently killed his future candidate self.

What a strange man, indeed.

[That is all]