English passengers

by Matthew Kneale

  ‘‘Indeed,’’ I answered somewhat coolly. I had been hoping for something more useful than mere reminiscence. I simply could not understand. For all the drama of the view I could see nothing out of the ordinary in geological terms, either beside the lake or anywhere else. All looked of a similar rock. It made no sense. Had I not been guided here, even from England’s distant shore? Had we not been shown kindly signs to lead us along the way?

  ‘‘You seem disappointed, Vicar.’’

  I should not perhaps have been surprised by the remark, in view of Potter’s character, but still I found myself taken aback by the tone in which it was uttered, which contained a faint but audible note of satisfaction. It was hard to credit and yet I could not help but conclude that my own momentary discomfort was more important to him than the success of this entire expedition, of which he was himself a part. I was no stranger to malevolent behaviour and yet still I found myself profoundly shocked by this poisonous utterance. ‘‘I am not disappointed,’’ I informed him.

  ‘‘Then you have seen something?’’

  How strange are the ways of fate. At this most difficult moment help came to me from the very last source one might have expected: even from the doctor himself Adversity can be a most powerful stimulant to men’s wills, and so it was on that afternoon atop some unnamed mountain. I simply would not permit myself to be sneered at in this way. All of a sudden I knew, I simply knew, that I must drop to my knees. In a voice that was calm, yet filled with impassioned entreaty, I called out across the great abyss before me.

  ‘‘O Lord, hear my prayer. Do not turn Thy back upon us now, I beseech Thee, after Thou hast led us so far.’’

  All was still, except for a faint gust of wind tugging at our clothes. Potter coughed.

  I persevered. ‘‘Please, Lord. My only wish is to do Thy bidding. Show us the way.’’

  Moments passed in terrible quiet. Potter began whistling some low tune, better to show his own impatience. Still I waited, heart pounding.

  I did not wait in vain.

  What next occurred I can describe only as a true miracle: a revelation as deliberate and wondrous as may be found even in the Scriptures themselves. All at once the sky was a thing ablaze, as there fell across it a dazzling shaft of light. It struck, like some great pointing finger of destiny, upon some place beyond the distant edge of the ridge upon which we were stood, hidden from our view. Signs I had seen that day, but none could compare with this!

  ‘‘There!’’ I cried in greatest delight, as thunder roared in upon us. ‘‘That is where Eden lies. That is where we must go!’’

  Even still, Potter was intent on his poison. ‘‘For goodness’ sakes, Vicar. What else do you expect on a day like this?’’

  I closed my thoughts to his words, protecting them, as a shepherd guards newborn lambs from a circling bird of prey. Elation filled my being and I would not have it spoiled. I did not answer him, but simply bowed my head in a heartfelt prayer of thanks.

  ‘‘I saw another like that just moments ago,’’ he whined again. ‘‘Actually, I think that was brighter.’’

  ‘‘We shall proceed at once,’’ I declared simply, and turned to make my way back towards the front of the line of mules.

  Potter scampered after me. ‘‘This is madness. The way is far too difficult. I simply cannot permit you to put us all in such risk.’’

  It was a provocation, and a great one, but still I kept my calm. ‘‘Do not talk nonsense,’’ I informed him quietly.

  I saw his face grow curiously tightened, as if he were in some pain. The words he spoke next were uttered loud and clearly, so there could be no mistaking. ‘‘Can’t you see, you ninny? There is no Garden of Eden here. There never was. Now for goodness’ sake let’s get down before you kill every one of us.’’

  How quickly can one’s understanding become transformed. The man was possessed of more wickedness, more treachery, than I had ever imagined. He had never believed in this great venture. Why, there could be only one possible reason why he had come here: to prevent Eden being found. In a flash all was clear. He had been sent by my foes, the atheist geologists. It made sense enough. Had he not sought us out, demanding of poor, kindly Jonah Childs that he become the expedition surgeon? Had he not done all in his power to cause us difficulties? Had he not sought to take my own place as leader? Now I understood why. There would be no easier way to destroy the expedition than by becoming its chief

  ‘‘Judas,’’ I answered him. ‘‘Judas revealed. But you shall not prevail. We shall succeed yet, despite your treachery.’’ I did not content myself with words. I took hold of the lead of the foremost mule, that I might turn my fearless words into fearless action.

  One might have expected the doctor to show some shame at his discovery, but there is no use looking for conscience in the devil’s agents. ‘‘No, you don’t,’’ he cried out madly, trying to grasp the animal’s rope, so he might turn it round by brute force.

  His action left me no choice. Calm and dignified, I endeavoured to wrest it back once again. Potter, true to his nature, merely redoubled his efforts.

  ‘‘Stop that,’’ called out Skeggs. At that moment, however, the animal, which had evidently been alarmed by Potter’s reckless tugging, reared up, bucking and kicking so wildly that we both stepped back. As to what occurred next, this was so swift and extraordinary that it seemed not real, but like some slow nightmare. I would have taken the creature’s reins to try and calm it, but there was no time. In a moment it had lost its footing, and, striking out in panic, it fell crashing to the ground. It was then that I became aware of a greater movement. The beast’s distress had infected its fellows, several of which were now rearing up in fright. As I watched, some hurled off their loads, others were slipping, while those that remained still were being pulled off balance by neighbours as they fell.

  Skeggs realized the danger. ‘‘Untie them,’’ he shouted.

  Unfortunately the animals’ demented thrashing permitted no approach. I am not sure, indeed, if anybody even made an attempt. It was all we could do to jump clear. Several beasts began to tumble down the slope, legs flailing, and dragging others after them. Thus I watched with a kind of awful curiosity as a wave of animals began sliding and kicking away down the wet rock. It was a mule near the centre of the line that was the first to reach the edge and vanish. The rope that held it to its neighbours briefly tautened, and then they too rolled from sight, quickly followed by two more, till they were disappearing apace, almost like two lengths of string being pulled through a keyhole.

  Suddenly all was very quiet.

  The catastrophe was so sudden, and so complete, that it was hard to realize. I looked about me and was struck by what a slight party we now made upon this bare mountain. Without a word we all began to creep forwards, picking our way with care over the treacherous rock. Crouching by the edge, I peered over, though I could see nothing but the tops of trees below, their foliage glistening in the wet. The only signs to tell of what had occurred were a few snapped branches, and also a faint braying cry—dulled by the din of the wind and rain—uttered with a kind of terrible mechanical repetition. The cliff below us was as vertical as any wall, and I could see no way down, even from the slope by which we had ascended.

  One might have supposed such a disaster would inspire remorse, but it was not so. All at once there was a shout. ‘‘It was him.’’ Potter’s servant Hooper was pointing angrily at the half-caste guide. ‘‘He brought us up here. It’s the blackie who’s done for us.’’ Some of the mule drivers uttered a hiss of agreement. Then I watched, aghast, as Hooper took his rifle from his shoulder.

  ‘‘Stop,’’ I called out.

  I would certainly have prevented him, regardless of risk to my own person, if I had only been nearer. As it happened, Renshaw alone was close enough. Before Hooper could properly aim the gun the little botanist knocked the barrel upwards and the shot was fired harmlessly into the air. This, though, was not the end of the ma
tter. The two at once became embroiled in a tussle over the weapon, and as I hurriedly stepped towards them, there was a curious and ghastly sound, like a block of wood striking a hollow stone. All at once Renshaw was tipping backwards. Hooper did try to hold him—nearly losing balance himself— but to no avail. With a kind of amazement I watched as poor Renshaw seemed to lean back into the void, and drop, with what seemed terrible slowness, till he vanished into the trees just below.

  Silence visited us for a second time in as many moments.

  Hooper was distraught. ‘‘I didn’t mean to. I tried to hold him.’’

  As if there could be any justification for such horror. How telling it was that this deed had been done by Potter’s servant.

  One of the mule drivers, whose name was Hodges, peered over the edge and called out, ‘‘Mr. Renshaw?’’ In an instant we had all joined him, yelling with all our might through the soft rain, as if the very loudness of our cries might force a reply. We all fell hushed. No sound came back except for that faint yet terrible braying cry. Though nobody uttered a word I believe all were thinking the same dismal thought.

  ‘‘Do you think… ?’’ I began.

  Skeggs shook his head. ‘‘Not from this height.’’

  It was then that I remembered Cromwell. Glancing round, I saw he was already some distance away, scampering back towards the slope we had ascended. ‘‘Come back,’’ I called out, but he did not so much as turn his head. I could hardly blame him, I supposed, though it seemed a desperate and ill-advised course. He would not survive long alone in this wilderness. Poor fool! I would have protected him.

  So our catastrophe was finally and dreadfully complete.

  ‘‘This is all your doing, you idiot!’’

  This remark, I should explain, was uttered by Potter, while, impossible as it may seem, it was addressed actually to my own self He, the traitor atheist, who was wholly and entirely to blame for our disaster, was accusing me. This was beyond all reason. ‘‘You sought to destroy us,’’ I replied simply, ‘‘and now you have.’’

  ‘‘It was you made us come up to this terrible place.’’

  I knew what I must do. I rose to my feet, standing straight and tall: a churchman fully roused in just indignation. ‘‘By the powers vested in me by Jonah Childs, and by the Lord God himself I expel you from this expedition. Take yourself away, Dr. Potter, and your murderous servant, too. You are cast out.’’

  The man had no shame. He actually sat down upon the rock, directing me a sour look. I paid him no heed, but, full with dignity, turned to the five mule drivers, summoning up my best speaking voice, quite in the manner of Christian orators of distant eras. ‘‘I urge you, do not give in to despair. You must understand that what has happened, terrible though it may seem, is merely a kind of test. A test which has exposed the wickedness of these two men, but which we shall pass in triumph. Let us join together and walk to the end of this ridge so we may discover where our sacred goal lies, and then…’’

  It was Skeggs who answered. ‘‘I’m not following you another yard, Vicar.’’

  ‘‘Me neither,’’ added another.

  It was, I confess, a great shock. I glanced at the other three but each shook his head, even uttering foulest words, to better reveal his betrayal. That was a dark moment indeed. I could only suppose they had each one of them fallen under the spell of my enemy. For all I knew he had been talking to them secretly as we journeyed, ensnaring them with hateful words, filling their minds with his poison.

  Still I did not falter. I held my head high. ‘‘Very well,’’ I declared calmly, ‘‘then I shall go on alone.’’

  ‘‘You do that, Vicar,’’ jeered Potter.

  Even now, after all he had done, he was filled with venom still. When I began gathering up a few supplies from the mule bags that had been thrown off by their animals, to sustain me in my lonely quest, he at once began bickering most spitefully, insisting on counting everything out, quite as if I intended to cheat him! As it was, most of what remained was of little usefulness, such as table linen, folding chairs or Sheffield cutlery. There were bottles of fine French brandy—all but one smashed— and a shattered box of finest Cuban cigars, its contents turning rapidly to pulp in the rain, but there was not one complete tent. As to food, the sugar, tea and tins of Aberdeen hotchpotch, potted meat and hermetically sealed salmon would not, in the normal way of things, have lasted us more than a few days. Potter counted out my portion with miserly exactness, quite ignoring the fact that, as the only one still determined to discover Eden, I should have more than the others. What was more, he quite refused to let me have one of the rifles, claiming that, as a man of the church, I would have no need of such things. If it had not been for his hateful behaviour I would never have dreamed of placing the extra matches into my pocket when his back was turned, let alone the second bag of sugar that I managed to slip beneath my coat.

  So it was that, a mule bag uncomfortably hitched over my shoulder, I turned my back upon them all and started making my way along the ridge. When, some moments later, I glanced back, I saw they were already gone, and all that now remained of the expedition were the various abandoned cases of stores. In the midst of these was a single chair that had been unfolded during the search for food, and which made a sad and curious sight, looking out upon the wild landscape, as if in readiness for some domestic occasion. Pleased though I was to be away from evil company, I confess it felt strange to be now alone in this wild place. I endeavoured to sing a hymn to cheer my spirits, but the wind was strong and the sound was quite stolen away.

  As I approached the further end of the ridge, the landscape that had been hidden began gently to rise into view. The rain had finally stopped and the clouds had lifted higher, and so, by the time I finally reached the outermost point, below which the rock fell away like water, I could see clearly for many miles, with peaks aplenty reaching up to catch the eye. It may seem hard to credit, yet each rock and mountain were of the same crumbling kind that they had been everywhere else. I could see nothing that resembled any sign, nothing to show where I should go. Even then I did not despair. I prayed, shouting the words as loud as I might.

  ‘‘Please, I beg Thee, Lord, show me the way.’’

  I waited. I prayed. I waited once again. Long moments passed, but there was no burst of lightning, no sudden sunbeam to guide me. The mountains seemed to glower up at me, like some impenetrable maze.

  I am not normally prone to doubts, and yet all of a sudden I could feel these creeping forth, like poison dripping into my lifeblood, rendering dearest certainties suddenly frail. Had I been been mistaken from the first? Had all these long years of study and journeying, of writing and persuading, been nothing more than wasted time: a mere delusion? Sensing what now approached, I tried to close my thoughts, to make them into blank nothingness, that I might protect my belief, but my mind simply would not be stilled, and already I could feel my faith grown somehow brittle, no longer the rock which I so needed. All at once I felt myself haunted by a terrible vision, of a world without guidance: a land of emptiness, where all was ruled by the madness of chance. How could one endure such a place, where all significance was lost? I myself would mean nothing, but would merely be a kind of self-invention: a speck upon the wind, calling itself Wilson. I felt my spirit waver, as if it were toppling into the abyss before me.

  That I left that dreadful spot was not, sad to say, from purpose, but simply in answer to the elements. Wet and shivering, I knew I could not remain on this windy ridge. Dusk was approaching. I began to go down, following the leftward side of the mountain, which seemed less difficult, though even then I found myself cruelly mocked. Several times my descent was obstructed by some precipice that required me to retrace my steps and try again, and by the time I finally found myself on level ground, I had scratches and bruises in abundance. Weak and forlorn, I tried to find some spot where I might rest, before the light failed completely. The land below my feet was marshy, requiring me to wal
k back beneath the mountain’s shadow until I found a place that was firmer. I did try to light a fire, building a little heap of kindling wood, and expending several precious matches, but it was no use, all being so wet. There was nothing to do but to create a bed of leaves, like those I had seen the guide Cromwell make, though this felt neither warm nor comfortable. Lying thus, I consumed a tin of hotchpotch, which helped at least to revive my body, if not my spirits.

  All I sought was sleep. Terrible to say, I believe I hardly cared if I should ever wake again, so black was my despair. In the event, sleep proved hard to find. I was cold, and it was so very loud in the darkness, seeming far more so than when I had had a tent in which to shelter. One moment I would be disturbed by the buzzing of an insect close to my ear, the next a breeze would blow up, scattering drops of water upon me from unseen leaves. Worst were the sounds of faint rustling in the undergrowth, full of mystery. Though I told myself these were probably just made by a bird or vole, it was hard not to wonder if some poisonous spider, or snake, were now creeping towards me, or even one of the native wolves that had stripes like a tiger’s upon their backs and were known to attack men. All the while my thoughts dismally raced. Was there some failing of which I was guilty? Had I unwittingly committed a great sin? I could not think what this might be. Throughout all my days I had endeavoured only to lead a virtuous life and to serve my Lord. How could He reward me so?

  I was still wide awake when I became aware of the faint fragrance of wood smoke, as from a campfire. It seemed a most welcome mystery, if only to distract my thoughts from their mournful course. Gathering up my mule bag, I began picking my way in its direction. Before long I could hear the faint sound of voices. For a wild moment I even wondered if some kindly strangers might be here, from some other expedition, and if I might, by His wondrous intervention, be saved after all. Then, stepping between trees, I saw a little group sat round a campfire, the flames rising nicely. It was Potter, Hooper and the mule men. Creeping nearer, I saw that they were passing the surviving bottle of brandy from one to the next. How dare they have a fire? They should not even be on this side of the mountain. Lost, were they? Or had they come here deliberately to mock me anew?