At midday we were ready to leave again, and though we were tempted to stay tied safely to the little island in the middle of the river, we concluded it’d be best to keep going and travel through the night. We couldn’t risk being attacked again, and that they hadn’t used canoes to board us didn’t mean they didn’t have them or wouldn’t try. We’d be safer if we kept moving.
Since Verhoeven insisted on taking the helm during the night, I had it from seven in the evening, while he tried to sleep a few hours.
I’m writing these last lines of the day under the dim oil lamp, listening to the comforting clatter of the engine, knowing that as soon as I sleep, I’ll dream of puddles of blood soaking my feet.
River Diary
DAY EIGHT
February 2, 1942
Ebola River
I woke up to the first light of dawn and sensed unconsciously that the motor’s vibrations had shifted and the rhythm of the paddles pushing us had changed. I immediately thought there was another leak in the boiler, so I stood up like a spring and ran sleepily toward the bridge.
There was Verhoeven at the helm, eyes on the river.
“What’s going on?” I asked him, alarmed. He pointed forward, and then I saw, less than a hundred yards away, several dozen large black rocks stretching from one side of the riverbed to the other, forming an impenetrable barrier. I remember thinking the voyage would end there.
But then one of the rocks moved and a giant head emerged from the water, looking in our direction. As a warning, it opened an enormous mouth at an impossible angle, showing some threatening tusks as large as my forearm. The message was perfectly clear.
“Hippopotamus,” Verhoeven said, and added without me having to ask him, “The sound of the paddles hitting the water drives them crazy. If they bite or hit them, they could destroy the paddle wheel.”
By then Carmen, Hudgens, and Jack were also on the bridge, all three with the same worried look.
If we tried to go through that mass of tusks and muscle, there was a good chance it’d cause severe damage to the boat, so Verhoeven slowed down as much as possible and we went, at about one knot, toward the compact phalanx of hippos, which, apart from an inquisitive look and an intimidating yawn here and there, didn’t seem bothered by our approach.
Using the boat hooks and the depth poles, we went to the bow, and if a hippo seemed reluctant to move, we gave it light taps on the back to make it move.
Fortunately, most of the enormous animals acted as we’d hoped, going to one side and shaking their ears or exhaling through their noses in protest.
We ran into trouble when we encountered the one that was probably the alpha male of the herd and king of the river, who made it very clear that he wasn’t prepared to bow to some newcomers like us. Instead of leaving, the several-ton leviathan raised his head more than three feet out of the water, opened his jaws, and took a savage bite out of the port side, removing a good chunk of the deck.
Hudgens had to jump away to keep the hippopotamus from taking his left leg as a keepsake, and the whole ship shook from the massive attack.
“Don’t let him near the paddle wheel!” Verhoeven shouted from the helm, pointing at the big hippo.
I went to the upper deck and into the wheelhouse to grab the Martini-Henry and went down to the first deck as fast as I could, looking over the side in search of the giant animal.
I really didn’t think a few lead bullets would have much effect on the big hulk, but I hoped that maybe he’d be annoyed enough to leave.
The hippopotamus had gone under suddenly, and for a moment I thought it was satisfied with the piece of the hull. But when I was about to put down the weapon, his giant head appeared again. It was like a submarine turret suddenly surfacing, spewing foam from its scuppers.
Its giant head rose right in front of me, almost to my eyes. I couldn’t believe something so chubby was capable of pushing itself out of the water like that, but the fact is, it did. And if that wasn’t enough, it managed to get one of its fat forelegs on the deck and moved to do the same with the other. The damn thing was trying to board us!
Without hesitation I pointed between the hippo’s eyes and pulled the trigger.
But nothing happened.
The reliable old gun had decided that was a good time to jam.
The animal managed to get its second leg on deck, and with all its weight on the port side now, the boat leaned dangerously, threatening to tip.
The deck turned into a ramp, and the boxes that were closer to the edge started to fall in the water one after another.
Someone shouted from the bow.
I heard Verhoeven howl disjointed orders, and then something slid toward the water and hit me in the back, making me stumble. I suddenly started sliding like a toboggan right toward the hippo, who was waiting with open jaws.
I unsuccessfully tried to find something to hold on to, grasping frantically and cursing the flawless polish of that okoumé deck.
I don’t remember if I managed to scream (Jack smiles mockingly and insists I did), but the fact is when my feet were less than six inches away from those formidable tusks, a blurry figure appeared to my right, wielding one of those depth poles, and hit the hippo in the head, right in the snout, with enough force to rival a samurai.
The hippopotamus’s reaction was to snort indignantly and forget his intention to come aboard, then let himself fall backward and go underwater again.
The Roi des Boers went back to horizontal with a jolt, and still on the deck floor I looked up to find that Carmen was there, black hair falling messily over her face, holding the middle part of the pole she’d used on the hippo while looking at me with a mix of haughtiness and savage pleasure.
She saved my life, and I’m sure that sooner or later, one way or another, she’s going to remind me of it.
After the hippo attack our trip continued for the rest of the morning without any scares. We’d lost almost all our food and the majority of the wood, which had fallen in the water when the boat tilted. If we didn’t have luck with the fish, we’d have to stop and try to hunt something, which I really didn’t want to do. Verhoeven told us that not far upriver there was an outpost of the Commercial Union of the High Congo. We didn’t count on anyone being there, but it was possible they had a reserve of usable wood. None of us thought we’d enjoy spending several hours cutting wood in the middle of that jungle.
Before midday I relieved Hudgens at the wheel, and a short time later I managed to see in the distance what seemed to be a simple pier on the right bank of the river. I sounded the whistle as much to relay my discovery as to warn anyone at the outpost of our arrival.
A few seconds later everyone on the boat came forward to the bow. We didn’t want any more surprises of any kind.
As we neared the outpost, Verhoeven came to relieve me at the wheel, lowering speed to the minimum while he brought the boat to shore with extreme caution.
Slowly, what we all most feared was revealed. The news in Léopoldville about loss of contact with the outposts, along with the natives’ assault the day before, made us doubt we’d find a single living white man in the region; when we pulled parallel to the shore, in front of the pier and the commercial outpost’s main building, our worst fears were confirmed.
The large wooden house that should have contained the living quarters and office was now nothing more than a pile of wood strewn about the ground as if it’d been hit by a hurricane. All that was left standing was a pair of beams and the door frame, still holding the door to the house shut.
Jack suggested that a herd of those enormous four-ton hippopotamuses could have caused that destruction.
Carmen pointed out twenty posts a little beyond the house and asked what purpose they had and what those things that looked like black bulges were on top of them.
I looked through Verhoeven’s binoculars, which I’d taken from the bridge, to see what Carmen was talking about. Then I turned toward Verhoeven and gestured for him to
abort the landing, while shouting that we get out of there as fast as possible.
The Boer looked in the same direction, and, after seeing what I saw, nodded and gave the boat as much power as possible, pushing us away from the bank.
The others turned toward me, curious about my exaggerated reaction and asking what I’d seen.
At first I refused, wanting to spare them the mental image, but they insisted so much I had to tell them what was on top of those posts.
“Heads,” I said. “Human heads.”
They were all upset, trying to understand why someone would do something like that. I didn’t know either and couldn’t imagine.
Later, Verhoeven told us it could have been an act of revenge by a rival tribe or an act of discipline by the head of the outpost. But the tone he used implied he thought it was the latter and that it wasn’t at all an unusual occurrence.
We traveled through a forgotten corner of the world, an enigmatic and perverse place, sensual and sinister at the same time. A country of nightmares, absurd and boundless as in the most deranged dreams, and whose only access point was this river.
As we travel farther along the river, I feel we’re not just entering the deepest, darkest part of the jungle but of the human soul. To go farther upriver is to go toward the unknown, the unreal, the malign . . . Just like Marlow, the protagonist of Heart of Darkness, I know that day by day, mile by mile, in this infernal paradise, clarity can be inhuman, courage can become insanity, and conscience can be dragged down to murder.
I heard the boat’s whistle, and through the wheelhouse window Jack appeared, waving me forward.
I stood and looked ahead, along the port side, where above the tops of the trees I could see a thin column of white smoke reaching skyward.
The others got up and headed for the bow, and for some reason I sensed the smoke had something to do with Klein.
Maybe the dreadful descent to hell was nearing its end.
Or maybe it was only just beginning.
Regardless, I’m going to stop writing the diary now. Maybe I’ll pick it up again when we get back.
If we get back.
43
An hour after encountering the column of smoke, the Roi des Boers rounded one last turn in the river, and a small beach appeared. On it stood a group of eighty or a hundred natives, dressed in loincloths and holding large spears with an expectant air.
But what really got Riley and the others’ attention was the dozen or so men holding a solid wooden platform on their shoulders. To be more precise, what made them blink and open their mouths in disbelief was the figure on top of that platform. Sitting like a giant king in a white linen suit, wearing a large hat and shaded by palm leaves, was the fattest man Riley had ever seen.
“Shit in the milk,” Jack muttered. “Damn pile of meat.”
“That’s Klein?” Riley asked in disbelief, turning to Verhoeven.
The Boer nodded with a sly smile.
“You could have told us he was . . . like that,” Carmen said.
“No doubt,” Riley said, looking sideways at the captain of the ship, “he was waiting to see the looks on our faces.”
“See?” Jack said, pointing with his thumb. “That’s fat.”
“He’s like a statue of Buddha,” Carmen said.
“Give him some cloaked brothers and candles,” Jack added, “and you’ve got a Holy Week procession.”
Despite his enormous size, Klein was dressed well. He’d somehow gotten an impeccable white linen suit with a vest and tie made in the early colonial fashion. A salacot kept the sun off his head and his face inscrutably dark.
“Stay alert,” Verhoeven said, “but don’t make aggressive gestures.”
The Boer had slowed the boat down as they got closer, although he was ready to speed up quickly to get away from any problems that might arise.
Hudgens stood next to Verhoeven in the wheelhouse while Jack, Carmen, and Riley stood on the bow, vulnerable with their hands in the air. But Riley had the Martini-Henry hidden under the sack his right leg was leaning on, ready to use it at any moment.
As they got closer, the natives surrounding Klein grew more agitated, murmuring incomprehensibly and clicking their tongues in unison, which must have been a show of nervousness or a warning.
As the boat approached the shore, the uneasy murmur turned to shouts that sounded far from welcoming, while the natives’ expressions went from expectant to openly hostile.
Klein, meanwhile, undaunted and perched on his platform, watched the boat get nearer without moving at all, as if he weren’t conscious of what was happening or it didn’t matter.
Then Verhoeven hit the boat’s horn, and some natives ran to hide in the brush as if he’d thrown a hand grenade.
Riley turned toward the wheelhouse and gestured for the Afrikaner not to do it again. It didn’t seem like a good idea to make them more nervous than they already were. The captain of the Roi des Boers, for his part, gave him a smug smile, apparently very satisfied with himself.
Klein meanwhile continued to seem unperturbed, not answering the greeting, and even in the distance they could feel penetrating eyes watching them from the shade of the hat.
Seeing there would be no response from the German, they saved the pointless gestures. It wasn’t until they were less than ten yards from the bank that Riley greeted him. “Dr. Klein, I presume?” he said, raising his voice.
The man didn’t sense the sarcasm. He ignored him and addressed the captain of the Roi des Boers, who was now looking out the wheelhouse window. “Jan Verhoeven,” he bellowed in a deep voice laced with stifled rage. “I gave you a clear warning to never come back here.”
“Good to see you again too,” Verhoeven answered, bringing his hand to his forehead in a salute.
“And,” Klein added, looking at the others as if they were lepers covered in pustules, “you brought other people with you.”
“They wanted to meet you,” the Boer said, “and I couldn’t say no.”
“I should have never trusted you,” Klein replied, shaking his enormous head in disappointment.
Verhoeven shrugged in response, as if to say the man on the bank was right.
“We’re friends,” Hudgens said. “We just want to speak with you.”
“These are my friends,” Klein said, waving over the natives congregating around him. “So you can turn around and go back to where you came from.”
Verhoeven situated the boat with its port side along the bank and skillfully reduced power so they stayed nearly static a few yards away.
“We have to,” Hudgens insisted. “It’s a matter of great importance.”
“Not for me. I’m not interested in anything you have to offer, and there isn’t any deal we can make. I don’t know what Verhoeven told you,” he said, looking at the others, “to make you think it was worth coming here, but you’ve made a mistake.”
“We’re not here to make a deal,” Hudgens said.
“I don’t care who you are or why you came. Leave.”
“I don’t want us to stay here any longer than you want us to, Dr. Klein,” Riley said. “But we’ve been attacked. The boat requires repairs and we need rest and provisions.”
Klein shook his head and tutted.
“We couldn’t leave even if we wanted,” Riley insisted, and he took the bow rope that was rolled up next to him and threw it to the bank, asking the natives to tie it to a tree.
No one made the slightest movement to get it.
“Dr. Klein,” Hudgens said, raising his voice over the noise of the paddles, which were still turning, “we have to speak with you. It’s very important, and I assure you that you won’t regret doing it.”
“I already do.”
“Dr. Klein,” Verhoeven said, “as Mr. Riley said, we have no choice but to dock here, whether you like it or not.”
The German sighed tiredly. “I can’t convince you to go back the way you came, is that right?”
“We ca
me seven hundred miles up this damn river to get here,” Jack said, as if that explained everything. “What do you think?”
And it seemed Jack was right, since after shaking his head once more, Klein gestured to the natives who had run to hide, and after giving some orders to the men holding him up, the enormous platform turned. Then they started to walk in the direction of a large wooden house big enough for its cyclopean occupant, though it looked pretty crude and was built on a short hill less than five hundred yards from the bank.
Then Klein turned partway on his platform, and despite the distance, Riley would have sworn he saw him smile.
After Klein’s lukewarm reception, he left them on the bank without another word, followed meekly by his indigenous court like a revered king from antiquity.
The crew of the Roi des Boers immediately started collecting wood and looking for food—always armed and in pairs—which led them to discover that just beyond what they supposed was Klein’s house there was an area cleared of trees and brush with an extensive town comprising dozens of adobe huts with thatched roofs. Only a few natives came out of their houses to inspect them, and in each case they looked at them with a disconcerted expression that was neither fearful nor aggressive. It was more like pity or sympathy, as if they were giving condolences. Still, to be cautious, the crew decided it would be best not to venture out of sight of the ship, where someone would stand guard, ready to sound the whistle at the slightest sign of trouble.
As evening fell on that slice of the Ebola River, a seven- or eight-year-old boy approached the bank. He stood and looked at them with open curiosity, contemplating them as if they’d just come from outer space.
“Hi, handsome,” Carmen said. “Speak my language?”
The boy looked at the woman in silence.
She went up to him and bent down. “Want to come on the boat?” she asked, pointing back with her thumb.
This time the boy shook his head hard.
“Okay. And what’s your name?” She touched her chest and added, “My name is Carmen. And this dummy here”—she pointed at Riley—“is named Alex.”
Darkness: Captain Riley II (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 2) Page 33