Trees loomed overhead, their broad leaves forming a canopy across the inverted valley of sky. The light of the river hall through which they passed was dim and all was washed in shades of deepest blue and darkest green. They had never seen such a place, and absorbed the sight with hungry, fascinated eyes, marveling at the various vines, flowers, ferns, sycamores, and teaks, some of which grew horizontally and cast undulating reflections upon the surface of the river.
They were not alone here. Birds watched them from above, natives watched them from the banks, and before them, behind them, and around every bend of the meandering river, there were more bungos, more boatswains, and more travelers. They had left the Steam Rose, but they had not left the hundreds of men with whom they had disembarked in Chagres.
They took some solace in knowing they were not the only foreigners in this foreign place.
* * *
The weather was transient, as it is in so many tropical places of the world. Though the temperature had been stifling at port, it dropped dramatically as the boats advanced beneath the shade of the jungle. The air grew dark and moist, the sky heavy with condensation, the breeze cool. The travelers fumbled through their belongings in search of the warm attire they had packed in the deepest recesses of their luggage, the sudden shift from hot to cold leaving their skin riddled with goose flesh.
Shivering, Evelyn produced a shawl. She looked over her shoulder to study Adele, whose raft was several meters down river, and whose appearance had not changed since leaving her husband on the sand in Chagres. She remained still and distant, like a deathly sprite. Her white dress seemed to glow in the muted light, the stains from her nosebleed starkly black and gruesome.
Noticing Evelyn’s observation, Lucius followed her eyes and realized that the poor widowed woman wore naught but the thin, gauzy fabrics of a summer dress. Though she gave no indication of being chilled, Lucius produced his jacket and draped it about her shoulders. Adele, however, showed no sign of recognizing the gesture. She showed no sign of life at all.
With a worried glace, Lucius caught Evelyn’s eye as if to seek advice, but she had none to give. She felt as helpless as he, so she shook her head regretfully and turned away.
Lucius felt nauseous.
It could have been him. It could have been Josephine. It could have been…
Evelyn.
He recoiled at the thought.
Stephen Whitfield had been a good man, a gentle man, and his wife had loved him most ardently. And now she was widowed. Widowed. A large piece of her had been removed, and that piece could not be restored. Not ever.
Upon setting out for California, Lucius had calculated many expenses, but he had not considered this. This was a life. Why should Lucius have been spared the cholera, when Stephen Whitfield was not spared the bullet? Who determined who lived, and who died? And why was the outcome so terribly unfair? Lucius had committed a lifetime of sins. He was no upright man, yet he had survived, and Stephen had not.
His death was wrong. So very wrong. Just as Emmett Brennan’s death had been wrong. And Lucius had been present, helpless, at both events.
It was a dreadful feeling, from which he could find no escape.
Adele was silent. Not hysterical, not wailing, but silent. It was terribly strange, for though the woman was more pale than usual, she was eerily collected. She emanated the peace of death itself, yet she had just left her husband to rot in the jungle. Was she mad? Had the incident caused her to slip into lunacy?
Lucius was pondering this when the woman suddenly awoke as though from a trance. He nearly cried out in surprise while she arranged herself beneath the jacket, moving for the first time in hours.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Lucius was too unnerved to reply.
“I did not realize the tropics might grow so cold,” she continued. Her lip trembled as she sighed. “It makes sense, however; the sun is quite veiled, isn’t it?”
It took Lucius a moment to recover his voice. `
“It is,” he replied presently. Then, recalling that her discomfort far surpassed that which he suffered himself, he put himself at her disposal.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mrs. Whitfield?”
“Not for me, no,” she replied, her voice distant. “I am afraid there is nothing more that can be done.”
She slipped into her reverie once more, like some sort of forgotten island, alone amidst a sea of strange creatures to whom she bore no relation.
Josephine watched with deep affection and sadness. With a slight touch, she beckoned her mistress to lean into a warm embrace, but for the first time in their relationship, Adele chose to remain isolated, refusing the invitations of comfort.
Josephine persisted for a short time, but the woman’s defenses were not to be penetrated. With a soft sigh, the child abandoned the effort.
Lucius watched with empathy.
“Your love is not wasted,” he whispered to the girl. “I am sure she will come around in time.”
Josephine nodded slowly.
“You were very brave today, Josephine. I speak for everyone when I say we are very, very proud of you.”
Lucius waited to see how Josephine might receive his sentiment. Unlike her mistress, she forged a smile. In the dull light, he saw that she was no stranger to sorrow, for it clung heavily about her countenance. She seemed older; ancient, even, as if death had been her mortal enemy since the beginning of time, leaving scars of melancholy etched into her forehead.
Lucius leaned forward and looked directly into her eyes.
“I am so sorry about what happened to Mr. Whitfield. About what you had to see.”
She did not break his gaze, but nodded slightly.
“I will personally see to it that you have nothing to fear without him, Josephine. From this moment forward, I will look after you.”
He did not realize what he was saying until the words hung in the air between them. He was the guardian of Evelyn Brennan already, but he had made a right mess of that now, hadn’t he? She didn’t respect him any more than he deserved, which was very little indeed. Perhaps this was his form of penance, his claim to strength after being so petty with Evelyn, so powerless against the deaths of Emmett Brennan and Stephen Whitfield. He promised himself he would be a better man, a stronger man. He was pledging himself to a young girl’s safety, and everything within him stirred with the rightness of it.
“Yes,” he concluded. “Yes, I will protect you. I give you my word.”
* * *
The sky imparted a few drops in warning, then the torrents fell. Heaven’s floodgates opened wide and in an instant, all below was sodden through.
Brock, Lucius, Evelyn, and what was left of the Whitfield party, trudged silently up the muddy riverbank towards two mangy huts, which stood dark and unwelcoming against the jungle foliage. They acted as a sort of inn, cramming in as many bodies as could possibly fit. Evelyn and the others were fortunate enough to find lodging, while those who arrived later were forced to spend the night exposed to the wet.
It was some time before supper was served. The travelers entertained themselves by telling stories, and they applauded when the food finally arrived. It was a stew made of roots and lizard flesh, served inside hollowed-out gourds. Everyone was ravenous, and all hoisted the gourds to their lips and ate unquestionably, their hunger too acute to turn down a marinated reptile they would otherwise refuse. Adele Whitfield showed no interest in the meal, but sat silently, isolated against the wall where she stared into oblivion, like a ghost whose affairs were not in this world, but in the one hereafter. Both Josephine and Evelyn tried to tempt her to eat, but she would take nothing.
Evelyn’s stomach gurgled, and she was soon distracted by her own supper. She examined her food, wondering just how a lady was supposed to eat lizard stew from a gourd and still maintain her dignity. Before this absurd adventure, Evelyn had never eaten from anything but China or silver.
Still, her stomach gr
owled.
Nearby, Brock Donnigan watched with an expression of unabashed amusement.
“I’d venture to guess you’ve never eaten a meal like this in your life, Duchess,” Brock said.
She scoffed.
“Not like this, no,” she replied. “How is one expected to go about eating it without appearing utterly barbaric?”
Brock raised an eyebrow and looked about the room, where the rest of the men were busily devouring their supper.
“Are you accusing us of being barbaric?” he asked.
In response, someone belched loudly from across the room.
Evelyn regarded the man with disdain.
“Yes,” she said, decidedly. “I am absolutely accusing all of you.”
Brock chuckled and rearranged himself beside her.
“Look here,” he said. “You’re a girl who likes a challenge. Just tip your head back and live on the wild side. No one will think the less of you, I promise.”
Evelyn hesitated. Her growing hunger made the stew more appetizing by the second. If she could just imagine it wasn’t served in the shell of a plant and made of bits of lizard…
“Promise me you will look the other way?” she asked Brock.
He smirked.
“Not for the world, Duchess. Come now. Give us a show.”
* * *
After dinner, the travelers grew tired and arranged themselves upon the floor, arms and legs situated like puzzle pieces. One by one, they drifted into sleep.
Stillness prevailed, while the song of night dominated. It sounded of rain, endless rain. The drops pattered against the cane walls, pelted the shaggy thatched roof, and beat the earth like a chorus of steady drums.
Above the oblivious sleepers, the rafters came alive with rats. They scurried back and forth, squeaking and chattering to each other now that the men had fallen silent. Haunting silhouettes of spiders perched silently in their translucent webs, watching an emerging troupe of cockroaches as they dashed between bodies along the floor.
Evelyn Brennan could not sleep. She shivered as she witnessed a small lizard wiggle up the wall nearby and thought of her supper. Suddenly her stomach didn’t feel so well. She sat with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them, careful not to allow too many surfaces of her body to come in contact with the crawling world around her. Her eyes were wide with anxiety and her skin prickled with the slightest draft of air, until some time past midnight when the only candle burned out, flooding the hut with total darkness. No longer able to spy the critters’ movements, Evelyn felt panic building within her chest. A mosquito flew close to her ear, filling her head with its high-pitched hum, and she cried out as she tried to swat it away.
Brock Donnigan, who had amused himself by watching her, took pity and cleared his throat to let her know she was not the only one awake. The noise startled her and she gasped.
Her rigid anxiety made him chuckle.
“Don’t worry, Duchess,” he whispered. “It’s just me. This wasn’t quite the palace you were expecting, was it?”
She recovered her senses, taking comfort in the sound of his voice.
“I did not expect a palace, Mr. Donnigan, but I did not expect a zoo, either. How are we to sleep amongst these insufferable creatures? We shall be at their mercy all night.”
Brock pretended to shiver.
“Then we must pray to the insect gods to spare us.”
“You tease me,” Evelyn glowered.
“Only because I know you’ll be all right.”
“Unfortunately, your confidence is not contagious.”
“Keep your chin up, love. I hear there’s a place called the Washington Hotel located upriver, past Gorgona. Supposed to be a fine establishment. You can catch up on your beauty rest there.”
Despite herself, Evelyn smiled. Brock was always ready to regurgitate the latest rumors.
“You know, Mr. Donnigan,” she began, “I believe you have a calling. Yes, I can see it now. A newspaperman, ever ready with information to pass along. California will be lucky to have you. Where do you get your leads, I wonder? Who is your informant?”
Brock laughed.
“A newspaperman, huh?” he mused, stroking his bristly chin. “Never was much for writing, but I do like to know a thing or two about where I’m going, if I can. Look around you, Duchess. These gossips were right about Chagres, weren’t they? It was beautiful as the devil, and just as heartless. Now, you were quick enough to believe the bad news. You might as well hope for the best on this one. It’ll keep you from despairing.”
“I never despair, Mr. Donnigan, but I do proceed with caution.”
“Do you now?”
He leaned a little closer and lowered his voice, sending a tingle down Evelyn’s spine.
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” he said.
He was challenging her to be reckless, to be a fool. And as his eyes searched hers in the dark, she was tempted to give in.
Her heart fluttered and she forgot all about the creatures masked in the surrounding darkness. She could hear Brock breathing, could hear her own breath at double the time. They were alone in this room full of slumbering bodies. She could easily stretch out a hand and touch him, could pull him close…
“No,” she uttered aloud thoughtlessly.
“No?” Brock repeated, somewhat confused.
She would master herself. She must.
“Good night, Mr. Donnigan,” she told him.
She arranged herself upon the floor, shut her eyes tightly, and did not sleep a wink.
Chapter Nineteen
The following morning, the rain ceased, but the air remained dense and sticky. The thickness of the humidity made everyone feel hot and claustrophobic, and the natives refused to commence upriver until the heat of the day began to wane. They would travel by dusk, and when any of the men asked if they might depart earlier, the natives would wave them off lazily.
It was a miserable day. Mercifully, Adele slept for the majority of it, for she was exhausted and famished after eating nothing the previous day. Josephine watched over Bartholomew and took him exploring around the twin huts, where they discovered enough curious plants and bugs to entertain them. At intervals, Lucius would peek his head around the corner to make sure all was well with the two youngest of the crew, and Josephine would catch his eye and smile.
Between check-ups, Lucius indulged some of the other men in cards. During their first game, he saw Adele slumped against the wall of one of the huts and extended the invitation. He did not believe she would accept, but he wished to present the opportunity in case she wanted some sort of distraction. Adele had never declined such pleasures in the past and had often been his worthy opponent; however, when Lucius welcomed her, she stared at him blankly, as if she could not comprehend the request. Pityingly, Lucius left her in the state in which he found her.
The morning found everyone in a foul mood, but by afternoon, Brock produced his harmonica while a bottle of native brandy was passed among the men. At the crux of his willpower, Lucius refused the liquor, for he was forbidden to drink. While the others happily consumed the beverage, he sulked to the Australian’s music, deciding that he absolutely despised Brock Donnigan more than anyone in the world.
He would have been completely dejected if not for a certain pair of eyes that watched him from the corner of the room. There sat Evelyn Brennan, regarding him with curiosity. No doubt she imagined he would succumb to temptation, but he was determined to prove her wrong. Each time the brandy made the rounds, he valiantly denied it, watching for Evelyn’s approval. It was evident she was torn between scowling sternly and laughing with amusement, for Lucius’ inward battle and his obvious desire to make it known were both pitiful and hilarious.
She was making fun of him, but it was no matter. At least someone could appreciate the sacrifice he was making.
* * *
The company set out as the sun descended, Lucius in the rear bungo with Josephine and Adele, and
Brock leading the party with Evelyn and little Bartholomew, whom Evelyn attended, relieving Josephine of her assistance. As much as Adele adored her son, Evelyn had wished to give her time to cope, with her young nurse to tend to her every need. The poor woman had needed rest, and Evelyn was only too happy to take the child in allowance for solace and sleep.
The jungle quickly grew dark and torches were lit to aid their vision. In front and behind, the eerie yellow lights of dozens of bungos reflected on the water and could be seen stretching beyond each bend in the river.
The natives rowed in silence for many hours, while the moon rose white and languorous in the night sky. As nocturnal creatures woke and roamed the surrounding hills, their exotic music filled the air. Some were pleasant, chirping sounds, while others were louder, deeper, and more frightening. All were mysterious and foreign.
Bartholomew was soon asleep in Evelyn’s arms, and Evelyn felt her own eyes growing heavy. Her head began to nod, and before long, she too succumbed to sleep.
She did not know how many hours had passed when a strange noise startled her awake. The moon, she noticed, was no longer visible, but the landscape was still in shadow. Night remained.
At the narrow bow of the bungo, the stone-faced native chattered in his indigenous tongue. His tone was sharp, betraying anxiety.
Evelyn leaned forward to see what was happening. Brock sensed her alarm and in the darkness, he turned and placed his hand on her knee. She felt a shock at the unexpected touch.
“There are trees in the water,” he told her, his voice low and hushed. “No need to worry.”
“Trees?” she repeated. “Whatever are you talking about?”
There was a loud crack as the raft collided with another protrusion. Bartie awoke with a jolt of surprise and began to wail.
Rising from the inky black water were shapes that looked like many-fingered claws, stiff and monstrous. They were the broken and jagged stumps of long-dead trees, and while some stood as silhouettes against the night, others were buried beneath the river’s surface.
Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series) Page 17