by Annis Bell
“Drink this, please.”
With her heart-shaped lips, Charlotte sipped the tea like a weak little bird. The sweet drink brought some color back to her face, and the warmth of the fire also seemed to have some effect.
“Oh . . . what was that?” Charlotte murmured. She was wearing a magenta silk dress with cream lace trim. She touched the collar of her dress, which closed at her throat.
“Should I fetch help?” Jane asked uncertainly, unable to simply sit and watch Charlotte’s obvious distress.
But Charlotte had regained her senses, first sitting up straight then slowly getting to her feet. “Thank you. It is already passing. Please don’t say a word to my husband about this. Please!” Her large brown eyes pleaded with Jane, who could only nod her agreement.
“Of course I won’t. Has that happened to you often? Have you talked to a doctor? There could be all kinds of reasons for a dizzy spell.”
Quietly, as she smoothed her dress, Charlotte said, “It’s happened several times in the last few weeks, but it could just be the weather. I’ve never been much good in this climate. I’m sure it will settle down again, but now I’d like to take you to Alison.”
Whereas the drawing room had been pleasantly green and welcoming, the stairway and corridors of the house proved dark and inhospitable. The Halston ancestors stared down from the walls in old oil-painted likenesses, alternately grim and arrogant, accompanying them all the way up to the second floor. Weapons and old maps added to the gloomy décor. “My bedroom is there, the children’s room is at the end of the corridor, and the guest rooms are down here.”
They turned into the guest wing of the house. A maid scurried by with an armful of washing. Despite the children being there, it was very quiet in the house. Everyone seemed at pains to move as silently as possible. “In here.”
Charlotte knocked at a door and waited until Alison’s personal maid, Nora, opened it. “We’ll be taking dinner at eight,” Charlotte said, and left a surprised Jane at Alison’s door.
“Hello, Nora!” Jane said, and the young woman beamed. She had not been with Alison long. Ally had found her in a factory where the women sewed in dim light for fourteen hours a day for scant pay. Nora had a warm smile, and although she was still shy, she learned quickly and was a pleasant companion for Ally.
“Jane? Is that you?” Ally called from inside.
The two friends embraced tearfully. Jane patted Ally’s cheeks and sat beside her bed. “I am so happy that you’re well!” Jane squeezed her friend’s hand and looked her over thoroughly. Ally, seven months pregnant, was as round as one might expect. Her blond hair gleamed, and her cheeks were rosier than usual.
“Oh, I’m doing splendidly! You know that pregnancy never did me any harm. I mean, the twins cost me a lot of strength, of course, but this is a stroll by comparison. It will be a boy, I’d say, from the way he’s kicking.” Smiling, she took Jane’s hand and laid it on the swell of her belly.
Jane felt some movement beneath her fingers, and she leaned over and kissed Ally’s belly. “Now don’t annoy my best friend, little one.”
Then she looked around the room. The four-poster bed was covered with light-green velvet, the curtains and wallpaper were mustard yellow, and Jane spotted two magnificent orchids on a table. Gas lamps radiated a muted light, and a fire was crackling in the fireplace.
“At least it looks more or less pleasant in your room. This house has something . . . repellent about it, I don’t know how else to say it. It’s simply dark and unwelcoming. By the way, Charlotte had a dizzy spell just now, but she didn’t want me to mention a word of it to anyone, least of all to her husband.”
Alison frowned. “Again? Can you understand why I’m worried? It’s been getting worse ever since I arrived. It’s like Charlotte is fading away, as if there’s less and less of her every day. She never used to be sick at all!”
“Has Nora been able to learn anything from the servants?” asked Jane quietly.
“She’s been trying all along to get something out of them, but they’re banding together and not telling her much. There’s something very strange going on here, Jane, something sinister!” Ally looked at her friend, wide-eyed.
“I assume those orchids are from Sir Frederick? Could all this have anything to do with him?”
“I don’t know. We hardly ever get so much as a glimpse of the man. Heaven knows, I’ve never especially liked him, but I’ve never had anything bad to say about him, either. He is a grumpy old fellow who likes to spend his time in his greenhouse with his orchids more than anything else. There are a lot of men like him. He only married to preserve his family line. Now that he has an heir, Charlotte has done her duty, and so he looks after his plants.” Ally rolled her eyes. “Jane, these orchids are pretty, I admit, but all the money he puts into it . . . do you understand his obsession?”
Jane shook her head thoughtfully. “Frankly, no. Not entirely, anyway. My uncle was mad about plants, but he had other interests, too. He loved life, and he lived it to the fullest. Oh, Ally, I still miss him so much.”
“My poor Jane,” said Alison with compassion in her voice. “Henry was a special man, and he holds a special place in your heart. Nothing will ever change that.”
Jane cleared her throat. “And there’s David, now, too. He didn’t want to let me come up here. I left in secret.”
Alison stared at her, aghast. “You didn’t!” Then she let out a ringing laugh. “You are incorrigible! I wager he has cursed the day he signed that marriage certificate!”
“More than once, I’m afraid,” Jane said. She laughed herself, then immediately grew serious again. “But we actually get along well together. Very well, in fact. It’s just that sometimes he’s inclined to forget that we are partners and that I don’t need a nursemaid. At least he didn’t send Blount after me.”
“Jane, don’t be unfair. Without him, you would be—”
“Oh, I know. Well, what do we do now? Can you get out of bed for meals?”
“No. I have to stay lying down. The doctor’s instructions were very clear, although I will certainly be driving back to London with you before Christmas. But between now and then, we have to find out who in this household is trying to harm my cousin.”
Jane swallowed. “You really think that is true?”
“Yes, but I don’t know who or why, and no one would believe a hysterical pregnant woman in any case! Jane, you’ll be dining with Sir Frederick this evening. Tell me what you think of him. And there’s also Melissa Molan, the governess. She doesn’t have an easy time of it with the children. The girl is harmless, but watch out for Cedric. He’s one of these little boys who likes to carry out pranks on others, and I don’t mean harmless little tricks.”
“I’ll start a list, I think, and keep notes of what everyone in the house does.”
Ally nodded and took Jane’s hand. “I am so happy you’re here.”
Sierra Nevada, Colombia, October 3, 1860
Dear Sir Frederick,
The past week has fully depleted us. Some unpleasant events have moved us farther from the Motilones’ dominions than planned. Without José, a local mulatto fellow who is exceptionally knowledgeable, we would all be dead! The man knows the Sierra like the palm of his hand, so at least I have one man I can rely on. By God, he has already proved his worth!
I have no desire to go on at length about the confused political situation here. Suffice it to say that the loose alliance of nations presently calls itself the Granadine Confederation. Colombia is part of this alliance, which will certainly not be permanent, not with people on all sides slaughtering each other in a civil war. It is the same thing everywhere, the conservatives fighting the liberals. But I tell you, new ideas will win out in the end. The war has been going on for nine years, since the day that slaves officially became paid laborers.
Some cry for freedom, others for bread, and who can blame them if they reach for weapons? One evening, our small party came to a narrowing of o
ur trail, where it passed between the river on one side and a mountain on the other. Our group consists of me, four bearers—the aforementioned José and three Indians, all taciturn fellows—and a young fellow countryman.
Dennis Brendon, a botanist from Durham, had contracted a disease of some sort and was left behind by his expedition in a mountain village. The poor chap, it seems, spent three months up there in a hut, receiving only the most meager attention and food from the Indians of the cordillera, who have little as it is for themselves. These mountain Indians are small in stature, but certainly strong; I have seen two of them carry a piano between them up a mountain for hours! The young Dennis has become a pleasant traveling companion for me, in part because of the depth of his knowledge about all kinds of plants. Unfortunately, his constitution suffered greatly during the months of his fever, and he can count himself lucky if he comes through this journey with no lasting damage.
One evening, our little group arrived at a narrow point on the trail, as I mentioned, that was supposed to lead us a little farther down the river to a place to spend the night. José told us that we had to hurry and find shelter before dark. We were perhaps a little inattentive, which in turn caused us not to see the four figures beneath a rocky outcrop. It is hard to say whether they had pitched their camp there for the night or had been waiting at exactly that place for us to come along. They were two former slaves and two mulatto men; they blocked our path and demanded money from us. They seemed intoxicated, and two of them spat chewed leaves onto the ground.
José talked to them in Spanish, which they could at least partly understand. Among themselves, they spoke in a foreign dialect that none of us could fathom. I also tried to speak to them in a friendly tone, but the moment I opened my mouth their countenances grew grim, and they began to shout abuse at me. It was clear that the two blacks, in particular, saw me as their despicable enemy, a representative of the race that had forced them into servitude all those years.
During our argument, Dennis had become even paler than usual. He has an Englishman’s light skin and blond hair, and he stands out among the dark-skinned members of our little troop. As for me, I cannot say when my skin could last have been called white; I have been out exploring the countries of the world far too long. One of these treacherous fellows was holding a machete and staring at us with bloodthirsty eyes. All he seemed to be waiting for was a signal from his leader to carry out his bloodlust. But José managed to convince them that our only interest was in flowers, and when they examined the baskets containing our collected plants, they sniffed and snorted most unfavorably.
Orchid collectors may well be rich in plants, but we are not wealthy in money, and even these cutthroats seemed to know that. They tore our cargo apart, laughed and joked about our bags and baskets filled with seeds and seedlings, and, to my horror, threw most of what we had gathered into the river. They acted as if they were befuddled and not in control of themselves. Finally, one of the mulattos shouted, “Bolívar.” The others took up the shout, and José also cried out, “Bolívar, our great liberator!”
Simón Bolívar, though already thirty years dead, is still a great hero and revered in these parts. He freed the Colombians from the Spanish yoke, after all. So I gave Dennis a jab, and he also raised his voice in praise of the national hero. Fetching a bottle of rum from my saddlebags, I held it high, which made our rivals’ eyes light up. One of the two blacks, a giant of a man, took the bottle and raised it to his mouth. Dennis looked at me anxiously and chose that moment to pick up a little notebook that had fallen on the ground.
As he bent down, one of the mulatto fellows, with whom José had spoken Spanish, began to shout and aimed his pistol at poor Dennis. The young man began to tremble and stammer and wave his arms around, which only made things worse.
From the man’s tumult of words, all I could understand was that the book was from Arboleda, and that we were exploiters and enemies. Next to us, the river was rushing over its rocky bed. On the other side, bare rocks rose steeply. The sun was almost gone, casting only the sparsest rays of light on our strange mixed company in those inhospitable Colombian wilds. It was clear that these four would not let us pass without giving rein to their hatred. The intoxicating leaves they had been chewing were making them act irrationally. I exchanged a quick glance with José, who had already drawn his pistol from his belt. The three cordillera Indians had stood a little ways back with their mules throughout the show. Their broad faces remained expressionless, as if trying to distance themselves from whatever happened next.
Their passive manner was suspicious to me. It could have meant anything. Fear, cowardice, or the fact that they were waiting for an opportunity to get rid of us themselves. But then, with great relief, I saw the Indians come to life. They carried no pistols, but they had machetes, and in the blink of an eye they were holding them in their hands, which brought our adversaries back to their senses. A shot rang out, and Dennis fell to the ground, but then José and I fired simultaneously at the bellowing bandits. The giant dropped the bottle and fell down backward. He tried to rise, but he stumbled and slipped into the river, where the current tore him away. The machete the other black man was wielding flashed in a ray of the setting sun. He was barely a meter from me, but when I tried to fire, my weapon malfunctioned. José fired, and the powerful, dark-skinned fellow froze in place. A round hole gaped in his forehead, and blood poured over his face and nose and into his open mouth.
The Indians drove away the other two with their machetes, wailing with such intensity that it made my hair stand on end.
“Go on, away from here!” I cried, helping Dennis to his feet. His shock was far worse than his injury: the bullet had left a flesh wound on his upper arm, but that was quickly bandaged.
“I can’t stand the sight of blood. At least, not my own,” he stammered, clearly on the verge of passing out.
“José! Do we still have any rum?” I asked my brave companion, who had risen greatly in my esteem.
“Sí, señor.” The plucky man put away his pistol and took a leather waterskin from his pack, which he quickly uncorked. “Drink, Señor Dennis, drink!”
Dennis took a hefty swig from the waterskin, swallowed, and coughed, and the color returned instantly to his cheeks. “God, that wasn’t rum. What was it?”
José laughed. “Better than rum—cachaça!” He then spoke quickly to the Indians, who gathered and stowed whatever they were able to salvage.
Finally, we made it past that bottleneck and set ourselves up for the night in the relative safety offered by a copse of enormous trees. Not one of us slept well that night, and we took turns on watch, but it seemed the bandits had had enough for the time being.
The next morning, we found ourselves in a scarcely improved situation. When we continued on, it was apparent that a few days earlier there had been a landslide, for the narrow trail that led between the river and the steep, heavily wooded slope was now blocked by fallen trees and boulders. Going around this obstacle or even climbing over it was out of the question, as was turning back, because then we could almost certainly expect another ambush. José stood there frowning and shaking his head, his muscular arms planted on his hips. “Una catástrofe . . .”
Surprisingly, it was our wounded young botanist who spoke up. “I experienced a similar circumstance on an expedition in Peru. We could not surmount the barrier with the animals, and turning back would have meant many days travel, even without armed bandits awaiting us. We must build a raft!”
“My dear Dennis,” I replied, “a raft? And how are we supposed to do that?” I surveyed the area. There were certainly enough felled tree trunks lying around, but how were we supposed to hold them together?
Our plant expert climbed up the slope to where he could reach the branch of a tall tree. “We have balsa!”
José slapped his forehead theatrically. “Sí! Balsa! That is what they use to make the big rafts on the Magdalena.”
Nodding slowly, the Indians seemed to
regret ever joining our unfortunate expedition.
“Balsa is a kind of mallow,” our pale botanist lectured. “The branches are as flexible as willow, and the dry wood is lighter than bamboo. We can cut whatever we need with the machetes, and I’m sure our Indian friends know exactly how to weave a raft and seal it with resin. The woven balsa will swell in the water and become watertight, but we’ll have to leave the mules here.”
I was sorry to leave the animals, but there was no way around it. And, Sir Frederick, it was astonishing. Within a few hours, we had actually built a raft big enough to carry six men and the most vital of our equipage. You can take this as proof that nothing can deflect me from my goal—the Sobralia mystica.
To steer the raft, we had four long poles fashioned from whole saplings. We tied our bags tightly onto a raised section in the center of the raft and wrapped them in blankets. The wild waters of the river would no doubt wash over us and the bags, but at least the medicines, instruments, and papers we carried would be protected. I will spare you the details of our turbulent ride. We were fearful for our lives at several points but stayed on the water as long as we possibly could. Like so, we covered more ground than we would have on foot. After one particularly dangerous rapid, raw and battered, we made it to the shore; by that point, there was little left of the raft.
Before we initially boarded our vessel, we had removed our shoes and stockings and were thus grateful to have at least halfway dry shoes to put on. The idea of marching through the jungle without shoes is not a pleasant one. Dennis had also had his experiences with the voracious little chiggers. As we lay down to sleep that evening, we were thankful that we had not lost the bottles of mustard seed oil, because the greedy bloodsuckers were already closing in on our camp. We had left the mountains behind us, and the vegetation in the jungle was lusher and greener. We traveled for several more days, then had to hack our way through part of the rainforest, but bit by bit we were drawing inexorably closer to the home of the Motilones.
