Deep into the night, Bates came and stood outside the hut. Ursula heard the rasp of his breath and smelled the distinctive musky odor of rum and sweat.
“Have you come to free me?” she asked, her voice cracked and dry.
Bates laughed. “Ah, Isabella, no…Why do you want to be free of me? You never used to. You wanted nothing else but me.”
“It’s true,” she replied. “I want only you now.” It was a dangerous game, Ursula thought, but maybe if she could lure him to open the door, she would have some chance of fighting her way free. “I know, I know how hard it has been for you. All these years…”
Bates kicked the door and spat again, “You know nothing!”
He descended into a moody silence. Ursula heard him pacing around the hut, his feet crushing the grass. Then there was nothing but the screech of monkeys in the trees and the call of tree frogs, deep-throated in the depths of the jungle.
She struggled against sleep, trying to keep her eyes open, but the night seemed as if it would last forever, and soon the exhaustion was too much. She dreamed of the graveyard in which her father lay buried. She was lying curled up on the wet grass by his grave, inhaling the scent of the earth. She watched, fascinated by the whiteness of her skin on her arm outstretched on the black mound of stone and dirt. A light rain fell and shrouded her in mist. There was the faint pealing of church bells in the distance, followed by a hushed stillness. Ursula rolled over and faced the sky. It was dark and stormy, and as the rain fell harder, the raindrops stung sharp and cold on her face. She looked downward to see the trickle not of water but of blood pouring now from the sky and running off her body into the hard and flinty ground beneath her.
Ursula awoke. She was still in darkness, but the heat had stilled. She thought she heard the sound of an animal padding across the grass, a snarl, then the sound of paws soft on the muddy ground. She drew her knees in close and shut her eyes. The fears in her dreams were more tolerable than the fears that surrounded her when she was awake.
When the light began to return, the heat inside the hut was already intense. The combined smell of fuel and her own sweat made her gag more than once. But when the morning came, she nevertheless started to beat her fists against the door again, crying and screaming to be released.
She ceased all activity as the heat took its toll. She was finding it hard to breathe, and her head swam whenever she tried to raise it. She had not had anything to drink in nearly a day, and her throat felt as though it had been scraped with a knife. Ursula lay slumped in the corner of her cell.
Suddenly there was a crash, and the sound of shouting in a Spanish tongue. Ursula struggled to her feet. There were more shouts and then gunshots. A woman screamed. Ursula fell against the door of the hut, summoning all her strength to yell and plead for help. There was only confusion. Ursula could smell smoke and hear the roar of flames ignited. Abruptly the fuel drum blocking the door came crashing down, and when the door opened, she was pulled outside into the glare of the light. A dark-haired man in a blue and gold uniform spoke to her in urgent Spanish, but she could not understand. She saw only smoke and confusion. Despite this, a strong and determined voice inside her head reminded her what she had to do. Ursula pushed the man away and ran toward Bates’s hut. She could think of nothing else but the letters. She struggled inside, as mayhem rained around her. She saw the tin box, grabbed it, and rushed outside.
A blow to the head sent her reeling. Then Bates kicked over another drum, sending kerosene flooding down toward the river. Ursula could see him standing before her, a tower of flames and smoke behind him. He grabbed her and pulled her to the ground. The stench of fuel was unbearable, and then the horrific truth started to sink in: He was going to set her on fire. She could hear the shouting as men tried to maneuver around the flames, and random shots rang out, but Ursula could not tell from which direction they came. Bates stood over her, black against the orange fury of the sky. Her dress was soaked in kerosene, and he needed only to wait for the fire to spread for her to be engulfed.
“If I can’t have you, no one else will!” he cried out.
Ursula kicked him in the groin as hard as she could, and he crumpled to his knees in pain. Seizing her chance, she got to her feet, grabbed the tin box, and started to run with the blind energy of fear driving her, toward the jungle. The fire raged behind her. There was a sound of air rushing backward, and a draft hit her in the back. She stumbled and turned to see Bates ablaze and screaming. Horrified, she averted her eyes. The heat of the fire was intense now, the canopy of the jungle caught alight. Ursula looked down at her skirt, stained with kerosene. Time seemed to stop. She watched a line of flame traveling toward her before she instinctively ripped off her skirt, turned, and ran.
She tried to make it through the thick undergrowth, tried to head toward the river, but the thick vines strangled the trees, squeezing the light into tiny chinks, barely visible against the twisted darkness of the jungle canopy. The air was thick with heat. She kept moving ahead out of sheer willpower. She knew that if she stopped, even for a moment, all would be lost. The river was silent—it offered no guidance—but she knew she must find it. The river was her only salvation. She had never felt so alone.
So she now knew the truth. She knew that Bates had been left not for dead but partly alive, yet it was a dead kind of living—darkness had eaten him from within. So this was the truth. Could she really be so sure? In this place all reality seemed unreal. Her dreams made more sense. Her senses deceived her. She heard voices. She saw faces in the shadows. The heat was unbearable. Her clothes were leaden weights. She was drowning even as she placed one foot in front of the other. She stumbled over tree roots and fell deep into the mud. She felt hands upon her, just as a voice inside her started to say, Death would be a relief. You could just stop, catch your breath, let the air enter your lungs one last time. Let your hands stretch out in the darkness. Let the earth consume you.
Just as this voice spoke, another, so calm, like water flowing over her, made itself heard:
“You can stop running now. You’re safe. I have you.”
Twenty
Ursula’s eyelids fluttered as she started to wake. The crisp sheets felt cool against her skin. A ceiling fan beat a rhythmic pulse above her. She noticed the brilliant red flowers in a vase on the windowsill, the peeling fresco of the Virgin Mary in an alcove above the sink, and finally the image of Lord Wrotham, bent over that sink, his hands gripping the sides, as water ran down from his face into the basin. He looked up, and she saw the blue of his eyes reflected in the mirror, more vivid than she had ever realized before.
“Ursula!” he exclaimed, and rushed to her side. He took her pale hand in his and clasped it to him. His hair, still wet at the ends, dripped cool beads of water, and like raindrops they trickled down her arm. “It’s been nearly a week. I had begun to fear the worst.”
“Where am I?” she croaked.
Lord Wrotham propped her head up and put a glass of water to her lips. “Here,” he said. “Drink this. Try not to talk….” He then gave a weak smile. “Difficult for you, I know.”
Ursula sipped a little water before sinking back onto the pillow. She raised her hand to her head and felt the bandage across her temple.
“You’re in a hospital in Ciudad Bolívar. The comandante and I brought you here by boat.”
“Bates?”
“Dead.”
“What about the letters?” Ursula croaked.
Lord Wrotham touched her cheek lightly. “Even now you worry about your friend. Well, you have no need to. I cabled Harrison. The letters contained all the information he’ll need.”
“So Freddie…”
“…is free.” Lord Wrotham dug around in his coat pocket and pulled out a telegram. “I also received word from Harrison this morning that they found a body washed up on the banks of the Thames. The man was carrying papers identifying him as John Henry Bates. Seems he had sought passage aboard a ship bound for India but fell
overboard the night before they were due to set sail. The ship’s doctor said there were reports of drinking and brawling among the midshipmen.”
Ursula stared at Lord Wrotham in disbelief.
“This means that Bates’s son is dead,” he said.
“Dead?”
Ursula burst into a torrent of tears. The fear she had felt for Winifred, the loss she had felt for her father, seemed lifted, and only now, with this unbearable lightness, did Ursula realize what an immense strain this fear had been. As she sobbed and heaved, Lord Wrotham handed her a handkerchief, and she had to smile. Finally she leaned back on the pillows, sighed with exhaustion, and closed her eyes.
The next thing she knew, she was looking up into the dark eyes of a nurse fussing and tucking in the sheets around her.
“Where’s Lord Wrotham?” Ursula asked, sitting up. The nurse gave her a quizzical look and Ursula pointed to Lord Wrotham’s panama hat that lay on the bench under the window.
“Ah, sí, sí…” the nurse replied, and started speaking quickly in Spanish.
“I’m afraid…I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Ursula interrupted her, and tried to get up.
“No…no…” The nurse pushed her back down and then, with a sign to her to stay put, hurried from the room. Within minutes a tall lady in a long nun’s habit came into the room, and Ursula found herself staring into a pair of brilliant blue, good-humored eyes.
“So you’ve decided to finally grace us with your presence, have you? I was beginning to think his lordship was havin’ delusions!” The nun spoke swiftly, with an Irish-tinged accent. “Don’t look so surprised. This hospital was established by the Order of Poor Ladies of St. Clare. I’ve been here three months now—joined the order five years ago in Galway.”
“Could you…could you tell me where I might find Lord Wrotham?” Ursula tried to sit up again, but the nun stopped her. “No, I cannot,” she replied emphatically. “I’ve ordered him back to the Colonial Hotel to get some rest. He’s been here day and night waiting for you to wake again.”
Ursula touched her head gingerly.
“Now, you just lie back and be still,” the nun ordered her. “You’ve caused everyone quite enough fuss and bother. Sneaking off on your own to find that madman…. You wouldn’t read about it in a cheap thrup’ny novel—and there was his lordship dashing back here with Comandante Sarría, demanding this and demanding that. The whole town was in an uproar.”
“I’m sorry…I don’t…I don’t really remember what happened. Was anyone else hurt?”
“Two of the expeditionary force that accompanied me died.” Lord Wrotham’s voice cut through the air. Ursula turned her head and saw him standing in the doorway.
“Bates’s woman was injured in the crossfire but she escaped into the jungle.”
Ursula dimly recalled seeing her flee as Lord Wrotham carried her back to the river’s shore. Semiconscious, she could recall little else, except the heat of the sun and an intense thirst that no amount of water could seem to quench.
“What about the Warao man and the boy who led me to Bates?”
“How else do you think I found you? They are talking with the regional authorities, but I’m sure they will be released soon.”
“I heard you…I heard you speaking to the comandante,” Ursula said.
Lord Wrotham walked over to her bed. “Hush, now,” he said gently. “It’s over.”
Ursula let relief wash over her at last. She watched as the nun left, as the nurse resumed her fussing. Lord Wrotham took a seat by her side.
“I brought you my copy of Tennyson’s Princess; I always travel with poetry. Thought you could do with something to read.”
“I’m surprised you own a copy of Tennyson’s poetry.”
“I’m not nearly the philistine you believe me to be.”
Ursula barely suppressed a yawn. “I doubt I would ever call you that. A fuddy-duddy maybe, but never a philistine. Read something to me.”
His presence seemed safe and familiar, and Ursula felt the warmth of his closeness.
He opened the book, flicked through the pages, and started to read.
Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed:
I strove against the stream and all in vain;
Let the great river take me to the main:
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more.
Ursula sank back into the pillow. Closing her eyes, she let his words pour over her and within minutes she was asleep.
Twenty-One
The return journey across the Atlantic was expected to last less than five days. Although the RMS Lusitania had captured the Blue Riband for her speed once before, anticipation levels were high. There was a certain degree of excitement among all the passengers, for she was a magnificent feat of engineering. Seven hundred eighty-five feet in length and eighty-eight feet broad of beam, her four funnels sent plumes of smoke into the air as her belly churned to reach twenty-six knots in speed. The passengers were for the most part oblivious to the machine beneath them. For them the journey was far removed from the dark, smoking fires below.
Reveling in their luxurious surroundings held no interest for Ursula. Her first-class cabin was certainly fine, and the Georgian-style lounge with its stained-glass barrel-vaulted skylight was undoubtedly impressive, as was the massive domed dining room, but Ursula was ultimately unmoved by it all.
After the initial relief over discovering that Bates’s son was dead, Ursula was plagued by doubts. At night, these doubts intruded on her dreams and she found herself reliving those nightmarish days with Bates over and over again. Only in these dreams she could never escape.
She spent most of her days curled up outside on one of the many steamer chairs that lined the open deck. She would lie there for hours, rugged up in a coat, scarf, and muff, simply staring out at the ocean, watching the magnificent sea’s many moods ebb and flow. Winifred was free, and her father’s murderer was dead. In her mind there was a great relief, and yet her heart remained in turmoil.
The first evening after dinner, Lord Wrotham and Ursula retired to the first-class lounge. Looking around at the faces of those already seated, she became aware of the interest she garnered by traveling with Lord Wrotham unchaperoned. She sighed. No doubt she should be steeling herself for the inevitable scandal when she returned to England, but after everything she’d been through, she could barely muster the strength to care. For his part, Lord Wrotham seemed unconcerned by the pointed stares and whispered comments.
Ursula sank down in the chair and was just about to open her book when Lord Wrotham handed her a folded-up letter, brown at the edges and yellow with age.
“I thought you should have this,” he said.
“What is it?” she asked, starting to unfold the paper creases.
“Something Anderson found among your father’s possessions. I thought it might shed some light on what really happened to the Radcliffe expedition.”
Ursula leaned back in the armchair and spread the paper out in her lap. The handwriting was unkempt, and the creases where it had been folded were beginning to tear. Ursula was careful not to handle the paper too much lest it rip entirely. The date at the top of the letter was July 19, 1888. Ursula briefly looked up, but Lord Wrotham was now standing, gazing moodily out the porthole.
She started to read.
Marlow,
What a damnable business. I’ve been in this godforsaken hospital for over two months, and they’re just now letting me write to you. I can only hope that the British embassy has sent word to Millie and the girls to let them know I am all right. I beg you to check on them for me. I worry lest they hear false reports of the expedition and think the worst of me—you know how malicious those damn reporters can be! I’ve never been so bloody ill in my life. Worse than the bout of dysentery I got in Malaya. Worse even than the fever that took the lives of three of my men on that Bolivian expedition. I’m getting too damn old for this game. But I gue
ss I should be thankful—I’ve secured passage on the Arconian, due to sail August 1. Thank Dobbs for me. Decent of him to have arranged that for me.
Old friend, we were close—so bloody close I could feel it. Heard word of the tribe from our guide Mario, and we met one of the women elders. Frightening old hag with a neck full of beaded necklaces and skin like a tanned animal hide, but she knew what we were on about. Old witch wouldn’t tell us much, though, so I knew we were damn close to discovering it!
So close—and then what do I see but Bates, the yellow bastard, in secret meetings with the Indians. You must have received my earlier communiqués—I warned you what he was like. I knew within days of setting off from Liverpool that this man was not to be trusted. I knew he was going to betray us, and I had no choice but to act. The bastard was conspiring to cheat us all out of what would have rightfully been our discovery.
The jungle plays some damnable tricks on you, but Bates seemed to welcome the madness. Dear God, Marlow, the things he said about your wife I dare not repeat. Obsessed, he was. The abominable lies that fellow told. Insulting to you and Isabella. I struck him more than once, I can tell you, but something dark had taken hold of him. The farther we got into the delta, the worse he became. I could see it in his eyes. Like an animal, he was. He was nothing more than a dog that needed to be put down.
At this point the handwriting began to deteriorate even further.
Then I fell prey to the fever, and I knew he was just waiting for his chance. I could see him watching me. The Indians knew it, too—they were just waiting for the moment to strike. God forgive me for what I had to do—you may have guessed the truth already, but you know I did it for all of us. Not only to secure our discovery but also to silence the bastard. There was too much at stake, you know, and I couldn’t risk everything we’d worked so hard to achieve. I only wish I’d acted earlier—maybe I could have prevented the Indian attack.
Consequences of Sin Page 20
