The Bedlam Detective

the first time I saw Sir Owain show concern. The boxes of staples-by which I mean salt beef, tinned hams, biscuits-were by now far outnumbered by those packed with fine wines, champagne, olives, and foie gras.

The lamp burned in his work tent for most of that night, and some harsh words were spoken. By morning he and his quartermasters had radically revised the expedition plan to suit our remaining supplies and manpower. One-third of the camaradas were paid off. They were sent back with the mules and oxen, which I gather they promptly stole.

Everything and everyone else was loaded onto the boats and launched across the lake. This lake stood on a level plain, with mountains behind it and the jungle sloping away below. Without wind or tide to disturb us, that first day’s crossing was like a lazy afternoon on the Thames.

The river itself was another matter. It began quietly enough at the point where the lake emptied, but within the first mile it began to narrow and speed up, and then its course very soon took some rapid turns. Rocks and islands set up eddies that made the boats sometimes hard to control. Nevertheless, after two days we reached a point close to our first measuring station with some excitements but without any real mishap.

While the astronomer and the survey party hacked a trail to the spot from which they needed to make their observations, the rest of us set up camp. I took the opportunity to gather some botanical specimens, while others hunted for meat. Alas, they shot only monkeys, which most of us refused even to consider.

When our surveyors returned we celebrated with some of the champagne and tinned truffles. The next morning we broke camp and returned to the water.

On leaving the lake we’d kept the boats close together, in a kind of flotilla. But this approach had its disadvantages. In rougher waters the boats could be driven together, risking upset. Instead of using their paddles to steer, the Indians and camaradas had to employ them to shove the boats apart, and so for miles at a stretch all proceeded in chaos, with everyone crashing and turning and spinning midstream.

So for this next part of the journey we launched one after another, with gaps in between. Sir Owain’s pilot boat would precede us all. He carried a fearsome-looking Indian whose task it was to read the river’s signs and warn of any dangers ahead, while Sir Owain sat with a gun on his knees ready to shoot the Indian if he got out of hand. Where a hazard presented itself, they’d make a landing and place a signaler with a flag to warn the rest of us to paddle for the bank.

When we met a waterfall or any other obstacle, we’d have to lift our boats from the river and carry everything around to the other side of it. Around midafternoon I noticed that our boat was moving faster, the waters were boiling and heaving, and our crew was paddling harder to keep control. There was one major disadvantage in using the river’s own energy to power our journey. Whatever might happen, there would be no going back.

At that point, we seemed to be moving from rough water into actual rapids. At the same time we were descending into a gorge, so there was no riverbank to head for. The gorge snaked and turned, giving us no chance to warn those who followed, any more than we could have received warning from those ahead.

The change in the water was sudden and brutal. One moment a fast, rough ride; the next, a merciless battering. Within seconds we’d lost our paddles and unsecured cargo and were clinging on for our lives, as our boat tossed and skipped down a thunderous chicane of white water and spray. Swept around the next bend, we came upon the first wreckage; one of our steel-hulled boats had lifted right up out of the water like a leaping fish, turned onto its side, and jammed itself between rocks, and now there was no sign of the men who’d been emptied from it. As we sped by I saw a wooden chest from its load caught in a whirlpool, spinning in place. I’d barely had a chance to take that in when our own boat grounded hard and bounced on a great shelf of stone, and only my grip on the side kept me from being flipped overboard.

We lost a man from our boat. I was too busy clinging on, and never saw him go. After a while, we reached quieter waters and were carried along, out of danger but with no control. We bailed out the boat with our hands and prayed that those from the wreck had survived, and that the others had fared better than we. A few hundred yards farther on, our prayers received their grim answer.

Boats, bodies, debris … I can hardly exaggerate the horror. We coasted through them in appalled silence. For all who’d fetched up here, more must have been swept on downstream.

Farther on, the river widened and slowed. To our left rose the sheer curving side of the gorge; it held the river in a wide loop, with a low-lying beach contained within the loop like a tranquil island. On this sandbank I saw our astronomer, waving a flag made from a shirt, and with nothing but our hands for oars we dug into the water and propelled ourselves toward him.

Five out of our twenty boats had survived intact. Forty souls, including all in the lightly laden pilot boat, remained alive. The rest-gone. It was a true disaster. Over the next day or so we saw many of our fellows being carried by, bloated and floating high in the tepid waters and with a cloud of flies over each. Some of the cargo drifted by as well, and we rescued whatever we were able to catch. I found the medical kit, and in my capacity as “expedition doctor” did what I could to treat the minor injuries of the survivors.

Any drowned Europeans that we saw, we dragged in for burial. I regret to say that the Indians and camaradas were pushed out into the middle of the river and sent on their way. The surviving camaradas were grimly accepting of this practice, as they were the ones assigned to the digging. While searching for a suitable graveyard site within reach of the river bend, our burial party found a row of overgrown mounds with wooden grave markers. The wood was rotten, the markings illegible. Those graves could have been made ten years before, or a hundred.

I found this deeply disturbing. It meant that others had been this way before us, and had suffered a similar trial. But no record of any prior exploration of the river had been found. Which suggested to me that those who’d survived this hazard, and made these graves for their comrades, must ultimately have fallen to some other hazard yet to come.

I suggested as much to Sir Owain.

“Good God, man,” was his response. “Don’t breathe a word of that to the others. As if this weren’t trial enough. I can’t believe you’re out to make it worse.”

His wife and son were in a tent some way from the beach, where they would not be forced to witness the sad spectacle of the passing dead. But I saw the boy standing by the tent and staring at the waters anyway, while his mother lay prostrate inside. All the symbols of civilization-a picnic hamper, wine bottles, cruet sets, parasols, trunks with changes of clothes-passed before his gaze and were carried away, as if offered in sacrifice for the use of the drowned in the afterlife.

That evening, I overheard Sir Owain speaking to his wife and son. I did not deliberately eavesdrop. Voices carry through canvas, and it was impossible not to hear.

I heard him say, “We’ve suffered a setback, I won’t deny it. I cannot promise you all of the comforts I’d intended to provide. But I swear to you. Our safety is not compromised and our purpose has not changed.”

Mrs. Lancaster said something in return, and I could not hear what.

The next morning I looked out across the river and saw the head of that rocking horse floating by, upright and bobbing like a seahorse, badly battered and with its body mostly submerged in the water. In the same moment I saw that Lancaster’s boy was in the river up to his knees, trying to reach it.

I called out, “Are you mad, boy? What do you think you’re doing?” and I waded into the water and dragged him back to the shore. Though the river was slower here, it was far from safe. There were undercurrents, and there were parasites. The rocking horse was already gone.

Later that day, Sir Owain sought me out.

He said, “Simon has demanded that I dismiss you.”

I thought at first that he was making some wry comment and that thanks would follow. But then I saw that he was serious.

I said, “I beg your pardon?”

“Please,” he said. “If my son is ever to be disciplined, I’d prefer you don’t interfere.”

“I didn’t discipline him,” I said. “I pulled him from the water before he took the step that would see him drowned or carried away. If you want him to learn anything from this misconceived adventure, show him how to look after himself or teach him some gratitude.”

I cannot tell you Sir Owain’s reaction, as at that point I turned my back on him and walked away.

With our five boats, our mixed party of survivors, and our salvaged equipment, we continued down the river. In shallow water near the next night’s camp, Sir Owain spied one of his instrument cases and, seeming to forget all