CHAPTER VI

by Arthur Conan Doyle

“I was the Flail of the Lord.”

Lord John Roxton and I strolled down Vigo Street, passing through the unremarkable entrance of the well-known aristocratic hangout. At the end of a long, dull corridor, my new companion pushed open a door and flipped on a switch. A warm glow filled the spacious room, thanks to several lamps with tinted shades. Standing in the doorway, I took in the scene, struck by an extraordinary blend of comfort and elegance, all wrapped in a distinctly masculine atmosphere.

The space was a mix of luxurious taste and the casual disarray typical of a bachelor’s life. Rich furs and vibrant, iridescent rugs from some far-off bazaar were strewn across the floor. The walls were adorned with an impressive collection of artwork, from sketches of boxers and ballet dancers to racehorses, interspersed with works by Fragonard, Girardet, and Turner. Yet, amidst this eclectic display, there were trophies that reminded me strongly of Lord John Roxton’s reputation as one of the finest all-around athletes of his time.

A dark-blue oar crossed with a cherry-pink one above the mantelpiece hinted at his days at Oxford and Leander, while the foils and boxing gloves surrounding them spoke of victories in various sports. Encircling the room was a line of magnificent game heads, trophies from his global adventures, with a rare white rhinoceros from the Lado Enclave looming over them all.

In the center of the rich red carpet sat a stunning black and gold Louis Quinze table, an antique now marred by glass rings and cigar burns. On it rested a silver tray filled with smoking materials and a polished spirit stand. My silent host began to prepare two highball glasses, pouring from the stand and a nearby siphon. After indicating an armchair for me and placing my drink nearby, he handed me a long, smooth Havana. Then he settled into a chair across from me, his strange, twinkling eyes—cold blue like a glacier lake—fixed on me intently.

Through the thin haze of cigar smoke, I studied his face, already familiar from countless photographs. He had a strong, curved nose, hollow cheeks, and dark, wind-tousled hair that was thinning at the top. His crisp, masculine mustache and the small tuft on his chin added to his distinct look. There was something reminiscent of Napoleon III, a hint of Don Quixote, and yet an undeniable essence of the quintessential English country gentleman, a man who loved the outdoors, dogs, and horses. His skin was a rich, sun-kissed red, and his bushy eyebrows gave his naturally cold eyes a fierce appearance, a quality heightened by his strong, furrowed brow. He was lean but powerfully built, having proven himself capable of extraordinary physical feats. Standing just over six feet tall, he seemed shorter due to his slightly rounded shoulders.

This was the famous Lord John Roxton, sitting across from me, biting down on his cigar and watching me in a long, uncomfortable silence.

“Well,” he finally said, breaking the tension, “we’ve really done it, haven’t we, young fella?” He pronounced the phrase as if it were one word—“young-fellah-me-lad.” “Yes, we’ve taken a leap, you and I. I suppose when you walked into that room, you had no idea this was coming, right?”

“Not a thought of it.”

“Same here. No idea at all. And now look at us, in deep. I’ve only been back from Uganda for three weeks, just got a place in Scotland, signed the lease and everything. Quite the adventure, eh? What do you think?”

“Well, it fits with my line of work. I’m a journalist for the Gazette.”

“Right, you mentioned that when you took the job. By the way, I’ve got a small task for you, if you’re willing to help.”

“Of course.”

“Don’t mind taking a risk, do you?”

“What kind of risk?”

“Well, it’s Ballinger—he’s the risk. You’ve heard of him?”

“No.”

"Hey there, where have you been living?"

The man chuckled, shaking his head. "Sir John Ballinger is the best jockey in the North. I could keep up with him on the flat when I’m at my best, but over jumps? He’s in a league of his own. It’s no secret that when he’s not training, he drinks heavily—he calls it ‘striking an average.’ He went off the deep end on Tuesday and has been raging ever since. His room is right above us. The doctors say he won’t last long unless he gets some food, but he’s lying in bed with a revolver on his blanket, swearing he’ll shoot anyone who comes near. The staff has been a bit hesitant to help him out. Jack’s a tough guy and a dead shot, but you can’t just let a Grand National winner die like that, can you?"

"What do you plan to do?" I asked.

"Well, I thought you and I could rush him. He might be dozing off, and at worst, he can only wing one of us, while the other can grab him. If we can get his pillowcase around his arms and call for a stomach pump, we’ll give the old boy the meal of his life."

It felt like a desperate situation to suddenly dive into. I wouldn’t say I’m particularly brave. I have an Irish imagination that makes the unknown seem far more terrifying than it really is. But I was raised with a deep fear of cowardice and the stigma that comes with it. I could probably throw myself off a cliff if my bravery was questioned, but it would be more about pride and fear than true courage. So, even though every fiber of my being recoiled at the thought of that whiskey-fueled figure in the room above, I forced myself to respond, trying to sound casual.

"I'm in," I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Lord Roxton’s further comments about the danger only made me more irritable.

"Talking won’t change anything," I replied. "Let’s go."

I stood up, and he followed suit. With a little chuckle, he patted me on the chest a few times before gently pushing me back into my chair.

"All right, my lad—you’ll do," he said, and I looked up, surprised.

"I checked on Jack Ballinger myself this morning. He shot a hole in my kimono, bless his shaky old hand, but we managed to get a jacket on him, and he’ll be fine in a week. I hope you don’t mind—between you and me, I see this South American venture as a serious matter, and if I’m going to have a partner, I want someone I can rely on. So I sized you up, and I must say, you came out well. It’s all on us now because this old Summerlee fellow will need careful nursing from the start. By the way, are you the Malone who’s expected to get his Rugby cap for Ireland?"

"Maybe a reserve," I replied.

"I thought I recognized your face. I was there when you scored that try against Richmond—what a brilliant run! I never miss a Rugby match if I can help it; it’s the manliest game we have left. But I didn’t bring you here just to talk sports. We need to get down to business. Here are the sailing schedules, right on the first page of the Times. There’s a Booth boat for Para next Wednesday, and if you and the Professor can work it out, I think we should take it, don’t you? Great, I’ll sort that out with him. What about your gear?"

"My paper will cover that."

"Can you shoot?"

"About average for a Territorial."

"Good Lord! Is it really that bad? It’s the last thing you young folks think to learn. You’re all like bees without stings when it comes to protecting the hive. You’ll look pretty foolish one day when someone sneaks off with the honey. But you’ll need to hold your gun steady in South America because, unless our friend the Professor is a madman or a liar, we might encounter some strange things before we get back. What gun do you have?"

He walked over to an oak cupboard, and as he opened it, I caught a glimpse of gleaming rows of barrels, lined up like the pipes of an organ.

"I’ll see what I can spare from my own collection," he said.

One by one, he pulled out a series of beautiful rifles, opening and closing them with a satisfying snap, then putting them back in the rack as tenderly as a mother would cradle her child.

"This is a Bland’s .577 axite express," he said, nodding at a large rifle. "I took down that big fellow with it." He gestured toward a mounted white rhinoceros. "Ten more yards, and he would have added me to his collection.

'On that conical bullet his one chance hangs, 'Tis the weak one's advantage fair.'"

You’d better know your Gordon, because he’s the poet of the horse and the gun, and he’s a master of both. Now, check this out—a .470 rifle with a telescopic sight, double ejector, and point-blank accuracy up to three hundred fifty yards. That’s the same rifle I used against the Peruvian slave drivers three years ago. I was a force to be reckoned with in those parts, though you won’t find it in any official records.

There are moments in life when we all have to stand up for what’s right and just, or we’ll never feel clean again. That’s why I waged my own little war. I declared it, fought it, and ended it all by myself. Each notch on this rifle represents a slave murderer—quite a collection, wouldn’t you say? That big one there? That’s for Pedro Lopez, the worst of them all, whom I took down in a backwater of the Putomayo River.

Now, here’s something that would suit you just fine. He pulled out a stunning brown-and-silver rifle. “Well padded at the stock, sharply sighted, five cartridges in the clip. You can trust your life to that.” He handed it to me and closed the door of his oak cabinet.

“By the way,” he said as he returned to his chair, “what do you know about this Professor Challenger?”

“I didn’t meet him until today.”

“Funny, isn’t it? We both set sail under sealed orders from a man we don’t even know. He struck me as a rather arrogant old fellow. His peers in science don’t seem to think much of him either. What drew you into this whole affair?”

I briefly recounted my morning’s experiences, and he listened with keen interest. Then he pulled out a map of South America and spread it across the table.

“I believe every word he told you was the truth,” he said earnestly. “And I have my reasons for saying that. South America is a place I adore. If you travel from Darien to Fuego, it’s the grandest, richest, most incredible piece of land on this planet. People don’t know it yet and don’t realize its potential. I’ve traveled its length and breadth, and I’ve spent two dry seasons in those very regions, as I mentioned when I talked about my war against the slave dealers.

While I was up there, I heard stories—legends from the indigenous people and the like, but there’s definitely something to them. The more you learn about that country, the more you understand that anything is possible—ANYTHING! There are just a few narrow waterways where people travel, and beyond that, it’s all darkness.

Now, down here in the Matto Grande”—he gestured over a section of the map—“or up in this corner where three countries meet, nothing would surprise me. As that fellow said tonight, there are fifty thousand miles of waterways running through a forest nearly the size of Europe. You and I could be as far apart as Scotland is from Constantinople, yet both be in the same vast Brazilian forest. Man has only made a few paths in that maze. The river rises and falls nearly forty feet, and half the land is a swamp you can’t cross. Why shouldn’t something new and extraordinary be hidden in such a place? And why shouldn’t we be the ones to discover it?

Besides,” he added, his unusual, gaunt face lighting up with excitement, “there’s a thrilling risk in every mile of it. I’m like an old golf ball—long past my prime. Life can throw whatever it wants at me now, and it won’t leave a mark. But a thrilling risk, young man, that’s the spice of life. That makes it worth living again. We’re all getting too soft and comfortable. Give me the wild, open spaces, a gun in my hand, and something worth searching for. I’ve tried war, steeplechasing, and flying, but this hunt for creatures that seem like something out of a dream is a whole new sensation.” He chuckled with delight at the thought of our upcoming adventures.

I may have lingered too long on this new acquaintance, but he’s going to be my companion for many days ahead, so I wanted to capture him as I first saw him, with his unique personality and his quirky way of speaking and thinking. It was only the need to recount my meeting that finally pulled me away from him. I left him there, surrounded by a warm glow, oiling the lock of his favorite rifle, still chuckling to himself about the adventures that awaited us. It was clear to me that if danger lay ahead, I couldn’t have found a cooler head or a braver spirit to face it with, anywhere in England.

That night, exhausted from the incredible events of the day, I stayed up late with McArdle, the news editor. I explained the entire situation to him, which he deemed significant enough to bring to Sir George Beaumont, our chief, the next morning. We agreed that I would write home detailed accounts of my adventures in a series of letters to McArdle. These letters would either be published in the Gazette as they came in or held back for later, depending on what conditions Professor Challenger might impose regarding our journey to the unknown land.

When we reached out for more information, all we got was a furious rant against the Press. The only thing we could gather was that if we informed our boat, he would provide any directions he deemed appropriate at the time of departure. A second inquiry yielded no response, except for a distressed message from his wife, who mentioned that her husband was already in a foul mood and hoped we wouldn’t make it worse. Our third attempt later that day resulted in a loud crash, followed by a notification from the Central Exchange that Professor Challenger’s receiver had been smashed. After that, we gave up on trying to communicate.

Now, dear readers, I can no longer speak directly to you. From this point on—if this narrative ever reaches you—it will be through the paper I represent. I leave this account of the events leading up to one of the most remarkable expeditions of all time in the hands of the editor, so that if I never return to England, there will be a record of how it all began. I’m writing these final lines in the saloon of the Booth liner Francisca, and they will be sent back by the pilot to Mr. McArdle.

Before I close this notebook, let me paint one last picture—the final memory of my homeland that I carry with me. It’s a damp, foggy morning in late spring, with a thin, cold rain falling. Three figures in shiny raincoats walk down the quay, heading for the gangplank of the great liner, from which the blue Peter flag is flying. A porter pushes a trolley stacked high with trunks, wraps, and gun cases ahead of them. Professor Summerlee, a tall, gloomy figure, walks with heavy steps and a drooping head, already looking deeply regretful. Lord John Roxton strides forward, his thin, eager face shining between his hunting cap and scarf. As for me, I’m relieved to have left behind the hectic days of preparation and the heartache of goodbyes, and I’m sure it shows in my demeanor.

Just as we reach the ship, a shout rings out behind us. It’s Professor Challenger, who had promised to see us off. He rushes after us, a puffing, red-faced, irritable figure.

“No thank you,” he says. “I’d much rather not board. I have just a few words for you, and they can easily be said right here. Don’t think for a moment that I owe you anything for making this journey. I want you to understand that it’s completely indifferent to me, and I refuse to feel any sense of personal obligation. Truth is truth, and nothing you report can change that, though it may stir the emotions and satisfy the curiosity of a number of rather ineffective people.

My instructions for you are in this sealed envelope. You’ll open it when you reach a town on the Amazon called Manaos, but not until the date and time marked on the outside. Have I made myself clear? I trust you to honor my conditions. No, Mr. Malone, I won’t restrict your correspondence since sharing the facts is the purpose of your journey. However, I insist that you don’t disclose any details about your exact destination and that nothing is published until your return.

Goodbye, sir. You’ve done something to ease my feelings toward the loathsome profession you belong to. Goodbye, Lord John. Science may be a closed book to you, but you can congratulate yourself on the hunting opportunities that await. You’ll surely have the chance to describe in the Field how you brought down the rocketing dimorphodon. And goodbye to you too, Professor Summerlee. If you’re still capable of self-improvement, which I’m frankly skeptical about, you’ll surely return to London a wiser man.”

He turned on his heel, and a moment later, I spotted his short, stocky figure moving away in the distance as he headed back to his train.

We were well down the Channel now. The last call for letters rang out, and it was time to say goodbye to the pilot. From here on, we would be "down, hull-down, on the old trail."

I whispered a prayer for everyone we were leaving behind and hoped for a safe return.