CHAPTER VII

by Arthur Conan Doyle

"Tomorrow We Disappear into the Unknown"

I won’t bore you with the details of our luxurious journey on the Booth liner, nor will I dwell on our week in Para—except to express my gratitude to the Pereira da Pinta Company for their generous help in gathering our supplies. I’ll also keep my description of our river journey brief. We traveled up a wide, slow-moving, clay-colored river on a steamer that was almost as large as the one that had carried us across the Atlantic. Eventually, we navigated through the narrow passages of Obidos and arrived in Manaos.

Here, we were rescued from the limited charms of the local inn by Mr. Shortman, the representative of the British and Brazilian Trading Company. We spent our time at his welcoming Fazenda until the day we were finally allowed to open the letter of instructions from Professor Challenger. Before I dive into the surprising events of that day, I want to introduce you to my companions on this journey and the associates we had already gathered in South America. I speak freely, and I trust you, Mr. McArdle, to handle this material with care, as it will pass through your hands before reaching the world.

The scientific credentials of Professor Summerlee are well-known, so I won’t go over them again. At first glance, he might not seem suited for a rough expedition like this, but he’s more equipped than you’d think. His tall, lanky frame seems impervious to fatigue, and his dry, often sarcastic demeanor remains unchanged by his surroundings. Even at sixty-six, he has never complained about the hardships we’ve faced. Initially, I thought his presence would be a burden, but I’ve come to realize that his endurance matches my own.

His temperament is naturally cynical and skeptical. From the start, he has openly expressed his belief that Professor Challenger is a fraud, that we’re on a ridiculous wild-goose chase, and that we’re likely to face nothing but disappointment and danger in South America, along with ridicule back in England. He made these views clear with passionate gestures and the twitching of his thin, goat-like beard all the way from Southampton to Manaos. Since we landed, he has found some solace in the beauty and diversity of the insects and birds around him, as he is wholeheartedly devoted to science. He spends his days wandering the woods with his shotgun and butterfly net, and his evenings mounting the specimens he collects.

Among his quirks, he is careless about his appearance, unkempt in his hygiene, and exceedingly absent-minded. He has a short briar pipe that rarely leaves his mouth. He has participated in several scientific expeditions in his youth, including one with Robertson in Papua, so the life of camp and canoe is nothing new to him.

Lord John Roxton shares some traits with Professor Summerlee, while contrasting sharply in others. He is twenty years younger and has a similarly lean, scraggly build. I’ve described his appearance in the parts of my narrative I left behind in London. He is meticulous in his habits, always dressing carefully in white drill suits and high brown mosquito boots, and he shaves at least once a day. Like many men of action, he speaks little, often lost in his own thoughts, but he’s quick to respond to questions or join conversations, speaking in a quirky, jerky, half-humorous manner.

His knowledge of the world, especially South America, is impressive, and he has an unwavering belief in the potential of our journey that isn’t shaken by Professor Summerlee’s mockery. He has a gentle voice and a calm demeanor, but behind his twinkling blue eyes lies a capacity for fierce anger and unyielding determination, kept in check. He rarely spoke of his own adventures in Brazil and Peru, but I was amazed to learn how the riverine natives regarded him as their champion and protector. The tales of the Red Chief, as they called him, had become legends among them, but the real stories, as far as I could gather, were incredible enough.

Years earlier, Lord John Roxton had found himself in a lawless region that lay between the blurred borders of Peru, Brazil, and Colombia. In this vast area, the wild rubber tree thrived, becoming a curse for the local people, reminiscent of the forced labor they endured under the Spaniards in the old silver mines of Darien. A small group of ruthless half-breeds controlled the land, arming the Indians who supported them and enslaving the rest, subjecting them to horrific tortures to force them to gather rubber, which was then shipped down the river to Para.

Lord John spoke out for the suffering victims but was met with nothing but threats and insults. In response, he declared war against Pedro Lopez, the leader of the slave drivers. He recruited a band of runaway slaves, armed them, and led a campaign that culminated in him personally killing the notorious half-breed and dismantling the oppressive system he represented.

It’s no surprise that the red-haired man with the smooth voice and easygoing demeanor was regarded with great interest along the banks of the great South American river. The feelings he stirred were mixed; the gratitude of the natives was matched by the anger of those who sought to exploit them. One valuable outcome of his past experiences was his fluency in Lingoa Geral, a unique blend of one-third Portuguese and two-thirds Indigenous language spoken throughout Brazil.

I’ve mentioned before that Lord John Roxton was a South Americomaniac. He spoke about that vast country with such passion that it was contagious. His enthusiasm captured my attention and sparked my curiosity. I wish I could convey the magic of his stories, the blend of precise knowledge and vivid imagination that made them so compelling. Even Professor Summerlee, with his cynical demeanor, would gradually lose his skeptical smile as he listened.

He would recount the history of the mighty river, which had been rapidly explored—some of the early conquerors of Peru had even crossed the continent on its waters—yet so much remained unknown about what lay beyond its ever-shifting banks.

“What’s out there?” he would exclaim, gesturing to the north. “Forests and marshes, impenetrable jungles. Who knows what they hide? And to the south? A vast swampy wilderness where no white man has ever set foot. The unknown surrounds us on all sides. Outside the narrow confines of the rivers, what does anyone truly know? Who can say what’s possible in such a land? Why shouldn’t old man Challenger be right?” At this bold challenge, Professor Summerlee would respond with his familiar stubborn sneer, shaking his head in silent disapproval behind the cloud of smoke from his briar pipe.

That’s enough for now about my two white companions, whose personalities and limitations will become clearer as this story unfolds, just as my own will. But we have already gathered a few key members who may play significant roles in what’s to come.

The first is a massive black man named Zambo, a true Hercules, eager to help and about as clever as a horse. We recruited him in Para, based on a recommendation from the steamship company, where he had picked up some broken English.

In Para, we also hired Gomez and Manuel, two half-breeds who had just come down the river with a load of redwood. They were dark-skinned, bearded, and fierce-looking, as agile and wiry as panthers. Both had spent their lives in the upper reaches of the Amazon that we were about to explore, which was why Lord John chose to bring them along. One of them, Gomez, had the added advantage of speaking excellent English. These men agreed to be our personal servants, cooking, rowing, or assisting in any way for a monthly payment of fifteen dollars.

Additionally, we enlisted three Mojo Indians from Bolivia, known for their exceptional fishing and boating skills among the river tribes. We named the chief Mojo after his tribe, while the others were called Jose and Fernando. So, our little expedition was made up of three white men, two half-breeds, one black man, and three Indians, all waiting at Manaos for instructions before embarking on our unique quest.

Finally, after a long and exhausting week, the day had arrived. Picture the shaded sitting room of Fazenda St. Ignatio, just two miles from the town of Manaos. Outside, the sun blazed with a harsh yellow light, casting sharp shadows from the palm trees that stood like dark sentinels. The air was still, filled with the constant hum of insects—a tropical symphony ranging from the deep drone of bees to the high, piercing whine of mosquitoes. Beyond the veranda, a small garden was neatly cleared, bordered by cactus hedges and dotted with colorful flowering shrubs. Great blue butterflies and tiny hummingbirds flitted around, creating a dazzling display of movement and light.

Inside, we were gathered around a cane table, where a sealed envelope lay waiting. The jagged handwriting of Professor Challenger was scrawled across it:

"Instructions to Lord John Roxton and party. To be opened at Manaos on July 15th at 12 o'clock precisely."

Lord John had placed his watch on the table beside him.

"We have seven more minutes," he said. "The old dear is very precise."

Professor Summerlee picked up the envelope with a thin, bony hand and offered a sardonic smile.

"What difference does it make whether we open it now or in seven minutes?" he asked. "It’s all part of the same nonsense for which the writer is unfortunately famous."

"Oh, come on, we have to play by the rules," Lord John replied. "This is Challenger's show, and we're here by his invitation. It would be bad form not to follow his instructions."

"What a ridiculous situation!" Professor Summerlee exclaimed bitterly. "It seemed absurd in London, but it feels even more so now that we're here. I don’t know what’s in this envelope, but unless it’s something substantial, I might just take the next boat downriver and catch the Bolivia at Para. I have more important things to do than chasing the delusions of a madman. Now, Roxton, surely it’s time."

"Time it is," Lord John said. "You can blow the whistle." He picked up the envelope and sliced it open with his penknife. He pulled out a folded sheet of paper, carefully opening it and laying it flat on the table. It was completely blank. He flipped it over. Still blank. We exchanged confused glances, the silence shattered by a burst of mocking laughter from Professor Summerlee.

"It’s an open admission!" he declared. "What more do you need? The man is a self-proclaimed fraud. We should just go home and report him for the charlatan he is."

"Invisible ink!" I suggested.

"I don’t think so," Lord John replied, holding the paper up to the light. "No, my young friend, there’s no point in deceiving ourselves. I can guarantee that nothing has ever been written on this paper."

"May I come in?" boomed a voice from the veranda.

A squat figure stepped into the sunlight. That voice! That broad, imposing frame! We jumped to our feet in astonishment as Challenger appeared before us, wearing a round straw hat with a colorful ribbon. He strolled in, hands in his jacket pockets, his canvas shoes pointed daintily as he walked. He threw back his head and stood there in the golden light, his thick beard flowing and his eyes filled with that familiar mix of arrogance and intensity.

"I’m afraid I’m a few minutes late," he said, checking his watch. "When I gave you that envelope, I honestly didn’t intend for you to open it just yet. I had planned to be here before the hour. Unfortunately, a clumsy pilot and an annoying sandbank caused a delay. I hope my colleague, Professor Summerlee, hasn’t been too vocal in his complaints."

"I must say, sir," Lord John replied sternly, "your arrival is a great relief to us. Our mission seemed to be ending prematurely. Even now, I can’t fathom why you chose to handle this in such an unusual way."

Instead of answering, Professor Challenger stepped inside, shook hands with me and Lord John, and gave a curt nod to Professor Summerlee before sinking into a basket chair that creaked under his weight.

"Is everything ready for your journey?" he asked.

"We can start tomorrow," Lord John replied.

"Then it’s settled. You won’t need a map anymore, since you’ll have the invaluable advantage of my guidance," Challenger declared confidently. "From the start, I decided I would lead this investigation myself. You have to admit that even the most detailed maps would be a poor substitute for my insight and advice. As for the little trick I played with the envelope, it’s clear that if I had revealed all my plans, I would have faced unwanted pressure to travel with you."

"Not from me, sir!" Professor Summerlee replied earnestly. "Not as long as there was another ship on the Atlantic."

Challenger waved him off with his large, hairy hand.

"I'm sure your common sense will support my decision. It’s better that I manage my own movements and appear only when my presence is truly needed. That moment is now. You’re in safe hands. You won’t fail to reach your destination. From now on, I’m in charge of this expedition, and I need you to finish your preparations tonight so we can make an early start in the morning. My time is valuable, and I’m sure yours is too. Therefore, I propose we move forward as quickly as possible until I’ve shown you what you came to see."

Lord John Roxton had chartered a large steam launch, the Esmeralda, to take us up the river. As far as the climate was concerned, it didn’t matter what time we chose for our expedition; the temperature remained between seventy-five and ninety degrees year-round, with hardly any difference in heat. However, moisture was another story. From December to May, the rainy season caused the river to rise slowly, reaching nearly forty feet above its low-water mark. It flooded the banks, creating vast lagoons over a huge area known locally as the Gapo, which was mostly too marshy for walking and too shallow for boating. By June, the waters began to recede, reaching their lowest point in October or November. Thus, our expedition was set during the dry season when the great river and its tributaries were relatively normal.

The river’s current was gentle, with a drop of no more than eight inches per mile. No waterway could be more convenient for navigation, as the prevailing wind was from the southeast, allowing sailing boats to make steady progress toward the Peruvian frontier, drifting back down with the current. In our case, the Esmeralda’s powerful engines easily overcame the sluggish flow, and we made swift progress as if we were gliding across a still lake.

For three days, we steamed northwest up a river that, even a thousand miles from its mouth, was so vast that the banks appeared as mere shadows on the distant horizon. On the fourth day after leaving Manaos, we turned into a tributary that was nearly as wide as the main river at its mouth. However, it quickly narrowed, and after two more days of steaming, we reached an Indian village. The Professor insisted we land there and send the Esmeralda back to Manaos. He explained that we would soon encounter rapids that would make further navigation impossible.

He confided that we were approaching the threshold of the unknown, and the fewer people we involved, the better. To that end, he made each of us promise not to publish or say anything that would reveal our exact location, and the crew was sworn to the same secrecy. This is why I must remain vague in my account. I must caution my readers that any map or diagram I provide may accurately depict the relationship between places, but the compass points are intentionally scrambled, so it cannot serve as a true guide to the area. Professor Challenger’s reasons for secrecy may or may not be valid, but we had no choice but to comply, as he was ready to abandon the entire expedition rather than alter the conditions under which he would lead us.

It was August 2nd when we finally cut our last ties to the outside world by saying goodbye to the Esmeralda. Four days have passed since then, during which we managed to secure two large canoes from the local Indians. These canoes are incredibly light, made from animal skins stretched over a bamboo frame, allowing us to carry them around any obstacles we might encounter. We’ve loaded them with all our belongings and hired two more Indians to help us navigate the waters.

I’ve learned that these two are Ataca and Ipetu, the same men who accompanied Professor Challenger on his previous expedition. They seem genuinely terrified at the thought of doing it again, but the chief holds significant authority here, and if he deems the arrangement acceptable, his clansmen have little choice but to comply.

Tomorrow, we will plunge into the unknown. I’m sending this account down the river by canoe, and it might be our last message to those who care about our fate. As per our agreement, I’ve addressed it to you, dear Mr. McArdle, and I trust you to edit, change, or do whatever you see fit with it. Given Professor Challenger's confident demeanor—and despite Professor Summerlee's ongoing skepticism—I have no doubt that our leader will fulfill his promise, and that we are on the brink of some truly extraordinary experiences.