CHAPTER XIII

by Arthur Conan Doyle

"A Sight I Will Never Forget"

As the sun dipped below the horizon on that somber evening, I spotted a solitary figure of the Indian on the vast plain below. I watched him, our only glimmer of hope, until he vanished into the rising evening mist, which glowed softly pink from the sunset, stretching between the distant river and me.

By the time I turned back to our beleaguered camp, darkness had settled in. My last sight was the flickering red glow of Zambo's fire, the lone beacon in the expansive world beneath me, much like his unwavering presence in my troubled heart. Surprisingly, I felt a sense of relief, a happiness that had eluded me since the crushing blow we had suffered. It was comforting to think that our efforts would not be forgotten, that our names would endure beyond our bodies, tied to the legacy of our work.

Sleeping in that doomed camp was a daunting prospect, but the thought of the jungle was even more unsettling. I faced a choice: Prudence urged me to stay alert, but my weary body demanded rest. I climbed onto a branch of the great ginkgo tree, but its rounded surface offered no stable perch, and I knew I would surely fall and injure myself if I tried to doze off. So, I climbed down and contemplated my options. Finally, I secured the zareba, lit three separate fires in a triangle, and after enjoying a hearty supper, I fell into a deep sleep, only to be jolted awake by a strange but welcome sensation.

In the early morning light, just as dawn was breaking, I felt a hand on my arm. Startled, my nerves tingling and my hand instinctively reaching for my rifle, I cried out in joy as I recognized Lord John Roxton kneeling beside me.

It was him—but not quite. When I had last seen him, he was composed, impeccably dressed. Now, he looked pale and frantic, gasping for breath as if he had run a great distance. His face was gaunt, scratched, and bloodied; his clothes hung in tatters, and his hat was missing. I stared in disbelief, but he didn’t give me a moment to ask questions. He was already rifling through our supplies as he spoke.

“Quick, young fellow! We don’t have time! Grab the rifles—both of them. I’ve got the other two. Now, gather all the cartridges you can find. Stuff your pockets. And some food—half a dozen tins will do. Hurry! Don’t stop to think or talk. Move it, or we’re finished!”

Still half-asleep and struggling to grasp the situation, I hurried after him through the woods, a rifle under each arm and a bundle of supplies in my hands. He darted in and out of the thick brush until he reached a dense thicket. Without hesitation, he plunged into it, thorns scratching at us, and pulled me down beside him.

“There!” he gasped. “I think we’re safe here. They’ll head for the camp, no doubt about it. That’ll be their first move. But this should throw them off.”

“What’s going on?” I managed to ask once I caught my breath. “Where are the professors? Who’s after us?”

“The ape-men,” he exclaimed. “My God, what savages! Keep your voice down; they have keen ears—sharp eyes too, but they don’t seem to have a sense of smell, so I doubt they can track us. Where have you been, young fellow? You were lucky to miss this.”

I quickly whispered what had happened to me.

“That’s pretty bad,” he said after I finished. “Not exactly a place for relaxation, is it? But I had no idea what we were up against until those monsters got hold of us. The man-eating Papuans had me once, but they’re like gentlemen compared to this lot.”

“How did it happen?” I asked.

It was early morning, and our scholarly companions were just starting to stir. They hadn’t even begun their usual debates yet. Suddenly, it started to rain apes. They fell from the trees like apples, thick and fast. I suppose they had been gathering in the dark until that massive tree above us was heavy with them. I managed to shoot one through the belly, but before we knew what was happening, they had us pinned down on our backs.

I call them apes, but they were more than that. They carried sticks and stones, chattering in a language I couldn’t understand. They tied our hands with vines, showing a level of intelligence I hadn’t seen in any beast during my travels. Ape-men—that’s what they were—missing links, and I wish they had stayed missing. They took their wounded comrade, who was bleeding profusely, and then surrounded us. If I’ve ever seen frozen malice, it was in their faces.

They were large, as big as men and much stronger. Their glassy gray eyes, set under tufts of red hair, glinted with a strange satisfaction as they sat there, reveling in our predicament. Challenger, usually so fearless, seemed unnerved. He managed to get to his feet and shouted at them to finish it quickly. I think the shock had rattled him; he raged and cursed like a madman. If they had been a row of his favorite journalists, he couldn’t have insulted them more fiercely.

“What did they do next?” I asked, captivated by my companion’s strange tale, even as his sharp eyes scanned the surroundings and his hand gripped his loaded rifle.

“I thought it was the end for us, but instead, it sparked something new in them. They all began jabbering and chattering together. Then one of them stepped forward beside Challenger. You might laugh, but I swear they could have been brothers. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself. This old ape-man—he was their leader—was like a red version of Challenger, with all of our friend’s striking features, just a bit more exaggerated. He had the stocky body, broad shoulders, round chest, no neck, a thick, bushy beard, tufted eyebrows, and that fierce “What do you want, damn you?” look in his eyes. When he stood next to Challenger and placed his paw on his shoulder, it was uncanny.

Summerlee, who was a bit hysterical, laughed until he cried. The ape-men joined in, cackling away, and then they began dragging us through the forest. They avoided our guns and gear—probably thought they were dangerous—but they took all our loose food. Summerlee and I got a rough ride; I’ve got the scrapes and torn clothes to prove it. They took us straight through the brambles, their tough hides barely feeling the thorns. But Challenger? Four of them hoisted him up like a Roman emperor, and he went along with it, proud as could be.

“What’s that noise?”

I heard a strange clicking sound in the distance, reminiscent of castanets.

“There they go!” my companion said, slipping cartridges into his double-barreled rifle. “Load them up, my young friend, because we’re not going to be taken alive, not a chance! That noise is what they make when they’re excited. By George, they’ll have something to get excited about if they try to take us! The ‘Last Stand of the Grays’ won’t hold a candle to what we’ll do. Can you hear them now?”

“Not very clearly, it’s quite far away.”

“That won’t do us any good, but I expect their search parties are combing the woods. Anyway, back to my tale of woe. They brought us to their village—about a thousand huts made of branches and leaves in a large grove of trees near the edge of a cliff. It’s three or four miles from here. Those filthy creatures pawed at me all over, and I feel like I’ll never be clean again. They tied us up—the one who handled me could tie a knot like a sailor—and there we lay, toes up, beneath a tree, while a massive brute stood guard over us with a club.

When I say ‘we,’ I mean Summerlee and myself. Challenger was up in a tree, munching on pine cones and enjoying himself. I must admit, he managed to get some fruit to us and even loosened our bonds with his own hands. If you had seen him up there, chatting with his doppelgänger and singing in that booming bass of his, ‘Ring out, wild bells,’ you would have laughed. Music seemed to put them in a good mood, but we weren’t in much of a laughing mood, as you can imagine. They were somewhat lenient with him, but they drew the line at us. It was a small comfort knowing you were out there, free and keeping the archives safe.”

"Alright, listen up, kid. You’re going to be surprised by what I have to say. You mentioned seeing signs of people, fires, traps, and all that. Well, we’ve actually seen the natives themselves. They looked like poor souls—downcast little guys who had every reason to be. It seems the humans occupy one side of this plateau—over there, where you spotted the caves—and the ape-men control this side. There’s a brutal war going on between them all the time. That’s the situation, as far as I could gather.

Just yesterday, the ape-men captured a dozen humans and brought them in as prisoners. You’ve never heard such a racket in your life—screaming and jabbering. The men were little red guys, battered and clawed to the point where they could barely walk. The ape-men executed two of them right there—one of them had his arm ripped off. It was absolutely grotesque. Those little guys were brave, hardly making a sound, but it made us sick to our stomachs. Summerlee fainted, and even Challenger was pushed to his limit. I think they’ve cleared out now, don’t you?"

We listened closely, but the only sound breaking the deep stillness of the forest was the call of the birds. Lord Roxton continued his tale.

"I think you’ve had a lucky escape, kid. It was the capture of those Indians that distracted them; otherwise, they would have come back to camp for you, no doubt about it. As you said, they’ve been watching us from that tree since the beginning, and they knew we were one short. But all they could think about was this new haul. So it was me, not a bunch of apes, who dropped in on you this morning.

After that, we had a terrible time. My God, what a nightmare this whole thing is! Remember the sharp canes we found down below where we discovered the skeleton of the American? That’s right under ape-town, and it’s where they send their prisoners off. I bet there are tons of skeletons down there if we looked for them. They have a sort of clear area at the top, and they make a whole ceremony out of it. One by one, the poor souls have to jump, and the goal is to see if they just smash to pieces or get skewered on the canes. They took us out to witness it, and the whole tribe lined up at the edge. Four of the Indians jumped, and the canes went through them like knitting needles through butter. No wonder we found that poor Yankee’s skeleton with canes growing between his ribs. It was horrifying—but strangely fascinating too. We were all captivated watching them take the plunge, even knowing we might be next on the springboard.

"Well, we weren’t. They kept six of the Indians for today—that’s how I understood it—but I had a feeling we were meant to be the main attraction. Challenger might have a chance, but Summerlee and I were definitely on the bill. Their language is mostly gestures, so it wasn’t hard to follow along. I figured it was time to make a break for it. I had been plotting a bit and had a couple of things clear in my mind. It was all on me since Summerlee was useless and Challenger wasn’t much better. The only time they teamed up, they ended up arguing over the scientific classification of those red-headed devils who had captured us. One said they were dryopithecus from Java, the other insisted they were pithecanthropus. Madness, I tell you—both of them were loony. But I had thought of a couple of helpful points. One was that these brutes couldn’t run as fast as a man in the open. They have short, bandy legs and heavy bodies. Even Challenger could outrun them, and you or I would be a perfect sprinter compared to them. Another point was that they didn’t know anything about guns. I doubt they even understood how the guy I shot got hurt. If we could get to our guns, who knows what we could do?

"So, I broke away early this morning, kicked my guard in the gut to take him out, and sprinted for the camp. There, I found you and the guns, and here we are."

"But what about the professors?" I exclaimed, panic rising in my chest.

"Well, we have to go back and get them. I couldn’t bring them with me. Challenger was up in the tree, and Summerlee wasn’t fit for the effort. The only chance was to grab the guns and attempt a rescue. Of course, they might take revenge on them right away. I don’t think they’d touch Challenger, but I wouldn’t bet on Summerlee. They would have gotten him anyway. I’m sure of that. So I haven’t made things worse by running off. But we’re honor-bound to go back and get them out or stick it out with them. So prepare yourself, kid, because it’s going to be one way or the other before evening."

I tried to capture Lord Roxton's abrupt way of speaking, his short, punchy sentences, and the mix of humor and recklessness that colored everything he said. He was a natural leader. As danger loomed, his carefree demeanor only grew bolder, his words sharper, his cold eyes sparkling with life, and his Don Quixote mustache bristling with excitement. His thrill for danger, his deep appreciation for the drama of adventure—intensified by the need to keep it all in check—combined with his belief that every risk in life was a game against Fate, with Death as the ultimate penalty, made him an incredible companion in those moments. If it weren’t for our worries about our friends, I would have gladly thrown myself into the fray alongside him.

We were just rising from our hiding spot in the brush when I felt his grip on my arm.

“By George!” he whispered. “Here they come!”

From our vantage point, we could see a brown path framed by green, formed by the trunks and branches of the trees. A group of ape-men was moving along it, single file, with bent legs and hunched backs. Their hands occasionally brushed the ground, and their heads turned left and right as they trotted by. Their crouched posture made them seem shorter, but I guessed they were about five feet tall, with long arms and massive chests. Many carried sticks, and from a distance, they resembled a line of hairy, distorted humans. For a brief moment, I caught a clear glimpse of them before they disappeared into the underbrush.

“Not this time,” said Lord John, grabbing his rifle. “Our best bet is to stay quiet until they give up the search. Then we’ll see if we can sneak back to their town and hit them where it hurts. Just give them an hour, and we’ll move.”

We passed the time by opening one of our food tins and making sure we had a decent breakfast. Lord Roxton hadn’t eaten anything but some fruit since the morning before, and he devoured his food like a starving man. Finally, with our pockets stuffed with cartridges and a rifle in each hand, we set off on our rescue mission. Before leaving, we carefully marked our hiding spot in the brush and noted its direction relative to Fort Challenger, ensuring we could find it again if needed.

We crept through the bushes in silence until we reached the edge of the cliff, near the old camp. There, we paused, and Lord John shared his plans.

“As long as we’re among these thick trees, those creatures have the upper hand,” he said. “They can spot us while we can’t see them. But in the open, it’s a different story. We can move faster than they can. So we need to stick to the open areas as much as possible. The edge of the plateau has fewer large trees than deeper in the forest. That’s our route. Move slowly, keep your eyes peeled, and your rifle ready. And whatever you do, don’t let them capture you while you still have a bullet left—that’s my final advice to you, young fellow.”

When we reached the cliff’s edge, I looked down and saw our old friend Zambo sitting on a rock below, smoking. I would have given anything to call out to him and let him know we were okay, but it was too risky; we might be overheard. The woods were alive with the sounds of the ape-men; their strange clicking chatter echoed around us. Each time we heard it, we ducked into the nearest clump of bushes and lay still until the noise faded away. Our progress was painfully slow, and at least two hours must have passed before I noticed Lord John’s cautious movements indicating we were nearing our goal. He signaled for me to stay put and crawled forward. Moments later, he returned, his face alight with eagerness.

“Come!” he urged. “Quick! I hope we’re not too late!”

I felt a rush of nervous excitement as I scrambled forward to lie beside him, peering through the bushes at the clearing that lay ahead.

What I saw is a sight I’ll never forget—so strange, so surreal, that I can hardly believe I’ll ever be able to convey it, or how, in a few years, I’ll convince myself it wasn’t just a fever dream when I’m back lounging at the Savage Club, looking out at the dull reality of the Embankment. It will seem like some wild nightmare. But I’ll write it down now, while it’s still fresh in my mind, and at least one person—the man lying in the damp grass beside me—will know if I’ve lied.

A vast, open space stretched out before us—hundreds of yards wide—filled with lush green grass and low bracken that grew right to the edge of the cliff. Surrounding this clearing was a semi-circle of trees, their branches adorned with peculiar huts made of piled foliage, resembling a rookery where every nest looked like a tiny house. The openings of these huts and the branches were crowded with a throng of ape-people, whom I guessed to be the females and infants of the tribe. They formed a lively backdrop, all peering out with eager curiosity at the same scene that captivated and confused us.

Near the cliff’s edge, a crowd of about a hundred of these shaggy, red-haired creatures had gathered. Many were massive in size, and all were terrifying to behold. Yet there was a strange order among them; none dared to break the line they had formed. In front of them stood a small group of Indians—slender, clean-limbed men with skin that gleamed like polished bronze in the bright sunlight. Beside them was a tall, thin white man, his head bowed and arms crossed, his entire demeanor radiating horror and despair. There was no mistaking the angular form of Professor Summerlee.

Surrounding this despondent group of captives were several ape-men, keeping a close watch and ensuring that escape was impossible. But what truly caught my attention were two figures standing out from the rest, close to the cliff’s edge. They were so bizarre, and under different circumstances, so ridiculous, that I couldn’t look away. One was our comrade, Professor Challenger. The remnants of his coat hung in tatters from his shoulders, his shirt was completely torn away, and his great beard blended into the wild tangle of hair that covered his broad chest. He had lost his hat, and his hair, which had grown long during our travels, was a chaotic mess. In just a day, he had transformed from a pinnacle of modern civilization into a desperate savage in the heart of South America.

Next to him stood the king of the ape-men. In every way, as Lord John had pointed out, he was a mirror image of our Professor, except for his red coloring instead of black. He had the same short, sturdy build, heavy shoulders, and the same forward-sloping arms, with a bristling beard that merged into his hairy chest. The only clear difference was above the eyebrows, where the ape-man’s sloping forehead and low, curved skull sharply contrasted with the broad brow and impressive cranium of the European. At every other point, the king was a ridiculous imitation of the Professor.

All of this, which took me so long to describe, registered in my mind in mere seconds. But soon, our thoughts shifted dramatically as an intense scene unfolded. Two of the ape-men seized one of the Indians from the group and dragged him toward the cliff’s edge. The king raised his hand as a signal. They gripped the man by his leg and arm, swinging him back and forth with terrifying force. Then, with a violent heave, they hurled the poor soul over the precipice. He soared high into the air before beginning his descent. As he disappeared from view, the entire assembly, except for the guards, rushed to the cliff’s edge, a long moment of silence hanging in the air before it erupted into a wild cheer of delight. They jumped around, waving their long, hairy arms and howling with joy. Then they fell back from the edge, reformed their line, and awaited the next victim.

This time, it was Summerlee. Two of his guards grabbed him by the wrists and dragged him forward with brutal force. His thin frame and long limbs flailed like a chicken being pulled from a coop. Challenger turned to the king, waving his hands frantically, begging and pleading for his comrade’s life. The ape-man shoved him roughly aside and shook his head. That was the last conscious movement he would make on this earth. Lord John’s rifle cracked, and the king collapsed, a tangled mass of red fur sprawled on the ground.

“Shoot into the thick of them! Shoot! Son, shoot!” cried my companion.

There are strange, deep emotions hidden within even the most ordinary person. I’ve always been soft-hearted, often finding my eyes misty at the sight of a wounded hare. Yet, in that moment, a fierce bloodlust took hold of me. I was on my feet, emptying one magazine after another, reloading with a snap, and cheering with wild excitement as I did so. With our four guns, we created chaos. Both of the guards holding Summerlee fell, and he stumbled around like a drunken man, unable to grasp that he was finally free.

The dense crowd of ape-men scattered in confusion, unsure of where this sudden storm of death was coming from or what it meant. They waved their arms, shouted, and tripped over their fallen comrades. Then, driven by instinct, they all rushed toward the trees for safety, leaving behind a ground littered with their injured. For a moment, the prisoners stood alone in the clearing.

Challenger’s quick mind assessed the situation. He grabbed the bewildered Summerlee by the arm, and together they ran toward us. Two of their guards chased after them but fell to Lord John’s bullets. We rushed into the open to meet our friends, pressing loaded rifles into their hands. But Summerlee was at the end of his strength, barely able to stand. The ape-men were recovering from their panic and were coming through the brush, threatening to cut us off.

Challenger and I supported Summerlee, one on each side, while Lord John covered our retreat, firing repeatedly as snarling heads emerged from the bushes. For over a mile, the chattering creatures were right on our heels. Then, realizing our power, they hesitated, unwilling to face that deadly rifle again. When we finally reached the camp, we looked back and found ourselves alone.

Or so we thought. Just as we closed the thornbush door of our enclosure, clasped hands, and collapsed on the ground beside our spring, we heard a soft patter of feet and a gentle, plaintive cry from outside. Lord Roxton rushed forward, rifle in hand, and flung the door open. There, lying face down, were the four surviving Indians, trembling with fear yet pleading for our protection. One of them pointed dramatically to the woods around them, indicating the dangers lurking there. Then, darting forward, he wrapped his arms around Lord John’s legs, resting his face against them.

"By George!" exclaimed our peer, tugging at his mustache in confusion. "What on earth are we supposed to do with these people? Get up, little chap, and take your face off my boots."

Summerlee sat up, stuffing some tobacco into his old pipe.

"We have to keep them safe," he said. "You’ve pulled us all out of danger. That was quite a feat!"

"Absolutely!" Challenger agreed. "Not just for us as individuals, but for European science as a whole, we owe you a tremendous debt of gratitude. I can’t help but think that the disappearance of Professor Summerlee and myself would have left a significant gap in modern zoological history. You and our young friend here have done remarkably well."

He smiled at us with that familiar paternal warmth, but European science would have been shocked to see their chosen representative—the hope for the future—looking so disheveled, with his tangled hair, bare chest, and tattered clothes. He sat with a meat tin between his knees, holding a large piece of cold Australian mutton in his fingers. The Indian looked up at him, then yelped and cringed to the ground, clinging to Lord John’s leg.

"Don’t be scared, my little friend," Lord John said, patting the matted hair in front of him. "He’s just a human, same as the rest of us, even if he does look a bit frightening."

"Really, sir!" protested the Professor.

"Well, it’s fortunate for you, Challenger, that you are a bit out of the ordinary. If you hadn’t resembled a king—"

"Upon my word, Lord John, you’re being quite bold."

"Well, it’s true."

"I must insist that you change the subject. Your comments are irrelevant and confusing. The real question is what we should do with these Indians. The obvious solution is to escort them home, if only we knew where that was."

"That’s not a problem," I said. "They live in the caves on the other side of the central lake."

"Our young friend here knows where they are. I gather it’s quite a distance."

"About twenty miles," I replied.

Summerlee groaned.

"I could never make it there," he said, a hint of dread in his voice. "I can still hear those beasts howling behind us."

As he spoke, the eerie cries of the ape-men echoed from the depths of the forest. The Indians, sensing the danger, let out a weak wail of fear.

"We need to move, and fast!" Lord John urged. "You help Summerlee, young man. These Indians can carry supplies. Now, let’s go before they spot us."

In less than thirty minutes, we reached our hiding place in the brush and settled in. Throughout the day, the frantic calls of the ape-men drifted from the direction of our old camp, but none ventured our way. Exhausted, both the red and white fugitives fell into a deep sleep. I was dozing off myself when I felt a tug at my sleeve and opened my eyes to find Challenger kneeling beside me.

"You keep a diary of these events, and you plan to publish it, Mr. Malone," he said with a serious tone.

"I'm just here as a reporter," I replied.

"Exactly. You may have heard some rather foolish comments from Lord John Roxton that suggested there was some—some resemblance—"

"Yes, I heard them."

"I must stress that any publicity given to such an idea—any lightheartedness in your account of what happened—would be deeply offensive to me."

"I will stick to the truth."

"Lord John's observations can often be quite fanciful, and he tends to attribute the most absurd reasons to the respect that even the most primitive cultures show toward dignity and character. Do you understand what I mean?"

"Completely."

"I leave it to your judgment." After a moment of silence, he added, "The king of the ape-men was truly a creature of great distinction—a remarkably handsome and intelligent being. Did that not strike you?"

"A truly remarkable creature," I agreed.

With that, the Professor, visibly relieved, settled back down to sleep.