I shall begin by stating that the ensuing account is of no importance to the story of Miss Laura Fairlie. It is for that reason that I have chosen to exclude this portion of my narrative from the rest of the compilation.
As noted in the narrative of Miss Marian Halcombe, I requested her aid in helping find employment overseas. I recounted my journey primarily for historical purposes, but also to tell of a tormented mind.
As my carriage left the Limmeridge house, the house faded behind me and became an image of the past. The ostensible confession of Miss Fairlie were the last words to fall upon my ears at Limmeridge, and they lingered in my head until I saw her next. It proved to the source of much my apprehension during my time away from England.
*
Returning to normal life in London was a difficult task. I had managed to find a small number of odd jobs, but nothing to keep me busy enough to distract me from thinking about Laura. I found it very hard to take the position of a drawing master and instruct since my stay at Limmeridge. Each time I leaned in to assist a student’s drawing stroke, I was reminded of the pleasantry Laura’s hair when I bent close to help her. I was forced to distance myself from my pupils in a vain attempt to stop the flashbacks of my time at Limmeridge. I became a bit of a melancholic and began refusing employments as a drawing master. It was not long after my arrival in London that I decided I needed to purge my life of anything that reminded me of Laura, or the Limmeridge house at all. I could not manage the longing feeling that was obstructing my life.
I wrote Miss Halcombe and explained to her all of my previously mentioned suffering. I explained to her that the unbearable despondency has made my efforts to return to old habits and pursuits near impossible. I implored her with all hopefulness for assistance in granting me employment away from England. I also noted in the letter that my weariness has caused me to become paranoid, as I had gotten the feeling that I was being followed more than once while walking through the streets of London. The suspicion made up my mind about wanting to depart with my life in England.
Much to my luck and contentment, Miss Halcombe replied with much haste. She was pleased to inform me of an opportunity to leave England on employment through a private expedition. A draughtsman that was to accompany the expedition lost heart in the mission, and I, the replacement, was to leave port for Honduras within the next seven days.
The thought of traveling across the ocean was already enough to briefly relieve my anxieties of Laura Fairlie’s arranged marriage. I was kept busy with preparing for my voyage and spending time with my sister and mother. As anticipated, they both begged me not to go, as there are always stories of husbands and fathers and sons who do not survive the dangerous expeditions in Central America. Despite their best efforts I remained resolute.
Once all the arrangements were settled for my journey overseas, I had more leisure time and began to reminisce about Limmeridge again. I began to wonder what would become of my friends Laura and Marian while I was going to be out of contact for the next year. I regretted leaving them, but it was for the best for everyone. The expedition sailed on the twenty-first of November 1849.
*
The long sea portion of the voyage ended in the Puerto Cortez, near Omoa, Honduras. During the rather unpleasant and long journey, three men, who contracted some type of disease, died. Other Englishmen who were heading our expedition met the rest of us on the beach. We were introduced and led inland to a small camp where we were to stay until the excavation corps was fully prepared.
After settling into the camp I decided to take a walk and explore my new surroundings. I took note in my pocketbook and made quick sketches of the magnificent landscape, which was quite different from that of the English coast. From the coast, there were mountaintops visible far off in the distance, crowned by the setting sun. The immediate scenery, however, was rather flat. The camp itself was surrounded by a series of mangrove swamps and marshes.
Over the course of the next two days, while the excavation crew prepared the equipment, I acquainted myself with a Spanish looking fellow, the historical scrivener who went by the name Rivera. He was hired, in contrast with my sketches, to keep a historical account of our expedition. I was four years his superior, but he was very well mannered and poised, as this was his second expedition to Central America.
I kept my own apprehension concealed during the day, as our guides warned us of the various dangerous indigenous wildlife we were likely to encounter. At night, however, my mind was free to wander. I took out the sketch she had given me at our last meeting, of the little summerhouse in which we had first met and looked at it in the moonlight. I drifted off to the Limmeridge house as the sound of Laura’s piano filled my ears while I slept.
I was roused from my sleep abruptly by the toe of a boot in my side; the expedition was on the move. I tucked the sketch, which lied on the ground by my side, quickly away into my breast pocket and prepared to move out of the camp. Rivera and I walked side by side through the marshes, following the rest of the band. The motive of his taking employment to Honduras was much more dramatic than mine. He was part of a society that was oppressed in his native country, and the only survivor of a shipwreck while fleeing the political affliction.
We came to a landing on the bank of the River Ulua, where there was a river boat waiting. Our expedition leaders informed us that our next stop was an English timber yard about two days up the river where the forest thickened below the mountains.
I embarked the vessel reluctantly, as it had not been long enough since our seemingly endless journey across the Atlantic and I had not nearly re-gathered my land legs. Nonetheless, the ship set off by mid-morning, with me on board, into the vine-covered tunnel of the Ulua. The thick brush that covered the banks of the river quickly bored most of the men, so they turned to Whist for entertainment. The spectacles of exotic fauna and flora that surrounded us, however, fascinated Rivera and me. We took note, each in our own regard, of the wildlife that we had only seen in the London Zoo, such as the colorful parrots and toucans, the monkeys, and other wonderful foreign creatures.
Perhaps it is appropriate to discuss the exact nature of our expedition. Our floating medley of different gentlemen escaping their previous lives was headed southwest into the forests of Honduras. The expedition was to reach, via the river Ulua, the ancient Mayan city of Copán. For the better part of the last century, a number of excavation expeditions have been sent to study the vestiges of the civilization and to further explore the geography of Honduras. Until recently, most of these missions proved unsuccessful, sometimes yielding no survivors. The entourage that I was a part of was latest of the best professionals in their field willing to venture into the mystery that is Honduras. My new associate, Rivera, had been part of the last successful team, in eighteen forty-seven, that left behind a group of lumberjacks at the base the Sierra Madre mountains to harvest the valuable timber and mahogany.
Our riverboat proceeded up the river towards Copán. The first night spent on board the riverboat, two crewmembers took ill with the same symptoms as those whom we lost on the Atlantic. As recommended by Rivera, I took to wearing a bandana over my face for the remainder of the trip, in fear that the disease may be transmissible through the air. The two sickly crewmembers were isolated to a part of the boat, but only for a short period of time, as they died within an hour of one another in the early afternoon. The fears and anxieties hung over the riverboat with the thick air that caused our clothes to cling to us. The bodies were carefully disposed of into the river to prevent further infection. Rivera and I sat near each other in silence, making futile adjustments to our journey logs until the moon rose with the darkness. As always, I looked at Laura’s sketch in the bright moonlight and feel asleep dreaming of her delicate fingers falling gracefully on the keys of the piano at Limmeridge.
Around noontime the next day, when we began preparing for our stop in La Barquera, someone spotted a form in the water that appeared to be a human. All of the passengers crowded on the starboard side of the vessel as the suspicion was confirmed. The guides and our expedition leader, a tenacious man called Russell, came to an agreement not to disturb the facedown corpse that was tangled near the west bank in the same fashion that we made the Ulua the watery grave for our own men.
The thick forest was eerily silent as we floated around a long bend in the river. The distant calls of exotic wildlife sounded hollow off in the distance. We finally reached the clearing where the settlement of La Barquera was. The setting that awaited us was bleak and as noiseless as those who looked upon it. The abandoned shoreline was scattered with beached canoes and rafts below the mountains of logs that were ready to be shipped to England. Upon our arrival on the coast of Honduras, a messenger was sent down the river to have the village prepare to accommodate for our arrival, so we should have been met promptly.
We all warily disembarked our riverboat and proceeded onto the banks of deserted landing. Two of our guides led the way toward the town with pistols in hand. Along our journey up the Ulua, our guides had told us stories about the savage, cannibal, aboriginal tribes that still lived in the forests of Honduras. The stories themselves seemed to be the tales that were told to children to scare them. They became more pragmatic as we walked through the woods towards the clearing, where we could already see the small settlement was vacant as well. One of the guides shouted towards the cluster of small huts where the lumberjacks were supposed to have inhabited, and was answered only by a faint echo in the distance. Instinctively out of suspicion, the rest of us had carried the machetes off the boat with us. As we investigated the empty village, there appeared to be no evidence of any struggle or any reason for evacuation.
It didn’t take us long to search the entire village, and following the search we congregated in the center of the clearing. Our guides strongly suggested we abort our excavation mission. They argued that the local Indian tribe, the Payas, who claimed descent of the Mayan civilization, were growing restless of the English deforestation of their land. The Payas were not an inhumane tribe, but the constant threat of European colonization and exploiting of their natural resources can cause them to attack mercilessly. Most of the fatalities on the unsuccessful excavation projects were due to the Payans and other Indian tribes of Honduras.
Even with the indication of the dangers of the Payas in the form of the empty logging, Russell remained persistent in continuing the expedition. As we walked back towards the river he was shouting something at the guides about the private excavation project and that we have enough firearms aboard the riverboat to protect us from any attacks.
I spent the rest of that day on the deck of the riverboat sketching my surroundings. The colorful birds and plants fascinated me, and I also documented the empty logging village of La Barquera. By late evening La Barquera had been completely overturned for any indications of the natives and for any food and supplies that we could salvage for the rest of our journey. Russell embarked the riverboat red faced and shaking his head. He paced back and forth on the deck a few times before announcing that we were to continue with only one guide. He motioned towards two of our guides that were on the desert shore preparing one of the abandoned crafts for a return to the Atlantic coast. Rivera and I looked from the fleeing guides, than at each other. Even through the composure that Rivera possessed well beyond his years, I saw the fear and unrest that I most evidently wore on my sleeve. The guides were among the few who had explored the depths of Honduras and were our only means of ambassadorship with the Indians.
Contrary to the best interests of the safety of those involved in the expedition, we were to continue on to Copán under the leadership of Russell and our only remaining guide. Despite our original plans to stay in La Barquera, we stayed on the boat that night. Under candlelight, most of the crew stayed up for awhile, listening to the sounds of Honduras at night. With the two guides long since gone towards Omoa, there was an uneasy feeling among the rest of us.
The night passed slowly without any troubles, but the morning presented us with two more excavators that contracted the fateful disease that had already claimed five of our crew. They were both sent ashore with supplies enough to get them back to the coast, although their feeble conditions would not likely allow that to happen. Nevertheless, we ventured onward down the Ulua under the direction of our only guide and Russell. I watched as our two ailing colleagues vanished for good as our boat drifted around the river bend.
We arrived in Copán by that evening. The camp where we were to reside in for the next year was a few kilometers north of the Ulua, where the majority of the ruins were that we were going to excavate. By the time we hiked the distance to the campsite, it was dark and we were exhausted. Meeting the group consensus, we slept uncovered and unpacked and we would continue in the morning.
That night was the first I had thought about Laura in awhile. I could not help but think about the arranged marriage and the difference in age. I though about Marian as well, and how either of them would ever know if anything were to happen to me. I trusted the strong nature of Marian to help Laura and she get through whatever troubles they may come across. Once again, I fell asleep with Laura’s sketch in hand, listening to the imaginary sound of her piano playing.
I awoke around sunrise to the sound of a toucan in a tree above me. Not being able to go back to sleep, I got up and explored my surroundings. Just beyond a thin perimeter of trees were the ruins at Copán. As I emerged from the forest I was standing before a temple of considerable size. The temple, as well as the surrounding smaller ones, were overgrown with vines and covered by moss. The extravagant architecture was brilliant, especially observing that the mammoth structures were centuries old. The sounds of the jungle had also roused my friend Rivera, and we explored the site together.
When we returned to the camp, the rest of the group was getting up. Our lone guide took us on a tour of the excavation site, explaining what was known of its significance. Copán was the ceremonial city of the Mayan civilization. The bulk of our project was to take place in the acropolis area; where most of the remaining structures stood. According to etchings on the stone in the acropolis, the temples that Rivera and I had observed earlier were believed to have possibly been over a thousand years old and used as human sacrifice altars. Although the practice has long since died out with the Mayans, the Indians kept strong ties with the people they believed to be their ancestors.
The months that passed were very lucrative for our excavation project. The digging and recovering crew came across many extraordinary artifacts and edifices while River and I collaborated on documenting the findings. A team of archaeologists worked to identify and translate some of the symbols that were carved into various things around the city. In our camp we kept a collection of tools and other Mayan instruments recovered in and around the acropolis.
To pass the time when we weren’t working, many of the men took interest in a game that was invented by the Mayans. There was a stone court that was walled on two sides with a hoop extending off each wall ten feet off the ground. The men split into teams and used a hard, round shelled fruit from a nearby tree to try to score into the rings. Most of the time I either watched the games or went off to work on my sketches. I would climb to the top of a temple and stare into the east. Laura’s sketch had become worn and faded, but the image of the little summerhouse was clear in my memory. Sometimes the extremity of the heat and humidity caused me to see the house in the midst of the ruins. Thinking of Laura and Marian and my sojourn at Limmeridge helped me cope with the oppressive heat and hunger that so often was bestowed on our site.
We were being watched the whole time we worked. More than a countable number of times I would study a particular tomb or totem pole and out of the corner of my eye I spotted a face. The faces, which never moved, were abundant and blended in with the surrounding jungle. The Indians, whom we did not come into contact with for a long while, watched us closely through their small black eyes. I made up a few drawings of them for documentation. They were dark skinned and their faces were painted with earth-tone colors. Each one had a unique display of bones and jewelry protruding from their faces. Their watchful gazes from the forests cast a foreboding warning on our crew, which we got used to within the first months of work.
In the springtime the wet season came, causing a set back to our efforts. There would be days at a time when we could not venture into the rain, and we stayed huddled in the camp looking out at the faces that peered at us through the vines and trees.
After our arrival in Copán, the first six months passed moderately without incident. There was an unspoken understanding between us and the protectors of the ancient city, which never required confrontation. Our lone guide warned us that as long as we kept to ourselves we should not have any problems with the Indians.
Sometime during the sixth month, the Indians were disturbed.
Rivera and I had just returned to the camp after a morning of exploration and documenting when we heard a single pistol shot, followed by screaming in the distance. We watched as the Indians that were nearby in the forest scurried towards the screaming. In that moment I saw Rivera’s poise break down completely and he became panic stricken. He began rushing around the camp as he was yelling to me, and the others who were around, to grab our belongings and head to the riverboat. There were more screams as people began sprinting towards the river. I grabbed my pocketbook and small personal bag and followed.
On the boat, we had approximately half the crew, including our guide and excluding Russell. The preparations were made to shove off, and in the panic it was decided not to wait for any one else. In the distance we could hear the pain-stricken shrieks of the men we had been working with for the past eight months. As we drifted down the river, the rain began to come down again.
Due to the strong current during the rainy season, we made it back to the coast in just a little over a day; about one third the time it took us to travel up the river to Copán. The rain had been falling steadily the entire way back, but the sky opened up briefly when we arrived at the site our first camp in Omoa. The camp there had been deserted at the beginning of the rainy season, as they probably assumed all hope was lost for our return. Thankfully they left our ship anchored in the port, and we wasted no time boarding our original craft. Since our arrival on that boat, our crew had been depleted by half, first by the disease, which mercifully stopped spreading upon our arrival at La Barquera, and now to the attacks of Indians. Emaciated and exhausted, we prepared to sail back to England, in spite of our small numbers and the storms that were visibly in our path.
Somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico, the wind and rain picked up and we knew we were about to be hit by a hurricane. We knew the small crew was not enough hands to properly maintain the vessel in such extreme conditions, but we braced ourselves and continued into the perils of the storm. The wind and waves that were tossing our ship around inevitably overturned it, sending the crew into the currents of the gulf. The ship splintered as the mast broke free, sending parts of the ship flying in after us. Latching on to a large portion of the wood, I held on, as I drifted off to sea.
I miraculously made it through the night on my piece of wood and the storm cleared up as the sun was rising. In between fits of vomiting up salt water, I tried looking around for other survivors. A few small pieces of our ship drifted around me, but nothing else as far as I could see. I passed out for what seemed like days, but was probably only a few hours. I woke up to water lapping at my face and looked around. To my astonishment, there was a huge ship nearby and a smaller boat sifting through the wreckage. Through my weakness from being in the sun and having not eaten it what may have been days, I mustered up enough energy to call for the ship. I was finally noticed and rescued from my floating grave.
I boarded the vessel, which was an American ship, and was fed and medically tended to. The search lasted only a few more days, and in that time I learned that I was one of only three survivors from the wreck. When I was well, they had me identify the few bodies they recovered from the sea, one of which was Rivera.
The ship returned to its port in Miami, Florida, where I stayed for a couple of months before a ship was to sail to England.
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