Сердце тьмы / Heart of darkness (адаптированный английский B1)

I

The Nellie, a small ship, dropped anchor quietly. The tide was coming in, the wind was calm, so we had to wait for the tide to change before continuing down the river.

The Thames River stretched out before us, seeming endless. In the distance, the sea and sky met, blending together. In this bright space, the sails of flat boats drifting in with the tide looked like still red shapes, sharply pointed, with shining wooden parts. A light fog hung over the flat, low shores. The air was dark over Gravesend, and farther it seemed even blacker, a heavy darkness over a large city.

The company director was our captain and host. The four of us watched him as he stood at the front of the boat, looking out to sea. He looked very much like a sailor. It was hard to believe his job wasn't on the river, but in the city behind us.

We were all sailors, and this shared experience brought us together. It made us patient with each other's stories and beliefs. The lawyer, a very kind older man, had the only comfortable seat and was lying on the only rug. The accountant had a box of dominoes and was playing with them. Marlow sat cross-legged at the back of the boat. He was thin, pale, and looked like a statue. The director checked the anchor and then sat down with us. We talked a little, then there was silence. For some reason, we didn't play dominoes. We felt peaceful and just watched the surroundings.

The day ended beautifully. The water was calm and shining; the sky was clear and bright. Even the fog over the water looked beautiful, like a thin, shining cloth. Only the darkness to the west, over the upper part of the river, grew darker, as if angry at the sun.

Finally, the sun slowly set, changing from bright white to a faint red, without any light or heat, as if it was dying, touched by the darkness over the city.

The river changed. It was calmer, quieter, but more peaceful. The wide river, after serving people for centuries, flowed quietly, like a path to the far ends of the world. We saw the old river not in the bright light of a short day, but in the soft light of long-lasting memories. For someone who loves the sea, it's easy to remember the past along the Thames. The tide flows constantly, full of memories of people and ships it carried home or to battle. It served everyone the nation is proud of, from famous sailors to great explorers. It carried famous ships, from the Golden Deer, returning with treasure, to the Terror, which never returned. It knew the ships and the men who sailed from Deptford, Greenwich, and Erith – adventurers, colonists, royal ships, and merchant ships; captains, admirals, and traders. They all sailed down this river, carrying weapons and often fire, representing their country. What great things had travelled on this river into the unknown world!…The dreams of people, the beginnings of countries, the seeds of empires.

The sun set; darkness fell, and lights appeared along the shore. The Chapman lighthouse shone brightly. Ship lights moved – many lights going up and down the river. Farther west, the city seemed large, a dark shadow in the sunlight, a bright shine under the stars.

"This," said Marlow, "was also one of the dark places of the earth."

He was the only one of us who still loved the sea. He wasn't like other sailors. Most sailors have a settled life on their ship, which is also their home and their world. One ship is much like another, and the sea is always the same. They see many places and people, but they don't really notice them. Nothing is mysterious to a sailor except the sea itself, which rules their life. After work, a short walk or a night out is enough for them to understand a new place, and they usually don't find it interesting. Sailors' stories are simple. But Marlow was different. To him, the meaning of a story wasn't just the simple facts, but a larger feeling surrounding it.

His comment wasn't surprising at all. It was typical of Marlow. Everyone listened quietly. Nobody even bothered to make a sound. After a while, he said very slowly, "I was thinking about a long time ago, when the Romans first came here, nineteen hundred years ago – the other day…. This river has brought light since then – you mentioned knights? Yes, but it's like a fast-moving fire across a field. We live in this blinking light – may it last as long as the earth keeps turning! But yesterday, it was dark here. Imagine how a Roman ship captain must have felt, suddenly ordered north; rushing across France; put in charge of one of these boats and the soldiers – they must have been very skilled, building ships by the hundreds in a couple of months, if we believe what we read. Imagine him here – at the edge of the world, a grey sea, a smoke-filled sky, a weak ship – going up this river with supplies, or orders, or whatever. Swamps, forests, wild people – very little food fit for a civilized person, only river water to drink. No good wine here, no going on land. Here and there a military camp lost in the wilderness – cold, fog, storms, illness, and death – death everywhere. They must have been dying quickly. Oh yes – he did it. He probably did it well, and without much thought, except later maybe he was proud of it. They were bold enough to face the darkness. And maybe he hoped for a better job at sea later, if he had friends in Rome and survived the bad weather."

"Or think of a young man, maybe he took too many risks, coming here with a government official, a tax collector, or even a trader, to improve his life. Landing in a swamp, going through the woods, and in some remote place feeling completely surrounded by wilderness, the mysterious life of the jungle, the hearts of wild people. There's no easy way into this mystery. He has to live with the strange and hard. And it's also strangely exciting, it affects him. The excitement of the terrible – you know, imagine the growing regrets, the wish to escape, the giving up, the hate."

He paused.

"Look," he said again, raising one arm, his palm open, so that, with his legs crossed, he looked like a Buddha in normal clothes without a flower – "Look, none of us would feel exactly the same. What saves us is being efficient – focusing on efficiency. But these Romans weren't very good, really. Their rule was just about taking what they could, I think. They were invaders, and for that you only need force – nothing to be proud of, as your strength is just because others are weak. They took what they wanted. It was simply stealing and violence, mass murder, and people acting blindly – which is common for those who fight the darkness. Taking over land, which usually means taking it from people with a different skin color or slightly flatter noses than ours, isn't good when you think about it too much. What makes it acceptable is the idea behind it. An idea; not a false excuse, but an idea; and a clear belief in that idea – something you can respect, and serve, and make sacrifices for…"

He stopped talking. Flames danced on the river – small green flames, red flames, white flames – chasing, catching up with, and crossing each other, then slowly or quickly separating. City traffic continued through the night on the busy river. We watched, waiting patiently – there was nothing else to do until the flood ended. Only after a long silence, when he said, "I guess you all remember I was a riverboat sailor for a while," did we realize we were going to hear about one of Marlow's unfinished adventures.

"I don't want to bore you with my personal story," he began, showing a common mistake of story tellers who don't know what their audience wants to hear. "But to understand how it affected me, you need to know how I got there, what I saw, and how I went up that river to where I first met the poor man. It was the distant point you could reach by boat, and the most important part of my experience. It somehow seemed to shed light on everything around me – and on my thoughts. It was quite dark and sad, not unusual in any way – not very clear either. No, not very clear. And yet it seemed to shed light.

"As you know, I'd just returned to London after many years in the Indian Ocean, Pacific, and China Seas – a long time in the East – about six years. I was just relaxing, bothering you all at work and visiting your homes, like I had a mission to improve your lives. It was nice for a while, but I got tired of doing nothing. So I started looking for a ship – probably the hardest job in the world. But no ships wanted me. I got tired of that too.

"When I was a child, I loved maps. I'd spend hours looking at South America, Africa, or Australia, dreaming about exploration. Back then, there were many unknown areas on the maps, and when I saw one that looked interesting (but they all do!), I'd point and say, 'When I grow up, I'll go there.' The North Pole was one, I remember. Well, I haven't been there yet, and I won't now. The excitement's gone. There were other places too. I've been to some of them, and… well, let's not talk about that. But there was one left – the largest, the most unknown – that I wanted to visit.

"Of course, by then it wasn't unknown anymore. It was filled with rivers, lakes, and names. It wasn't a mysterious, empty place for a boy to dream about anymore. It had become a dark place. But there was one river, a huge river, that you could see on the map. It looked like a giant snake turning its head in the sea, its body curving across a huge country, and its tail disappearing into the depths of the land. When I saw it in a shop window, it attracted me like a snake attracts a bird – a silly little bird. Then I remembered a large company, a trading company working on that river. 'Well!' I thought, 'they can't trade without boats on all that water! Why shouldn't I try to get a job on one?' I walked down Fleet Street, but I couldn't forget it. The snake had attracted me."

You know that trading company was based in Europe; I have many relatives living there because it's affordable and not as bad as people say.

I’m sorry to say I started to bother them to get the job. This was unusual for me. I wasn’t used to doing things that way. I always did things my own way. I wouldn't have believed I'd do it, but I felt I had to get the job, no matter what. So I bothered them. The men said, "My dear friend," and did nothing. Then – believe it or not – I tried the women. I, Charlie Marlow, asked women for help to get a job. Amazing! The idea was very important to me. I had an aunt, a kind woman. She wrote, "It will be wonderful. I'll do anything for you. It's a great idea. I know the wife of a very important person in the government, and also a man who is very influential," etc. She was determined to help me become a steamboat captain, if that’s what I wanted.

I got the job – quickly. The company had heard that one of their captains had been killed in a fight with local people. This was my chance, and it made me even more eager to go. Months later, when I tried to find the captain's body, I learned the fight was about some chickens. Yes, two black chickens. Fresleven – that was his name, a man from Denmark – felt he’d been cheated, so he went on shore and hit the village chief with a stick. I wasn't surprised to hear this, especially since I was also told Fresleven was a very gentle and quiet man. He probably was, but he'd been there for two years working for the company, and maybe he felt he needed to show he was strong. So he hit the old man hard, while many people watched in shock. Then, someone – I think the chief's son – threw a spear at the white man, and it easily went between his shoulder blades. Everyone ran into the forest, scared, and the steamboat Fresleven was on also left in a panic, with the engineer in charge. No one really cared about Fresleven’s body until I arrived and took his place. I wanted to find him, but when I finally did, the grass was so high it covered his bones. Everything was there. The village was empty, the houses were broken. Something terrible had happened. The people had disappeared. Fear had driven them into the forest, and they never came back. What happened to the chickens, I don't know. But because of this event, I got my job before I even really hoped for it.

I got ready very quickly and within two days I was traveling to meet my employers and sign the contract. A few hours later I arrived in a city that always reminds me of a beautiful grave. I easily found the company’s offices. It was the biggest building in town, and everyone talked about it. They planned to control a large foreign area and make a lot of money through trade.

A narrow, empty street in deep shadow, tall buildings, many windows with blinds, complete silence, grass growing everywhere, and huge double doors slightly open. I went through one of the gaps, climbed a clean but not decorated stairs – as dry as a desert – and opened the first door. Two women, one heavy and one thin, sat on chairs, knitting with black wool. The thin woman stood and walked towards me – still knitting and looking down – and only when I was about to move aside, she stopped and look up. Her dress was simple, and she silently led me into a waiting room. I gave my name and looked around. A wooden table was in the center, simple chairs along the walls, and a large, bright map on one end, with many colors. There was a lot of red – good to see, as it means important work is done there – a lot of blue, some green, some orange, and a purple area on the east coast, showing where the ones enjoy their beer. But I wasn't going there. I was going to the yellow area, right in the middle. The river was there – interesting and dangerous – like a snake. A door opened, and a secretary with white hair, but a kind face, pointed to me to enter. The room was poorly lit, with a large desk in the middle. From behind it, I saw a slightly fat man in a suit. The important person. He was average height, and seemed very powerful. He shook my hand, said something briefly, was pleased with my French. "Bon Voyage," he said.

In about forty-five seconds I was back in the waiting room with the kind secretary, who, sadly, made me sign a paper. I think I promised not to reveal any trade secrets. And I won't.

I felt a little uncomfortable. The atmosphere was strange. It felt like I'd been let into a secret – something not quite right – and I was happy to leave. In the outer room, the two women knitted desperately. People were arriving, and the younger woman was showing them around. The older woman sat, her feet on a foot warmer, and a cat on her lap. She wore a white cap, had a small growth on her cheek, and her glasses were on her nose. She looked at me over her glasses. Her calm expression worried me. Two young men were shown in, and she gave them the same quick glance. She seemed to know everything about them and me. I didn't feel good about it. She seemed mysterious and powerful. Later, I often thought of them, guarding a mysterious place, knitting black wool, one introducing people to the unknown, the other watching the young faces with calm, old eyes. Many of those she looked at never saw her again.

I had another appointment with the doctor. "Just a formality," the secretary assured me, seeming very involved in my problems. A young man, probably a clerk – the office was very quiet – came from upstairs and took me to see the doctor. He was poorly dressed, with ink spots on his jacket and a big, loose tie. It was a little early, so I suggested a drink, and he relaxed and became friendly. Over our drinks, he praised the company, and I asked why he didn't go to work abroad. He immediately became serious. "'I'm not as stupid as I look,' he said, and finished his drink. Then we left.

The doctor checked my pulse. "Good, good," he said, and then suddenly asked to measure my head. I agreed, and he used a measuring tool to take measurements. He was wearing an old coat and slippers. I thought he was a bit strange. "I always measure the heads of those going abroad," he explained. "For science." "And when they come back?" I asked. "Oh, I never see them," he said. "The changes happen inside, you know." He smiled. "So you're going abroad. That's interesting." He looked at me carefully and made a note. "Any mental illness in your family?" he asked. I was angry. "Is that for science too?" "It would be interesting to study mental changes," he said, ignoring my anger, "but…" "Are you a psychiatrist?" I asked. "Every doctor should be, a little," he replied calmly. "I have a theory you men going abroad can help prove. That's my contribution to my country's gain from this important colony. I leave the wealth to others. Forgive my questions, but you're the first British man I've examined…" I quickly said I wasn't a typical British man. "If I were," I said, "I wouldn't be talking to you like this." "What you say is deep, and probably wrong," he laughed. "Avoid getting angry and avoid the strong sun. Goodbye. In the tropics, you must stay calm." He raised a finger. "Keep calm, keep calm."

I had one last thing to do: say goodbye to my wonderful aunt. I found her in high spirits. We had tea – the last decent cup I'd have for days – in her lovely drawing-room. We had a long, quiet conversation by the fire. During our conversation, I realized she'd told the wife of an important official, and probably many others, that I was extremely talented and a great asset to the Company – a rare find. Good heavens! And I was going to be in charge of a small river steamboat!

However, it seemed I was also considered one of the "Workers" – with a capital "W". Like a messenger of good news. There had been a lot of this kind of talk and writing around then, and my aunt, caught up in all the excitement, got carried away. She talked about "helping those wild people improve their lives," until I felt quite uncomfortable. I tried to point out that the Company was there to make money.

"'You forget, dear Charlie, that workers deserve their pay,' she said happily. It's strange how far from reality women can be. They live in their own world, a beautiful world unlike anything else. But if they tried to make it real, it would fall apart immediately. Some basic fact that men have always known would ruin it all.

Then she hugged me, told me to wear warm clothes and write often, and I left. In the street, I felt like a fraud. It's strange, because I'd always been ready to go anywhere at a moment's notice, but now, facing this ordinary task, I hesitated for a moment. I felt like I was going to the center of the earth, not just to the center of a continent.

I sailed on a French ship, and it stopped at every single port along the way. It seemed the only reason was to drop off soldiers and customs officials. I watched the coast line. Watching a coast go by is like trying to solve a mystery. It's beautiful, ugly, inviting, impressive, or scary – and always silent, as if saying, "Come and find out." This coast was almost without features, like it was still being formed, with a constant, dark look. A huge, dark green jungle, almost black, bordered by white waves, stretched far away along a blue sea. The sun was strong, and the land looked hot. Here and there, you could see small, grey and white spots near the waves, with flags maybe. Villages, hundreds of years old, yet tiny compared to the not touched land around them.

We sailed, stopped, landed soldiers; sailed again, landed customs officials to collect taxes in what looked like an empty place, just a small metal building and a flag. More soldiers were landed – to protect the customs officials, I guess. I heard some drowned in the waves, but no one seemed to care. They were just sent there, and we moved on. Every day the coast looked the same, but we passed places – trading posts – with names like Gran' Bassam, Little Popo; names that sounded like a silly play in a dark setting. Being a passenger, feeling alone among all these men I didn't know, the calm sea, and the unchanging coast, made me feel disconnected from reality, lost in a sad, senseless fantasy. The sound of the waves was a welcome change, like a friend's voice. It was natural, with a reason, a meaning. Sometimes a boat from the shore would bring me back to reality. Black people worked there. You could see the white of their eyes from far away. They shouted, sang; sweat poured from their bodies; their faces were like strange masks – but they were strong, full of life, and moved with energy, as natural as the waves. They didn't need a reason to be there. It was good to see them. For a while, I felt I was back in a world of simple facts; but it wouldn't last. Something would always happen to change that.

Once, we saw a warship at sea. There wasn't even a building there, and it was firing into the jungle. It turned out the French were fighting a war there. Its flag hung motionless; the cannons stuck out; the waves gently rocked the ship. In the vast space of the earth, sky, and water, it was there, shooting at the continent. A cannon fired; a small flame, a bit of smoke, a tiny shell – and nothing happened. Nothing could happen. It felt crazy, strangely funny; and it didn't help when someone told me there was a hidden enemy camp nearby.

We gave them the letters (I heard the men on that lonely ship were dying of fever, three a day) and continued. We stopped at several places with funny names, where death and trade mixed strangely, like a hot grave. The coast line was rough and dangerous, as if nature was trying to keep people away; we went up and down rivers, the thick water reaching into the twisted trees that seemed to struggle desperately. We didn't stay anywhere long enough to get a good look, but I felt a growing sense of mystery and anxiety. It felt like a long, tiring journey through scenes from a nightmare.

It was over thirty days before I saw the big river. We stood near the government offices, but my work was two hundred miles farther away. So, I left as soon as possible for a place thirty miles up the river.

I travelled on a small ship. The captain knew I was a sailor and invited me to the bridge. He was young, thin, and pale, with long hair and a awkward walk. As we left the shore, he shook his head at the shore. "Lived there?" he asked. I said yes. "Great government workers, aren't they?" he said, speaking very clear English with anger. "It's amazing what some people will do for a little money. I wonder what happens to them?" I said I'd soon find out. "Oh really?" he said. He looked around carefully. "Don't be too sure," he added. "I picked up a man the other day who'd hanged himself on the road." "Hanged himself? Why?" I asked. He kept watching. "Who knows? Maybe the sun, or maybe the country itself."

Finally, we reached a bend in the river. We saw a rock cliff, piles of earth near the shore, houses on a hill, some with metal roofs, and lots of digging. The sound of fast-flowing water was loud. Many people, mostly black and naked, moved around like insects. Sometimes, the bright sun made everything very hard to see. "That's your company's office," the captain said, pointing to three wooden buildings on the slope. "I'll send your boxes up. Four, you said? Goodbye."

I found a boiler in the grass, then a path up the hill. It went around rocks and an old railway cart lying on its side, one wheel missing. It looked completely broken. I saw more old equipment and railway tracks. To the left, some trees made a shadow where something seemed to move. The path was steep. A horn blew to my right, and the black people ran. There was a loud explosion, smoke came from the cliff, and that was it. Nothing changed on the cliff face. They were building a railway. The cliff wasn't in the way, but they were exploding rock for no clear reason.

A slight noise behind me made me turn. Six Black men were walking up the path in a line, carrying small baskets of earth on their heads. The noise matched their steps. They wore fabrics around their waists, and the short ends swung like tails. I could see their ribs. Each man had an iron ring around his neck, and they were all chained together. The chain made noise as they walked. A loud sound from the cliff reminded me of a warship I'd seen firing on a land. It was a similar scary sound; but these men weren't enemies. They were prisoners, and the law, like the cannon fire, had caught them – a strange thing. They were all breathing hard, and their eyes stared ahead. They walked past me very close, without looking, like unhappy people.

Behind them walked a guard, carrying a rifle. He wore a uniform jacket with a missing button. Seeing a white man, he quickly raised his rifle. It was a security measure; white people look similar from a distance. He quickly relaxed, smiled, and seemed to include me in his responsibility. After all, I was also part of this.

Instead of going up the hill, I went down. I wanted the prisoners to be out of sight before I continued. I'm not especially kind; I've had to fight and defend myself many times. I've had to fight back – that's just part of life. I've seen abuse, and greed; powerful, angry things that control people. But here, I sensed a different kind of evil: a mean, weak kind of violence. How bad it was, I only realized much later. For a moment, I felt a warning. Then I went down the hill towards the trees.

I avoided a large hole someone had dug. I couldn't understand why. It wasn't a mine, just a hole. Maybe it was to give the prisoners work. I don't know. Then I almost fell into a small pit where broken pipes were thrown. It looked like someone had broken them on purpose. Finally, I reached the trees. I wanted some shade, but it felt like I'd entered a dark place. The river was nearby, and the sound of rushing water filled the quiet forest. It sounded like the earth itself was moving.

Dark figures lay, and sat among the trees, leaning against the trunks, close to the ground, partly hidden in the faint light. They looked as if they were in pain, abandoned, and desperate. Another explosion at the mine on the cliff shook the ground slightly. The work continued. This was where some of the workers had come to die.

They were dying slowly – it was obvious. They weren't enemies or criminals; they were just shadows of illness and hunger, lying in the low light. Brought from all over the coast under work contracts, they were lost and unhappy in this strange place, eating strange food. They got sick, couldn’t work, and were left to die. These dying figures were free, but very weak. I noticed their eyes shining under the trees. Then, I saw a face near my hand. A man lay with his shoulder against a tree. His eyes slowly opened, and looked up at me – large and empty, a brief flash of white in the darkness. He seemed young, almost a boy, but it's hard to tell with them. I gave him a bread I had. He slowly took it and held it; he didn't move or look at me again. He had a piece of white wool around his neck. Why? Where did he get it? Was it a decoration, a good luck charm, or something else? It looked strange against his dark skin.

Near the same tree, two more thin figures sat with their legs pulled up. One stared ahead, and the other rested his forehead as if tired. Others lay around them in various painful positions, like a scene from a terrible accident or an epidemic. While I watched, scared, one of them crawled to the river to drink. He drank from his hand, then sat in the sun, and finally rested his head on his chest.

I didn't want to stay any longer, so I hurried towards the station. Near the buildings, I met a white man, dressed so nicely that at first I thought he was a ghost. He wore a high collar, a light jacket, white pants, a tie, and clean shoes. He had no hat, but his hair was neat, and he held a umbrella. He was amazing; he even had a pen behind his ear.

I shook hands with this man, and learned he was the company's chief accountant, and that all the bookkeeping was done at this station. He'd come outside for a few minutes, he said, "to get some fresh air." This sounded strange, as it suggested he had a desk job. I wouldn't have mentioned him, except he was the first person I heard mention the name of the man who is so important to my memories of that time. I respected him. I respected his clean clothes and neat hair. He looked like a model, but in this mess, he maintained his appearance. That shows strength. His high collars and clean shirts showed character. He'd been there almost three years; later, I asked him how he kept his clothes so clean. He flushed slightly and said modestly, "I've been teaching a local woman at the station. It was hard. She didn't like the work." He had really achieved something. And he was dedicated to his work, which was perfectly organized.

Everything else at the station was messy – people, things, buildings. Groups of local people came and went; a stream of goods – cheap cotton, beads, and wire – went into the jungle, and a small amount of ivory came back.

I had to wait at the station for ten days – it felt like forever. I lived in a cabin in the yard, but to escape the mess, I sometimes went to the accountant's office. It was made of wood, and poorly built, so sunlight streamed in between the gaps as he sat at his desk. It was hot, and big flies made noise around, bothering him. I usually sat on the floor while he, perfectly clean and even slightly smelling of perfume, sat on a high chair and wrote. Sometimes he stood up to stretch. When a bed with a sick man (an employee from distant area) was brought in, he showed mild anger. "This sick man's sounds," he said, "distract me. And it's hard enough to avoid mistakes in this climate."

One day he said, without looking up, "You'll probably meet Mr. Kurtz in the interior." When I asked who Mr. Kurtz was, he said he was a top employee; seeing my frustration, he added slowly, putting down his pen, "He's a very remarkable person." I asked more questions, and learned that Mr. Kurtz was in charge of a very important trading post in the main ivory area, "deep in the interior." He sends back more ivory than everyone else combined… He started writing again. The sick man was too weak to make sounds.

Suddenly, there was a growing noise of voices and many feet. A group of travelers had arrived. A loud, confused shouting was heard on the other side of the boards. All the workers were talking at once, and in the middle of the confusion, the chief agent's sad voice was heard giving up, for the twentieth time that day. He stood up slowly. "What a terrible noise," he said. He quietly walked across the room to check on the sick man, and coming back, said to me, "He can't hear." "What! Is he dead?" I asked, surprised. "No, not yet," he answered calmly. Then, gesturing towards the confusion in the yard, "When you have to make accurate records, you come to hate these people – hate them very much." He thought for a moment. "When you see Mr. Kurtz," he continued, "tell him from me that everything here" – he looked at the deck – "is fine. I don't like to write to him – with our messengers, you never know who might read your letter – at that main office." He looked at me for a moment with his gentle, wide eyes. "Oh, he will go far, very far," he started again. "He will be an important person in the government soon. The people in charge – the Council in Europe – want him to succeed."

He returned to his work. The noise outside had stopped, and as I left, I paused at the door. In the constant noise of flies, the sick agent lay still and unconscious; the other, bent over his books, was carefully recording perfectly normal business; and fifty feet below, I could see the still tops of the trees in the deadly forest.

The next day, I finally left the station with a group of sixty men. We were going on a long, 200-mile walk.

There's not much to tell you about that. Paths, paths everywhere – a network of paths across the empty land. They went through tall grass, burnt grass, bushes, up and down cool valleys, and over hot hills. It was very lonely; no one, not a single house. The people had left a long time ago. If a group of armed people suddenly started traveling between Deal and Gravesend, making local people carry heavy things for them, I imagine everyone would leave quickly. Here, though, the houses were gone too. I passed several abandoned villages. The ruined grass walls looked sadly. Day after day, I walked with sixty people behind me, each carrying a heavy load. We camped, cooked, slept, packed up, and marched. Sometimes, someone died, lying in the grass by the path, with their empty water bottle and walking stick. It was very quiet. Sometimes at night, you could hear distant drums, a faint, strange sound – maybe as meaningful as church bells. Once, I met a white man in a partly-buttoned uniform, camping with armed guards. He said he was looking after the road, but I didn’t see any road or any work being done, except maybe the body of a dead man I found a few miles later.

I had a white friend with me, a nice man, but overweight and he kept fainting in the heat. It was annoying having to hold my coat over him while he recovered. I asked him why he was there. "To make money, of course!" he said angrily. Then he got sick and had to be carried. Because he was very heavy, I had many arguments with the carriers. They refused to work, ran away, or stole things at night. So, I gave them a speech, and the next morning, they carried him. An hour later, I found him beaten. The heavy pole had hurt his nose. He wanted me to punish someone, but the carriers were gone. I remembered an old doctor saying it would be interesting to study how people’s minds change in such situations. I felt like I was becoming a study myself! Anyway, that’s beside the point. On the fifteenth day, I reached the river and arrived at the Central Station. It was surrounded by bushes and forest, with muddy banks and a broken fence. The gate was just a gap in the fence, and it was clear that things were not going well. Some white men with sticks came out to look at me, then went away. One man, a short, excited man, told me my boat was at the bottom of the river. I was shocked. He said it was "all right," the manager was there, and everyone had done a great job. He said I had to see the main manager immediately.

I didn't understand the real importance of the accident right away. I think I understand it now, but I'm not sure at all. It was incredibly silly, when I think about it, almost unbelievable. But at the time, it was just a huge problem. The steamboat sank. They'd left two days earlier in a rush, going up the river. The manager was on board, with a volunteer captain. Less than three hours later, they hit rocks and the boat sank near the south bank. I wondered what I'd do now that my boat was gone. Actually, I had plenty to do – getting my things out of the river. I started the next day. That, and the repairs at the station, took months.