Departure and Arrival in the Congo

The steamer’s whistle pierced the damp morning air, its mournful call echoing across the London docks. Charles Murray stood on the deck, the brim of his hat shielding him from a fine mist of rain. Around him bustled a flurry of dockhands and passengers, all jostling to load their luggage and secure their places aboard the grand steamship [SS Victoria] bound for the Congo Free State. Although the Congo was privately owned by King Leopold II of Belgium, deals could be made, and Englishmen could trade there, so long as Leopold received his cut.

Beside him, Sir Robert Murray surveyed the activity with practiced indifference, a cigar smoldering in his hand. The elder Murray cut an imposing figure despite the softening of age and the bulk of his waist. He was dressed impeccably in a tailored coat, his boots polished to a mirror shine. Charles, dressed in a similar but less extravagant fashion, mirrored his father’s stance, eager to prove himself.

“Africa, Charles,” Sir Robert said, gesturing toward the bustling quay, “is a land of opportunity. An untamed wilderness where a white man can make his fortune if he has the mettle.”

Charles nodded, though his excitement was tempered by the underlying weight of his father’s words. The younger Murray had spent countless hours poring over books filled with sketches of exotic animals, alien landscapes, and noble tales of explorers bringing civilization to the so-called Dark Continent. Now, he would see it for himself.

The voyage began with the steady churn of the ship’s engines and the retreating silhouette of London’s skyline. Onboard, Charles found himself surrounded by a mix of traders, missionaries, military men, and opportunists, each carrying their own dreams, or schemes, for Africa. Among them were Sir Robert’s hired men: gruff, seasoned adventurers who carried an air of **** beneath their rugged exteriors. Most were former soldiers or mercenaries.

One of them, an American named [Sparrow], caught Charles’s attention immediately. Sparrow was lean and wiry, with a crooked grin that revealed yellowed teeth. His revolver hung low on his hip, and he spoke with a drawl that dripped with sarcasm and menace.

“First time heading into the jungle, eh, boy?” Sparrow asked, clapping Charles on the back with enough **** to make him stumble. “Stick close to your daddy, and maybe you’ll make it out in one piece.”

Charles bristled at the man’s condescension but **** a polite smile. “I intend to contribute to the expedition in whatever way I can, Mr. Sparrow.”

Sparrow’s laughter was sharp and cutting. “Contribute, huh? Well, let’s hope you can hold your liquor and your stomach. Jungle’s no place for boarding school boys.”

Sir Robert’s booming voice interrupted. “That’s enough, Sparrow. Save your jokes for the savages.”

The rest of the voyage was uneventful, marked by long stretches of endless sea and idle conversations with the crew and passengers. Charles grew accustomed to the routine, but a lingering sense of unease gnawed at him. Sparrow’s unsettling demeanor, the whispered stories among the crew, and Sir Robert’s cryptic remarks all hinted at dangers beyond wild animals or harsh terrain.

When the steamer finally reached the mouth of the Congo River, Charles’s first impression was one of oppressive heat and overwhelming jungles. The jungle seemed alive, its dense canopy teeming with movement and sound. The river itself was a muddy expanse, sluggish yet immense, its waters concealing untold mysteries.

The docks at the colonial outpost were a chaotic sprawl of humanity. Black laborers, stripped to the waist, sweated under the weight of heavy crates, their bodies glistening in the midday sun. European overseers barked orders, their voices sharp and impatient. The smell of sweat, rot, and stagnant water filled the air, mingling with the distant hum of insects.

Charles disembarked, his boots sinking slightly into the muck. He watched as a line of native porters, chains glinting at their ankles, shuffled past under the watchful eyes of armed guards carrying whips. A sick feeling churned in his stomach as he realized they were treated no better than beasts of burden.

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” Sir Robert remarked, either oblivious to or uncaring of his son’s discomfort. “This is the heart of industry, Charles. These men work hard to bring civilization to the wilderness, the light of Europe to this wretched, dark continent.”

Charles said nothing, his gaze fixed on a young boy no older than twelve, struggling to lift a sack of supplies. The boy’s face was blank, his eyes devoid of hope.

At that age, Charles had been surrounded by private tutors, attending prestigious boarding schools, luxuries funded by his father’s expeditions to Africa. And this, he realized bitterly, was the cost.

The Murray expedition wasted no time in gathering supplies and preparing to venture upriver. Sparrow and the other hired men, each armed to the teeth, oversaw the loading of crates onto smaller boats. Rifles and ammunition were stacked alongside provisions, a grim reminder of the dangers that lay ahead.

As they pushed deeper into the interior, the dense jungle seemed to close in around them. The oppressive heat, the sound of unseen creatures, and the strange, fetid smell of decay created a sense of foreboding.

Charles tried to focus on the adventure he had dreamed of, but the romantic visions of Africa he had cherished as a boy now felt hollow. Everywhere he looked, he saw the evidence of exploitation: native workers driven like cattle, scarred landscapes stripped of their natural bounty, and the ever-present fear in the eyes of the people who crossed his path.

In his dreams, he had imagined the simple black men’s eyes lighting up when they saw him, a white man bringing the light of civilization. Instead, he saw only fear.

His father, however, seemed unfazed. Sir Robert was used to his authority, barking orders and sharing bawdy tales of past exploits with the hired men. Sparrow, meanwhile, grew more unsettling with each passing day, his crude humor and casual cruelty eroding Charles’s patience.

The final blow to Charles’s naivety came when a native porter collapsed from exhaustion. Rather than offer aid, Sparrow struck the man with the butt of his rifle, sending him sprawling into the mud.

“Dead weight,” Sparrow muttered, spitting onto the ground. “Leave him. We’ve got a schedule to keep.”

Charles stared in shock, his hands clenched into fists. He looked to his father, expecting outrage, but Sir Robert simply nodded in agreement.

“Keep moving,” Sir Robert ordered. “We can’t afford delays.”

As the convoy pressed on, Charles stole one last glance at the fallen man. The porter’s lifeless eyes seemed to bore into him, a silent accusation that Charles couldn’t shake.

In that moment, the seeds of doubt began to take root. The father he had idolized now seemed like a stranger, and the adventure he had longed for was becoming a waking nightmare.

But the jungle was only beginning to reveal its horrors.