Andrew McIntyre

Up the River

Hidden under ferns in the crippling heat, we’d been watching the group all day through binoculars, Caruthers constantly taking notes. I wondered why, since he’d never shown much interest in anything other than military history, mining, and fly-fishing.

Twilight came, and it was time to return to the camp. When he finally gave the signal, we crept away till we found the trail. Well old chap, what do you think? Actually, I replied, It seems to me that their life is a continual orgy. Caruthers smiled, Rather like certain quarters of Port Campbell. Yes, I said, Or of London. Chaps putting their most prized possession in the regions of ladies where I wouldn’t introduce the stipule of my umbrella. I always wondered who Campbell was, by the way. A strong-loined progenitor, Caruthers said, Dozens of natives entitled to wear Campbell tartan. The story of the Scottish Highlands with an English appendage, he added. Interesting, the comparison. Savage lands, savage lands.

Caruthers chuckled, Oh, in the old days, the biggest challenge was acquiring a wife. Besides the District Commissioner’s daughters, there wasn’t much to choose from, and they weren’t beauties. Young bachelors getting on in the world, and there we were, stuck in the farthest corner of the Empire. Illustrious career in the Colonial Office, and nothing for a proper wife. Shackled, we were, caged by our success. We’d sit about at sunset nursing our pink gins. For months we had rumors about teachers for the school. The steamer making its journey every two weeks, we’d congregate on the dock watching as it struggled upstream against the current, a white dot growing larger as it progressed against the black of the river. All we were thinking was some suitable females might be aboard.

One day, we got word of some developments during a terrific thunderstorm; no one could hear a thing due to the static. The name Leslie Rogers was all we gleaned. We were on the dock at the appointed hour with our binoculars, making all the right noises, By Jove sir, here she comes, what, another hour or so, steady on steady on, as the dilapidated vessel made its gradual way. Standing in the bows, not the women of our dreams, rather one bald, lean individual with a countenance like old leather, a classics master from one of the Great Schools, and we went back to our posts terribly dejected. Well, the poor fellow died soon after, tick-bite fever or some such thing. Nice chap actually, missionary type, very zealous, but not quite what we wanted you know. We buried him and that was that. We made an effort to keep his grave tidy.

Time went by. The usual complaints, the rhythm of the tropics, pink gins, desk work, forays into the hinterland to sort out intertribal disputes, staggering heat, then out of the blue the steamer arrived taking us all unawares, and there she stood. Marjorie? I said. Caruthers nodded, Yes, Marjorie, I’ll never forget her descending the gangplank, her face, her eyes, hair like an angel, ladylike yet tough; I could see that right away, the school teacher. By gad sir, they muttered. Well, they all made a dash for her tripping over each other, bumbling about, trying to assist with her luggage, quoting Shakespeare, Ovid, flexing muscles, cracking jokes, twiddling moustaches, whatever they thought might impress her. But I knew I’d won the moment she stepped down the gangplank. How? I asked. Because I made no moves to assist and she liked that; she was from Cheltenham Ladies, you know, tough; we were married within a year. I laughed, Women are so odd. Caruthers smiled, An understatement old fellow if I ever heard one. The more I’ve known the less I’ve understood about them.

Not like those lady chimps, I added. Caruthers offered me a cigarette, Don’t you be fooled. They’re far cleverer than we imagine. We’re just at the beginning; they get jealous too you know. And never forget, they had two Bushmen in the primate section of London Zoo at the beginning of the century until someone mentioned the oddity of it all. Who are we to comment? You know, I agreed, You have something there. And I’ve heard, Caruthers went on, There’s a lovely young thing up-country studying chimps, Jane something-or-other, protégé of that Leakey fellow we met that once. I wonder what dear old Edgar Rice Burroughs would say, why I’m taking such prodigious notes in my spare time, old chap, hope to liaise with her at some point you know, share some ideas. Quite, I agreed, Of course, with Marjorie gone, and all that. Exactly old man, said Caruthers, Exactly. Well, here we are; I’ll build the fire if you’ll prepare the pot, and pour me some of the Glenlivet, will you?

Andrew McIntyre was educated in England and Scotland. Having traveled for much of his life, he currently resides in San Francisco. He has published stories in numerous magazines, most recently in The Taj Mahal Review, 3:AM Magazine, The Copperfield Review, Mississippi Review, and Children, Churches and Daddies Literary Magazine.