My dearest Hazel —

My dearest Hazel — It feels absurd to compose what you may never read, Yet silence would weigh heavier still than this need. If we are swallowed by jungle and tide, Let this stand as record of how hope slowly died. We sailed from Europe aboard the *Arrow*, composed, Papa intent on a theory no scholar opposed — An ancient civilization, buried, profound, Its remnants in Congo’s dark valley unbound. But truth surfaced once we were far from the quay: Not scholarship — treasure — had carried us to sea. A bookseller, dusty with parchment and lore, Found tucked in a manuscript centuries old A letter from Spain, fifteen-fifty inscribed, By a mutineer father to a son he described. A galleon sailing with gold in her hold, Doubloons and bright “pieces of eight,” so I’m told. The crew rose in violence, officers slain — And doomed themselves thus, for none could command. Two months they drifted, by hunger undone, Till wrecked on an islet beneath African sun. Ten souls survived, and one treasure chest saved, Iron-bound oak from the surf they had braved. They buried it high where the tide could not claim, Marked rocks and trees in a crude little frame. Three years they waited for rescue to come, And perished, one by one. At last only one remained — Loneliness louder than wind or than rain. He chose open sea over madness confined, And fortune returned him to merciful mankind. He lied of the mutiny, spoke not of gold, But Cape Verde’s latitude the merchantman told. And thus came the map — comically drawn — With scrawled little crosses from dusk until dawn. Papa paid dearly for parchment and dream, A thousand in earnest — ten thousand extreme. Borrowed from Canler — you know what that implies. No security asked, yet a debt in his eyes. How I detest that man’s calculating grace; I feel like collateral bound to his case. We found it, Hazel — the island, the chest — Gold coins packed tight in their oilcloth nest. Four men bent low beneath history’s weight; Two centuries sleeping — awakened by fate. Three days thereafter our own crew rebelled. Officers slaughtered. Civilization dispelled. I cannot recount it — the horror, the cries — Only that innocence fractured and died. Their leader, King, spared us our breath, Yet sailed with the treasure toward certain death. For he alone knew how to read star and chart — And he fell by a knife through a traitor’s dark heart. Thus history circles, relentless and grim: Mutiny answering mutiny’s sin. They left us ashore in a harbor forlorn, With scant provisions and hope nearly torn. And Clayton — Dear Hazel, you would esteem him, I know. Steady of manner, courageous in woe. Heir to Lord Greystoke — title and land — A future inscribed by hereditary hand. You know my convictions — my patriotic creed, Of American girls and titled misdeed. Yet were birth stripped bare and station undone, He would honor my country as noblest son. I think — though I scarcely dare let it be said — His heart may incline where mine too is led. Since landing we’ve wandered through terrors untold: Papa pursued by a lion bold; Philander declaiming while fleeing in fright; Clayton assailed twice in desperate fight. Esmeralda and I in a cabin confined, A lioness prowling with murderous mind. Her breath at the threshold, her shadow immense — It was, as Esmeralda insists, “most terrifical” — hence. Yet stranger than peril, than hunger, than fear, Is the guardian presence that lingers near. They speak of a man — though scarcely he seems Of common humanity fashioned in dreams: Sun-burnished skin on a figure divine, Strength of an elephant, grace almost feline. He utters no English, appears, then is gone — As swiftly as dusk overtakes the dawn. And then there is this: A sign, neatly printed, in elegant hand — “Tarzan of the Apes” does command That none of his dwelling be harmed or displaced. We have not seen him — yet know he is placed. For when one sailor raised pistol behind Mr. Clayton’s back in a gesture malign, A spear from the foliage flew without sound, And struck through his shoulder, pinning him down. We possess but one revolver — three cartridges spare. Fruit and wild nuts must suffice for our fare. Philander assures us we shall not expire; I wish confidence kindled a steadier fire. I am weary tonight. My bed is of grass, Arranged by kind hands as the daylight did pass. Should these pages remain when we do not, Remember me hopeful — forget me not.