The Lost City of Z (9 page)

Since he had left England for Ceylon fourteen years earlier, London seemed to have become more crowded, more dirty, more modern, more rich, more poor, more everything. With over four and a half million people, London was the biggest city in the world, larger than Paris or New York. Flower girls yelled, “All a growin’ and all a blowin’!” Newspaper boys cried, “ ’Orrible murder!”

As Fawcett pushed his way through the crowds, he no doubt struggled to keep his clothes free of the soot from coal furnaces that had mixed with fog to form London’s own species of grime, a tenacious black mixture that penetrated everything; even the keyholes on houses had to be sheathed with metal plates. Then there was the horse manure—“the London mud,” as it was politely called—which, though swept up by street urchins and sold door-to-door as garden fertilizer, was virtually everywhere Fawcett stepped.

Fawcett turned onto an elegant street in Burlington Gardens, away from brothels and blacking factories. On the corner was a handsome stone house with a portico. It was No. 1 Savile Row. And Fawcett could see the bold sign:
ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY.

As Fawcett entered the three-story house—the Society had not yet moved near to Hyde Park—he was aware that he was stepping into an enchanting place. Over the front door was a half window in the shape of a hemispherical lantern; each pane represented the parallels and meridians of a globe. Fawcett would have walked past the office of the chief clerk and his two assistants, past a stairwell that led to a council room, until he arrived at a glass-roofed chamber. Sunlight filtered in, illuminating, through dusty shafts, globes and chart tables. It was the map room, and usually sitting at the far end, on a dais, was the man Fawcett was looking for: Edward Ayearst Reeves.

In his late thirties, with a receding hairline, beakish nose, and neatly trimmed mustache, Reeves was not only the map curator but also the chief instructor of surveying—and the person primarily charged with turning Fawcett into a gentleman explorer. A skilled draftsman, Reeves had started
working at the Society in 1878, at the age of sixteen, as an assistant to the previous curator, and he never seemed to forget that sense of awe that newcomers felt upon arrival. “How well I remember it all,” he wrote in his autobiography,
The Recollections of a Geographer.
“With what pride, and yet with what fear and trembling I first entered the precinct of this wonderful place of which I had read in books, and from which explorers had been sent out to all parts of the world and returned to tell of their marvelous discovery and heroic adventures.” Unlike many of the bellicose, wild-eyed members of the Society, Reeves had a warm, gentle manner. “He had an innate capacity for teaching,” a colleague said. “He knew exactly how to put a point so that the most obtuse student could grasp it.”

Fawcett and Reeves eventually went up to the third floor, where the classes were held. Francis Galton had advised each recruit that he would soon find himself admitted into “the society of men with whose names he had long been familiar, and whom he had reverenced as his heroes.” Taking the surveying course about the same time as Fawcett was Charles Lindsay Temple, who could regale his colleagues with stories of his time in the Civil Service in Brazil; Lieutenant T. Dannreuther, who was obsessed with collecting rare butterflies and insects; and Arthur Edward Seymour Laughton, who was gunned down by Mexican bandits in 1913, at the age of thirty-eight.

Reeves got down to business. If Fawcett and the other students heeded his instructions, they could become the next generation of great explorers. Reeves would teach them what cartographers had not been able to do for most of history: fix their position anywhere. “If you could blindfold a man, and take him to any spot on the earth’s surface, say somewhere in the middle of Africa, and then remove the bandage from his eyes, he could [if properly trained] show you on a map, in a short time, the exact spot upon which he stands,” Reeves said. Moreover, if Fawcett and his colleagues dared to climb the highest peaks and penetrate the deepest forest, they could chart the world’s remaining undiscovered realms.

Reeves displayed a series of strange objects. One looked like a telescope
attached to a circular metal wheel, with various screws and chambers. Reeves explained that it was a theodolite, which could determine the angle between the horizon and celestial bodies. He demonstrated more tools—artificial horizons, aneroids, and sextants—and then led Fawcett and the others up to the roof of the building, to test the equipment. The fog often made it hard to observe the sun or the stars, but now they could see well enough. Latitude, Reeves said, could be found by measuring the angle of the noon sun above the horizon or the height of the North Star, and each of the students tried to use the devices to fix his position, an extremely difficult task for a beginner. As Fawcett took his turn, Reeves watched in astonishment. “He was extremely quick at learning anything new,” Reeves recalled. “And, although he never used a sextant and artificial horizon before for star observation, I remember the first night he tried he brought the stars down into the artificial horizon, and took excellent altitude right away without any difficulty. Anyone who has attempted this will know that as a rule it is only done after considerable practice.”

Fawcett was taught not just how to survey but how to see—to record and classify everything around him, in what the Greeks called an
autopsis.
There were two principal manuals to help him. One was
Art of Travel,
written by Francis Galton for a general audience. The other was
Hints to Travellers,
which had been edited by Galton and served as the Society’s unofficial bible. (Fawcett brought a copy with him even on his final trip.) The 1893 edition stated, “It is a loss, both to himself and others, when a traveller does not observe.” The manual continued, “Remember that the first and best instruments are the traveller’s own eyes. Use them constantly, and record your observation on the spot, keeping for the purpose a notebook with numbered pages and a map . . . Put down, as they occur, all important objects; streams, their volume, colour; mountain ranges, their character and apparent structure and glaciation, the colour and forms of the landscape, prevalent winds, climate . . . In short, describe to yourself at the time all you see.” (The need to record every observation was so ingrained that during Robert Falcon Scott’s race to the South Pole
he continued to make notations even as he and all his men were dying. Among the last words scribbled in his diary were “Had we lived, I should have had a tale to tell of the hardihood, endurance, and courage of my companions which would have stirred the heart of every Englishman. These rough notes and our dead bodies must tell the tale.”)

To hone the aspiring explorers’ powers of observation, the manuals, in conjunction with seminars provided by the Society, offered basic instructions on botany, geology, and meteorology. Students were also initiated into the fledgling field of anthropology, what was then often called the “science of savages.” Despite the Victorians’ dizzying contact with alien cultures, the field was still composed almost entirely of amateurs and enthusiasts. (In 1896, Great Britain had only one university professor of anthropology.) Just as Fawcett had been taught to see the contours of the earth, he was now taught how to observe the Other—what
Hints to Travellers
referred to as “savages, barbarians, or the lower civilised nations.” The manual warned each student against “the prejudices with which his European mode of thought has been surrounded,” even as it noted that “it is established that some races are inferior to others in volume and complexity of brain, Australians and Africans being in this respect below Europeans.”

As with mapping the world, there were “tools” for taking the measure of man: tapelines and calipers for calculating body proportions; dynamometers for assessing muscle strength and spring balances to determine weight; plaster of Paris for making impressions; and a craniometer to gauge the size of a skull. “Where practicable, native skeletons, and especially skulls, should be sent home for accurate examination,” the manual said. Of course, this could be tricky: “It is hardly safe to risk the displeasure of the natives at the removal of the dead.” It was deemed unknown how “emotions are differently expressed by different races, so that it is worth while to notice particularly if their smiling, laughing, frowning, weeping, blushing, &c, differ perceptibly from ours.”

Fawcett and his classmates were also schooled in the fundamentals of mounting and executing an expedition—everything from how to make pillows out of mud to choosing the best pack animals. “Notwithstanding his inveterate obstinacy, the ass is an excellent and sober little beast, far too much despised by us,” Galton pointed out, calculating, with his usual obsessiveness, that an ass could carry about sixty-five pounds, a horse up to a hundred pounds, and a camel up to three hundred.

Before embarking, the explorer was instructed to have each member of his expedition sign a formal agreement, like a treaty. Galton provided a sample:

The students were warned that they should not lord it over their men and must constantly be on the lookout for cliques, dissent, and mutiny. “Promote merriment, singing, fiddling, with all your powers,” Galton advised. Care must also be taken with native helpers: “A frank, joking, but determined manner, joined with an air of showing more confidence to the savage than you really feel, is the best.”

Disease and injury could devastate a party, and Fawcett received some basic medical tips. He learned, for instance, how to remove a decaying tooth by “constantly pushing and pulling.” If he ingested poison, he
was taught to immediately make himself throw up: “Use soap-suds or gunpowder if proper emetics are not at hand.” For a venomous snakebite, Fawcett would have to ignite gunpowder in the wound or cut away the infected flesh with a knife. “Afterwards burn out [the area around the bite] with the end of your iron ramrod, heated as near a white heat as you can readily get,” Galton advised. “The arteries lie deep, and as much flesh may, without much danger, be cut or burnt into, as the fingers can pinch up. The next step is to use the utmost energy, and even cruelty, to prevent the patient’s giving way to that lethargy and drowsiness which is the usual effect to snake poison, and too often ends in death.” The treatment for a hemorrhaging wound—say, from an arrow—was equally “barbarous”: “Pour boiling grease into the wound.”

Nothing, though, compared with the horrors of thirst and hunger. One trick was to “excite” saliva in the mouth. “This can be done by chewing something, as a leaf; or by keeping in the mouth a bullet or a smooth, non-absorbent stone, such as a quartz pebble,” Galton explained. When starving, Fawcett was instructed to drink an animal’s blood, if available. Locusts, grasshoppers, and other insects were also edible—and might save a man’s life. (“To prepare them, pull off the legs and wings and roast them with a little grease in an iron dish, like coffee.”)

Then there was the threat of hostile “savages” and “cannibals.” When penetrating such territories, an explorer was cautioned to move under the cover of darkness, with a rifle cocked and ready. To seize a prisoner, “take your knife, put it between your teeth, and, standing over him, take the caps off your gun, and lay it down by your side. Then handcuff him, in whatever way you best can. The reason of setting to work in this way is, that a quick supple savage, while you are fumbling with your strings, and bothered with a loaded gun, might easily spring round, seize hold of it, and quite turn the tables against you.”

Finally, the students were advised how to proceed if a member of their party perished. They must write down a detailed account of what had happened and have the remaining members of the expedition corroborate
it. “If a man be lost, before you turn away and abandon him to his fate, call the party formally together, and ask them if they are satisfied that you have done all that was possible to save him, and record their answers,” Galton stated. When a companion died, his effects must be collected for relatives and his body buried with dignity. “Choose a well-marked situation, dig a deep grave, bush it with thorns, and weight it well over with heavy stones, as a defense against animals of prey.”

After more than a year of course work, Fawcett sat down, along with his classmates, for the final examination. The students had to demonstrate a mastery of surveying, which required a deep understanding of complex geometry and astronomy. Fawcett had spent hours cramming with Nina, who shared his interest in exploration and worked tirelessly to help him. If he failed, he knew that he would be back to square one—back to being a soldier. He carefully filled in each answer. When he finished, he handed his paper in to Reeves. Then he waited. Reeves informed the students of their results, and broke the news to Fawcett. He had passed—and more than that. Reeves, in his memoir, singled Fawcett out, noting that he had graduated “with great credit.” Fawcett had done it; he had received the imprimatur of the Royal Geographical Society—or, as he put it, “The R.G.S. bred me as an explorer.” All he needed now was a mission.