Gorilla Gorilla, Excerpt

Henry

MY HARVARD GRADUATION was yesterday, June 30, 1898, a date I should remember with joy and fervor, but instead the graduation rituals, formal balls, and parties marking the end of an era have immediately faded to nothingness.

Rather than grabbing onto life with both hands. I am completely unmoored. I have no idea what to do with myself. Life has gone from the intense activity of my senior year to absolute tedium. I suppose I’m bored, so I’m elated when the front bell rings, and the bike messenger hands me the morning’s mail.

I thumb through it and find a letter from William Ashcombe. He was a zoology student who recently graduated Oxford. We are both members of the Natural History Society and for the past two years we have carried on a lively correspondence sharing out mutual scientific interests. I put the rest of the mail on the table in the front hall and tear open the envelope addressed to me. I sprawl on a chair in the library and unfold the sheets of paper.

Ashcombe Hall
Woodstock, Oxfordshire
June 24th, 1898

My dear Henry,

Allow me to offer you my most heartfelt congratulations on your graduation from Harvard. I trust the occasion was marked with proper solemnity, a surfeit of oratory, and the usual procession of academic gowns and proud parents. You must be greatly relieved to have emerged from your final examinations with mind and dignity intact—though I suspect you dispatched both with enviable ease.

As for me, I have at last concluded my course at Oxford, and I find myself in that peculiar limbo between youth and usefulness. Without the rigours of the rowing schedule or the excitement of the athletic meets to occupy my hours, life at Ashcombe has descended into a kind of genteel tedium. One is left only to contemplate the future: gainful employment, marriage to a suitable girl, and the slow encroachment of respectability.

Of course, everyone here assumes I shall marry Maryanne, and your prospects with Drucilla have been so frequently discussed between us I almost feel engaged on your behalf. I do not suppose either of us shall escape the preordained fates our families envision for us. But before such respectable futures overtake us, I propose a rebellion of the most agreeable sort.

Come to England, Henry. Spend the summer here at Ashcombe Hall. There is ample room, and the stables are quite at your disposal. We may shoot clay pigeons in the mornings, fish the Windrush in the afternoons, and pass the evenings with cards and whisky. Should you feel the call of academia, I shall escort you to Oxford to visit the Natural History Museum and the Pitt Rivers ethnographic collection. I believe you’ll find it a treasure trove of curious artefacts and even curiouser methods of display.

And if your stay permits, we might venture into London together, take in the theatre, and remind ourselves there is still some vigour left in our species before we settle into middle age and moral hygiene.

I know you must wonder how anyone in my position—surrounded by comfort and country air—could possibly complain of boredom. But I assure you, without an excuse to leave the house, I shall be subjected to hour upon hour of paternal advice, ranging from matters of estate management to the optimal temperature at which to serve port. I am in desperate need of intelligent conversation and the company of a friend who remembers science is not merely a steppingstone to respectability but a delight in its own right.

Do write back with your intentions. I shall arrange the necessary comforts and a carriage to meet you, should you decide to make the crossing.

Yours in mutual exile from academia,
William

His letter couldn’t have come at a better time. Drucilla and my mother are already planning a wedding.

for thee past few months I found it easy to just go along with their plans for a wedding after graduation which even last month seemed like a long way off. But graduation has come and gone, and a wedding is not among the top ten items on my list. MY HARVARD GRADUATION was yesterday, June 30, 1898, a date I should remember with joy and fervor, but instead the graduation rituals, formal balls, and parties marking the end of an era have immediately faded to nothingness.

Ashcombe Hall
Woodstock, Oxfordshire
June 24th, 1898

My dear Henry,

Do write back with your intentions. I shall arrange the necessary comforts and a carriage to meet you, should you decide to make the crossing.

Yours in mutual exile from academia,
William

His letter couldn’t have come at a better time. Drucilla and my mother are already planning a wedding.

It’s nothing against Dru, she is lovely, but I realize I hardly know her—no deep conversations, no shared intellectual passions. just a few perfunctory kisses behind a hedge at various dances leaving us both unmoved. Such are the strict social codes of courtship.

I know Will, someone with whom I have only corresponded and never met face-to-face, far better than I know my own fiancée. We are taught the right path through life means schooling, then a job, then marriage to a virtuous girl. I well understand the why. Marriage is a business proposition entered in primarily for a woman’s money and her family’s influence, and passion is expected to be found elsewhere, but something in me balks at being funneled down that path. At least Will’s invitation has bought me the summer.

I immediately book passage on the Cunard Ship, RMS Lucania, departing Boston July third and arriving Liverpool about a week later. Given the short timing, a letter would not reach William before me, so I opt for a telegram. Now all I have to do is tell Drucilla and my mother.

I arrive in Woodstock, Oxfordshire, and after seeing my luggage to my room, enjoy a tasty supper with Will and his parents. They call him William, a degree of formality I am unaccustomed to within a family. His father, as Will implied, does show a decided overeagerness to impart advice to the younger generation. Apparently, Will finds it as wearing as I do because he whisks me out of the house as soon as the last bite is taken. We take their private cab into Oxford, and the liveried driver waits for us.

A liveried porter meets us at the Raj Club door. His coat is dark green with brass buttons that catch the gaslight, his collar high, white gloves immaculate. A peaked cap sits square on his brow, lending him the air of a sergeant more than a servant. He opens the heavy oak door with measured precision and inclines his head just enough to acknowledge Will’s rank. “Good evening, my lord. Sir. Your party is in the card room.” His eyes flicker, sharp as a ledger, taking in the dust on our boots before settling back to composure. He extends a gloved hand toward the stand where canes and hats are kept, summoning a boy in plain livery to relieve us of our coats.

The Raj is an elite club of the old school variety. Gas lights in brass wall sconces throw long shadows against the dark wood-paneled walls, flickering over portraits of long-dead fox hunters and officers of the club.

We follow an assistant porter through the heavy teak door of the card room.

The scent hits first—old smoke and something sharper—whiskey and humiliation. There must be some big losers tonight. No surprise . This is the sort of place where the stakes are high. Men holding cards hunch around tables covered in green baize. No one looks up as we enter. That’s part of the etiquette at such places: you don’t gawk, and you don’t interrupt a hand.

The walls are hung with faded maps of British India and pencil sketches of Sikh cavalrymen and Bengal tigers.

At the center table, four gentlemen in dinner jackets play whist in absolute silence. Only the soft slap of cards and the occasional clink of a glass break the stillness. A steward in a white jacket lingers nearby, refilling a tumbler without being asked. Will recognizes two of the players and whispers discreetly to me, “The man with a walrus moustache is Sir Geoffrey Ainsworth, a retired colonial magistrate. And with him is Lord Elvington. His father made a fortune in jute.” Both glance at me briefly, then return to their game. My suit is the equal of theirs in style and cost, but I might as well have American emblazonedacross my chest. It’s obviousthey think I’m not their kind of member.

In Boston it was the opposite. When a British gentleman stepped into the Somerset Club, all eyes turned, and the air itself seemed to shift. Chairs scraped, conversation lowered. A man with a title, even a minor one, drew as much attention as if he were royalty. Merchants’ sons pressed forward to be introduced, matrons whispered of lineage, and hostesses paraded him as proof their company was the finest in the city. Money was common enough in Boston; a baron or viscount was rare, and rarity lent him a shine no American fortune could purchase.

We spot Will’s friends, their laughter loud, and their cheeks flushed, telling me they have been drinking awhile.They stand as we approach the table. Introductions are made all around, and we join them. There are five of us at the table: me, Will, Rupert, a sharp-nosed fellow named Godfrey, and a foppish drunk named Harrow.

Rupert says, “We had thought to enjoy an evening of baccarat, but since our guest is American and unlikely to be familiar with the game, why don’t we play poker instead? Five-Card Draw? After all, we want him to feel at home.”

I am quite familiar with baccarat both from parties at my parents’ house and from The Beacon Hill Club, but I say nothing, as the choice of poker suits me well. Whereas baccarat is mostly luck, poker is a game of skill.

After several hands, the chips are piling up in front of me. The jabs about Americans have been piling up too. So far I have ignored them, satisfying myself with taking their money since I was never going to have their respect.

I keep my voice easy and neutral as I rake in another modest pile of winnings. “Gentlemen,” I say, “you ought to stop calling this poker if no one means to play the odds.”

The remark lands poorly. Across the green baize of the card table, Rupert Marchbanks snorts through his nose like a disgruntled horse. He’s red-faced, glassy-eyed, and has been losing steadily for over an hour.

“It’s a low game,” he slurs, glaring at his cards. “A colonial game. No real skill. Just luck and bluff and—whatever the hell you’re doing, Cabot.”

I offer a small smile. “Well, I am American. You did say I should feel at home.”

That draws a chuckle from Will at least, still sober though clearly uncomfortable. He hasn’t touched the deck since the third hand. He said he didn’t feel like gambling tonight. Now I think he regrets bringing me here at all.

Other than Will, all of them in various stages of sodden resentment. Harrow has forgotten twice whose deal it is.

I have been discreetly emptying my tumbler of scotch into the brass fern pot behind me since the second round. The plant’s not doing well anyway.

Rupert eyes the pile of chips before me, black, white, and red. “Bit thick, don’t you think?” he says. “Winning every damn hand. Makes a man wonder what’s in your cuffs.”

“Rupert,” Will says, a warning in his voice.

“I’ve got nothing up my sleeves but linen and the clean conscience of a sober man,” I say mildly. “Why don’t we call it a night? We’ve had our fun. No need to ruin it.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Rupert sneers. He stands, his chair scraping back. “Clean conscience, my foot. You Yanks cheat like you breathe. Call it instinct. Bit of frontier mongrel in you.”

I rise as well, slowly. My hands are open. “You’re drunk, Rupert.”

“And you’re a cheat,” he snaps, pulling back the flap of his evening coat.

My heart stops.

He’s drawing a pistol.

Small, silver-mounted, clearly decorative and personal—and loaded, evidently. I see the cold gleam of the barrel as he raises it in a hand that wavers.

I don’t think. I shove the table hard with both hands. Cards, chips, and glasses fly as the legs screech across the parquet floor. Rupert stumbles backward with a grunt. The gun goes off.

A single, deafening crack, a puff of smoke—and a howl.

Godfrey is clutching his upper arm, blood seeping through the fine weave of his cream-colored sleeve.

Everything freezes.

Then chaos.

Harrow half-falls out of his chair, shrieking. Will rushes to Godfrey, who’s swearing viciously now but still upright. Rupert stares at his pistol as if he doesn’t recognize it.

A steward bursts into the room, followed by a second, and then the club secretary—an older gentleman in a dark waistcoat with a face like cold porcelain.

“No one leaves,” the secretary says at once. “Not a step.” He turns to the steward. “Fetch Dr. Willoughby. Quietly.”

I stand where I am, breathing through my nose, heart still thudding. My hands are steady. My grandfather always said, “It’s not the first punch that counts, Henry—it’s what you do after.” I have found if the first punch is strong enough, the probably won’t be a second, but I take his meaning,

Will is at my side now. “Are you all right?”

I nod. “Better than Godfrey.”

He runs a hand through his hair and glances at the door, then the pistol, then Rupert still blinking like he’s woken up in a nightmare. “Christ. My father’s going to kill me.”

“He should flay Rupert,” I say. “Though I imagine I’ll be in the crosshairs too.”

“He told me not to bring you here. Said this club wasn’t for colonials.”

“Kind of him,” I mutter. “This may not be the best advert for English hospitality.”

One of the stewards has taken the pistol from Rupert, who offers no resistance and slumps drunkenly in his chair now, pale and shaken.

Godfrey is being bandaged with a bar towel and a cravat. Blood dots the parquet.

No one’s laughing anymore.

Later, we sit in a side room, Will and I. The club secretary saw to it we had brandy, which I don’t touch. Will sips his.

“You should’ve let the card game go,” he says. “They were spoiling for a fight.”

“I tried. You saw.”

“I did. But Rupert’s family—his uncle’s in the Home Office. This won’t just disappear.”

I look out the window. The fog’s rolled in, silvering the square outside.

“So what happens now?”

Will leans back and closes his eyes. “If my father hears about it, and he will, he’ll want to be rid of the whole mess. The family name, the club, Rupert’s idiocy, all of it. He won’t want it spiraling into scandal.”

“So he’ll bury it?”

“More likely, he’ll send it overseas.”

I look at him.

He looks back.

“Expedition,” he says. “Africa. He’s been toying with backing one. Gorillas, natural specimens, the usual colonial drama. He’ll pitch it as discipline. Duty. Damage control. Especially if Rupert agrees to disappear quietly too.”

“And me?” I ask.

William’s smile is tired, lopsided. “He likes the idea of Americans better when they’re on the other side of the ocean, or the equator.”

We sit in silence a moment.

Finally I say, “Better than being shot at by drunk aristocrats.”

Will raises his glass in salute. “That, my friend, is the spirit.”

I still don’t drink. But I tip my glass all the same.

THE MORNING LIGHT slants through the tall windows of Ashcombe Hall, pale and cold. Will I walk down the wide staircase, the soles of our polished shoes muffled on the thick runner. A grandfather clock ticks solemnly below. Neither of us speaks for a moment, both listening for sounds from the breakfast room, wondering if his father is up yet.

“Do you think Godfrey will be all right?” Will finally says, almost whispering.

I wince. “It didn’t look bad. I doubt he remembers a thing past midnight. He was blind drunk before the shooting even started.”

Will sighs. “And Rupert? Rupert will make trouble if he thinks there’s something in it for him. He always does.”

“Damn.”

We reach the bottom step. Will runs a hand through his dark hair. I smooth my cuffs. We’re both dressed more formal attire than usual for breakfast since we are expecting to be accosted by Sir Reginald.

“Do you think your father—?”

“Yes,” Will cuts in. “Of course he’s heard. The man hears about a flea sneezing in Cairo.”

A liveried footman opens the door to the breakfast room. The smell of eggs and fried bread is overpowered by the presence of Lord Ashcombe, standing by the empty hearth like a storm cloud wrapped in tweed. His fury doesn’t rise; it coils. It sits behind his eyes cold and measured and infinitely more dangerous for its restraint. He doesn’t shout, I’m guessing he never shouts, but his voice cuts like a scalpel, precise and meant to bleed. His posture is impeccable, spine straight as a ramrod, one gloved hand gripping the knob of his cane like he might drive it through the floor. The room shrinks when he speaks, and I, swallow hard under the weight of his disdain.

“Ah,” he says, his voice sharp. “The heroes of the Raj Club.”

Will freezes for half a second before moving into the room. I hang back a bit, my shoulders tight.

Lord Ashcombe gestures toward the table with a newspaper in one hand. “I suppose I should be thankful you’re both still alive. Though at this rate, I’ll be defending you from a murder charge instead of managing the estate.”

“Father, we didn’t start anything,” Will begins.

“No, you never start things, do you? Events simply collapse around you like poorly stacked dominoes. There were shots fired, people injured—a diplomat’s son, no less. You young whelps. If I’d left you in charge of the dogs for a single day they’d all have drowned in the fountain.”

I sink into a chair, feeling suddenly very young, a bit like I did in the third grade, sitting in the principle’s office after I gave Kenneth Cole a black eye for pulling Susan Perkins’ pigtails.

Lord Ashcombe paces. “The Foreign Office is sniffing around. The Club is in uproar. Godfrey Montague is being kept in bed with brandy and laudanum. And that idiot Rupert is spinning tales to the newspapers.”

Will sets his jaw. “What are you going to do?”

“What am I going to do?” Lord Ashcombe hurls the newspaper onto the table. The headline glares up at us: Disturbance Among Young Aristocrats: Gunfire in the Raj Club!

“I am going to protect the family name,” he growls. “I am going to preempt scandal. And I am going to put the two of you somewhere where you cannot cause any more damage.”

I straighten. “What do you mean?”

Lord Ashcombe narrows his eyes at me. “I mean, Mr. Cabot, your close friendship with my son has become an administrative liability. It also means you are now both going to West Africa.”

I blink in astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”

“An expedition,” Lord Ashcombe says, returning to the hearth. “One of my acquaintances is organizing a scientific venture for the British Museum of Natural History. They’re collecting animal and plant specimens. Dead, alive, stuffed, bottled, and everything in between. Particular interest in gorillas, I understand.”

Will stares at his father. “You can’t be serious.”

“Entirely.”

“We know nothing about collecting animals!”

“Then you shall learn. The two of you will do something useful for once.”

“And what about the heat? The disease? The bloody tsetse flies?”

Lord Ashcombe shrugs. “Deal with it! At least you’ll be too busy hauling crates and avoiding snakes to disgrace the Ashcombe name any further.”

I looks between them, heart pounding. “And when does this expedition leave?”

“A fortnight. Perhaps less. You will both write letters of apology before then—to the Raj Club, to the Montagues, and to that insufferable Rupert Marchbanks.

Maybe the gossip will be contained. After that, you will board a ship with the rest of the expedition party at Liverpool. I’ve already wired my support to the organizers.”

Will is silent. His hands rest on the back of a chair, white-knuckled. I feel as if the room tilts sideways.

“Father,” Will says, his voice tight, “you are sending us into a fever-ridden jungle to avoid embarrassment.”

“Precisely.”

I try to speak, finds no words, and instead reach for the teapot with mechanical precision. My hand shakes only slightly. Gorillas. Fever. Crates. Jungle.

The toast on the rack is going cold.

Lord Ashcombe straightens his cuffs. “Breakfast is served. Make the most of it. You won’t see a decent egg for months.”

He exits the room without looking back.

The door clicks shut.

Will collapses into the chair opposite me and drops his head into his hands.

“Gorillas,” he mutters. “Bloody hell.”

After a pause, I pour tea into both cups. “At least it will be warm.”

Will lifts his head, glares, and then laughs once, dry and bitter.

Will thinks this is exile. A cage with a jungle door.

But I—I feel something else.

He could have sent Will alone. I’m not even one of theirs. I could board a fast steamer to Boston tonight, but the thought doesn’t settle. It shifts like bad ground under a tent stake.

Instead, this—this impossible proposition—is taking hold in me. A map unrolling where my old life ends.

Africa. I’ve only read about it in books and museum placards. But I feel something loosening inside me, like a long breath let out after holding it for too many years. I glance at Will, angry and trapped, and make my choice then.

I’ll go. Not because I have to. Because it feels like the world is aiming me somewhere new.

We leave Ashcombe’s breakfast room without a word. The heavy oak door clicks shut behind us, sealing in the cold marble hush and generations of disappointment.

Outside, the corridor smells of beeswax and old velvet. Will doesn’t say anything as we walk. He keeps his eyes on the runner and his fists in his pockets. I wait until we reach the back stairwell, where no one will hear.

“You all right?”

He stops, shoulders tight. “Of course I’m not all right.” His voice is low and bitter. “He’s casting me off like a broken tool.”

“No,” I say. “He’s sending you to do something he can’t. Something useful.”

Will turns on me, face flushed. “Useful? This isn’t some noble errand, Henry. It’s damage control. He wants me out of sight. Out of reach. A failed son with a passport and a cargo list.”

I shrug. “Maybe. But you’re not a tree, Will. You can grow somewhere else.”

He glares. “Don’t quote your grandfather’s wisdom at me right now.”

“I’m not. This one’s mine.”

His frown cracks a little. Not a smile, but something close to it—a falter. He leans back against the wall, eyes tracking dust motes in the stairwell light.

“You could’ve said no,” he mutters.

“I know.”

“Could go home to Boston. Taken up a seat on the board, worn a watch chain, married a banker’s daughter.”

“I’m aware.” I pause. “But I don’t want that. I think… I think this might be the start of something.”

Will lets out a breath, slow and shaky. “You always did have a way of finding silver linings in storm clouds.”

“No,” I say. “But I’ve learned Rain before seven, fine before eleven. That’s what you Brits say, right?”

There’s a beat of silence. Then reluctant he chuckles.

“Africa, then.”

“Africa.”

He straightens, looks at me like he’s seeing the horizon instead of the staircase.

“All right,” he says. “If we’re going to be exiles, let’s be useful ones. Hell, maybe we’ll even come back with medals.”

“Or a monkey,” I say.

Finally, a real smile. “Or a monkey.”

Henry

After ignoring the hearty breakfast neither Will nor I was hungry for, we adjourn to my room to lick our wounds. Will makes a quick stop by his room and returns with a bottle of medicinal brandy, clutched as though it’s an old friend. He doesn’t even bother with glasses—pulls the stopper and takes a long, theatrical swig before handing it to me.

I accept it, though I normally don’t mix spirits with cards, or mornings. But being assigned to detention in Africa definitely calls for brandy. I take a mouthful, cough as it burns its way down, then hand it back.

My room is sunlit and spare, all polished walnut and clean linen. I collapse onto the edge of the bed, and Will takes the armchair across from me, his legs thrown over one arm. He groans.

“Detention,” he mutters taking a drink. “As though we’ve been sent down for sneaking cigarettes in the vestry.”

I raise my eyebrows. “We’re to be punished by cataloging rare beasts and sleeping under the stars. In Africa. With the full backing of the British Museum. Could be worse.”

Will takes another swig. “Could be Maryanne.”

I sigh. “Could be Drucilla.”

We sit in silence for a moment, staring at the sunbeams slanting through the tall windows. Dust motes spin lazily in the air, oblivious to our exile.

Will swings his legs back down and sits upright, rubbing his eyes. “You at least get to tell your lady by post. You’ll have time to polish every sentence, balance every clause. I have to break the news in person. She’ll want to come with me. Or worse—offer to wait.”

I reach for the bottle and tip it up. It’s going down easier now.”Drucilla will wait. She’s made of patience and principles. But she won’t like it.”

“Nor should she,” Will snaps. “Half a year hunting gorillas instead of courting. My father thinks it’s character-building. I think it’s madness.”

I lean back, the mattress creaking, letting my head lean back against the headboard. “Still, it’s not a bad career move. This kind of thing—natural history, adventure, hardship—it counts for something.”

Will grabs the bottle and downs another swig and groans. “Yes, yes. It adds distinction to one’s character. Everyone loves a man who’s survived malarial swamps.”

“Or nearly survived.”

“Don’t tempt fate. I’m too young to be noble and tragic.”

We laugh, though it’s the sort of laugh that doesn’t reach the eyes. The brandy is beginning to soften Will’s edges. His collar is undone. His cheeks have gone pink.

“I suppose,” he mutters, the whole thing could be splendid. If we don’t die. Or come back limping. Or fall in love with the jungle and refuse to return.”

“Would you really mind? Living among the trees, naming beetles, dodging the occasional leopard?”

“God, yes. I like my sheets clean and my coffee hot. And I do not like beetles.”

I laugh again, real this time. Will pushes the brandy toward me and I take another sip.

“What will you say to Maryanne?” I ask.

“Something heroic. Something tragic. Perhaps I’ll make up a tale about being pressed into service for king and country.” He eyes me sidelong. “What will you say?”

“That it’s a great opportunity, I’m honored to have been selected, and I’ll write as often as I can.”

“So lies, then.”

“Tactful omissions.”

He chuckles, then leans back again, glassy-eyed now. “I think this will make us famous, in some small, dusty academic way. Perhaps someone will name a frog after us.”

“Or a disease.”

Will laughs too hard and nearly topples from the chair. “Henry Cabot’s Inflamed Nostril. The scourge of the southern Cross River!”

“I’d rather have the frog.”

He tips the bottle one last time and finds it empty. He seems surprised. “Out? That’s a bad omen.”

“Or a blessing. Go sleep it off before you try to name something after yourself.”

He nods, swaying as he stands. “You’ll write Drucilla now, won’t you?”

“Yes.”

He opens the door, then turns. “Tell her the truth. Not the damp tents and the dysentery. But the part about it being grand. Worth doing.”

“I will.”

And then he’s gone, his footsteps shuffling down the corridor.

The room feels still without him. I sit for a moment, listening to the ticking of the clock, the soft rustle of leaves against the windowpane. Then I pull out my writing case.

I smooth a sheet of thick paper, uncap my fountain pen, and begin.

Ashcombe Hall
Woodstock, Oxfordshire
July 11th, 1898

My Dearest Drucilla,

I trust this letter finds you in excellent health and spirits. I write to you from Ashcombe Hall, where I arrived yesterday in safety and without undue incident. The estate itself is every bit as grand and austere as Will described—wide lawns stretching beneath ancient oaks, with long corridors echoing with the footsteps of generations. .It is a place built for permanence, for tradition, and if Lord Ashcombe’s demeanor is anything to judge by, for discipline of the highest order.

I must now share with you something unexpected and, I daresay, exciting. Will and I have found ourselves the beneficiaries of a rather astonishing stroke of fortune. Through a connection of Lord Ashcombe’s, we have been offered a place on a scientific expedition to West Africa, one sponsored by no less than the British Museum of Natural History.

The party’s objective will be the collection of plant and animal specimens, both living and preserved. Of particular interest is the study of gorillas—creatures which remain, for all our modern knowledge, profoundly mysterious. As recent graduates in zoology, Will and I could scarcely hope for a more advantageous beginning to our respective careers. The expedition is to last approximately six months, spanning from November through May to take advantage of the dry season. We are to depart by steamship from Liverpool in a fortnight’s time.

The voyage to the African coast is expected to occupy two to three weeks, weather permitting. Upon arrival at Calabar, we shall spend several more weeks provisioning, equipping, and engaging the services of native guides, hunters, and porters. From there, we will ascend the Cross River by dugout canoe and establish our base of operations in the southern regions, where gorillas are known to dwell.

I do not deceive myself as to the hardships such a journey may entail: the heat, the insects, the threat of fever, and the sheer logistical burden of our endeavor. But this is the very sort of experience that sets a man apart in his field and may, in time, distinguish me in the eyes of future employers. You have ever encouraged my ambitions, and I carry your encouragement with me like a compass.

Once the expedition has ventured inland, there will be no regular mail service, and we must trust the passage of time and the durability of affection.

Whatever wild landscapes lie ahead, know that no distance nor difficulty shall diminish the place you hold in my heart.

Yours most faithfully and devotedly,
Henry Cabot

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