Lost Heritage

Chapter 2

Oxford, 1923

That afternoon Professor Spencer received me at her home. While she was serving tea in elegant china cups accompanied by butter pastries and Belgian chocolates given to her by a student, I was admiring her magnificent drawing room furniture. She must have spent years looking for each piece so that they all fitted together perfectly, as if it were the mechanism of a Swiss watch.

The walls were filled with numerous paintings, most of which were of grand hunting scenes. In the centre, a beautiful white marble fireplace presided over the room, and in front of it was a magnificent leather sofa flanked by two patterned armchairs in pastel colours. To the left of the fireplace there was a huge globe of the earth next to a walnut shelf containing some of the great classics of Russian literature. At the other end of the room, under the main window, a large grand piano completed the decor.

‘Why don’t you take a seat, and I'll tell you everything I know,’ she said after sitting down in her armchair.

London, 1902

‘I was just returning from a shopping trip when I had to raise the lapels of my coat collar and button it up. The sky had clouded over and the autumn leaves had begun to fall under my feet as I crossed Hyde Park. Luckily, my house was only two streets away, so I quickened my pace.

On arriving home, I found the postman ringing my doorbell.

‘Hello Mr. Hargreaves. Do you have any post for me?’

‘A telegram, Miss Spencer,’ he said while turning his head. ‘Please sign here.’

‘I opened the door and entered the house impatient to read the telegram. It was a message from the British Geographical Society summoning me to a meeting at the Director's office.

The next morning, I got up early. I had hardly slept a wink due to being so nervous. The telegram did not explain why the Geographical Society had summoned me or indeed why they needed my services so urgently. I ate a couple of rounds of toast with tea for breakfast and set out in a horse-drawn cab for the Society’s building in Kensington, a very salubrious part of London.

On the way, I could see through the window of the cab how the electric streetlights were still lit, having replaced the gas lamps just a few years earlier. At that moment it hit me just how quickly time goes by.

I had finished my university studies two years earlier and was preparing to become a teacher. Most of my colleagues were specializing in Egyptology, the field of study most in demand at the time, while I had opted for studies in pre-Columbian civilizations.

After a business trip to South America, my father had given me several books when I was a child that told of the customs of their peoples. It was from that moment on that my fascination with these civilisations began and I ended up being one of the first graduates in that particular field only established a few years earlier at Oxford.

I heard the horse whinny as the driver pulled on the reins and the sound of its hooves on the ground came to a stop. The driver got out of the carriage, opened the door, and I descended the steps in front of the main entrance.

The Geographical Society was a three-storey red-brick building with a black slate roof and large windows. In my opinion, it had always seemed a little on the small side to represent such a remarkable institution.

I entered via the main door and crossed over a magnificent hallway flanked on the left by the offices of the Society’s members and on the right by one of the most splendid libraries in England. On the second floor was a large room where Council meetings were held to discuss projects that arrived every day at its headquarters. Opposite this was the Director's office.

The secretary ushered me into an office decorated with mahogany furniture featuring a magnificent Gothic-style sideboard with antique volumes and a French desk dominated by a 16th-century world map alongside a miniature bust of Charles Darwin. Various objects brought from countless expeditions could be seen on its walls.

It was there that I was received by the Director of the Geographical Society: a heavy-set gentleman with grey hair and pronounced dark circles under his eyes who was dressed in a three-piece black suit. Also in the room and to his left were two other gentlemen, one of whom I recognised.

‘Welcome, Miss Spencer. Let me introduce Professor Cooper, a specialist in South American history, and Mr. Henson, an accomplished archaeologist who has just returned from an expedition to Egypt.’

‘It is pleasure to meet you all,’ I said to the aforementioned gentlemen.

‘Likewise, Miss Spencer,’ said James.

‘Have a seat, please.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied, and settled into a chair.

The Director sat across from me in an imposing black leather chair giving off a strong smell of cologne. He opened a folder on the table with my name on it, gave it a quick glance, and then closed it.

‘Has my secretary told you the reason for your presence here?’

I shook my head.

‘I have a meeting in five minutes, so I’ll be brief. After looking over your academic record and your specialities, we believe that you are the best person to join our next expedition to South America.’

I was speechless; it was something I had always dreamed of since I was a child.

‘The expedition will be led by Mr. Henson,’ he explained on turning to him. ‘In addition to his experience as an archaeologist, he speaks fluent Spanish. Professor Cooper is a great scholar in South American history. I believe you already know each other. He was a professor of yours at Oxford if I’m not mistaken?’

I affirmed with a slight nod of my head.

‘And so to the matter at hand. Would you like to be part of our project?”

‘I’m lost for words. I thought you had called on me to help you with some transcription work, as on previous occasions.’

The director smiled weakly as I continued.

‘I feel both privileged and honoured and would be delighted to be part of the expedition.’

‘I'm glad you have decided so quickly. Mr. Henson will explain what the project will consist of.’

‘Thank you very much for this opportunity,’ I replied shaking his hand. ‘I hope I won’t let you down.’

‘I have every faith in you, Miss Spencer.’

He said his goodbyes and James led us to the meeting room next door.

Upon entering, the first thing that stood out was a gigantic world atlas on which the great discoveries of the Geographical Society had been marked.

On either side of the atlas hung portraits of the great explorers who since the first half of the 19th century had been prestigious in the annals of the Geographical Society, giving it the reputation it has today. As I passed them, I imagined my portrait hanging next to those greats. Two large chandeliers completed the decoration of this imposing room.

The professor and I sat at the table reserved for Council meetings, while James began to explain the project with the aid of a huge map.

My first impression of him was that he was a man both excited by and committed to his work. He was of medium height with deep blue eyes. I thought that the thick beard he wore didn’t suit him much and detracted from his beautiful smile. His exquisite manners denoted what I thought might be an aristocratic family background.

‘Tribespeople have discovered an abandoned city in the highland mountains,’ he explained as he approached the map and pointed to the area to which he was referring.

‘Do you know anything more about the city?’ I asked with great interest.

‘We have hardly any information. For years explorers have made references to this place, albeit very few. It was thought to be one of the myths and legends that circulate in that area.’

I nodded while making notes on a small notepad.

‘I have been able to study several Spanish books but none of them mention it,’ he continued with a shrug. ‘Something which is even more intriguing.’

‘What precisely is our mission?’ Asked the professor.

‘My mission will be the supervision and organization of an expedition to this place. Yours, Miss Spencer, will be the transcription of all the documentation we find,’ he added, standing in front of me. ‘You, Professor, will keep us informed on pre-Columbian culture prior to the Spanish conquest as well as any insights you may have when we reach there. Any questions?’

We both shook our heads.

‘Here is the latest mapping of the area.’

He opened a folder on the table and handed us various documents.

‘I will have a preliminary study done before we leave for our destination. The ship sets sail in four days.”

The professor and I looked at each other puzzled. We had started to protest, but James Henson was already leaving the room.

A day before our departure, James called us to a meeting at the Abbey Road Tea Rooms to finish off some research before boarding ship. I arrived a few minutes ahead of schedule and was going to wait outside, but a heavy downpour forced me to go indoors.

This place had become one of the most fashionable haunts in the city where they served some of the best cakes in central London.

The walls were decorated in a soft indigo colour on which paintings of the Kent countryside hung. The colours on the walls contrasted with the dark mahogany coffee tables and beautiful chairs upholstered in cobalt green.

I passed a display case full of a wide variety of sweets. Their intense colours certainly whetted the appetite. The irresistible smells coming from the kitchen intoxicated me: marbled cheese with raspberries, banana with chocolate shavings, lemon with coconut, chocolate with vanilla icing, macadamia nuts and caramel sauce. Temptation surrounded me.

In the centre of the establishment stood a huge revolving glass cabinet reaching up towards the ceiling with all manner of different pastries.

I sat down in front of a large glass window listening to the noise made by the drops of rain falling on the road.

As I looked at the cuckoo clock presiding over the room striking four, James seemed to appear instantly dressed in a pearl grey suit, cream waistcoat and a chic light blue scarf tied around his neck. He left his umbrella in the stand next to the door and handed his hat to a slender red-haired waitress who proffered him a wide smile. As he looked around, I waved to him from my table; the establishment was crowded and it was difficult to pick anyone out.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Spencer,’ he said as he kissed my hand and sat down. ‘Have you been waiting long?"

‘Just ten minutes. I arrived a little early and took the opportunity to pay a visit to the bookstore at the end of the street before coming here.’

‘May I?’ James asked as he picked up the book on the table and started leafing through it. ‘Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. Good choice.’

‘I bought it for the trip,’ I replied. ‘The professor appears to be running late.’

‘I’m afraid he’s indisposed. I’ll go to his house later and hand him his passport and other necessary documentation. Here’s yours.’

He took some papers out of his inside jacket pocket and handed them to me. The Geographical Society was in charge of all the bureaucratic procedures for our expedition and the speed with which they obtained passports and other types of documentation was incredible.

‘I do hope it’s nothing serious,’ I commented concerned by the professor’s absence.

‘One of his gout attacks I’m afraid. He should be well recuperated after a couple of weeks on board ship.’

I was relieved. I had known the professor for years and later found out that he had been incredibly supportive in petitioning for me to be on the expedition. In addition, I was not keen on travelling alone with Henson at the time.

James ordered tea, and the same rosy-cheeked waitress who had greeted him brought over the sweet trolley; the cakes looked delicious. We chose two cakes each taking advantage of the occasion. Who knew what the future would bring?

‘I understand you are one of Oxford’s first female graduates,’ he said, putting down the cup of tea. He had not let it sit long enough and it was still very hot.

‘Excuse me,’ I replied as I savoured a piece of raspberry pie. ‘For years women have graduated despite opposition from more conservative sectors. Some still think that a university education should be exclusively for men.’

‘I meant no offence. I’m only referring to a comment made by the Director of the Geographical Society.’

‘The Director is a friend of my father and I’m very grateful for this opportunity,’ I explained. ‘But you will agree that the Geographical Society has never encouraged female participation.’

James nodded politely.

‘I’m here today because of the little interest shown in this country about pre-Columbian cultures. I also know that there wouldn’t have been many options open to you when it came to enlisting an expert in this field,’ I clarified.

‘We're going to be spending a lot of time working together,’ he interrupted me. ‘How about I call you by your first name?’

‘Of course,’ I added.

‘To answer your question, Margaret, it’s true that there are few experts in pre-Columbian culture in this country. Most students have never concerned themselves with South America, especially the pre-Columbian cultures there.’

‘The distance and the fact that the colonisers were Spanish have not helped,’ I added.

‘If the Director has chosen you for the expedition, it's because he thinks you’re ready.’

‘Thank you, James. I appreciate that.’

We continued chatting a while longer before leaving, as there was a lot to prepare that afternoon. On leaving the establishment, we noticed that it had stopped raining and the street was overflowing with people once more.

‘A carriage will come to pick you up early tomorrow morning. We’ll meet at the Geographical Society.’

‘Agreed. I’ll say my goodbyes to friends, family and my association, then I’ll finish packing.’

‘Association? You mean your book club, or something similar?’

I shook my head.

‘I’m a member of the West End Suffragette Movement.’

James did not answer and walked off down the street.

We embarked from the port of Southampton heading for northern Spain. From there, a steamer would take us from Europe to the Caribbean and then on to our final destination of Cartagena de Indias, a port on the northern coast of Colombia.

The three of us had adjoining cabins on the third floor of the ship, each with a bed and armchairs, but no bathroom facilities. They were all decorated with marine motifs and each had a porthole.

The voyage would last forty days, more than enough time to complete the preparations for our expedition and to get to know each other better.

The first few days of the voyage were spent exploring that splendid ship. It was a transatlantic steamer of impressive dimensions with gigantic chimneys that left a large black cloud in its wake. The ship stopped at various islands before reaching its destination on the South American continent.

Social classes were well defined within the ship's infrastructure. We were accommodated in first class, where passengers had all kinds of amenities. There was little contact with the migrants and adventurers located in cabins on the lower decks who made up the rest of the passenger log. However, it was noticeable that the number of passengers far exceeded the capacity of the ship.

This Transatlantic Company ship harboured the dreams of men and women who had left their countries of origin in search of prosperity and new horizons. Every day they related stories of their families and friends who were now living like kings on the other side of the Atlantic. The population of Europe had tripled in a short span of time and the absence of employment opportunities together with poor living conditions had made the South American continent an attractive proposition for finding a better future.

In the mornings we would meet in the forward cabin in order to continue preparations for our project, while the afternoons were spent in the main hall having tea and playing cards in the company of several British businessmen who had commercial dealings throughout Latin America.

I have to admit that James was a good bridge partner, but the couple with whom we often played were so adept that there was no way to beat them.

The professor was still suffering with an attack of gout and remained resting in his cabin while swotting up on Mesoamerican cultures.

One evening, Mrs. McLeyton, a plump, rosy-cheeked elderly lady, and her husband, Fraser, a tall British Army colonel, excused themselves earlier than usual due to severe dizziness, leaving myself and James at the bridge table with our Ceylon tea.

On weekends there were musical performances in the hall, and one particular day, an elderly soprano took to the stage wearing an old-fashioned mauve dress. She stood next to a grand piano and began to sing Carmen by Bizet.

‘My God!’ I exclaimed, covering my face while she was singing.

James started laughing. It was the worst performance of an aria I had ever heard.

As a consequence of our behaviour, we were constantly stared at from the next table, forcing us to get up and take a walk on deck.

Some passengers enjoyed the splendid days by lounging in comfortable deckchairs or even in hammocks with a book in their hands. The children would scamper along in front of us in order to get to a game of shuffleboard or, as the Spanish on the boat used to call it, Tejo. A newly married couple had fun by throwing quoits and trying to achieve the highest score possible.

‘Would you like to play a game?’

‘Maybe another time,’ I replied. I could be quite clumsy when it came to games.

We continued with our walks and on reaching the stern of the ship, we would lean on the railings while looking at the foam left behind in the ship’s wake.

One afternoon a bank of clouds tried to take centre stage and block out the radiant sun. The whole scene seemed to have been taken from a dark, yet beautiful impressionist painting.

‘Could I ask you a personal question?’ James said as his thick curls swirled in the strong wind.

I nodded smiling.

‘Do you often attend meetings of the suffrage movement?’

‘Of course,’ I replied indignantly. I did not expect that question. ‘We women cannot and must not remain subject to the dictates of this patriarchal society any longer.’

He looked at me somewhat perplexed, I suppose due to the vehemence of my comments.

‘We are on the cusp of the 20th century and not in the Dark Ages,’ I continued. ‘The movement started with a handful of brave women and has spread across the country. It won't take us long to get the right to vote, and then everything will change.’

‘I agree,’ he replied in a soft voice. ‘But I know the views of various MPs. I think you’re still a long way from achieving your goal.’

‘Do you have anything against our movement?’

‘No, quite the contrary. I met several ladies in Egypt who had privately financed their archaeological expeditions. They did an excellent job.’

‘It’s a pity that, except on rare occasions like mine, women have had to organise expeditions by paying for them out of their own pocket.’

‘In that case, we have an enormous responsibility,’ he replied, looking me straight in the eye. ‘If we are successful, many more women may have the opportunity to be part of future expeditions.’

I fell silent for a few moments, pondering his words.

‘I hadn't thought of it that way. You mean the responsibility is mine?’

‘No just yours, Margaret. We are a team, remember?’

I nodded, smiling at this acknowledgement.

We went to the dining room where they had already started serving dinner.

One afternoon a fierce storm sent a shudder through the ship, rocking it from side to side. From our porthole we saw how the huge waves surpassed the upper deck of the ship. Although it would be difficult to sink that huge liner, I still felt an intense chill each and every time there was a heavy jolt. In order to take our minds off this, we decided to spend the evening together in one cabin going over various details of our project.

‘Before arriving at our destination, I would like to explain the excavation method that we will undertake,’ said James.

The professor and I listened while sitting comfortably.

‘I intend to divide the city into two parts. We will focus the excavations in and around the main buildings of the city. After this, we will examine the rest. These latter remains will no doubt be of less archaeological interest.’

‘I would like to carry out a more thorough study before proceeding in this fashion,’ I replied. ‘We could divide up the city into smaller areas and then carry out more detailed individual studies of each area. This would enable us to obtain a more in-depth knowledge. Several recent expeditions have applied this method with more successful results than those obtained previously.’

‘I believe you're right, Margaret,’ added the professor. ‘I understand that this is a more modern technique for surveying a wider area. However, each archaeologist has his, or her own way of working, and there is no certainty that one method is better than another.’

‘You heard the professor,’ James abruptly interjected. ‘This is my expedition and I make the decisions. The day you run one, you can do it your way,’ James added, the anger prevalent in his tone of voice.

‘In that case, why do we bother holding these meetings if you've already made up your mind about everything?’ I exclaimed, raising my voice. Looking back, cabin fever may have started to get the better of us all.

‘I say what our mission will be and how we will conduct it. This is no company meeting where we reach a consensus before taking action.’ He was silent for a moment as he gathered up his maps, plans and documents before adding, ‘You still have a lot to learn,’ he added looking straight at me.

‘I'd rather remain in my cabin than waste my time here,’ I replied indignantly as I got up and headed for the door. As I was about to leave, I turned and said:

‘When we reach our destination, you can explain my duties to me then. Until that time comes, I want nothing to do with you!’

I slammed the door causing a rumble through the cabin. After that discussion we went for several days without speaking to each other.

A week later we spotted Cartagena de Indias from the bow of the ship.

In the distance the fortress of the port could be seen to extend around the whole city, guarded by a large number of cannons that once served as a defence against attacks from enemies, including pirates.

The bay was a natural enclave with the cleanest and most transparent water I had ever seen. It was an amalgam of shades of blue, from a deep offshore blue through to a teal colour, and finally a paler blue as we approached the shore. A strong smell of saltpetre and fish emanating from several boats permeated that warm morning breeze.

On walking down the steps of the boat the first sensation we experienced was a suffocating heat augmented by the high humidity; something that made walking, talking and other normal functions exhausting.

A crowd had gathered around the ship's steps, and there was a deafening noise from relatives, merchants and labourers who came on a daily basis to earn a living each time a ship berthed.

A large number of stevedores, mostly descendants of slaves, were engaged in loading and unloading the ships that arrived at the port. In theory, slavery had been abolished a century earlier, but in practice, most of their descendants continued to perform the same jobs as their ancestors.

From the lower gangway, merchandise arriving at the dock was unloaded and carried on shoulders to the wagons waiting at the port entrance. These would then be transported to warehouses owned by the large trading companies that had established themselves in that prosperous city.

It was one of the most important ports in the Caribbean where manufactured goods arrived as a consequence of the European Industrial Revolution, especially from England, which had replaced the commercial monopoly of Spain since much of Latin America had achieved independence. Despite some vain efforts at industrialization and self-sufficiency, South America continued to depend on surplus products that were shipped from Europe and, to a lesser extent, from the United States.

Along with the merchandise, all kinds of emigrants with diverse nationalities had arrived to seek a better future, mainly consisting of Spanish, Portuguese and Italians.

‘Be careful with the luggage while crossing the port,’ James had warned us as we walked down the steps. ‘I'll go and get a carriage.’

After making our way through the crowd, we managed to carry our belongings to a carriage that would transport us to the hotel.

The professor sat next to me; his handkerchief ever-present in his hands as he kept wiping sweat from his brow. I had a fan that Mrs. Fitzwater had given me after she had assured me that it would become my most precious possession on that continent; something that had quickly become apparent.

After giving the name of the place at which we would be staying to the driver, James opened the carriage door and sat across from us. He was wearing a wide-brimmed hat that would remain on his head for the entire trip.

The rest of the city did not differ much from the immediate vicinity of the port. It was a vivid portrait of the chaos we had experienced as soon as we had disembarked, but ten times greater. Wagons sped over unpaved dusty roads without bothering to take heed of the presence of pedestrians, who on more than one occasion had to quickly back up several steps before crossing the street to ensure that they were not run over.

That city of narrow streets was flooded with charming arcades and tall palm trees. Double-storey buildings seemed anchored in a colonial past from which no one, not even its leaders, intended to awaken. The bourgeois travelled on horseback dressed in suits and wearing huge hats that covered a good part of their faces, while most of the humble population were dressed in white garments that were far from spotless. The earthen streets made them all wear knee-high boots.

On that journey from the port to the hotel, I could see that our expedition was going to be much more complicated than I had originally anticipated, without even suspecting the adventures and misadventures we were about to experience.

The coachman stopped the carriage in front of a quaint building that looked like it had seen better days. Still, it was clean and its staff appeared efficient. Two boys of no more than fifteen years of age carried our luggage inside and led us to the reception desk. While we were waiting for our rooms to be assigned, the manager handed James a telegram from London.

On opening the letter, I observed a certain concern cross his face: it must have communicated something he hadn’t planned for. It didn't take long to see that his suspicions were more than justified, and the longer he read the letter, the more his face grew sombre.

‘What's wrong?’ I asked when he had finished reading.

Without a word he handed us the letter.

The Geographical Society have been informed that the Paris Sorbonne have been preparing an expedition for the exact same purposes as ours.

When I looked up, I saw that he was already climbing the stairs to his room without saying a word. The professor and I followed him into the room, a rather austere little dungeon with two beds, a couple of photographs of the city and a large crucifix on the wall between them.

There we found James with his head bowed while he unpacked.

‘Are you okay?’ I said putting my hand on his shoulder.

He nodded as he placed a compass and several maps on the bed by the window.

‘They won’t have even left France yet,’ I said, trying to cheer him up. ‘We have a good start over them.’

‘That's not what worries me,’ he replied without looking in my direction. ‘I would like to know how they have obtained the information.’

‘Many merchants from other countries have spread their tentacles throughout this region,’ added the professor, as he lit his pipe and leaned out of the window. ‘Our trading companies have already had several encounters with them.’

‘They were able to receive the information before we did,’ he replied. ‘If they have the support of local institutions, they’ll have an advantage over us.’

‘That's true,’ I replied, standing in front of him and looking him straight in the eye. ‘But that is no reason to lose heart. I’ve been studying pre-Columbian culture for years and you speak fluent Spanish.’

‘I agree,’ said the professor. ‘I don't think their preparation would be any better than ours.’